Mayhem, Mystery and Murder Page 13

  “Don’t tell me. He was about to cut her off.”

  “You couldn’t be more right. And another morsel. Lurma and Mildred were almost for sure an item—but then we kind of suspected that. That may be the reason Conley decided to change his will. In any event, according to his lawyer, he was already making divorce noises as well. This whole caper sounds as though it was badly planned, but the pair probably didn’t have much time for planning. They had to move right away.”

  “The plot is getting thicker than molasses.”

  “It sure is, but enough of my discoveries. What did the harbormaster have to say?”

  “No mahimahi run, for one thing. There hasn’t been one for three weeks and not even a rumor of one. But, better yet, it looks like Conley would never have suggested that boat trip.”

  “Why not?”

  “This you’re not going to believe. He bought that fancy boat about six weeks ago, and has spent all his time polishing the brass, repainting and scouring. It turns out he was really afraid of the water, never took the boat out, and wore a life vest even while walking along the dock. And, remember, his body didn’t have one on when it was found. The harbormaster says he’s seen a lot of fair-weather sailors in his day, but that Conley was the most far out one he’d ever encountered.

  “I also checked again with the security guard who was on when the trio boarded and took the boat out. His story hasn’t changed. He didn’t see them, so he can’t say whether Conley was drunk or sober. However, the harbormaster says the guard spends most of his time in the guard shack watching TV, and just about all the boaters know it. He says anyone could run an elephant out on the dock, and the guard wouldn’t even notice it.”

  “Well, if nothing else, we’re punching elephant-size holes in their stories. Conley did not initiate the boat plan the way they claim, there were no fish running, and one or both of them saw to it he boarded after drinking far more than he was used to.”

  “There’s more. I went back to talk to the secretary. She says Conley wore one of those outlandishly expensive Rolexes, and he was so proud of it he never took it off. Now, get this, he told her he even wore it to bed.”

  “Jeezus! He was fully dressed when they found him, and no watch.”

  “Right. And no wallet. Those two are not only dumb, but they’re also greedy.”

  Hank shook his head as Corky added more, checking her notes as she did so. “You were A-right-on about Cal. He had plenty of info that he never included in the autopsy. Because the victim swallowed so much seawater, Cal says he can’t be sure of this, but he thinks Conley threw up shortly before he went overboard. Also, the damage to the body, which he can’t swear to as having occurred before or after drowning, includes abrasion along the belly area.”

  “So?”

  “So it makes for a nice scenario. Conley’s leaning over the rail, puking up his guts, and someone grabs him by the heels and tips him over, raising a welt on his stomach in the process.”

  “Mildred!” Hank exclaimed. “And she took his wallet and wristwatch first. I’m not sure how she did it. Maybe she persuaded him to leave it in the cabin before going upon deck with him for a ‘breath of fresh air.’”

  “Absolutely. All bone and muscle Lurma would have picked up Conley like a rag doll and thrown him over. No bruises, no nothing. Just a big splash. Mildred couldn’t have hefted him over the rail that way. She had to settle for tilting him a bit further than he was already.”

  “OK. We’ve got a case. Let’s go talk to the PA.”

  ***

  It was a discouraged pair of officers who returned from the County Building. Corky tried to spread a little sunshine, however. “Let’s look at it this way, Hank, at least the PA is going to charge them.”

  The gloom still hovered. “Yeah, but I hate to admit it. When you get it all down in black and white it just isn’t something a jury will go for. And I’d feel a lot better if he were more enthusiastic. I can’t really blame him when insists we try again to get one of the pair to turn state’s evidence.”

  Corky gave a moue of distaste. “I still say Lurma will never rat on her. The best we can hope for is that she’ll turn, and we’re both convinced that she’s the one who actually did it.”

  “It would guarantee a conviction on a murder charge for him, and for sure he was involved. After all, he’s the one who bribed the bartender. And maybe Sid can convince her to go along with an “accomplice after the fact” plea.”

  “It still isn’t right. We’re going to end up with only part of the chicken.”

  “Sometimes you have to settle for the part that went over the fence last.”

  ***

  It was early evening before the tired officers said their good-byes on the steps of the station.

  Corky was still gloomy. “I knew Lurma wouldn’t turn.”

  “My money was on Mildred, all the way, but I didn’t think she’d get off that easy. Sid knows how to drive a bargain. She won’t have to spend an hour in jail. Just long probation for accessory. But we do have Lurma locked away, and she’s willing to testify against him. The conviction for murder-two is almost a slam-dunk. And the PA’s happy. All’s well that ends well.”

  “I just can’t believe someone as guilty as she is could get off so easy. And did you ever see anyone as mad as Lurma when he found out she said he murdered Conley? I can sympathize with him, too. It just isn’t fair. ”

  “There are a lot of things in this life that aren’t fair. Just get used to it. Lurma’s going to have to get used to it too.”

  “I know this isn’t kosher, but I know Bill Kuroyama well enough to find out if Lurma said anything that might have pointed out how Mildred was the one who did the deed.”

  “Good luck.”

  ***

  Bill Kuroyama had confided in Corky, but more from disgust than from any other motive. “Lurma is completely smitten with that woman. He agreed to the whole thing, then just couldn’t do it, even though he’d told her he would. Instead he watched her push her old man over the rail. I’m absolutely convinced he’s telling the truth, for what good it’s going to do. In spite of the possibility for getting him off, he absolutely refused to turn on her. He insisted he would never testify against her. So then he just about went into shock when we got word she was accusing him of the murder. When I left him, as they carted him off to a cell, he just kept shaking his head. Kept saying, “Mildred would never do this to me.”

  ***

  The call came through to Corky in the middle of the 60-Minutes show. Hank’s familiar voice sounded loud and clear.

  “Put on your gear, Sergeant. Lurma just broke out, and there’s an all-points out for him. Head for his apartment and keep your phone on. I’ve got the airport covered.”

  Hank filled her in on the escape as she roared out of her garage. “He smashed the lock on the cell with those big number twenty feet of his. I’ve warned the captain that this was bound to happen with that dime store hardware. After that he knocked out the guard, took his gun and swiped a patrol car. I hope you have your kevlar on.”

  “Hank! Hank! We’re going to the wrong place. He’s headed for Mildred Hawkins’ apartment—for sure.”

  “By God, you’re right. I’ll get a car out there right away, and I’m on my way.”

  ***

  They arrived just in time to hear the shot, and it took long moments of careful checking to make sure no resistance would follow. When they finally eased their way into the apartment, they found Mildred’s body—her neck showing the bruises resulting from the giant hands that had encompassed it—lying on the living room floor. Next to it, an arm outstretched and touching her, the massive form of Alfred Lurma, a bullet hole in the head, accompanying her in death.

  It was Corky who commented, “Looks like Lurma didn’t get used to it not being fair.”

  BACKFIRE

  What struck Keith Blake most forcefully was how much Mr. Jones (of course that wasn’t his real name) looked like an ordinary b
usinessman. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Keith had arrived blindfolded to wherever he was, and that he had been thoroughly searched before being allowed into the room, the entire atmosphere was little different from what he had found in business offices all over the country in his capacity as Marketing Vice President for Quality Net Inc.

  After Keith had been motioned to a comfortable chair in front of the desk by the massive hulk standing near the door, Mr. Jones moved immediately into the essentials. “Who, when and where?”

  Keith hesitated for a moment, taken aback by the bluntness. “His name is Lorne Woodward.”

  Mr. Jones made a dismissive gesture. “I am not concerned with names, Mr. Blake. My workers go by appearance or some other identifiers. Names are seldom displayed prominently by the target.”

  Even though Keith was nervous, he still noticed that the name, Woodward, had had an impact. After all, the town’s only billionaire was hardly expected to be unknown. “He’s tall, about my size. He’ll be easy to spot.”

  “And what are the arrangements?”

  “Next Thursday would be the ideal time. Wood. . .I mean the target, will be on the platform at the old Montrose Movie House, right around 7:30 pm. He’ll be handed a large, red, morocco-bound book as a departing gift from Quality Net, and he’ll be standing on the stage at the time.”

  A trace of a smile crossed Mr. Jones face. “My subordinates are hardly the kind who would recognize morocco. Red is sufficient. And how do you propose to have the target taken out? Poison?” The smile twisted and simply became a skeptical grimace.

  Keith began to relax, knowing that his plan was virtually fool proof. He shook his head. “Nothing like that. If you’re familiar with the Montrose, you may know that Quality Net began its software business there years ago after the theater closed its doors. The founder still insists on holding the annual banquet at Montrose—for old time’s sake. And, fortunately, the old projection room is still there—with a separate entrance that I have the key to.”

  “And there’s a clear view from the projection booth to the podium?”

  “Right.”

  “Distance?”

  “Less than two hundred feet, and looking right down at the stage. I couldn’t miss him, myself, and I’m only a fair shot.”

  Mr. Jones held out a hand. “Let me have the key, and Lyle can check it out.” He nodded toward the heavyset guard who had been standing motionless by the door. Keith was already foreseeing an increase in costs on the basis of some “additional difficulties” in carrying out the mission. The original price had been ten thousand dollars. Though he wasn’t going to admit it to Mr. Jones, he was quite prepared to pay twice that much.

  “The first payment is in your car?” Mr. Jones asked.

  Keith nodded. “In a suitcase in the trunk.”

  “Give Lyle your car keys and he’ll bring it up. On Thursday, as soon as the job is finished, Lyle will pick up the keys again and will remove the second payment of five thousand dollars. Is that understood?”

  Keith nodded vigorously, pleased that no increased demands were being made—even more pleased to think that Woodward would have been dispatched by the time the second payment changed hands. The thought was so pleasant, he didn’t even mind being again blindfolded, led out to his car and driven off by Lyle to where he had originally been picked up.

  The return trip gave him time to relish what was now inevitable. Lorne Woodward had constantly upstaged Keith from as far back as high school days. Keith relived Lorne’s virtually stealing Betty Lou from under his nose, his unashamed and unadmitted use of Keith’s ideas to start up Quality Net, his constant putting down of Keith—always in a nice way of course, a nice way that was Lorne’s trademark.

  Sure, Keith was on the Board of the company as Marketing Vice President, but where his income had never gotten beyond six figures, CEO Woodward’s stock options alone ran to ten times that amount. And Lorne went out of his way to invite Keith to his and Betty Lou’s eight bedroom mansion, to trips on his sixty-foot yacht, to rides in one of his white Lamborghinis, each of which had cost more than Keith’s annual salary.

  What Keith had most resented was the lack of recognition for his marketing efforts, which he was convinced had made Quality Net. And now Lorne was retiring before age forty—though he would still remain de facto head of the company, and Keith had nothing to look forward to but probably another twenty years of sweating for Quality Net with a skimpy pension waiting for him at the end. Well, Thursday would change all that.

  ***

  Almost four hundred employees, family members and guests crowded around the tables on the floor of the Montrose. So far as Keith was concerned, nostalgia had overruled common sense in the choice of this banquet hall. Traffic noises from the street, bad acoustics in the building, the chatter of the participants—all made conversation difficult.

  Keith was startled to see Lyle working the tables as a busboy, then decided that Mr. Jones was leaving nothing to chance but simply guaranteeing that the remaining five thousand would be delivered instantly after the big event. The final payment was dirt cheap, Keith decided, congratulating himself on having driven such a bargain. He fingered the keys to his BMW in his pocket. In less than an hour he’d be turning them over to Lyle so he could pull the dispatch case with the remaining cash out of the car’s trunk. How sweet that would be. He couldn’t remember money better spent. His gaze went up to the projection booth. No visible activity there, but there would be soon.

  Waiters were pouring coffee, dishes were being cleared, the Board members were climbing the stage for the evening’s climax. Betty Lou was at a front table, admiring eyes fixed on her husband who now stepped up to the podium. Keith steeled himself to listen to the CEO become maudlin over leaving the company. Big deal! In a few minutes he’d really be leaving the company.

  Lorne Woodward began, “I think all of you here know what the big announcement is going to be tonight, but before I get to that, I want to take a few moments to thank someone who I feel is the one really responsible for Quality Net’s meteoric success. He’s an old and trusted friend of mine.”

  Keith’s eyes widened, and he began to squirm in his chair. He could see it coming. Lorne would heap the compliments on him, in lieu of any significant increase in compensation. Again, as with many times before, he felt only the deepest hatred for this creature describing him as “an old and trusted friend.”

  The speech droned on, ending with Lorne turning to Keith and saying, “Keith, would you step up here a moment?” Applause rang through the hall. “I know this is scant reward for all that you’ve done for me, for the company and for all those gathered here, today, but I would like you to have this small token of our appreciation. As Keith approached the podium, Lorne handed him a red, morocco bound volume.

  The occupants of the tables in front of the stage had only a confused impression of what happened. Some thought Keith had simply fainted from the honor, others assumed he’d had a heart attack.

  A few of the guests in the back of the theater heard the shot over the sound of the applause. Someone was saying, “Was that a backfire?”

  Only one person heard the CEO, as a crowd gathered around Keith’s still form. Lorne slipped Lyle a set of keys, saying, “The fifty thousand is in the trunk of the white Lamborghini at the back of the parking lot.”

  BLACKBERRY SPRING

  Sheriff Morrison couldn’t remember a spring to match this one. It had started ahead of the calendar, in February, on top of a heavy blanket of snow. The temperature soared, the crocuses bloomed, the river rose, the weather turned unbelievably mild and beautiful for a few days, and then the rains began—and went on and on and on. Always a major topic of conversation in the small town on the west slope of the Cascades, the weather had now virtually become its exclusive concern. “I’m growing webs between my toes.” “Could’ve sworn I saw the sun yesterday.” “Never thought I’d be able to paddle a canoe right there in my front yard.”

&nbs
p; The day the body was found may not have been the worst day, but it would have taken a good deal to convince the sheriff and his two deputies otherwise. Lester Riesman showed them the path and understandably didn’t volunteer to lead the way. The blackberry vines, already heavy with blossoms and much heavier with thorns, conspired with the downpour. The gashes in their rain gear opened the way for rivulets of water.

  The hundred or so yards of working through the dank underbrush finally ended under a big leaf maple where the decomposed body was almost completely hidden by vegetation. The Sheriff sighed at the thought of the miserable days ahead, of trying to clear the area without disturbing the ground around the victim, of searching a radius of fifty yards around the body for clues, of trying to do a meticulous job of crime-scene investigation in this semi-swamp.

  “I was out hunting squirrels when my dog ran off into the brush and started barking his head off,” Lester explained.

  The sheriff shook his head. He had been an enthusiastic hunter himself as a teenager, but he couldn’t picture ever having been so enthusiastic as to roam the woods in this kind of weather. But then again, maybe I would’ve gone stir crazy finally, said to hell with the weather, and waded out into the rain with my dog and gun, just like Lester.

  Back in the comparative comfort of the station, the outlook didn’t seem quite so dismal. Doc Grady, though no pathologist, had quickly confirmed the sheriff’s first impression. The victim had been shot—several times. The remnants of clothing, plus Doc’s initial estimates, indicated the victim was female, young, and dead for at least a month.

  In the following days, the town produced all the leads the sheriff’s small crew could handle. A week after the discovery he decided to call a formal meeting to discuss the case with Deputies Spradley and Ash. Looking over the information they’d gathered so far, he took some satisfaction at seeing how far they had already come.

  The victim had been quickly identified as Francene Cobb, a high school junior. Her parents had reported her missing three months before the discovery of the body. One day in February she had not come home from school. No one had seen her when she left. She had simply vanished. Some of her friends at school told how she had seemed to be despondent. But the further rumor that she had planned to run away from home had dampened any enthusiasm on the sheriff’s part for an all-out search.