Then I reminded myself of my own far-fetched outfits and told myself to stop being “judgy,” as Monty would say.
Annette introduced us, and we shook hands.
“Do you do wildlife rescue as well?” I asked.
“Not really. There’s a wildlife rescue station in Lafayette that takes them in and fixes their broken wings and the like, but a lot of them can never be released back into the wild. So they live here. Get room and board; all they have to do is look pretty and not eat each other. It’s a pretty good deal, all things considered.”
Dust on my boots, the smell of the grass underfoot, the wind through wet leaves, and manure. Country smells. It was a reminder to me how long it had been since I had taken a break, gotten out of town. I’m a city girl, by and large, but there was no denying that in a place like this, a person could breathe. I inhaled deeply, held it, released it in several beats like my Berkeley Buddhist friends were always telling me to do. It felt surprisingly good.
Since business was slow, perhaps I should propose a weekend getaway to Graham. It would be worth it just to see the shocked expression on his face. I couldn’t help but smile at the image. That decided it. As soon as we nailed this murder down and I finished up the Monty project, I was going to take a weekend off.
I felt audacious and daring.
After a brief tour of the animals and introductions to his numerous dogs, Sheldon invited us into his double-wide mobile home, which was comfortable and surprisingly spacious inside.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the linoleum-topped dining table. “The wife’s at Costco, so until she gets back the pickings are kind of slim around here, but I can offer you coffee or a beer.”
“A beer sounds good,” said Annette.
“Same for me,” I said, to be sociable. I’m not a big beer drinker.
“PBR all around it is,” Sheldon said, and set a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in front of each of us before taking a seat.
We popped the tabs and took a sip, and while I tried to decide why anyone in their right mind would choose to drink beer, Annette and Sheldon got caught up with an exchange of shoptalk and “do you remembers.” After several minutes, Annette asked Sheldon about the Lawrence murders.
“Like I told you on the phone, it seemed pretty clear-cut,” he said with a shake of his head. He stuck his chin out thoughtfully and stroked his mustache. “One of those heartbreakers, what with the teenager, and the other kids witnessing the crime and barely escaping with their lives.”
“Was there any clue as to what led up to that night?”
“The father was having money problems. His company wasn’t doing well, and there were rumors of embezzlement. Apparently he just . . . snapped. Or so it seemed.”
“Was there any doubt that he was the one who did it?” I asked.
“Not at the time. Not officially.”
Annette and I exchanged a glance.
“What about unofficially?” she asked.
Sheldon took a moment before replying. “That case always bothered me. Man had a nice wife, three good kids. Money troubles, but nothing he couldn’t reasonably expect to recover from. The police had no record of incidents at the home. The neighbors said the Lawrences seemed like a nice family, no reports of loud voices or fighting. According to their teachers, the kids were good students, happy and polite, no acting out or signs of neglect or abuse. Usually in these kinds of cases there’s something, some indication that all isn’t well at home. But not this time. The in-laws had nothing but wonderful things to say about Sidney. They expressed no lingering doubts, no bitterness, no I-knew-something-was-wrong-why-didn’t-I-say-something—nothing like that. Just stunned disbelief.”
“Any other suspects?” asked Annette.
“All the usual suspects. We reconstructed the twenty-four hours leading up to the murder, then the previous forty-eight hours. We tried to avoid getting tunnel vision, seeing only what was most obvious. We looked into the wife, thinking maybe she’d had an affair. Nothing. We checked up on him; maybe he’d been seeing someone. Again, zip. The way his business was structured, his partner had nothing to gain from his death. The only financial motive was who would inherit and who got the insurance payout.”
“The children?”
He nodded. “It was pretty far-fetched, but kids occasionally do kill their parents. It wasn’t likely, but we had to look into it. We turned up nothing substantial. Linda, the daughter, made some contradictory statements, but ultimately we chalked that up to the shock of what she had seen.”
“Which was?”
“Her father shooting her mother. On that point she was consistent: She heard a noise, came out of her room, saw her father at the foot of the stairs and her mother on the ground, reaching up to him. As Linda watched, her father lowered the gun and shot her mother in the head.”