Lia Farrell - Mae December 02 - Two Dogs Lie Sleeping Read online

  “What is it?”

  “I’m in love with Patrick. We’ve been together for a while now, and he moved into my apartment yesterday,” Tammy’s words were flying out of her mouth, but she was avoiding Mae’s eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before this. I was afraid you’d be upset.”

  Patrick was Noah’s West’s younger brother. Ever since the car accident that took Noah’s life, Patrick—along with Tammy—had been almost over-protective of Mae. The three of them had spent hours together, and Mae sometimes felt as if Patrick and Tammy were parenting her. And, of course, she’d noticed the sparks flying between her friends months ago.

  “I didn’t know you were living together, but the rest of it isn’t exactly a news flash,” Mae laughed. “I was wondering which one of you was going to tell me. Did you lose the coin toss?”

  Tammy lips curved in a little cat-like grin. “Something like that. So you’re not upset?”

  “No, of course I’m not. I’m happy for both of you. Maybe you’ll end up with the mother-in-law I almost had.”

  “Nobody’s talking marriage.” Tammy frowned, but it quickly reverted to a smile. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I need to get going, Mae-Mae.” Tammy gave her a fierce, sudden hug. “Thank you.” The phone rang and Mae turned back to get it.

  Chapter Seven

  Sheriff Ben Bradley

  Ben was sitting at his desk when Dory called to let him know that the preliminary ballistics information had come in—astonishing. He couldn’t remember when the lab had gotten a report done a day after an incident.

  The phone call to the Nashville Chief of Police earlier about his potential conflict of interest in the case had been eye opening. Dispatch routed Ben to a Captain Paula Crawley, who said Ben couldn’t interview July or anyone else from the December family. She was okay with Detective Nichols questioning people, but until they had a suspect in custody, Ben’s involvement in the case was restricted to reading reports and doing computer research. If someone called in on the tip line, Ben could talk to the person on the phone.

  The captain had been perfectly clear she wanted periodic updates and that Ben’s job was on the line if he violated her orders. Ben reminded her that he was elected. He didn’t think Captain Paula could fire him. She reminded him that she could bring him before the Internal Affairs group or the Ethics committee. Ben wondered if the IA Department could actually investigate him. Most sheriffs’ units had their own IA, but Ben’s small unit did not. He wasn’t a member of the police force, but if Captain Paula told them to investigate him, they would probably do so. Ben shuddered at the thought. Every cop dreaded an IA inquiry. His father said they were like the KGB in Russia. At the end of their phone conversation, Ben gave her a brisk salute—for his own benefit, of course, since she couldn’t see him.

  Since it was all right with Captain Paula, Ben read the lab report. John’s shop had faxed only the basic data with a brief sentence saying that if he needed more information, he could call their office. The ammo was a Winchester 158 grain semi-wad cutter hollow point. Ben was familiar with this type of bullet. It was one of the expanding types that inhibit tissue penetration. Even shot from the doorway of the nursery, the bullet would not pass through a body. The killer must have known the police would recover the bullet, but without the gun, it would be virtually impossible to find the killer. There were hundreds, probably thousands of guns in Rose County that used the same type of ammunition.

  Ben called Detective Nichols, who was on his way to meet with July. He picked up but said he didn’t have much time. He was driving into their neighborhood.

  “I got the preliminary ballistics report,” Ben told him, “The perp used a Winchester 158 grain bullet, most likely for a Smith and Wesson revolver or a Beretta.”

  “That’s the snub-nosed small one,” Wayne said. “I’ve seen the silver and the black models. They’re light and small enough to fit in a coat pocket, or a purse.”

  Ben said nothing, remembering July’s devastated face.

  “Have John’s deputies gone through the trash in the neighborhood in case the perp disposed of the gun?” Wayne asked.

  “Yes, no luck. And that gun’s about as common as wild tattoos in East Nashville.”

  “Later,” Wayne said and was gone.

  Ben walked out to the front office.

  “Yes?” Dory said, looking up at him. Her phone rang. “I need to get this,” she said and picked up the tip line phone. He stood there for a moment, thinking about the bullet and wondering how he might trace it back to the gun, when Dory held up one finger. It was her signal for Ben to stand by her desk. Far be it from Ben to ignore Dory’s non-verbal commands. He waited.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” she said, “I will certainly tell Sheriff Bradley immediately. This will be a big help. Thank you very much for calling.”

  Dory hung up the phone, turned to Ben and said, “That was Mrs. Laurel Anderson. She’s eighty-three years old and lives near the Booth Mansion. She was walking her terrier at the back of the grounds around five-forty last night when she caught sight of a man standing in the house by the French doors that lead out to the side yard. He stepped through the doors, closed them and the full-length shutters across them. He also latched the two shutter dogs.”

  “Whoa, back up a minute here. First off, get Deputy Phelps out to the mansion right away to see if there’re any footprints leading away from that patio. I trust you told the deputies about the case already?”

  She just sighed and rolled her eyes. “Do you really need to ask?”

  “The Mont Blanc crime scene people looked all around the house last night. They didn’t notice any footprints, but it was dark. George needs to start doing the house-to-house check also.”

  “I already buzzed George. He’s calling back.”

  “Did you get Mrs. Anderson’s phone number?” Dory raised her eyes heavenward.

  “Okay, okay, sorry. I’ll call her back. I need to know whether Tom Ferris had a will. And Dory, what the heck are shutter dogs?”

  Dory raised her imperious first finger. “One thing at a time there, boss man,” she said as the phone buzzed. It was George and she told him to get out to the Booth Mansion and check the area by the French doors for footprints.

  “Start the house-to-house right after that,” she told him.

  Ben looked out the window. They’d had lots of rain in the past few days. Finding any footprints would be a long shot in the thick, freshly mulched landscape around the Mansion.

  “Oh, and George, take some fingerprint powder with you and dust the shutter dogs on the French doors for prints.”

  Ben was chagrined that Dory would think about fingerprints. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Sometimes Ben wondered if Dory might make a better sheriff than he did. It was also embarrassing that his not-too-swift deputy apparently knew what the hell shutter dogs were. Dory wrote down a phone number and handed him the slip of paper.

  “After you’ve finished talking to Mrs. Anderson, we will discuss the lamentable gaps in your education that have resulted in you not knowing about shutter dogs.” She gave Ben an intimidating smile.

  Ben went back to his office and called Mrs. Anderson. A frail woman in her eighties made for an unlikely suspect, so he assumed he could talk to her. She described the man she saw as about six feet tall and heavy-set. He was wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a black T-shirt. She was too far away to tell eye or hair color, but thought she had seen him once before somewhere, either in the newspaper or on television. She might be elderly, but the old lady was sharp as a tack. Thanking her again and telling her to call his private line if she thought of anything else, Ben obediently returned to Dory.

  “So?” She was sketching something on a pad of paper.

  “Dory, could I have your attention, please?”

  She gave him a long-suffering look and gestured to a sketch that showed a window with shutters. The left shutter was kept open by something that looked like a large, fancy
“S.” He’d seen them before on old houses; most were made of wrought iron. Dory pointed to it with one long, purplish painted fingernail.

  “Shutter dog,” she said laconically.

  Chapter Eight

  Detective Wayne Nichols

  Driving into the Powell’s driveway, Wayne Nichols was impressed by the impeccably maintained home located at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. Deputy Robert Fuller had asked to go with him and Wayne was pleased to see that the deputy’s car was already there.

  The two men walked up to the house together, where they were met by July Powell, who was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt. Her shoulder-length dark hair was scraped back in a messy ponytail and her eyes were puffy. She offered them both iced tea and they declined.

  “Mrs. Powell, I need to ask you some questions,” Detective Nichols said. He motioned to Rob. “Deputy Fuller will be taping our conversation.”

  July looked away. “Let’s go into the family room,” she said quietly and led them into a spacious room with brown leather furniture and an enormous television.

  “I know you’re the person who found Tom Ferris yesterday,” Detective Nichols said. July nodded. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. Can you tell me about it?”

  “It was awful.” She stood looking out through the window into her backyard. July bowed her head for a minute and her shoulders slumped. She looked very small and alone, standing in the casually luxurious room full of oversized furniture and the detritus of family life. He waited for her to continue. Finally, she turned around and collected herself.

  “Please sit down, Detective, you too, Deputy.”

  Wayne nodded and sat at one end of the tufted leather sofa. Deputy Fuller grabbed a chair and set the tape recorder on a nearby end table. July Powell took a seat in a chair on the other side of a large, glass coffee table.

  “Mrs. Powell, can you run through what happened, starting with when you arrived at the mansion yesterday? Take your time. Anything you can remember will be helpful,” Deputy Fuller said.

  “Please call me July.” Her smile didn’t reach her dark eyes. “I got to the house around five. I was doing a final check of my space, which is the back entry to the house. I was just about to leave when I heard a loud bang. Oh, I forgot to tell Ben, I mean Sheriff Bradley, something else I remembered. I heard another noise, too. I think I heard a door closing.”

  “Do you have a key to the house?”

  July blushed lightly. “Yes.”

  “How is it that you have a key?” Detective Nichols asked.

  “I kept it, Detective,” she hesitated, “from the time when I was dating Tommy.”

  “What time do you think you heard the loud noise?”

  “It was probably close to six. I thought the sound came from the nursery so I went up the back staircase. It was dark up there and at first I didn’t see him. But then I saw a body lying on the floor.” She looked away again and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  “Go on.”

  “I got down on the floor and asked him if he was all right.” She shook her head. “I realized then who it was. It was my old boyfriend, Tommy Ferris.” She closed her eyes.

  “He’d been shot,” Detective Nichols said.

  She stared at him. “God, I hate it that somebody did this to him. Who could have done such a thing?”

  She looked angry now and not so pitiful. He hadn’t heard a false note yet. Maybe the sheriff was right.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss.” The detective looked at her searchingly. “Let’s go back to where you were when you heard the bang. There’s a staircase from that back entry leading up to the second floor, is that right? One of two staircases in the house?”

  July nodded.

  “And you can get to the nursery from either staircase?”

  She nodded again.

  “When you heard the door closing, did you think it was a door to one of the rooms or the main entry door?”

  July was quiet for a minute. “I think it was the front door, and I remember being startled that someone was leaving the house. Until then, I assumed I was alone. There was only one other car in the driveway when I got there and I thought it belonged to one of the landscape designers—they wouldn’t have been inside.”

  “It’s possible that you heard the person who shot Tom Ferris leave. Among the designers, who tended to stay late at the house?”

  “It couldn’t have been one of the designers.” July looked at him with a knitted brow.

  “Why do you say that?”

  July shook her head. “I just can’t believe any of them would have been involved.”

  “Did you shoot him?” Detective Nichols kept his voice low and even, watching her carefully.

  “No. I would never kill anyone. And it was Tommy. I love him, loved him.” Tears shone in her eyes.

  “Who else could have been in the house?”

  “I really don’t know, Detective. Have you looked at the video footage yet?” July had regained her poise. “The Booth Showhouse committee installed a closed circuit camera at the front and the back doors in case there was a robbery or something, so they’d know who’d been in the house.”

  Now she tells me. “Okay, good. I’ll get the discs and we’ll check it out. Just one last question, did you think Mr. Ferris recognized you?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Did he say something? Anything?”

  She paused just a fraction of a second too long and then shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  July nodded her head again but didn’t meet his eyes.

  “All right, I need you to give me the key now,” he told her. After a brief hesitation, July took an iron key out of her shorts pocket and handed it to him. Deputy Fuller turned off the tape recorder. July started to get out of her chair. “We’ll show ourselves out,” the detective told her, and she slumped back without saying another word.

  When they got outside Rob cleared his throat. The deputy’s smooth skin and short, golden brown hair made him look younger than he actually was. The silver frames of his glasses reflected the sunlight. He wanted to become a detective and had informally apprenticed himself to Wayne.

  “Do you have a question, Rob?”

  “Why did you take July’s key away from her?”

  “I don’t want her going back in there.”

  Rob nodded. “Do you think she was telling the truth?”

  “Yes and no,” Wayne answered. “C’mon, it’s too hot to stand out here.” They walked back toward their cars. A tiny blonde girl wobbled past on her pink bike. The cicadas buzzed in the trees. Wayne put his hand on the car door handle tentatively. It was hot, but not hot enough to burn. He opened the car door to release the heated air from the interior and then turned back to the young deputy.

  “She seemed genuine to me,” Wayne told Rob.

  “Yeah, I thought so too, except at the end. I think the victim said something to Mrs. Powell that she didn’t want to tell us. Still, she was obviously upset about him dying.”

  Wayne clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be a good detective someday. Trust those instincts. I’ll see you back at the office.”

  Driving back, Wayne thought about that tiny slice of time before July denied Ferris had spoken to her. He would bet his last dollar there was unfinished business between July Powell and the victim. And that Tom Ferris had said something to his old girlfriend.

  The phone rang.

  “Wayne,” it was Ben’s voice, “are you on your way back?”

  “We just finished up with July Powell. I should be there in about twenty.”

  “Okay. I wanted you to know that I talked with the Chief of Investigations in Nashville, a Captain Paula Crawley. She made it clear that I can’t interview anyone connected with the Ferris case until we have someone in custody. I’ve been thinking about some way to get around her rules and still help with the investigation. She said she’d report me to IA if I got
into it.” Ben sighed. “I hate this. Apparently, I can look at reports, including yours. You can update me daily and I can talk with anyone who calls on the tip line. She wants you to call her once a week.”

  Wayne didn’t say anything, just gave a brief sigh.

  “Anyway, Dory found some information for us. There was a rental car parked at the Booth Mansion the night Tom Ferris was shot. Ferris rented it from Enterprise. They had a cellphone number, a driver’s license number and an address, a P.O. Box in Colorado. When the Mont Blanc police went through his effects, there was a volunteer firefighter’s card in his wallet, plus a couple of check stubs from a resort in Telluride.”

  “I was hoping you were going to find a hotel confirmation. One of our problems is that we don’t know how long he’d been in town.”

  “Right. Here’s the good news. Enterprise will have a record of where they picked him up, the time and the date. George is there now, checking on the times. When he gets back here I’m going to have him start going over Ferris’ cellphone outgoing and incoming calls. It’ll take a while, but we could get some leads from the local usage details.”

  “Excellent. You were right, by the way. I don’t get the feeling that July was the shooter, but there’s still something she isn’t telling us.”

  “There always is,” he heard Ben say.

  Chapter Nine

  Sheriff Ben Bradley

  Ben Bradley and Detective Wayne Nichols had looked at the video from the closed circuit cameras a hundred times. They saw July Powell coming in through the backdoor of the house. They could see that the parking lot contained her car—a late model black Chevy Suburban—a green Mini Cooper and a silver Nissan Altima, the car Tom Ferris had rented. They could even see the person who left the front door of the Booth Showhouse at 5:58 p.m. yesterday. That individual was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a lightweight rain jacket with the hood up—although it wasn’t raining. They couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, much less identify them.