Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

An Idyllic Place for Murder
by Liz Milliron

Murders were not supposed to happen in Confluence.

Pennsylvania State Trooper First Class Jim Duncan closed his eyes. Why couldn't the call have come in ten minutes later? Even five minutes would have been enough. He would have been off his night shift and safely home.

He glanced around the kitchen of Cabin in the Woods. The Laurel Highlands were sprinkled with rental cabins such as this one, catering to people who wanted to explore the beauty of the Youghiogheny River and surrounding area. This place was small, but suitable for groups of three or four. Or individuals like the woman on the kitchen floor.

She had been pretty. She was still pretty - if you could ignore the blood clotting in her blonde curls and the deep dent in her temple. Her glazed eyes were a startling shade of violet, open in shock.

The deputy coroner finished his investigation and stood up. Dan Thompson was a grizzled man who had seen his share of death, although he was more often called to the scene of a hunting accident than a murder. "Blunt force trauma," he said. "Something with a smooth, slightly rounded edge. Won't know more until I do
the autopsy. Rigor is fairly advanced, so she's been dead for some time. Who found the body?"

"Cleaning woman. She showed up this morning, expecting nothing more dramatic than dirty sheets. She called the owner. He called us."

Thompson grunted. "You'll have a full report as soon as I get it done." He nodded to Duncan and followed the body out of the house.

Duncan sighed and checked his watch. It was nearly 10:00, three hours past the end of his night shift. He didn't have a family waiting for him. But he should call his neighbor to let Rizzo out before the big Golden Retriever destroyed his house. He was just about finished here.

Nights like these are why Tish left me, he thought. He jotted down the few facts from the ME in a battered notebook. Some people preferred electronic gadgets, but his hands were too big for those tiny tools and buttons. The cushioned pen felt better in his callused fingers. Time to do the interviews.

The two witnesses stood outside under the watchful eye of another trooper, not talking. The cleaning lady held a handkerchief to her mouth. The landlord's pudgy face gleamed with sweat, even though the October air was cool. This was probably more excitement than they'd ever wanted.

"Evenlyn Carpenter?" The woman looked up and Duncan led her over to his cruiser to talk. He flipped to a new sheet in his notebook. "I know this has not been pleasant for you, but would you please tell me what happened?"

"Well, I came to the house a little before seven this morning. Usually I come after check-out, but Mr. Jenkins," she waved her hand at the pudgy man, "said there weren't any other guests expected this season. It was my grandson's birthday yesterday, so I came extra early today instead."Evelyn stopped to take a breath. "The first thing I noticed was that the pillows and blankets in the living room were on the floor. I figured the weekend tenant had just not tidied up. Then I smelled it, this horrible smell. I looked in the kitchen, and," she gulped, "there she was on the floor. I ran out of the house and called Mr. Jenkins." Evelyn clamped the handkerchief over her mouth again like she was fighting the urge to vomit. At least she didn't dissolve into hysterics.

"Did anyone go into the house after you left?" Duncan hoped the answer was no. "And did you touch anything in the house?" He hoped the answer to that was no as well. That would mean a cleaner crime scene.

"I'm really not sure." Evelyn's brow creased in concentration. "I called Mr. Jenkins from my car. No, I don't think anyone went in there, but I can't be positive. I didn't touch anything except the front door knob."

Duncan finished writing in his notebook and flipped the page. He handed Evelyn his business card and asked her to call if she remembered anything else. He let her go and walked over to Jenkins. "Mrs. Carpenter tells me she called you after finding the body. Is that right?"

Jenkins looked worse than the cleaning lady. "Yes. Evelyn told me there was a dead body in the kitchen, covered in blood," he said, struggling to stay calm. "I called the police. Then I came over to the cabin. We waited outside until you showed up."

"So you didn't go inside or see the body yourself?"

"No," Jenkins said, his face twisting. Duncan doubted the man had ever dealt with this kind of situation before. No wonder he was a wreck.

"What was her name?" Duncan asked, still writing. "Did she pay in advance or was she supposed to send payment after the weekend?"

Jenkins blinked. "Her name was Angie Palmer. She paid in advance, in cash. She gave an address in Pittsburgh in the rental agreement."

Duncan made a note of all that. "I need a copy of that agreement. Did she talk to anyone while she was here? Argue with anyone?"

Jenkins shrugged. "You'd have to ask the neighbors. I didn't see or speak to her all weekend."

Duncan closed his notebook and slipped it into his shirt pocket. It was now 10:30. I definitely need to call someone about Rizzo, he thought. And I need coffee. "Thank you," he said. He gave Jenkins a business card as well and let him go.

Duncan walked the perimeter. He'd found nothing significant inside. He stopped to examine several large rocks near the property line. One was smeared with something that might be blood. He tagged it for the lab.

Inside the house, the crime scene crew was just finishing. "What'd you find?" Duncan said.

The lead CSI tech shrugged. "Not a lot. No sign of a struggle or a murder weapon. The house is clean except for the kitchen. There are different prints all over the place, but that's expected if this is a rental place."

Duncan handed over the rock he found. "Take a look at this too. Might be nothing, might be blood." The tech took the rock, nodded and left.

Outside, the bright blue October sky provided a beautiful contrast for the fiery fall foliage. I should be out with Rizzo, fishing. He scratched his cheek. Monday morning, most people were at work. He'd canvas the few houses anyway. There was a car parked next to the house across the street, so he decided to try his luck and ring the bell.

The woman who answered was probably in her thirties. She identified herself as Carolyn Dodds and Duncan introduced himself. "Did I just see them carry a body out of there?" She pointed at the cabin.

"Yes, ma'am. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions. Were you home this weekend?" Duncan pulled out his notebook.

"Oh my god," Carolyn said. She looked rattled. "Why? I had nothing to do with it, I swear."

"I didn't say you did," Duncan said in his most soothing tone. "I just wanted to know what you saw, if anything."

"Yes, I was home. I saw her arrive on Friday night," Carolyn said. "I said hi, made some small talk. You know, why'd she come to Confluence, that sort of thing. She said she was doing through a messy divorce and was trying to avoid her ex. Didn't see her again all weekend."

"She talk to anyone while she was here? Did you see anyone else go to the cabin?"

Carolyn frowned. "No, it was pretty quiet. Wait, she got into an argument with the Creeper when she got here Friday."

Duncan looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "The who? Creeper?"

"It's a nickname," Carolyn said. "Old guy who lives in the beat-up trailer next to the cabin. He owns that property. The woman must have parked on his lawn, because he came out hollering and swearing at her, waving his shotgun. He gets really worked up about people on his lawn."

"Hmm. Anybody else ever have a run in with this guy?" Duncan scratched at the stubble on his chin and gazed at the trailer. Beat-up was an understatement. The place listed slightly and the windows looked like they hadn't been cleaned in years.

"All the time," she said. "But nothing serious. He's a cranky old guy who's a little weird. Creepy, you know? Seems like he's not quite right in the head. Yells and threatens people a lot. He was yelling on Saturday night too."

"Did you see who he was yelling at Saturday? Did you hear another voice? What time was that?"

Carolyn shook her head. "It was later, after nine because it was dark. I didn't look, sorry. I don't think anybody pays much attention when he goes off."

"But he threatened her?"

"Well, if a crazy guy waved a shotgun at me, yelling and swearing, I'd feel threatened."

Duncan thanked Carolyn Dodds, gave her his business card. He knocked on the doors of the other houses near the cabin, but did not get any answers. He made a note of the addresses so he could get the names of the owners from property records for later questioning. Once done, he headed over to the Creeper's trailer. He was still several feet from the door when a dirty old man charged out waving a shotgun. "Get the fuck off my lawn!"

Duncan stopped, released his Glock from the holster, and aimed it at the old man. "State police! Put the gun down and get on the ground!"

But the old man didn't listen. Still yelling and waving the shotgun, he charged at Duncan, who noticed the man held the gun by the barrel, using it like a club. He swiftly holstered the Glock and stepped aside at the last minute. With his attacker off balance, Duncan disarmed him, threw him to the ground, and pinned his arms behind him. His hands easily fit around the man's bony forearms. "You're under arrest," he said, cuffing the man.

"Molly! You can't make me leave my Molly! Molly, stay inside!" Duncan hustled the Creeper into the back of his patrol car, where he continued to yell.

Duncan looked at the trailer. Was someone inside? He released the Glock again. "State police," he shouted. "Come out of the trailer slowly." He waited, but no one appeared. Maybe Molly was tied up inside? Carefully, he looked around the open trailer door.

A stale odor assaulted his nostrils. "Molly, are you in here?" But there was nothing. Duncan couldn't see anyone in the main space. He slid around the outside, peering into the dirty windows. Satisfied that no one was inside, he put the gun in the holster and went back to his car.

Duncan slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, picked up the Creeper's shotgun and examined the stock. It was a rounded edge. The gun was empty of shells. Had the Creeper used it to bash in Angie's head? He didn't see any traces of blood, but he knew the lab would be able to tell for certain. He took the gun as evidence and waved over the trooper who had been securing the scene at the cabin.

"I'm going to get a search warrant for this place," Duncan said, jerking his thumb at the trailer. "Secure the scene until I get back." The trooper nodded.

Duncan took his prisoner to the Fayette County booking center for processing, and returned to the station to fill out the paperwork for the search warrant on the trailer. He hadn't questioned the old man about the murder since he had never stopped ranting. He was clearly in no state to understand a Miranda warning or coherently answer questions. That would have to wait.

***

In less than two hours, Duncan was back at the trailer with his warrant in his pocket. Normally he hated the smell of the latex gloves, but it was preferable to the smell of the trailer. Unwashed curtains hung on the windows and debris littered the floor. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, drawing flies. Laundry was strewn on the floor. It was definitely not a home with a woman. Would his place look like this in a few years?

The only clean objects were two pictures in plain, silver frames. One was a photograph of a pretty young girl. Duncan flipped it over and removed it. "My Molly" was written on the back. A wife or a girlfriend? The other frame contained the picture of a smiling young man in an Army dress uniform. Duncan wondered if it was the Creeper in better times. A battered Polaroid was stuck in the corner of the frame. It showed two young men in combat uniforms, obviously in a foreign city. A scrawl on the back said, "Me and Mikey, Saigon. 1969."

Duncan put the photos back and continued his search. The rest of the space was just as filthy, but he did not find anything that tied the Creeper to the murder.

God, I'm tired. Duncan put the cruiser into gear and drove back to the state police station.

There was a preliminary report from the coroner on his desk. Angie Palmer had been dead for about 24-36 hours before she was found, meaning she could have been murdered any time that weekend. He looked up and printed the names of the owners of the houses in the area, then he pulled what information he could find on The Creeper, whose real name turned out to be David Bolthouse. Then he went back to the booking center question him.

Fifteen minutes later, Duncan gave up, had Bolthouse escorted back to his holding cell and closed the door on the exam room. He shook his head. The old man was crazy as a loon.

"What have you got, Duncan?" The voice made Duncan look up. Lieutenant Dan Nicols, commander of Troop B, strode toward him. Nicols' genial face and large build disguised a sharp mind.

Duncan shook his head. "I didn't get past the end of the first line of the Miranda warning before he went crazy, yelling that he had to get back to Molly. I can't be sure he actually understands a word I'm saying. I can't question him like that. It'd never hold up in court."

"Who is Molly? Maybe she can help."

Duncan held up the folder with the information he'd scraped up on Bolthouse. "According to this, Molly is his wife. She's not going to be much help. She's dead. Been dead for years."

Nicols frowned. "So what are you going to do?"

Duncan tapped the folder against his hand and looked at the closed door. "I can charge him with assault on a police officer. I'll do that and wait until someone shows up to represent him to question him about the murder."

Nicols took the folder. "He's still a suspect for that?"

"He had a violent argument with the victim Friday night and threatened her with a shotgun. He has a history of doing things like that. And he's been accused of assault against a cabin renter before. The charges were dropped, but Bolthouse did threaten to 'bash his head in' if a renter didn't move his car." Duncan sighed. This was not going to be an easy one.

Nicols handed back the folder. "That it?"

"No. Angie Palmer was filing for divorce and told a witness she was here to avoid the ex. I'm on my way to question him now." Duncan really wanted to go home to bed, but moving quickly was essential.

"Well, keep me posted. Needless to say, this is not good for publicity and I've already gotten phone calls." Nicols looked his trooper up and down. "And then go get some sleep. You look like hell."

#

According to the divorce records Duncan had obtained, Jack Palmer was living in a house near Seven Springs, although the deed on the property listed only Angie's name. He grabbed his keys and drove over.

In response to Duncan's brisk knock a tall man wearing slacks and a golf shirt opened the door. "Trooper First Class Jim Duncan from the Pennsylvania State Police," Duncan said. "Are you Jack Palmer?"

"I am," the man said. "What can the state police possibly want with me?"

"Mr. Palmer I regret to inform you that your wife was found dead this morning at a rental cabin in Confluence," Duncan said. "She was murdered."

"Murdered?" Jack Palmer said, his expression shocked. "Why? Who?"

"We don't know yet," Duncan said. "May I come in?"

Palmer stepped aside. "Please do. Something to drink?"

"No, thank you," Duncan said. The interior of the house looked like a typical ski-resort vacation home. "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Palmer looked horrified. "You don't actually consider me a suspect, do you?"

"It's just routine," Duncan said. "If you prefer to call a lawyer first you can, but I am not taking you into custody at this time." Something about Palmer bugged him.

Palmer waved his hand. "Ask away."

"Did you know where your wife was this weekend?"

"No," Palmer said. "Angie wasn't talking to me. Actually, we've had some, ah, difficulties lately. She'd filed for divorce, although I was hoping she'd come to her senses."

"Was it an amicable separation?"

Palmer shrugged. "When are these things ever amicable, Trooper?"

Duncan's dislike increased. "Amicable enough that you're staying in the vacation home your ex-wife owns," he said. "Is that correct?"

Palmer nodded, pouring himself a whiskey. "Yes. Our main house is in Pittsburgh, but we keep this place for weekends," he said.

"When Angie threw me out, she let me come here. Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

Again, Duncan refused. Palmer's indifference to the news of his wife's murder once past the initial reaction was odd. Duncan wouldn't have expected extreme grief if the two were separated, but Palmer's detachment seemed a little extreme. "When was the last time you spoke to your wife?"

"Mm, let me see." Palmer swirled the amber liquid. "Last week sometime. She wanted to meet with the lawyers to finalize the divorce."

"Were you happy with the terms of the divorce?"

Palmer settled himself on the couch and crossed his legs. "As I said, it wasn't final."

"That's not an answer."

Under Duncan's stare, Palmer shrugged. "I guess I could have been happier with the proposed terms, but then again isn't that typical?"

"Mr. Palmer, where were you Friday and Saturday of this past weekend?"

"Are you arresting me?" Palmer said coolly.

Palmer's attitude was definitely grating on Duncan's nerves. "As I said, these are just routine questions and you are free to ask me to leave. I am not taking you into custody at this time." He studied Palmer's face, looking for a trace of any emotion, but found nothing.

Palmer swirled his drink again, and then shrugged. "Friday I was in Pittsburgh with a few friends. We played poker all night. Saturday, I was here. Tired from the night before, you know."

"Can anyone confirm your whereabouts for either night?"

"I can give you the names of the men I played poker with," Palmer said. "I was here alone Saturday, but a friend of mine did call me. I can give you her name as well. She'll confirm the call."

Duncan jotted down the names and numbers Palmer rattled off, and made a note to have the phone records pulled for Palmer's landline and cell. He informed Palmer of how to retrieve his wife's body and personal effects and left.

Palmer had been a little too indifferent for Duncan's taste. He'd not wasted much time protesting his innocence either. Duncan went back to the barracks to file the forms necessary to get the phone records. Then he tossed his notes in his desk drawer, grabbed his keys and headed home. Rizzo was happy to see him. Duncan barely got undressed before he fell into bed.

#

"I tole you, I dint kill 'er!" David Bolthouse, known as "the Creeper" to his neighbors, was agitated and barely coherent.

Sally Castle, the public defender who had been assigned to represent Bolthouse, rubbed her forehead. She'd reviewed the case file and knew the assault charge was a lock. You don't run down a state trooper with a shotgun, loaded or not, and walk away unscathed.

She also knew he was a suspect in the Angie Palmer murder, although he had not yet been charged with that crime. The police had not questioned him about it at the time of his arrest, and now she knew why. She was dead certain Bolthouse was non compos menti, and the trooper in charge of the investigation had been wise enough not to pursue an interrogation that would almost certainly get thrown out. "Let's go over it again," she said.

"You did see the victim, yes? And you argued with her."

Bolthouse slammed his cuffed hands on the metal table. "Yeah, I tole you that! I saw 'er. Bitch parked on my grass with her fancy car. Tole her to get off my lawn." Bolthouse paused. "She was pretty. Just like my Molly." His brow creased with a frown. "Need to get home. Molly be worryin'." He started rocking in his chair, picking at dirt on his fingers.

Sally looked at her file again. David Bolthouse, age 62. Vietnam War veteran, Purple Heart, honorably discharged in 1970. His wife, Molly, had died in 1969 from tuberculosis, just months before Bolthouse's discharge. No kids. Lived in Confluence all his life.

"You threatened her with a shotgun," Sally said.

"It weren't loaded," Bolthouse said. "People lissen if I have it. Molly would understand." He was clearly not right in the head.

"You have a history of threatening people, Mr. Bolthouse," Sally said.

"Get the fuck off my lawn," Bolthouse said, muttering.

"You argued with Mrs. Palmer on Saturday," Sally said. "People heard it."

"'Nuther fancy car. People don't got no respect." Bolthouse looked up, a desperate light in his eyes. He lunged at Sally. "Gotta get home to Molly!"

Guards immediately crashed into the room; Sally stayed in the corner. It was not the first time a client had threatened her. Sally picked the fallen papers off the floor and put them back in her briefcase.

A competency hearing and getting him declared unfit to stand trial was her best option for the assault. If the police decided to charge him for the murder, the same would apply. But as delirious as Bolthouse sounded about his dead wife, he was consistent in his story. Yes, he argued with Angie Palmer and threatened her with the shotgun. But he'd not spoken to her again. He insisted he yelled at a second person Saturday night.

Back in her office, the thought of the Saturday night argument stuck in her mind. She flipped open the state police report and looked for the name of the responding trooper. She called the State Police station in Uniontown. "May I speak to Trooper First Class Duncan, please?"

"Trooper Duncan is not in right now, may I take a message?"

"This is Sally Castle from the Fayette County Public Defender's Office," she said. "Please let him know I called and I'll call him back regarding David Bolthouse."

Sally reviewed her case file again. Duncan was not only the trooper whom Bolthouse had assaulted, he had responded to the Angie Palmer murder. At least that kept the communication lines clear.

She got up to get another cup of coffee. She hated cases like this. Bolthouse's statements would be suspect, not only because he was being looked at for the murder, but because of his obvious mental incapacity.

This, she thought, could get ugly.

#

Duncan checked Palmer's alibi. All of the poker buddies vouched for him on Friday night with similar stories. Palmer's cell phone records confirmed receipt of a five-minute phone call Saturday night, and placed the phone in Seven Springs. The number belonged to a Natalie Taylor. Duncan considered calling her, but decided to take the time to drive to Pittsburgh.

Natalie Taylor lived in a small house in the South Side, just off South 18th Street. He knocked and a slim young woman with dark hair opened the door. He identified himself. "I'd like to ask you a couple of questions," he said.

"State police? What do you want?"

"I'm investigating the murder of Angie Palmer," Duncan said.

"Oh god, Angie is dead?" Taylor looked horrified, her reaction more genuine than Palmer's had been.

"You knew Ms. Palmer?" Duncan asked. This was unexpected.

Natalie stepped outside. "Yes," she said, the words sounding like someone was pulling them from her. "I manage her store."

Interesting. "Do you know Jack Palmer as well?"

"Yes," said Natalie, sounding even more reluctant if that was possible.

"How did you know him?" Duncan prompted her.

"We're friends," Natalie said. She looked embarrassed. "Actually, we were lovers. We had an affair. That's why Angie was divorcing him."

Jack Palmer was offering his mistress as his alibi? That threw a different light on things and explained Natalie's attitude. "Did you call Mr. Palmer on Saturday night?"

"Yeah, I did."

"How long did the call last?" Duncan consulted his notebook for the call details.

"I'm not sure," she said. "Maybe five minutes? I don't think it was more than that."

"What did you talk about?" Natalie's statement matched the call time on the phone records.

"Um, just stuff," Natalie said. "I hadn't seen him in a while. I asked how the divorce was going."

"Do you still work for Mrs. Palmer?"

"Yes."

"Even after you had an affair with her husband?" That was more than a little surprising. Duncan would have expected her to be fired.

"Yes," Natalie said. "Angie was too busy to manage the store herself. She had to keep me around until she found my replacement."

"But you were expecting to be let go?"

Again, Natalie's response was slow. "Well, yes," she said. "Angie really didn't bother to hide the fact she was actively looking for a replacement. And she definitely wasn't too friendly toward me, you know? All business, all the time."

"Were you friends with Mrs. Palmer?"

Natalie shrugged weakly. It was clear she was growing increasingly uncomfortable. "We weren't close, but yeah, we were friends. Until the affair, that is. I think Angie was angrier with Jack than me, but she stopped being friendly. I guess I can't blame her, you know?"

Maybe Natalie had hoped that Jack Palmer would run to her with his wife gone. Or maybe she had arranged to get Angie out of the way before she could be fired. "Did you call from your home number or a cell phone?"

"My home phone."

If she had called from her home line, she hadn't been in Confluence on Saturday. "Miss Taylor, may I ask where you were on Friday night?"

"Why? Are you accusing me of Angie's murder?" Natalie's voice wavered, either from fear or anxiety. Duncan couldn't quite tell, but she was definitely nervous.

"I'm merely asking where you were," he said. "It's a routine question in a murder investigation."

"I was at dinner with my parents," Natalie said. "It was my dad's birthday. We were at the restaurant until eleven or so. They'll tell you I was there, honest."

Duncan took the names and phone number of Natalie's parents. "Thank you, Miss Taylor," he said and handed her a business card.

"If you think of anything else you want to tell me, please call." He got back into his patrol car. Natalie Taylor stood on her step for a minute, fiddling with the business card, and then went inside.

#

Later that afternoon, Sally called Trooper Duncan again. This time, he was at the station. "This is Duncan." His voice was brisk. Sally liked that. She started building a mental image of Trooper Jim Duncan.

"My name is Sally Castle, from the public defenders' office," she said. "You were the trooper who responded to the Angie Palmer murder, correct? And the one who arrested David Bolthouse for assault."

"That's right," Duncan said. "You should have my report. If this is about the assault, it's pretty straightforward. What can I help you with?"

"Are you still considering Mr. Bolthouse a suspect in the murder?"

"We have not charged anyone yet in that case," Duncan replied, his tone guarded. "I'm sure you're aware of that."

"But Mr. Bolthouse is still a suspect."

"He is," Duncan said. "I have a statement that he argued with Mrs. Palmer quite violently when she arrived in Confluence."

"But you chose not to question him."

"I attempted to read the Miranda warning to Mr. Bolthouse, but it became clear that he was not able to understand me enough to waive his rights," Duncan said. "I chose to forgo questioning until such time as counsel was assigned and simply proceed with the assault charges." It was the response Sally expected. "Are
you calling to tell me that he is consenting to questioning now?"

"No, I am not," Sally said. "As Mr. Bolthouse's attorney, I am advising him not to answer any questions." Not that he could coherently answer them. "However, Mr. Bolthouse maintains that there was a second vehicle on his property Saturday night. Your report does not mention another vehicle."

"That's because, aside from your client, I haven't found any other witnesses who claim to have seen or heard a second car on that night. One witness did mention hearing another argument on Saturday, but she didn't look out her window and assumed Mr. Bolthouse was yelling at Mrs. Palmer again."

"But no one can confirm that."

"No one witnessed that argument, no. But while it cannot be proved it was Mrs. Palmer, it also can't be proved that it wasn't." Duncan’s tone was blandly professional.

Sally privately conceded that point, and she moved on. "Angie Palmer was filing for divorce," she said. "I assume you've investigated her ex-husband?"

"I have," Duncan said. "He has an alibi for both nights. His poker friends confirm his whereabouts Friday, and he claims he received a call while in Seven Springs Saturday night. Phone records confirm that call."

"Did anyone actually see Mr. Palmer on Saturday night?"

"No. However, nobody saw him in Confluence that night either."

Sally had a copy of Palmer's phone records. She quickly located the appropriate date; there had been only one phone call recorded that evening. She read off the number to Duncan. "Whom does it belong to?" she said.

"Natalie Taylor," Duncan said. "She's the manager of Angie Palmer's boutique. She's also Jack Palmer's mistress." He paused, and Sally could almost see his smile. "Yes, I've already spoken with her and she confirms making the phone call."

Sally made a note of the name. "Well, maybe I'll speak to her too. Thank you for your time. Have a nice day." She stared at the number. Jack Palmer's mistress, eh? Sally picked up her phone again and started dialing. This should be interesting.

#

The next phone call Duncan received was from the lab. "We found your murder weapon," the tech said.

"The shotgun stock?" Duncan said.

"No, tests on the stock were negative. But we did find Angie Palmer's blood on that rock."

Duncan reviewed his notes from the scene. The rock had been found outside, not far from the house. Bolthouse could have dropped it on his way home, or someone else could have dropped it. "I don't suppose I get lucky and there are prints," he said. A multitude of prints had been found in the cabin, some belonging to the victim, but many couldn't be matched.

"Nope, sorry," the tech said. "Surface was too rough."

Duncan thanked him and hung up. Then he drove up to Pittsburgh to meet a detective and search the Palmers' house in Shadyside, an attractive place on South Highland Ave. The house was reasonably tidy with newer modern furnishings. A large frame that looked like it might have held a wedding photo was empty. A snapshot of a smiling Angie with her arm around an attractive brunette was on the sideboard, the word "bitch" written across it in red marker. The calendar on the gleaming stainless-steel fridge showed meetings with her divorce lawyer, but none with Palmer and his attorney. After two hours, Duncan had formed the picture of a bitter divorcee, but had no further clues as to Angie's murderer.

Before leaving Pittsburgh, Duncan stopped to see Angie's divorce lawyer. "How terrible," Stan Green said, as he ushered Duncan into his stylishly decorated office. "Angie was such a wonderful woman. Do you know who killed her?"

"Not yet," Duncan said, pulling out his notepad. "Who filed for the divorce?"

Green paused before answering. "Angie did," he said. "Her husband had an affair with her store manager."

"So not a friendly split."

"Hardly." Green smiled.

"How much money was she trying to get from Jack Palmer?" Duncan said.

"There you've got it wrong, Trooper," Green said. Duncan looked up. "It was Jack Palmer who was trying to take the money. Angie had it all. Jack had nothing. And she was determined not to give him anything in the split."

On the way back the station Duncan reviewed. Jack Palmer had the superior motive, money. But he had a strong alibi for Friday and nobody had seen him at the cabin Saturday. The Creeper had a weaker motive, insane anger, but he had been on the spot, had access to the murder weapon, and had violently argued with the victim.

"You have enough to charge your suspect?" Duncan looked up to see Nicols standing at this desk.

"Not yet," he said. "I can't get a good mesh of means, motive, and opportunity."

"Just make sure you aren't dragging your feet." Nicols walked off, leaving Duncan to ponder his notes. Something just didn't add up.

#

Sally pulled into a parking spot across the street from You, La La!, Angie Palmer's boutique. When she'd called, Natalie had said she was busy and would call back, but never had. Subsequent phone calls went straight to voicemail. Sally decided to pay a visit.

The inside of the boutique was trendy. Sally's sedate gray suit and white blouse seemed terribly out of place. She hadn't been inside more than thirty seconds when a perky young sales associate approached her.

"Welcome to You, La La! Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Natalie Taylor," Sally said. The young woman looked vaguely disappointed, but gestured to the back and Sally headed in that direction.

A serious looking woman with long, dark hair was behind the counter, peering at a sales ledger. For the manager of a trendy boutique, she was dressed rather conservatively, but the expensive linen clothed an attractive figure. Sally tapped on the counter. "Natalie Taylor?"

"Yes. Do I know you?" Natalie said, frowning.

"I'm Sally Castle. We spoke briefly earlier, but you never returned my phone call so I decided to come see you."

Natalie did not take the proffered hand. "Oh yeah, right," she said. "Um, now really isn't a great time."

"There's no one in the store," Sally said. "I promise this will only take a couple minutes."

"If you insist." Natalie closed her book. "What do you want?"

"Do you know Jack Palmer?" Sally said, watching Natalie's reaction carefully.

"Jack, yeah," Natalie said. "He's Angie's husband. Or was Angie's husband. You know, what with her being dead and all."

"And your lover." Sally didn't make it a question. Natalie flinched.

"Yeah, that too," she said.

"Angie was divorcing him because of it," Sally said, pressing on. "I'm surprised you still work here."

Natalie shrugged. "She hasn't found a replacement yet. Not ever now, I guess." She looked distinctly uncomfortable and clicked well-manicured fingernails on the counter.

"You still with Jack?" Sally said. "See him, talk to him?"

Natalie averted her eyes. "No. Yeah, sometimes." Sally raised her eyebrows. "He came into the store looking for Angie. He was mad because she had been avoiding his phone calls."

"Did you tell him about her plans to go away that weekend?" Sally said.

"Not on purpose," Natalie said. "He said something about going to their house on Saturday because he knew she'd be there, and I told him she was going out of town."

"Did you tell him where?"

"Not the name of the house where she'd be staying."

"But you told him she'd be in Confluence," Sally said. Natalie didn't respond. "You know he's using you as an alibi for the Saturday night of the weekend Mrs. Palmer was killed." Natalie nodded, but didn't say anything. "Did you call him?"

"I already told the police that I did." Natalie sounded defensive. The front door chime sounded. "Look, I've really got to go. It's a new girl."

"Just one more thing," Sally said. "Who owns the store now? Will you continue to manage it?"

"Jack, I suppose, since the divorce wasn't final," Natalie said

"I don't know what he'll do but I've got to keep things running. Bye."

Now there's a woman who's nervous, Sally thought. She left the boutique and headed back to her office. If Jack owns the store, would he let his mistress manage it?

#

The facts didn't add up. Something was missing and that something was in Confluence. He returned to Cabin in the Woods and parked.

"Don't know what you expect to find," said Jenkins from where he'd been standing, waiting for Duncan to arrive. "Pretty clear to everyone the crazy old loon snapped." He unlocked the front door. "Lock it again when you leave." Then he got in his car and drove off.

Duncan stepped into the kitchen. He could see the crime scene in his mind's eye. He looked around carefully, but the place had been cleaned. Absently he wondered if Evelyn Carpenter had cleaned it.

Duncan went outside. Not expecting to find anything, he squatted down to examine the ground, looking for anything that had been missed the first time.

"Hey mister, are you a cop?" A young voice sounded behind him. Duncan swiveled without standing up. A young boy stood in the yard across the street wearing thermal pajamas and dirty slippers.

"I'm a state trooper," Duncan said. "Do you live here?"

The boy pointed to the house behind him. This must be Carolyn Dodds' son. "Are you looking for clues?"

Duncan nodded solemnly and continued his search of the ground. "Maybe you're looking for clues to the black Transformer car?" the boy said.

What black car? Angie Palmer's Volvo had been silver. Just then the door banged and Carolyn Dodds came out of the house, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Jacob Dodds, you get back in the house right now! You can't stay home sick from school and run around outside in your pajamas!" Then she noticed Duncan. "Oh, hello. Trooper Duncan, wasn't it? You were here when they found that poor woman."

"That's right." Duncan stood and crossed the road. "Your son was just telling me about a black car."

Carolyn rolled her eyes. "That again? Jacob," she said, "will you stop? I'm really sorry. He's been obsessed with Transformers lately, sees them everywhere. Jacob, the trooper is not interested in your Transformers stories."

Jacob crossed his arms looking sullen. "It's not a story. I saw a black Transformer car. It didn't have no lights on, but I heard the engine. It was rumbly."

Carolyn opened her mouth to apologize again, but Duncan held up his hand. He squatted down in front of the boy. "That's pretty interesting, Jacob," he said. "When did you see it?"

"The Saturday before you found that lady," Jacob said. "I know 'cause Timmy and I watched Transformers that afternoon."

"What kind of Transformer car was it, could you tell?"

Jacob looked serious. "It was a black Bumblebee. I heard the engine and saw it out my bedroom window there." He turned and pointed to a front window on the second floor. "It pulled up real slow, but the engine was awful rumbly. It looked just like a Bumblebee, 'cept it was black and didn't transform."

Duncan rubbed his chin. "A black Bumblebee, eh? Any marks on it, like stripes?"

Jacob shook his head. "Did I find a clue?" he said eagerly.

"Maybe." Duncan smiled and ruffled the boy's hair. "Now, you'd better get inside. It's kind of chilly out here for pajamas." He turned to Carolyn. "You didn't mention this to me when I interviewed you."

Carolyn shrugged. "To be honest, everywhere we go he sees Transformers. I didn't think it was important."

"Is there anything else you saw and didn't think was important?" Duncan said in a clipped voice.

Carolyn had the grace to look embarrassed. "No, there isn't. I'm very sorry. When he told me, I really thought he was just making excuses for not going to bed."

So someone other than Bolthouse had seen a car Saturday night. Duncan cursed. A black Bumblebee would be a new Camaro, not a car that would go unnoticed by a boy obsessed with Transformers.
He was suddenly very interested in the kind of vehicle that Jack Palmer owned. But first he had to go take care of Rizzo.

#

Jack Palmer, as it turned out, did not own any kind of car. But a black 2011 Camaro was registered to Angie Palmer. An unhappy Natalie Taylor had confirmed that Jack routinely drove it. Even though technically his day off, Duncan had immediately placed a call with the traffic division.

He was playing ball with Rizzo when his cell phone rang. "This is Duncan."

"Duncan, I have your traffic records." It was fellow trooper, Tom Hicks. "You asked about Jack Palmer or a black Camaro."

Duncan chucked the ball and wiped his hand on his jeans; Rizzo bounded away. "Tell me you have something."

"You hit the jackpot," Hicks said. "We have a ticket issued to that vehicle at 10:14 p.m. on route 281. And unless there's another Jack Palmer in southwestern Pennsylvania, the driver was your guy."

Rizzo came back with the ball, but Duncan ignored him. He needed to call the lieutenant. Time to bring Mr. Palmer in for further questioning, this time as a murder suspect.

#

Sally was convinced that that David Bolthouse had not killed Angie Palmer, but her evidence was thin. Duncan was right. Bolthouse was not a reliable witness. She needed something that placed Jack Palmer in Confluence before her client was arrested for murder.

All she had was this black car, a car only Bolthouse claimed to see. Sally looked, but Jack Palmer didn't own a car. However, Angie Palmer had owned a black Camaro. If she'd driven the Volvo to the cabin, where had the Camaro been?

The divorce had not been final. Sally checked; Angie did not have a will, which meant her husband would inherit everything. On impulse, Sally drove to the Palmer's Seven Springs address. She didn't need Jack Palmer to admit to the murder, all she needed was for him to admit that he'd been in Confluence that night. There in the driveway was a black Camaro. She rapped on the door and it opened to reveal a handsome man with an arrogant air. "Yes?"

"Jack Palmer?" she said. "I'm Sally Castle, from the public defender's office. May I ask you a few questions?"

"What do you want with me?"

"I'm trying to keep a man from being unjustly accused of murder," she said. "You might be able to help me out."

Jack studied her for a minute and then opened the door. "Come on in," he said.

"I'd rather talk out here." She wasn't going into the house of a man she suspected of murder.

Palmer shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Sally watched Palmer's eyes move up and down, and suddenly her black pencil skirt seemed too short. "When did you last talk to your wife? Privately, without your lawyers present."

Palmer shrugged. "I don't remember," he said.

"I think you saw her the night she died," Sally said. "You stood to inherit a lot of money if that divorce didn't go through. I think you killed her to stop it."

Palmer didn't answer, but lounged against the doorframe. "There's no proof of that," he said. His eyes had gone dark and flat.

Sally suddenly felt vulnerable, even outside in the open. She should have called the police. She put her hands in her coat pocket and silently cursed. Her can of pepper spray wasn't there, but she pressed on. "You were seen," she said. "David Bolthouse yelled at you for parking on his lawn."

Palmer stared at her. "The word of a dirty lunatic? Yeah, that's going to be really convincing." He shifted and stood straight up.

"How would know you he's a dirty lunatic if you weren't there?" Sally said. She watched him carefully. "Why'd you kill her?"

Palmer licked his lips and took a step toward Sally. She stepped back, but knew she couldn't outrun him. "You can't prove anything."

Sally's heart was pounding. ""I don't have to. All I need to do is raise reasonable doubt." This had been a horrible mistake. She wondered if she could get to her car.

A voice sounded behind her. "Jack Palmer! Police. Step back and put your hands up." Instead of obeying, Palmer lunged and grabbed Sally around the neck and spun her around. She had a fleeting glimpse of a figure in uniform and closed her eyes as Palmer's arm tightened.

"Stay back," Palmer said, all the charm from his voice gone. "You can't shoot me without hitting her."

After a moment of panic, reflexes took over. She'd done self-defense courses for this. She grabbed his fist, tucked her chin and twisted at the same time dropping down. Palmer's arm could hold her neck, but not her dead weight. When Sally was down, she drove her elbow into his groin. Palmer howled in pain, as she broke his hold and rolled out of the way.

Above her, someone wrestled Palmer into submission. "Jack Palmer, you're under arrest." Without getting up, she watched as a uniformed trooper hustling him down to the waiting car.

She was still down trying to catch her breath when a large, callused hand appeared in front of her face. "You okay?" a deep mellow voice said.

She looked up. It was the state trooper. His hair was tousled from the wind, eyes narrowed in concern. She took the outstretched hand and hauled herself up. "Thanks," she said. "Who are you?"

He smiled. "Trooper First Class Jim Duncan," he said. "Seems Palmer was in Confluence after all. Neighbor kid saw the car and it was stopped for speeding that night. Once I knew that, I

called Natalie Taylor again. She started hearing the words 'obstruction' and 'accessory,' and cracked. She admitted that she never really talked to Palmer that Saturday. He forwarded his cell phone to her house and she just left the line open to make it look like they had talked."

Sally stared at him. "You're not blond," she said. What a stupid thing to say.

END

BIO: As a software technical writer, Mary has been making her living with words for over almost 20 years. She is a member of Pennwriters and is the incoming secretary for her local chapter of Sisters in Crime. Find her online at marysuttonauthor.com.