Tressed to kill, p.13
Tressed to Kill, page 13
No comment, Dillon said.
Were on the same side, here, Marty said, obviously used to being no-commented. We both want to find out
I dont think so, Dillon cut in. I want to bring Mrs. DuBoiss killer to justice. You want a byline and a sensational storyeven if what you reveal taints a jury pool or helps the murderer get off.
Marty measured him with a glance and stood a bit stiffer. Well, perhaps you can confirm what I heard. Apparently, the murder weapon was a sword. What do
Where did you hear that? Dillon asked, anger threading his voice. Dont tell meyou have sources at the coroners office. He sounded disgusted, whether at Marty or the leaks from the autopsy team, I didnt know.
The state crime lab, actually, Marty said, unfazed by Dillons hostility.
Why didnt you tell me that? I asked, puzzled by the change in Dillons attitude. Last night hed been . . . concerned. This morning, he seemed pissed off. About the sword, I mean.
The St. Elizabeth Police Department doesnt share information on open investigations with private citizens, Dillon said stiffly. And we just got the report this morning.
Apparently its a Civil War-era blade, Marty put in, unhampered by restrictions against sharing. Trace amounts of metals left in the wound confirm its not a modern blade, at any rate.
Know anyone with a Civil War sword? Dillon asked.
Amber came over with our bill. Here you go, Special Agent, she said with a smile, handing him a cup of coffee before sliding the bill onto the table.
Dillon accepted the cup of coffee that Amber brought over, unasked. He returned her smile. Thanks, Amber.
Her newly trimmed blonde hair bounced in a ponytail against her shoulders as she headed toward the kitchen.
An irritation I reluctantly recognized as jealousy nipped at me. Ye gods, I berated myself. Hes a cop who wants to put Mom in jail. Get a grip. My reasonable side stepped in: well, he doesnt really want to arrest her. But he would if he had the evidence, my grumpy side argued. I made myself answer his question.
Every third person in the state, probably, I said. Lots of folks still have great-great-great-granddads sword over the mantle or in a box in the attic. And then there are plenty of collectors. My mind zipped to Walter Highsmith. He had swords galore. Were any of them missing?
Do you or Mrs. Terhune have a sword? he asked.
No, I said. And its ridiculous to think that either of us could have been lugging one around at the town hall meeting without someone noticing.
That holds true for everyone at the meeting, Dillon said. Although I suppose you could hide one inwhat? A bassoon case? He seemed to relax a bitmaybe it was caffeine deprivation that made him snappy.
Yeah, that wouldnt stand out, I said skeptically. It was a town hall meeting, not a high school band concert.
A duffel bag? Marty suggested.
A golf bag? Dillon said.
A tote bag. Marty held his hands a yard apart. Some of the bags women carry these days would conceal a bazooka.
One of those tubes you put rolled-up posters or architectural drawings in.
I rolled my eyes at their game of hide-the-sword oneupmanship. Ive got to go, I said, dropping a ten on the table to cover my breakfast and sliding out of the booth. How about if someone left the sword in their car and retrieved it on their way to meet Constance?
Both men stared at me silently, identical chagrined expressions on their faces. Enjoying my small triumph at having left them speechless, I headed for the exit, winding around the clumps of tourists waiting for a table. Since I needed to interview business owners, I might as well start with Walter Highsmith and kill two birds with one stone.
WALTER HIGHSMITH WAS SETTING UP A MANNEQUIN when I arrived at Confederate Artefacts. He didnt hear me push through the door, and I watched him for a moment, unobserved. With the loving care of a mother getting her son ready for picture day at school, he buttoned the soldiers tunic over the mannequins plastic chest and smoothed the fabric with his palm. He fussed with an epaulette to make it sit straight and filched a speck of lint from braiding on the jackets cuff with tiny tweezers. Finally, he placed a brimmed hat pinned up on one side, with a feather curling down, on the mannequins luxurious brown locks. When he stood back to admire the effect, I said, He looks very handsome, Walter.
Walter spun around, his sword clanking against the mannequins legs and rocking it. He grabbed for the mannequin and steadied it before turning to me, the ends of his mustache quivering. Miss Grace! You shouldnt sneak up on a soldier like that. I could have pulled steel on you. He patted the scabbard hanging from his belt.
To appease him, I asked, How come that uniform coat is straighter than yours and a different color?
He puffed up his cheeks, and his eyes shone at the opportunity to lecture someone on his passion. Confederate officers, Miss Grace, provided their own uniforms, most of which were tailor-made to the owners taste. After the first year of the war, most of the jackets were some shade of gray. The jackets could be tunic-style, like this captain herehe patted the mannequins shoulder gentlya shell jacket, or a frock coat like mine. Most of them, though, had standing collarshe stretched his neck up so I could see his collar, somewhat obscured by his jowlsand two rows of seven brass buttons. He darted to one of a half-dozen display cases and extracted a button. Generals had eagles on their buttons, like this. He held the shiny button on his palm, and I dutifully examined it.
So, I guess youre not a general, I said, studying the buttons marching down the front of his coat.
No, maam. Im a colonel from Georgias Twenty-first Infantry Regiment. Our numbers were decimated at Second Manassaswe lost three-quarters of the men engaged there. He sighed like hed ordered the troops to their deaths. I was one of only seven surviving officers to surrender at Appomattox. Oh, the ignominy. He bowed his head.
Im sure it must have been very difficult, I said, entertained by his playacting. At least, I hoped he was acting and not clinically delusional. But if you can rejoin me here in the twenty-first century, we need to talk about Morestuf.
Walter straightened. Morestuf, fah! Carpetbaggers. He stroked his goatee with three fingers. Actually, Miss Grace, I dont anticipate they will bother me too much. Its not as if they deal in the same merchandise as I do. He looked around his shop proudly, his eyes going from the unit flags and pennants hung from the ceiling to a troop of mannequins arrayed in different uniforms to the display cases crowded with canteens, knives, bullet molds, and soldiers personal effects, and finally landed on a wall crisscrossed with swords and pistols. And if I dont look to the right when I drive out of St. Elizabeth, I wont ever have to know its there. He nodded several times, clearly pleased with his head-in-the-sand approach.
Maybe, though, he had the right idea. I made some notes, determined to have something concrete to show Simone and Lucy when we reconvened. Wandering over to the weapons wall, I studied the swords. What do these go for? I asked.
It varies. Walter bustled to my side. These are reproductions. I sell them for ninety-nine dollars.
I felt slightly disappointed, having imagined myself to be standing in the presence of history.
But the real thing . . . thats a different story. A sword someone finds in the woods or digs up in their fieldit still happensprobably wont be worth much because it will be pitted and damaged and wont have a provenance. I wont say theyre a dime a dozen, but theyd only fetch a few hundred dollars. Swords in better condition might go for fifteen hundred or so, and swords with the original gold gilt on the hilt largely intact, etching on the blade, documentation about the original owner, especially if he was famous or fought in important battles, and with a scabbard in excellent condition, might sell for eight, nine thousand.
Wow. I ran a finger down the blade of the sword nearest me, admiring its cold sleekness until I remembered Constance had died with one of these thrust through her heart. I stepped back. How often do you sell a real Confederate sword?
He shrugged, more in shopkeeper mode than soldier mode now. During the tourist season, maybe one a month, although I do a significant business in reproductions. Less often during the off-season. Then, most of my sales are to collectors off my website. I did sell one last week, though, to a walk-in customer. He tightened his lips until they disappeared beneath the mustache.
Really? I tried to sound casual. Do you remember the buyers name?
He snorted. Of course. It was Constance Lucinda Wells DuBois. He enunciated each syllable of her name. She came in Monday afternoon. Before I got the eviction notice, I need hardly tell you.
I dropped my notebook. Really? What did Constance want with a sword? I bent to retrieve my notebook.
She said it was a gift. For Philip. His fortieth birthday was last Tuesday. His face crumpled into a suspicious frown. What is it about swords today, anyway? That detective was in here asking me almost the same questions not two hours ago.
What a coincidence, I said, fanning myself with the notebook. It seemed warm in the shop. I just got interested in the swords when I saw your display. My questions are really supposed to be about Morestuf, for the committee, you know. I was pretty sure Special Agent Dillon would lock me up if I told anyone the police had identified a sword as the murder weapon. I sought for a way to distract Walter. Uh, if you get to remodel the shop, what are you going to do?
His face brightened. Set up a mock battle scene between our forces and the Union invaders. See, if I can knock out this closethe patted the wall beside himI can open up the office space thats on the other side and use it all for a battle, complete with life-sized mannequins for troops. I have an artillery piece in a storage unit that Ive always wanted to display here.
Having started him on his favorite topic, it was hard to stop him, and it was fifteen minutes before I could escape. As I strolled the short distance to the next store, my reflections were disquieting. Walter sold Constance a genuine Civil War-era sword Monday, and she gave it to her son on Tuesday. The same son who was desperate to forestall an audit, to keep his job, to avoid prison. But was he desperate enough to run his own mother through with a sword?
Entering the next shop, I put aside my gruesome thoughts and concentrated on the interview. By one oclock, I had conducted six interviews, and the results were predictable. Shop owners who dealt in goods that Morestuf didnt carry, like Walter with his historical artifacts, and Ben Falstaff with his microbrew store, had no objection to the Morestuf going up. The sporting goods store owner, however, and the clothing retailers were vehemently against granting permission for the Morestufs construction. I sighed as I entered Animal Kingdom, the pet supply store and grooming salon that sent all its furry clients home with cardboard crowns, because Your pet deserves to be a king.
The odor of wet fur and sawdust smacked me in the face as I entered. The right side of the store had aisles stacked with aquarium filters, dog collars, and kitty litter. The back of the store held terrariums full of creepy-crawliestarantulas, snakes, and lizardsalong with wire cages with kittens, bunnies, and a couple of rescue puppies. Parakeets twittered from a round cage in the middle. To my left, the grooming operation was behind a floor-to-ceiling glass wall through which I could see five tables and two deep tubs. Three of the tables were occupied. On one, a cocker spaniel lay patiently as a groomer teased burrs out of its coat. On the second, a Great Dane towered over the petite woman clipping his toenails. And on the third, a Yorkshire terrier quivered, looking like a drowned rat with its fur plastered to its thin body. The stores owner, Amy Chiem, toweled it dry. She beckoned me in when I knocked on the glass.
Hi, Grace, she said. Are you here to talk about the Morestuf moving in? The Georgia accent coming from a woman who looked Vietnamese threw a lot of people. Truth was, Amy was born and bred in Georgia, although her folks had emigrated from Saigon in the 70s.
How did you know? I pulled out my notebook.
She smiled. Ben gave me a call after you stopped by Just Brew It. I dont know if I can help you much. Im not thrilled about a Morestuftheyll probably undersell me on pet foodbut I think, in some ways, itll be good for the town. She tossed her long black ponytail over her shoulder and picked up the terrier to dry its tummy. Competition, capitalism . . . it cant be all bad, right? I mean, I could use a cheaper pharmacy, and being able to buy a bathing suit that doesnt cost as much as an AKC-registered pup cant be all bad. I mean, Filomenas has some cute stuff, but four hundred dollars for a bikini? Please.
I know what you mean. Of course, theres always the Internet.
She grimaced, crinkling the skin around her almond-shaped eyes. I like to try stuff on before I buy it. Especially bathing suits. She turned on a blow-dryer and began to fluff the Yorkie.
I moved closer to talk over the noise of the dryer, and the dog bared its teeth at me. That wouldnt be Peaches DuBois, would it? I asked.
Yep. She used a wide-toothed comb to detangle the dogs topknot and clipped a pink barrette in place. Shes a nice dog, arent you, Peaches? Amy cooed. The dog licked her chin with its tiny pink tongue.
Hm. Well, thanks for this. I waggled my notebook at her. I appreciate your time.
No problem, Amy said. Lets do happy hour one of these days after work.
Sounds good to me. I turned and bumped into a man who had come through the door. Sorry! I said, as the man steadied me with his hands on my shoulders.
Grace, isnt it? Greg Hutchinson, Simones fiance, smiled down at me. In jeans and a white golf shirt, he looked much more approachable than he had at the funeral. His golden hair was damp at the ends, as if he had recently showered.
Good memory.
I work on remembering names, he said with an easy smile. In my job, its essential.
Peaches will be ready in just a moment, Amy put in.
What do you do? I asked.
Im a Realtor.
Oh. I was surprised. For some reason, Id thought he was a lawyer like Simone. How did you meet Simone, then?
She hates it when I tell people, but we met at one of those speed-dating events. He grinned, creasing his cheeks. You know . . . where the women sit at tables and the men rotate every five minutes so you meet lots of potential dates in an hour. We hit it off from the start. In fact, we left before the event was over and had dinner near Central Park. The rest, as they say, is history.
But youre not from New York, originally, are you? I asked, hearing something in his voice. You sound like youve got Southern roots.
He laughed. Youve got a good ear. No, I grew up in New York, but my mom was a Southern gal, so I guess I picked up a bit of her accent.
So, will you and Simone go back to New York after you get married, I asked, or will you settle down here?
Amy tried to hand him Peaches before he could answer. The dog growled at him. Doesnt she have a leash? Greg asked Amy, eyeing the dog with disfavor. She hates me, he admitted. I think shes jealous.
Dont feel bad, I said, she growls at me, too.
Amy snapped a sparkly blue leash to Peachess collar and put the dog on the linoleum. She immediately tugged toward the door, her toenails skittering on the slick floor.
Anyway, Greg said, jerking her back with a pop of the leash, we havent decided. We both really like New York City, and my job is there, but Simone has a lot of business interests here now that her moms passed on. The Misty Sea Plantation, or something.
Sea Mist, I said.
Right. At any rate, well be here until after the wedding.
When will that be?
As soon as possible, he said, letting Peaches drag him toward the door. Im anxious for her to make an honest man out of me. And with a smile and a wave, he followed Peaches out the door.
Simones a lucky woman, Amy observed from behind me. That is one good-looking man. And he seems nice. Some girls have all the luck.
Then, as we both remembered that Simones mother had been murdered a week ago, she reddened and said, What was I thinking? I take it back.
I didnt have to reply because a woman walked in holding a large black-and-white cat at arms length so his back legs dangled. I understood almost immediately why she was carrying him that way, as the pungent stink of skunk permeated the air. Ew. Catch you later, Amy, I called, holding my breath and sidling around the woman to the door.
I RETURNED TO MOMS FOR LUNCH AND FIXED MYSELF a sandwich in the kitchen without disturbing my mom and Althea, who seemed to each have a client, judging by the voices I could dimly hear drifting from the salon. That was good, at least. I sat at the kitchen table with my turkey, Swiss, and avocado sandwich, wondering if I could fake the rest of the interviews with downtown business owners, since I could predict who would say what based on the mornings conversations. As I was reluctantly admitting I should at least go through the motionsmaybe ask fewer questions?a knock sounded on the door. I looked up to see Hanks tall figure through the screen door. He was here for his NASCAR stuff, I knew. I hesitated before letting him in, tempted to call my mom. No, I was a big girl. Id been married to the man for three years, for heavens sake; I could put up with his innuendos and off-color remarks without my mommy there to protect me.
I rose and held the door open. Hi, Hank.
He bent to kiss my cheek, but I stepped back. Aw, Grace, dont be so standoffish, he complained.
Lets get your stuff so you can be on your way, I said. Its up here. I started up the stairs leading from the kitchen to the upstairs hall. Hank followed close behind. Too close. If he goosed me, I was going to kick him down the stairs and file an assault suit. But he kept his hands to himself. I stopped in front of the hall closet we used for out-of-season clothes, the vacuum cleaner, and other miscellany.
Its up there. I pointed to the shelf stacked with light bulbs, vacuum bags, and nine-volt batteries for the smoke alarms. A large box with a winery logo on it took up much of the space. Id had to use a step ladder to get it up there, and I stepped aside so Hank could wrestle it down.
He leaned into the closet and grabbed the box, grunting as he shifted it forward. My autographed Jeff Gordon jacket better not be wrinkled, he said. He lifted the box off the shelf and staggered, knocking some coats from their hangers.
