The Purrfect Murder Read online

  Margaret Westlake, the office manager, who was in her early forties, stood to greet them. Her eyes, puffy and bloodshot, testified to her tears.

  Sophie Denham, the senior nurse, in her early fifties, had a paper cup in her hand as she stood over Kylie Kraft, a young nurse verging on hysterics.

  Sophie glanced at the sheriff and deputy. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “I want to go home,” Kylie wailed.

  “Gave her a Valium,” Sophie, hands shaking slightly, informed them.

  Having seen their fair share of hysterics, Rick replied, “Terrible shock. I know Officer Sharpton took your statements. Deputy Cooper and I will carefully go over them. On the outside chance that something occurred to you since he was here, I thought I’d come in.”

  The three looked mutely at one another, but both Margaret and Sophie were sophisticated enough to recognize that Rick came by to scope them as well as the territory. Anyone with contact to Will Wylde was potentially a suspect.

  “Did Dr. Wylde gamble?” Cooper asked.

  Margaret, surprised, answered, “No. Why?”

  “If a person falls behind on the debts, this can be the payback,” Cooper quietly informed them.

  Sophie blinked. “As far as I know he didn’t gamble.”

  Reaching for Cooper’s slender hand, Kylie moaned, “Can’t I go home?”

  “Not just yet,” Cooper said as Kylie dropped her hand, disappointed and beginning to get a little fuzzy from the sedative.

  “Women?” Rick questioned.

  “No.” Margaret shook her head.

  “There was that rumor about the first Mrs. Tillach,” Sophie added, then instantly felt disloyal to the deceased doctor.

  “There was a creature given to fantasy.” Margaret’s lip curled upward slightly. “Typical Charlottesville rumor. Everyone smacks their lips but no one actually ferrets out the facts. The entire episode was repellent.” She calmed herself, then added, “Sheriff, given that this appears planned—I mean, no one broke in here waving a gun and screaming—I have to think it’s political.”

  “Could be political if someone did come in screaming. Dr. Wylde was on the hot seat.” Cooper said this in a kind fashion.

  “That he was.” Sophie’s eyes teared up.

  “Ever mention names of people he thought were violent?” Rick asked.

  Margaret, folding her arms across her chest, said, “If only it were that simple, Sheriff. The short answer is no. The antiabortionists who incline toward destructiveness are never your neighbors, because you can hold them accountable. What these antiorganizations do is bus people in for demonstrations, throw packets of blood at the doctors—”

  Kylie interrupted with a wail, “And us.”

  Margaret ignored her, feeling that one dealt with pain and suffered by holding it together and never, ever, by blubbering or seeking pity. “I’m not saying local people didn’t join in barricading our office, but you can pretty well bet the killer is not a local. At least that’s one woman’s opinion.”

  “And one I certainly respect.” Rick nodded to her. “Ladies, this is a vicious blow. I am so sorry for you all, for Will’s family. I promise you we will get to the bottom of this.” He paused. “In the future, either Deputy Cooper or myself may call upon you again. I apologize in advance for the inconvenience.”

  “We’ll be glad to help in any way,” Margaret replied.

  “Indeed.” Sophie wiped her eyes again.

  Rick opened the door into the corridor. Cooper followed, but as they reached the front door, she turned and hurried back to Will’s office. She rapped on the door.

  Margaret unlocked it. “Come in.”

  “Channel Twenty-nine just pulled up with the mobile unit. You might want to lock this door again and go somewhere in the office where they can’t see you.”

  Kylie started to rock back and forth and cry again.

  Margaret turned to Sophie. “Let’s get her back in the supply room and cut the lights.”

  “I expect they’ll be out of here in an hour. They’ll want to talk to people in other offices and then they’ll probably go shoot footage of his house or the hospital. But if you want to avoid their questions, sit tight for at least an hour.”

  “Thank you, Deputy Cooper.” Margaret closed the door and cut the lights.

  Rick turned as Cooper joined him on the raised outside steps. “And?”

  “Going to lock up and hide in the supply room.”

  He nodded. “That will give them a little time. Until tomorrow, at least.” He watched the small crew quickly set up. “Come on, we’ve got to get to Benita before someone else does and certainly before this breaks. You know once they’ve got the video shot, they’ll interrupt any show going.”

  “Damn.”

  “That’s a nicer word than ‘shit.’ I’ve got to watch my language.” He took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and strode toward the television crew. He made the time-out sign before the camera rolled. “Dinny, I’ll give you a statement, I’ll keep you in the pipeline, but I have got to get to Benita Wylde before she hears of this. All right?”

  Dinny Suga, who was pretty and petite, knew enough about the community to know she had to respect this or she’d never get another good story out of Shaw again. Even though she’d worked for Channel 29 for only a year, she was becoming part of the community, one she was learning to love—if for nothing else than the fact that no one would dream of calling her Asian-American. She was just Dinny Suga.

  “I understand.” She looked to her camerawoman, nodded, and the light blinked over the top of the minicam.

  Sheriff Shaw gave a terse statement that the murder had occurred at around two-thirty P.M. No suspect had been apprehended, and, yes, Dr. Wylde had been targeted in the past for harassment.

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “Dinny, give me an hour. If she’s not home, she’s on the golf course, most likely.”

  “Okay.”

  Within twenty minutes, Rick and Coop were zipping toward the back nine in a golf cart. When members started to wave at them as they roared through their games, they quickly discerned this was the sheriff and his number-one deputy; something had to be really wrong.

  Benita, back on 13, had just hit a gorgeous approach shot, which her three bosom buddies admired. When she heard the cart, saw who was in it, she dropped her club. There’d been enough threats on Will’s life these last ten years. She just knew. So did the others.

  She said nothing as Rick stopped and climbed out.

  “Benita, I am so sorry to tell you this.”

  “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  Rick nodded. “Yes, yes he is.”

  Coop, now also out, walked up alongside Rick.

  “How?” Benita remained calm, although she was as white as paste.

  “Sniper. One shot clean through the heart. At least he didn’t suffer.”

  She fought her tears. The rest of the foursome—Folly Steinhauser, Alicia Palmer, and BoomBoom Craycroft—quietly came up to Benita’s side.

  Alicia put her arm around Benita’s waist and said, “Let me drive you home, honey.”

  “Yes.” Benita’s voice faded.

  “The reporters.” Folly’s mind worked quickly. “Girls, we need to be there to get rid of them.”

  “We can take turns.” BoomBoom, who was tall, commanding, and beautiful, knew how to handle most situations, as did Alicia, a former movie star in the seventies and eighties.

  “You’re right,” Folly agreed.

  “Before anyone leaves, Benita, if you can stand it, it would be very helpful if you could answer a few questions.”

  “Yes.” A tear splashed on her lemon-colored golf shirt.

  “Have there been threats recently?”

  “No. In fact, we were just talking about that last night. We thought that maybe those nutcases finally realized violence is counterproductive.”

  “Any problems apart from the abortion extremists? A disgruntled employee or
unbalanced patient, debts?”

  “No.”

  “Any old enemies from the past that you can recall?”

  She thought as she knelt down to pick up her club. “Harvey Tillach. Harvey hated him, but they avoided each other.”

  No reason to inquire about why Harvey hated Will Wylde, since everyone knew that Harvey, also a doctor, had accused Will of seducing his then wife. An accusation that Will hotly denied, but the damage had been done, because rumors take on a life of their own.

  Although, in truth, sexual peccadilloes rarely elicited the tongue-clicking found in the Puritan states. The people upset were the people directly involved. Most Southerners assume nature is taking its course and best to stay out of it.

  Alicia, firmly but with respect, said, “Sheriff, let me take her home. This is a staggering blow.”

  He nodded, then added, “Benita, I’ll need to question you again. I truly am sorry.”

  “I know, Rick, I know you are. Everybody loved Will.”

  BoomBoom said to Rick and Coop, “Let us know if there’s anything we can do, including strangle the killer.”

  Coop had grown fond of BoomBoom. “You’ll have to get a ticket and stand in line for that. But if we need you, I’ll call. Right now, do anything you can for Benita. It’s going to be tough. A media circus.”

  Folly shook her head silently, fearing the onslaught, as Alicia gently led Benita to one of the golf carts.

  As the two carts drove off, Rick turned to Coop. “She’s a good woman. She deserves better.”

  The sheriff and his deputy knew the wife is often a prime suspect in the husband’s murder. But these two didn’t think Benita Wylde had killed her husband. For one thing, she was on the golf course at the time of the murder. For another thing, it was a happy marriage. Whoever did kill the doctor knew the layout of the office buildings, his schedule, and could drive away without calling attention to himself.

  They climbed back into the squat golf cart. Rick drove, the noisy little engine competing with the usual sounds of a late afternoon on a prestigious golf course.

  Coop flipped open her notebook. “Want to give me names to question?”

  “In a minute. The first thing we’ve got to do is pull in as many people as we can on this case. Right now it’s a local murder. If the FBI agent for our territory decides this is a civil-rights violation, then we have to deal with the agency.”

  Coop grimaced, since the feds often treated local law-enforcement people like water bugs. “Been there. Done that. Remember the fuss five years ago when the pro-life people barricaded Will’s clinic? Boom! Civil-rights violations, because he couldn’t operate his business. Let’s hope this is just murder.”

  “Yep, sure as shooting.” He realized what he’d said but grinned despite himself. “Sorry.”

  4

  Death and destruction didn’t seem to shake up country people quite as much as it did their city cousins. The cycle of the seasons, the thrilling rebirth of spring and the rich harvests of fall, allowed people to know that death and life weave together each day. Not that anyone celebrated the untimely death of Dr. Will Wylde, but the people it sent off into the deep end were only those hovering on the precipice anyway. His family and friends, overwhelmed by deep grief, remained calm. It had always been in the back of their minds that this could happen, but nothing really prepares one for the dolorous reality.

  Carla Paulson was all but suffering grand mal seizures because of the shooting. Weeping, she called Tazio Chappars, informing her that she wouldn’t be at the construction site today, Friday, but she advised—which meant ordered—Tazio to go.

  The house, which was situated on a three-hundred-foot-high knoll, commanded 270-degree views. The 90-degree area behind the house was filled with large rock outcroppings, which blocked the view in that direction. Carla, who was determined to improve nature, had worked on drawings with a San Francisco landscape company to stick wondrous plants in crevices. Eventually, the outcroppings would underline Carla’s vibrant creativity. That was the plan. Surely, a spread in Garden Design would follow.

  Interior work goes more slowly than the initial framing up and roofing, and this house proved no exception.

  Tazio and Mike McElvoy stood in the cavernous living room while the marble, green-veined and hideously expensive, was being placed around the fireplace. The Italian workmen had a gift for the task.

  With arms folded across his chest, Mike watched Butch Olivera supervise. One tiny crack meant another slab would be cut, which would mean more delay, more expense. Carla would spend money, but she possessed little tolerance for other people’s mistakes. Then, too, she harbored the not entirely unfounded suspicion that she might be charged more than the “old families”—or “tired blood,” as she dubbed those Virginians only too ready to recite their pedigree. Her pedigree was her bank balance; it was also a crowbar to open doors and windows.

  “Lattimores used the same marble when they built Raven’s Roost.” Mike enjoyed passing on these tidbits. “She’s already adding a wing. Penny can’t stop building.”

  Tazio had been a guest of the Lattimores from time to time, so she already knew this. She simply smiled. Why take away Mike’s little moment? “Penny and Marvin are a bit more understated than the Paulsons.”

  “Christ.” Mike shook his head. “Waste. That’s what I see but, hey, gives me a job.”

  “Me too.” Tazio smiled, hoping this meeting wouldn’t be lengthy, for Mike liked to hear himself talk.

  The more he talked, the smarter he thought he was—not that he was stupid, but he needed attention.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

  They walked through the living room, which was being painted then sponged to create a dappled effect. They passed from there through the “transition room,” as Carla called it. It was really a discreet bar. Then they moved into a truly magnificent country kitchen.

  The appliances weren’t in yet, of course, but the cabinetry was up. Carla’s ideas for the kitchen proved she could get it right if she just thought things through. She did spend money here, but it wasn’t quite so gaudy. The cabinets, glass fronted, had six panes of beveled glass. The wood, a lovely warm simple pine, had been lightly stained. The floors, beautiful blue slate with radiant heat underneath, set off the whole room, which was full of light.

  “Every time Carla drops one piece of glass, poof.” Mike spread his fingers wide to indicate the flying bits.

  “Yes, but it does look fabulous.”

  “Does. Didn’t use Buckingham slate, did she?”

  “No. For some odd reason, she thinks anything local can’t be that good. She wants wormwood for the library. Good old cherry, walnut, or mahogany won’t do. Well, mahogany isn’t local, but you know what I mean.”

  “Do.” He stopped in front of the space where the six-burner stainless-steel Vulcan stove with grill would be placed. “Before I get into this, what do you think about Wylde’s murder?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Think the antiabortionists did it?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but it certainly seems most likely. What do you think?” she asked, knowing what he really wanted to do was expound.

  “Loony. Smart loony though. Cased the buildings. I mean, you have to do something like that exactly right or you’re toast yourself. You know, the way things are today, I’d never go into women’s medicine if I were in medical school.”

  “You mean OB/GYN?”

  He nodded. “All it takes is one mistake and everyone’s down your throat. Can you imagine the cost of insurance?”

  “You’re right, but an OB/GYN usually has happy customers. There aren’t that many problems in pregnancy. I’d hate to be in oncology.”

  “Got a point there.” He paused, put one hand on his hip. “What do you think of abortion?”

  “That it’s a woman’s decision.”

  “You don’t think it’s taking a life?”

  “No.” She held up her hand. “Mike, I ca
n’t imagine anyone dancing in the street saying, ‘Hooray, I just terminated a pregnancy,’ but isn’t it better than just outright killing girl babies like they do in India and China?”

  “That is pretty terrible.”

  “I read in the Manchester Guardian from March 2007—I saved the issue because it was so upsetting—that the rough guess is that in the last ten years, God knows how many million girls have been destroyed either in the womb or at birth.”

  His eyes popped. “God.”

  “In some places in China the ratio of males to females is one hundred twenty-eight to one hundred. That spells disaster. It also points to mass violence, because most crimes are committed by males between the ages of fifteen and twenty-nine. Didn’t the governments of those countries think of that? And how will they find enough jobs for all those men? It’s a sure bet they won’t want to work in day care. They’re planting the seeds for their own overthrow, especially China.”

  “You’ve made quite a study of it.”

  “Oh, well, I was forced into it by Folly Steinhauser. When I designed her house last year, she peppered me with Planned Parenthood information plus everything else she could find.” Tazio shrugged. “At first I resented it, I’ll be honest, but then I actually became interested. Global warming is caused as much by overpopulation as by cars. I mean, who drives the cars? Who uses electricity, furnaces? If you have six billion people, you have more emissions. If you have 7.2 or 9 billion by the end of this century, what do you think will happen? And what about the water table?” She threw up her hands.

  “Never really thought of it that way.” Mike reached into his back pants pocket for his small notebook. “Funny, all those people breeding so easily, and Noddy and I never could. We’re still in the game,” he smiled, “but you know we don’t have but so much longer.” He flipped open his notebook. “All right…”

  A car drove up outside, and Carla emerged from her burnt-orange Range Rover. “Hello,” she called as she walked through the front door.

  “In the kitchen,” Tazio called back, then under her breath said to Mike, “She said she was too upset to come.”

  Wearing lime-green driving loafers with tiny rubber pebbles on the soles, Carla silently walked into the kitchen. Her eyes were swollen. “There you are.” She turned to Mike. “What do you think?”