“I called Benson himself and told him not to bother,” said Smith-field. “Fen said he’d never sell. His death is to Benson’s advantage, of course, since Christine—”
“It might not be,” she said. “I haven’t decided.”
Klauder walked to the windows. A roofed flagstone patio outside, only enough space cleared beyond to make it livable, only enough natural shrubbery removed to provide a view of the lake. Even the small boathouse of weathered wood looked as though it belonged.
“I can’t see that this house would be important enough for Benson to kill over it,” he said. “He has plenty of room without it.”
“My feeling precisely,” said Hank.
“Well, we’ll probe a little to see if there’s something we don’t know about,” said Meg. “I have to get back, but I’d like you to look around, Klauder. Hank can give you a ride back to town.”
“My pleasure,” said Hank. “I’ll be here for another hour or so.”
Klauder donned a fold-up hat he pulled out of a pocket and stepped out into the rain. Not much to find after two days and a summer deluge, so that smug grin she threw him told him she expected him to do more than look around. Always the matchmaker.
The peaked-roof boathouse was open at both ends. The slope was gentle enough so that Fen could have pulled the skiff up under it, but he’d extended it out into the water on timber pilings and run a landing down one side. As with the house, he didn’t do anything halfway.
The salvaged skiff was tied to the landing, the collapsed remains of a deck chair still screwed to the bottom. The canopy Meg had mentioned was probably at the bottom of the lake, the support brackets empty. The electric outboard had been tilted in and would never run again after its immersion at the bottom of the lake, too. More suitable for waters far more placid than the often choppy lake, the electric outboard had to have been chosen for its almost silent hum, something Klauder could appreciate. He preferred rowing to the roar of an outboard himself. A tiller along one side of the chair and controls on the other had been rigged so that Fen could maneuver in comfort.
He’d been a creative tinkerer, modifying and adapting to suit himself. Even the cables of the battery charger on the wall had been mounted on an arm that swung out over the skiff to position them directly over the battery.
Klauder turned at a small noise. Christine Labeaux, in a yellow hooded waterproof jacket, had followed him out. Run the image in a catalogue and you’d sell a million of the jackets to women who could only hope they’d look as well.
“Your uncle was a man who lived the way he wanted to live.”
“So my mother always said. He didn’t die poor, but if he’d stayed in Philadelphia with the family firm, he’d have died very wealthy. That never mattered to him. He met his wife here, she wanted to stay, and if that was what she wanted, so be it. He loved her very much.”
“The masculine version of whither thou goest, I will go—”
She smiled. “Exactly. Not too many around these days.”
Klauder squatted and looked out the open end of the boathouse to the rain-shrouded lake, seeing Fen drifting out there until the kids had flipped the skiff. He remembered taking off for Baltimore in a stiff southwest wind. That morning, the skiff would have been bobbing enough not only to throw off a long-range killing shot but one from a boat alongside. Far more likely he’d been dead when sent out there. If so, there had to be blood somewhere, but Meg said they’d found nothing in the house. Anything they’d missed outside would be washed away now.
Washed away.
He ran an index finger over the thick planks of the landing. Wet. Only to be expected in high humidity with the lake making little slapping sounds less than two feet below. But perhaps too wet. He gouged at a plank with a key. The wetness was too deep for surface moisture, too deep for planking that had baked under cover for two days in dry weather.
He pivoted slowly. Arms folded, she watched silently.
There it was. Meticulous Fen had run a water line to the boathouse, the coiled hose alongside a twelve inch shelf fastened to the wall, a knife handle projecting from a slot. No cleaning of fish in Mrs. Dexter’s nice kitchen. Fen would bring them in ready for the pan or freezer. And use that hose to wash down the shelf, planking, and skiff.
A burst of wind-driven rain suddenly drummed across the roof.
The hose could have been used to wash away any blood. By the time Meg looked, the surface would have appeared dry. And if not completely, so what? Wasn’t the lake right below?
When he stood upright, she said, “You look pleased with yourself.”
He smiled. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
“You’ve come up with something. What is it?”
“Are you certain you didn’t shoot your uncle to inherit his house?”
“I couldn’t shoot anyone, not even my ex, although I’m sure a jealous woman or an irate husband will one of these days. Now tell me what you saw, because I’ve been looking at the same things and seen nothing.”
He explained. “I think he was killed right here. Let’s call Meg.”
They walked up the wet, grassy slope, Klauder with a comfortable feeling of having walked in the rain with her sometime, somewhere before.
“Do you intend to sell?”
“I’m not certain. My life at the moment is far from settled. Perhaps I’ll move here. I’ve been thinking I need a change.”
Thinking of Meg and her fish and wildlife commission, he said dryly, “At least you don’t have to be told. I’ll lead the parade that welcomes that decision, but if you decide to sell let me make the first offer.”
They took a few steps before she spoke. “If you like, but I warn you that I drive a hard bargain and the price may be—”
He almost chuckled aloud. Evidently Meg hadn’t gone too far in her matchmaking. “More than an employee of the sheriff’s office can afford?”
“Well—”
They reached the patio before she paused.
“Oh Lord,” she said softly. “Now I know why the name was so familiar. You’re that Klauder, too. I’ve admired your work.”
“Thank you.” He grinned down at her. “But don’t think you can boost the price. I drive a hard bargain myself.”
She smiled. “Negotiations should be very interesting.”
Hank waved him to the phone in the kitchen. “A bit more private.”
He told Meg what he thought. “If I’m right, forensic should find traces of blood on those planks.”
Her voice had an unexpected warmth. “I’m going to miss you, Klauder. Now think about this. The autopsy report says digestion had barely begun. Since the people who knew him say he usually had breakfast about seven, that would make the time of death about eight or so. And the slug that killed him was soft lead that bounced off a rib and destroyed his heart. So distorted the gun can’t be identified, but the slug weighs about eighty grains. Not your everyday type of ammo, and probably out of an older .32 caliber piece. Another interesting bit that might knock your theory in the head. The gouge on the rib shows the bullet entered on an upward path of about twenty degrees. If he’d been settled in that chair—”
He thought for a moment. “A rower faces toward the stern. With power, you face forward, which is how his chair is mounted. He’d have been tilted backward just about twenty degrees all right, but the shot would have to be fired parallel to and about thirty inches above the bottom of the boat. Can you see someone popping up over the bow and pulling the trigger?”
“Only a frogman in a movie, and he’d have used something high-tech. Look around a bit more. I’ll be out with the forensic crew.”
Hank appeared. “I’m leaving now. You ready?”