SAFELY BURIED Chapter 5: Snooping Around

“Maybe the shots in the head were a coup de grace,” I said. “Maybe the shooter wanted to make sure they were dead.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Have you ruled out robbery as a motive?”

Slowly and patiently he said, “At this point we have not ruled anything out. We do not know why they were killed, and we have no actual suspects. We have identified one person of interest, thanks to you.” His breath fluttered in my ear. “It really would help if we could talk to the woman you picked up. I wish you had held on to her.”

“What about fingerprints or other evidence? Did you come up with anything last night?”

“Oh, I suspect we’ll find lots of prints. A state-police CSI team is working on it as we speak. I imagine we’ll find some of yours, Phil. Which reminds me, I’d like you to come over today so we can take a set of your fingerprints—just so we know which ones are yours.”

“You’re not planning to arrest me, are you, Carl?”

He thought about that, or pretended to. Finally he said, “Well, being as how you’re the only one who claims to have seen this Paula Henry person of interest—none of the neighbors that we spoke to saw her—we don’t know for sure that she actually exists. So I reckon we might have to lock you up, Phil. Let me think about it for a while.”

“No hurry,” I said. “By the way, I’d like to take some pictures of the house. Will that be a problem?”

“I expect it will. You’ll get in the way of the crime-scene technicians.” He tried to stifle a yawn. “But the state police would like to have a talk with you—if they haven’t already. Has anyone been in to see you yet?”

“I’ll go see them,” I said.

“Good. Ask for Detective Lieutenant Bakery.”

“Bakery?”

“That’s what I said.”

Before I went in search of Detective Lieutenant Bakery, I made myself take a deep breath, refocus, and edit a front-page feature that was waiting on my computer. Next I emailed Edward that I would do an update on the murders and get a picture of the Garth house. I was itching to get out there again, but phone calls and other interruptions kept me in my chair. Finally I tore myself away.

In the late-morning sun the country air was bright and warm, and the hollow was a picture of serenity. The narrow fields of corn and soybeans stretched to the foot of the steep hills that surrounded them. I wondered who owned this pocket of farmland. Was it Grapevine or someone else? I’d have to find out.

One of the Grapevines’ garage doors was up, and a red Miata stood in the driveway. I parked behind the sports car, climbed out of my Civic, and eyeballed the fields around the house. I did not see Paula hiding among the cornstalks, but I could see the roof of the Garth house a few hundred yards away.

A door squealed inside the garage, and a moment later a woman emerged from the shadows. She was lugging a bucket of water with a real sponge poking out of sudsy bubbles. It took me less than a second to realize who she was, but she caught the delay.

“Hello, Mr. Larrison,” she said. “I’m Jodie Palladino. We met last night, remember?”

“You’re not the woman whose leg was in a cast, are you?”

She gave me an arch smile and set her bucket on the ground. Then she picked up the end of a hose that was lying in the grass, twisted the nozzle, and began spraying the car. She was wearing a white sleeveless top and gray shorts that flared at the sides. She had a nice tan, not too dark, and her skin glistened with sunblock.

“What brings you here?” she said. “As if I don’t know.” She continued spraying for a moment but suddenly looked at me and said, “It’s rude to wash a car when I have a visitor, isn’t it?” She twisted the nozzle shut and tossed the hose back on the lawn. Then she hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her shorts and proceeded to give me her full attention.

“So your name is Palladino,” I said. Now that I had heard the name, I could see the Italian in her full lips and prominent cheekbones.

“Yes. It was my father’s name, of course. He died when I was in kindergarten.”

“You can still remember him then.”

“Yes. A little bit. He had brain cancer. My mother raised me by herself.” Her brown eyes squinted against the sun. “She didn’t get married again till a few years ago, after she met Don.”

“Its a nice day to wash a car,” I said. “How about doing mine.”

“Hey, what a great idea! . . . On second thought, I'd better not. I've got too many other things to do today.”

“Some other time then?”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

She took a step to the side and nearly tripped over the bucket of soapy water. “Well, I guess I’ve been polite long enough. I came out here to wash the car, so I guess I’d better get back to work.”

“Me too,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the Garths?”

She wasn’t exactly eager to get back to work. Instead of reaching for the sponge or picking up the hose again, she sat against the side of the car, which had already dried. “Ask away,” she said.

“How well did you know them? What were they like?”

She sucked in her cheeks, pursed her lips, and thought. “Private. Kept to themselves. I hardly even knew the guy—Wayne—hardly ever saw him. But I’d bump into Cheryl now and then when I went walking. She was always on a horse. One time she asked me if I’d like to ride one of their horses, but I said, ‘No thanks, I don’t ride.’ She dismounted and tied the horse to a fence and walked up the hill with me.”

“Sounds like she wanted to make friends.”

“I know, but it only happened once. I guess I should have made more of an effort to get to know her better. But she never came over here, and I never went over there.” Her voice tapered off as she stared at the ground. Then she looked up and said, “It was my fault. She made the first move, but I never reciprocated.”

“How did they make a living? Was this their farm?” I waved my arm at the tall green corn around us.

“Heck no. They weren’t farmers. Cheryl told me they wanted to get out of Indianapolis and live in the country, that’s all.”

“I can see why they liked it here. It’s really pretty. Who owns all the land?”

“My mother bought a few acres from a lady in Brickton to build this house. I think most of the land belongs to her.”

“Is this where you grew up?”

“No. We used to live in Campbellsville.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Since I graduated from high school. We moved in that summer.” She squinted suspiciously. “Just out of curiosity, what has all this got to do with the Garths?”

“Absolutely nothing,” I said. “I’m just a snoop. Let’s see . . . you were saying you blame yourself for not making friends with Mrs. Garth.”

“I’m surprised you still remember.” She took a deep breath and went on. “I should have invited Cheryl over for lunch or something. But the thing is, I haven’t been back home very long, just the past three months or so. I had some issues to work out. I wasn’t looking to make new friends. But that’s another story.”

“I like stories,” I said. “You want to tell me one?”

“No I don’t. I’m trying to forget it.”

She pushed herself off the car and walked idly toward the road. The bottom of her shirt had gotten caught in the waist of her shorts, and she reached behind to free it. Abruptly she turned and said, “I heard Mom and Don talking about them once. They were saying how Cheryl and her husband would take off in their RV and be gone for a week or two. Then they’d come back. Then they’d disappear again.” She came toward me. “Mom thought they might be doing the flea-market thing—making artsy-craftsy stuff at home, then peddling it at festivals and flea markets. Maybe that’s how they made their living.”

“Is your mother home?” I said. “I’d like to talk to her, if she is.”

She shook her head. “She’s in Cincinnati visiting her sister, Anita. She’ll be back on Monday.” As an afterthought she added, “Don called her this morning and told her about the murders. He read her the story you had in the paper.”

“Maybe I can see her sometime next week.” I made a mental note to do that. “Do you know if the Garths had any friends around here?”

“I really don’t,” she answered. “Frankly, I didn’t pay much attention to them. I remember one thing though. About a month ago there was a green van parked in their driveway for most of the day. But I have no idea if it was friends, or a serviceman, or what.”

“Was it a commercial van?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. All I could see was the back of it as I drove past, and there was no name there.”

“Depending on when you saw it—if it was around three or four weeks ago—it may not have been too long before the murders.”

She made a little gasp, and her fingers went to her chin. “I never thought of that. There might be a connection.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Damn. Now that I think of it, it did seem odd for the truck to be parked out near the county road like that. Boy, if only I had written down the license-plate number—the killer might be in jail already.” She laughed. “Now I have a question for you. Do you think the woman with the cast is still around here?”

“I think it’s possible,” I said, “but if she breaks in to the Garths’ house again, the police will nab her. I think they’ll be keeping an eye on that place for a while.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “It’s scary living here all of a sudden, when two people can get murdered like that. It sounded horrible in the paper.”

“It was a lot worse than that,” I said.

I glanced at my watch. It would have been nice to go on chattering like this, but I had other stops to make. “Well, I’ll let you finish your car,” I said. “Oh, one other thing—does anyone live in the log cabin across from the Garth house?”

“Glenn Neidig,” she said. “He’s an old guy with a long beard. He’ll talk your leg off if you let him.”

“That’s good,” I said. “It makes my job a lot easier when people talk.”