Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring Page 7
“Ma’am?” I heard over the phone. “I have a list of five black Mustang owners for you.”
I grabbed a pen and pad of paper off the counter and jotted down the names as she listed them off. I thanked her and hung up the phone. I was certain the crime scene investigators had already gotten this list, as I imagined they probably had a similar software program in their computer as the DMV. But I didn’t want to ask Wyatt for the list, for obvious reasons. The entire police force was probably not too happy with me at the moment. I also figured they might be busy chasing down other leads and I could get a jump on checking out the people on the Mustang list. It was the least I could do for the police department, considering I’d been caught impersonating one of them twice in the last couple of days, even though the second time had been inadvertent.
I opened the phone book and soon had four addresses and phone numbers. One number was unlisted. I sat down at the kitchen table with my cell phone and coffee, absentmindedly swatting at a fly the size of a New York City sewer rat. Spring had definitely sprung, for the houseflies and other bugs and creepy crawlers were coming out in full force. Stone had removed a black rat snake from the shed the night before, and taken it out in the country to release it. I know black snakes eat mice, and other small varmints, which is helpful. But they also kill baby birds, and eat the eggs right out of the nests, which I just can’t tolerate. I had birdhouses and feeders hanging on practically every pole and tree limb in the yard, and a big birdbath in the center of the large flowerbed inside the perimeter of the circular driveway. I’d feel guilty luring the birds in just to have them be eaten by snakes we were harboring in our shed.
After shooing away another huge fly from the lip of my coffee cup, I located the flyswatter and went on a killing rampage in the kitchen. I killed three flies and scared the hell out of another one that was a mere nanosecond faster than I was.
I couldn’t bring myself to place my lips on something a nasty fly had just been perched on, so I got another cup down from the cabinet and filled it with coffee. I can be very anal retentive when it comes to bugs and bug cooties. Nothing in the world scares me as badly as a walking stick. I think they’re sneaky little bastards, pretending to be something they’re not. For that reason alone, I refuse to have screen doors on any house I’m living in. Screen doors are like walking stick magnets.
Before I started calling the black Mustang owners, I wanted to psych myself up. I needed yet another cup of coffee and some mindless chatter. I called my daughter to see how her day was going. I asked about the recent arrival of Stone’s nephew, Andy. I listened to her rattle on for several minutes before asking if she’d heard anymore about Pastor Steiner’s death.
Wendy told me his death had officially been ruled a homicide, and asphyxiation by smothering had been listed as the C.O.D. The county coroner’s office had released the body to the family for burial. Because the deceased was a man of the cloth, the police department decided not to hold the body while the investigation proceeded, as they typically would have had Thurman been a truck driver, or a library assistant. There didn’t appear to be any more clues to be uncovered with further examination of the body. No DNA was found at the scene or on the body, so delaying burial seemed to be an unnecessary inconvenience to the family. And exhuming Steiner’s body was always a possibility if absolutely unavoidable to solve the crime.
“Have you heard when the funeral and visitation are going to be held?” I asked.
“Not yet, Mom, but I’ll let you know if I hear anything. I assume you and Stone will be attending the services.”
“Yes, of course. Tomorrow is Sunday, so we’ll be attending regular church services, as well. Surely the elders will have arranged for someone to be there to replace Pastor Steiner. It ought to be a very interesting and highly emotional morning service.”
“I’m sure,” Wendy agreed. “What are you doing today?”
“Oh, just household chores and taking care of guests. I’m going to serve roasted turkey for supper, so I have that to prepare also.” I didn’t really want to tell Wendy I was getting ready to cold call and question total strangers just because they had the misfortune of owning a black Mustang. My daughter was well aware of my determination to have Pastor Steiner’s killer brought to justice, and arrested as soon as possible so my wedding would not have to be postponed. But there was no sense, getting her stirred up this early in the morning. I was still thinking about how to go about getting the information I needed from the people on my short list. Maybe one more cup of coffee was in order while I waited for an inspiration. Whenever I felt the need to procrastinate, I wasted time feeding my severe caffeine addiction.
* * *
No one answered on the first phone call I made, but I had better luck on the second.
“Good morning. Is Rick Meier available?” I asked.
“Yes, may I tell him who’s calling?” A low, raspy, female voice replied, before lapsing into a dry, hacking coughing spell. Light another one, lady, I said to myself. I knew my voice would eventually have sounded the same had I not quit smoking several years ago. But I never lectured anybody about smoking. I knew from experience how hard it was to kick the habit.
“My name’s June. I’m just a Rockdale resident who found something in the street I thought might belong to Mr. Meier,” I said, after she’d finally stopped coughing.
“Okay, hang on, June.” The lady with the gravelly voice hacked a couple more times and continued, “I’ll go call him to the phone.”
“Hello, this is Rick Meier,” a young man said a short time later.
“I hate to bother you, Rick, but I found something I thought might belong to you. I live over on Cedar Street, just off Sixth. A couple of days or so ago I noticed a black Mustang parked out on the street near my home and later on in the day I found what looks like the bolt off a motor mount in that exact same area. I thought it might have fallen off your car.” I wouldn’t know a bolt off a motor mount from a bolt off a lamppost, but I wanted it to be something that sounded like you could drive a car without, yet something you’d be certain to want back so you could replace it before your motor fell out while you were driving seventy miles an hour down the freeway.
“It couldn’t have fallen off my car. My car’s been in the shop all week getting some bodywork done on it. I got rear-ended a while back at a stop sign,” Rick said. “Plus, I don’t think I’ve ever been on Cedar Street in my life. I don’t even know where it’s located. I live out west of town and work in Atchison.”
“Okay. Good enough,” I said. “Just thought I’d tried to find the owner of this thing before I chuck it in the trash. I figured you’d want it back if it was yours.”
“I sure would have, ma’am. I appreciate you calling. Take care.”
“You too.”
I hung up the phone and crossed Rick Meier’s name off my list. Then I picked up the phone again and dialed the third number I’d located in the phone book. I got an answering machine, so I left a message about finding a motor mount bolt and hoped the caller would call back if he’d been on Cedar Street, before checking to ascertain all his bolts were in place and discovering he hadn’t lost one.
One number left. I dialed the number for a Buck Webster and got another answering machine. The message said, “You’ve reached Coach Webster. If I’m not at home, you can reach me on my cell phone at 555-1471.” I dialed the cell phone number and a deep voice answered almost immediately.
“Buck here.”
I repeated my story about finding the bolt off a motor mount. He paused for a second and said, “I guess it could have come off my car. I was parked on Cedar Street recently when I stopped by to visit with a friend.”
Bingo! I’d hit pay dirt, with any luck at all. The person who’d reported seeing the black Mustang the morning of the murder obviously didn’t recognize the car, so I wondered why Buck Webster had parked in front of a stranger’s house. I assumed it was possible there’d been no room in front of his friend�
��s place.
“You can check it out, and if it turns out to belong to you I can drop it off at your house,” I said. “I’ll be out and about today anyway.”
“Probably better if you drop it off here where I work at Rockdale High School during the day.” That was a moot point because it was highly unlikely his car was missing a motor mount bolt. Now I knew who probably owned the black Mustang in question, but how could I find out why he was parked on Cedar Street in front of the house of someone who didn’t know him? And why was he there so early in the morning on the day Steiner was killed? I didn’t want to get overly optimistic, though. It was a couple of blocks from the crime scene so a connection was only remotely possible to begin with. Still, I pressed on.
“I noticed you were parked on my street early on the morning the pastor of the Baptist Church was killed. Do you remember seeing anything odd, or anyone who looked suspicious while you were parked on Cedar Street? He’s our neighbor, of course, and we were very close to him,” I said, as if to clarify why I was curious if Buck Webster had observed anything. I waited quite a while waiting for his response. He appeared to be reluctant to answer my question.
“No, that’s not so. It must have been another car you saw parked there. It’s been over a week ago since I was parked there and it wasn’t in the morning. I remember it was in the evening while my wife was cleaning up after supper. Sorry for your loss, but I wasn’t on Cedar Street the morning of your friend’s death. Thanks for calling. I’ll go check my car between classes and let you know if the bolt came off my car.” Click! He’d hung up before I could say or ask anything else.
* * *
“Ever heard of Buck Webster?” I asked Stone when he came inside to grab a sandwich for lunch. He’d been out fertilizing the large lawn of the Alexandria Inn. Maintenance and upkeep of the inn kept Stone working nonstop nearly every day. He was happiest when his hands were busy. He enjoyed maintaining, repairing and building stuff. I think he broke things just to have an excuse to fix them, and he appeared unusually pleased when I reported to him that something wasn’t working quite properly.
“Sure,” he said. “Webster’s the football coach at the high school. I met him at a game last fall. Seemed real nice. Wyatt was working security there. I went down to speak with Wyatt on the sideline and he introduced me to the coach. Why do you ask?”
I explained to Stone how I’d discovered it was possibly the coach’s Mustang parked on Cedar Street the morning of the murder. I told him Buck denied being parked there the morning of the murder, even though the concerned neighbor said a car like Coach Webster’s was. Stone seemed a bit disappointed, as if he had too much respect for the football coach to believe he could possibly be involved in a murder. He shook his head.
“The neighbor is probably confused about which day he saw the car there, or it could even have been a different car. Coach Webster probably, on occasion, takes a football player, or another teacher who lives nearby, home. And Cedar Street stretches from one end of town to the other so it stands to reason he’d park on Cedar Street on some occasion or the other. I imagine the Mustang deal was just a coincidence and had nothing to do with Steiner. Webster’s a stand-up kind of guy. I doubt he even knew Pastor Steiner. You know the redhead who works as a teller at the drive-through window at our bank?”
“Yeah, nice lady. Sandy something.” I knew who he was referring to because she was very striking in appearance. Sandy was tall and willowy, and had perfectly applied make-up and beautifully styled, strawberry blond hair. She looked more like a model than a bank teller. She made me feel like I should dress up to go make a deposit.
“Her name’s Sandy Webster. She’s Buck’s wife.”
Now I was a bit disappointed. But Stone was right. I couldn’t see how there could be a connection between Webster and Pastor Steiner. I’d have to give Detective Johnston a call and tell him what I’d found out. I was sure he’d be proud of me for impersonating someone other than a member of the police department.
Chapter 5
As it turns out, Detective Wyatt Johnston didn’t sound too proud of me, but he assured me he’d pass the information on to the rest of the crime scene investigations team. I’d made the call to him after Stone had finished lunch and resumed working in the yard. As I talked on the phone I looked outside and saw Stone carrying a gallon of redwood stain out of the garden shed. I knew he was planning to do some touch up work on the gazebo.
Like Stone, Wyatt didn’t believe there was a connection between the Mustang and the murder. He was pretty sure the crime scene investigators had already dismissed the black Mustang as inconsequential. He’d known Buck and Sandy Webster for years. “In fact, he was my coach in high school,” he said.
“You played football?” I didn’t have any trouble picturing Wyatt as a football player. He was big, tough, and still in top physical form.
“I was a wide receiver,” he said. “We were the 4-A state runners-up my senior year. It was the year after Coach Webster started there as a coach. His team went on to win the state championship the next two years in a row. He was always fair, but very driven and tough as nails. All his players have always idolized him. He’s like a father figure in their lives.”
“That’s nice. Being involved in sports could only help a kid stay in school and graduate. Impressive record too,” I said.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re bound to find out sooner or later, anyway.”
“What? Tell me!” I could sense he was about to pass on something interesting about the murder investigation. I clumsily set my cup on the table, coffee sloshing over the lip of it. I was giddy in anticipation.
“All of Thurman Steiner’s kids have arrived in town and are expected to attend the funeral services. The investigators plan to speak to each of them. The eldest son is being questioned right now. His name is Theodore but he goes by Teddy.”
“Is Teddy a prime suspect?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but apparently he had a very contentious relationship with his father. He got involved in drugs in high school, and was arrested twice on D.U.I. charges. A month ago he’d tried to borrow a couple of grand from Thurman and was turned down, according to one of his sisters who’d already been questioned. Thurman told him he just didn’t have the money to loan out. Apparently, Teddy had never gotten along very well with any of his siblings. Neither they nor their father approved of his drug use and life style.”
“That’s interesting,” I said into the phone. “Are you thinking Teddy might have struck out in retribution for being turned down for the loan?”
“Yes, and there’s also the possibility of wanting his share of his father’s estate to buy drugs or pay off whatever debts he might have. The pastor used to have a lot of assets, such as some prime commercial property in Leavenworth, but I don’t know if he still owned it at the time of his death. For all I know he might have sold the property. Also, the church carried a small, but not insignificant, insurance policy on him, listing his six children as equal beneficiaries. Beneficiaries on life insurance policies, even small ones, turn out to be the killer in more instances than you’d probably imagine. Money makes a powerful motive.”
“Yes, I see what you’re saying. After all, it’s been said that money is the root of all evil. It sounds like Teddy had a motive. Will you let me know if anything develops from the interview with him or any of his other children?” I asked.
“I guess so, despite my misgivings on involving you in any way in this investigation,” Wyatt said. “But I also know if I don’t pass it on to you, you’ll just find some creative way of finding the information out yourself and the very idea scares me.”
“Now, don’t be that way, Wyatt. You know I’m only curious and anxious to have the killer apprehended so Stone and I can continue with our wedding plans as scheduled.”
“Okay, I know how much that means to you. But for now, I’d better get off the phone and back to work. I have some important paperwo
rk I need to finish before I get off. This job is about ten percent police business and ninety percent paperwork, or so it seems at times. It’s the one thing I dislike about being a cop.”
“Paperwork would get old fast. Fortunately there is very little of it required here at the inn. Say, would you like to come by for supper?” I asked. “I’ve got a large turkey in the oven and only three guests staying at the inn right now. I plan to make some of that oyster dressing you like so much.”
“What time should I be there?” Wyatt didn’t turn down free food. In fact, I’d never seen him turn down any food, free or not. I knew I could lure him to the house with the mere mention of oyster dressing. And I never knew when he might cut loose with some more information on the case. If nothing else, Wyatt could always be counted on for some pleasant dinner conversation, and a little extra eye candy at the supper table was always nice.
“We’ll eat about six. See you then. And thanks for the scoop, Wyatt.”
The detective just groaned in response.
* * *
“Hey Mom! What’s up with you guys? I tried you a few minutes ago and you didn’t answer,” I heard my daughter say as I picked up the house phone. I’d expected it to be Wendy, because she usually calls me on the landline. She’d probably tried to call while I was speaking to Wyatt and gotten my voice mailbox, I reasoned. I’d heard the phone click, as if someone were trying to ring through, but I hadn’t wanted to interrupt the detective while he was dispersing information about the murder investigation.
“Not much going on here,” I said. It hadn’t been all that long since I’d spoken to her earlier. “What’s new?”
“Andy’s about all moved into the ranch. His remodeling crew started working a month or so back and finished up their work a couple of days ago. The place really looks terrific. There are only a few projects left and Andy intends to do those jobs himself after he gets settled in. Like Stone, he likes to keep busy.”