Authors: Parnell Hall
George Brooks’s eyes were red and sunken. The police had let him back in his house, but he hadn’t shaved, and his white shirt looked like the one he’d worn the night before. It had taken him a long time to answer the bell. Now he stood in the doorway as if he couldn’t quite believe Cora was there.
“Mr. Brooks. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do. If you don’t talk to me, you’ll have to talk to the cops, and believe me, I’m better.” Cora grimaced. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I mean I’ll make it easier for you. You don’t have to go into the station. Sit in the harsh room. Make a statement. Have it taken down.”
“I did that.”
“I know. It doesn’t mean they won’t be back. It’s a homicide. It won’t go away.”
Brooks looked around miserably. “I’ve set up shop in the study. I don’t want to go upstairs.”
“Did the police have you look at the room?”
“No. Why?”
“See if anything’s out of place.” Cora bit her lip. Everything she said was wrong. She wasn’t usually so bad. Was it just that he was a handsome widower?
Brooks never noticed. He stood there, a dull expression on his face.
Cora took his arm, guided him into the living room. “Sit down,” she said, taking over. She got him settled on the couch, sat next to him. “You’ve had a traumatic experience. You need help. Are you on any medication?”
“No.”
“Do you have a therapist?”
“No.”
“Did your wife?”
He turned on her sharply. Didn’t answer.
“I don’t mean to upset you, but it needs to be discussed. Did the police ask you that?”
He glared a moment, then turned away. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. And you didn’t volunteer the information, did you? Look, I’m sorry to ask, but your wife had problems, didn’t she?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Dennis Pride.”
“Son of a bitch!”
Core nodded. “Yes. My niece’s ex-husband has little to recommend him. But he talked to your wife. She told him things she never told the police.”
“They never asked her.”
“I imagine you didn’t let them. Mr. Brooks, what your wife told Dennis is unusual, to say the least. It would be unusual to tell
anyone
. Which is why I’m wondering if your wife was under psychiatric care.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m trying to. Can you help me out?”
He heaved a huge sigh. “Juliet had a stroke. Two years ago. Massive. Debilitating. She almost died. But she didn’t. She recovered. Physically.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Mentally she had problems. Cause and effect. Impulse control. Simple reasoning.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have left her.”
“Left her?”
“Alone. I thought she would be safe enough. In the country. No car. No way to get into trouble. I work in New York. I can’t quit my job. But I shouldn’t have gone.” He grimaced. “Not with a murder next door. Not if someone killed the old man.”
“If your wife
did
see someone in Overmeyer’s cabin that night—if that man came back—would she have been afraid of him? Would she have locked the door?”
Brooks smiled sadly.
“She might have made him tea.”
Chief Harper drove his police cruiser up Cora’s driveway, killed the engine, and got out.
A toy poodle erupted from the front door and, barking furiously, charged the lawman and circled him twice before darting off across the lawn.
“God, what was that?” Harper exclaimed.
“He likes you,” Cora said. “Come in, Chief. He’ll be back as soon as he overpees everything. You pierced his perimeter, and now he has to re-mark the property.”
“Is that bad?”
“It keeps him out of the pool halls. Come on in, he’ll be right along.” Cora took Chief Harper in the front door, waited a moment to let Buddy scoot in behind. “In the kitchen, Chief. I gotta give him a biscuit or he’ll never shut up.”
Harper followed Cora into the kitchen, where she rewarded the little poodle with a puppy treat.
“Sit down, Chief, have a cup of coffee. I made a new batch.”
Cora eyed the automatic-drip coffeemaker with suspicion. She knew it was one scoop of coffee per cup, or something like that, but she was never sure if it was level or heaping—or, for that matter, just which of several plastic scoops in the drawer was for the coffeemaker anyway.
Chief Harper regarded the cup of dark liquid she slid in front of him, wondered how long he could put off taking a sip. “You said to come on over. Anything the matter?”
“I just thought we should have a little talk.”
“We’ve been talking all day.”
“I thought we should talk here.”
“Why?”
Cora poured herself a cup of coffee, added several teaspoons of sugar. “It’s what we call home-field advantage.”
“What?”
“I’m at a disadvantage in your office. You won’t let me smoke, you make me chew gum, you’re in charge, and you don’t have to listen.”
“You make me sound like a girl.”
“Not at all. Like a police chief. Not surprising, since that’s what you are. Anyway, I thought we should have a talk without the jurisdictional restrictions.”
“You’re going to get me into trouble.”
“Relax, Chief. You’re
already
in trouble. You got two murders you can’t solve, and you’re being sued for every cent you’re worth. You’ve hit rock bottom. Anything’s bound to be an improvement.”
Harper sipped the coffee, managed not to make a face. “Okay, it’s your show. What’d you want to say?”
“I’ve got a problem with these murders. Not the same problem you’ve got, but a problem nonetheless. The problem is there’s too much evidence.”
“Are you kidding me? The problem is there’s not enough.”
“Whatever.” Cora sipped her coffee. Grimaced. “Aw, hell. I don’t see why making coffee’s so hard, but it is. All right, will you take motives? There’s too many possible motives. One, monetary gain. Which would make all the heirs suspects if it weren’t for the fact there’s nothing to inherit. On the other hand, the phrase
worthless property
always makes me suspicious. I immediately envision oil wells on Overmeyer’s land. Huge derricks rising up and obscuring Mr. Brooks’s view, yet another motive. Though why the oil should be under Overmeyer’s land and not Brooks is hard to fathom.”
“This isn’t oil country.”
“No kidding. That’s just an example.”
“It’s a bad one.”
“Granted. But say that something makes the property valuable. The highway’s going through, they’d have to buy Overmeyer out.”
“What highway? That’s an even worse example.”
“Wouldja believe uranium?”
“Cora.”
“All right, forget the specific example. The point is, it’s valuable, one of these morons knows it, and that’s what this is all about.”
“You have one shred of evidence to indicate that’s the case?”
“Just circumstantial. Someone poisoned Overmeyer, and all these guys turned up to inherit. That would tend to indicate there was something worth having.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I know you don’t. That’s why we’re playing in my ballpark. So we can discuss my theories whether you like ’em or not.”
“I hate that one.”
“Your displeasure is noted.”
“What else are you serving?” Harper put up his hand quickly. “I mean in terms of theories.”
“Actually, Chief, I have a box of cookies from Trader Joe’s I’ve been saving. If anyone deserves ’em, it’s you.”
Cora opened a box, poured some out on a plate. “Here you go. Butter Almond Thins. They make the coffee almost bearable.”
Harper took one tentatively, was pleasantly surprised. “Thanks. You have any theories about this crime that don’t involve Overmeyer’s property being priceless?”
“Sure. First we got the gun. Big problem with the gun. You can’t have a gun in a story without having it mean something. Of course, that’s fiction. In real life you can throw in an irrelevant gun, no one will say boo. So maybe he just had a gun.”
“He didn’t
just
have a gun. He had a gun that killed someone in an armed robbery.”
“Exactly, and that should mean something. If Overmeyer was about to ’fess up before he died, his accomplice could have poisoned him to shut him up. The Geezer is just about the right age to be that accomplice, and it would make for a very neat solution, if it weren’t for the fact that the accomplice is dead.”
“Do we know that for sure?”
“We certainly do. He’s not only merely dead, he’s really most sincerely dead.”
“What?”
“Come on, Chief. You’ve got kids.
The Wizard of Oz
.”
“I’ve got one daughter, and she’s grown.”
“So? I’ve never had kids, and
I
know
The Wizard of Oz
.”
“Just ’cause the guy is dead doesn’t mean he was the accomplice. What if someone else was the accomplice?”
“I like the way you think, Chief. That’s the first thing that occurred to me. Suppose Rudy Clemson, who died last year in Georgia—”
“Who?”
“Overmeyer’s buddy. Suppose he’s
not
the same dude who served with him in Korea, and was invalided out with shrapnel in his hip.”
Harper’s eyes widened. “You’re saying he
was
because of the shrapnel?”
“No, I’m saying he was because of the death certificate. Not to mention the fingerprints.”
“Fingerprints? What fingerprints?”
“Rudy Clemson, who died in Georgia with no means of identification. They ran his fingerprints to find out who he was. And guess what?”
“I have no idea,” Harper said irritably. “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“The man had a prior. A series of them, actually. Outstanding warrants dating all the way back to 1953. Right after he got out of the Veterans Hospital. Apparently suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Popular with Vietnam vets, but I bet Korean War vets had it, too. He threatened his wife with a gun. Actually fired a shot or two. Took off on the road with guess who?”
“Was this just before the armed robbery?”
“Not
just
before, but a couple of weeks.”
“On that you base the fact he was with Overmeyer at the time of the stickup?”
“Absolutely.”
“Seems like there’s wiggle room.”
“Then there’s the witness.”
“Oh?”
“Mickey Dare. The bystander. The one who survived the shooting. He saw the two guys plain as day, gave a perfectly good description. It’s in your notes, Chief. Didn’t you look?”
Harper scowled. “I don’t care whose ballpark we’re in, my nerves are pretty raw just now.”
“Sorry. Mickey Dare’s description of the guy who shot him matches Overmeyer. Actually, it matches just about anybody. But the guy
with
Overmeyer. The accomplice. The one who didn’t shoot him.” Cora smiled. “Had a stiff leg. Walked with a bad limp. Like a guy with a pin in his leg.”
Harper gaped at her. “Where’d you get all this?”
“Went over to the library. Poked around. Amazing what you can find in a library.”
“A small-town Connecticut library?”
“They got computers.”
“And you got all that from the library computer?”
“I may have asked Dan Finley to run a few traces.”
“What!”
“You were busy, Chief. I know technically I should have asked you to ask Dan, but you had your hands full. And Dan was on the desk anyway. No reason he should just sit there.”
“You figure because what you got helps, you had a right to do it?”
“Actually, what I got
doesn’t
help. It’s another dead end. Literally. Overmeyer’s accomplice is dead. The Geezer isn’t him. But it’s certainly interesting background. Here’s Overmeyer living here for years, everyone thinks he’s a harmless old coot, and today he’s an armed robber.”
“And yet you think this has no bearing on the murder?”
“It may, but the answer isn’t so simple. We don’t have an obvious cause and effect that ties it up in a pretty little package. We have to keep sifting through the rubble.”
“Such as?”
“The stock-pooling agreement. The one we can’t find. The one my late night visitor—boy, that seems years ago—says Overmeyer and a bunch of cronies pooled some stock.”
“He’s a bank robber
and
a stockholder?”
“See what I mean by too many clues? Either would be sufficient, but we have both.”
“Have you traced him yet?”
“Who?”
“Your late night visitor?”
“I haven’t a thing to go on. You want to dust for fingerprints, that would be fine. As I say, that was some time ago. I haven’t been careful about touching things.”
“So you let the stock-pooling idea go?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve looked into it. I just haven’t gotten anywhere. You know how many shares of Philip Morris stock were issued in 1955? People used to smoke back then. And guess what? You can’t get a list of stockholders. At least
I
can’t. Maybe you could, as chief of police. You’re looking for a block of stock owned by four guys, one of whom was Overmeyer, pooled under a name of which we have no idea. The only thing that’s going to help us is to find that stock-pooling agreement.”
“You want to search the cabin
again
?”
Cora shook her head. “I don’t think it’s there.”
“Where do you think it is?”
“I have no idea. And I have no idea how to find the guy who told me about it. In my opinion, if that stock option exists, the only way we’re going to find it is if someone makes a move for it. Which isn’t very likely, because under the circumstances, no one wants to show any interest.”
“You’re not cheering me up.”
“Sorry. But it helps to state the situation. Even if the situation is unhelpful.”
“Great. You got any more unhelpful situations to state?”
“Actually—”
“Oh, hell.”
“Don’t blame me, Chief. Talk to Barney Nathan. If she was killed between nine and ten, it wasn’t by anyone who saw Dennis on the late news.”
“Obviously.”
“So the field’s wide open. So are the motives. Supposedly, Mrs. Brooks saw the killer. But that’s the gospel according to Dennis. Not the type of thing you’d like to stake your life on. But what if she
didn’t
see the killer? Or what if she did see the killer and was killed for some other reason entirely?”
“By the killer?”
“No. If the killer killed her, that would be why. If she was killed for some other reason, we’re assuming someone else wanted her dead.”
Harper looked pained. “You’re saying we have two killers?”
“I know,” Cora said glumly. “It’s worse than the meaningless gun. When you’ve got two murders by two separate killers, the writer might as well start looking for a day job.”
“You don’t think that’s what happened here?”
“I’m not ruling it out. More coffee, Chief?”
Harper suppressed a shudder. “Perhaps a cookie.” He took a bite. “So what are you getting at?”
“I had a little talk with Mr. Brooks.”
“When?”
“This afternoon. While you were busy with the heirs.”
“Is there anything you
haven’t
investigated?”
“I’m not really up on the Lindbergh kidnapping.”
“What were you asking Brooks?”
“I’m trying to judge how much credence we should give Dennis Pride. It was hard to get him to talk about it, because he’s very angry.”
“Angry?”
Cora gave Chief Harper a rundown of her conversation with Mr. Brooks.
“So, if what you’re saying is true, she may not have known what she saw.”
“Exactly. But the killer wouldn’t know that. The killer might be lying low, waiting for her to give the alarm. He can’t believe it when she doesn’t. Overmeyer’s body is found, no one is suspicious, it’s ruled a natural death. The killer thinks he’s gotten away with it. Maybe the lady saw him, but so what?”
“Until you poke around and prove it was murder.”
“Now you’re saying Mrs. Brooks was my fault?”
“No, I’m just following your train of thought. Go on. What happens next?”
“Once the murder is announced, the killer waits for Mrs. Brooks to go to the police. Lo and behold, she doesn’t. The killer wonders why. It happened in the past, she doesn’t connect the fact it’s the same night, but there’s always a chance she might, so she’s gotta go.” Cora shook her head. “See, Chief? That’s the type of logic trips you up.”
“What type of logic?”
“Bad logic. No logic. Suspension of logic and replacement with wishful thinking. The killer decides the woman might pose a threat in the future by remembering something she hasn’t remembered yet.”
“The killer doesn’t know she has problems. The killer thinks she’s a genuine threat.”
“Same objection. If she isn’t a threat today, why is she a threat tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s your stumbling block. If you can’t figure that out, your theory doesn’t fly.”
“It’s not my theory,” Harper said irritably. “It’s your theory.”
“Right. You haven’t
got
a theory.”
“Cora.”
“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. In this case, it’s probably good. Because all theories are wrong, and can be immediately proven wrong, so embracing one only makes you look stupid.” As Harper started to flare up, Cora said, “Once again, I am using the word
you
in a nonspecific way. It makes me look stupid, too. Or whoever is expressing a theory.”
Harper put up his hand. “My head’s hurting. Stop telling me what we haven’t got. Tell me what we have.”