One Was a Soldier (48 page)

Stillman made an impatient gesture. “Tell me what the connection is.”

“Your sister’s car was sabotaged,” Clare said. “Both brake calipers were cut, which meant once she started down the mountain, she had no way to stop other than crashing her car.”

Russ nodded. If the MacVanes were right, it must have been done by somebody at the resort. Somebody good with engines. He pictured Lyle complaining about Wyler McNabb.
Spent the afternoon working on his ATV. Kevin said he was trying to boost the performance so’s he could drive it faster.

Clare went on. “Three days after your sister died, Tally stepped into her job, giving her the ability to move or launder the large amounts of cash she and her husband stole in Iraq.”

Stillman blinked several times but didn’t comment.

“It’s possible—in theory—that the McNabbs may have gotten your sister to help them before she died,” Russ said. “Did Ms. Bain ever mention them?”

“I don’t”—Stillman swallowed—“remember.”

“Did she have any unaccounted-for funds when you settled her estate?”

Stillman spread his hands. “I don’t remember.”

Russ tried to tamp down his impatience. “I understand you’re holding her paperwork and records. I’d like your permission to take a look at them.”

“At Ellen’s paperwork.”

Russ glanced at Clare. “Yeah. Stuff Ellen Bain left behind that’s stored at your house.”

“All right. Let’s go.” Stillman dug into his pants pocket and came up with a business card and pen. He jotted down his address and handed it to Russ. “My address. I’ll meet you at my house.” Stillman pivoted and strode away without further farewell.

Russ pocketed the card. “Was that just me, or was he acting weird?”

“It’s not just you,” Clare said. She took her phone out of her skirt pocket and opened it.

“What are you doing?”

“Letting Will and Olivia know they should meet us at Trip’s house.”

“No. No, no, no. I’m grateful for their help, but this is police business now.”

She gave him a look.

“I mean it, Clare. This isn’t you and your buddies carrying Tally McNabb off the field anymore. We’re talking homicide.”

“I’ve been talking homicide the whole time.
You’ve
just started listening.” She held the phone up to her ear. “Hey, Will. It’s Reverend Clare.”

God. For the rest of his life. What was he setting himself up for?

She walked to the office door, listening to something the kid was telling her, and pushed it open. Looked back at him. Clamped her hand over the phone. “Well? Are you coming with me?”

He sighed. “All the way, darlin’. All the way.”

*   *   *

The Stillmans’ house was typical suburbiana, the sort of large and graceful home that fit in everywhere and was native to nowhere. The slim, leafless trees—some sort of ornamental fruit—were hung with tiny witches and black cats, and the entryway was festooned with cobwebs and orange lights. Two skeletons guarded the front door. Each of them had a large cast on one leg.

Clare parked behind a little green four-door with a
SUNY GENESEO
sticker in the rear window. As she was getting out of her Jeep, Russ’s squad car rolled into the drive, followed a minute later by Eric McCrea’s SUV.

“Do you need help?” she asked Will as he slid himself from the green car’s passenger seat. The curvaceous auburn-haired girl bracing his wheelchair looked up. “We’ve got it, thanks.”

“You must be Olivia.” Clare walked up and shook the girl’s hand. “I’m Clare Fergusson.”

Russ and Eric joined them, and Will, panting, but in his chair, introduced everyone.

“I want to thank you two for what you’ve uncovered.” Russ straightened, as if he were standing at attention. “And Miss Bain, I’d like to personally apologize, for myself and on behalf of my department, for not thoroughly investigating your mother’s car earlier.”

Behind them, a BMW nosed into the last available inch of the driveway. Trip Stillman got out, squinting in the sunlight.

“Sergeant McCrea and I can take it from here,” Russ continued. “An officer is headed over to the junkyard right now to document the condition of the car and to take the MacVanes’ statements. I’ll be sure to let you know what we find after examining your mother’s records.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Stillman said. “Olivia, what are you doing here?” He picked up his niece in a toe-dangling hug.

“Will and I want to look at Mom’s papers along with the rest of you.” She darted a glance toward Russ. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, sweetheart.” The doctor frowned at Russ.

“This isn’t a matter for civilians anymore. Sergeant McCrea and I will call in assistance from the department if we need any help in the investigation.”

Clare could tell Russ was trying to keep his temper. She shouldn’t feel so gleeful about that. “Russ?” She was a bad Christian. “Do you have a warrant to search Ellen Bain’s documents?” A bad Christian, and a bad fiancée.

“I don’t need one when I’ve got the permission of…” He trailed off. His eyes narrowed.

“Trip, Olivia, will you allow all of us to go through the papers?”

They nodded.

“Then let’s all go in, shall we?” She shivered. “I’m getting chilled out here.”

The detritus of Ellen Stillman Bain’s life was in the Stillmans’ finished basement, packed in a wall’s worth of 18″ by 22″ moving boxes. Clare read the marker-scrawl on the ends and sides:
LP’S, WINTER COATS, WOODEN ITEMS, VANITY
. She spotted some that would be of interest right away:
PRIOR TAX RETURNS
and
BILLS
and
HEALTH/SS/INVESTMENT
.

Russ bent over the boxes. “Are these in any order?”

Trip indicated the cardboard wall. “This is it. It’s all labeled. What is it, exactly, that you’re looking for?”

“A lead. Some sign of financial hanky-panky. Evidence of conspiracy.”

Stillman looked offended. “My sister was the epitome of financial rectitude. Her living depended on her honesty and reliability. There’s no way she would have been involved in any sort of
hanky-panky
.”

Eric patted Trip’s back. “Sorry, Doc, but the prospect of free money has a way of bending people’s, uh, rectitude. Just look at what it did to Tally McNabb.”

Clare figured now would be a good time to step in. “Trip, is there anyplace upstairs where we can look at the contents? That way, Will can help, too.”

Russ made a noise that sounded like a suppressed groan and picked up a box.

“The dining room table, upstairs.” Stillman bent to pick up another box. “Plenty of room, and we won’t have to stoop over.”

The dining room had the elegant, unused air of a historic house exhibit kept pristine behind a velvet rope. Clare moved a porcelain bowl from the table to a sideboard for safekeeping. Russ was clearly reluctant to set his box on the snowy tablecloth until Trip thumped his down without ceremony. He hit a rheostat and the chandelier sprang to life. “You get started,” he said. “We’ll get the rest of it. But I can tell you already, you’re not going to find anything.”

“He may be right.” Russ hauled one of the chairs out of the way to accommodate Will’s wheelchair. “We’re only guessing at the motive behind sabotaging her brakes. It could have been a jealous lover, or her ex-husband come back, or somebody she pissed off at work. Hell, it could be a family member, looking to inherit. Maybe the daughter.”

“It was not!” Will’s voice was vehement.

Russ looked at him. “No. You’re right. I think we can take that one off the board.”

They opened up the cartons on the table and got to work. They sorted the contents into two piles: the obviously irrelevant and documents that needed a closer look. Trip and Olivia and Eric brought up everything that might possibly be of interest, then stayed to open and sort. The piles grew higher and higher, then divided, then divided again. Eventually, they had the contents of eight boxes spread across the room, covering the table, piled in chairs, heaped on the sideboard.

“It looks like your office,” Clare said.

“God. I hate paper trails.” Russ polished his glasses on his shirtfront. “Give me ballistics and blood splatters any day.”

There was a soft ringtone from the other end of the house. A door opening. “Hello?” They could hear a wary British voice from the kitchen. “Trip? Why is there a police car in the drive?”

“We’re in here, darling.” Stillman straightened from where he’d been hunched over a stack of old checkbooks.

Mrs. Stillman’s eyes widened when she appeared in the dining room door. “Good Lord. What’s going on? It looks like an office exploded in here.” She spotted her niece. “Olivia, darling, why aren’t you at University?” She looked at Russ. “Has there been some sort of trouble?”

“No trouble.” Russ held his hand out to her. “I’m Russ Van Alstyne. Chief of police.”

“Flora Stillman.” She shook automatically, her face turning toward Clare. “You’re the Episcopal priest, aren’t you? At St. Alban’s.”

“Clare Fergusson.” Clare waved from the other side of the table.

“We go sometimes. Well. Christmas and Easter, really. I’ve been meaning to try to attend more often, but you know how busy Sundays can get.” Flora Stillman bit her lower lip. “Oh dear. I suppose you do.”

Clare smiled. “You’re welcome anytime. Come for Choral Evensong. It’s less hectic.”

Flora looked around her, as if trying to put a priest together with a soldier and a young man in a wheelchair. “What are you all
doing
here?”

“We have reason to believe your sister-in-law’s death wasn’t accidental,” Russ said. “We think she may have been connected in some way with several people who stole a lot of money from the government.” He indicated the papers stacked everywhere. “We’re looking for a lead. Something to tell us why someone tampered with her brakes.”

“Her brakes?”

Will spoke up for the first time. “They’d been engineered to snap the first time the calipers were engaged. It’s not that hard, if you know what you’re doing.”

“That’s … good Lord. I thought that only happened in old television shows.”

Russ shifted his weight. “Did Ellen ever mention the name Wyler McNabb to you?”

“No.” Flora looked at her husband.

“Never heard of him,” Trip said. “Who is he?”

Clare and Eric and Will stared at him. Finally, Eric said, “He’s Tally McNabb’s husband. She talked about him in group. Several times.”

“Ah.” Trip got that waxy, stuffed look again, the same one he had had in his waiting room.

“How about finances? Did she ever say anything about coming into some money?”

“No, but she would have talked to Trip about that, not me.” She turned toward her husband. “What about when we had her and Olivia for dinner? Just a few days before she died?”

“I remember,” Olivia said. “Iola and I went swimming, and Uncle George made shish kebab.”

“That’s right.” Flora looked at Russ. “Ellen must have spent an hour that evening closeted with Trip in his office.”

“Huh.” Russ frowned. “How about it, Dr. Stillman? Is there anything your sister said that in retrospect throws up a red flag?”

Trip looked blank. “I don’t know.”

“What did you talk about?”

Trip stood there, still, pale, his mouth slightly open. Only his eyes moved, darting from side to side as if trying to find an escape from his head.

“Dr. Stillman?”

Clare could hear the man’s breath rasping in and out.

Flora Stillman’s face pinched in worry. “Darling, you must remember. It was the last time we saw her alive.” She glanced up at Russ. “I assumed they were talking about their mother. She’s been getting a bit difficult, and he tries hard not to drag me into it.”

“Was that what you were talking about, Dr. Stillman?” Russ’s voice had sharpened, like a knife that was about to cut through to the truth.
It could be a family member, looking to inherit.
“Your mother?”

Silence. Clare heard a rattle in Trip’s throat, like the harbinger of death. “I can’t remember.”

Flora faced Russ. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately.”

“I don’t need word-for-word. The general gist is fine.”

“I can’t remember,” Trip said.

Russ stepped toward him. “You can’t remember what went on between you and your sister the last time you saw her alive? Even though you were alone together for an hour?” He dropped his voice. “Maybe that wasn’t the last time you saw her. Maybe you were up at the resort the night of July twenty-ninth. Maybe you were watching as she drove away.”

“For God’s sake!” Flora threw her arms around her husband, as if to prevent Russ from dragging him away.

“I can’t remember.” Trip’s face fell in on itself. “I can’t remember anything.” He disengaged from his wife. “I’m sorry, Flo. I’m so sorry. I’ve been lying to you. To you, to the partners, to everybody.”

Clare had the stomach-dropping sensation of seeing her own life reenacted as a morality play.

“I’m not—I don’t have PTSD. I’m not stressed, or getting older, or preoccupied. I have a traumatic brain injury to my frontal lobe. The effects include migraines, impaired judgment, and a pervasive loss of short-term memory.”

Flora pressed her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord.”

“I diagnosed myself back in…” He wiped his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know. Back in the summer, I think. Not long after I got home.”

Flora squeezed her eyes shut. “I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I thought maybe you were drinking or taking drugs or—” She hiccupped and started to cry. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Stillman folded his arms around his wife. “Oh, Flora. I’m so sorry.”

“I should have said something,” she sobbed. “I should have made you go to a neurologist instead of trying to ignore it and hoping you’d get better.”

Trip shook his head. “No, sweetheart, no. I wouldn’t have listened to you. I’ve been in carry-on mode since I figured it out.” He bent down so he could peer up into her face. “You know. Stiff upper lip. Onward, the six hundred.”

Flora gasped, a cross between a laugh and a sob.

“Your PalmPilot,” Clare said, coming around the table toward him.