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  I went back inside and closed the door, then made my way through the museum and out the front door. The same officer who’d let me in sent me off with a tip of his hat. The rain came down harder now, and I hurried to my car and turned the heater on. Then I watched through the mist as the crime scene technicians, followed by Dr. Bonaire, emerged from the museum with Betty Starbuck’s black-plastic-shrouded body between them, her form reduced to a small, shapeless mound laid out on a white canvas gurney. They loaded her in the back of an ambulance and then drove off, and all that was left was the same lone uniformed officer, standing out of the rain under an eave, strips of yellow crime scene tape billowing in the wind.

  Chapter Eight

  Betty Starbuck and her son Patrick Crabbe shared a property in the middle of town, on a quiet residential road three blocks off Front Street. Crabbe lived in an apartment above the garage, while his mother lived in the main house, a small cream-colored Victorian with curlicue arches and square edges. The front yard was tidy, nicely landscaped with native plants and flagstone pavers. An old black tire hung from a thick-limbed tree, swaying gently in the breeze.

  It was noon now, and the rain had stopped falling. The air, still heavy with moisture, smelled of clean earth and wet grass.

  I parked, then climbed a narrow set of stairs to the apartment and knocked on the front door. Crabbe opened it and sighed in exasperation.

  “Oh, don’t tell me. Is it more graffiti? It must be very bad for you to visit me at home. I’m so sorry you had to come on a Sunday,” Crabbe said. He looked at me, then away, then back again. A hand scratched at his throat then dropped back to his side.

  There was never an easy way to say what needed to be said.

  “It’s not the gas station, Patrick. I’m here about your mother.”

  I didn’t have to finish the rest of the statement. Crabbe could see on my face, hear in my voice, that it was bad news, the worst kind. I watched as first shock then horror flashed in his eyes. He gasped and slumped against the door frame. “Oh dear god. What happened?”

  I leaned forward and grabbed his elbow. “Let me help you.”

  We stepped inside, and I saw with a quick look a kitchen, bathroom, and living room set off a main, narrow hallway. At the end of it was a closed door, likely Crabbe’s bedroom.

  I led him to a frayed leather couch in the living room then glanced around, surprised. I would never have taken Crabbe for a hoarder. Dozens of newspapers and magazines were stacked in neat towers on nearly every surface. On the shelves surrounding a flat-screen television were hundreds of video cassettes and DVDs. Unopened plastic water bottles were scattered around the room, and I had to move an empty pizza box off the couch before I could sit down.

  The room was warm and dusty, and I shrugged out of my jacket.

  I unearthed a box of tissues under a stack of months-old television guides on the coffee table and waited until Crabbe was seated before handing him the box. He cried for a few minutes, and I sat next to him, patting him on his shoulder, murmuring condolences.

  Finally, he took a jagged breath. “Was it a car accident? I’ve been telling Mom for weeks that she needs new brakes.”

  “No, it wasn’t a car accident. We’re still investigating, but it appears she was … attacked. It happened very early this morning, at the museum.”

  Crabbe flinched. The box of tissues slid from his hands to the ground, landing on the empty pizza box with a dull thud. “Mom was murdered?”

  “We should know more details by this evening, but yes, it appears that way,” I said gently. “Patrick, is there someone I can call to come be with you? A friend or neighbor? You shouldn’t be alone during this time.”

  “My brother, Kent, needs to be informed. But I can do that myself. He and Mom, they were … estranged. Kent is a … well, he’s difficult. He and Mom didn’t speak for years; but he recently moved back to town and they’ve gotten together a few times. They had both expressed hope that they could make amends,” Crabbe said, and he started crying again. “Oh, this is awful. Now they’ll never have the opportunity.”

  “Where does Kent live?”

  “He rents a room at that motel downtown, the one with the extended stay suites,” Crabbe replied through tears. “You can’t miss him; he looks like me, only older and with a mustache. If he’s not in his room, he’ll be at one of the nearby coffee shops or up the river, fishing.”

  “Kent doesn’t work?”

  “No. He was struck by a drunk driver about six years ago and lives off the settlement. Though it’s my understanding that he’s slowly running out of funds.”

  Crabbe stood up and went to a bookcase full of black-and-white photographs, navigating around the dozens of piles of stuff in his way with ease. From where I sat, I could see the details in only one of the pictures: two boys, one younger, one older, arms around each other’s shoulders, each wearing a jersey with a large bird blazing across the front.

  “Is that you and Kent?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Before he … before the trouble started. We’re five years apart. We both played baseball in school. That was about the only thing we ever had in common. Kent was an incredible player. He could have gone pro, I think, if he hadn’t discovered drugs his senior year of high school. He was called ‘Slugger’ and I was … well, I was just Patrick.” Crabbe added weakly, “Go Eagles.”

  I picked up a magazine and fanned myself with it. The heat continued to pour into the room. Crabbe removed a framed photograph off the top shelf. He showed it to me. It was a portrait of Betty Starbuck as a young woman. Then he hugged the picture to his chest. “Oh, Mom. It was your generosity that got you killed, wasn’t it?”

  It was a strange statement for him to make.

  “Patrick? What are you talking about?”

  Crabbe set the photograph down and glanced over at me, his shoulders sagging. “Mom had a serious problem. She was constantly giving money away. She would write a check to practically any charity that asked for a donation. Mom couldn’t say no. She didn’t have the funds to sustain it, though. And over the years, a lot of people in town wised up to the fact that she was so, ah, generous. Some of these people, they’re not nice.”

  He came back to the couch and sat down. To my surprise, he gently took my hand and patted it. Staring at me out of the corner of his eye, he said, “Thank you, Gemma, for coming here. I don’t imagine it’s easy, delivering news like this.”

  His hands were warm and damp, and I was relieved when he moved away. He stood again, restless. A small orange cat sauntered into the room. Crabbe picked the animal up and held it to his chest, murmuring something in its ear.

  “Patrick, do you know who any of these people were who approached your mother for money?”

  Crabbe set the cat down, and it scampered away. “I saw one of them once. That’s how I found out about the checks. It was last September. Mom was here, at home, screaming at a man in the driveway. He left as soon as I pulled up, driving away in an old beat-up black sedan. A Ford, I think. I’d never seen him before, and I insisted Mom explain who the man was and what was going on.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Mom said he was a man who was down on his luck. He’d heard she might be willing to lend him some money. He got angry when Mom refused to give him anything. See, Mom couldn’t say no to charities, organized fundraisers, that sort of thing. But she didn’t like to give money to individuals. She said that too many of them ‘drank their dollars.’ Anyway, I should have gone after the man, but I was completely taken by surprise. It’s not the sort of thing you expect to see, a man threatening your mother in her own driveway!”

  “I would think not. Do you have any sense of how much money your mom gave away over the years?”

  “Thousands. Tens of thousands, I think,” Crabbe said. He sat down and leaned forward, put his head in his hands. His blond hair was thin and he had a number of freckles on his scalp. “I think it started after my dad died. Mom got lonely. Bored. My pa
rents never married, you know. I think my mom felt an allegiance to her first husband, Kent’s dad. I’m sure that Kent threw a fit when Mom and my dad started dating. We all lived together, and Kent was a brute to me from the time I was born. In fact, Kent was such a handful that after my dad died, Mom never dated anyone else. I don’t think she had any energy left. Listen to me, going on and on. All families are a little dysfunctional, aren’t they?”

  I nodded. “Yes, that’s probably true. I just have a few more questions, Patrick. I know this is all such a shock. Was your mother in the habit of working late? And did she frequent fast food restaurants?”

  Crabbe smiled at the second question.

  “Yes to both. Although she’s quite healthy, Mom loves a good burger,” Crabbe said. The smile faded and his eyes filled with tears. “Listen to me, talking about her like she’s still alive. I should have been there, last night, at the museum.”

  “You didn’t go to the gala, did you?”

  Crabbe shook his head. “No. One of my night-shift employees at the gas station has been under the weather, and I agreed to cover his hours. I was there from eleven p.m. to seven this morning. One of my other clerks was there as well.”

  It would be easy enough to check his alibi.

  We talked for a few more minutes. Crabbe agreed to notify his brother, Kent, of their mother’s death and go to the hospital to make the formal identification. I promised to keep him informed as the investigation progressed. As joint owner of the property, Crabbe also gave me consent to search Starbuck’s house.

  As I was leaving, he stopped me in the doorway and spoke again. The cool air felt like a salve, and when I turned to look at him, I was struck by the fervor in his eyes.

  The fever in his eyes.

  “Kent carries a darkness with him. He always has,” Crabbe said. His jaw tightened, then he continued in a halting voice, “After my dad died, and after Kent graduated high school and left the area, it was just my mom and me. It’s just been the two of us for so long. When I was a little boy, I was scared that something would happen to her, that she would leave, go away and never return. She promised me over and over that if I was a good boy, a good son, she would never leave me. And I have been a good son. But she’s gone now. That thing, that thing I’ve been scared of my whole life, has happened. What am I supposed to do without her?”

  Chapter Nine

  Detective Lucas Armstrong joined me and the crime scene team at Starbuck’s house. Patrick Crabbe unlocked the front door and let us know that he was available if we had questions about anything. I thanked him but told him to stay out of the house until we released it back to him.

  Once inside, Armstrong and I donned gloves.

  “I’m just here to help with the search, then I’m turning this over to you and Finn. Moriarty and I may be tied up in court this week on the park rapist case,” Armstrong said. Louis Moriarty was another detective in our squad. The Two Lous, we called them. They’d been partners for years. They’d recently arrested a local community college kid in connection with a series of rapes that had occurred in parks all over town. The defense was screaming entrapment, and both Lous had been called to testify in the trial.

  Wiping his brow, Armstrong continued, “Plus, I’m hungover as all get out. I feel like my head is going to explode. I had no idea it was going to be an open bar at the gala last night. And all those servers, passing drinks out like it was Vegas. I couldn’t stop.”

  “It was quite the party. Are you drinking water? Do you need an aspirin?”

  He waved away my questions. “I’ll survive. Unlike that sweet old lady who was running the show. It’s hard to believe someone killed her.”

  “I know. Look, let’s start in the front rooms, then make our way to the back and upstairs.”

  The house was clean and uncluttered. It was clear that Starbuck had no use for household ornaments or trinkets; the only items on shelves were books and framed photographs, the only hangings on walls subdued landscape paintings. The furnishings were for the most part white, with the occasional splash of color thrown in.

  The austerity made our jobs a hell of a lot easier. Though we didn’t know what—if anything—we were searching for, at least we didn’t have to wade through piles of magazines and prodigious collections and other junk.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Starbuck,” Armstrong muttered. “This should be quick work.”

  He pulled back the curtains in the living room, allowing the bright sunshine to pour in. In the light, his crisp white shirt seemed to glow against his dark brown skin, his shoulders broad under the thin fabric. A former linebacker, he kept his six and a half feet of bulk in fighting shape.

  We canvassed the downstairs of the house methodically but quickly, making our way through a formal living room, a den, a half bath, and the kitchen. The most interesting thing we found was a stash of vitamins and medicines in a cabinet next to the refrigerator.

  “What’s she doing, running a pharmacy? She’s probably got the cure for cancer in here.” Armstrong stepped back and I peered into the cabinet. He was right; it was crammed full.

  We moved upstairs. There were three bedrooms: the master, with a beautiful antique four-poster bed, converted walk-in closet, and attached bathroom; a guest room that appeared to see more use as a sewing and craft space; and an office. A narrow bathroom with orange floral wallpaper and a claw-foot tub was squeezed between the office and craft room.

  The nightstand in her bedroom held a box of tissue, a few hair pins and a comb, and a bottle of lotion. The sheets on her bed still smelled of detergent, and her closet was well organized, with clothes and shoes lined up by color, light to dark.

  “I’m struggling to believe anyone really lived here,” Armstrong said. He came out of the bathroom and shook his head. “Nothing much in there, either. Shampoo, soap, toothpaste. Some very expensive makeup—Sonya uses the same brand; it’s the only reason I pick up overtime—and a few feminine products. That’s it.”

  “It does feel a little too clean, doesn’t it?” I shrugged. “Her son’s a hoarder. Maybe this was Starbuck’s way of coping with his behavior. Or vice versa—maybe Starbuck’s cleanliness and austerity drove Crabbe to hoard.”

  Armstrong shuddered. “I don’t do hoarders. I got a call in Baton Rouge years ago on a suspected animal abuse case. My partner and I showed up at this tiny trailer on the edge of a swamp. It was sick, just sick. The guy must have had seventy-five cats in there. He kept saying there were dozens more he couldn’t account for, and the whole time, I’m looking out at this pond behind the trailer. I knew what happened to those other cats.”

  “Alligators?”

  “Gators … or snakes.”

  We hit pay dirt in Starbuck’s office. It, too, was minimally furnished: a filing cabinet; desk with a computer and printer; and a stack of correspondence neatly organized with labels such as “to file,” “to respond to,” “to save.” Tucked neatly into the “to save” box was a stack of legal documents.

  “Bingo,” Armstrong said. He held up the sheaf of papers. “I’ve got an updated will and trust here, naming Patrick Crabbe and Kent Starbuck as equal heirs to Betty Starbuck’s assets. There’s this place, a rental property near Buena Vista, her pension, and a trust with a quarter million dollars in it.”

  I whistled. “That’s a lot of assets for a museum director. Maybe she’s done well in the stock market. Patrick told me that his mom was quite generous with her money; according to him, she’s given away thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands. But Patrick seemed to be under the impression that Betty didn’t have much to give. That will and trust would seem to contradict that.”

  Armstrong read further. “Starbuck changed her will a month ago. In the previous version, Patrick stood to inherit everything. In this version, as I said, it’s a fifty-fifty split.”

  “That could be a motive. But why would Patrick tell me she didn’t have a lot of funds? Why lie about something so easy to verify?”

  “May
be he didn’t lie. Just because the will lists these assets doesn’t mean they’re all still viable.” Armstrong slipped the pages into an evidence envelope. “You’ll have to go through her financial records and see how things shake out.”

  We searched the backyard last.

  It was here that Betty Starbuck embraced, if not chaos, at least color and beauty. It was a gardener’s dream. I was only able to identify a few of the flowers already in bloom, such as the pink lungwort; the rest were unusual, exotic varieties that I’d never seen before. The far western edge of the yard was taken up by five garden boxes, their sides lined with chicken wire walls that jutted straight up to prevent rabbits from nibbling at plants.

  Inside a shed in the east corner of the yard was a roll of plastic sheeting; a narrow wooden table with gardening tools, including an extremely sharp ax, hung neatly above it; and a thick reference book. A metal stool was tucked under the table and a few pieces of soil were on the ground under the stool.

  I flipped through the reference book, stopping to read a few notes in the margin. Betty had jotted down what grew well and when; the whole book was a complete and careful almanac of her gardening adventures.

  By the time we’d finished searching the property, we’d collected just enough to fill half an evidence box. There was very little that seemed even remotely tied to Betty Starbuck’s murder.

  Discouragement must have been written all over my face, because Armstrong patted me on the shoulder and said, “You can always come back, Gemma. If you need to search the place again, you can always come back. We’ll leave it secured.”

  He was right, but it would be impossible to know who might enter the premises in the meantime or to know what items might disappear that could be important to the case. But it was a gamble we’d have to take. It was simply too early in the investigation to know what was unimportant and what was critical. What was a red herring and what was a clue … what were merely remnants of a woman’s life and what were the keys to her death.