Walleye Junction Page 4

  Pristine white and perched on a lawn of vivid green, the house she grew up in looked like it was recently unfolded from a pop-up book. Emma pulled into the driveway just as her mother, Francine, stepped out onto the front porch flanked by two women who looked vaguely familiar. They greeted Emma with hugs and quiet words before leaving with promises to return the next day. Francine clasped her daughter’s hand, not letting go until they’d crossed the threshold and disappeared into the small, two-story time capsule. Flower arrangements were scattered about the living room and cards of condolence filled the mantelpiece. Otherwise, everything was as Emma remembered it, only smaller.

  Emma fought the urge to hunch down low to avoid banging her head, even though there was a good foot and a half of clearance between her and the ceiling. She stepped lightly and spoke in a reverential whisper. She stared at her father’s leather recliner. It didn’t seem possible that something she remembered as brand new could have aged overnight. She didn’t mean to say anything, but her thoughts pushed their way into the world.

  “Mom, why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “Pardon?”

  Emma faced her mother. Francine gripped hold of the door frame with whitening knuckles. She looked as if she was about to collapse.

  “Mom,” said Emma, softening. “Here, let me help you.”

  Francine mumbled into a wadded-up handkerchief as she was led to the sofa.

  “It’s been so upsetting. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I feel awful. I should have been here to help you.”

  Francine shook her head hard. Her hair had come loose from where it had been pinned. Gray tendrils fell around her round face. Her makeup wasn’t fully blended into her cheeks, but she’d dressed with care in a light gray pair of trousers and pale blue cardigan.

  “I didn’t think you cared anymore.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’ll say it as I see it.”

  Emma had no answer. At some point Emma had gotten tired of being asked when she was coming home, and Francine had gotten tired of asking. After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss during their phone calls. Her mother no longer came to see Emma so her father traveled alone. Despite his pleas to the both of them, the stalemate had lasted nearly six years.

  “Well, I’m here now,” said Emma.

  “But you’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  “It’s been a long drive and I’m exhausted. I’m going to lie down for a while.”

  As Emma started to get up, Francine made a move to grab her daughter’s hand. She seemed to want to say one thing, but then said something else.

  “I didn’t have time to make up your bed.”

  “I can manage. Do you need me to get you anything?”

  Francine closed her eyes. “That won’t be necessary. Some friends are arriving soon. I’m being well looked after.”

  * * *

  Emma’s parents had kept her bedroom exactly as she’d left it. Faded posters of forgotten pop stars and snapshots of childhood friends covered the walls. Photos of Lucy Winfrey were everywhere. Wading pools to ponies to prom—the entire arc of her friend’s short life had been captured on Polaroid film. A framed picture of Emma and Nathan taken at their senior prom was on the dresser. She picked it up and traced a finger across their young faces before turning it around so she couldn’t see it. On the bookshelf she found yellowing copies of teen magazines and paperbacks standing like soldiers in neat rows. She read the titles, flipping through the ones she still cherished, finding the odd phrase that took her back in time. A strip of photos fell from A Handmaid’s Tale. They were taken in the photo booth in the foyer of the old cinema. Wrapped around each other behind the curtain, she and Lucy smiled into the camera. Nobody could see them in there. It wasn’t the first time Lucy had tried to kiss her. They were in the tenth grade.

  Emma went to find some bedding in the hall closet but ended up wandering into her parent’s bedroom instead. Emma had vague memories of her mother’s excitement when it was redecorated ten years earlier. An entire phone call had been spent discussing paint colors. Along with one of her father’s white shirts, a dark suit hung from the closet door. Several of his ties were stretched across the bed. She picked up a blue one she remembered him wearing and held it up to the light. Downstairs the doorbell chimed. She put the tie around the collar of the shirt and left the room. Voices drifted up the stairwell. Her name was mentioned more than once.

  “It was a long drive,” said Francine. “Emma has gone up to rest.”

  The voices dropped to a whisper.

  Emma went back to her room and quietly shut the door before climbing into the unmade bed. As soon as she closed her eyes miles of darkened highway came racing up to meet her. Her heart thumped wildly every time she imagined drifting out of her lane. Sleeper lines rumbled in her head. Headlights flashed in her eyes. She pulled the thin coverlet over her head and cried.

  4

  Macy stood in the doorway of the small storage room in the basement of Ron Forester’s home, where Philip Long had been held captive. It had no windows, and other than a single mattress that had been taken from an upstairs bed, the room had been stripped down to its concrete floor. The storage boxes that once filled the space were stacked in the hallway. The door had recently been fitted with a padlock. Macy touched it with her gloved hands. It hadn’t been forced and other than the smashed eyeglasses that were found on the steps and some broken furniture in the living room, there was no sign of a struggle.

  “How do you think he managed to get out?”

  Gina shrugged. “Maybe Lloyd and Carla were so off their heads they forgot to lock the door.”

  “It does appear that he walked out unchallenged.” Macy glanced at the crime scene report. “They found his prints on the telephone in Forester’s home office.”

  “Makes sense. It’s right at the top of the basement stairs.” Gina pointed out one of the wooden steps. “This where they found his broken glasses.”

  Macy trudged up the wooden steps with Gina following close behind. “The medical examiner thinks he may have stepped on them. There were shards imbedded in his foot.”

  Ron Forester’s vast mahogany desk took up half the space in the ground-floor office. French doors led out into the front garden. A small herd of elk grazed at the edge of the lawn; a calf stood in the shadow of one of the females. Dappled sunlight broke through the forest canopy. Macy focused in on the shadows. There were more elk moving through the trees. Behind her she could hear Gina opening and shutting desk drawers.

  “It looks like most of the stuff has been cleared out already,” said Gina.

  Macy picked up the phone on the desk. Black powder coated the keypad and handset. When Philip Long dialed his home number the call went straight through to the police. He’d hesitated when he heard Macy’s voice.

  Francine, he’d said. You need to … who is this?

  “I wonder why he called his wife first,” said Macy. “He was practically blind without his glasses. Dialing 911 would have been a lot easier.”

  “If he was frightened he wouldn’t have been thinking straight.”

  Macy put the phone down and turned to the French doors again. The keys were still in the lock. Philip Long’s bare feet had left clear prints in the grit coating the covered wooden porch.

  “A few seconds could have meant the difference between living and dying, but instead of running he called his wife.”

  “They were married for nearly forty years,” said Gina. “Maybe he felt compelled to let her know that he was okay.”

  Most of the elk herd had migrated into the middle of the lawn, but a bull stood in the shadows beneath the trees. Their heads all shot up at once. They stared off into the woods that lined the western edge of the property before turning tail and running hard in the opposite direction. Macy watched for a few more seconds, but whatever had spooked them stayed hidden.

  “Gina, how long have you been married?”

  �
��Eight years this summer.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “He also works in law enforcement. I guess it helps.”

  “Would you have called him first?”

  Gina looked up from where she was kneeling in front of an open drawer. “Hell no. I would have run.”

  “Same here.”

  Macy opened a low filing cabinet. Ron Forester kept meticulous records. There were several files documenting client entertainment events. She pulled out a recent one labeled Client Summer Party.

  “I’ve already seen Ron Forester’s client list,” said Macy. “They’re all high end. Doctors, lawyers, that sort of thing. Quite a few of them testified on his behalf. There seem to be a lot of people who think he was set up.”

  “Forester was tried and convicted of aggravated sexual assault. Until I learn otherwise I’ll stick with the verdict on record.” Gina slid open another desk drawer. “Maybe Lloyd did some maintenance work for Forester. Didn’t Lou say that he used to be a roofer?”

  “I haven’t come across his name, but we should check it out. He or Carla may have been employed indirectly by someone Ron contracted to work for him.” Macy put the party file on the desk. Along with a guest list there was an invoice from a catering company. A plastic sleeve contained a tightly bound stack of thank-you cards. “He hosted a lot of big client parties here. We should look at this catering company. They may have taken on temporary help.”

  Gina stood and stretched out her back. “There’s nothing in the desk.”

  Macy untied the bundle of thank you cards and flipped through them. “From the tone of the thank-you notes I’d say he was on very good terms with his clients, especially their wives. All these seem to be written by women.”

  She held up one for Gina to see.

  Ron, Thanks again for throwing such a wonderful party. I’m so sorry we didn’t have time for a quiet moment, but I love the idea of getting together for dinner. Sadly, Hal is away next month on business so he won’t be able to join us. Shall we say Thursday the 11th? Until then. Julia xxx

  Gina smirked. “Not exactly subtle.”

  Macy put the file in an evidence folder. “She wasn’t the only one. Cross-referencing his client list with the people that attended his parties on a regular basis will tell us who he was closest to. Maybe someone on that list held a grudge against Philip Long.”

  Gina switched off the light and shut the door behind them. “The only interesting thing the search turned up upstairs was some empty prescription bottles on the floor in the master bathroom. Lloyd’s prints are all over them. He probably raided the medicine cabinet as soon as he got here.”

  “The home has been empty for a few months so I’m surprised no one beat him to it. Vicodin, Percocet, and Xanax are worth quite a bit on the street these days.” Macy headed toward the stairs. “I’m going to go have a quick look upstairs anyway. Why don’t you start on the kitchen?”

  * * *

  The king-size bed looked a little lost inside the vast master bedroom. Other than two bedside tables and a large flat-screen television, it was the only piece of furniture. The west-facing windows were at least twenty feet high and through the trees she could just make out the Flathead River. The plush cream-colored carpeting appeared to be new and other than a slight indentation on one of the pillows, the bed didn’t look as if it had been slept in. The forensic team had checked for fibers, but aside from those belonging to the owner and those of a cleaning lady he’d once employed, it had come up clean. She knelt down at the foot of the bed to get a closer look. It was possible that Ron Forester had left the impression in the bedspread months earlier. It was barely noticeable. She checked the electrical socket beneath the bedside table. The alarm clock’s plug had been pulled out. The forensics team had already dusted it for fingerprints. They’d found nothing.

  The master suite bathroom was lined in white marble and the shower was so large you could park a small car in it. She flipped the mirrored cabinet doors open one by one, peering at her reflection when she was done. During the winter her freckles almost disappeared, but there were a few poking through. She combed loose strands of red hair back into the ponytail. Under the bright overhead lights she could clearly see the fine gray hairs that were just beginning to appear at her temples. She frowned. She barely had time to brush her hair, let alone get it colored.

  Macy wandered downstairs where she found Gina staring into a Sub-Zero refrigerator.

  “Anything edible in there?” asked Macy. “I’m getting hungry.”

  “Nothing I would eat. There is a considerable quantity of Red Bull if you’re interested.”

  Macy peered over Gina’s shoulder. Red Bull was lined up along one shelf in perfect rows.

  “That looks like enough caffeine to keep you awake for a month.”

  “You’ll be delighted to know that Ron Forester alphabetized his condiments.”

  “That’s a career first,” said Macy.

  “They’re past their sell-by dates by months so I assume they’ve been here all along.” Gina poked at the half-empty takeaway containers. Noodles were spilling out the side and the refrigerator shelf was stained with sweet and sour sauce. “Carla and Lloyd Spencer were never going to win any Good Housekeeping awards.”

  Macy walked past a sink full of dirty dishes and countertops covered in grease. What looked like spilled cornflakes was in fact the remnants of a bag of corn chips that had been strewn across the counter. Two triangles of burned toast sat alone on a plate.

  The double-height windows that ran along the western side of the living room were coated with fine dust. According to initial findings, Carla Spencer and her husband, Lloyd, had slept on the downstairs sofas, but Carla’s DNA and several fingerprints had been found in an upstairs bedroom as well. A dining chair was tipped on its side and an alabaster Buddha had been used to smash the glass coffee table. There was also an overturned lamp near the fireplace. The stained-glass lampshade had shattered in the fall. Gina walked around the back of the sofa for a better look.

  “I don’t understand why the crime techs made such a big deal about this lamp,” said Gina. “It looks like someone tripped over the cord.”

  “Say there was a struggle. Why would someone throw a stone statue through a coffee table?”

  “It looks like someone got pissed off and decided to trash the place.”

  “Since we didn’t find Philip Long’s fingerprints anywhere in this room, I’d say that’s a pretty likely scenario.”

  Macy stared down at the unfinished solitaire game spread out on the dining table, impulsively checking the remaining playing cards in the stack.

  “Only a few cards away from winning,” Macy said, flipping through them three at a time.

  Gina held up the empty playing card box. Its plastic sleeve was still attached. “Brand new and available in thousands of retail outlets. Not a single fingerprint.”

  Macy kept seeing moments of order amid the disorder. It was starting to make her think she was missing something or someone.

  “Carla and Lloyd Spencer’s prints are all over the house, so why not here?” Macy held up a crime scene photo. “This is what the playing cards looked like before they dusted them. Every one of them is perfectly aligned.” She gestured toward the open plan kitchen. “Meanwhile there are unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink, congealed food left on the stove, and wet towels on the bathroom floor.”

  “Do you think there was someone else in the house?”

  “I keep going back to that night on the road. I’m not sure an unemployed drug addict could have pulled off something like that. Whoever killed Philip Long was in complete control.”

  “Could it have been Carla?” said Gina. “She was motivated. She wanted her kids back.”

  Macy closed her eyes for a second. “All that motorcycle gear on, I really can’t say for sure if it was a man or a woman.” She hesitated. “I’d say the killer was slim and of average height. For lack of a better word I’d say he
or she moved with grace.”

  “Both Carla and Lloyd Spencer were thin. How tall was the shooter? I think you said around five nine.”

  “I was hanging upside down in the dark, so five nine was a guess at best, but I’d swear that they were a few inches shorter than Philip Long. We need to find out if Carla and Lloyd rode motorcycles. Philip was chased through the woods on a dirt bike. That takes some skill. Plus there’s the placement of their bodies. I’m convinced someone moved them.” Macy tapped the envelope of crime scene photos against the edge of the table. “So, for argument’s sake let’s say that there’s a third party. Why did he need help from a couple of drug addicts?”

  “Maybe he’s an outsider. They’d have local knowledge.”

  “Then how did they meet him?”

  “Buying drugs is a dangerous business. Every time you score you’re putting yourself at risk.”

  “So, a dealer who is at home on a bike.”

  “It could be gang related.”

  Macy made a face. “God, I hope not. The bike gangs running heroin through Montana originate out of state. We’d have to bring in pretty much every law enforcement agency known to mankind.” Macy turned her back on the solitaire game. “I think I’ve seen enough. We should get going.”

  Gina held up the car keys. “Where to next?”

  Macy checked the time.

  “Let’s grab some lunch before we head up to meet Lou at Carla and Lloyd’s place. I’m starving.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want some leftover Chinese?” asked Gina.

  “Not even if it’s alphabetized.”

  * * *

  They found Lou Turner in the Spencer’s garage looking over a dirt bike that appeared to have been recently driven off a showroom floor.

  “Detective Greeley,” asked Lou. “Could this be the bike you saw that night?”