Kim had slipped a small pistol into her purse. She’d been confident she had all the cards, but the joker was out.
Leon smacked a fist into a palm. “I got to do something. I don’t know what, but I got to do something.” His face was burdened by grief.
I looked at him gravely. “There might be a way you could help trap Susan’s killer. It would be dangerous.”
He stepped toward me. “You name it.” There was no mistaking his determination. “I’ll do it.”
The table was laden with food. The good women of the church never fail in times of trouble. As I’d expected, Wade and Cindy Farrell were among those at the house. Cindy Farrell sat on a sofa, helping Keith pull apart and put together a Russian matryoshka doll fashioned after a penguin. The outer doll with a black head, huge eyes, yellow beak, blue bow tie, and white bottom held four smaller replicas. Cindy murmured, “One penguin, two, three penguins, four…”
I popped into the hallway, waited until it was empty, and swirled into being. I chose a black jacquard jacket with white floral trim and a black A-line silk skirt and black heels. In the living room, I walked to the table laden with fried chicken, casseroles, and salads. However, this was no time to overindulge. I needed to be alert. I chose chicken salad, fruit, and a croissant. I edged nearer Wade Farrell. I enjoyed my repast and waited patiently until he was free.
He nodded as a woman turned away, then looked around the room, likely seeking his wife.
I stepped up to him. “Mr. Farrell, may I speak privately with you for a moment? I was with Susan Flynn Saturday night when she signed her new will. I’m sure Chief Cobb explained the circumstances to you. If you’ll come this way, we can use Susan’s study.”
He studied me, his eyes narrowed, his broad face wary. “The police are looking for you.”
“The police station is my next stop.” Telling the truth usually convinces a listener. “I fully intend to consult with Chief Cobb, but I need to speak with you first.”
“In that event, I don’t see any harm in talking to you.” He turned and walked toward the hall.
When we stepped into Susan’s study, I turned on the light and closed the door. I had a plan, but I needed help from Wade Farrell. “Mr. Farrell, Leon Butler signed Susan’s new will. If he swears that he saw Susan Saturday night and she gave him her new will and he read and signed it, can the judge say the old will is invalid?”
“Absolutely not.” Farrell folded his arms. “Only the production of the signed document will suffice.”
I was rocked by that knowledge. I suppose my face revealed the depth of my despair.
“She signed the will.” I was forceful. “I saw her sign it. Leon saw Susan sign it.”
Farrell looked unhappy. “I wish it were that easy. But the judge won’t set aside an existing document on the unsupported word of a witness. Don’t you see? There’s no proof.”
I began to pace. The trap I’d hoped to set wouldn’t work.
“I’m sorry.” He was clearly regretful. “I can see why you thought that might be the case. I suppose it must seem simple to a nonlawyer, but I can assure you that Judge Blackburn is a stickler for procedure. If I went into his court and offered Leon Butler as a witness to a new will that can’t be produced, the judge would chew on me like an old cigar.”
“I don’t know why people’s word can’t be taken. Leon Butler has an excellent reputation.” I knew I sounded snappish. Wade Farrell hadn’t created the laws. I couldn’t blame him. I flung out my hands. “Don’t you see? Susan’s murderer always reacts immediately to a threat. Kim Weaver offered the new will in exchange for a reward. The murderer responded with a rifle shot. I believe the murderer will try to kill Leon Butler if you call together the heirs and tell them Leon signed the new will and his sworn testimony would be enough to declare the old will invalid. I have no doubt Leon will be attacked.”
Farrell looked thoughtful. “You want to set a trap using Leon as bait. That puts Leon—”
I cut in sharply. “—in grave danger. Leon is eager to help and the police will keep him safe.” And I would be there as well. “You can make this possible, Mr. Farrell, none of the prospective heirs are lawyers. They will believe what you tell them.” I clapped my hands together, looked at him expectantly.
“I’d be lying.” His lips pressed together. He gave a quick head shake and turned toward the door.
“Susan was your client.”
He stopped, one hand on the door.
“You can do Susan one last great service.”
Chief Cobb and Detective Sergeant Price were finishing a late lunch from Lulu’s, the chief with a chili burger and onion rings, Price with a hickory sauce cheeseburger and French fries. I hoped they occasionally managed some grilled fish, vegetables, and fruit. They sat at the worktable near the blackboard.
Cobb dipped an onion ring in a side of horseradish sauce. He looked morose. “Like a needle to true north, I keep swinging to Tucker Satterlee. He had opportunity and motive for both murders and he’s a guy used to moving fast and making quick decisions. Nobody runs a big ranch unless they’ve got that kind of savvy. Then maybe there’s a magnetic pulse because I swing right back to Peg Flynn or Dave Lewis. It’s kind of convenient the way they’ve presumably split. I wish I had a crystal ball and could see them a year from now. Will they be Mr. and Mrs. Newlywed with a fancy clinic under construction?”
Price finished the last of his burger. “The other heirs had equal opportunity. Jake Flynn, Gina Satterlee, or one of the Hammonds could have popped the digitalis. Johnny Cain’s interview with Peg Flynn shows Kim Weaver knew all of them pretty well, so her effort to peddle the will makes sense.”
Cobb rolled up greasy papers, stuffed them in a sack. “Harrison Hammond might have been the most desperate. Kim Weaver probably had a nose for desperation.”
Price licked salt from his fingertips. “She’d have been around town enough to hear rumors. It wasn’t any secret that Hammond’s development was in big trouble. And he’s a hunter. I don’t see Jake Flynn shooting out a tire, but Peg and Gina grew up skeet shooting. I checked it out. Hammond’s wife isn’t a hunter. Opportunity and motive aren’t enough, Sam. We need evidence linking one of them to one of the crimes. Fingerprints. Or someone seen in the wrong place. As for the brick plant, no shell showed up in the area where Tucker rode this morning. Sam, we don’t have any cards.”
The chief wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “I’m afraid”—his voice was heavy—“we never will. My gut tells me somebody’s committed two murders and left no trace.”
I looked at the clock. It was half past two. To put my plan into operation required immediate action. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Wade Farrell’s office would be closed. I had to make a move now and make it fast if a trap was to be put in place today. I’d hoped to follow Precept Three: Work behind the scenes without making your presence known. But I didn’t have time to make an indirect approach to the chief.