Chapter 4
Marlowe, Oriole, Summer, and Chalcey were putting the finishing touches on the ranch house for the memorial service the next day. Chalcey was vacuuming, Marlowe and Oriole were moving furniture around, and Summer was making her famous roll ups. The camaraderie between the generations enlivened the house and lifted the mood.
Fred O’Neil, Oriole’s partner in the Sheriff’s Office, detective division, arrived to help move the furniture and set up chairs in the yard. Even in a work mode, Fred was dressed to the nines, with his Resistol Silverbelly cowboy hat, his Nocona boots, creased Levis, and ever present bolo tie.
“Oriole, got a minute. Need to talk business.” Fred imposed himself on the work party.
“Sure, time for a break anyway. Marlowe’s working me to death.”
They grabbed iced tea from the kitchen and went out on the porch. Oriole could tell the request did not bode well.
“I just got a call from dispatch. Since I was almost here I decided I’d pick you up, rather than call. We have a suspicious circumstance. Very little information. The address is really just down the road from here. Remember the Lampier place? It went into foreclosure. The realtor called it in. Drink up, I‘ll ask Summer if she can put together a couple sandwiches for the road. Never know when we‘ll be back.” Fred ambled off to find Summer and help with a make-shift dinner. Fred had become a fixture at Bear Ranch since his wife died. He spent more time at the ranch than at his own apartment in town. He had even moved his horse over to Bear Ranch so they could all ride together on the weekends.
Oriole and Fred drove the short three miles to the Lampier residence. Sitting in the circular driveway was a bright red Mercedes and sitting in the driver’s seat with her feet on the ground, heaving her guts out was Frances Pitcher, Summer’s friend of 30 years.
“Frances, are you okay? Do you need medical assistance?” Oriole had arrived at the open door and leaned down to talk to Frances.
“I’m okay. I just lost my cookies. What a horrible sight. Let me get my feet back under me and I’ll be fine.” Frances leaned over grabbed some paper napkins out of the jockey box and a bottle of water from her purse and washed up her vomit stricken face.
The Lampier residence, now in foreclosure, rose two stories, was covered with dried ivy and spread in equal wings from the massive living room. The property consisted of three acres, fenced and cross-fenced, a barn, corrals and tack room toward the back, an oversized garage/work shop, a guest house and pool long since covered in algae and a big plot for a garden. The equal wings were two master suites that took up nearly half of the 3500 square foot house. The kitchen had been remodeled by the Lampiers to the tune of $50,000.00. If it existed as a specialty item, it found its way to this kitchen. The handcrafted oak cabinets extended all the way around the kitchen. The island held the stove and one oven, while the second oven was concealed on the far wall behind more cabinets. The Sub Zero refrigerator matched the décor perfectly. Upstairs, two bedrooms broke off the winding stairs with a bath in the middle. And down the hall an office outfitted with more electrical outlets and cable than could ever be used by normal people, waited for new owners. The barn and corrals were designed by Ben Balow for thoroughbreds, with electrical and water outlets provided for the horses. The shop was a true man cave--a wood stove, a generator, a four car garage, a shower in the bath, an entertainment center that would hold a 52” flat screen and an old refrigerator. The Lampiers were upside down to the tune of $495,000.00.
Fred looked over the exterior while waiting for Frances to get her ducks in a row. “Some house.”
“Frances, are you up to telling us what happened?” he inquired.
“The bank had the cleanup crew in here for the last week. Jim from the crew called to tell me it was ready to put on the market. I came out here about an hour ago to do a final walk through. I checked the exterior buildings and then let myself in the house. I checked out the living room, the two master suites, made some notes on things that still needed to be finished and went upstairs. I checked the bedrooms and bath and made my way down the hall to the office. I opened the door, went in, and then opened the bi-fold closet doors, because sometimes the crew doesn’t clean the closet or they leave paint cans and junk. There it was, I started gagging and ran outside and grabbed my cell phone and called 911.” Frances finished her rendition and turned white.
“Frances, you don’t look so good. Put your head between your knees so you don’t pass out.” Oriole guided her head down slowly.
“Let’s take this nice and slow. What did you see?” Fred was antsy, wanting to get on with his job.
“Well, it’s like I told dispatch. There was a carpet roll in the closet.” Frances picked her head up and eyed Fred through wet hair.
“What about the carpet roll?” Oriole was trying to be a little more compassionate than her rough and tumble partner.
“I moved the roll and an arm fell out. I jumped about three feet and almost lost it. I know I screamed. Well, wouldn’t you, if an arm leaped out at you? I took off running just as fast as I could.” Frances was sucking in air.
“Was the arm attached to a body?” Fred pushed for more information.
“Well, how would I know? I ran out of there.” Frances started crying.
“It’s okay, Frances. Just take it easy. We’re going to go inside. Will you be okay out here by yourself?” Oriole threw Fred an angry glance.
Fred pulled his department issued 9mm Glock after calling in their location. Oriole palmed her gun and moved to the front deck. “You take the back. I’ll go in the front.” Oriole issued directions to the older detective.
They cleared the main floor and began to ascend the staircase, Fred in the lead. Fred cleared the first bedroom and the bath, while Oriole checked the second bedroom without making a sound. They moved in unison to the remaining room on the second floor. Fred gently opened the door and moved to the left while Oriole panned to the right. There was nothing in the room except the roll of carpet in the closet.
Fred proceeded to the tiny enclosure, bent down and touched the wrist of the arm extending from the carpet. Stiff. No pulse. He pulled the carpet back and exposed the arm. The arm was indeed attached to a woman.
“There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s call it in and get forensics out here. I’ll call for the techies, you call the ME.” Fred was the one giving directions now. Oriole had remained out in the hall on alert while Fred checked the office.