my eyes, the only thing I could concentrate on was the little devil on my shoulder whispering, “You got yourself a live one here, Steve. Proceed with extreme caution.”
Unfortunately for me, the words caution and Dawn do not readily go together.
Chapter Five
There are days when I have zero velocity, which is an actual scientific term. It relates to the highest position a ball thrown up in the air can achieve before beginning its descent back to earth. Neither moving upward nor heading downward. A sliver of time when the ball is frozen in space.
Looking at Debra Stanfield’s box of evidence resting at the feet of a courier caused my zero velocity moment. I was temporarily stymied whether I should move forward with this investigation or decline to sign for the package, halting my involvement in its tracks.
Stop, go?
Left, right?
Over, out?
The two reports Debra had promised to send arrived a few days after Dawn and I returned from our trip. Both documents were on the thin side, although each P.I. did speak with several people the police had interviewed during the initial official investigation. The problem: no one had a clue why or who would want to kill this popular woman, aside from her homicidal husband wishing to trade up. Throughout history this storyline has been told time and again and, from all appearances, it was the only narrative that fit this tragedy.
Yet, something didn’t feel right.
I’m always bothered when no hard evidence is found at a crime scene. Much was made at Eric’s trial about the open patio doors the killer had purportedly gained entry and escaped through. According to Debra though, these doors were usually unlocked during the late afternoon and evening, when Lucy liked to read in the garden. In addition, the gate into the fenced backyard had a latch but no lock. Therefore, anyone strolling by could quickly enter the yard and walk into the kitchen in a matter of seconds, without detection.
The prosecutor hammered home that there was no indication anyone else had been in the house the night of the murder. The few stray fingerprints, hairs or fibers examined were all traced back to friends or family who’d recently visited the McDowells. No mystery prints were found.
This leads me to the following conclusions: Eric did it, a family member or friend did it, or the killer was very careful about not leaving anything behind. The last theory was the one I’d pursue. A person that meticulous is either a pro-for-hire or an obsessive compulsive thinker who’s watched a lot of crime shows, learning how best not to be caught.
For Eric to murder his wife, and leave her in a pool of blood, only to return an hour later smelling like an Irish Spring commercial, would even stretch the imagination of Dr. Seuss. Such cases do exist, with the murderer using the Would I be that stupid? argument in court later on. From the few news articles I read after returning home, another popular scenario had Eric paying someone to kill Lucy. The failure with that logic is, why pay good money to do the deed, and immediately screw yourself over with a horrific alibi and squeaky clean hair?
I couldn’t make the poor courier wait any longer and signed my name beside the X. “Have a great day,” he said cheerfully, trotting down the walkway.
“What’s left of it,” I muttered, picking up the banker’s box full of evidentiary goodies supplied by Eric’s former lawyer’s office, as attorney George Mulhall had recently passed away.
“We felt under the circumstances he was a good lawyer but physically he was very overweight,” Debra had told me over the phone.
“Did he die of a heart attack?” I’d asked her.
“Nope, hit by a bus stepping off the curb, while shoving a hot dog down his throat,” she’d replied. “All that hard work at law school, making plenty of money and done in by a Greyhound.”
“I hope you’re referring to the bus company and not the hot dog,” I’d said with a bemused laugh.
That conversation had taken place three weeks ago.
When Dawn arrived home, she saw the still unopened box inside the front door. “Did you lose the instructions on how to open that?” she asked. “Or misplace the scissors?”
“I might be losing my mind,” I replied. “I’m not sure I want to get involved in this case.”
“Not enough money in it for your trouble?”
I handed her the envelope that had been attached to the side of the box. “Oh, my fee is not the problem.”
Dawn took out the enclosed bank draft and whistled. “Apparently. Wow, we could vacation in Italy for a month. Longer, depending on the exchange rate.” She gave me a withering look. “Are you now against living like the rich? Should I be searching for a new Sugar Daddy to fulfill my needs?”
“This Sugar Daddy is still able to fill all your needs,” I laughed. “I’d love to take you on a trip with all that dough but that’s what’s bothering me. There’s too much of it being thrown my way and it makes me nervous.”
“Isn’t this a retainer that you bill against?”
“Usually. The thing is I’m not a greedy man,” I stated proudly. “The amount I quoted Debra was five times lower than what that’s made out for. There are only two reasons for such an exorbitant amount: Debra is really bad at accounting or she’s treating this as a game she believes she can pay to win.”
“I didn’t get the impression she was a diva who thinks she can buy loyalty or use her wealth to intimidate anyone.”
“It feels like a bribe.”
“To do a good job? How is that a bribe?”
“Bribe might be too strong of a word,” I conceded. “I guess I should find out what’s in the box first and then I’ll make my decision, okay?”
“Fine with me. While you do that, I’ll make eggplant parmesan for dinner to keep the Italy vibe going,” Dawn said walking into the kitchen.
For such a big box the contents were not all that plentiful. The most substantial item was a hefty court transcript of the ten-day trial. There was also a picture of a beaming Eric and Lucy on their wedding day. A few of the other enclosed folders that caught my eye were marked: School, Life Insurance, News Clippings, Police Reports and Julie Trenton.
I picked out the Julie Trenton file, curious what tantalizing information the police and defense team had got out of Eric’s mistress, aside from the obvious. In newspaper snapshots, she was on par in the attractiveness department with Lucy, with short brunette hair, an oval face, and wide eyes that were no doubt the result of being confronted by hostile reporters on the courthouse steps. I already knew the basic plot she’d peddled under oath: Eric began working late on a new project that required her help. Then over a two-week period, one dinner break turned into innocently massaging her boss’ tired shoulders, followed by a glass of wine to relax, which culminated into a full blown skin-on-skin body rubdown on the office couch.
These terrible things happen to hard working woman all the time, or so I’m led to believe.
Who am I to judge?
Had
