Second Chance Page 4

  “She’s pretty,” I said noncommittally as I handed the picture back to him.

  He put the picture back in his wallet. “That was taken a few years ago. She was a lot happier then.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged, then rested his hands on the table and tapped his fingertips together. “I wish I knew. Lately she’s not been herself. She doesn’t smile or laugh anymore. When I ask her if she’s okay, she tells me she’s fine, but I know she’s not.”

  “Have you considered taking her to a psychoanalyst?”

  “I mentioned that once and she got mad at me and repeated that she was okay. And for a day or two, she seemed better. But then she started acting strange again.”

  “How so?”

  “I work at the Federal Center. I’m an engineer, with regular hours. I leave work at five and come home the same time every night. She always has dinner on the table when I get home. She’s a good cook.” His face momentarily lit up with pride. “But for the past two weeks, she’s been rushing around in the kitchen when I get home, trying to get dinner ready. That’s not like her. When I ask her why the rush, she says she got busy out in the yard, or talking to our neighbor Jane, and she lost track of the time.”

  “It’s December,” I said, “and it snowed a week ago. What kind of yard work is she doing?”

  He held up a hand. “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell that anything had been done in the yard. And I ran into Jane one morning and joked about how she was keeping Edith from her chores. Jane looked at me like I was crazy and said she hadn’t talked to Edith in a week, that Edith’s been gone a lot during the day.”

  “Was Jane lying to you?”

  “I don’t think so, and why would she?”

  “Just asking the question.”

  He took out another cigarette, but instead of lighting it, he fiddled with it. “After Jane told me that, I talked to another neighbor, Irene. She has two boys, and that keeps her busy. She also said she hasn’t talked to Edith in a while, which is unusual.”

  “Has she seen Edith? Working in the yard, maybe?”

  “Irene didn’t say, but if she did, they probably would’ve talked.”

  “Do you believe Irene?”

  “I think so. I don’t know why she’d lie to me.” He kept playing with the cigarette.

  “How well do you know the neighbors?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been four years. We moved here after the war, when I got hired at the Federal Center. During the war, Edith lived with her sister in Limon. Edith’s sister was a schoolteacher there, but she moved here three years ago.”

  “So you’ve lived here long enough that Edith should know your neighbors fairly well.”

  “I would think so.”

  “Did Edith work while you were overseas?”

  “She worked for a while at a small grocery store in Limon, and she helped her sister. But she hasn’t worked since I came home and we moved here.”

  “What does Edith do when you’re at work?”

  “She grocery shops on Mondays. Wednesdays she has bridge club. She has other errands, and keeps up with the housework, and cooks.”

  “You don’t have kids?”

  The pain flashed on his face again. “No. Edith…can’t have children.”

  That could make any woman sad, I thought. My wife, Clara, hadn’t conceived right away, and I had seen how that had worn on her. Our son, Sam, was three months old and I knew how much being a mother meant to Clara. “Uh-huh,” I murmured.

  He continued, as if that sensitive topic had never been brought up. “And the past two days, I’ve called her from work, but she doesn’t answer.”

  “She wasn’t shopping or at bridge?”

  He shook his head. “I called when she should’ve been around, but she wasn’t. Both nights, when I got home, I asked her about it. She lied and said she must’ve been out in the yard and didn’t hear the phone. But I tried calling for hours.”

  “And no answer.”

  “Right.”

  I studied him. “And you have no idea where she might’ve been?”

  “None.”

  I leaned forward, then cleared my throat. “I don’t want to seem forward, but do you think your wife’s having an affair?”

  “No. We love each other.” His voice was tight.

  Because of the question, or because he thought the affair was possible? I wondered.

  “I had to ask,” I said. He didn’t say anything to that. “How long have you been married?”

  “Almost eight years. We met a few months before Pearl Harbor. After the Japs attacked us, I enlisted. We got married right before I left.” He gazed out the window. “It was hard on her, while I was gone. She was…lonely, I think, even though her sister was around.”

  “Times were tough,” I said. I hadn’t met Clara until after the war, but I knew of a lot of men who married their sweethearts and then immediately left for the war. And many never returned.

  He turned back to me. “When I came home after the war, things got better. We’ve been happy. Until lately.”

  “And you can’t think of any other reason your wife’s acting like this?”

  He shook his head.

  “Does she have any money?”

  “She has a weekly budget for groceries, gas, that sort of thing.”

  “And nothing’s missing from your bank account?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  I took a long moment to think about it. “It’s not a lot to go on,” I said.

  He sighed. “I realize that. That’s why I want to hire you. Find out what Edith’s doing. Follow her and see where she goes. I can’t do it because I have to work, and besides, she might see me and then she’d be even more careful about whatever she’s doing.” He slipped some twenties across the table. “That should get you started.”

  I sipped my Coke, then picked up the bills and stuffed them in my pocket. “Okay. I’ll watch your wife tomorrow and see what happens. Then we’ll talk.”

  He nodded. “Maybe you’ll find out something.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  He pulled a card from his wallet. It had his name, office address, and phone number on it. “You can reach me at work.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “You can’t talk to me there or Edith might get suspicious,” he said quickly.

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “If I’m going to follow her, I need to know where you live.”

  He choked out a laugh. “Oh, yes, of course.” He gave me an address on King Street near Sloans Lake, west of downtown. Most of the houses in the area were 1920s-style bungalows with detached garages. “I leave for work at seven-thirty, and she never leaves before I do.”

  “Does she have a car?”

  “Yes, we have a Chrysler. I take the streetcar to work.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I said. “And we’ll see what happens.”

  “Excellent.” With that, he slid out of the booth. “I’ll expect a call from you late tomorrow,” he said as he donned his hat and overcoat. Then he strode out of the restaurant.

  I grabbed my sandwich, cold by now, and finished it, then put two quarters on the table and left for my office. I needed to start a file on Gordon Sandalwood, and then finish some paperwork and pay some bills. The money Sandalwood had given me would help with that, although I didn’t see it going too far. This case wouldn’t take too long. It’d be simple, I thought, probably a misunderstanding between them, or maybe I’d discover that Edith was having an affair.

  I’d look back on this moment and realize how wrong I’d been.

  Buy Web of Deceit from Amazon.

  Turn the page for a sample of the third book in the series, Murder In Fashion.

  MURDER IN FASHION SAMPLE

  Reviews:

  Buy this one, you won't want to put it down....in fact, it won't let you. Enjoy!

  Another great series for Renée Pawlish

  The en
d will surprise you. Another great book by a great author!

  This left me reading late into the night to discover the truth. I highly recommend this book!

  You gotta read Renée Pawlish's Reed Ferguson series and now her Dewey Webb series. Great books, well written, great plots, wonderful characters, and you will be guessing who done it till the end of the book.

  Herbert Washburn had been sent to prison two days ago. His crime, murder. So when Helen Washburn, his wife, walked into my office a few minutes after one o’clock on a hot August Wednesday, I was more than a little surprised. The trial was over, her husband convicted. What could she possibly want with a private investigator now?

  “Mr. Webb?” she called out, her voice high and tentative, with the hint of a Southern drawl.

  I hurried out to the waiting room. “Mrs. Washburn,” I greeted her. “Call me Dewey.”

  Red lips turned into a frown. “You know me.”

  “I know of you,” I said. “You – and your husband – have been in the papers a lot lately.”

  She nodded as she nervously fiddled with her small purse, her weary brown eyes darting to the small couch and then to the desk that held my typewriter and phone. Probably wondering why a secretary wasn’t sitting there. The truth was I couldn’t afford a secretary, but I kept up appearances because it made my clients seem more comfortable. Then her tired eyes fell on me.

  “My husband asked me to come see you,” she finally said.

  “I see.” I gestured for her to follow me back into the inner office.

  I pulled out a club chair positioned in front of my desk, waited until she sank heavily into it, then sat down in my chair and contemplated her. She let out a burdened sigh and met my gaze.

  “How much do you know about my husband?” she asked as her fingers continued working on the purse.

  I shrugged. “Just what I’ve read in the papers.” She gazed at me expectantly, so I recited the pertinent details of what I knew. “Your husband, Herbert, worked at Templeton Fashion. They’re a clothing manufacturer; primarily they design high-end men’s suits, but they also do custom work. Herbert worked there until mid-October of last year, when he shot his boss, Melvin Templeton, the president and owner of Templeton Fashion. A jury unanimously convicted him of murder, and he’s going to be transferred to a federal prison next week.”

  “Herb didn’t kill Mr. Templeton,” she said, her voice raised, but still faint.

  “So he maintained all through his trial.” I raised my hands, palms up. “But the evidence is against him. It was known around the office that Herb didn’t like Templeton, and the week before Templeton was killed, several people saw Herb and Templeton arguing –”

  “Yes, and they heard him say he was going to kill Mr. Templeton.” She shook her head. “It was an idle threat. Herb would never shoot anyone.”

  “And yet, when Templeton’s body was found, a Smith & Wesson .45 with Herb’s fingerprints on it was discovered nearby.”

  She went from fiddling with her purse to smoothing non-existent wrinkles on her fashionable flowered dress. “I – Herb – couldn’t explain that.”

  “He said someone was trying to frame him.”

  The muscles in her jaw tightened. “That’s right. Herb would never kill anyone,” she repeated.

  I leaned back and rubbed my chin. “As I recall, Herb said that another worker in the office also hated Templeton, and that maybe he murdered the boss and set Herb up.”

  “James Lattner. He took care of orders and that kind of thing. People had seen him arguing with Melvin, too.”

  “But the jury didn’t believe Lattner had anything to do with the murder.”

  She sighed loudly. “I don’t know why. He didn’t have an alibi for the night Mr. Templeton was killed, and he hated Templeton.”

  “That wasn’t why your husband was convicted.” I stared at her. “It was because Herb didn’t have a good explanation of why his prints were on the gun instead of Lattner’s.”

  “Yes, that was a damning piece of evidence.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that.

  “Herb told the jury that he’d had a bad day so he went out, bought a bottle of whiskey, and drank for a while in his car,” I said, trying to keep the disbelief from my tone. “Then he went back to the office and passed out at his desk. During that time, he claims that someone shot Templeton, sneaked into Herb’s office and put his prints on the gun while he was passed out, and then returned the gun to the crime scene.”

  “That’s what he thinks must’ve happened.”

  “And you believe him?”

  Her back went rigid. “Of course.”

  “But no one saw Herb at the office that night, tight or sober,” I said.

  “I know it looks bad.”

  That fit Herb’s story. He didn’t know anything.

  “And it wasn’t Herb’s gun?” I asked.

  “He’s never owned a gun.”

  “What did Herb do when he woke up?”

  “He came straight home.”

  “So he said.” I gazed at her closely. “Do you remember that night?”

  “Of course. He came in a little after eleven. He was drunk, and sullen. All he said was work was lousy that day, and he was sorry he was late and didn’t call. I fixed him some dinner and left him alone. He ate, then stumbled into the bedroom and went to sleep. And he stayed there until the next morning.”

  “Was that normal behavior for him?”

  She glanced past me. A shadow crossed her face and then was gone. “I wouldn’t say normal, but Herb can tie one on once in a while. When that happens, I know to let him be, and he’ll be okay.”

  “Does he ever get … rough with you?”

  “No, he’s just moody.”

  “So there wasn’t anything particularly unusual about his behavior that night?”

  She hesitated. “He might’ve been a bit more surly than usual.”

  I couldn’t remember if I’d read that she’d testified to that during the trial, but if she had, it would’ve only hurt Herb’s case.

  I thought about what else I knew of the trial. “Herb said he went to a liquor store near Templeton Fashion, but no one at the store remembered Herb coming in to buy the whiskey.”

  She sighed. “Too much time had passed, and too many people come and go from that store.”

  “Not only was Herb not seen at the liquor store, he was seen near the crime scene.”

  “Melvin was killed at an office building on the corner of Tenth and Decatur Street, sometime between five, when everyone left, and ten o’clock, when his body was discovered. Around nine o’clock, a woman next door said she saw Herb walk to his car, get in and drive away. Herb said she was lying, but no one believed him.”

  “She was sure it was Herb?”

  She shook her head. “She saw someone dressed like Herb had been that day.”

  “What’s the woman’s name?”

  She sighed. “Roybal, but at the moment I don’t remember her first name.”

  “What kind of car did she see?”

  “A Chevy sedan.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What color?”

  “Dark, with four doors.”

  I vaguely remembered reading that. “And that’s the kind of car Herb drives,” I said, already presuming the answer.

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Did anyone hear a gunshot?”

  She shook her head.

  I studied this woman, with her stylish clothes yet tired demeanor, her southern drawl so full of indignation. She had no doubt that her husband had not committed the crime he was convicted of.

  “Well?” she finally said.

  I ticked things off on my fingers. “Someone set Herb up, someone was lying, and no one remembers him where he said he was.” Then I stared at her. “It doesn’t add up, and that’s why the jury found him guilty.”

  She stayed silent with that.

  “And yet he still maintains his innocence.”
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  She nodded. “And he wants you to find the person who did it.”

  “What makes you and Herb think I can find a killer when the police didn’t?”

  She let out a bitter laugh. “As you said, all the evidence pointed to Herb. Once the police had their suspect, and the gun with Herb’s prints on it, they didn’t look anywhere else. And since Herb couldn’t explain away the evidence…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Why me?” I finally said.

  She shrugged. “Your friend Chet Inglewood recommended you.”

  After I was discharged from the army, I worked as an investigator at the law firm of Masters and O’Reilly. Chet had been their chief investigator and my boss. Chet and I were still friends, and when he could, he sent work my way.

  “That was nice of him,” I said.

  “Please,” she begged. “Herb is innocent.” She dug into her purse and withdrew a wad of cash. “I have the money to pay you.”

  “Fine,” I finally said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  We spent a few minutes signing paperwork, and she paid an advance, and then I gathered a bit more information.

  “What were Herb and Templeton arguing about?”

  “Mr. Templeton said Herb was stealing money from the company, but it’s not true. Herb wouldn’t do that.”

  “Did Herb have any coworkers who would vouch for him?”

  “He was close to a fellow named Archie Benton. He said a lot of nice things about Herb at the trial.”

  I wrote it down in a notepad I keep in my pocket. “And no evidence proved that Herb did take any money,” I said. She nodded. “Who discovered Templeton’s body?”

  “Jack Delaney,” she said. “He worked at Janosik Tailors, one of the businesses near where Templeton was found. He called the police.”

  “Do you know what detective worked on the case?”

  “A fellow named Emilio Russo.”

  I’d met Russo a time or two when I worked at the law office. He was tough and didn’t take any guff from anyone.