Clever Magazine, Vol. 7, #2 " Person of Honor " (www.clevermag.com)

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A Person of Honor

by Ed Lynskey

Catalpa County lay in the heart of Virginia’s hunt country where on Sunday afternoons billionaires rode on horseback to their baying hounds chasing a fox. What a life. Sharon Knowles didn’t like straying so far from home near Washington, DC but a paying gig was a paying gig. Straightening in the bucket seat, she rolled up the window -- April's balmy air fragranced by wild spring flowers made her sleepy. Stay sharp, she upbraided herself. This homicide investigation requires your full attention.

Karen Cargo's mother had written Sharon a letter postmarked Gafton, the county seat for Catalpa County. Karen had been, the letter explained, recently arrested and charged with the murder of her employer, an elderly horse squire. Instant alarm had sped up Sharon’s pulse rate. A friend was in turmoil. She read on.

Charles Wiggins was a shadow cousin to the rich, famous du Ponts who sold paints and plastics. His family had amassed a huge acreage and Mrs. Cargo stressed he was "worth a fortune." Sharon hiked an eyebrow upon learning that detail. The letter went on to say how Wiggins had died without warning and all of his vast wealth had gone to Karen. Her eyebrow hiked up higher.

Wiggins' three estranged daughters had objected. Gossip sailed around the small, close-knit Grafton accusing Karen of poisoning the old squire while she worked as his home care nurse. With a little help from local busybodies, the sheriff cobbled together a case. Karen had a knowledge of poisons, access to the old squire’s meals, and the cunning to flatter Wiggins into altering his Last Will to favor her.

“Will you please come and see if you can shed any light on the real truth?” Mrs. Cargo had closed her letter, but Sharon had already pulled out a Virginia road map.

Presently, Sharon signaled a right turn at the native stone moongate, a striking landmark Mrs. Cargo had put in her directions to the Wiggins estate. The driveway flanked by whitewashed plank fencing and budding honey locusts ran uphill almost a quarter-mile. Sharon clocked it on her odometer between cursory glances at the wavy fields of bluegrass pasture. Thoroughbred horses grazing resembled ebony marble sculptures.

As she pulled up to the yellow stucco cottage in the mansion’s patchy shadows, Sharon wondered who went down each day to fetch the mail. After braking beside a rose trellis, she put on the emergency brake and ranged out of the Honda. Lilac-scented breezes drew a sigh from her. For murder to intrude on such a glorious day had to be a crime.

"Ms. Knowles? Sharon?"

Wheeling on her heel, Sharon watched a petite figure emerge from the cottage's narrow door. The lady's stride was brisk and confident despite the acute worry clouding her mild blue eyes and youthful face.

"Yes," said Sharon. "You must be Karen's mom."

"I am," she said. "You're early. That's good.” With a chin nod, she acknowledged what Sharon had been sizing up. “Such a big, ugly house, isn’t it? Lord, I'd hate paying to heat it."

Mr. Wiggins let Sharon and I use the cottage. He was a dear old man. Have you had lunch?" Her words spilling in rapid-fire speech surprised Sharon. So, not all country folks were slow and deliberate in manner and conversation.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," said Sharon. "How is Karen holding up?"

"As well as can be expected locked inside a jail cell," said her mother. "And she's treated badly, too."

"We'll try and do our best to fix that," Sharon said.

"Try? Is that what you said? Try?" Mrs. Cargo’s back stiffened and her thin shoulders squared. "You better believe in Karen's innocence from the get-go. Otherwise, we've no basis of trust. Proving her innocence is all. Do I make myself plain?"

"No offense intended," said Sharon. "As Karen’s friend, I can't even begin to imagine her capable of murder. Like I said, I’ll do everything in my power to help her."

"Of course you will," said Mrs. Cargo, her directness somewhat off-putting. "Well, come on and shake a leg. I've got lots to tell you so we may as well get started."

“Should I lock my car doors?” asked Sharon.

The grim corners to Mrs. Cargo’s lips twitched as gentle amusement touched her eyes. “Of course not. We’ve no thieves here.”

No, only a killer, Sharon thought as they headed for the yellow cottage.

# # #

Seated at the oblong kitchen table, Sharon listened as Mrs. Cargo revealed the chronology of her daughter's unwitting descent into big trouble. "If Karen hadn't inherited a red cent from Mr. Wiggins," she said, "we wouldn't be here this afternoon. The Wiggins daughters only want the money. They could care less how their father died, murder or no murder."

Sharon let that hang for an awkward moment, then asked, "How much are the Wiggins daughters suing for?"

"Their civil suit amounts to $350,000 in punitive damages. That's the cap in Virginia. For compensatory damages -- and get this! -- they're demanding $20 million."

"I'll take a wild guess here and say that's the amount Karen stands to profit from Mr. Wiggins’ bequest," said Sharon.

"Of course," said Mrs. Cargo. "Actually, it's $30,000 more. They want to seize Sharon's savings as well. Leave her destitute as beggar, an extreme punishment for only doing her job as a home care nurse."

"Didn't you write me the autopsy report identified morphine in the decedent’s system?" asked Sharon.

"True," said Mrs. Cargo. "It was in large enough amounts to have killed Mr. Wiggins. That I can't dispute, can I? What I do refuse to accept is that Karen slipped it into his food."

Sharon absently scratched her wrist. "Who else went in and out of the mansion?" she asked.

"As far as I know, only Karen and I. The Wiggins girls never bothered to visit while he lay dying. No doubt they figured his Last Will took care of them and they were sitting pretty. To say they were shocked is an understatement."

As her eyes narrowed, Sharon inquired in a low, sober voice: "You say you also had access to the mansion?"

Fast indignation coarsened Mrs. Cargo’s reply. "Of course I assisted Karen in her nursing duties. It's rather difficult to lift such a man as heavy as Mr. Wiggins to change his bed linen. What reason do you have for asking me?"

Refusing to withdraw the question or break off her stare at the older lady, Sharon said, "I look at the most obvious suspects to rule out first. That includes you."

"Of course. I poisoned Mr. Wiggins, then hired a private detective to come here and pry around. I'm not a very smart killer, now am I?"

Arising from the ladder-back chair, Sharon next crossed the kitchen. "You may have hoped a PI could dig up enough scandalous dirt on Wiggins’ daughters to point the finger of suspicion at them and not Karen."

"We're not off to a very good start, are we Ms. Knowles?" Mrs. Cargo's features sharpened. "My daughter and I had nothing to do with Mr. Wiggins' death. I don’t know how to state it any plainer. You my leave if you have such serious misgivings about us."

"Your passion strikes me as genuine enough," said Sharon. "I'll ease into this and see what happens."

"Splendid. I'll expect written reports on a weekly basis, too," said Mrs. Cargo. "I don't trust oral communication. In that way, I'm old fashion. Having everything spelled out to the letter is a comfort to me. Will that be a problem for you?"

The peculiar request didn't fluster Sharon. "Not at all. In return, you'll have no reservations in signing my contract. Like you, I also prefer things set down in writing."

"Perfect. We finally understand each other." Mrs. Cargo cast down her head to begin studying the contract. Sharon mused on how difficult it would be to expose her as Mr. Wiggins' killer. For the first time in her PI career, her early impression of a client was that definite. She shivered.

# # #

Sharon's visit to the Gafton jailhouse was largely a perfunctory one. Karen Cargo attired in the usual orange jumpsuit shuffled into the visitation area. She wore steel chain manacles as well as shackles. Two overweight, clean-cut sheriff deputies, pudgy thumbs hooked in their duty belts, hulked too near the bat black table. The metal chairs were also bolted to the concrete floor. Security was utmost. Their every word was monitored. The sheriff had strict orders that the prisoner was not permitted privacy with any out-of-town detective. Doubly so if the out-of-town detective was another lady.

The blonde Karen was a younger image of her mother. Her avid gaze never shifted from Sharon's watchful eyes. "I'd no earthly idea Mr. Wiggins would leave everything to me," she said. "I've already offered to give the whole bundle to his daughters if they'll back off and leave us alone."

"Didn’t they go for it?" asked Sharon.

"My mom wouldn't tell them. She believes we'll need the money for legal fees."

Sharon leaned forward a few inches. Both standing sheriff deputies also nudged in closer. Irritated, she said, "I'm no lawyer but wouldn't your dumping the fortune on them defuse the Commonwealth Attorney's case for your homicide motive?"

"They'd claim I was doing it now to look good," said Karen. Failure seemed to thwart her every cause for hope.

"Did you kill Mr. Wiggins?" Sharon asked directly. Again, the sheriff deputies crowded the table, overeager not to miss an utterance.

"Of course not," said Karen. "I've no idea how he ingested all that morphine. His doctor prescribed several different medicines but never morphine."

“Over the phone?”

“No,” said Karen. “Mr. Wiggins was too sick to go see his doctor and raised holy cane if we suggested moving him from his room. So, I wrote prescriptions from his doctor’s blank pad.
It was more convenient for everybody that way.”

"M’m. I hate to ask this but please understand that I have to, Karen. Did your mother kill Mr. Wiggins?" This time Sharon looked sharp for Karen’s reaction, the slightest flinch or shudder. The sheriff deputies gawked also.

Disbelief before horror pinched Karen's expression. "Good heavens no. Why would she want to?"

Nodding, Sharon glanced up over her shoulder at the two sheriff deputies. "Are you two gentlemen finished trying to gape down the front of my blouse?"

Stepping back, the sheriff deputies, arms folded on chests, leveled impassive glares at the ladies.

"You better scoot," said Karen. "I don't need any more trouble in here."

“I’ll escort you out,” one sheriff deputy said to Sharon.

“That’s all right. I know my way around station houses.”

His mouth dropped an inch. “Huh?”

“I was a homicide cop for seven years,” said Sharon. “And a damn fine one. Tell your sheriff and make his day.”

# # #

That night Sharon stayed at the yellow stucco cottage in Karen's former bedroom. The mattress was warped and prickly bed coils poked her in the most sensitive places. The bed, she thought climbing out of it one stiff leg at a time, was like sleeping inside a cheap casket.

In the swag lamp’s eerie pink glow, she sat working the bentwood rocker back and forth. The therapeutic motion lent itself for her to assess what she'd learned thus far which wasn't a fat lot. Wind gusts powering off the Blue Ridge Mountains behind the cottage buffeted the loose windowpanes in their rickety frames. As much as she hated to admit it, Sharon was having serious second thoughts about making Mrs. Cargo the murderer.

During dinner, the elderly lady had absentmindedly poured salt into her iced tea. After stirring it, she took one sip and made on a sour face. Sharon explained what she'd watched her just do. They laughed about it. Sharon doubted if the crusty but inept Mrs. Cargo could manage disguising the bitter taste of lethal drugs in Mr. Wiggins' foodstuffs.

Once Karen and her mother were erased from the suspect list, Sharon was left blinking at a blank blackboard. There were, in fact, no other reasonable suspects left to investigate.

Sharon crossed her left ankle over her right knee and gave the rocking a rest. A vicious swat of mountain wind slammed the cottage broadside. Shivering to feel an icy draft, she felt a stalled heartbeat as an insight occurred to her.

"Oh, that is so hideous," she said aloud. "I won't even consider it." Still, the sudden idea only burned that much fiercer with its insistence in her mind.

“Could it be?” Sharon asked the wind. It blew into the cottage all the more sure. Wrapping a heavy robe about her, she went out and crossed a moonlit lawn to the big house. Its porcelain doorknob turned unlocked. She sidled inside. Overhead lights blazed in Mr. Wiggins’ bedroom, first hallway door on the right just as Mrs. Cargo had told her.

Cavernous. Cold. Disheveled. Sharon sifted through newspapers and magazines stacked at the foot of the sleigh bed. Next she got down on all fours, peered underneath the bed. Found small cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. Return mail labels were from a pharmaceutical company in Boston. Searching for medicine bottles or containers with the company’s logo proved fruitless. Frustrated, she stalked across the windblown lawn and went back to bed. This time she fell asleep.

# # #

The next morning over the breakfast table, Sharon asked Mrs. Cargo pouring them each a glass of grapefruit juice, "Was Mr. Wiggins a person of honor?"

"He was proper and polite, if that's what you mean," Mrs. Cargo replied. "He was from the old school. Brought up to keep a stiff upper lip. Reserve in manner. Very proud until old age laid waste to his body."

Sharon persisted. "Would you say, then, Mr. Wiggins grew despondent over his last days?"

Mrs. Cargo lowered herself into the ladder-back chair. "He wasn't very chipper and cheerful, of course. I mean there he lay in bed, old and alone living in that enormous cave of a house. His daughters refused to accept his repeated pleas to come visit him."

"Why?" Sharon asked.

Mrs. Cargo shrugged her shoulders very frail looking. Her forehead wrinkled. "Who knows? They all live in sunny California. Too busy with their self-important careers and exciting lives, I suppose. He brooded about it. Once Karen caught him crying in bed. We did what we could to bolster his spirits. Karen often read to him. We watched TV together. His heart was broken in half over it."

“Who goes down to fetch the mail?” asked Sharon.

“I do,” said Mrs. Cargo. “Every afternoon at quarter past one, I mosey down to the mailbox at the foot of the drive.”

“Did Mr. Wiggins receive small packages? Of medical supplies?”

“Yes, I picked up such boxes,” said Mrs. Cargo. “Karen ordered his medications through supply house catalogs. I left any deliveries for her on his night table. I never bothered with medicines.”

“Did Karen ever mention a box missing the day you’d brought it up?”

“I’m so forgetful anymore,” said Mrs. Cargo. “A time or two, yes, a box was misplaced but sooner or later it’d turn up.”

“It was suicide,” said Sharon, raking her chair back over the tiles. “Mr. Wiggins committed suicide. It has to be."

The juice glass in Mrs. Cargo’s shaky hand returned to the table. "Suicide? Why?"

"The Mr. Wiggins you described was extremely depressed," said Sharon. "I put to you that he poisoned himself to death with morphine. He hid the boxes he’d ordered by using Karen’s prescription pad. It was the last thing he had control over. Karen received his worldly goods for the simple reason she was the only one who gave a damn."

"What if Mr. Wiggins did kill himself?" asked Mrs. Cargo. "At this point, how would we prove it to the authority's satisfaction? They'd accuse us resorting to desperate measures."

With a curt smile, Sharon offered her arm to assist the elderly lady out of her chair. "I found medicine boxes he hid underneath his big bed. We’ll comb his room and then the house. If we get lucky, maybe we’ll run across a suicide note."

"And even if we don't," said Mrs. Cargo in a more animated voice, "it's a starting place to clear my daughter’s name."