The murderer had likely pulled the gate wide and either driven, walked, biked, or, in Tucker’s case, ridden a horse to a hill overlooking the pit and waited in the shadow of the trees for Kim to arrive. As the PT Cruiser came through the gate, the rifle was lifted. When the car passed through the security light, the rifle fired. One shot and the car careened out of control.
The eruption of light, the shouts of the police, the headlights of the police cars must have shocked the murderer into immobility. But not for long. Unseen and unheard, the murderer slipped away, either to a car or bicycle hidden in shadows beyond the gate, or, if Tucker, to a tethered horse.
Inside the barn, Tucker’s sheepskin jacket hung from a hook near the door. Tucker carried the saddle and blanket to the tack room. I didn’t see a rifle or a scabbard for a rifle. He returned with a bucket of water for the horse.
I felt a twinge of uncertainty. Where were the wire cutters? Where was the rifle? Where was the rifle scabbard?
The hook where his coat hung was behind him. Quickly, I checked the pockets, both exterior and interior. A ball of twine. Two oblongs of bubble gum. A crumpled map. A half-eaten energy bar.
No wire cutter.
The horse drank, then lifted her head. He gave her a pat. “Good girl,” and began to walk her up and down.
I shook my head in self-irritation. The man might be a killer, but he was no fool. When pandemonium erupted as the Cruiser tumbled into the pit, the murderer knew immediately that Kim’s death would clearly be recognized as murder. There were ponds, a small lake, and brush-thick gullies between the brick plant and Burnt Creek, and, of course, between the brick plant and Pritchard House or Harrison Hammond’s office or home.
If Tucker Satterlee rode out tonight equipped to commit murder, he was smart enough on his return to jettison anything that could be linked to the crime. As a rancher, he would have several rifles. If he had carried a rifle tonight, I felt certain it could not be traced to him. As for wire cutters and a rifle scabbard, he likely had several of both. The lack of a firearm was no proof of his innocence.
Still, he had been out on a horse on a cold winter night. What innocent reason could there be?
If I tried to alert Chief Cobb, it would take a good while before anyone would be dispatched to question Tucker. If Tucker was the murderer, the longer time he had to relax and formulate an alibi, the less likely he was to reveal guilt when questioned.
Now was the time to ask.
Outside the stable, I swirled into being, strode quickly across the uneven ground, rapped smartly on the open barn door. “Police.”
“Coming.” He reached the barn entrance. His angular, attractive face held no hint of uneasiness. “Officer.” He sounded puzzled. “Is there a problem?” He looked past me. No police cruiser was parked behind me. “Car trouble?”
My hope of intimidating Tucker Satterlee plummeted, like a lead sinker in a pond. I ignored his question. “Mr. Satterlee, where were you at eleven o’clock tonight?”
He looked surprised. “Eleven? Hey, that’s about the time I heard a lot of noise, sirens and stuff. I wondered what was going on. Are you looking for a fugitive?” There was nothing but curious inquiry in his face and voice.
I was polite but brisk. “You are a person of interest in a murder that was committed at approximately eleven P.M.”
He stiffened, his face hard, his good humor gone. “Somebody’s mixed up, got some other guy in mind. Not me. Around eleven o’clock I was making sure a heifer’s first delivery went okay. That’s how I happened to be outside and hear the noise. If you want to ride over to the pasture with me, I’ll introduce you to the calf, a pretty little black baldy heifer.”
I knew the kind of calf well, all-black with a white face, a cross between a black Angus cow and a Hereford bull.
“Now, unless you need my help”—he was curt—“I need to cool down Big Sal, brush off the salt, and put her in the corral.” He started to turn away, then stopped, waved his hand. “You folks can make free on Burnt Creek if it helps you in your search. And I’ll let you know if I run across anything funny.”
Tucker Satterlee had an answer for everything. I didn’t doubt the newborn calf existed and her Angus mother. No one could prove the birth had occurred earlier than eleven o’clock. Nor could I prove his presence or, as a matter of fact, the presence of any of the heirs at the brick plant.
Chief Cobb was haggard in the slant of sunlight through his office windows. His hair was scarcely combed. He’d shaved but missed several patches. Bloodshot irises and dark pouches beneath his eyes spoke of little sleep. I empathized. I’d managed a few hours on the chaise longue in Peg and Keith’s room, and I’d stoked my inner spirit with a huge country breakfast of bacon, fried eggs, grits, biscuits and cream gravy at a truck stop on the outskirts of Adelaide where a traveling redhead in a sweatshirt and jeans provoked no interest, but I too felt exhausted and weary.
Frowning, arms folded, he stared at the top of the table, which was covered by taped-down black plastic garbage bags. Displayed were Kim’s open purse, the leather streaked and misshapen from immersion, and the purse’s contents: twenty-two pistol, comb, lipstick, compact, Tide washout stick, nail file, cell phone, disintegrating photo folder with limp prints separated and spread out, billfold open and emptied.
Where was the will? Even though I held out little hope that the ink writing would be legible, a sodden square envelope was not among the items on the table.
Chief Cobb swung around as his door opened. His demeanor was grim and intent.
Fatigue didn’t weigh as heavily on Detective Sergeant Price. He looked vigorous, his step buoyant. He was as attractive as always, white-blond hair, grayish-blue eyes, interesting and compelling face with a bold nose and chin. A folder tucked under one arm, he strode to the table with his usual energy, a man always in a hurry. “We went through Weaver’s apartment like locusts. Not a trace, Sam.”
The chief grimaced. He gestured wearily at the table. “The will was supposed to be in her purse.”
Price slapped his folder on the table and looked quizzical. “Your source good?”
Chief Cobb glanced at the still-smudged blackboard. “Horse’s mouth. I would have bet the house on it.”
I wasn’t sure the attribution appealed to me, but I appreciated his confidence.
Price turned his large hands palms up. “You lost.”
“The same source tipped me to the brick plant.” Again he gave a furtive glance at the blackboard.
Price’s sandy eyebrows rose. “The source had that one right. In fact”—he pointed at a green folder—“I got confirmation from the lab. A rifle slug was in the front right tire. Too smashed to be identified. We know what happened because we were there, but if we hadn’t known to look for a slug, nobody ever would have. Besides, the car would probably never have been found and she would have been tagged a missing person.”
He rested one hip against the table, glanced over the exhibits. “Now we got the car, we got a body, we got proof of murder. As for the will, maybe it fell out of the purse and was thrown clear when the car went over.”
Cobb was brusque. “Purse was zipped when they pulled the car out.”
Price’s blue eyes were sardonic. “Maybe the horse’s mouth on the will was like most race tips: wishful thinking. Maybe there never was a new will.”
Chief Cobb settled his shoulders like an obdurate bulldog refusing to budge from the food bowl. “There’s a will. I talked to the man who signed it as a witness Saturday night. Susan Flynn brought the will to his house and signed it. She had him read it, and the terms correspond to what she’d told Wade Farrell to draw up. Farrell’s really upset by the idea that Kim Weaver intercepted the will. He said we can look anyplace we want to in his office, including Kim Weaver’s desk. I don’t expect to find anything. Obviously, if she kept quiet about the will, she didn’t make a nice little notation recording its arrival.