Deathtoll (Broslin Creek Book 8) Page 11

  Kate stepped back and folded her arms, her blue eyes flashing. “Betty fell. She tripped.”

  Murph stood up from the chair. “Or was pushed.”

  Her face turned ashen. “Did the coroner say she was?”

  Murph said nothing.

  “Murph!”

  “She might have been.”

  “Who would do that?” Grief welled in her eyes. “Why?”

  “Good question. Can you think of anyone with a reason?”

  “No way.”

  He turned to Emma, who stood staring at them. “What time did you leave here Monday morning to go into Philly?”

  “As soon as I got home from dropping Kate off at work. I put away the groceries, but that’s it. I was definitely on the road by nine.”

  Before Betty died.

  “This is crazy.” Kate was shaking her head. “You can’t seriously believe…”

  “When I drove you home,” Murph told her, “after Bing called that Betty had an accident, while the two of you were talking in here, I checked out Betty’s house.”

  “You should stop acting like you still work for the PD.”

  “Bing already reminded me.” He shrugged, and the movement barely even hurt. Kate had worked a miracle. “The point is, I checked the garbage containers inside, because at the time, the theory was that Betty might have been taking out the garbage when she slipped. Except the bins inside weren’t empty.”

  Kate frowned. “You took out the garbage when we started cleaning out the place on Thursday.”

  Murph nodded. “And I noticed something in the kitchen garbage on Thursday that wasn’t in there on Monday.”

  “The hamburger wrapper. That’s why you asked about it.”

  “You sure it wasn’t yours?”

  Both Kate and Emma shook their heads, so he asked, “Or Linda’s?”

  “No. She didn’t bring food.”

  “If someone pushed Betty, they might come back.” Murph voiced his new least favorite thought.

  “Why?” Emma asked.

  “Some murderers return to the scene of the crime. They get off on reliving the kill.”

  Emma flashed him a skeptical look. “How much of a thrill can it be to push over an old woman? I doubt anyone would risk getting caught to relive that.”

  “There could be other reasons to return. The killer might have been trying to rob her, then got interrupted. You sure you didn’t see anything that day? Any strange cars on the street?”

  “I’ve only been here a few days,” Emma told him. “All the cars are strange. It’s not like I sit around memorizing what Kate’s neighbors drive.”

  “Any car at all on the street near Betty’s house that you do remember from that morning?”

  She thought about it. “A black SUV. A Chevy Trailblazer, I think? Don’t know. Sorry. I only remember it because it made me think how a black SUV automatically makes you look important. Like you have a bodyguard to drive it. That’s what I’m getting if I ever become an influencer.”

  She’d clearly given a lot of thought to that particular daydream, whatever an influencer was. Murph would have asked, but right then, having to ask would have made him feel even older, and he was feeling plenty old already from the realization that a night spent in his pickup could do him in.

  “Was the SUV parked in front of Betty’s house?” he asked.

  “Kind of between the next neighbor’s house and hers.”

  Murph looked at Kate. “Anyone in the neighborhood?”

  “No. Could have been the pastor’s wife, Amanda. She drives a black SUV. She needs a big car because she gives people rides to church all the time, and some of them have canes and walkers. I’ve seen her around when she’s come by to check on Betty.”

  A lead. Okay. Maybe Amanda had seen something. “I’ll check with her.”

  Kate flashed him a pointed look. “Or you could leave it to Captain Bing.”

  He could have. If the suspicious death hadn’t happened right next to Kate.

  * * *

  Asael

  Asael stood on top of the water tower in the woods off the Northeast Extension of the PA Turnpike and brooded in the slowly falling mist.

  The tower was no longer in use—abandoned.

  Watered with blood.

  Mordocai had died somewhere around here. A bullet from Murph Dolan had punched through his head.

  Asael wrapped his cold anger around himself as he searched for the spot below where Mordocai had plummeted to an early death, but time had erased all trace of the murder.

  He stood there and planned, no longer seeing the woods, but the people he’d met at Betty Gardner’s funeral the day before. Finally, he knew why his unfailing instincts had brought him among them.

  Oh, Mordocai.

  For the first time in years, Asael let himself feel. He barely noticed when it began to rain, when the background noise of birds and distant traffic changed to water splashing onto leaves.

  He and Mordocai had had their ups and downs. What relationship didn’t? But overall, among all the others, Mordocai might have been the one.

  Older, less skilled, but stubborn. That stubbornness had been at the root of most of their fights. And yet, it was the same stubbornness that had brought Mordocai to Broslin.

  The gift.

  Not some trivial mushroom memorabilia, after all, but a person.

  Kate Bridges.

  The thought filled Asael with more affection for his dead lover than he had ever felt for anyone living.

  Mordocai had doggedly tracked down the bitch and found her. Had tried to take her out, no doubt, when the local busybody cop shot him. The news hadn’t used her name. Out-of-town stranger kidnaps local resident and is killed by police in successful rescue, the online paper Asael had read informed him.

  At the time, Asael had told himself he didn’t care. He had plenty of other lovers. Assassins couldn’t afford to feel pain. He had chosen to be annoyed with Mordocai instead of grieving him, aggravated that Mordocai had been stupid enough to get killed.

  Asael looked down.

  Mordocai had drawn his last breath somewhere on the leaf-covered ground below.

  Asael filled his lungs with air that smelled like rain and wet forest, and he made a decision.

  He hadn’t come to Broslin with the intention to avenge Mordocai. But he hadn’t known then what he knew now. Mordocai had given his life for him.

  And that changed everything.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Murph

  Since Murph didn’t want to get on the captain’s bad side, he did not stop at the church to casually interrogate Pastor Garvey’s wife. But he did drive by after he’d dropped off a pickup load of Betty’s furniture at the local mission that helped people who’d served their sentences restart their lives. Pastor Garvey would have approved.

  The Garveys lived in a house next to the small nondenominational church with their four kids. They drove near-identical Chevy Trailblazers, Bill’s white, Amanda’s black. Both stood in the driveway as Murph checked out the place, noting the CONGRATULATIONS! THE WELL IS FILLED sign in front of the church next door. The giant image of a stone well was painted all the way to the top with blue, a smaller sign stuck to the brim declaring: FOUR MILLION DOLLARS RAISED!

  A vague memory stirred in his brain, the proud sign reminding him of something just out of reach. He tried to figure out what all the way to the police station, but in vain.

  The cleanup crew at Betty’s house was done for the day, so he had time for other things. Like talking to Bing.

  “Captain in?” he asked Robin at the front desk.

  She looked up from her computer. “Captains don’t have to work weekends.”

  “Since when? He used to be in here all the time.”

  “And now he’s married with kids.” Robin smiled.

  “Do you think Sophie would mind if I stopped by the house?”

  “Sophie knew he was captain before she married him. Anyway, she
thinks he’s the best thing since kiss-proof lipstick. Man can’t do wrong as far as that woman’s concerned. Love makes you blind. That’s why I’m staying single. It’s more fun to play the field.”

  She was sixty-five, with a sparkle in her eyes, fashionable silver bob, and artsy dream-catcher earrings. Murph had no doubt she got proposed to once a week over at the senior club.

  The station had definitely softened since she’d been hired to help out Leila so they could have extended phone coverage. Back when Murph had worked at Broslin PD, when Leila had ruled the front desk uncontested, everything had been sparse and in military order. Now they had lucky bamboos all over the place, and inspirational quotes, and instead of saying goodbye, Robin might say May the angels be with you as you left, if she was distracted.

  “Reading palms at the Mushroom Festival?” Murph asked. Most years she did that, volunteered as part of their fundraiser, usually next to the face-painting tent.

  “Going to Lily Dale for a psychic convention. I skipped it last year and regretted it. I have a lot of friends there, and when I don’t see them, I miss them. Speaking of which… How is Doug? You must miss your brother.” She was the type who kept track of people’s families and genuinely cared.

  “Still a dumbass, but you know?” Murph drew up a shoulder, then dropped it. “He’s my brother.”

  “And let’s not forget, without him, you wouldn’t have met Kate.”

  Murph nodded. “There’s that.”

  “He’ll be all right. He’s better off without Felicia. I talked to him the last time he was up here for a visit. I think he’s maturing.”

  One would hope.

  “I’m proud of him,” Murph told Robin. “He’s alone for the first time in his life, kicking ass and taking names.”

  They talked another ten minutes, mostly about the singing group Robin belonged to, Senior Sirens, before Murph drove over to Bing’s place.

  They were neighbors, technically. The back of Hope Hill’s acres met Bing’s backyard. Before the center had been built, Bing had owned the entire property. His elaborate log cabin stood at the top of the rise, a long line of minivans filling the driveway. As Murph pulled up to park, two ferocious Rottweilers ran to investigate him.

  “Hey there, Peaches.” He jumped from the pickup and petted the dogs. “What’s up, Pickles?”

  After they sniffed him all over and licked his hands, the three of them walked up to the house together.

  Murph tapped the doorbell, had to ring twice before Bing appeared, feminine laughter and squeals following him.

  “If you need help with anything, I’m available.” He was jittery around the eyes, a new look for Broslin’s indomitable police captain. Ethan Bing was a low-key, easygoing guy, calm under duress. Definitely had the right temperament for his job. Didn’t usually appear ready to bolt for the hills.

  If anyone asked Murph before this, he would have gone so far as to say that the man could not be rattled. “Everything okay in there?”

  Bing stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Sophie is throwing a baby shower for one of her friends. There are twenty women in my house. And all their kids. I thought I was prepared.” He drew a ragged breath. “I was not prepared.”

  Murph tried not to laugh. “Hey, I’ve seen live combat, and I don’t think I’d be prepared.”

  Bing nodded with gratitude at the show of support. “Listen, women are a mystery, and I usually actually appreciate that. But…they’re making crafts from diapers.”

  “Why?” Murph stepped back on instinct, because apparently, some hidden manly-man part of him thought the insanity might be catching.

  The captain followed him, putting more distance between himself and the house, as if thinking along the same lines. “I don’t know. I don’t understand anything that’s happened in my house in the past two hours. They just finished a baby-food-tasting contest. They wanted me to eat pureed carrot-squash medley.” Bing grimaced, his eyes asking for understanding. “I’m a man.”

  Murph patted him on the shoulder. “I’m appalled on your behalf.”

  When Peaches and Pickles nosed them and jumped around at their feet to be included in the show of masculine affection, Bing frowned at the pets. “Traitor dogs. They fled as soon as the women got here.” But he petted them before asking, “Anyway, what brings you by?”

  Murph scratched Peaches and Pickles behind their ears. “Emma saw a ghost inside Betty’s house the other night, through the window.”

  Bing didn’t get excited about the news. He had more of a clowns-to-the-left-of-me-jokers-to-the-right expression on his face.

  “Also,” Murph hurried to add, “she just remembered that a black SUV was parked in front of Betty’s house the day she died. Possibly Amanda Garvey’s car.”

  “The pastor’s wife? A visit wouldn’t be unusual. She looks in on the older ladies and delivers casseroles if someone is sick.”

  “Betty wasn’t sick. Have you talked to Amanda lately?”

  “At the funeral yesterday. Usual funeral talk. How much everybody is going to miss Betty.”

  “Betty left everything she had to the church.” Murph pointed out the obvious.

  Bing raised an eyebrow. “You think Amanda Garvey knocked her off?”

  “People kill for money.” Then, on second thought, Murph added, “You know anything about that fundraiser at the church?”

  “Steeple needs to be renovated. Wind damage. And they’re updating the daycare center in the basement, I think. Can’t remember the rest. The Broslin Chronicle ran an article about the project a while back.”

  “Something about it bugs me.” Murph could almost, almost put his finger on it, but the vague thought wouldn’t coalesce. “Didn’t we have a case once that involved church fundraising?”

  “Not us. Up in Lancaster. Church treasurer ran off with the funds. Almost ten million. Big church.”

  “Right.” Memories of the case floated back. It’d been all over the local news at the time. “And not just the funds, was it? He also ran off with the preacher’s wife.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with Amanda Garvey.”

  “She could have embezzled the reno money. Then she was desperate to get Betty’s house sooner rather than later so she could sell it before the first bills from the contractors come in.”

  “Christ, Murph.” Bing was professional enough not to roll his eyes, but the corners twitched. “A lot of ex-cops try their hands at writing mysteries. Maybe you should give it a go. Plotting a novel would give your imagination a healthy outlet.”

  “I want to talk to Amanda.”

  “Do we have to have another conversation about where you do and don’t work?”

  “I mean, if you were to go and talk to her, I would like to tag along. That’s all.”

  “Go and talk to her based on what pretext?”

  “Like I said, her car was possibly seen in front of Betty’s house on the day of her death.”

  The sound of screaming women filtered through the front door, reaching after Bing like an invisible hand trying to pull him back in. He carried his gaze down the row of cars in his crowded driveway. “Blocked and double blocked. Can’t even get my car out.”

  “My truck is by the curb,” Murph offered helpfully as the women squealed even louder. “You could just pop back in there and tell Sophie you’re stepping out for a while.”

  “I’ll text her from the car.” Bing launched himself down the steps—without as much as going back for his coat.

  He glanced at Murph as they dodged their way through the jumble of minivans, the dogs on their heels. “All right. You’re with me in the capacity of a temporary civilian consultant on the case, because Chase is off on a second honeymoon with Luanne as of today and Hunter took Gabi up to the Adirondacks for a weekend of snowboarding on the spur of the moment. One of Hunter’s Army buddies works at a lodge up there, gave him heads-up that they have the first good snow this season.”

  Hunter and
Gabi had one of those relationships that was permanently stuck in the hot-and-heavy phase. They were still necking every time people turned their backs for a second. Murph envied them more than a little. “Dollars against doughnuts they won’t make it out of the hot tub.”

  “Not betting against that,” Bing said. “My point being, I’m kind of shorthanded this weekend.”

  “Right. I’d be happy to help.”

  Murph led the way to his pickup, poor Peaches and Pickles left behind where the electric fence ended their domain. They looked heartbroken, as if they just knew Murph and Bing were sneaking off for a bacon-tasting event.

  “Don’t go and scratch on that front door,” Bing advised the dogs with loving affection. “If you go in, those women are going to try to feed you pureed green beans.”

  Murph shuddered as he slid into his seat. He’d never been to a baby shower in his life, and he didn’t plan on changing that. In any case, he was far from becoming a father. Kate was barely talking to him.

  To dispel that depressing thought, he pulled away from Bing’s place and asked, “Any news on Ian McCall?”

  “Not yet. I feel damn bad about losing him. The psychologist is a newbie to police work. I should have stayed with them.” Bing bit off a curse. “Didn’t want to make him feel like I didn’t trust him to know what he was doing. Didn’t want McCall to think I didn’t trust the guy, because then McCall wouldn’t have trusted him either. That boy’s on the edge.”

  “What did his background check say?”

  “Exemplary military service. No trouble with the law that I could find.”

  “Kate keeps hoping he’ll come back.”

  “Never seen her give up on someone.”

  And that was Murph’s number one hope, for sure.

  “Anybody as bad as him at the center?” Bing asked.

  “Seen worse,” Murph told him, and for the rest of the drive, they discussed treatments that were offered.

  Bing was the one to ring Pastor Garvey’s doorbell.

  The man himself answered. “Is everything all right, Captain?”

  Bing had put on a smile before the door even opened, and he kept it on to indicate they weren’t delivering bad news—what most people feared when they saw a law enforcement officer at the door. “Just a few questions about Betty Gardner. Sorry to disturb you at home, Bill. Would it be all right if we came in?”