Chapter Four

           
            Rachel Villeneaux was the department’s most effective information gatherer, and she’d put together an impressive amount of data in a short time.
            Trixie and Dan took the files and set up in the small conference room, adjacent to the main bullpen that held their regular desks. They were used to working together and made a good team. Dan had been ahead of Trixie when they met at the police academy years earlier, but the two had hit it off and now were the best of friends as well as colleagues.  Dan made a pot of coffee, and Trixie resurrected a couple of burritos from the freezer and zapped them in the microwave.
            After a while Trixie tossed the document she’d been reading through aside. “A guy like this—she’s not our only suspect, you know.”
            Dan raised his dark brows. “Hey, I agree with you, but she is a suspect. The way you and Brian were acting earlier, it seemed as if you’d already crossed her off the list, which isn’t like you.”
            “It really isn’t, is it?” Trixie agreed, snagging a cookie from the packet she’d opened when the burrito hadn’t quite satisfied her late night hunger. “I am a naturally suspicious person, plus, I don’t really like rich people, so I find it kind of strange.”
            “You don’t like rich people?” Dan repeated. “Don’t let Mart hear you say that.”
            “Di doesn’t count—even if I haven’t got to know her or re-know her, all that well. She was way poorer than us when she was growing up.”
            “So, it’s only people who’ve been rich a long time you don’t like?”
            Trixie poked her tongue out at him. “You know what I mean. They’re often privileged and spoiled and entitled—think they’re above the law, but….”
            “But?”
            “But, the very fact that old meathead was banging on about she had to be guilty and how we needed to give it to them…it made me think.”
            “What?”
            “That prejudice can go both ways and that mine might be acting up. Brian has pretty good instincts about people and he trusts her.” She held her hand up as Dan began to protest. “I’m not convinced either way, but the very thought that I would convict someone based on their financial status makes me want to poke myself in the eye with a sharp object, so let’s keep digging. My own instincts are starting to say Craig Houghton was a bit of a scumbag and that should give us a nice wide field to play in.”
 
            Honey thanked God for caller ID as she screened her phone calls the following morning. Her father had suggested she turn it off, put it aside and ignore the house phone altogether. Once upon a time she might have done just that, but she was in her own home and shouldn’t have to hide. Of course most of the numbers were withheld or unfamiliar and those she did ignore—she might be naïve but she was not stupid. She spoke to Ben, who, in spite of his sometimes reckless nature, was warm and supportive, to her mother who cried only a little and told her that she loved her, to Jim who was flying back from Chicago and would be with her before the day was out and to her friends who both offered to come over and sit with her.
            She had no doubt that the police would return. The college courses she’d taken years ago, coupled with all that television viewing, told her that much. There would be more questions—some of them prying and unpleasant—and undoubtedly she would discover more about her husband’s activities and associates. That would upset her mother. Madeleine had been fond her son-in-law, but then Craig had gone out of his way to charm her. He charmed me once, too, Honey thought. For the longest time. Was any of it real?
            She knew she was still in shock, but she couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong with her.  The sight of Craig on the floor of the study, bloody and broken, was burned into her mind—horrific, grotesque.  Nobody should die that way. But although she felt revulsion and dismay and regret, she was not heartbroken, not even sad, if she were really honest with herself. Craig had sometimes said she was cold. Maybe he was right.  Voices sounded below and she knew her solitude, her reprieve, was over. Stealing herself, she smoothed the folds of her skirt and prepared for the worst.
 
            “So, nothing untoward in the autopsy results?” Brian asked as he poured coffee for Eloise and himself. They were in his office in the county building where both police headquarters and the coroner’s office were located. In a layout that fully supported all filmic clichés, the morgue was located in the basement of the old brick building. Brian supposed natural light would be wasted on a lot of its inhabitants.
            “Got the third bullet—lodged in the heart, so probably the kill shot,” his co-worker replied.
            “Probably,” he agreed with a wry grin.
            “The three shots were close together,” she added. “I’d estimate from four or five feet away. He would have been standing at the time.”
            Brian frowned. “So, he’s likely to have seen his killer, presumably known them. Or at least was familiar with them.  I can’t see someone just strolling into that house unannounced, and that means he was comfortable enough to turn his back on whoever it was.”
            “And they had a steady hand. Bang, bang, bang!” Eloise demonstrated. “I’m guessing he was taken by surprise or else the wounds wouldn’t have been so close together.”
            “Meaning the killer was no threat.”
            “Right. Like a wife who a stiff breeze would blow away.”
            Brian’s frown deepened. “That’s jumping to conclusions, isn’t it?”
            “Sure, but that’s what they have the cops for. You and I usually take stabs at possible perps, even though that’s not our thing.” She sported a frown of her own.
            “Something up with the wife?”
            “No! Why?”
            “Just as well you’re not a cop,” she said. “You’d never be able to lie to suspects.”
            “Fine.” Brian knew that this woman knew him too well. “She seemed sweet, and I can’t easily see her as a killer.”
            “Lizzie Borden probably seemed sweet.”
            “Lizzie was never convicted.”
            “Doesn’t mean she didn’t do it.”
            “What if she didn’t?” Brian demanded. “She spent the rest of her life tainted by that crime, judged by those around her. People believed she was guilty. It must have been awful.”
            “Take it easy. Lizzie’s been dead a long time. She doesn’t care anymore.”
            “Funny.”
            “Look, maybe you’re right. But you know what we need to do.”
            “Follow the evidence,” Brian intoned, knowing he’d said it a hundred times before.
“Right. So, here’s my report. I’m still waiting on a tox screen, but he was a thirty-six-year-old white male, medium build, five-eleven, perfectly healthy—apart from the dead thing.”
“Always the diplomat.”
“I did consider a career in the diplomatic core. It’s their loss, I imagine.” She drained the last of her coffee.
“Don’t know how we maintain international relations without you.”
“Is that sarcasm, Belden? ‘Cause you know better than to mess with a Harlem girl, farm boy.”
Brian snorted. “Have you forgotten? I’ve been to the house you grew up in. And met your parents. Hardly mean streets territory.”
“Says the guy who grew up in the modern day equivalent of Mayberry. All corn fed and wholesome.”
“Iowa’s the corn fed one or maybe it’s Kansas,” Brian mused. “We were tomato and kale fed.”
“What a combination. No wonder you turned out this way. Do you want to run this up to Mangan? I’ve left a copy on your desk.”
Brian glanced at his watch. He had some paperwork to catch up on, but he did want to know if there’d been an update on the case. He opened his mouth to say yes when he caught a glimpse of something in Eloise’s inky eyes.
“No, you take it,” he said. “I want to finish that report I was working on and file it.” I’ll call Trixie in a while, he thought. She’ll fill me in. In the meantime, I will concentrate on my real job, and then I’ll call Karen and reschedule that date. Smiling at his own logical, practical plan, Brian set to work.
 
Jim Frayne glanced at his watch and huffed impatiently. That would teach him to fly commercial. The plane had departed late and, he wouldn’t be back in Westchester County until later than he’d hoped. Oh, well, at least Honey wouldn’t be disappointed. He hadn’t updated her when he’d managed to secure an earlier flight and they might still gain some time in flight, getting him back late afternoon. A frown creased his brow and his usually open, friendly freckled face was closed, set.
Honey was the closest thing he had to a sister. Having been orphaned when he was only thirteen, he’d escaped the clutches of a vicious stepfather, eventually having a guardian appointed by the courts when a distant relative left him a small fortune.
George Rainsford was his great-uncle’s solicitor, a decent man, and a good friend of Matthew Wheeler, who’d also extended his friendship to the wary teen. Jim had started out interning at one of Wheeler International’s companies and eventually got to know Honey.  At first he found her kind of cool—almost stuck-up. She’d been brought home from her overpriced, over-privileged boarding school—her words— following an illness, and trying to ignite her interest, Matthew Wheeler had brought her into the office one day, and then another. Jim soon discovered that she was warm and caring, a little shy and uncertain, and it had brought out the protector in him.  Gradually, Honey gained confidence in herself and her ideas, and he knew, unlike others, that she worked hard at her job and contributed to the company’s success.
Her husband was a whole other story. Jim shifted in his seat, struggling to find a comfortable position. At just over six feet he found the narrow, unfamiliar, coach seats, jammed close together confining.  He’d never liked Craig Houghton—never really thought he was good enough for Honey—even when the two were happy together, which they hadn’t been for quite some time.
The man was dead and maybe that meant his thoughts should be more charitable, but in a strange way the news hadn’t surprised Jim. Some time ago, he’d begun to suspect that Matthew Wheeler’s son-in-law was skating pretty close to the wind and headed for an almighty crash. What exactly Houghton had been up to, Jim couldn’t say, but the charming, accommodating man who’d persuaded the head of one of the largest conglomerations around that he was good enough for his only daughter had slowly disappeared, leaving a disaffected, disinterested man who spent more time hanging with celebrities and politicians than he did actually working.
In Jim’s mind that was bad enough. He took his work and responsibilities very seriously, but he supposed it wasn’t really his business if Craig Houghton dropped the professional ball. But the way he treated Honey was a whole other story.
The two had been happy—a whirlwind courtship, a lavish wedding, and Craig had danced attention upon his new bride. He’d been solicitous towards his wife and conscientious in his work. But slowly, things began to change. It wasn’t much at first—a missed family dinner or business appointment. Then cancelling plans became more common, and Jim started to hear rumblings—professional and private—that signalled real problems.
He’d wrestled with that. Did he confront Craig, consult Matt Wheeler or confide in Honey? In the end he chose the latter. Even if it hurt her, he couldn’t stand the idea of her being kept in the dark. She didn’t deserve that.  Growing up, she’d been shunted from boarding school to camps, from nannies to governesses, and he knew she hated being treated as if she was some sort of pawn or object to be moved about without consultation.
Strangely, when he did finally sit down with her, Honey was far from shocked. And she seemed more far concerned, angry even, to hear that her husband might be doing the wrong thing at work than she was about other rumours. Not that she didn’t believe those other rumours, but she’d confessed then that she’d moved to the third floor a couple of months earlier and was trying to work out if her marriage was worth saving.
In Jim’s opinion it wasn’t, but he understood why she didn’t just cut her losses and move on. Honey was a “Why?” person. Why did people behave the way they did? Make the choices they did? And if understanding Craig was something she needed to do, then he was fully prepared to support her.  Of course he had the distinct feeling that Craig’s why might not have met with Honey’s approval, and one thing he did know about her was that she was fiercely loyal—to her family and her friends. If Honey had discovered that Craig was hurting anyone she really cared about…
Jim felt the thought forming in his brain and pushed it away angrily. What the hell was wrong with him? Honey was kind and thoughtful and rarely lost her temper. No matter what Craig had done, she’d never have resorted to violence. He was tired and cramped and worried, and he’d seen way too many murder mysteries.  Whoever had killed Craig Houghton, it was most certainly not Honey Wheeler.   
 
 
BHMAIN:                                                                                                                                           NEXT  
 
Author's notes: My thanks go as ever to my wonderful editor Dana for all that she does.  Also to my readers—you are so generous with both your time and your praise. Trixie Belden et al belong to Random House and not to me. No profit is being made from these scribblings.