Mrs. Winslow's Daughter

I awoke with a terrible need to use the bathroom. If I had still lived in my nice little house on the cull-de-sac, I would have gotten right up. Since I no longer lived there, and since the distance from my bed to the bathroom was about twenty-five feet of bone chilling cold floor, I lingered in the bed.

Coal stoves are pretty to watch and cheap to run, but they tend to leave a house cold as hell first thing in the morning. If I could make it as far as the bathroom, I would be all right. In the bathroom a very small, but efficient, electric heater ran to keep the pipes from freezing. It heated the room to only forty-five degrees but that was better than the thirty of the bedroom.

I knew it was thirty from the rather large thermometer on the wall. It had to be large if I was going to read the numbers without my glasses. I finally quit stalling. I made the mad rush to the bathroom. Along the way, I slowed down only to grab my pants, and wool shirt.

I lingered in the slightly warmer bathroom long enough to brush my teeth after I had answered nature's call. Showering could only be done in the afternoon. It took that long to build up enough heat inside the house to prevent the wet hair from freezing on top of my head.

When I returned to the one large room of the cabin, I shook the grate to dump the ashes into the bottom of the French coal stove. I added a few large lumps of coal to the stove, then slipped back into the bed with my clothes on. I couldn't sleep, but I could lie in a twilight state until the room heated.

Half an hour later, the area by the stove was at least warm enough for me to drag my sorry ass out of bed. The first thing I did was to reach under the sink to twist the long rod which led to a water valve buried underground. Without that valve and my draining of the sink pipe every night, I would have had burst pipes every morning.

With the water running, I filled an aluminum tea pot, then moved the pot to the coal fired stove. One thing about the old French coal stove, it had a rather large top surface. When the stove had been used in France, it had been both the cook stove and the heater for a French peasant family. My father had bought it before anyone thought to collect such things. He had bought it just to heat his fishing cabin.

His fishing cabin had been my permanent home for the last two years. When Anne threw me out, I had nowhere else to go. The house, where we lived, had been hers before we married. Even though I paid for a remodeling job, it stayed hers after the divorce. In exchange for my repairs to her house, she didn't challenge the ownership of my dad's cabin.

I probably got the better deal, since I got away from both Anne and her daughter. I made the move the next day. It was only on mornings when the temperature was well below zero that I regretted the move. Since I lived in North Carolina, there weren't too awfully many of them.

I noticed again the funky smell of the cabin. It happened more on damp days than cold ones, but it was there that morning. The cabin had started life as a tobacco barn. The logs had retained the sweet smell of every leaf of tobacco which had been cured in it.

I had seen other barns and knew mine was large as tobacco barns go. At twenty-four by twenty, it was more the size of a double garage. My dad had made only a few changes. He had filled the dirt floor with broken bricks from a deserted power station on the river, the bricks made for a nice looking, but cold floor. He also added the bathroom, which bulged from the side of the barn like a tumor.

"The small kitchen sink, in the corner, and the insulation in the ceiling had been added the year before. I wasn't convinced that the insulation had done much good. The barn seemed to disperse heat like a giant outdoor radiator. Not withstanding, it was a pretty comfortable existence. I hunted some in the winter, and fished some in the summer. It seemed to be a pretty good life for a retired man in good health.

I pulled the plug as a sergeant of homicide just one month after the divorce degree was final. I had never looked back. Thirty years as a cop was more than enough for anyone. My pension was fair, and my expenses were low. I did just fine without any of their crap. I did, on occasion, miss the job. Usually when one of our backwater Sheriff's cars passed on the main road with his siren blaring.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the water boiling in my teapot with no whistling device. I had learned a neat trick, sense my exile to the wilderness. I knew how to brew a single cup of coffee. I poured the water into a heavy mug, then dipped a small cheese cloth bag filled with coffee grounds into it several times. After four or five minutes, it was a fairly strong cup of coffee. I would have made more than one cup at a time, had I not drank so much stale coffee over the last thirty years.

I sat in the very old overstuffed chair for a long time, thinking about breakfast. To be honest I wasn't a very good cook, but I hated to spend the three bucks on somebody else's bad cooking. It was the only kind of cooking they did at the cafe. The cafe was about five miles down the road.

Since the room was heating up, and the outside was still as cold as a two dollar whore's kiss, I decided to cook on the coal stove. Breakfast was a couple of frozen sausage patties and toast. It wasn't fancy but the animal fat was filling.

After breakfast, I sat in my chair trying to work up the courage to leave the warm cabin. I had been meaning to do some hunting. I just hadn't been able to do it since the cold snap began. About the most I had been able to manage in the cold was a trip to the store house.

My dad had built a concrete block store house behind the cabin. He had used it mostly for tools and the like. I had cleaned it out, then installed a couple of dehydrators. It was filled with many large mayonnaise jars filled with dried fruits vegetables as well.

I bought the produce in the summer, when prices were low. There were also large white bags filled with dried meats of several different varieties. Most of it was game, I hadn't been able to eat all the meat at the time of the kill. The coal stove was ideal for cooking soups and stews, which comprised most of my dinners. Lunch was usually a piece of spicy jerky and a biscuit left over from the night before. Reconstituted fruit of one kind or another made up most of my deserts. I was probably healthier than I had ever been in my life.

I finally gave in to my one great vice. I turned on the radio to the, all news, station, then lit a very smelly cigar. A cup of fresh coffee, a cigar, and the radio seemed almost like heaven. I should have known that it wouldn't last.

A sharp rap on the door was followed by a female voice, "Anybody home in there?"

I moved across the quickly warming room to the door. I opened it to find a woman only a few years older than my fifty-five years standing under my porch cover. "Can I help you?" I asked.

"I think so, that is if I am in the right place. It is hard to know for sure. People around here don't give very good directions," the woman said.

"I guess that depends on where you are supposed to be?" I replied with a smile.

"Is this the Taft place?" she asked.

"It is," I replied.

"In that case could I come in from the cold?" she asked.

"If you aren't a bill collector or process server sure," I agreed.

She stepped through the door, then took a long look around her. While she did, I took a look at her. She seemed tall at first glance, but that was mostly because she was thin as a rail. If she ever had any hips or breasts, they had withered away. She did have nice silver hair, and a fairly wrinkle free face.

"Are you Edgar Taft?" she asked. "And do you really live here?"

"Yes to both questions," I answered guardedly.

"Frankly, I would have expected more. Do you mind if I have a seat?" she asked motioning to the straight wooden chair by the small table under the window.

"Not at all, and why would you have expected more?" I asked.

"I heard you were the sharpest homicide detective ever," she stated skeptically.

"Not anymore, now I am the most incompetent hunter ever," I replied with a smile.

"I doubt that, anyone who could live like this has to be pretty good at all the primitive arts," she said it sounding, for all the world, like a school teacher.

"So what can I do for you?" I asked. I almost hated to rush her into her story. I didn't get all that much company, especially women.

"Sergeant Everette suggested I come see you," she said.

"Donny Everette, do you mean to tell me some idiot, made another idiot a sergeant?" I asked with a smile.

"Donny is my cousin," she said indignantly.

"Does that make him less an idiot?" I asked. Since I didn't know why she came to see me, I didn't mind angering her.

"I guess not," she said with a gentle laugh.

"So why did Donny send you to see me?" I asked.

Her face slid from a smile to a look of great sorrow. "Mr. Taft six months ago my daughter was murdered by her husband. For some reason the police and district attorney have been unable to arrest him."

"All kidding aside, if Donny couldn't do it, then I sure as hell can't," I replied.

"My daughter lived in Greenpoint with her husband at the time of her death. Donny can't investigate over there. He also has been unable to determine, what if anything, the Greenpoint PD has done," she informed me.

"So exactly what is it you think I can do?" I asked.

"Donny said you could look over the reports, then begin an investigation of your own. He frankly said that if you couldn't find the killer, I should forget it. He has a great deal of faith in your abilities."

"That sounds real good Mrs.?" I left it open for her to fill in the blank.

"I'm sorry, I am Nora Winslow," she said.

"Not one of 'The' Winslows?" I asked.

"I suppose some people call us that," she said.

"I had no idea Donny had such a wealthy relative," I replied.

"Mr. Taft since there is no answer to that, I will not comment. It changes nothing, I still can not get anything done in Greenpoint," she said.

"Mrs. Winslow, with all your money, the cops and DA are beating their brains out trying to solve the murder of your little girl. If I were you, I would be content in that knowledge."

"Mr. Taft, I want you to help me find out what happened to my little girl. I will pay you anything within reason," she said.

"I'm afraid money won't do it. Not that I am not inclined to take your money. It's just that I don't expect I can get the cooperation of the local police," I replied honestly.

"You need not concern yourself with that. I can arrange anything you need," she said confidently.

"I don't expect you know much about police departments. They tend to be rather closed mouthed with outsiders," I replied.

"Mr. Taft, I don't expect you know much about me," she said with a cruel smile.

Her smile was almost as cold as the air outside the cabin. "It's been a long time since I was involved in an investigation. I doubt I could be of much help." Actually I still doubted she could get the kind of cooperation necessary for an outsider to do any good at all.

"Mr. Taft, I understand the going rate for investigators is five hundred a day, plus expenses. I will pay that willingly."

"Mrs. Winslow, I think it would be a waste of your money," I replied. "One day should be about all it takes to convince you of that."

"Then give me one day. If you don't get full cooperation, I will give you one thousand dollars for the day."

"It's your money," I replied. "Answer me one question?"

"No one has ever been able to say no to me," she said with a smile.

"That was the question," I replied with a smile to match hers.

"One more thing, I do not wish to merely be kept informed of your progress. I wish to be a part of the investigation," she said.

"Out of the question, I work alone," I replied.

"Before you say no, and I leave here without you, think about this. For six months I have been kept in the dark as to the facts surrounding my daughter's death. The small amount of information I do have, I had to pry from the district attorney. I have not been unable to get any information from the police. I have been going mad from the lack of information. I have to know, If nothing else, I have to know what is going on," she was as close to tears as a sophisticated woman ever gets in front of the hired help. There was a mist in her eyes.

"If you are going to be involved, then you are going to make yourself useful," I said.

"I will do anything within reason," she said.

"Exactly what do you consider outside the realm of reason?" I asked.

"I don't know at the moment, but if it happens I will tell you," she said.

"Fair enough," I admitted. "First of all, you are going to be my chauffeur."

"I had planned on no less," she stated without any emotion.

"In addition to the five hundred, there are going to be expense. I assume you will pay all of them?"

"I will, what exactly do you foresee?" she asked.

"A motel for sure, and possibly bribes."

"The bribes are no problem, but the motel is out of the question." Before I could object she said, "You will be staying with me. Until this ends, I do not intend to allow you out of my sight."

"Well, I sleep alone," I said in a strong voice.

"I hadn't planned to keep quite that tight a reign on you," she said smiling again.

"Good, let me take a shower. Why don't you go to the cafe while I do?"

"No thanks, I will wait right here."

"Up to you," I replied as I went to the wall which was filled with nails. On the nails were clothes hangers with shirts and slacks. I removed a hanger, then went to the chest for clean underwear. I left her sitting in the cabin, while I went into the cool bathroom. I left the door open as was my custom. It wasn't to embarrass her. It was to allow the heat to continue entering the bathroom.

"You might want to look away while I shower," I suggested.

"I shall," she said defiantly.

When I finished my shower, I pronounced myself ready to leave. "Aren't you going to pack?" she asked.

"If it makes you happy, but I expect to be home by dinner," I replied removing a canvas garment bag from the storage loft over her head. I tossed a few things into it. I turned off the water to the kitchen sink, then drained the water from the lines.

"Are we ready now?" she asked impatiently.

"Sure," I replied.

She looked at the pistol hanging on a nail. "Aren't you going to take your gun?" she asked.

"Let me explain something about pistols. First of all, I was a cop for thirty years, twenty of those I was a detective. A detective only needs a pistol, if he makes a serious mistake in judgment. If he does that, the pistol won't help much."

"No matter," she said. "I never leave home without mine."

There was a smile on her face. I didn't know for sure whether she were joking or not. When I opened the door, I was again assaulted by the cold outside air. The sun was shinning brightly, but the air must have been well below freezing. "Damn I hate the cold," I muttered.

When I reached the edge of the cabin, I saw her car for the first time. She had parked beside my rusty old pickup. I was surprised to find that she drove a shiny red Pontiac Trans Am. Nora Winslow noted my surprise.

"You expected a Cadillac?" she asked.

"That or a Mercedes," I replied.

"You are in for several surprises before we are finished," she said matter-of-factually.

During the ninety minute drive she filled me in on what she knew of her daughter Robin's death. According to her, Robin had married an opportunist. As long as the Winslow money came without question, the marriage was fine. When Robin reached the age of twenty-five her trust fund dried up. She would receive no more money until her mother passed away. Nora informed me that she had intended to out live Tony, the no good bastard, Robin had married.

With several questions tossed in by me to clarify her story she continued. Robin had always battled a slight weight problem. She ran between ten and twenty pounds over weight almost all the time. At the time of her death she had begun to jog to try keeping her weight down.

Since Robin and Tony, the no good bastard, lived in a town house on the city reservoir, she jogged around the lake. On that particular Friday, she was about half a mile from home. Her body was found in a wooded area just off the jogging path. She had been shot twice in the back of the head. Her clothes had been torn but there was no evidence of rape.

The no good bastard had an alibi. He was working late at the office, verified by a secretary who left shortly before the cops called about Robin. Fortunately for the no good bastard, the secretary was just short of sixty and married. There was no office love affair as a motive for her to lie.

"So Mrs. Winslow, if there was no inheritance, as long as you lived, what motive could he have?" I asked.

"My daughter was a spoiled brat. Actually, I prided myself on that." She wasn't kidding. I could tell from her voice that she had meant for her daughter to be spoiled. "She had to be hard for any man to live with, especially one who could not give her all the things she had become accustomed to receiving from me. I knew when she married that no good bastard it wouldn't workout. I raised my daughter to marry into money. I cut her off,"

"So Robin was a hard woman to live with. In a case like that I would expect the husband to have an alibi, if he did it, or had it done. She wouldn't have been killed because of some argument."

"Add to that the fact that Robin carried half a million dollars in insurance and you might have a motive," she replied.

"Why would Robin have that kind of insurance?" I asked.

"Robin held a position on the board of her father's company. It was mostly a show position. We paid her almost nothing."

"How much is almost nothing, and why did she have all the insurance?" I repeated.

"Her pay was a flat twenty thousand a year," Mrs. Winslow informed me.

It might be a pittance to her, but it was a nice chunk of change for most folks.

"The insurance was carried by the company on all it's key employees. The board members qualified for it. Robin, against my wishes, named the no good bastard as the beneficiary," Mrs. Winslow informed me.

"So Tony, got half a mil when Robin got popped?" I asked.

"I'm not sure I like your cavalier attitude," Mrs. Winslow said. "We are discussing the murder of a beautiful person."

"I'm afraid I have to divorce myself from the person to work. You can't be emotionally involved and do the case justice," I replied gently.

"I see, Tony hasn't received the money yet. I have been able to block it so far. That I'm afraid will not be possible much longer. I'm afraid the police may no longer consider him a suspect in her death. If they state that to the insurance company, the no good bastard will be paid," Mrs. Winslow said. "The thought of him profiting from my daughter's murder is more than I can bear."

We rode in silence for a long time. We were probably twenty minutes out when I asked, "Do you watch much TV?"

"Not really why?" she asked.

"We are going to play a game with the cops," I admitted.

"What kind of game?" she asked.

"I am going to be very nice while asking for a list of things from them. They are going to be very nice when they refuse. At that time you and I will argue about my easy acceptance of their refusal. You will then bring all the juice you have." I replied.

"Juice?" she asked.

"You know influence. Don't hold anything back, give it all you have on the first try. Go just as high as you can on the very first try," I ordered.

"Are you sure," she asked with a small smile.