Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) (8 page)

"Good morning, sweetie," Sinbad and Harriet said in unison as I entered the kitchen
at a minute before six.

"Good morning," I said.

"Ya be right on time. Yer breakfast be ready in just a sec."

"Damn nuisance," Sinbad squawked.

I laughed at the parrot and removed a coffee cup from the cup rack. People are indeed
creatures of habit, so I instinctively selected the "Lady Luck Casino" cup. I poured
myself a cup of thick, chewy coffee and sat down at the table. Bad coffee was better
than no coffee at all. After the first few swallows it was a little easier to get
down.

I sipped my coffee cautiously while I watched Harriet dip a spatula into the skillet
in front of her. It was clear that oatmeal and bagels were not on the breakfast menu
today. However, a pancake or waffle sounded appetizing to me too, now that I'd been
awake for thirty minutes. I felt guilty having Harriet cooking and waiting on me,
but I had to keep reminding myself that this is what I was paying her for—and lodging
at the Camelot B&B did not come cheap.

Harriet snubbed out her cigarette, or what little was left of it, and pulled what
looked like a turkey platter out of the cabinet. In the wink of an eye she'd placed
it before me and instructed me to "chow down."

I sat in mortified silence and stared down at my plate for what must have seemed like
a full five minutes to Harriet. Not only had she made me poached eggs on toast again,
she had given me twice as much today as she had yesterday.

"Get to eating, girl. Time's a'wasting," she finally said to me. "Since you said ya
liked it so much, I gave ya a bit more of it today."

"Horseshit!" Sinbad spat from his cage.

How does that bird read my mind the way he does? If nothing else, it inspired me to
get cracking. No more lolling around, reading and procrastinating all day. Time truly
was a'wasting.

* * *

"Detective Glick will be right with you, ma'am," the bald-headed man at the front
desk told me. "He's one of the homicide detectives who was originally assigned to
the Pitt case. Please have a seat. It shouldn't be too long."

He turned to a tall, broad man talking on the phone. When he turned back to me I smiled
and nodded. He seemed like a nice and pleasant guy. I was relieved, expecting now
that all the detectives here would be friendly and accommodating. Earlier, Harriet
had given me directions to the Schenectady County sheriff's office on Lafayette Street.
I'd hoped for a copy of the original police report, at the very least, and more if
I could talk the detective out of additional information.

I waited on a wooden bench for about five minutes until Detective Glick finished his
phone call. I watched him as he listened to the caller on the other end of the line.
He seemed to respond very infrequently, but roll his eyes often. His was the squarest
face I'd ever seen on a human being, almost a Sponge-Bob Square Pants type of face.
It was a face that looked as if it had never attempted a smile. He was about my age,
and his eyes were nearly the exact color as my own, a light brown resembling cinnamon
mixed liberally with sugar—like you'd put on toast if you hadn't already ruined it
with runny eggs.

Detective Glick looked like solid muscle poured into a suit. He was a big, broad-shouldered
man, six foot six or taller. His hands looked capable of palming a wrecking ball.
He glanced my way but didn't acknowledge me. He looked right past me as if I were
a fly on the wall. He must not have noticed that this was one of the four and a half
days this season that my hair was cooperating. I disliked the detective already.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said, after hanging up the phone. "May I help you? The name's
Glick, Ron Glick."

He reminded me of an old rerun I'd watched a few weeks before. The name's Bond, James
Bond. Was this Glick guy for real? I half expected him to take off his watch and detonate
a bomb with it.

"Nice to meet you, Detective Glick. I'm Lexie Starr," I said, extending my hand in
greeting. He ignored my hand, looking as if I were offering him a handful of nuclear
waste. Embarrassed, I shoved my hand back into my pocket.

"Step into my office," he commanded. "We'll talk there."

"Thank you for seeing me, detective," I said. We stepped back into his cramped cubicle,
which made his immense size seem even more intimidating. "I was hoping you could help
me out with a little information about a case from 2001, the Eliza Pitt murder case.
I understand that you were on the investigating team."

He looked surprised at my request. "Why do you want the information, Ms. Starr?" He
finally asked.

The Korean-marathoner ploy had worked well before so I tried it again.

"A freelance article?" Glick asked. It was obvious he wasn't buying that story for
a second. It irritated me that he would act so distrustful of a liar he'd just met.

"Yes," I said, defiance creeping into my voice.

"You're going to write an article about a case that hasn't even been solved yet?"

"Well, yes. I'm a wr-wr-writer. That's what writers do. They wr-wr-write."

"They wr-wr-write?" Glick asked, imitating my sudden speech impediment.

"Yes, Detective Glick." I was not amused by his mockery. "And I thought I could possibly
be of some assistance to you in your investigation. For the sake of my article, of
course. Like you said, it would be advantageous to both of us to solve this case."

For someone who couldn't smile, he could laugh quite loud. He acted as if I'd just
offered to help him cure cancer, or create world peace. I didn't see any humor in
my comment at all. I disliked this man more intensely with each second that passed.

"What I meant to say was, if you could give me what information you have, I'd be happy
to share any I have with you too. It's been more than two years since Eliza Pitt was
murdered. Frankly, I think you could use a little help solving this one." I nearly
sneered at Detective Glick, following my sarcastic jab at his inability to close the
case.

"Uh-huh. And what information would you have to share with me, ma'am?"

"Well—er—nothing yet, but..."

"Are you willing to testify to that?"

"Well—I—uh..."

"Could you sit on the witness stand and explain all that in detail to a panel of jurors?"

Detective Glick was getting as sarcastic as I was, and I didn't like it one little
bit. He motioned for me to exit his cubicle, an indication that my five minutes were
up. I was being excused. "Listen, ma'am. We're not at liberty to give out confidential
information that might jeopardize the investigation—freelance article or not. And
actually, this case was recently turned over to the police department in the town
where the body was recovered."

"Which was?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He stepped away from me and through a door into the men's restroom.
Ron Glick wasn't going to be suckered into releasing "classified" information.

Arrogant jerk! His rudeness was inexcusable. I couldn't imagine him treating me with
such disparagement because I had no credible information to relay to him. I should
have told him that it was "as plain as Harriet's face that it was Eliza's old man
that whacked her." They "otter" have known that from the split-lip incident. I was
convinced my spunky landlady had more sense than Detective Glick.

* * *

I stepped into the phone booth across the street from the sheriff's office and called
the number on the card I'd picked up from a holder on Glick's desk. My call was answered
on the first ring. I recognized the voice of the bald man at the front desk who had
been polite and cooperative earlier. Disguising my voice as best I could, I asked
for the records department. He seemed a little confused by my request, but a minute
or so later a lady's voice came on the line.

"This is Sandra White. May I help you?"

"Good morning, Sandra," I said. "This is Lydia over at the c-c-county c-c-coroner's
office. We received a file today on the Eliza Pitt case that should have been sent
to the office currently handling the investigation..."

"DeKalb?" she interjected.

"Exactly. Would you have that address handy, S-s-andra?"

"Sure, hang on a minute and I'll get it for you."

Chapter 8

"DeKalb, New York—Population 207," the sign read on the outskirts of town. It was
a gross exaggeration, I was certain. There couldn't possibly be that many inhabitants
in this little backwater town, located about an hour north of Schenectady.

The Jeep backfired and began to stall. I stomped on the gas pedal. It sputtered a
bit and then picked up speed again. It'd been running perfectly until that moment.
I was deep in the Adirondack Mountains by this time and perhaps the four-thousand-foot
peak I'd just traversed was playing havoc on the motor. Did carburetors still need
"needle valve" adjustments? Maybe I'd recently gotten some bad gasoline in the tank.

I pulled into a gas station to fill up and see if there was anyone there who could
look at the motor for me. The only person in the building was a young gal about nineteen
who knew even less about car engines than I did. I paid for the gas, bought a Coke,
and left. At least I'd made it to DeKalb.

It was easy to find the police station because the entire business district was only
two blocks long, including the DeKalb Funeral Home, which took up an entire city block.
Apparently people were dying to come to DeKalb. Or more likely, people coming to DeKalb
were dying. With a population of 207, they couldn't afford to lose too many more.
We'd had more folks than that at our last block party, I'd bet.

I strolled into the tiny police station as if I had a key to the city. I noticed a
solitary, and vacant, jail cell in the rear of the room. It was a room that could
have been taken from the movie set of
The Andy Griffith Show.
A skinny man, about five foot seven, with slicked-back hair, dressed in a policeman's
uniform, was tilted back in a chair with his feet crossed on top of the desk. He quickly
jumped up to a standing position when I entered. I introduced myself as Lexie Starr,
author, and he introduced himself as Sheriff Wilbur T. Crabb. " 'T' like in Ted,"
he said, and nearly pumped my arm off in greeting. It felt nice to be so warmly welcomed.
I noticed I was getting more comfortable with lying. I hadn't stuttered or examined
my nails so far in my conversation with the sheriff.

"So you're Sheriff Wilbur Ted Crabb," I said in a flirtatious manner, trying to win
him over into my corner. I'd failed miserably with Detective Glick.

"Oh, no, Ms. Starr. It's Wilbur Tom Crabb."

"Do you go by Wilbur, Will, William, Tom...?"

"I go by Ted," he interrupted.

"I see," I said. "Well, Ted, sir, it's a pleasure to meet you. A good friend of mine,
Detective Ron Glick from the Schenectady Homicide Division, told me you were the man
to talk to here in DeKalb."

"He did, did he?" Sheriff Crabb puffed up like a torn turkey and hitched up his slacks
with his thumbs while he rocked back and forth on the heels and toes of his shoes.

"Yes, he advised me not to talk to anyone else if I wanted to get the straight scoop
on the Eliza Pitt case."

"I guess your detective would be right. After all, I am the official authority on
the double homicide case now. Eliza Pitt was pregnant, you know. Makes it two murders,
you understand." It was clear that Sheriff Crabb was trying to impress me with his
knowledge. I pretended to be impressed by his astuteness just to keep him talking.

"Oh, yes, that's good to know, Sheriff Crabb. I can see that Detective Glick was right.
You truly are the man to talk to. You see, I'm writing a novel on the Pitt murder,
kind of an Ann Rule -type thing, and I need some information to fill in some gaps
in the story," I told him. Freelance article hadn't worked well the last time. I hoped
novel might garner a little more respect.

"Well, I'll be hanged. We got us a gen-u-wine, honest-to-goodness author, right here
in DeKalb. Wait until my wife hears about this." I had Sheriff Crabb hooked, and it
was time to reel him in.