Steven Havill: Dead Weight

“Nicely done,” I said.

In good light, with my bifocals held just so, I could see the distinct shoe sole patterns in the thin film of liquid coating the tiles.

“There are just four of them that were still damp enough to photograph,” Linda said. She looked tired, the dark circles under her eyes pronounced. “But the first two are really clear.”

“Clear enough to match for size, I suspect,” I said. “And an interesting tread pattern. A woman’s shoe.”

“I think you’re right, sir. That’s a utility tread with the diagonal cleats,” Linda said. “More like something a nurse would wear. Not so much a child’s shoe.”

I leafed through the set until the background changed. “And these are the others that I asked you to take.”

“Yes, sir. It’s been a day or two, and there have been people walking through the area, but it wasn’t hard to find a couple that matched what you wanted.”

I took a deep breath and sighed. The dried mud had locked in two sets of prints-the prints of the big, flabby-footed chow, so eager for some exercise and not minding a romp in the fragrant mud after a summer shower, and the shoe prints of the chow’s escort. Taffy Hines had been much more careful than the dog about where she’d stepped. The mild waffle soles of her shoes had left distinctive prints, captured easily on the film.

“No match, sir,” Linda said. “Not even close.”

I got up, tapping the pile of prints into order. “No, the pattern’s not even close.” I slid out one copy of each shoe print and handed the remaining pile back to Linda. “Outstanding work, Linda. Thanks. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay close, in case someone needs your help.”

I found Robert Torrez in the small room that we used as a lab, in close conversation with Tom Mears.

“Can you break away for a bit?” I asked, and Torrez nodded.

“So far, a good set of Sam’s prints from the bank bag. We’re workin’ on the others. But it’s going to be almost any store employee, first of all.”

“Yep,” I said. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like you and Gayle to take a ride with me.” The undersheriff looked at me sharply, and I nodded. “We need to make a stop at Judge Hobart’s. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

Taffy Hines opened the door on the second knock, and if she was surprised to see the three of us on her doorstep, it didn’t show.

“Well, now,” she said, holding open the door. “Party time! Come on in.” She was wearing a loose flannel jogging suit that looked more like pajamas. The outfit was complemented by a pair of rabbit-headed slippers. “And I don’t know you, I guess,” she said to Gayle.

“Gayle Torrez. I’m the undersheriff’s wife.”

“Ah,” Taffy said. She clasped her hands together, and I saw the tremor there. She looked expectantly at me. “So. What can I do for you all?”

“I think you know why we’re here,” I said.

“Well, I know that Jennifer Sisson is home with her mother, and I’m glad about that.”

“You were at the store all day?”

“Sure.”

“But you heard about Jennifer’s little trip nonetheless?”

“Sure.” She smiled, but there was another little quiver at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were sad. “Let’s sit. I’m tired.” She led us into the kitchen. The table was clean, no cinnamon rolls this time. The coffeepot was clean and dry, sitting under the drip unit. The kitchen counters were bare, polished dry. The place looked as though the owner was making preparations for a long trip.

Gayle and I sat down with Taffy. Bob Torrez remained in the doorway between kitchen and living room, hands hooked in his belt.

“You heard about Sam,” I said. “Or maybe ‘heard’ is the wrong way to put it.”

She laughed a quick, nervous little laugh. “Listen,” she said, and closed her eyes for just a moment. “This is going to be hard, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes.” I reached across and patted the back of her hand.

“You want me to make some coffee or something?” She started to get up.

“No. Thanks.”

“Let me tell you why,” she said, and then watched as I pulled the small recorder out of my pocket and set it on the table.

“Before you say anything, Taffy, let’s get the formalities out of the way,” Torrez said, and the undersheriff opened his black vinyl clipboard and extended a form to Taffy, along with a ballpoint pen.

“Mrs. Hines,” he said, and she looked up, grinned a brave little smile at his formality, and corrected him.

“Miss Hines,” she said. “Or Taffy is just fine. It’s actually Tabitha, but heavens, who wants to manage that?”

“Miss Hines,” Bob said, “you have the right to remain silent. If you understand that right, would you please say so for the sake of the recording, and then initial in the space provided after the statement I have just read to you. That’s number one.”

She did so, and Bob continued, “Do you understand that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law? If you understand that, initial after number two.”

“Heavens,” she said. “I thought this was the sort of thing you just mumbled off a little card and that was that.”

“In some cases,” I said.

“But not this time, eh?” she replied. “How times are changing.”

Bob continued on, leading Taffy Hines through each statement, finishing with her signature at the end.

I nudged the small tape recorder. “Now, we’re formal, Taffy.”

“Am I actually charged with anything?”

“You’re about to be.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Where would you like to start?”

“First things first. Where’s the weapon?”

She started to rise, but I held out a hand. “Just tell us.”

“In the bowling bag by the front door.”

Torrez turned and left the kitchen, returning with a gold-and-blue vinyl carryall. He hooked the tip of his pen in the zipper latch and pulled it open, then reached in and hooked the pen through the trigger guard of the snub-nosed revolver. He held it up.

“That little thing was my father’s,” Taffy said. Torrez sniffed the barrel and raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, it’s been fired. But it’s not loaded now. I took the shells out. They’re in the bottom of the bag, too.”

“Taffy, what happened?”

“Grace called me at the store. Normally Sam closes on the slow days and I close up on the weekends. But he asked earlier today if I’d mind closing. I said, ‘Sure.’ What’s it to me? Grace called just about six, to tell me that Jennifer was missing and that Sam had taken her, and that you folks were looking for her. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I mean, you know, she and I had talked and talked over the past month or so about Jim, and about her, and about the affair she was having with Sam. But you know…” she said, and stopped.

“Know what?” I prompted.

“Well, I’ve had my share of trouble with Sam’s hormones. As you know perfectly well.” She smiled and looked heavenward. “I just had this nasty feeling that Sam Carter was the one who killed Jim Sisson.”

“What made you think that?”

“People are creatures of habit,” Taffy said. “That’s what I figure. Sam is one-was one-of the world’s biggest gossips. He’s forever talking about what’s going on in the town. But the morning after Jim Sisson was found dead? Wednesday, I guess it was? Sam spent most of it in the office. I asked him if he’d heard anything, and all he said was, ‘Well, the village and the county are working on it, and between the two of ’em, they’ll botch things up just fine.’ ” She glanced over at Torrez.