Now was the time to ask.
Outside the stable, I swirled into being, strode quickly across the uneven ground, rapped smartly on the open barn door. “Police.”
“Coming.” He reached the barn entrance. His angular, attractive face held no hint of uneasiness. “Officer.” He sounded puzzled. “Is there a problem?” He looked past me. No police cruiser was parked behind me. “Car trouble?”
My hope of intimidating Tucker Satterlee plummeted, like a lead sinker in a pond. I ignored his question. “Mr. Satterlee, where were you at eleven o’clock tonight?”
He looked surprised. “Eleven? Hey, that’s about the time I heard a lot of noise, sirens and stuff. I wondered what was going on. Are you looking for a fugitive?” There was nothing but curious inquiry in his face and voice.
I was polite but brisk. “You are a person of interest in a murder that was committed at approximately eleven P.M.”
He stiffened, his face hard, his good humor gone. “Somebody’s mixed up, got some other guy in mind. Not me. Around eleven o’clock I was making sure a heifer’s first delivery went okay. That’s how I happened to be outside and hear the noise. If you want to ride over to the pasture with me, I’ll introduce you to the calf, a pretty little black baldy heifer.”
I knew the kind of calf well, all-black with a white face, a cross between a black Angus cow and a Hereford bull.
“Now, unless you need my help”—he was curt—“I need to cool down Big Sal, brush off the salt, and put her in the corral.” He started to turn away, then stopped, waved his hand. “You folks can make free on Burnt Creek if it helps you in your search. And I’ll let you know if I run across anything funny.”
Tucker Satterlee had an answer for everything. I didn’t doubt the newborn calf existed and her Angus mother. No one could prove the birth had occurred earlier than eleven o’clock. Nor could I prove his presence or, as a matter of fact, the presence of any of the heirs at the brick plant.
Frowning, arms folded, he stared at the top of the table, which was covered by taped-down black plastic garbage bags. Displayed were Kim’s open purse, the leather streaked and misshapen from immersion, and the purse’s contents: twenty-two pistol, comb, lipstick, compact, Tide washout stick, nail file, cell phone, disintegrating photo folder with limp prints separated and spread out, billfold open and emptied.
Where was the will? Even though I held out little hope that the ink writing would be legible, a sodden square envelope was not among the items on the table.
Chief Cobb swung around as his door opened. His demeanor was grim and intent.
Fatigue didn’t weigh as heavily on Detective Sergeant Price. He looked vigorous, his step buoyant. He was as attractive as always, white-blond hair, grayish-blue eyes, interesting and compelling face with a bold nose and chin. A folder tucked under one arm, he strode to the table with his usual energy, a man always in a hurry. “We went through Weaver’s apartment like locusts. Not a trace, Sam.”
The chief grimaced. He gestured wearily at the table. “The will was supposed to be in her purse.”
Price slapped his folder on the table and looked quizzical. “Your source good?”
Chief Cobb glanced at the still-smudged blackboard. “Horse’s mouth. I would have bet the house on it.”
I wasn’t sure the attribution appealed to me, but I appreciated his confidence.
Price turned his large hands palms up. “You lost.”
“The same source tipped me to the brick plant.” Again he gave a furtive glance at the blackboard.
Price’s sandy eyebrows rose. “The source had that one right. In fact”—he pointed at a green folder—“I got confirmation from the lab. A rifle slug was in the front right tire. Too smashed to be identified. We know what happened because we were there, but if we hadn’t known to look for a slug, nobody ever would have. Besides, the car would probably never have been found and she would have been tagged a missing person.”
He rested one hip against the table, glanced over the exhibits. “Now we got the car, we got a body, we got proof of murder. As for the will, maybe it fell out of the purse and was thrown clear when the car went over.”
Cobb was brusque. “Purse was zipped when they pulled the car out.”
Price’s blue eyes were sardonic. “Maybe the horse’s mouth on the will was like most race tips: wishful thinking. Maybe there never was a new will.”
Chief Cobb settled his shoulders like an obdurate bulldog refusing to budge from the food bowl. “There’s a will. I talked to the man who signed it as a witness Saturday night. Susan Flynn brought the will to his house and signed it. She had him read it, and the terms correspond to what she’d told Wade Farrell to draw up. Farrell’s really upset by the idea that Kim Weaver intercepted the will. He said we can look anyplace we want to in his office, including Kim Weaver’s desk. I don’t expect to find anything. Obviously, if she kept quiet about the will, she didn’t make a nice little notation recording its arrival.
“Anyway, there is—or was—a will. That’s why Kim Weaver died. We may never find the will. A lot of things are possible. Maybe Weaver took the will out of her purse, laid it on the car seat. When they brought the car up, it was full of water. One of the windows broke on impact. The will could have washed right out of the car and turned into mush. Maybe she stopped on her way to the brick plant and left it somewhere and very likely we’ll never find it. Right now, the will doesn’t matter. We have the testimony of the witness that it existed. That’s all we need to provide a motive for her murder. The existence of the previous will gives us the identities of the people who were better off, big bucks better off, if the new will wasn’t produced.”
The chief wriggled his shoulders as if trying to ease strained muscles. “Here’s how I see it. One of Susan Flynn’s original heirs or Peg Flynn’s boyfriend overdosed her on digitalis Saturday night to make sure she wouldn’t sign a new will Monday morning, leaving everything to her grandson. Oddly enough”—there was a strange
