The Undertaker's Widow (7 page)

Anthony rolled down his window so he could use the speakerphone at the front gate. A gust of cold wind rushed into the police car. After a brief wait, James Allen buzzed Anthony and Yoshida through the gate. The estate grounds had been hard hit by the weather. The colors
had been leeched out of the hedges and the lawn by the pale light, and the foliage bowed down, cowed by the cold and the threat of rain. The house looked deserted and dispirited as if it were in mourning.

Anthony circled the turnaround and parked near the front door. The houseman was waiting for them. He had the door open as soon as Anthony and Yoshida were out of their car. The men hunched their shoulders and walked with speed into the entry hall.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Allen,” Anthony said. “Is Senator Crease in?”

“No, sir. She's campaigning in eastern Oregon. I don't expect her back until Monday. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yeah. It's actually better if we don't have to bother the senator. This is Gary Yoshida from our crime lab. We want to take another look at the bedroom.”

“I'm not sure I can let you do that. Ms. Crease left me strict orders that no one but the cleaning people were to be allowed in the bedroom.”

“Has the bedroom been cleaned up already?” Anthony asked, trying hard to hide his concern.

“No, sir. A crew is coming tomorrow morning.”

“Senator Crease probably wanted to keep reporters out of the house. She wouldn't want to interfere with our investigation.”

“I'm sure you're right, but I can't let you in the room without talking to her.”

“Why don't you phone?”

“I can try. I have the number of her hotel in Pendleton. Do you want to wait in the living room?”

“Sure.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee or tea?”

Anthony glanced at Yoshida. The forensic expert shook his head.

“No, thanks,” Anthony told the houseman.

Anthony knew where the living room was from his official visit to the estate on the evening of the murder, but he let Allen direct him to it. The vast room was dominated by a massive stone fireplace. A Persian carpet, similar to the carpet in the entry hall, lay over the hardwood floor. Yoshida tried to be nonchalant, but as soon as Allen was gone, he said, “This room is almost as big as my house. We're in the wrong business, Lou.”

“I don't know, Gary. The owner's dead and we're still ticking.”

Anthony and Yoshida settled themselves on one of the large sofas that flanked the fireplace, and waited for the houseman to return. A fire had not been laid in the grate and the room was chilly. Anthony was beginning to regret turning down the offer of coffee when Allen reentered the room. The policemen stood up and met him halfway.

“I'm sorry. Ms. Crease has already left the hotel and I have no idea when I'll be able to talk to her.”

“Thanks for trying, but we really do have to see the room.”

“I thought the investigation was complete.”

“For the most part, but we have a few loose ends to tie up.”

“I don't want to impede your investigation, but without Ms. Crease's permission …,” Allen said hesitantly.

Anthony tired of diplomacy. He was all for civility, but he was used to getting his way, like most policemen.

“Look,” Anthony said sharply, “this is an official police investigation into the death of your employer and Senator Crease's husband. You're telling me the bedroom is going to be cleaned tomorrow. By the time you talk to Senator Crease any evidence in that room will be destroyed.
We need to get into the bedroom and we need to do it now.”

“All right,” Allen said reluctantly. “You can go up. The room is locked. I'll get the key for you.”

“Thanks. We won't be long.”

Anthony knew the way to the bedroom and he did not want the houseman tagging along, so Anthony told Allen that there was no need for him to accompany them. He sensed that Allen was relieved that he would not have to reenter the bedroom.

As soon as Yoshida opened the door, Anthony started to envy Allen. The room had been sealed and the windows were closed. The stench of death still hung in the stale air.

Anthony took a step into the bedroom, but Yoshida held out his arm to block him. Anthony stepped back into the corridor as Yoshida switched on the lights. The forensic expert stood in the doorway and slowly surveyed the room. He was carrying the Hoyt file in an attaché case. When he had seen what he wanted to see from the doorway, Yoshida walked over to the bed and set down the attaché on Lamar Hoyt's end table. Then he took out the crime scene photographs and the lab reports and shuffled through them. Every so often, he compared a photograph to the section of the room it portrayed. When he was through with the photographs, Yoshida began studying sections of the room. He stood at the door to the bathroom for a while, then inspected the armoire that stood opposite the foot of the bed against the south wall. After he was shot, Martin Jablonski had crumpled to the floor with his feet almost touching the side of the armoire that faced the west wall. A fine spray of blood that discolored the west-facing side of the armoire about six feet above the carpet attracted Yoshida's attention.

Occasionally, Yoshida made notes on a yellow pad.
Other times he asked Anthony to hold one end of a roll of string over a particular patch of blood while he unrolled the string and straightened it at some point before squatting down and sighting back along it toward Anthony. Sometimes Yoshida employed a tape measure. Except to clarify Yoshida's instructions, Anthony kept quiet, even though he was anxious to learn Yoshida's conclusions.

Yoshida put everything back in the attaché and snapped the locks closed. Anthony looked at him expectantly. Yoshida looked very grim. He explained his conclusions to Anthony with scientific detachment while walking the detective through every step in his reasoning and showing him the physical evidence that supported his opinion. Anthony's mood grew more morose with each new detail.

When Yoshida was through, Anthony told him to wait in the living room while he went in search of James Allen. The detective found the houseman in the kitchen. A huge, tiled center island with several stove lights dominated the room. Anthony spotted two dishwashers and two ovens. Copperware hung from the ceiling. Allen was seated at a large wooden table polishing silverware. He stood up when Anthony entered.

“Are you through, sir?”

“Just about. I wanted to ask a few questions, though.”

“Please.”

“How long did you work for Mr. Hoyt?”

“A long time. Mr. Hoyt first employed me in the West Side Home of Heavenly Rest. When he purchased this estate, he asked me if I would work for him here.”

“Was Mr. Hoyt a good employer?”

“He was the best, sir,” Allen answered. He paused and it was clear to Anthony that the houseman was struggling.

“I want to be completely honest, Detective. I don't want you thinking that I have concealed information. When I was a young man … well, sir, I killed a man. There is no other way to put it.”

Allen looked down, embarrassed by his confession.

“I was convicted of manslaughter and I served two years in prison. I was twenty when I was paroled. I was a high school dropout with no job skills who bore the stigma of a felony conviction. No one would hire me. I was sleeping in missions, barely able to keep myself together. I seriously considered suicide on more than one occasion. Then Mr. Hoyt hired me. He … well, sir, it would be quite accurate to say that he saved my life. Simply giving me a job would have been enough, but he did much more. When my mother grew ill, Mr. Hoyt paid for her care and he financed my education.”

Allen looked directly into Anthony's eyes. “Mr. Hoyt was not merely my employer. He was my savior. His death has been very hard on me.”

“I appreciate your candor.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“If you worked for Mr. Hoyt since you were twenty, I guess you were with him through all three marriages.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I gather that the first two were pretty stormy toward the end.”

“They were.”

“How about his marriage to the senator? Did Mr. Hoyt and Senator Crease get along?”

Allen looked uncomfortable. “I shouldn't be discussing Mr. Hoyt's private life.”

Anthony nodded. “I appreciate that, but this is a murder investigation and it's suddenly become important that I learn a little more than I already know about the personal life of Mr. Hoyt and Ellen Crease.”

“Really, Detective Anthony, I don't feel it's proper for me to comment.”

Anthony placed his slablike forearms on the kitchen table and leaned forward slightly.

“Mr. Allen, there is no place for delicacy here. Martin Jablonski splattered your boss's brains all over his expensive bed linens. Life doesn't get more indelicate than that. What I want to know is why he did that. If you respect Mr. Hoyt as much as you seem to, you'd want to help me out here.”

Allen looked confused. “I thought Mr. Hoyt was killed during a burglary. What possible relevance could the state of his marriage have to your investigation?”

“Let's just say that we're looking into other possibilities.”

“And you suspect Ms. Crease?”

“I'm afraid that I can't go into that.”

Allen considered the implications of Anthony's answer. Then he said, “For most of their marriage, Mr. Hoyt and Ms. Crease got along quite well.”

“Most?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did they stop getting along?”

“Recently.”

“What made you think there were problems?”

“They quarreled. Not all of the time, you understand. But there were arguments.”

“About what?”

“I really can't say.”

“Do you think Senator Crease was in love with her husband?”

Allen thought about the question for a moment before answering.

“Yes. When he died she took it very badly. I know that she has not made a public display of her grief, but in
the privacy of this house … in my opinion she is still grief-stricken.”

“Was Mr. Hoyt in love with Senator Crease?”

“I believe so.”

“Believe?”

“Well, there were the arguments.”

“Was she cheating on him?”

“Not that I knew, but she wouldn't have brought men back here, would she?”

“What about Mr. Hoyt? Was he cheating on her?”

The houseman's eyes dropped briefly.

“Not that I knew,” Allen replied.

“What does that mean?”

“If you're aware of Mr. Hoyt's marital history, you know that he has always had a problem with fidelity.”

“Did you ever hear Senator Crease accuse her husband of cheating on her?”

“No.”

“Did the senator ever threaten her husband?”

“I never heard any threats,” Allen answered evasively.

“Let me put this another way. Did you ever get concerned for Mr. Hoyt because of anything Ellen Crease did?”

Allen considered the question.

“The arguments … some of them were very loud. I couldn't hear what was said, but the tone … I'm afraid that's all I can say.”

Anthony stood up. “Thank you for talking to me. I know it wasn't easy.”

“No, sir, it wasn't.”

Anthony was grateful that Yoshida did not say much during the short ride back to the Justice Center. The detective liked Ellen Crease. He respected her. But there was
no way of avoiding the implications of the blood spatter patterns in the master bedroom.

The discovery that Jablonski may have been paid to break into the Hoyt mansion had complicated the investigation by turning a simple burglary into a possible murder conspiracy. Now the discovery of the blood spatter evidence forced Anthony to add Crease to the list of people who might have paid Jablonski to murder Lamar Hoyt. If it turned out that Ellen Crease was behind her husband's murder, he would arrest her. He did not want to do that, either, but he would if his duty demanded it.

Cedric Riker looked around the interior of the Lumberjack Tavern with jerky head movements that betrayed his nervousness. The Multnomah County district attorney was not used to meeting people after midnight in workingmen's bars. He liked to conduct business over power breakfasts at upscale hotels or pricey dinners at trendy restaurants.

Riker was a slender man of medium height who wore wire-rimmed glasses and styled blond hair. He usually dressed elegantly, but he was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and a navy-blue ski jacket for this clandestine meeting with Benjamin Gage's hatchet man, Ryan Clark. Riker's attempt to blend in with the customers in the Lumberjack was doomed to failure. None of the construction workers or bikers who drank there wore polished wing-tip shoes.

As soon as Riker's eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he spotted Clark waiting for him in a booth in the bar's darkest corner. Riker slid onto the bench across from Clark until he was pressed against the wall. There was an empty glass and a pitcher of beer between the two men, but Riker ignored them.