Off the Beaten Path. John Schlarbaum
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him during breakfast or over the phone the day she was killed?” Dawn asked.
“Anything is possible.” Debra appeared to be worn down by our questions. Glancing at her watch, she said, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She withdrew money from her purse, placed it on the table and stood. “I do appreciate our talk. After all these years, I think Eric’s only hope is that the real killer is arrested, probably during a routine traffic stop, and confesses.”
Even then, with Eric already convicted, the killer could delay things by saying Eric had hired him in the first place, I thought.
Dawn and I stood to say our farewells. “Do you still have those private investigator reports?” I asked, my competitive juices beginning to simmer.
“I do. I have an entire banker’s box filled with trial evidence and news clippings. Everything related to the case.”
“Would you mind sending me copies of the reports? Again, maybe I’ll see something you haven’t. You know, read between the lines using my past experience to guide me.” An expression of hopefulness flashed on Debra’s face. “I can’t make any promises.”
Without hesitation, Lucy McDowell’s grieving mother asked for our home address. “I’ll send them tomorrow morning.”
I shook Debra’s hand and Dawn gave her a warm hug.
“Hope is all I have left and you’ve provided me with some today,” Debra said, fighting back tears. “You can’t imagine how glad I am for your help.” She stepped forward and gave me a hug before leaving the store, saying goodbye to Dara as she did.
Dara re-entered the kitchen with a grin on her face. “I don’t know what you two said, but I haven’t seen her smile like that for a very long time.”
“Steve’s a private investigator and offered to look over the evidence against Eric,” Dawn said.
“That explains everything. Do you think you can help her?”
“I made no guarantees. Either way, good or bad, a fresh set of eyes is always a positive thing,” I answered. “Plus, I have no connection to the original investigation or the police force.”
We helped Dara clean off our table and left a short time later.
“I got a new book and you picked up a new file,” Dawn said taking my hand as we hit the boardwalk. “We need to visit Book A Lunch more often.”
“Wonderful. Our new vacation destination is the murder capital of the region,” I said. “As for Debra, she freaks out last night and we get a free souvenir. Today she freaks out and we get a free lunch. Is it just me or do I seem to attract only crazy women these days, present company excluded, of course?”
“Of course.”
“And until I see what she has stored away, I’m not counting on this being a new file, per se.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. I know you,” Dawn said boldly. “Once Debra said two other investigators hadn’t found any new evidence, your brain started working overtime. I swear I heard the hamster wheel in your head begin to squeak into motion.”
“If you must know, that hamster is always on the move,” I said with a laugh, “but like me sometimes it needs to close its eyes for a while to refocus on what’s important in life.”
“That’s what you’re doing in your recliner while we’re watching television most nights, refocusing?”
“That and charging my batteries to keep up with you when we go to bed.”
“Ah, that is the nicest thing any old man has ever said to me,” Dawn said with a funny smirk.
We walked in silent bliss through the nearby riverside park, circling back to the hotel to relax poolside. Dawn cracked open her new novel and I put on my headphones, preparing to drift back to sleep listening to a classic rock playlist.
“I’m going to take this time to refocus, okay?” I asked, as Pat Benatar began to accuse me of being a heartbreaker, dream maker and love taker.
“You do that. One topic I’m sure you’re not going to focus on is having children with me.” Dawn let out a mischievous laugh and looked over to me.
As she knew I would, I pointed my index fingers to both ears and with a goofy smile mouthed the words, “What? I can’t hear you over the music.”
In turn, she lightly hit my shoulder with her hand and blew me a kiss. “Don’t worry. I’ll think about it for both of us. Sweet dreams, baby.”
Sweet dreams?
Baby?
We had yet to have any truly serious conversations about our future. This was fun, why spoil it by mixing in adult situations neither of us were prepared to contemplate?
Did Dawn grow up dreaming of having 2.3 kids, the white picket fenced yard and a husband who was home every night?
If so, would that be a relationship dealbreaker later on?
Closing my eyes, the only thing I could concentrate on was the little devil on my shoulder whispering, “You got yourself a live one here, Steve. Proceed with extreme caution.”
Unfortunately for me, the words caution and Dawn do not readily go together.
Chapter Five
There are days when I have zero velocity, which is an actual scientific term. It relates to the highest position a ball thrown up in the air can achieve before beginning its descent back to earth. Neither moving upward nor heading downward. A sliver of time when the ball is frozen in space.
Looking at Debra Stanfield’s box of evidence resting at the feet of a courier caused my zero velocity moment. I was temporarily stymied whether I should move forward with this investigation or decline to sign for the package, halting my involvement in its tracks.
Stop, go?
Left, right?
Over, out?
The two reports Debra had promised to send arrived a few days after Dawn and I returned from our trip. Both documents were on the thin side, although each P.I. did speak with several people the police had interviewed during the initial official investigation. The problem: no one had a clue why or who would want to kill this popular woman, aside from her homicidal husband wishing to trade up. Throughout history this storyline has been told time and again and, from all appearances, it was the only narrative that fit this tragedy.
Yet, something didn’t feel right.
I’m always bothered when no hard evidence is found at a crime scene. Much was made at Eric’s trial about the open patio doors the killer had purportedly gained entry and escaped through. According to Debra though, these doors were usually unlocked during the late afternoon and evening, when Lucy liked to read in the garden. In addition, the gate into the fenced backyard had a latch but no lock. Therefore, anyone strolling by could quickly enter the yard and walk into the kitchen in a matter of seconds, without detection.
The prosecutor hammered home that there was no indication anyone else had been in the house the night of the murder. The few stray fingerprints, hairs or fibers examined were all traced back to friends or family who’d recently visited the McDowells. No mystery prints were found.
This leads me to the following conclusions: Eric did it, a family member or friend did it, or the killer was very careful about not leaving anything behind. The last theory was the one I’d pursue. A person that meticulous is either a pro-for-hire or an obsessive compulsive thinker who’s watched a lot of crime shows, learning how best not to be caught.
For Eric to murder his wife, and leave her in a pool of blood, only to return an hour later smelling like an Irish Spring commercial, would even stretch the imagination of Dr. Seuss. Such cases do exist, with the murderer using the Would I be that stupid? argument in court later on. From