Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) Read online

  But Zoe was different. Or so he’d thought. She was painfully honest. Oh, sure, there were parts of her life she kept to herself. Her past relationships for example. He sensed she didn’t want to talk about them, so he didn’t ask. And it wasn’t as though they were dating, much as he’d contemplated the idea.

  Even so, if he did ask, he knew she’d tell him. The truth was he didn’t want to know. He already thought Matt Doaks was a huge waste of flesh and bone. Beyond the obvious—even Pete had to admit Doaks was a good-looking son-of-a-bitch—there seemed little to attract someone like Zoe to him.

  And he long suspected there had been something between Zoe and Ted before Ted and Rose married. But no one involved seemed stressed over it, so he guessed it hadn’t been much. Ted and Zoe acted more like siblings than past lovers.

  The coffee maker stopped dripping. Pete got up to dump the old stuff in the sink, but noticed his cup was empty. He’d drained it without realizing. He poured a fresh cup and carried it to the basement. His workshop was his favorite spot in the house. It was the one area that carried no memories of Marcy. She’d hated it and never went down there. Too many spiders.

  He flipped the light switch. His vast collection of wood carving tools sat on shelves in plastic boxes. The ones he had used most recently lay on the workbench next to his current project—a reproduction Jaeger flintlock muzzleloader. He touched the bare wood of the chunky gun stock, tracing the swells and grooves of his past work. Slipping on a pair of cheap reading glasses, he selected a chisel and bent over the workbench. The curved blade shaved a sliver of maple from the stock.

  Pete attempted to focus on his work, but instead of the mental picture of the finished engraving that he tried to hold in front of him, his mind’s eye conjured up Marcy. The way she’d nearly pitched forward on her face at the news of Ted’s death.

  The blade slipped and gouged a deeper crevice than Pete had intended. Swearing under his breath, he returned the chisel to its box. Instead of whittling away at the Jaeger’s stock, he decided he needed to be whittling at McBirney’s story. The truth remained buried somewhere under the surface. He needed to gouge out the lies to find it.

  He had to talk to Marcy.

  Zoe stared at her computer. She longed to continue with Logan’s snooping. If only she knew how. She should’ve had him show her what he was doing.

  She didn’t dare phone him and risk having Rose overhear what they were up to, so for now, Zoe was stuck. She checked the clock on the mantle. Maybe not.

  After a quick call confirmed that Ted’s autopsy had been completed, Zoe grabbed her coat and made the half hour drive to the county seat where the Marshall Funeral Home was located across the road from the Brunswick Hospital. Convenient, Zoe mused. The hospital’s failures didn’t have far to travel.

  She pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot and entered via the back door. Bells jingled, announcing her arrival. Inside, the scent of lilies and carnations and other assorted flowers assaulted her nose. The fragrance brought back memories of long ago, when her dad had been in a similar building. Different mortuary. Same aroma. Grief smelled like floral arrangements.

  Zoe shivered off the memory just as a round-faced woman appeared at the end of the hall and came to meet her. The woman’s hair was pulled back so tight it gave her face the look of bad plastic surgery. She wore a dark burgundy skirt and blazer and black comfortable shoes.

  “Zoe, dear, how lovely to see you.”

  “Hi, Paulette. Is Franklin around?”

  Franklin’s secretary escorted Zoe into a large room. Shelves bearing urns, boxed thank you notes, and guest books stood against one wall. In a dark corner, three caskets, one brass, one platinum, and one wood-grained, displayed their comfortable, silk-lined interiors.

  The Monongahela County Coroner sat at an Early American desk, bent over a stack of papers. He lifted his head and offered a tight smile, extending a slender hand in Zoe’s direction.

  “Zoe. I see you made the trip even when I told you not to.”

  She smiled as she clasped his hand. “This one’s special.”

  “All the more reason you should stay out of it.” Franklin Marshall was thin and pale with equally thin and pale hair swept into a comb-over. Zoe suspected he was much younger than he appeared but the old-fashioned half-glasses he wore low on his beak didn’t help.

  “You know I can’t do that,” she said. “What did you find out?”

  Franklin heaved a sigh and used one finger to bump the readers higher on his nose. He thumbed through a neat stack of papers in an organizer tray, gingerly removing two paper-clipped pages. “Ted Bassi died from massive brain trauma. He suffered multiple skull fractures including his nasal and frontal bones.” He placed the palm of his hand on the top of his forehead. “A blow right here compressed the skull into the frontal lobe. That’s your cause of death.”

  “A blow? Someone hit him?”

  Franklin shrugged. “Or a boulder fell on him. The damage was extensive. Whatever struck him was large. Flat, would be my guess. Not like a baseball bat. And it would take considerable force to create that kind of trauma.”

  Zoe’s mind raced. Large and flat? Considerable force? She held out a hand. “May I?”

  He hesitated. “You’re too close to this case. I really shouldn’t.”

  “Come on, Franklin. I’m the one who processed the body at the scene. I brought him in.” Somehow, she kept her voice from wavering.

  His mouth drew to one side of his face, and he squinted. “Fine.”

  Zoe snatched the papers and studied the notations. Ted had also suffered assorted abrasions on his face, which she’d seen for herself. There was some bruising to the front of his body and a number of his teeth had been broken. What the hell had happened to him? “Do you have any theories about what might have caused all these injuries?”

  “Not a clue. Sorry.” Franklin wiggled his fingers, indicating he wanted his report back.

  She ignored him. “I assume Chief Adams attended the autopsy and knows about this.”

  Franklin shook his head. “Detective Baronick observed, and County homicide gets the report.” He did the finger wiggle thing again. “Please.”

  “I’d like a copy of this.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  Crap. “Can’t you just make a photocopy for me? Please. I won’t tell.”

  For a moment he said nothing. Then, he ran his bony fingers through his sparse hair and glanced toward a dark corner where a copier sat next to a set of file cabinets. “I can’t. Sorry. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to visit the little boy’s room.” He rose and shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Zoe grinned. She owed Franklin. But what kind of gift do you send a coroner/mortician? Flowers? Not likely. She decided to think about it later. Right now, she had copies to make.

  And then, she needed to track down Pete. She hoped he’d have some ideas about what Ted’s injuries meant. Because right now, the coroner’s report raised more questions than it answered.

  NINE

  The aroma of roasting chicken wafted through the closed door at the McBirney farm and set Pete’s mouth to watering. Regardless of her other failings as a wife, Marcy had been a terrific cook. He raised a fist and knocked.

  The curtains parted revealing a sliver of his ex-wife’s face and one of her dark brown eyes. Her scowl was evident even on that small glimpse. The door swung open.

  “I told you on the phone to stay away,” she said.

  “And I told you we need to talk. You wouldn’t agree to meet me somewhere else, so what was I supposed to do?” He slid past her into the kitchen. Pots simmered on the stove. Silverware graced two places at the table. “Besides, you mentioned Jerry would be late.”

  “As far as I know. He might have changed his plans. He
might be on his way here right now.” She hadn’t closed the door.

  “If he shows up, I’ll leave.” Pete took a seat without waiting for an invitation.

  Marcy’s sigh was audible over the bubbling pots. She shut the door and moved to the oven. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

  He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Where were you last night?”

  She kept her back to him. “I was here, of course. Just like my husband told you.”

  “I’d like to hear your version of the evening.”

  “It’s like he said. I was here when he got home.”

  “Marcy, look at me.”

  She fidgeted with a towel, opened the oven and peered inside, and then shut it. Dropping the towel on the counter, she picked up a spoon and stirred the aromatic contents of a large cast iron skillet. Gravy. “I’m busy. I don’t want to burn dinner.”

  Pete stood and moved to her side. If she wouldn’t turn around to face him, he’d position himself where she had no choice. “Okay. Now you can look at me and keep an eye on your cooking.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was still here. You can’t change that.”

  “I know. The part I question is when your husband got home.”

  “Whenever he said he did. Really, Pete, you should leave.”

  “If you keep evading my questions, I could be here all night.”

  For the first time since she’d let him in the door, she met his gaze. He read a mixture of terror and pleading in her eyes. What the hell was she hiding?

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Ask your damned questions.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  She went back to stirring the bubbling gravy. “Here.”

  “At the stove?” He said it with a grin, meaning to lighten the mood, but his humor missed its mark.

  “No,” she snapped. “In the living room. I was reading.”

  “Okay. What time did Jerry return home?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t look at the clock. It must have been eight thirty, quarter to nine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure he came home. But as to exactly the time, no. The roads were bad. It may have taken him longer than usual.”

  “That’s odd. I’d think you’d have been keeping an eye on the clock. Don’t you worry when your husband’s out on a bad night?”

  “It wasn’t that bad earlier. I didn’t know the roads were getting icy until later.”

  “Later? When?”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “After Jerry got home and told me how slick they were.”

  Pete thumbed through his notes. He needed to trip her up. To locate the point where Jerry’s and Marcy’s stories parted company. “Did he leave the house again after he arrived home?”

  “No.” Her voice carried a note of uncertainty, as if she were asking a question rather than answering one.

  “Did you hear any noises outside?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing? You didn’t hear another car pull in?”

  “No.”

  “Or the Buick start?”

  “No. I told you a thousand times, no. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “But you’re so isolated out here, it’s not like you’d mistake it for traffic passing by. If someone pulled in and stole the Buick, you must have heard them.”

  “Maybe they didn’t drive in. Maybe they walked in.”

  “So you did hear the Buick start up?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  No one ever hears anything. The world was full of deaf and blind witnesses to crime. But Pete wasn’t buying it this time.

  “How can that be, Marcy? Where were you? What were you doing?”

  The spoon in her hand quivered. “I was here. Reading.”

  He leaned toward her. “What book?”

  Her mouth opened almost as wide as her eyes. “I—um—”

  Got her. “Guess it wasn’t that good, huh?”

  “I need to finish setting the table. Please go.”

  Pete ignored her. “Are you sure Jerry didn’t leave again? If you didn’t hear anyone pull in, maybe it was Jerry who took the car.”

  The spoon slipped from her fingers and flopped into the skillet, splattering gravy over the stovetop. Marcy swore under her breath and grabbed the towel.

  He waited until she’d mopped up the mess before continuing. “What really happened, Marcy? Did you go upstairs to take a shower? Take a load of laundry to the basement? Get involved in a phone call? Couldn’t Jerry have slipped out when you weren’t looking?”

  She clutched the towel, her hands trembling. “I don’t know. He could have. But he didn’t. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “How are you sure?”

  “Because I am. That’s it. No more questions.”

  “Because you are? That’s bullshit, Marcy, and you know it.” He wanted to grab her and shake the truth out of her. Make her admit she was covering for her husband. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time McBirney had encouraged her to deceive Pete.

  “No, Pete. I’m serious. If you want to ask me anything else, you’ll have to arrest me. And then I would demand a lawyer. I know the rules, remember? And right now, I want you to leave.”

  From her tone, she meant it. He tucked his notebook back in his coat pocket and gave her a sad smile. He’d really hoped to reach her. As he crossed the kitchen to the door, one last question formed in his mind. He paused with his hand on the knob and turned back to face her. “Just tell me one thing, Marcy.”

  She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead. “What?”

  “What’s Jerry done that has you so frightened?”

  Her face went white.

  Zoe stood in the middle of the pantry, studying the meager offerings stored on the shelves. She really needed to go shopping. As she reached for a can of tomato soup, her phone rang. It had to be Pete. She’d left messages for him on his cell phone, his home phone, and at the station.

  “What’s up?” Yes, it was indeed Pete.

  She bit back a smile at the sound of his voice and informed him she had a copy of the coroner’s report. And some other important information. She didn’t elaborate. Matt’s tale of McBirney’s suspicions was better not shared over the phone.

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  She thought of the soup. “No.”

  “Meet me at Parson’s”

  “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  Folks didn’t just happen across Parson’s Roadhouse. The crowd consisted of regulars, familiar with the township’s back roads. The gravel parking lot was full of four-wheel-drive trucks and SUVs. Zoe added her Chevy to the collection and spotted the Vance Township police vehicle parked well away from the rest.

  Inside, the rumble of conversation and the clink of glassware and dishes mingled with the strains of country music filtering through ancient speakers. The aromas of grilled meat blended with that of beer and overused cooking oil.

  She spotted Pete chatting up some locals at one of the booths in the dining room, and her heart warmed. He’d shed his uniform for jeans and a sweatshirt. She wished the jeans were a little tighter, but her imagination had no problems filling in the gaps. She valued the easy comfort of their friendship. But, sometimes…

  She drew a deep breath and made her way to Pete’s side. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself.” He smiled. “I got us a booth over here.”

  She followed him to a secluded corner. His jacket had been folded and stowed on one of the benches. She slipped out of her parka and settled into the other seat. No sooner had Pete taken his place across from Zoe than a waitress in a grease-spotted brown uniform appeared
with menus and a pot of coffee. “Regular or decaf?”

  Zoe weighed her need for sleep against her desire to stay awake long enough to make it home after dinner. “Regular.”

  The waitress poured. “I know better ‘n to ask you,” she said, winking at Pete.

  “It’s high-test or nothing.” He gave her a crooked smile.

  After the waitress had left them to study their menus, Zoe pulled the crumpled copies of the coroner’s report from her purse and set them on the table.

  Pete snatched them and squinted as he read. “So what does this tell us?”

  “I was hoping you’d know.”

  He rummaged through his jacket before coming up with his reading glasses. “Fracture of the frontal bone. Cause of death, blunt-force trauma to the frontal lobe.”

  “Franklin said he was probably hit with something large and flat.”

  “Large and flat? Like a two-by-four?”

  “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that, but I suppose it could be.”

  Pete studied the papers, flipping back and forth between the pages. “No mention of wood fragments.”

  “Or anything else embedded in the wound.” Zoe could almost hear his brain processing the report. “Has Baronick called you with an update on the investigation?”

  Pete gave a short laugh. “Hell, no. As far as County is concerned, we’re out of it.”

  “And as far as you’re concerned?”

  “What do you think?”

  The waitress reappeared, pad and pen at the ready.

  Without consulting either the menu or Zoe, Pete ordered. “I’ll have a large order of ribs with fries. The lady will have a cheeseburger with the works and a side of coleslaw.”

  The waitress scribbled on the pad and left with a nod.

  Zoe suppressed a laugh. “Either I’m entirely too predictable or you know me too well.”

  “Did I order the wrong thing?”

  “Of course not. That’s my point.”