“Did you hear the dog bark last night?”
The sudden change of subject caught her by surprise.
Shannon’s hands were beneath the top of the table, out of the chief’s view, but I could see them open and close, open and close. She was frightened.
“The dog?”
He didn’t repeat the question. He waited, his gaze steady and demanding.
“I don’t think so.” Her hands opened and closed. “I was asleep.”
I dropped down, whispered in the chief’s ear. “Ask if she heard her mother go outside.”
He went rigid for an instant, then cleared his throat to hide the tiny hiss of my words. “What time did your mother go outside?”
Her eyes flared wide. She waited an instant too long to reply, then said quickly, “Mom didn’t go outside.” There was stark fear in her eyes. “If anybody said so, that’s a lie.” She pushed up, struggling for breath. “Mrs. Dunham wanted Jack to die. Talk to her.”
Chief Cobb leaned back in his chair. “You were angry with your uncle. You threatened him.”
“For the record”—Jimmy’s voice was dull—“I didn’t push Jack—”
The door opened. Detective Sergeant Price strode around the table. He carried a gallon-size plastic bag, holding it by the zipped top. He placed the bag on the table.
Chief Cobb looked down at a picture of a handsome young man in a cap and gown. The picture was not framed.
Price pointed. “Found this photograph in the murder suite, slipped into a coffee-table book about Yellowstone. Good work by Officer Woolley. She flipped through the books one by one and noticed that a page seemed too thick. She looked closer and saw tape at the top and bottom, keeping two pages together. When she used a razor to slit the tape, it opened and the photograph fell out. Pretty clever.”
I agreed. A clever hiding place devised by Ronald Phillips, a clever officer to find it.
Jimmy craned to see. He frowned.
Chief Cobb glanced from the photograph to Jimmy. “Do you know him?”
“Sure. That’s Ryan Dunham.” Jimmy appeared puzzled. “I don’t see why his picture was in the Phillipses’ room. Ryan’s a great guy. That’s strange.”
Cobb made no reply to Jimmy. He looked toward the detective. “Has the photograph been checked for prints?”
Price nodded.
“Then I’ll keep it for now. Thanks, Hal.”
At the door, Price looked back. “We have everybody’s prints here in the house. We’ll see if there’s a match on the gun. We still need prints from Alison Gregory and the Dunhams.”
“I want to talk to them first.”
Price nodded.
As the door closed, Cobb turned back to Jimmy. “You were angry with your uncle?”
Jimmy looked bleak. “Yeah. But like I said, I didn’t kill Jack. Maybe I would have punched him. I wouldn’t kill him. Ditto for Laverne and Ronald.” He took a deep breath. “I suppose I have to tell you. I was outside last night. I couldn’t sleep.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I took a long walk. There was plenty of moonlight. Maybe I walked a couple of miles, maybe more. I came back by the gazebo. Somebody was walking away from the house, across the grass. I didn’t think much about it. Maybe somebody else couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I was trying to figure out what was going on with the nutty Phillipses. I didn’t really think anybody pushed Jack. I mean, that was crazy. I thought that snake—yeah, well, he’s dead now—anyway, I thought Ronald was trying it on, thinking he could squeeze more money out of Mom. See, Mom heard me yell at Jack and she’s easy to scare. I was trying to decide what to do. But what can you do when somebody says something and you can’t prove it’s a lie? Anyway, I was mad and tired and I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I almost ducked back the way I’d come, but then I saw him stop and look back, almost turn, then head toward me again. I knew it was a man. Maybe that’s why I stopped. If it was Ronald, I was going to…Well, that doesn’t matter now. Anyway, I waited. When he got about halfway to the opening to the Dunhams’, I saw it was Mr. Dunham. He stopped again and looked back. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the moonlight. He stood there for a minute and then he jerked around and hurried toward the gate.” Jimmy’s face furrowed in misery. “Clint Dunham was my scoutmaster. Ryan”—he nodded toward the photograph—“is one of my best friends. Maybe Mr. Dunham couldn’t sleep, too. Maybe he was outside and heard Walter and wondered about the noise.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed. “Was the dog following him?”
“No.”
“Did you hear the dog?”
“When I was over by the lake, I thought I heard him yipping. But I didn’t pay any attention. Sometimes he stays in, sometimes he goes out. If he sees anybody, he barks his head off. Same thing if he finds a rabbit. The thing is”—Jimmy looked burdened—“this morning in the toolshed, Walter had a rawhide bone. It was chewed slick. He loves that stuff. Anytime you want to make Walter happy, give him a rawhide bone.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
