“Ay…God…damn…sweet Jesus,” the Chief shrieked. He did an odd dance about four feet from his original position, flailing but remaining upright and keeping a grip on the golf club. Doyle fell to his knees laughing, followed soon by Giddings. Halvorsen raised his club above his head looking as though he would bring it down on Giddings now curled on the grass, still laughing uncontrollably. Halvorsen moved the club to his left and brought it down in the vicinity of the cigarette, then threw down the club.
“You idiot,” he screamed at the assistant chief.
“Sorry, boss, but you did give me permission to use this on you if I ever caught you smoking.”
“He’s right, Dennis. I was a witness.”
“You set me up, Doyle.”
“It was for your own good. Now, would you be quiet long enough for me to take this shot? Honestly, if I’d known you would complain this much, I’d have had him shoot you, instead.” Doyle lined himself up then fell back two steps and leaned on Giddings, as they resumed laughing.
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER 8
Cheryl Haugen sat at her desk in the Placer Bank building, holding her head in her hands. She phoned her mother.
“Mom, the police are coming.” Hearing Catherine Martius gasp, Cheryl worried that she had shocked her mother. “Mom?”
“Yes…what do they want?”
“I don’t really know. What did they ask you Wednesday night? Did you talk about me?”
“No, of course not. Don’t tell them about losing your temper in the Café. They might get the wrong idea.”
“Somebody must have told them. Why else would they call me? Everybody in town knew Ronnie as well as I did. What other reason would they have?” Cheryl paused. “Maybe I should get a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” Catherine’s voice rose. “Why would you need a lawyer? You were at your sorority dinner when she was killed. You’ve got an alibi, dear.”
“No, Mom. I was so tired I stayed home.”
“Oh, no.”
Her mother’s reaction surprised Cheryl.
“Mom, you sound like you think I might have done it. I stayed home. I watched television and I fell asleep.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that you were so angry at Veronica. People might talk.” Then, barely aloud, she said, “Why did you have to stay home that night? You never miss a dinner.” Then Catherine returned her attention to her daughter. “Dear, you can’t get a lawyer. Everyone would think you’re guilty.”
“I guess. Well, I didn’t want the police here at the bank so I said I’d meet them at home at 1:30. I better get going. I’ll phone you afterwards.”
Cheryl hung up the phone and returned her head to her hands. Her mother’s reaction unsettled her, adding to the anxiety growing since Sergeant De la Peña had phoned. Her mother had been quite concerned about the prospect of police questioning. Cheryl wondered how Catherine would have reacted if she’d known the rest of the story.
* * *
Moffat and De la Peña reached the front porch of Cheryl Haugen’s brown, two story in a densely packed neighborhood of the 1970’s expansion of Miner’s Flat, east of the old town just as Cheryl pulled into her driveway. She rushed up the walk, apologizing for being late, unlocked the door and preceded them into the living room.
When they were seated, Cheryl at the edge of a recliner and Moffat and De la Peña deep in a low couch, Moffat thanked her for her cooperation in the investigation of the death of Veronica Gillis. He waited for a response, watching.
Haugen, breathing heavily, pulled at the edges of her light green, knitted suit jacket. It seemed, to Moffat to be slightly small for her. Her wide face, framed by straight light brown bangs and sides, reflected momentary confusion.
“Oh, well…you’re welcome.”
De la Peña opened his notebook and took down the necessary biographical information. Then Moffat asked “Would you describe your relationship with Mrs. Gillis?”
Haugen took a deep breath. “We knew each other all our lives. Our grandfathers owned a lumber mill together. We went to school together, through high school, that is. I went away to college. Ronnie stayed here, working for her mother part-time.” Haugen paused. When neither policeman said anything, she continued. “We saw each other often around town and did business together but we weren’t really close.”
“Would you describe what happened the last time you saw Mrs. Gillis?”
Moffat could see the familiar look of a person rapidly calculating the pros and cons of telling a lie or something less than the whole truth. Haugen was uncomfortable here in her own living room and was clearly nervous.
“My mother and I saw her at the Miner’s Flat Café Wednesday morning. We had just finished our breakfast. She was doing business on the cell phone.”
“Did you speak to her?” Moffat was willing to give this potential suspect - which is what she was to him until the facts of the case proved otherwise - the opportunity to lie to him.
“Yes, we discussed a business matter.” Cheryl watched the detectives then clearly decided it would be better to be forthcoming. “It was a transaction between her and my daughter. I complained that she hadn’t got the best price when she sold my daughter’s house. I was a little angry.”
Moffat asked, “Did you feel Gillis had cheated your daughter?”
“I never said that. It was really quite a short conversation. She had another call. Mother and I left.”
“Please tell me how you spent the rest of your day.”
Moffat watched the realization of being a suspect sink in.
Haugen exhaled forcefully again. “I walked Mother home then drove back to my office. I came home just after five and spent the evening here.”
“We’re you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Any phone calls or visitors? …Neighbors who might have seen you?”
“No, no calls. I usually phone my mother and my daughter every night when I’m home. They weren’t expecting me to call because I usually go out on the second Wednesday of the month. But I was tired the other night so I stayed home and I didn’t feel like talking on the phone either.” She watched for a reaction from the officers but saw none. She sighed. “I didn’t see any of the neighbors.”
“So you never left the house after about five fifteen?”
“No. I was home all night.”
Moffat slowly moved his eyes from Haugen’s face and looked around the room and the adjoining kitchen and dining room. The rooms were clean but in need of fresh paint and new carpeting. It was decorated in earth tones. These, Moffat believed but was not sure, were popular in the 70’s and 80’s. There was no clutter except for eight moving boxes stacked two high along the wall of the dining room.
“Thank you, Mrs. Haugen. We’ll contact you if we have any more questions.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Moffat sat at his desk with a ballistics test report on the handgun from the scene of the crime. The report confirmed that the revolver was in fact the murder weapon.
“No surprise there,” De la Peña said from across the room.
Moffat pulled the weapon from a plastic bag on his desk. “A Smith and Wesson Model 60 Lady Smith. Stainless steel, light-weight, compact. No prints. It was manufactured in 1968 but is in excellent condition.”
* * *
“Do you think this means that the killer is a woman? With that opalescent handle it’s a very lady-like weapon,” Mrs. Grubb offered from behind them.
Moffat shook his head. “We can’t assume that. Sergeant, any results tracing the ownership?”
“Nothing reported missing in our records. It’s a pretty old gun. We won’t hear back from Sacramento for a few days.”
De la Peña picked up a typed report. “Officer Tashara spoke to Gillis’ doctor. She had a regular prescription for birth control.”
“Birth control?” Mrs. Grubb was surprised. “I would have thought she was past that. How old was she?”
Mof
fat responded. “Fifty-two. Does the report say what it was prescribed for, Sergeant?”
“Yes. For contraception. She’d been taking it the entire time Dr. Mackay treated her, which goes back to 1992.” De la Peña read on for a few seconds then added “No prescribed drug that might have shown up as meth on the blood test. Looks like she was taking it for recreation.” He walked to Moffat’s desk and placed the report in a large folder already stuffed with pages of other reports and witness statements.
Moffat sorted through the crime scene photos and report from the crime scene unit. The analysis revealed that the bullet had been fired from behind Gillis, about ten feet and from a height of about four and a half feet, downward into her back. He now had a murder weapon but no witnesses other than Michelle and the architect who heard the shot. There was no physical evidence of any apparent value. Initial interviews turned up some people in Gillis’ life who may have had a motive to kill her.
Mrs. Grubb sat across the desk from De la Peña, pouring tea from a pot into two mugs. She added milk and sugar to each, stirred, then passed one cup to De la Peña and, leaning back in the chair, she sipped from the second cup.
Moffat found a steaming cup of coffee on his own desk. “Thank you, Mrs. Grubb. So, the Sergeant puts his money on the husband.”
“You do?” she asked.
“Well, now I’m not so sure about this case...after interviewing Cheryl Haugen, but usually I look at family first,” De la Peña said, displaying a sly grin. “I wouldn’t know from experience, but apparently there’s nothing like marriage to bring out thoughts of murder.”
Mrs. Grubb and Moffat laughed.
Moffat said “I’ve never considered it but I may have pushed Jean a little too far on occasion. If I miss one more dinner with her aunt and uncle, who knows what she might do. So, should I assume Wade Gillis is still on your list?”
“Yes. Remember when we asked him about children? He said something like ‘Ronnie couldn’t get pregnant.’ If that’s true, why was she taking birth control pills? Maybe he found out she’d lied to him all these years. Hey, what if he’s on steroids?”
“Interesting. What about other members of the family?”
“Who knows? Long lost brother or the sister-in-law hoping to inherit something? Aaron might have snapped. He seems to be a little emotional.” De la Peña paused for a few seconds than added, “What did you think of the mother?”
“Possibly too frail to drive herself to the church. As to motive, there’s nothing obvious but I’m sure there could be a dozen possible reasons if we dig deeply.”
Moffat drew a line across the page, then wrote ‘other suspects.’ “Who else?”
De la Peña quickly listed the Reverend Pane, Mrs. Pane, Cheryl Haugen, Scott Conti, an unknown lover, and unknown business associate. Moffat wrote the names on the paper.
“Alibis are a problem.” Moffat suggested.
“Captain, have you noticed that all the potential suspects in this case don’t have an alibi? It’s almost annoying.”
“True, with the exception of the sister-in-law, Aaron’s mother. We’ve confirmed she was at work at the time of the shooting. But you’re right about everyone else. Gillis and his mother-in-law claim to have been in the same house at the time of the murder but neither can confirm that the other was there. Neither of the Panes knew where the other was. Aaron and Scott were both in the area at the time. Haugen was alone. Of course, our shooter may not have been any of these.
“When we get the background checks, we’ll pour over them, look for any history of violence or anything to suggest one of them could be our killer. For now, the gun is our only promising path. If we can link it to any one of these people, that should point the way.”
Moffat tapped a paper from the file on his desk. “Officer Fat’s interviews in the neighborhood turned up a witness who may have been the last to see Gillis before she was murdered.” Seeing De la Peña’s eyebrows rise, he added “Don’t get your hopes up. The witness is a four year old. He saw an “orange lady” pass by while he played in the front yard.
“That’s almost the way I would have described her hair color and outfit,” Mrs. Grubb offered.
“His mother figures that would have been a few minutes before six.”
“Sounds about right,” De la Peña said.
Moffat closed the folder on his desk. “Sergeant, would you have the team wrap up the background checks and give us what ever they have by tomorrow morning. Let’s plan on talking to Wade Gillis again. I’m going to take off now. I want to watch the chief’s press conference at home.”
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER 9
Saturday, May 13
Ten miles outside of the Central Valley town of Elk Grove, Mrs. W. O. Gavin held the kitchen door to her house open. Four people came out - a woman nearly eighty carrying an eight-week old gray, curly haired puppy, her two middle-aged sons and her daughter-in-law. The four were a cheery group and put Mrs. Gavin in a good mood, helped by the $300 they had just paid for the dog. Gavin walked them to a dark blue mini-van. She handed the dog’s AKC papers to one of the sons then helped the older woman with her seat belt and patted the puppy on the head. A white pick-up had parked directly behind the van so that the van driver had to pull forward and execute an awkward three-point turn, carefully avoiding the pick-up as he drove over the dirt and gravel driveway to the highway. Mrs. Gavin waved once more. Her smile faded quickly. She nodded to the driver of the pick-up. Mr. Howard was the name he had given three years ago and he claimed to be from Santa Cruz. Though it was only 75 degrees this morning, the sun was bright and he looked hot and irritable in the truck. Mrs. Gavin turned her back to him and went into the house for her husband. He could deal with Mr. Howard, she decided.
A minute later Mr. Gavin came from the house, followed by his wife. “Good morning, Mr. Howard. How was the drive?” the husband asked.
“Fine.”
A young male adult schnauzer in the truck with Howard began to yap at the Gavins.
“Shut up,” Howard snapped. The dog lay on the seat, its head between its paws. Mrs. Gavin watched Howard fold a newspaper - the Segovia Ledger Dispatch - and place it between the seats.
Howard hopped down from the cab and walked behind the truck where he unlocked the top and bottom gate of a camper shell. He leaned into the bed of the truck and slid out a three by two foot cage containing seven schnauzer puppies, setting it on the lawn next to the truck.
“I’m sorry, $60 apiece is the best I can do,” Mr. Gavin said. “There seem to be a lot of us breeders these days. Pet Stores can pretty much tell us the price.”
“That’s okay. You got the male?”
Gavin pointed toward a fenced area next to the house. Howard gathered the dog from the cab of his pick up and followed the Gavin’s to the dog pen. Gavin picked up a nearly identical male, miniature salt and pepper schnauzer, also about two years old. Howard dropped his dog into the pen. The dog stood on his hind legs with his paws on the fence and looked at Howard.
“You take your share,” he said to the dog gruffly. He turned back to the Gavins. He took the dog from Gavin with his left hand. Gavin took a roll of currency from his front pocket and counted out three hundred dollar bills and six twenties into Howard’s right hand. Mrs. Gavin watched, unsmiling.
“Good luck, Mr. Howard. I guess we’ll see you in the fall,” Gavin said. “Only, you better call first. We may finally sell this place by then. Gavin felt a bit embarrassed as Howard looked out at the house and barn, both in need of paint, and the empty fields that hadn’t even grown alfalfa in over three years. Howard turned and walked back to the truck, set the dog in the passenger seat and backed out with a wave of his left hand through the window.
Mrs. Gavin shook her head with a frown and followed her husband to the back of the house.
* * *
Five minutes later, a white pickup pulled into a shaded parking space in a small Elk Grove corner shopping center. From the front window
of the Cyber Café, the attendant watched the driver lower the windows three inches, lock the truck and walk to the door. The man paid for one hour of Internet use.
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER 10
Sunday, May 14
It was late Sunday morning at the Mountain View Lodge. Jean and Alexander were seated with her aunt and uncle in the outdoor patio at a table with a view of the highest snowcapped peaks of the Sierra in the distance, lower, dark green pine covered mountains in the foreground. The morning was brisk but made comfortable by tall propane heaters spaced evenly among the tables. Retired Navy Chief Ralph scouted the tables as soon as they arrived and informed the maitre de’ that this would be the best for Police Captain Moffat’s party. The four celebrated with champagne and orange juice. Moffat had suggested to Jean that they show their houseguests the picturesque village of Miner’s Flat. She agreed and on the drive to the Lodge had joined her aunt and uncle in insisting that he go past Veronica Gillis’ home and the scene of her murder. After brunch, the other three would continue their sightseeing with a visit to Columbia State Park, a well-preserved gold rush town off of highway 49 in the north. Moffat would catch a ride with De la Peña to a 12:30 p.m. memorial service at the Miner’s Flat Boys and Girls Club Sports Complex.
Aunt Norma was delighted to offer her theory on the crime. “So, anyway, Jeannie, like I was saying, my money’s on the husband. It’s usually the husband, isn’t it, Alex?”
“You sound like my Sergeant.”
Ralph disagreed with his wife’s analysis. “They’d been married twenty-something years, for Pete’s sake. Speaking from experience, if you were going to murder your wife, you would have already done it. I hardly ever think about shooting you anymore, dear.”
* * *
An hour and a half later, Moffat and De la Peña took positions on opposite sides of the room to observed a significant part of the population of Miner’s Flat turn out for a service for one of their more illustrious citizens. The event was held in the auditorium of the Sports Complex, reflecting both Veronica Gillis’ significant role in the funding and construction of the Complex and her lack of membership or interest in any of Miner’s Flat’s churches, its synagogue or its temple. Sensing a leadership vacuum from within the honoree’s family, the Reverend Joseph Moore of the thriving Unitarian Universalist congregation organized the event and served as master of ceremonies.