Chief Cobb hooked a finger to loosen his tie. “Hotter than blazes.” Beneath one arm, he held the plastic bag containing the photograph of Ryan Dunham.
Hal Price wiped sweat from his face. “Supposed to hit a hundred and one.” He carried a black case approximately a foot wide and five inches deep.
No trees shaded the path from the side door of The Castle to the gate in the shrubbery between the Hume and Dunham properties. Both men squinted against the hot, sharp brightness of blistering sunlight.
Much as I enjoyed being in the vicinity of Hal Price, I wished the chief was alone. I had much I wanted to communicate.
As Hal closed the gate behind them, they looked toward an English manor house, not a mansion like The Castle, but a nice, solid home that gleamed with care, the product of years of love. Ferns flourished in blue ceramic vases on the front porch. Red-and-blue cushions made wicker chairs inviting. Stained-glass insets gleamed in the front door.
At the base of the steps, the chief looked back toward the gate. “Maybe two hundred yards from here to The Castle.”
As they climbed to the porch, Price looked around the Dunhams’ spacious yard. “If all he wanted was a walk, he had plenty of room here.”
“I don’t think he was looking for exercise.” Chief Cobb pushed the front bell.
When the door opened, Gwen Dunham’s patrician face looked pleasant. Spun-gold hair emphasized deep violet eyes. She was lovely in a rose Shaker-stitched silk sweater and cream-colored silk trousers. The elegant, immaculate hallway behind her was a perfect setting for her cool beauty. She looked up at the chief and her face was suddenly strained. Adelaide was a small town. She might not know Chief Cobb socially, but she would recognize him as chief of police.
In the instant before Chief Cobb pulled out his wallet, opening it to provide identification, I gazed at the lawmen as if I were Gwen.
Despite his wrinkled brown suit and slightly askew tie, Chief Cobb looked formidable, tall and powerfully built. Hal Price was a man most women would sharply note, white-blond hair, rugged features, athletic build. Price’s slate blue eyes, cool and impersonal, never moved from her face.
The wallet lay open in the chief’s large strong hand. “Police. Chief Sam Cobb, Detective Sergeant Hal Price.” The plastic bag was still tucked beneath his left arm, the photograph not visible to Gwen.
Price, too, held open his billfold.
Chief Cobb spoke quietly, with no hint of threat. “There has been a crime—”
Gwen’s eyes widened. One hand sought support from the doorjamb. The arrival of police with unreadable faces at a front door evoked the terror of bad news, someone dead, someone hurt. “Ryan…” Her son’s name was a desperate whisper.
“—at The Castle. Detective Sergeant Price and I have some questions about the gathering there last night.”
Her relief was followed immediately by dismay. “Last night?”
“May we come inside, Mrs. Dunham?” His voice was polite.
“I suppose so.” She sounded uncertain and frightened. She held the door and led the way to a small living room with a white stone fireplace and comfortable chintz-covered chairs and sofas. Densely patterned wallpaper pictured a Chinese vase with stylized flowers. She gestured toward the chairs on one side of a coffee table. She sank onto a small sofa opposite the police officers.
Price placed the polymer case on the floor by his feet. The chief held the plastic bag facedown.
Gwen sat straight and rigid.
Cobb was soft-spoken. “Last night you and your husband attended a seance—”
“Is that the crime? Is it against the law to have something like that, even in a private home?” Her voice was sharp.
“The crime”—his voice was stolid—“is murder. Ronald and Laverne Phillips were shot to death late last night.” He watched her, his gaze measuring.
Gwen struggled to breathe, her violet eyes wide with horror. And fear. “Shot?” She appeared to grapple with the enormity of violent crime. “Where?” The word was a faint whisper.
“In their second-floor suite at The Castle. They were not seen again after the seance. Their bodies were found this morning around eight A.M. They had been dead for several hours. We are fully aware of everything that was said at the seance.” He placed the bag with Ryan’s photograph faceup on a coffee table.
Gwen looked old and stricken, as if every bit of life and hope had drained away.
Sam nodded at the photograph. “Your son.”
She reached out a shaking hand. “Please. Don’t do this to us. I know what you are thinking. None of it’s true.”
“Is Ryan the son of Jack Hume?” His tone was quiet.
She trembled. “Oh, he may be.” Her face crumpled. “I suppose he is.”
“Did you tell your husband about Jack Hume’s threat to contact your son unless you informed Ryan?”
“I didn’t tell Clint.” There was truth in her voice, but terror in her eyes. The cocker had barked the night she met Jack in the gazebo. Did she fear her husband had followed her, overheard her quarrel with Jack?
“Have you discussed Jack Hume and your son with your husband?”
“No.” There was heartbreak in her face and in her voice.
