“Why don’t you tell me about the affairs, Claire.”
I’m taking advantage of a vulnerable witness, and I know it. Her guard is down, the bars are off the doors, the train has been derailed from its safe and preplanned tracks. But. It’s necessary — there’s no time for niceties. People are dying. At least, that’s what I tell myself. And she tells me what I suspect already: Daniel has never been faithful, but he always comes back. He loves her. He does. But he can’t help himself. I learn about the married secretary at his previous job, the one that made him leave Beaverton Foursquare; the choir director at Pacific Universalist before that. Claire hoped it would get better after the move to Astoria. And it was better, for a while. But there was someone. She thinks it started six months after they came here. And she thinks it stopped about the time that Victoria went missing.
Maybe he was too worried to carry on his little fling-ding. Maybe he felt bad. But I don’t think so. Or if he did feel something like remorse, it wasn’t strong enough to make him stop. I pat Claire’s shoulder and utter soothing words, but it’s an old story. The oldest. It’s hard to reconcile the independent, strong-minded person I know Claire to be with someone who would put up with this treatment. The human heart is truly unfathomable. I try to picture Daniel Chandler as some kind of Don Juan, but I can’t. He’s no George Clooney. But he is — was — a pleasant enough guy. Maybe that’s enough, more than enough, for desperate, lonely women.
Again, I lead Claire gently back through her memories of the parking lot, the building, and finally the office. The desk, the chair, the body.
He’d been beaten to death, his head pulped by a blunt instrument. A hammer, a bat, a two by four. Someone who felt an extreme version of fear or rage. Knowing what I do now, I think: jealous husband, jealous lover. He’d diddled the wrong woman, and someone got revenge.
There’s already been one murder. Are they related? Do I have two killers to find, or only one?
Maybe Claire finally got fed up.
No. I don’t believe it. Too brutal. Women don’t often beat people to death. They shoot, stab, suffocate, or poison. Sometimes, occasionally, they drown.
Out of the mouths of babes.
No. Victoria’s killer is a man. I know it.
Do you?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I GLANCE BACK as I leave the Chandler house. It looks dark and lonely, with only a single lamp glowing through the window. It’s just after seven, and the eastern sky is pale as I click my car door open with the key fob. It’s been raining, big surprise, and the pavement looks black and shiny, reflecting the street light in a dim yellowish circle. My car is beaded with moisture. The seat upholstery feels cool to the touch. As I drive away, the reaction sets in — the personal one. I’m shaken by what has happened to Daniel. I just saw the guy, healthy if not wealthy and wise. Or maybe he was wealthy; he had a fairly expensive car. Nice furniture, decent house. But he didn’t get it working for churches. It’s been my experience that, unless you’re a rock star preacher with a celebrity income to match, church workers are notoriously underpaid.
So. Why kill Daniel?
Philandering comes to mind.
But to have his murder coincident with Victoria’s death? What are the odds?
I’m no statistician, but my guess: pretty damn unlikely.
The two must be related.
So. Why Daniel? I mean, he’s a bookkeeper, for crying out loud. At a non-profit. Robbery seems to be a non-starter. There shouldn’t have been much cash on the premises, since there hasn’t been a service.
But. There’s entirely too much money in his life. My guess: fraud. Or blackmail.
People don’t usually kill over fraud. They sue each other instead. But blackmail? That includes a recipe for violence.
What might Daniel have known?
Maybe he knew who killed Victoria Harkness.
Jumping over the moon to your latest conclusion, Lake?
Okay. It is a big leap. Set that aside for a moment. What else might he have known?
…
I can’t think of anything. Some sexy secret discovered during an illicit tryst? Feels like a reach. But. It must be something that would generate anger or fear.
Blackmail presupposes evidence. I wonder if anything is missing from his office. I was just there, so I might be able to detect an anomaly that the police would miss. And I’ve already left my DNA on previous visits, so adding more trace evidence won’t make any difference.
As easy as that, I’ve talked myself into going back to the scene of the crime.
I know, crazy. Not to mention unprofessional. But. I have to look at the place before it gets too messed up by the cops, and before my own memory fades.
When I pull into the parking lot of the Church of the Spirit, the clouds open and rain bullets onto the asphalt. Wonderful. Gloves, shoe covers: check. I run to the front door, splashing my pant legs. Rivulets of water drip off the hem of my jacket, creating a ribbon of wetness around my thighs.
The door of the church is crossed over by yellow crime scene tape that rattles in the downpour. I thought I might have to dodge some CSIs but no one is here. Sloppy. Could be because it’s early, But still. I try the door and to my surprise it opens. Hooray, no need for the pick gun which I’ve forgotten in the car
