Organized for Murder Page 2

  Yet, even as she hustled to her blue van, Kate relished for a moment the heightened view boasted from the Tudor mansion's lofty setting, the tiny town below gaining a doll-like quality. She saw the distant radio tower for local talk station WHZE, where Keith was evening sports anchor. The station was small, but the management's commitment to New England sports was rock solid, and as a homegrown hockey hero, Keith was approached for the job soon after the new format became public. The four McKenzies had moved to his hometown of Hazelton, Vermont six months earlier, and lived a few miles from his parents. The move had been a good one so far. With Kate's parents deceased, she appreciated having a doting set of grandparents nearby to help out, and the girls loved being spoiled.

  Keith had played B-string goalie ten seasons with various major league hockey teams, eight while the couple was married, before blowing out a knee and calling it quits. The timing had definitely been right. All the moving and politics kept a steady strain on their marriage. Before the move she only knew Hazelton from sporadic Currier and Ives-like Christmas visits, but loved its winding rural roads and the picturesque Main Street that unfolded in open friendliness as travelers emerged from a centuries-old covered bridge at the town's eastern boundary. Kate also found being married to the returning prodigal citizen automatically made her a local. Or close enough, anyway.

  Unfortunately, sports-talkers in small New England cities did not make what even moderately-successful hockey players did. With the twins in school all day, Kate finally persuaded Keith to take on more duties around the house and allow her time to start a business. He'd balked at first, but she'd found an advocate in her motherin-law. Once Jane McKenzie stepped into the discussion, her son didn't have a chance. When he'd looked to his father, George, for moral support, the elder McKenzie just shook his head and ducked out the back door with his pipe.

  Kate smiled as she merged into traffic for the short drive home. It's always said men marry their mothers. At first, she'd felt a little uneasy about the idea, but no longer.

  A red Jeep parked at the head of their cul-de-sac barred her from entering. The vehicle was Keith's, and he had the neighborhood kids whooping and hollering as they used the paved circle for an impromptu Rollerblading rink. Two teams, players distinguished by the mismatched shirts they wore of either blue or red, battled a hard rubber puck with street sticks toward opposite goals. Kate's blond-curled daughters were the masked and dueling goalies. She parked and took her place alongside other parents watching their helmeted offspring, all clapping and whistling over the triumphs and groaning for the mis-skates.

  Meg Berman, hair fiery bright in the spring sun and still wearing garden grubbies, waved Kate over and called, "You just missed Sam dive for the puck. She saved the red team."

  Kate's daughter Samantha turned at the words and waved at her mom. The puck flew Sam's way again, courtesy of Jeremy Hendricks, daughter Suzanne's crush of the week, and this time the hard plastic flew unhindered into the net.

  "Blue team wins!" Half the kids cheered, skating to form a middle line for the best-sportsmanship handshake Keith always mandated.

  Her husband took off his helmet, his wavy brown hair tumbling free, and joined one end. "Congratulations, blue team. Red team, nice effort on your part, too. Sam, we have to work on that attention span, though. Don't forget."

  "But, Daddy, Mommy is here."

  Keith turned his hundred-watt smile Kate's way. Even after almost nine years of marriage she felt the familiar flutter in her heart.

  "Hi, honey. We're about finished." He reached out and grabbed a twin with each hand.

  "That's fine. I'll go in and start dinner. It's sloppy joes, so hurry." Kate pointed to her watch. "You don't have much time."

  The other kids and parents dispersed. Kate walked with Meg. "Looks like you've been gardening." She motioned toward her friend's gloves and the claw-like hand tool.

  "The only way to stay optimistic that something flowery will eventually come up is to keep acting like Mother Nature is on-track." Meg sighed, slipping her hand under one arm to remove a glove. "It's been too chilly this year, but I have faith the pastels will pop out soon. More important, what's the Nethercutt mansion like inside?"

  Kate rolled her eyes. "You're not going to believe it. Let me decompress for a bit, then I'll try to find words to describe the place."

  "Maybe I could come help you on the job and see it for myself," Meg coaxed, wiggling thin brows in a hopeful look that made her freckles dance.

  "You can't imagine what you're volunteering for."

  Meg's two boys, five-year-old Ben and eight-year-old Mark skated up, their wheels making a sizzling sound across the asphalt, then silence and synchronized thunks as they jumped in tandem to the sidewalk. Ben might have been smaller, but was already a match for his big bro.

  "Mom, can we go out for pizza?" Mark begged, screeching to a stop just inches from Kate's toes.

  "Please, Mom, since Dad's not gonna be home tonight?" Ben backed him up, his head just grazing Mark's shoulder. Meg's husband, Gil, a columnist for the Bennington paper, covered state government and often had to stay in Montpelier.

  Meg frowned, but Kate saw a tiny smile fighting to break free. "How can I say no when you tag team me like this?"

  "You're welcome to come share sloppy joes with us," Kate said, knowing how much the boys loved to talk hockey with Keith.

  "Can we?" they chorused.

  When their mom nodded, Kate sent everyone toward her house. "Just let me get the van in the garage."

  Five minutes later it was controlled chaos in the kitchen. The kids alternately relived successes and defeats, filling Kate in on the action she'd missed while she browned hamburger and laid out the other ingredients. She handed Suzanne a stack of place mats, then frisbeed paper plates to the boys. "You guys set the table together, okay? Get extra napkins, Sam."

  Everything was simmering nicely, both food and conversation, when the business line rang.

  "Stacked in Your Favor. Kate McKenzie speaking."

  "Mrs. McKenzie," an acid voice responded. "This is Sophia Nethercutt-White. We met today. You were working for my stepmother."

  "Yes." Kate noted how the woman's greeting neatly put her into her place. "Can I help you?"

  "Actually, no," Sophia said. "And my stepmother no longer requires your services, either. The police are here. Amelia Nethercutt is dead."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Say Goodbye to Frantic A.M.s

  Stop cluttered, crazy mornings by setting a bookcase beside the door and designating a shelf for each family member. Make sure all backpacks, lunches, homework projects, sports items, purses, briefcases, etc. are in place before bedtime. Assign each person a color, and put small plastic baskets in his/her assigned color on shelves for keys and personal items.

  *

  Kate stayed at loose ends as she shuttled her girls and the Berman boys to school the next day. When the kids piled out at the neat bricked elementary building, she wanted to go along as well, to feel she belonged somewhere. Several times she touched her pocket notebook like it was a talisman, knowing she wouldn't complete the Nethercutt job lists prepared for the rest of the week, but wanting to do something to fill the void created by Amelia's death.

  This is ridiculous. Stop being maudlin.

  She couldn't understand why she stayed rattled. While shocked about Amelia's death, she was ecstatic about the job ending, yet a little depressed about being let go. Out of sync, out of place, and out of sorts.

  The vacillating Vermont spring weather matched her frame of mind. She flipped the heater to its highest setting and resolved to drag herself out of the doldrums. Her mood lightened upon her return home to find Meg at the McKenzie front door with freshly brewed mocha lattes. Hot mocha lattes.

  "What is wrong with me?" They faced each other across the kitchen table, their hands cradling warm cups. Kate wished self-esteem heated up as easily. "Even though I've gotten what I wanted, to be free of the job, I'm still feeli
ng dissatisfied. And crazed about not finishing what I'd started. Not to mention guilty for being happy that I don't have to go back. Ugh!"

  "You can't wish a person dead just to get out of a crazy project," Meg said, smiling to soften her words. "Get off the guilt train."

  "No. I'm not sure what I'm thinking exactly. Maybe selfish I get to quit, but what a heavy price to pay. Guilt. Selfishness. Even confusion about her death."

  "Confused? Why?"

  "She was such a formidable woman. Everything about her seemed strong, from her strength of character to physical presence." Kate thought back to the exchange between Amelia and Sophia. "You should have been there the moment she told her stepdaughter she was bringing in the family lawyer to change her will. And dropping the verbal bombs to Mrs. Baxter and me about the papers for the garden club. Amelia positively radiated power. No way you would expect the woman to drop dead just a few hours later. I wonder how she died."

  She rose and grabbed the cookie jar from the countertop. "Oh, I'm just being silly. I tried to quit the job, and now I'm trying to concoct some kind of conspiracy. Why do I have all these conflicting emotions?"

  "It's the strange way closure works." Meg grabbed the first Oreo. "I remember Gil once got laid off from a job he absolutely hated. He experienced the same ambivalent feelings you're having. The only thing to do is keep busy. Get your mind working farther down your to-do list."

  "Well, there's plenty to get done," Kate moaned. "I focused earlier on what I couldn't finish, and forgot all the things I needed to accomplish to put an end to this job."

  In the next few hours she un-ordered all of the organizing materials ordered the previous afternoon and confirmed how to return anything already shipped. She mailed an itemized invoice of time and supplies used, assuming it would get forwarded to the estate's lawyer. Her cell phone felt like a permanent extension of her left hand by the time she got through to the last vendor.

  "Hey, honey." Keith walked into her home office about two o'clock, dressed in khakis and a golf shirt. "Considering you have this free day and all, would you pick up the girls so I can meet the guys for nine holes?"

  A free day? Was he kidding? Luckily Keith pulled her into an embrace before she had a chance to splutter a reply. When her mouth was no longer otherwise occupied, she said, "Okay, go. Just don't make any bets you can't win."

  He grinned and gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Thanks, Katie, I owe you one." He disappeared out the door, then called back from down the hall, "Oh, and I promised to help the girls with after school soccer practice. The assistant coach isn't going to be there."

  "In that case, you owe me more than 'one', buster."

  The only response she received in reply was her husband laughing as he closed the front door.

  *

  She may have been hoodwinked to help out with the team, but the exercise and the girls' high energy were the best tonic for Kate's soul. They all arrived back home at four-thirty, sweaty and grass-stained, and ready for a quiet evening.

  Nearly an hour later, with everyone finally fed and her kitchen back to normal, Kate pretreated and washed a load of sports clothes before retiring to the living room with a diet soda, settling on the couch next to Keith to watch the twins play Barbies. Or, in her daughters' case, argue over who had "the real" Barbie.

  Keith looked at the clock and stretched. "Guess I should head for the station." He clicked off ESPN and added, "Watching sports on TV is different since I started the radio show. I used to watch for entertainment, but now I focus more for information and technique."

  "Maybe we can deduct cable on our taxes," Kate suggested.

  He kneeled to kiss each twin goodbye. Suzanne added an extra hug before the girls resumed their argumentative play. The doorbell rang and Keith moved to answer it. Kate glanced out the front window and saw a Hazelton police cruiser sitting at the curb.

  "Honey," Keith called. "You need to come here."

  In the foyer beside her husband loomed a fifty-ish looking man wearing a dark suit. A uniformed police officer remained on the porch.

  "This is Lieutenant Johnson of the Vermont State Police and Constable Banks of Hazelton PD," Keith introduced the pair.

  "Mrs. McKenzie, we'd like to talk with you about Amelia Nethercutt," Lieutenant Johnson cut in, dragging his vowels out in a husky drawl. "You'll have to come with us to the police station. We need to take your fingerprints and get a DNA sample."

  "DNA? What's this all about?" Keith demanded.

  "My fingerprints? Why?" Kate asked at the same time.

  "For elimination purposes." The lieutenant trained a steely-gray gaze on Kate. "As I believe you are already aware, Amelia Nethercutt was found dead yesterday. The death looked suspicious when the constable here," he nodded toward Banks, "responded to the call. Given his concerns about the nature of the death and evidence at the scene, we managed to expedite the autopsy, and the results corroborated his suspicions. It's a murder case, and we've been called in to handle the investigation." Turning to Keith, he added, "Your wife is a material witness in our investigation. She was at the scene, so we need her fingerprints and DNA for elimination purposes."

  "I'm calling a lawyer." Keith grabbed the cordless phone.

  "No, don't." Kate pulled her husband into the hallway for a little privacy. "This can't be a big deal. Get a babysitter, and I'll go answer their questions. Don't worry."

  "I don't like the sound of 'material witness,'" he whispered. "It usually means the police suspect a person, but don't yet have enough evidence to make an arrest."

  She shook her head. "It means no such thing. We can't afford the extra expense of a lawyer, and I have nothing to hide. I'll answer the lieutenant's questions, and he can quickly move on to other leads."

  Keith frowned as he phoned a colleague to cover for him that night. Hours later, he waited for her in the police department lobby as she sat alone in one of the eight-by-eight interrogation rooms. The door was locked. She'd already checked three times and stopped herself from making another trip across the room to check again. She made herself breathe deeply and snapped the rubber band on her left wrist instead. Number six for the day.

  The Hazelton PD was compact and functional. The officers had ushered her through a small waiting area, past the hallway that led to the jail cells, and into this windowless box that contained nothing more than a heavy table and two chairs. The room needed a thorough cleaning, as did her hands. Kate pulled a packet of moist towelettes from her purse. She worked the table over as best she could, but it showed little improvement. The effort and feel of the cool wipe in her hand did lift her spirits a bit, however.

  She'd remembered the town constable, Jim Banks, from his easygoing manner at PTA meetings, but had never actually met him, just recognized his bushy mustache and knew two Banks teens attended Hazelton High. The oldest, a daughter, used to babysit for Meg. The state police lieutenant, Walter Johnson, looked the older of the two law enforcement officials by a good half-decade, and was unfamiliar to her. His slow drawl claimed roots to some distant place like Tennessee or Texas.

  Kate looked at her watch. After ten already. Why had they brought her in so early, only to make her wait? She'd heard doors opening and closing periodically, and assumed others were being interviewed. At least she hoped so. Her stomach knotted. They couldn't really believe she had anything to do with Amelia's murder, could they?

  An eternity passed before Lieutenant Johnson walked in with a manila folder clasped under an arm, and a steaming coffee in each hand. He offered her a cup and forced a smile. She sipped the bitter liquid and watched Johnson extract a printout of the swirls and whorls that tagged Kate to her fingerprints.

  "Yours matched those on the teapot, Mrs. McKenzie." Johnson pulled a pen from his pocket, as Constable Banks silently entered the room. The men nodded at one another. The local officer remained near the door.

  "I don't doubt what you say, Lieutenant." Kate found herself nervously twisting the dirty towelette and
dropped the cloth onto the table. "I worked there most of the day, so you'll find my fingerprints throughout the house. The bigger question you should be asking is what possible reason I might have to kill Amelia Nethercutt. I can't get paid for a job if I murder my client."

  "A witness tells us the victim said you implied you wanted out of this particular arrangement."

  "Quitting is much simpler than killing someone."

  "Which implies you did want out of the job."

  Kate blinked. The way he said it sounded ominous. Obviously, logic wasn't going to work here, at least not hers. Best to go with the original plan and simply answer the questions. "Yes, I did want out of the situation, Lieutenant, but we hadn't signed a contract. Given the sheer magnitude of the chore, coming up with a total job price was impossible. Amelia agreed to pay me by the hour. Without a contract, I could leave at any time, and I planned to do exactly that within a few days."

  Johnson made a series of lengthy notes on the pad sandwiched in the folder, stopping several times to study the wall above her head before adding more scribbles onto the hidden page. Constable Banks remained straight and silent. She shifted in her chair, wondering whether they were doing this to get her to talk.

  If so, it can't work. I have nothing to say. She did have a question, though. "How did Amelia die?"

  "The family cook found her," Johnson said. "Mrs. Baxter let Mrs. Nethercutt's lawyer in the front door, and found her employer's body when she went to announce his arrival."

  "Yes, Amelia mentioned her attorney was coming later in the day." Kate wondered whether she should elaborate on the conversation between stepmother and stepdaughter and decided there was no harm in stating facts. "She said she was updating her will now that her husband had passed on."