A Collection of Mysteries Page 3
"See any of those people enter the house today?"
"Every last one of them."
"Who was the first to come by?"
"Mitch stopped by on his way to work, around 7:30 this morning. Stayed an hour. Around noon, Martin went in and did some work on her cabinets. Why Ellen decided to paint them that ugly green color, I’ll never understand."
"Anyone else?"
"I guess Jeff was the last to leave. That would have been around 3 p.m."
"And were you at her house today?"
"Are you kidding me? I’m strictly an observer."
Mitch Walker was first on the detectives’ list of suspects. They located him at a house in town where he’d just finished repairing a garbage disposal.
"I understand you paid a visit to Ellen Sims’s house this morning," Detective Fortner said.
"Who told you that?"
"Your neighbor, Eli Monroe, saw you there."
"Ellen had a leaky faucet, and I was being a good neighbor. What’s this all about, anyway?"
"She dead."
"Whoa!" His face registered shock. "Okay, I admit, I was there, but Ellen was alive when I left."
Their next visit was to the carpenter, Martin Young. "We heard you spent the morning at Ms. Sims’s house."
"I spend some time there every morning, detectives. She’s remodeling her kitchen, and she hired me to do the cabinetry."
"Your neighbor says you’ve been over there a lot. How long does a job like that usually take?"
Martin shook his head. "I should’ve known that old busybody was spreading rumors. The truth is that Ellen doesn’t have a lot of money, so I do a little at a time. And she’s doing the painting herself. Just started today. So yeah, it’s taking a little longer than most of my jobs."
Jeff Bundy was the last suspect. They located him at his home.
"Care to explain what you were doing at Ellen Sims’s house this afternoon?"
Bundy’s face went pale. "What’s this all about?"
"Ellen Sims is dead, and, apparently, you were the last one to see her alive."
Bundy stepped onto the porch. "I know how this looks, but I swear she was already dead when I got there."
"Can you explain why you didn’t call the police?"
"Bundy hung his head. "I didn’t want my wife to know I was there, but I didn’t kill her."
Detective Fortner turned to his partner. "We’ll have to see what the forensics team comes up with."
"Weren’t you paying attention, partner? They all had the opportunity to kill Ellen Sims, but only one of them incriminated himself. That’s where we’ll focus our attention."
Who does the detective suspect? (See answer below)
*****
Solution: Eli Monroe. He said he hadn’t been in Ellen Sims’s house, but he knew the color she was painting the cabinets. The only way he could have known that is if he’d seen them himself.
*****
True Blue
Janey Parker tossed a rose onto Mary’s limp body, wincing as a sharp prong pierced her skin. It was somehow appropriate she thought, since her former best friend had suddenly become a thorn in her side.
Janey suspected her husband, Tom, of having an affair. Her suspicions were confirmed when she overheard a telephone conversation between Mary and him.
"The roses are beautiful," Mary had said seductively. "Maybe you could come by later so I can show you my appreciation in person. I could use a break from all this redecorating."
"Sounds tempting," Tom drooled. In a lower voice, he added, "But you shouldn’t be calling me at home. Janey might overhear."
Furious, Janey came up with a plan to get even. Later that afternoon, she purchased a set of wineglasses identical to the ones she’d given Mary for Christmas. Before sharing an after–dinner brandy with Tom, she laced his drink with a strong tranquilizer. Once he passed out, she put her plan in motion.
Mindful of the fingerprints, Janey carefully placed Tom’s wineglass in a plastic bag, then gingerly put the incriminating evidence into a large handbag. Next, she dragged Tom’s body into the garage and hoisted him into the pickup.
Thirty minutes later, with Tom sleeping it off in the truck, Janey stood on Mary’s front steps with a bottle of wine. "Mary I need someone to talk to," she said when her former friend answered the door. "I think Tom is having an affair."
Mary tried to feign surprise. Forcing tears, Janey displayed the bottle of wine. "Got a couple of glasses? I hate to cry alone."
As Janey knew she would, Mary produced two wineglasses identical to the one Janey had in her bag. She set them on the cluttered coffee table next to the roses. "Sorry about the mess. I’m in the process of redecorating."
Janey merely shrugged. "I just can’t believe it," she said, as she poured them both a drink. "I’ve given that man the best years of my life."
"Now Janey," Mary said soothingly. "I’m sure you’re imagining things."
Janey almost choked on her deceitful friend’s lies. Waiting until Mary sipped from her glass, Janey produced the gun she’d taken from the pickup’s glove compartment and took aim.
Mary’s eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"I know all about you and Tom," Janey said calmly. Keeping the gun trained on Mary, Janey bent over and slammed the vase of roses across the table. "They’re beautiful," she mocked. "But you shouldn’t call here. Stupid little Janey might find out about us."
Mary’s face fell. "Janey, we never meant to hurt you."
"Save your breath. Once the police discover your body, the neighbors will be eager to tell them about seeing Tom’s truck speed away. It won’t take them long to find the pickup, with Tom and the murder weapon, parked down the road. They’ll realize Tom killed his girlfriend in a fit of anger."
Janey pulled the trigger, then scooped her wineglass and replaced it with the one containing Tom’s fingerprints.
Satisfied, Janey bolted into the pickup, tossed the gun onto the floorboard, and sped away, screeching tires and creating a scene the neighbors were sure to remember.
A mile down the road, she stopped the truck. At the passenger door, she placed the gun in her husband’s pliable hands and squeezed the trigger, shooting the bullet into the dirt. Now with powder burns on Tom’s hands, she eased her groggy husband into the driver’s seat.
Laughing as she realized her cheating husband would soon be facing criminal charges in the death of his mistress, Janey fled the scene and returned home.
An hour later, the telephone rang.
"Janey, you’ve got to come quick! Mary’s dead and the police think I did it!"
Twenty minutes later, Janey entered the police station, trying her best to appear distraught. "Tom!" Janey screamed and threw her arms around her husband in a loving show of affection.
She turned to the officer behind the desk. "There’s obviously been some mistake," she said, fighting back the smile that threatened to give her away. "Tom wouldn’t hurt a fly."
Janet took a seat next to Tom, enjoying playing the part of the dutiful wife, realizing there was no way Tom would be set free. She’d taken every precaution to ensure his guilt.
"I think you may be right," Mrs. Parker." The officer leaned across the desk. "Let me tell you my version of what happened. I think you staged the whole thing in order to have your husband arrested for murder."
Janey flinched, but quickly regained her composure. "What? You’re way off base."
"Am I? Your husband has already admitted he was having an affair with the dead woman. He even admits to sending her the roses we found scattered across the room. So why would he kill her?"
Janey tried to remain calm, even though her nerves were on edge. There was no way they could place her at the scene. "But I was home all evening," she stated flatly.
"Were you?" The officer leaned back and laced his fingers. "We found a smudge of blue paint in your husband’s pickup. The same shade of blue that Mary was using to paint her living room."
The officer continued. "We only found the paint on the driver’s side windowsill. That means whoever killed Mary must have accidentally brushed their left elbow against Mary’s freshly painted wall while inside her house, depositing the stain onto the windowsill as they drove away. Your husband doesn’t have any paint on his left elbow or anywhere else. But you do."
Janey refused to take the bait. "That certainly doesn’t prove that Tom wasn’t in Mary’s house."
The officer smiled. "That’s true. But it does prove that you were."
*****
Badge of Shame
Greg Hopper stood over his wife’s dead body, a satisfied grin stretching against the stocking mask that concealed his face.
His long wait was finally over. After a respectable amount of mourning, he and Clarice could finally profess their love for one another.
Turning toward the security camera, he gave a perfunctory wave before exiting through the back employee entrance and making his getaway to Gleason’s Shipping and Manufacturing, where he worked as a late-night supervisor. Moments before he entered the colossal building, he peeled the stocking from his head and tossed it into the large dumpster just outside the door.
"Okay guys," he said to his crew. "Let’s finish getting this stuff unloaded. We’ve got another shipment due here within the hour."
He had been away less than 15 minutes, and as Greg had hoped, his brief absence had gone unnoticed. As supervisor of thirty crewmen, it was not unusual for Greg to disappear to various parts of the plant to oversee a variety of projects.
The recent rash of robberies in the vicinity had played right into his hands. Since his wife, Greta, worked the pay booth at a late-night self-service gas station just down the street, Greg had been dropping several hints lately that he was concerned for her safety. He’d played the part of the worried husband for weeks, while awaiting the perfect opportunity to rid Greta from his life.
After Greg made his fleeting appearance on the loading dock, he walked to the front of the building and opened the door to the small business office where Clarice Sanders sat behind a scarred wooden desk, typing in orders from various vendors.
She glanced up and smiled, tucking one side of her long blond hair behind her ear. "Hello, boss," she said seductively. She scooped up a small notepad and sauntered toward him. "I have a few messages for you."
"Thank you." Greg could barely choke out the words.
As soon as he pushed the door shut, Clarice threw herself into his arms, her lips claiming his in a passionate embrace. Her next words were all the confirmation Greg needed to realize he’d done the only thing he could do.
"I wish it could be like this forever," she told Greg. "You know how much I hate sneaking around."
Greg nuzzled her silky hair. "It won’t be long now," he promised. "Greta has agreed to a divorce."
Of course, that was a lie, but he couldn’t tell Clarice the truth. Murdering his wife had been the only logical solution. Greta had been furious when she’d accidentally found out about Clarice. She’d threatened to file for divorce herself and leave him with nothing.
Greg couldn’t let that happen. His wife had recently inherited a sizeable fortune from her late mother, and after twenty years of putting up with Greta’s constant nagging, Greg had every intention of sharing that wealth.
"Just be patient a little while longer," he told Clarice as he pushed her away. "We don’t want to take any unnecessary chances. Once Greta is out of the picture, we can tell the world how we feel about one another."
Greg took the messages from Clarice, then returned to the loading dock.
While he assisted his crew unloading trucks and distributing their contents, his mind drifted back to earlier, taking comfort in how easily his plan had come together.
Since he and Greta worked the same night-time hours just a block apart, Greg waited until he’d made a thorough sweep of his plant, speaking with the employees, making minor suggestions, and anything else he could think of to make sure his alibi would hold.
Then he phoned Greta at work. "We need to talk," he’d said. "I’ll sneak away and ring the bell at the back service door. Let me inside so we can discuss this rationally."
Greg snuck out the back door, donned a stocking mask, and ran the block to the gas station where his wife worked. Satisfied there were no customers around, he rang the service bell. Once Greta opened the door, Greg pushed himself inside and strangled the life from her.
At the cash register, he’d punched in numerous keys until the drawer popped open, then scooped up all the bills to simulate a robbery before making his getaway.
Now all he had to do was wait.
Twenty minutes later, Greg’s pager went off. He snatched the receiver from the phone on the wall and called the office. "What is it, Clarice?" he asked.
Her voice was grim and businesslike. "The police are here to see you, Mr. Hopper."
Greg tried to hide his smile. "Keep working," he told his crew. "I’ll be back in a jiffy."
He wouldn’t, of course. Once the police informed him of his wife’s tragic demise, he’d have to play the part of the mournful husband, registering shock and disbelief that something so horrible could have happened to Greta. There would also be arrangements to make. Certainly, no one would be surprised when Clarice, his faithful secretary, stood by his side, helping him through this difficult period. Then when the time came to declare their mutual love, no one would be the wiser.
Greg increased his speed as he neared the office, trying to contain his growing excitement.
"Greg Hopper?" an officer greeted him as soon as he opened the door.
"Yes?" Greg responded, his pulse quickening.
"You’re under arrest for the murder of your wife. You have the right to remain silent…"
Greg’s face fell. They couldn’t know, he told himself. He’d taken every possible precaution to conceal his identity and establish an alibi.
He glanced up, feigning shock. "Greta’s dead?"
"That’s right, Mr. Hopper. But fortunately for us, when your wife’s killer was caught on the surveillance tape, he was wearing an employee name badge."
The officer grinned, a chilling smile that made Greg’s blood run cold.
"The same badge you’re still wearing."
*****
If The Key Fits
Sheila looked down at the body lying on the floor, removed the gloves from her hands and smiled with satisfaction.
Tomorrow morning her troubles would be over. Neil Rutledge, the construction foreman for the Cordial Manor Condominiums would arrive, notice Rhonda’s car out front and try the door to no avail. Once Sheila arrived, the two of them would find Rhonda’s body.
Of course, Neil would be the main suspect. Sheila had seen to it that several company items had turned up in Neil’s possession. And several tenants had witnessed Rhonda accusing Neil of the thefts. When he, in turn, had threatened to get even with her, it was more than Sheila could have hoped for. Now when that brainless hick Sheriff Dan Brady discovered Neil’s chalk line string around Rhonda’s neck, it would remove any doubt as to the killer’s identity.
Sheila silently congratulated herself on her shrewd plan. She hadn’t worked for Cordial Real Estate for five years only to be shoved aside by a young overachiever like Rhonda Wells. Now, not only had she eliminated her main sales competitor, she had also seen to it that Neil would never set foot on Cordial Manor again.
How she hated the sight of Neil. The cigarette that constantly dangled from his mouth, the yellowed teeth and the smell of whiskey on his breath were more than enough to make him fit the part of a murder suspect. Satisfied, she locked the door and drove off.
At eight o’clock the next morning, Sheila arrived as planned. Just as she’d anticipated, Neil was banging on the door, yelling Rhonda’s name.
A crowd gathered around the office.
"What’s wrong?" Sheila called out, feigning concern.
"It’s Rhonda," Neil yelled. "She’s in there, but she won’t open the door."
"Can’t say I blame her," Sheila mumbled, just loud enough for all the spectators to hear.
"Will you hurry up and open it?" Neil growled. "I’ve got work to do."
Sheila inserted her key and turned the knob. Once inside her scream alerted everyone that something was terribly wrong.
Deputy Randall arrived first and made a quick sweep of the area. Moments later Sheriff Brady arrived. "What have you got?" he asked.
Deputy Randall pulled out a note pad. "Victim’s name was Rhonda Wells. Twenty-three years old. Only been on the job a few months. Coroner’s inside."
"Any fingerprints?"
"Too many. Clients coming and going all the time."
Brushing past his deputy, Sheriff Brady entered the building.
"Been dead some time," the coroner said. "At least overnight."
"Cause of death?"
"Appears to be strangulation."
"You about through?"
"Yep. It’s all yours, Sheriff," the coroner answered.
Dabbing at her eyes, Sheila pushed her way inside. "She was a top-notch agent, Sheriff. She was becoming one of our best salespeople."
Sheriff Brady turned. "And you are…?"
Deputy Randall answered. "This is Sheila Nolan, Sheriff," he said. "She and the victim sold condos for Cordial Manor."
Sheriff Brady’s gaze settled on the nervous-looking man now entering, puffing on a cigarette.
"This is Neil Rutledge, Deputy Randall said. "He’s the foreman. He arrived first this morning."
Sheriff Brady nodded. "Tell me how you discovered the body," he said.
"Like he said, I arrived first," Neil answered. "I usually arrive around seven-thirty to plan the work schedule. Rhonda’s car was parked outside, but she didn’t answer. So I couldn’t get in until Sheila arrived and unlocked the door."
"Any idea who might want her dead?" Deputy Randall asked.
"Anyone who ever bought a house from her," Neil growled.
"I’m afraid Rhonda was a little too eager to succeed, Sheriff," Sheila interrupted, not wanting to appear too distraught. After all, Neil was well aware that she and Rhonda couldn’t stand each other. "Sometimes she promised her clients things that couldn’t possibly be delivered."