Chapter Eighteen
Groggily, Noah answered Dallas’s phone on the bedside table. “Yah,” he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes and slipping his legs over the side of the bed.
“Noah, it’s Abbott. Can you come to Villa Maria-Sedona? It looks like my mother apprehended The Crucifix Killer for you.”
He came fully awake and alert. “Say what?”
Abbott repeated his news and gave Noah directions to the complex.
“I’m on my way,” he said and hung up.
Beside him, Dallas stirred. “What is it?”
“That was Abbott.” Noah told her what happened.
She sat up, ramrod straight. “What?”
He ran around the room, getting into clothes as he found them. “ Yeah, no kidding.”
“I’m coming with you.”
The parking lot at Villa Maria-Sedona was packed with resident and visitors vehicles, ambulances and police cruisers. Noah created a parking space by situating his truck partly on the lawn and partly on the asphalt.
They hopped out of the truck. Dallas said, “I have jurisdiction.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Let me do the talking.”
Noah nodded.
At the main entrance, Dallas flashed her badge at the uniformed cop standing watch at the front door. She pointed to Noah. “He’s with me.”
The cop nodded. “Straight through the hallway, ma’am. Second last door on your left.”
Dallas read his nametag. “Thanks, Officer Burke.”
She led the way through the double doors and into the main lobby toward the hallway. Noah’s excitement was contagious. She knew how he felt. The Crucifix Killer was a clever murderer and if this were true, that he was caught, then his incarceration would mean one less maniac on the streets. It wouldn’t matter who apprehended him, and that included eighty-year-old, one-hundred-ten pound little old ladies.
Abbott caught sight of them and met them halfway through the hallway. “I still can’t believe it.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
“Tell us what happened,” Noah said.
“Off the record. Friend to friends?” Abbott looked from Noah to Dallas.
Noah nodded at Dallas. She returned the nod to Abbott.
Abbott guided them to a dark, secluded area next to the rear entrance. “The police already questioned my mother before I arrived, but, as her attorney, I will censor all further questions from the police. Understood?”
Noah and Dallas murmured their understanding with an ‘okay’.
After a long swallow, Abbott related what happened as Calliope had told him. “I think you’ll agree once you study the crime scene she’s telling it true. She protected the victim.”
Neither Noah nor Dallas made any comment.
“Where is your mother now, Abbott?” Noah asked.
“At home in their suite. My father’s with her.”
“Was there anyone else at the crime scene besides your mother?” Noah asked.
“My father.” Abbott massaged the back of his head. “Mom ran to their suite and brought him back to the Thornhill’s, then they ran back to their suite to phone for the ambulance.”
Nothing like traipsing through a crime scene to contaminate it, Noah thought. He caught the sigh mid-way out his mouth. Even if Abbott didn’t practice criminal law, he at least knew the basics of crime scene investigation.
Noah unwrapped a stick of gum and folded the piece into his mouth. “Why don’t you stay with your mom while Dallas and I have a look at the scene?”
“Fine,” Abbott said.
“I’ll lead,” Dallas said as she entered the Thornhill suite with Noah in tow.
“I hear you.”
She walked up the uniformed cop standing at the entrance to the living room. “Who’s in charge?” she asked, draping the chain holding her badge around her neck.
“Detective Hayes. He’s inside.” The cop jerked his head over his shoulder.
Dallas turned to Noah as they walked into the room. She stopped and looked up at him. “Hayes is the lead on Katie’s case.”
“I remember.” Noah also remembered the detective’s copious notes. He appeared to know his way around a crime scene and investigation.
Noah absorbed the scene. A tall man, who Noah took as the medical examiner, was inserting a thermometer in, judging from Abbott’s description of the elderly man, Thornhill’s liver.
Another body, wearing painter’s coveralls, which according to Abbott’s theory was The Crucifix Killer, lay beside him with a silver crucifix protruding from his chest.
“Detective,” Dallas said, indicating Hayes to Noah.
Hayes walked over to them.
“Gene, this is my husband, Noah Madill,” Dallas said. “He’s―”
“I know who he is.” Hayes looked at him and smiled. “You’re the man who took two bullets defending his partner a ways back in the Ramsey matter. A difficult case, that one. But you got to the bottom of it, didn’t you?” Gene stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Noah shook his hand, feeling a mite shy with the praise.
“And now you’ve got yourself another hard case. I read about it. It may be, though, we got your man.”
“Has he been Id’d yet?” Noah asked.
Hayes checked his notes. “Harold Dunn. Ran the name through the computer and it seems he’s the nephew of Jacob Dunn, who committed suicide after he was convicted of fraud and embezzlement. The old feller on the floor was the uncle’s partner and who, coincidentally, not only testified against Dunn but was instrumental in the charges being laid against him.”
“Has the Doc anything to say?” Noah asked, remembering how tight-lipped Max was and wondering why he was at the crime scene. Hampstead should have its own ME.
“Thornhill’s been dead for at least an hour. He can’t find any visible means of death, but intimated natural causes so far, but that can change. Now, Dunn, it looks like he done killed himself by falling on the crucifix. How’s that for poetic justice?”
“So the blow to the back of the head didn’t kill him?” Noah asked.
“The doc said it wasn’t even enough to render him unconscious, probably only momentarily deterred him, but enough to make him fall forward, thus the cross into the chest.”
To Noah, it looked like Calliope was off the hook, but he asked anyway. “Accidental death?”
“Dunn, yes.”
“And Thornhill?”
“That’ll depend on the results of the toxicology tests. The Doc smelled a bitter almond-like scent on his breath.” Hayes rocked on his heels and sucked in his cheeks.
“Cyanide.” Noah’s stomach took a nosedive. He remembered what Calliope had said at the precinct a few days ago about The Third: The man should be shot! He’s a cantankerous bastard who never gives his wife, my BFF, a moment’s peace!
Calliope, what did you do?
Hayes cleared his throat. “Apparently, the deceased and Fenwick didn’t get along. They fought constantly and always over how he treated his wife, Mrs. Fenwick’s best friend. Glued his butt to a chair once, and another time fed him six squares of a laxative saying it was Belgian chocolate. See any pattern emerging here? Something that might escalate from a prank to something more serious.”
Noah made no comment. “Where’s Thornhill’s wife?”
“No one seems to know. The administrator is checking on her whereabouts now.”
Chapter Nineteen
Six weeks later….
Noah read the note from Hayes attached to a copy of the toxicology report on Thornhill.
~~Noah,
Thought you might be interested in seeing this. Get a load of the amount of lorazepam Thornhill had in his system.
I had a talk with the ol’ folks at the Villa and, with the exception of Dottie Armstrong, all the women admitted to crushing a sedative and slipping it into Thornhill’s ground coffee beans, unbeknownst to each other. One pill would have relaxed h
im, but seven at the one time done did him in!
I’m guessing the old man went out extremely relaxed and with a smile on his face.
One last thing—the cyanide. Doc found undigested apple core and seeds in Thornhill’s stomach. Mrs. Thornhill said her husband ate at least three apples a day, eating everything, stem and all. As I’m sure you’re aware, cyanides are produced by certain bacteria, fungi and algae and are found in a number of foods and plants, which would include apple seeds.
This case is officially closed.
~~ Gene
Noah chucked the report to one side of his desk and grinned.
Go figure.
* * * *
Calliope assembled The Saving Grace Brigade in the solarium. Acting as chair, she banged the gavel against the solid surface of the coffee table. “This meeting is brought to order.” When she was satisfied she had the attention of all seven women, she said, “The first order of business is to change the brigade’s name. The floor is open to suggestions.”
She sat back in the overstuffed chair and listened to the ideas of her cohorts. After a moment, her mind drifted to the change in Gracie now that The Third was no longer making her life a misery.
Silently, she examined the life of each of the women of the Villa, deciding quickly on whom to assist next.
The Brigade would soon learn what Calliope knew ― Dottie Armstrong was being mistreated by her husband.
The Brigade would not tolerate such behavior.
THE END
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