J. Jance - Trial By Fury

Joanna glanced in Andi's direction and shook her head. "I don't know. I doubt it. It'll depend on how I feel after the funeral. I appreciate what you're doing, but I may be too tired."

Ned nodded sympathetically. "I understand completely. It would be nice if you could. It would mean a great deal to the students, but of course your physical well-being must come first."

He took Joanna's hand and pressed it firmly. "You take care now, Mrs. Ridley. We'll hope to see you tomorrow. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

Ned Browning scurried away toward his office, the little shit. I wanted him out of my sight. I turned to Peters. "I'll help get this loaded into Joanna's car and be right back."

We left Andi Wynn and Peters standing together in the breezeway. "Where did it come from?" Joanna asked.

"What?"

"The picture. I thought you were going to find out how the man at the newspaper got it."

"Oh, that." Maxwell Cole's column seemed eons away. "No," I told her. "I haven't been able to locate him yet."

"Oh," Joanna said. She sounded disappointed.

Her Mustang was parked in the school lot. She led the way to the trunk and unlocked it. The cover bounced open. A large tin-plated container, the kind restaurants use to hold fifty pounds of lard, sat in the middle of an otherwise empty trunk.

Joanna looked at it and frowned. "What's that doing here?" she asked.

"What is it?"

"It looks like my flour container. But what would it be doing in my car?"

I put down the box. "I don't know," I said. "Let me take a look."

As soon as I cracked the lid on the container, before I even looked inside, I was sorry. The stench was overpowering. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I lifted the lid anyway.

Coiled at the top was a length of rope. Under it, through the center of the rope was what appeared to be a man's shirt. A maroon man's shirt, dusted with flour.

For a moment, Joanna had recoiled, driven away by the overwhelming odor of human excrement. Despite the smell, she came forward again to peer warily inside the container. She saw the shirt at the same time I did.

"That's his shirt," she whispered.

I shoved the lid back shut. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, holding her hand to her mouth. "That was his favorite, his game shirt. He always wore it."

"That day, too?"

She nodded. "It's either his shirt or one just like it."

I examined the outside of the container. A fine film of white powder lingered on the outside and on the top. I took a tiny swipe at the bottom edge with my finger and touched it to my tongue. It was indeed flour.

"And this looks like your flour container?"

"I'm sure of it. I keep it in the storeroom out in the carport. There's a smaller one, a canister in the house. When I need to refill it, I get the flour from this one."

"And you have no idea how long this has been in your trunk?"

"No."

I closed the lid of the trunk. "Open the car door," I ordered. "We'll put the box in the back."

Unquestioningly, Joanna did as she was bidden. She unlocked the rider's door and held up the front seat while I shoved the box in. When I turned back toward her, she was trembling visibly, despite the fact that a warm afternoon sun was shining on her.

"Wait here," I said. "We'll go somewhere we can talk."

I left her there and went in search of Peters. I found him and Candace Wynn standing right where we'd left them. They were laughing and talking.

"I'm going to be gone for a while," I told Peters abruptly.

Puzzled, he looked at me. "Want me to go along?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No need. I'll be back in half an hour or so."

To this day, I'm not sure why I didn't have Peters come along with us. Joanna's Mustang was small, but there would have been room enough for the three of us.

Peters shrugged. "Okay. Suit yourself. I'll wait here. Besides, I should get the camera from the car and take some pictures of that list. Even if it's not admissible, doesn't mean it isn't usable."

I nodded in agreement. Leaving them, I hustled back to Joanna Ridley. She was still standing beside the Mustang, where I'd left her, as if glued to the spot. She jumped like a startled deer when I returned.

"Would you like me to drive?"

Wordlessly, she handed me her keys. I helped her into the car and shut the door. I got in and put the key in the ignition.

Joanna seemed dazed, unable to grasp what had happened. "Why are those things in my trunk?"

"That's what we're going to find out," I told her. I started the car and backed it out of the parking place. The only restaurant I knew on Mercer Island was a Denny's down near I-90. I fought my way through the maze of highway construction and found the restaurant on only the second try. For most of the drive, Joanna sat next to me in stricken silence.

Once in Denny's, we went to a booth in the far corner of the room and ordered coffee. "Tell me again where you kept the flour container," I demanded.

"In the storeroom at the end of the carport."

"Locked or unlocked?"

"Locked. Always."

"When was the last you saw it?"

"I don't know. A couple of weeks, I guess. I don't keep track."

"And you haven't noticed if the storeroom has been unlocked at any time?"

"No."

"When were you out there last?"

She shrugged. "Sometime last week."

"And the flour container was there?"

"As far as I know, but I don't remember for sure." She paused. "What are you going to do?"

"Take the container to the crime lab. See what they can find out."

"Why was it there?"

"In your car?"

She nodded.

"Someone wanted it found there."

"So you'd think I killed him?"

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"No."

There was another long pause. The waitress came and refilled both our coffee cups. While she did it, Joanna's eyes never left my face.

"Is that smart?"

"For me not to suspect you? Probably not, but I don't just the same."

"Thank you."

I was sitting looking at her, but my random access memory went straying back to Monday night, the first night I had seen her, when I brought her back from the medical examiner's office. The light in the carport had been turned off. Was that when the flour container disappeared?

I leaned forward in my chair. "Joanna, do you remember when we left your house that night to go to the medical examiner's office? Do you remember if you turned off the light in the carport before we drove away?"

She frowned and shook her head. "I don't remember at all. I might have, but I doubt it."

"Did you notice that when we came back the light wasn't on?"

"No."

"Where's the switch for the light in the carport?"

"There are two of them. One by the back door and one by the front."

"Both inside?"

"Yes."

I downed the rest of my coffee and stood up. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to drop the container off at the crime lab and make arrangements for them to send someone out to your house to dust it for prints."

"You think the killer was there, in my house?"

"I'm willing to bet on it."

"But how did he get in? How did he open my car without my knowing it?"

"Your husband had keys to your car, didn't he?"

She nodded.

"And the killer had Darwin 's keys."

She stood up, too. "All right," she said.

"I'm making arrangements for someone to put new locks on all your doors, both on the house and the car."

Joanna looked puzzled. "Why?"

"If he got in once," I said grimly, "he could do it again."

I had no intention of unloading the container from Joanna's car into ours to take it to the crime lab. Janice Morraine, my friend at the crime lab, tells me evidence is like pie dough-fragile. The less handling the better.