Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (20 page)

“So you don’t feel there’s any connection?”

“It isn’t totally impossible, of course, but it’s doubtful.”

“Okay. You know they’ll ask.”

Benson winked at Ryan as he left. He was whistling.

When he was gone, Manziuk turned and looked at Ryan, who was sitting stiffly on the edge of a chair several feet away. Her knees were together and her purse was on her knees.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Manziuk asked. “This isn’t sit-around time. We’ve got work to do.”

“No weapon so far,” Special Constable Ford, the head of the Forensics Identification team, stated ten minutes later, after Manziuk had settled Ryan at the desk and made sure she had a notebook so she could make notes on the interviews. “We’ve searched the garden and beyond. No rope in the water. We wondered if it could be a cord from a curtain or something like that.”

Manziuk nodded, his eyes half shut.

“There’s no reason to think she was sexually assaulted,” Ford continued. “Apparently, whoever did it simply wanted to kill her. Unless he was disturbed before he had a chance to do anything else.”

“Robbery?”

“She had on three rings. A watch. A diamond pendant.”

“So we can presumably rule out a tramp.”

“The grounds are bordered by other estates. There’s an eight-foot stone wall all around the place. There are only two entrances—the front, where we came in, and a small gate at the back that is kept locked. The front has an electronic gate that is locked at night. During the day there’s a buzzer that goes off whenever anyone crosses the entrance.”

“Who hears it?”

“It rings in the kitchen and the garage. Apparently it was installed by the previous owner. The Brodies bought the place just before Easter and haven’t changed anything.

“The gate at the back can only be opened by a key and it locks automatically. There are paths leading into ravines and such beyond it. Someone could conceivably come from back there, but getting in would be pretty difficult.”

“Uh-huh,” Manziuk said. His eyes were completely shut now. There was silence for about half a minute. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Go on.”

“The only concrete thing we found might not have anything to do with it. It’s a daisy chain.”

“Yeah, I saw it. Learned anything?” he asked.

“It’s made from flowers with their stems slit and the next flower inserted in the slit, and the last one making it a circle. Ingenious.”

“She could have made it while she sat there.”

“Yes. Or somebody else could have. All we do know is that these particular flowers only grow near the entrance to that garden.”

“So whoever made it picked them on the way in and—what would you say—braided it later?”

“I suppose it could have been done while walking.”

“Yes. Examine it thoroughly. Find an expert if you can.”

“Yes, sir. That’s about it for now. We’ll start searching the house in a few minutes. The people here have been confined in one room since Carnaby arrived.”

“All of them accounted for?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send someone to take his place and tell him to come here.”

“On my way.” Ford left.

“Doing all right taking notes?” Manziuk asked Ryan.

Her dark eyes flashed, but she nodded meekly.

Constable Carnaby came in slowly and looked around, not sure where to sit. Manziuk pointed to the chair and he sat awkwardly in it, twisting his cap between his knees. He looked young—twenty-two or three, and out of place in this lavish setting. But he was obviously determined to do a good job.

“Now then,” Manziuk said. “How long have you been here?”

Carnaby’s voice was all business. “I arrived at four-sixteen. The call came on my radio at four-eleven and I was only a short distance away. Waite arrived about two minutes earlier. He sealed the scene and I isolated the witnesses. The Emergency Response Unit also arrived about the time I did. Waite allowed a paramedic in to see if there was a chance of resuscitation. When Worrell arrived ten minutes later, he did a search of the grounds. Ident and Dr. Munsen and the others arrived soon after.”

“You talked to the husband?”

“Yes, sir.” Carnaby flipped open a notebook. “Name of Peter Martin. He and his wife were guests here for the weekend. The victim is his wife, Jillian. She was found by a group of three who were walking in the garden.”

“Did they move her at all?”

“Turned her slightly to be sure she was dead.”

“I see. Did her husband have anything else to say?”

“He appeared completely devastated, sir. Answered yes or no to my questions and didn’t volunteer anything.” Carnaby looked up and said by way of explanation, “He’d seen the body.”

“All right. Did you talk to anyone else?”

“Just Mr. Brodie, sir. The owner of the house. He and Mr. Martin are partners. Lawyers. There’s a Mr.—” He consulted his notebook. “A Mr. Fischer as well. Mrs. Brodie had invited both partners and their wives here for the weekend.”

“Who else is on the grounds?”

Constable Carnaby consulted his notebook again. “Well, sir. There are quite a few.” The constable nervously cleared his throat. He read the names of the Brodies, Nick Donovan, and the Fischers.

When he identified Peter Martin as the corpse’s husband, Detective Constable Ryan couldn’t keep the laughter from gurgling up at the inept description. She stopped abruptly. “Sorry,” she said as Manziuk glanced at her, his face unsmiling.

“Who else?” Manziuk said, looking back at Constable Carnaby.

He read off the names of the rest of the guests.

“Is that it?” Manziuk tone was sardonic.

“Well, all but the servants, sir.”

“How many?” he asked with a resigned sigh.

“The cook, Mrs. Winston. Her daughter, Crystal. And then there are two gardeners, but neither lives on the estate. And there’s another man who comes to help with heavy jobs. And a woman who cleans weekly, but she hasn’t been here since Wednesday.

“That’s it?”

“Yes, sir. There’s no chauffeur.”

“No chauffeur?”

“Yes, sir. The people who lived here before had a chauffeur, but Mr. Brodie prefers to drive himself, as does Mrs. Brodie. So there’s an empty apartment above the garage. Mr. Bart Brodie is staying there right now.”

“Well, that makes one less person we have to talk to,” Manziuk said. “I for one am glad they don’t have a chauffeur.”

“There doesn’t appear to be a butler, either,” Ryan added.

Carnaby looked from one to the other. “Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.

“Not now. Leave your list of names, though. I’ll need it to keep this cast of characters straight.”

Carnaby went out.

“You know,” Manziuk said as he stretched out his legs and got comfortable, “if I wasn’t involved in this I’d think I was reading it. This place is like a setting for one of those whodunits. Right out of a book.”

“A setting for murder,” Ryan echoed hesitantly. “Except this is no stage.”

“And our corpse is on the way to the morgue for an autopsy. And we’ve got a whole list of people who could have murdered her. Or it might have been none of them. It’s like a Rubik’s cube, all jumbled up. Ah, well, talking about it won’t do us much good. It’s time we started listening. You check to make sure Ford has the house search going, and I’ll go spy on the house party.”

EIGHT

Manziuk walked along the plush hall carpeting until he found Carnaby back at his post in the open doorway of the day room.

After a brief conversation, Manziuk entered the room. He took in the floral curtains and matching loveseats and chairs. His wife would like this room.

Talk died as one by one they became aware of his presence. Without a word, he took control.

His eyes went quickly past the decor to the people. Seven women and five men. One of the men was missing then. By the look of it, several of them hadn’t recovered from the shock. One woman wasn’t unhappy, though. She would bear examining.

A movement behind made him step inside the room and turn.

“Sorry, officer, or whatever. Your title escapes me. I know we were asked to stay in here, but, unfortunately, I needed to leave the room.” The man, who was much younger than his bald head made him seem at first glance, spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “The bathroom is across the hall, so I didn’t go far. Childish of me, I know, but there it is.” The man dropped his hands and went past Manziuk. Then he stopped to observe the others before turning back to the Inspector. “Charming group we have here, isn’t it? Has anyone confessed yet, or are you going to have to give us all the third degree?”

“Bart, be quiet.” The man with graying hair came forward. “My nephew, Inspector. Please ignore him. He seems to think this is funny. I can assure you the rest of us don’t.”

“Mr. George Brodie?”

“Yes, that’s right. Officer, I don’t know what to say. This sort of thing isn’t in my line at all. I stick to corporate law, never touch criminal.”

“All I need from you and everyone else is your complete cooperation so we can work as efficiently as possible.”

George nodded. “Of course. We certainly don’t want to hinder you in any way. Though frankly, I think whoever did this has already made good his escape.”

“We aren’t overlooking that possibility.”

“Well, then. As long as you realize that.” He looked around the room as if buying time. “I suppose you would like me to introduce the others?”

“If you would.”

“My wife, Ellen.” He moved toward the center of the room and the woman beside whom he had been sitting got up and came toward them. She looked about fifty-five, a few pounds overweight, with salt and pepper hair put up in a chignon, and a worried expression. Somehow she didn’t fit the house. Not sure why he thought that. Just a feeling. Perhaps Ryan would figure it out. Could be a female thing. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but it might be useful to have a woman’s opinion.

“My partner, Douglass Fischer,” George said of a big man who looked to be in his mid-forties. His wife, introduced as Anne, was the woman who had looked almost relieved. Anything but upset.

Peter Martin looked upset. Unless he was a very good actor, his wife’s death had come as a complete shock. He sat off by himself, head sunk in his hands. When he glanced up during George’s introduction, his eyes seemed to have trouble focusing—as if all this were some terrible nightmare he couldn’t quite wake from.

A woman with coal black hair and a blue dress was hovering over him, getting him a drink, asking if he wanted anything. Hildy Reimer. Oh, yes, that was the neighbor whose apartment was being painted. She didn’t look much like a neighbor right now. There was pain in her eyes. And the look she gave Peter Martin! No mistaking that look.

“And this is Jillian’s sister, Shauna,” George said of a nondescript girl in a brown print shirt and a pair of worn denim shorts. Colorless. Hard to believe she was the sister. You never knew, of course. One took after the father, the other the mother. Not ugly; just plain and insipid. And why was she wearing sunglasses inside the house?

There were three others in a group near the bar. The two men both looked white and drawn. They had empty glasses in front of them. The girl in the middle had striking red hair.

“This is my son, Kendall.” The nearest young man stood up. He had brown hair and brown eyes and he looked upset, like someone with a stomach virus.

“My wife’s cousin, Lorry Preston,” said George. The red-haired girl looked up, her eyes serious. Manziuk nodded.

“This is a friend of my son’s, Nick Donovan.” The dark young man stood up somewhat unsteadily and held out his hand almost as a mechanical gesture. Manziuk shook it. The hand was cold and strangely lifeless considering the athletic build of the owner. He, too, looked ill.

“This is our housekeeper, Mrs. Winston, and her daughter, Crystal.”

Mrs. Winston was a plump woman with bleached blond hair. She looked about forty. Her daughter Crystal was thin with very short blond hair that had a narrow green streak through one side, and about five earrings, all different, in each ear.

Mrs. Winston stood up. “I was wondering what to do about supper, sir. I can’t finish making it while I’m in here, and I don’t know what I should do about it.”

George Brodie would have hushed her, but Manziuk’s lips curved for the first time. “Well, what say I talk to you first and while we’re talking, I’ll have an officer look around your kitchen. Then you can go back to work.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. I don’t want to be in the way. Only it’ll all be spoiling.”

“No problem. Just give me one second.” He raised his voice and announced, “I’ll be wanting to talk to each person here individually. There’s not much doubt we’re dealing with a homicide, and the best way to find out what happened is to talk to all the people who were at the scene, so to speak. No one is under suspicion at this time. We merely have to get the facts straight so we know what we’re looking for. I’m going to start with Mrs. Winston. I’d like everyone to remain here until you’re called. Any questions?”