note of triumph in his voice.
“That’s hogwash,” said Plato, his fist hitting the table. “I’m sure there’s another explanation.”
“The sheriff’s office thinks it was blackmail, too,” Viv continued. “They’ve got a B.C.A. guy down here from the Cities helping them with Runbeck’s murder, and he agrees. After John Washburn confessed to the murder, they went looking for a motive. They don’t have all the specifics yet, but they figure it’s only a matter of time before they do.”
“That should be our lead headline on Saturday,” said Jenny, glaring defiantly at Plato. “Runbeck obviously had some information on John Washburn that Washburn didn’t want made public. So he paid for Runbeck’s silence. Paid twice . I’ll bet Runbeck was hitting him up for more when Washburn went tilt. Killed him instead of paying him.”
Plato erupted out of his chair. “That’s enough! What you’re saying is pure speculation, with no basis in fact. I know my father, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s incapable of murder. I have no idea why he withdrew so much cash, nor do I know how Kirby Runbeck came by his money, but there’s no connection. If you run that headline on Saturday, Mr . Jenny, or if there’s mention of any of this in the paper, you’re fired. You’re all fired,” said Plato, slamming the door on his way out.
14
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Washburn,” said Deputy Sheriff Doug Elderberg. His eyes cast down, he turned and trotted back to his waiting squad car.
Mary stood in her front doorway and watched him drive away. Would this nightmare never end? John had been making good progress. One side of his body was still terribly weak, and his speech was garbled and slow, but the doctors assured her he was out of danger—for the moment. He was on medications that should help prevent another stroke, although nobody was issuing guarantees. If only his spirits would improve. But how could they? His brain function didn’t seem to be impaired. He knew he’d admitted to a murder, and the sight of police officers outside his hospital room door couldn’t have passed his notice.
Dragging herself back to the living room, Mary crumpled onto the couch to think. Doug had come by to inform her that her husband had withdrawn one hundred thousand dollars from two of their accounts at Wells Fargo in the last month, and that just before his death, Kirby Runbeck’s personal worth had grown by exactly the same amount. Doug wanted to know if Mary was aware of her husband’s actions. She assured him she wasn’t, that all their accounts were set up so that only one signature was necessary to make a transaction, but she wasn’t sure he believed her.
Tipping her head back against the cushion, Mary had a sinking feeling that the horrific events of the past few weeks were all her fault. John hadn’t killed Kirby—that was never an issue—but if he hadn’t, why admit to it? Mary had been with him the night he learned of Kirby’s death; she’d witnessed his reaction firsthand. His blood pressure must have shot through the roof. Almost immediately, he began complaining of a headache and weakness on his left side. “Oh, John,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “What have I done to you?”
The sound of a ringing phone interrupted her concentration. Instead of getting up to answer it, Mary let the machine pick it up. After a few clicks, she heard Bernice’s voice say, “I’m leaving the hospital for a few hours, Mom. Thought I’d let you know. Plato’s here now, so don’t feel you need to come down. The nurse took Dad to physical therapy a few minutes ago, and they’ve scheduled him for more tests. He’ll be busy most of the afternoon. So stay home and try to relax, okay? Bye.”
Thank God for her family, Mary thought. Whenever there was a crisis, no matter what the current squabbles, everyone rallied. They were good kids. Kids, she thought, smiling at the word. You knew you were old
“That’s hogwash,” said Plato, his fist hitting the table. “I’m sure there’s another explanation.”
“The sheriff’s office thinks it was blackmail, too,” Viv continued. “They’ve got a B.C.A. guy down here from the Cities helping them with Runbeck’s murder, and he agrees. After John Washburn confessed to the murder, they went looking for a motive. They don’t have all the specifics yet, but they figure it’s only a matter of time before they do.”
“That should be our lead headline on Saturday,” said Jenny, glaring defiantly at Plato. “Runbeck obviously had some information on John Washburn that Washburn didn’t want made public. So he paid for Runbeck’s silence. Paid twice . I’ll bet Runbeck was hitting him up for more when Washburn went tilt. Killed him instead of paying him.”
Plato erupted out of his chair. “That’s enough! What you’re saying is pure speculation, with no basis in fact. I know my father, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s incapable of murder. I have no idea why he withdrew so much cash, nor do I know how Kirby Runbeck came by his money, but there’s no connection. If you run that headline on Saturday, Mr . Jenny, or if there’s mention of any of this in the paper, you’re fired. You’re all fired,” said Plato, slamming the door on his way out.
14
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Washburn,” said Deputy Sheriff Doug Elderberg. His eyes cast down, he turned and trotted back to his waiting squad car.
Mary stood in her front doorway and watched him drive away. Would this nightmare never end? John had been making good progress. One side of his body was still terribly weak, and his speech was garbled and slow, but the doctors assured her he was out of danger—for the moment. He was on medications that should help prevent another stroke, although nobody was issuing guarantees. If only his spirits would improve. But how could they? His brain function didn’t seem to be impaired. He knew he’d admitted to a murder, and the sight of police officers outside his hospital room door couldn’t have passed his notice.
Dragging herself back to the living room, Mary crumpled onto the couch to think. Doug had come by to inform her that her husband had withdrawn one hundred thousand dollars from two of their accounts at Wells Fargo in the last month, and that just before his death, Kirby Runbeck’s personal worth had grown by exactly the same amount. Doug wanted to know if Mary was aware of her husband’s actions. She assured him she wasn’t, that all their accounts were set up so that only one signature was necessary to make a transaction, but she wasn’t sure he believed her.
Tipping her head back against the cushion, Mary had a sinking feeling that the horrific events of the past few weeks were all her fault. John hadn’t killed Kirby—that was never an issue—but if he hadn’t, why admit to it? Mary had been with him the night he learned of Kirby’s death; she’d witnessed his reaction firsthand. His blood pressure must have shot through the roof. Almost immediately, he began complaining of a headache and weakness on his left side. “Oh, John,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “What have I done to you?”
The sound of a ringing phone interrupted her concentration. Instead of getting up to answer it, Mary let the machine pick it up. After a few clicks, she heard Bernice’s voice say, “I’m leaving the hospital for a few hours, Mom. Thought I’d let you know. Plato’s here now, so don’t feel you need to come down. The nurse took Dad to physical therapy a few minutes ago, and they’ve scheduled him for more tests. He’ll be busy most of the afternoon. So stay home and try to relax, okay? Bye.”
Thank God for her family, Mary thought. Whenever there was a crisis, no matter what the current squabbles, everyone rallied. They were good kids. Kids, she thought, smiling at the word. You knew you were old
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