Tressed to Kill (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen

[Wednesday]

I HAD DECIDED TO SPEND WEDNESDAY DOING MY interviews for the Morestuf committee, and Mom had no problem with me taking the morning off, since so many clients had cancelled that she and Althea could handle the remainder on their own. The forlorn look on her face convinced me to redouble my efforts to find Constance’s killer. Wearing the sundress and sandals, and carrying a notebook, I kissed Mom’s cheek and headed to Doralynn’s for my meeting—it was not a date—with Marty Shears.
“You look very pretty this morning,” Ruthie greeted me, her German accent still strong, even after half a century in America. She was only a shade over five feet tall but had a sturdy body and an attitude that made her seem taller. Her hair was a wiry mass of gray and white that she let Mom trim exactly four times a year. “It is for your date with that handsome man,
ja
?” She nodded toward Marty, who was reading a newspaper in a booth by a window. “He told me he was waiting for you.”
“It’s not a date,” I said, blushing. “It’s a business meeting.”
She gave me a knowing wink. “Whatever you say. But what
I
say is that when a young woman dresses up to meet a young man, it’s a date.” With an emphatic nod of her head, she tucked a menu under her arm and led me to the table.
Marty folded his paper and rose to greet me, earning a smile of approval from Ruthie. She laid the menu on the table, promised to bring tea, and disappeared.
“You look pretty refreshed for someone who was chasing intruders down the street in the middle of the night,” he remarked, sliding back into the booth. He wore a yellow shirt today with a paisley bow tie. A lock of sandy hair hung down on his forehead, and his grin warmed the room.
Holding my skirt against my thighs, I slid in opposite him as Ruthie reappeared with my tea. I took a careful sip. “Where did you hear that?”
His grin grew broader. “I’m a reporter. People tell me things.”
Amber came over with a cheery greeting and took our orders. When she had gone, I told Marty Althea’s story, warning him that she refused to be interviewed. He listened intently, eyes focused on my face, taking a sip of coffee now and then. When I finished, he leaned forward. “This is potentially huge,” he said, his words coming faster than usual. “If I could tie Lansky to a murder, or even to a swindle . . .” His eyes got a faraway look. Was he composing his Pulitzer acceptance speech? He brought his attention back to me as the food arrived. “Where is Carl Rowan’s widow now?” he asked. “Maybe she knows something. Maybe she left St. Elizabeth so quickly because she was paid off.”
I hadn’t given Rowan’s widow two seconds of thought. “I suppose that’s possible,” I said, buttering a piece of toast. “Constance did try to buy off Althea, sort of.”
Marty pulled out his BlackBerry and began tapping on it. “I’ll get my researcher on it. Do you know her first name?”
“No. I can ask Althea.” I pushed my plate away. “Your turn. Have you discovered anything about the murder?”
Marty spread his arms along the back of the booth. “As a matter of fact—”
“Miss Terhune,” a voice interrupted. “Your mother said I would find you here.”
I looked up to see Special Agent Dillon standing beside the booth, his navy blue eyes dark, his face set in stern lines. “I had a few more questions about last night’s incident,” he said, studying Marty.
I introduced the two men. Marty rose to shake hands. He topped Dillon by about five inches, but his slim, graceful build looked somehow insubstantial next to Dillon’s solidity and flagpole-straight posture.
“You’re the investigator in charge of the DuBois case,” Marty said with an easy smile. “I’ve been trying to get an interview with you, but your public information officer keeps stonewalling me. Have you got—”
“You’re a reporter?” Dillon’s eyes narrowed. He looked from me to Marty, and a trace of contempt crossed his face.
“
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
,” he said, pulling out a business card. “Can you tell me—”
“No comment,” Dillon said.
“We’re on the same side, here,” Marty said, obviously used to being no-commented. “We both want to find out—”
“I don’t think so,” Dillon cut in. “I want to bring Mrs. DuBois’s killer to justice. You want a byline and a sensational story—even if what you reveal taints a jury pool or helps the murderer get off.”
Marty measured him with a glance and stood a bit stiffer. “Well, perhaps you can confirm what I heard. Apparently, the murder weapon was a sword. What do—”
“Where did you hear that?” Dillon asked, anger threading his voice. “Don’t tell me—you have ‘sources’ at the coroner’s office.” He sounded disgusted, whether at Marty or the leaks from the autopsy team, I didn’t know.
“The state crime lab, actually,” Marty said, unfazed by Dillon’s hostility.
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” I asked, puzzled by the change in Dillon’s attitude. Last night he’d been . . . concerned. This morning, he seemed pissed off. “About the sword, I mean.”
“The St. Elizabeth Police Department doesn’t share information on open investigations with private citizens,” Dillon said stiffly. “And we just got the report this morning.”
“Apparently it’s a Civil War-era blade,” Marty put in, unhampered by restrictions against sharing. “Trace amounts of metals left in the wound confirm it’s not a modern blade, at any rate.”
“Know anyone with a Civil War sword?” Dillon asked.
Amber came over with our bill. “Here you go, Special Agent,” she said with a smile, handing him a cup of coffee before sliding the bill onto the table.
Dillon accepted the cup of coffee that Amber brought over, unasked. He returned her smile. “Thanks, Amber.”
Her newly trimmed blonde hair bounced in a ponytail against her shoulders as she headed toward the kitchen.
An irritation I reluctantly recognized as jealousy nipped at me. Ye gods, I berated myself. He’s a cop who wants to put Mom in jail. Get a grip. My reasonable side stepped in: well, he doesn’t really
want
to arrest her. But he would if he had the evidence, my grumpy side argued. I made myself answer his question.
“Every third person in the state, probably,” I said. “Lots of folks still have great-great-great-granddad’s sword over the mantle or in a box in the attic. And then there are plenty of collectors.” My mind zipped to Walter Highsmith. He had swords galore. Were any of them missing?
“Do you or Mrs. Terhune have a sword?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “And it’s ridiculous to think that either of us could have been lugging one around at the town hall meeting without someone noticing.”
“That holds true for everyone at the meeting,” Dillon said. “Although I suppose you could hide one in—what? A bassoon case?” He seemed to relax a bit—maybe it was caffeine deprivation that made him snappy.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t stand out,” I said skeptically. “It was a town hall meeting, not a high school band concert.”
“A duffel bag?” Marty suggested.
“A golf bag?” Dillon said.
“A tote bag.” Marty held his hands a yard apart. “Some of the bags women carry these days would conceal a bazooka.”
“One of those tubes you put rolled-up posters or architectural drawings in.”
I rolled my eyes at their game of hide-the-sword oneupmanship. “I’ve got to go,” I said, dropping a ten on the table to cover my breakfast and sliding out of the booth. “How about if someone left the sword in their car and retrieved it on their way to meet Constance?”
Both men stared at me silently, identical chagrined expressions on their faces. Enjoying my small triumph at having left them speechless, I headed for the exit, winding around the clumps of tourists waiting for a table. Since I needed to interview business owners, I might as well start with Walter Highsmith and kill two birds with one stone.
WALTER HIGHSMITH WAS SETTING UP A MANNEQUIN when I arrived at Confederate Artefacts. He didn’t hear me push through the door, and I watched him for a moment, unobserved. With the loving care of a mother getting her son ready for picture day at school, he buttoned the soldier’s tunic over the mannequin’s plastic chest and smoothed the fabric with his palm. He fussed with an epaulette to make it sit straight and filched a speck of lint from braiding on the jacket’s cuff with tiny tweezers. Finally, he placed a brimmed hat pinned up on one side, with a feather curling down, on the mannequin’s luxurious brown locks. When he stood back to admire the effect, I said, “He looks very handsome, Walter.”
Walter spun around, his sword clanking against the mannequin’s legs and rocking it. He grabbed for the mannequin and steadied it before turning to me, the ends of his mustache quivering. “Miss Grace! You shouldn’t sneak up on a soldier like that. I could have pulled steel on you.” He patted the scabbard hanging from his belt.
To appease him, I asked, “How come that uniform coat is straighter than yours and a different color?”
He puffed up his cheeks, and his eyes shone at the opportunity to lecture someone on his passion. “Confederate officers, Miss Grace, provided their own uniforms, most of which were tailor-made to the owner’s taste. After the first year of the war, most of the jackets were some shade of gray. The jackets could be tunic-style, like this captain here”—he patted the mannequin’s shoulder gently—“a shell jacket, or a frock coat like mine. Most of them, though, had standing collars”—he stretched his neck up so I could see his collar, somewhat obscured by his jowls—“and two rows of seven brass buttons.” He darted to one of a half-dozen display cases and extracted a button. “Generals had eagles on their buttons, like this.” He held the shiny button on his palm, and I dutifully examined it.
“So, I guess you’re not a general,” I said, studying the buttons marching down the front of his coat.
“No, ma’am. I’m a colonel from Georgia’s Twenty-first Infantry Regiment. Our numbers were decimated at Second Manassas—we lost three-quarters of the men engaged there.” He sighed like he’d ordered the troops to their deaths. “I was one of only seven surviving officers to surrender at Appomattox. Oh, the ignominy.” He bowed his head.
“I’m sure it must have been very difficult,” I said, entertained by his playacting. At least, I hoped he was acting and not clinically delusional. “But if you can rejoin me here in the twenty-first century, we need to talk about Morestuf.”
Walter straightened. “Morestuf, fah! Carpetbaggers.” He stroked his goatee with three fingers. “Actually, Miss Grace, I don’t anticipate they will bother me too much. It’s not as if they deal in the same merchandise as I do.” He looked around his shop proudly, his eyes going from the unit flags and pennants hung from the ceiling to a troop of mannequins arrayed in different uniforms to the display cases crowded with canteens, knives, bullet molds, and soldiers’ personal effects, and finally landed on a wall crisscrossed with swords and pistols. “And if I don’t look to the right when I drive out of St. Elizabeth, I won’t ever have to know it’s there.” He nodded several times, clearly pleased with his head-in-the-sand approach.
Maybe, though, he had the right idea. I made some notes, determined to have something concrete to show Simone and Lucy when we reconvened. Wandering over to the weapons wall, I studied the swords. “What do these go for?” I asked.
“It varies.” Walter bustled to my side. “These are reproductions. I sell them for ninety-nine dollars.”
I felt slightly disappointed, having imagined myself to be standing in the presence of history.
“But the real thing . . . that’s a different story. A sword someone finds in the woods or digs up in their field—it still happens—probably won’t be worth much because it will be pitted and damaged and won’t have a provenance. I won’t say they’re a dime a dozen, but they’d only fetch a few hundred dollars. Swords in better condition might go for fifteen hundred or so, and swords with the original gold gilt on the hilt largely intact, etching on the blade, documentation about the original owner, especially if he was famous or fought in important battles, and with a scabbard in excellent condition, might sell for eight, nine thousand.”
“Wow.” I ran a finger down the blade of the sword nearest me, admiring its cold sleekness until I remembered Constance had died with one of these thrust through her heart. I stepped back. “How often do you sell a real Confederate sword?”
He shrugged, more in shopkeeper mode than soldier mode now. “During the tourist season, maybe one a month, although I do a significant business in reproductions. Less often during the off-season. Then, most of my sales are to collectors off my website. I did sell one last week, though, to a walk-in customer.” He tightened his lips until they disappeared beneath the mustache.
“Really?” I tried to sound casual. “Do you remember the buyer’s name?”
He snorted. “Of course. It was Constance Lucinda Wells DuBois.” He enunciated each syllable of her name. “She came in Monday afternoon. Before I got the eviction notice, I need hardly tell you.”
I dropped my notebook. “Really? What did Constance want with a sword?” I bent to retrieve my notebook.
“She said it was a gift. For Philip. His fortieth birthday was last Tuesday.” His face crumpled into a suspicious frown. “What is it about swords today, anyway? That detective was in here asking me almost the same questions not two hours ago.”
“What a coincidence,” I said, fanning myself with the notebook. It seemed warm in the shop. “I just got interested in the swords when I saw your display. My questions are really supposed to be about Morestuf, for the committee, you know.” I was pretty sure Special Agent Dillon would lock me up if I told anyone the police had identified a sword as the murder weapon. I sought for a way to distract Walter. “Uh, if you get to remodel the shop, what are you going to do?”
His face brightened. “Set up a mock battle scene between our forces and the Union invaders. See, if I can knock out this closet”—he patted the wall beside him—“I can open up the office space that’s on the other side and use it all for a battle, complete with life-sized mannequins for troops. I have an artillery piece in a storage unit that I’ve always wanted to display here.”
Having started him on his favorite topic, it was hard to stop him, and it was fifteen minutes before I could escape. As I strolled the short distance to the next store, my reflections were disquieting. Walter sold Constance a genuine Civil War-era sword Monday, and she gave it to her son on Tuesday. The same son who was desperate to forestall an audit, to keep his job, to avoid prison. But was he desperate enough to run his own mother through with a sword?