Travellin' Shoes Read online

  I stared at the picture and the evidence-bagged lighter, then got up and grabbed my jacket. “That’s not just a lighter,” I said. “That’s a solid-gold, engraved lighter.”

  We hurried to the home of Tonya Rutherford, and on the way, I filled Harley in on the solid-gold lighter that Mrs. Rutherford had received when she retired from Tucker Car Manufacturing. I also told him about Mama B’s suspicions that Tonya had been “messing around” and gotten herself pregnant.

  “So, you think Tonya Rutherford killed Warrendale?” Harley said.

  “Looks that way. Although I would have bet money she wasn’t the type. Really smart kid. Sad to throw away her life like this.”

  We arrived at the Rutherford home at the same time as the two black and whites I’d called for before we left. The neighborhood was alive with flashing lights and people sitting on their front porches.

  Harley sent the other two officers around back. Weapons drawn, Harley and I led the way to the front door.

  I pounded on the door and shouted, “Mrs. Rutherford, this is the police.”

  The house was dark and silent. I pounded again and then kicked in the door. Inside, the room was dark, silent, and empty. We’d missed our prey … this time.

  We looked for Tonya and Viola Rutherford for most of the day, checking out neighbors, relatives, and any place that seemed even remotely plausible as a hiding place. After hours with no results, I was worn out and decided to go get some rest.

  Back at Mama B’s, both Paris and Mama B were on the front porch drinking sweet tea and rocking.

  “You look worn out,” Paris said. “Let me get you something to eat.”

  I plopped down on the steps “I just need to sit down and rest.”

  Bryce Chandler being murdered at the church was already headline news.

  “Did you know Tonya Rutherford well?” I asked.

  Paris shook her head. “Not really. She seemed like such a nice girl. She’s really smart too. I hate to say this, but I really hope you’re wrong about her.”

  “I hope I’m wrong too,” I said, although it sure didn’t seem likely. “I’ve known her all her life, and I really hate thinking she could have thrown everything away on a low-life like Thomas Warrendale.”

  “Young girls are very impressionable,” Paris said. “He made a big impression on a lot of women at the church.”

  “Is there anything you can think of that might help?”

  “Like what?”

  “Did Warren ever say or do anything that was unusual … anything different or odd?”

  Paris thought for a moment. “Well, he was different.”

  Mama B snorted. “You can say that again.”

  “No,” Paris said, “I mean he was really good with numbers.”

  I turned to look at her. “How so?”

  “He could glance at a column of numbers and tell you what the total was just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  I didn’t think being able to add quickly got him killed. “Anything else?”

  “He could remember large blocks of numbers, like account numbers, without writing them down. When he first started doing the books for my business, I mentioned something about the accounts, and he just rattled off the account numbers like a grocery list.”

  That was interesting. I wasn’t sure how it fit in, but it might prove significant. I filed it away. “Anything else?”

  “This is going to sound weird, but I think he used numbers to help him remember things,” she said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He always carried this little book with him. He called it his ‘hymn book.’ ”

  “That doesn’t seem unusual for a choir director.”

  “I know, but it wasn’t a real hymn book. It was just a blank notebook he wrote in.”

  “Like a composer?”

  “No, he didn’t write the music, just the titles and numbers. Lots of numbers.”

  “Did you ever see inside this book?”

  “Only once. We were rehearsing and trying to get a particular part. His hymn book was just lying on the seat, and I picked it up. But I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it.”

  “How did Warren respond when you picked it up?”

  “He got mad at first, but then he just laughed. He said he had his own methods, and his hymn book was special.”

  Something wasn’t right, but my brain was too tired to do much figuring, so I decided to call it a day and try to get a little more sleep.

  Unfortunately, tonight was not going to be my night for rest. At two a.m. my phone rang. It felt like déjà vu.

  “RJ, I am sorry to bother you at this hour,” Reverend Hamilton said, “but I really need to speak to you. Can you please come by the rectory?” The words themselves didn’t convey much, but the soft tone and the timing let me know something serious had occurred.

  “Sure, Reverend. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be right there.”

  I hurried to get dressed. I sure hoped there wasn’t another dead body at the church.

  Reverend Hamilton opened the door, and without a word, led me to his office. That’s where I found Tonya Rutherford and her mother Viola already seated. The office was small, but Reverend Hamilton had brought another chair into the room for me.

  Reverend Hamilton motioned for me to sit down then took his seat behind his desk. Tonya was crying, and Miss Viola looked like she’d been through World War III.

  Reverend Hamilton gave a nod toward Tonya.

  She gulped and started to talk. “I thought Minister Warrendale was the most wonderful man I’d ever known. He was so exciting and so talented and … and I fell in love.”

  “Tonya,” I said, “I need to tell you that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present. Do you understand these rights?”

  She nodded. I took out my notebook.

  “He was the first man I … I had never been with a man before.” She stumbled over the words and looked sideways when Miss Viola, sitting in the corner, caught her breath and began to sob. “He made me feel so special. I mean, here was this man who was so talented, and he wanted to be with me.” She choked, but after a moment, she sniffed and continued, “At first, I was so happy. Proud and happy. But then I started hearing the rumors. I started hearing there were other women. I didn’t believe it. I thought they were all just jealous. Everyone wanted to be with him. I thought they were just making it up to make him look bad because he wasn’t interested in any of them.” Pausing, she took some tissues from the box on Reverend Hamilton’s desk. “But then one day, I saw him. I went to his house, and there was a woman there. I crept into the back of the house and listened to them talking. She was his wife. He was married.”

  This gave me a clue about the timeframe. It had to have been the Sunday Mrs. Warren discovered his whereabouts.

  “He was married,” she said again. “I couldn’t believe it. He told me he was going to take care of me. I thought he meant he was going to marry me. But he didn’t. He meant he’d give me money to get an abortion or go away someplace and have the baby.”

  More sobs from Miss Viola. Reverend Hamilton’s face wore a pained expression.

  “I didn’t want to see him after that,” Tonya said. “I was so ashamed. I had to tell my mom about the baby. I was starting to show.”

  Miss Viola looked haggard. But she was a tough woman and wasn’t about to give in without a fight. With clenched fists and jaw, she spat out, “And that’s when I decided to kill him. I went to his house and had it out with him …. I killed him. I hit him.”

  Reverend Hamilton shook his head, while Tonya went over to her mother, held on to her grief-stricken body and soothed her. At that moment, their roles were reversed, and Tonya rocked and consoled Miss Viola as any mother would an upset child. Finally, in a soft, soothing voice, Tonya said, “No, Mama. You can’t take the blame for me. I won’t let you.”

&nb
sp; Looking at me, Tonya Rutherford said, “It was me. I did it. I went to his house, and we got into a fight. He had a suitcase and was leaving. I got mad. I hit him with a statue. I didn’t mean to do it. I swear to God I didn’t mean to. But I killed him.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reverend Hamilton accompanied Tonya Rutherford and me down to the police station, where she told her story again. Later, Reverend Hamilton and I sat alone at my desk.

  “What will become of her? That poor child doesn’t belong in jail any more than I do.”

  “I doubt she’ll even be arrested for the arson. She didn’t kill Thomas Warrendale.”

  He looked shocked. “But she confessed.”

  “She confessed to hitting him over the head and setting the fire later, but that’s not what killed him. He was shot.”

  The light finally turned on and Reverend Hamilton said, “So that’s why you kept asking her about a gun when you questioned her.”

  I nodded. “She shouldn’t have tried to cover it up with the fire.”

  “That was Viola’s idea,” Reverend Hamilton said.

  “I know. When Tonya told her mother what she’d done, her mother thought they could hide it by setting fire to the house. She should have come to the police. But I think she’ll be okay. She just turned eighteen a few days ago. So technically she was a minor when Warren impregnated her. That will carry some weight. She’ll be questioned and released.”

  “It would kill her mother if she goes to jail.”

  “She has no priors. She’s pregnant. I’ll call Judge Browning. He’s retired from the bench but he can recommend a good attorney.”

  “But the cost?”

  “Don’t worry about the cost. Judge Browning owes me a favor.” I smiled to myself, thinking teaching that class would be a small price to pay if it meant helping Tonya.

  Reverend Hamilton breathed a sigh of relief. “That would be wonderful. Do you really think it’s possible?”

  “I do. Plus, I’ll be happy to speak on her behalf if it comes to that. A wise man once said, ‘anything’s possible if you can believe.’ ”

  Reverend Hamilton smiled, “Mark, nine, twenty-three. A truly wise man indeed.” He sighed and I saw the weight he had been carrying ease a fraction. Slowly he rose. “Thank you, RJ, I believe God placed you here in this position for just such a time as this.”

  “Perhaps.” I stifled a yawn.

  I went home. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I didn’t even try. A hot shower and two more cups of coffee did nothing to stimulate my brain cells. Back at the precinct, Chief Mike was inclined to close things out and wanted to charge Tonya Rutherford with murder. Fortunately, I disagreed.

  From behind the desk in his small office, Chief Mike made his case. “You have your murderer. The mayor will be happy, and that young girl will most likely get off with probation. This case is done.”

  “That’s fine, except she didn’t kill Thomas Warrendale. And she definitely didn’t kill Bryce Chandler.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Harley, do you have the coroner’s report?”

  Harley went to his desk and hurried back with the report. Quickly scanning through it, I found what I was looking for.

  “According to the coroner’s report, Warrendale was shot. The ME found a hole in the skull consistent with a forty-five-caliber handgun. There’s no way Tonya Rutherford shot him.”

  Chief Mike paced. “So she lied. She shot him. Maybe she doesn’t have a license for the gun and didn’t want to admit she had it.”

  “But why hide it? She already confessed. She thought she’d killed him. There’s no reason to hide it if she’d shot him instead of hitting him over the head. Besides, she didn’t kill Bryce Chandler.”

  Harley just looked between Chief Mike and me as though watching a tennis match.

  “How do you know?” Chief Mike asked.

  “Her alibi checks out. I verified it before I went home last night … ah, this morning. She was on a Greyhound bus traveling from Detroit to St. Joe. The bus driver remembered her.”

  “He must have had hundreds of passengers.”

  “Apparently, she sat behind the bus driver and cried most of the trip. She reminded him of one of his daughters. She was traveling alone, so he kept an eye on her. He even remembered what she was wearing.”

  I laid the report on the desk and waited.

  “Maybe the two murders aren’t connected?” Chief Mike looked up, but even he didn’t believe that. He flopped down in his chair. “Never mind.”

  Harley looked at me, puzzled. “What’s really bothering you?”

  “Too many questions. We still don’t know who shot Thomas Warrendale. We don’t know who shot Bryce Chandler or why.”

  “We also still don’t know what they’re looking for,” Harley said. “Why break into Paris’ salon or her house?”

  Chief Mike had already sent word to the mayor that we had solved the murder, and he was not excited about having to backtrack.

  “You two better get busy. Find this murderer and find him quickly,” he said through gritted teeth. He picked up the phone and placed a call to the mayor’s office. Harley and I got out as quickly as possible.

  I did run into a little bit of luck in tracking down Mrs. Hartford-Graham. The casino owner’s credit card had been used at a restaurant just outside of Chicago two days ago. That was promising. So Mrs. Hartford-Graham was within two hours of St. Joe. Still, no matter how I tried to stretch my imagination, I just couldn’t envision the elderly Mrs. Hartford-Graham breaking into the church rectory. It didn’t take a great deal of imagination to visualize her bodyguard, the Hulk, breaking in. In that case, Mrs. Hartford-Graham would have ensured that she was far away and had an iron-clad alibi. No, my gut told me Mrs. Hartford-Graham was much too smart to arrange the killing and then stay close by.

  At lunch, Harley and I tried to organize our thoughts.

  Harley reviewed his notes. “We know Thomas Warrendale took something. That’s why he ran.”

  “We’re assuming what he took was the reason he left Cleveland and hid in St. Joe.”

  “And whatever he took was so important someone was willing to kill for it.”

  “We know that whatever it was, they haven’t found it yet,” I said.

  “It would have to be relatively small. It couldn’t be anything too big or he wouldn’t be able to hide it so well.”

  “We know Thomas Warrendale was a brilliant accountant,” I said. “He was somehow stealing money from First Baptist Church and Paris’ salon.” I couldn’t help feeling I was missing something.

  Harley noticed my puzzled look. “What?”

  “It’s just something Paris said. She said Warrendale was talented with numbers. For that matter, everyone else we’ve talked to kept mentioning how brilliant he was with numbers and accounts. She mentioned something about a hymn book too.”

  “So what?” Harley asked.

  “Well, the money stolen from the church was pretty obvious. I don’t know anything about accounting, but the records I saw before I handed them over to the forensic accountant were pretty sloppy. I mean, Reverend Hamilton figured it out. That doesn’t sound like a financial genius.”

  “So, you think someone else was involved?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Okay, so who and why, and is it connected with the murders?”

  “Let’s look at the connections. Warrendale worked for Bryce Chandler. He did the books for the Easy Street Casino, which is owned by Mrs. Hartford-Graham. Warrendale did the books for Paris’ salon, and she’s had two break-ins. He did the books for First Baptist Church, and money was stolen.” I paused. “What’s the common denominator?”

  “Thomas Warrendale.”

  “The stuff we got from Hastings showed someone was laundering money and embezzling. I think that was Warrendale and probably Bryce Chandler. For some reason, Warrendale decided to run.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Hartford
-Graham figured it out,” Harley said.

  “Could be. She probably went to Chandler. Warrendale got scared and ran, but not before he took some papers, books, files, or something.” I didn’t have any solid facts to back up my theory, but it felt right.

  “Chandler?”

  “He and Mrs. Warrendale have been looking for something. I think that’s why they came to St. Joe, and that’s why he was murdered.”

  “So, we’ve got to find it before the killer does.”

  Later that afternoon, we went back to the mayor’s office to provide an update.

  “This case has gone on way too long,” he said. “I want this thing resolved. What’s the problem?”

  Chief Mike looked from Harley to me. “We think we know why he was killed and have a couple of likely suspects, but we can’t prove anything yet.”

  “Maybe you should pull someone in for questioning. Even if you have to release them, it would be better than doing nothing. At least the media would think we have a clue what we’re doing.”

  I was frustrated. “Mayor, we do have a clue what we’re doing. We’re doing our job, but we can’t just pull people in and give away our hand. I think that would be more detrimental than helpful.” I wasn’t even trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. Harley looked nervous, and Chief Mike looked as though he would love to crawl under a rock. But I hadn’t had much sleep, and my patience had waned.

  Mayor Longbow stopped pacing, flung himself into a seat, and said, “Look, I want this cleared up. You have forty-eight hours.”

  Back at the precinct, Chief Mike said, “If we don’t find the solution fast, we’re going to look like incompetent fools. Tell me you have a plan.”

  “My plan is to find whatever Warrendale took before the people looking for it find it and before anyone else is killed. I believe that if we do, it’ll lead us to his killer.”