“Of course not,” Stewart said, and Haskell nodded. He pulled up a chair for me and then joined Stewart on the sofa. Stewart leaned against him.
“I don’t want you to think I’m nuts,” I said, “but I think there might have been another murder, a couple of months ago.”
“What? Who? Who was murdered?” Stewart jerked upright.
“I think maybe Peter Vanderkeller,” I said.
“Wasn’t he the head of the library?” Haskell said. “The one who just up and quit one day?”
I nodded. “Yes. Except that I’m not so sure he left voluntarily. I’m afraid someone else arranged his departure.”
“Why do you think so?” Haskell asked.
After a moment to marshal my thoughts, I gave them a summary of what little evidence I had. It didn’t amount to a lot, except speculation, a series of ifs, but I couldn’t get over my uneasy feeling.
“What are you going to do about it?” Stewart asked when I’d finished.
“Go to Kanesha at some point,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to her about it yet, though, because it’s all rather tenuous.”
“You have some plan in mind, though, don’t you?” Haskell asked.
I nodded. “I thought about going to Peter’s house to see if it’s inhabited. If someone is living there, I can ask them if they bought it or are renting and see if they have any information on where Peter is now. If it’s empty, well, that could be evidence of a sort that I’m right.”
“Or that he simply walked away from his life here and didn’t look back,” Stewart said.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Peter had a thing about money. He was frugal, and I can’t imagine him abandoning his house without trying to get at least some of his money back out of it.”
“Good point. Since neither of us knew him, we’ll have to take your word for that.” Stewart rose from the sofa and tugged at Haskell’s arm.
“Why are you doing that?” Haskell frowned.
“Because you don’t think we’re going to let Charlie go by himself, do you? Come on, Mr. Deputy, and bring your gun.” Stewart grinned and batted his eyelashes at his partner.
Haskell stared at him for a moment, and I thought he was going to refuse. Then he, too, rose. “What are we going to do with the kids?”
“They can come with us,” I said. “Diesel is used to riding in the car.”
“I’ll go get them.” Stewart left the room and came back moments later with Dante in his arms. Diesel yawned as he padded behind Stewart.
Five minutes later we were all in my car. Stewart sat in the back with the animals, and Haskell was in the front passenger seat. He had strapped on his holster and gun, and I was glad he was with us.
Peter’s house was in a neighborhood about a ten-minute drive away on the other side of town. A newer development, it had been built in the 1980s. The houses were large and on good-sized lots, though some had since been torn down and larger houses built in their place.
Daylight saving time wasn’t for another week yet, and it was getting pretty dark by the time we reached Peter’s house. I parked on the street in front. I cracked the windows for Diesel and Dante, and we locked them in. Dante barked until Stewart shushed him. Diesel meowed along with the dog, but he quieted when Dante did.
The house was set back from the street and obscured mostly from view by a high hedge and several trees. We walked up the driveway until we were even with the hedge, and I saw there were a couple of lights on inside. We paused but saw no signs of activity in the house.
“Good evening,” a voice called from behind us. “If you’re looking for Mr. Vanderkeller, I haven’t seen him around lately.”
We turned to see an older man, probably in his seventies, walking a large German shepherd on a leash.
“Good evening,” I said, and introduced myself. “I used to work with Peter, and I hadn’t heard from him in a while. My friends and I thought we’d drop by and see how he’s doing.”
The elderly man didn’t introduce himself. “He’s always kept to himself. Never has been much for talking to his neighbors.” The dog whined, no doubt having scented, or heard, Diesel and Dante in the car not far away. “Quiet, Schnitzel,” he said.
“So you haven’t seen him lately?” Stewart asked.
I looked around for Haskell and didn’t see him. Where had he got to? Then I spotted him lurking behind the hedge. I figured he didn’t want to risk the neighbor seeing his gun. Good idea. The old gentleman might go home and call the police if he saw a man with a gun.
“No, sure haven’t.” The man scratched the side of his nose. “Reckon the last time wasn’t long after New Year’s Day. Saw him putting his garbage out one morning when Schnitzel and I were walking past.” He paused. “Come to think of it, haven’t even seen his car going in or out, either.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I guess we’ll go knock on the door and see if he’s home.”
“I hope he’s all right,” the man said, suddenly sounding worried. “I guess I ought to’ve checked on him, but he’s always been so darn funny about that kind of thing.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Stewart said. “We’ll check on him. You and Schnitzel have a good evening.”
We waited until he was about fifty feet down the walk before we joined Haskell on the other side of the hedge.
“Were you checking out the house?” Stewart asked in a low tone.
“Yes,” Haskell said, “and I’ve already called 911.”
“Why?” Stewart and I asked in startled unison.
“There’s a body hanging in the kitchen, and it’s been there for quite a while.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Had I been a drinking man, I would have gone home that night and probably drunk an entire bottle of, well, something. As it was, I had to make do with a mug of warm milk and three aspirin.
As I was the only person present who was acquainted well enough with Peter Vanderkeller, I was asked to provide a tentative identification.
I say tentative because, well, Peter wasn’t in the best condition after hanging in the kitchen for two months. I was pretty sure it was him, but to be absolutely positive they would have to use his dental records, or something. There was a note with the words I’m sorry scrawled on them. Not much of a suicide note, and I didn’t believe it for a minute.
For one thing, Peter wasn’t a tall man, and there was no chair or ladder anywhere close enough for him to stand on, in order to hang himself from the exposed beam like that. The killer hadn’t thought that one through.
It would be a long time before I would be able to remember poor Peter without wanting to be ill in the bushes, the way I was that night.
Last night, really, though mercifully it somehow seemed more distant this morning. I’d had only about five hours’ sleep, and I was up by five thirty trying to put the purchase orders and invoices back into their folders. I was going to hand them over to Kanesha later, along with a summary of my thoughts that led me to wonder about Peter and his whereabouts.
The news of Peter’s death would not be released for several hours yet. Kanesha wanted time to investigate my suggested leads further before the announcement was made.
I still wasn’t sure who had murdered Peter, or exactly why. Had he stumbled on the embezzlement and made the mistake of confronting the embezzler, who then decided the only way to avoid exposure was to kill Peter and make it look like he had committed suicide?
I had another sip of coffee. One sticking point was the overspending. Those invoices, all from legitimate companies for legitimate resources—unlike those from Global Electronic Resources—were authentic, I felt sure. Checking with the companies concerned would show that, but the question was, who okayed the purchases and when had they asked for the invoices?
The process would have taken a few days, if not a week or two, I thought. That argued premeditation on the killer’s part, because it took time to set up the apparent motive for Peter’s suicide.