Chapter 18 #3
“Several people over the years,” she said, shrugging.
“A city councilman whose painkiller problem would not have gone over well with his constituents. A pharmacist who had been very generously medicating himself. A family on the island with a daughter whose medical history would have been enormously embarrassing to their social standing. A few others. I was never unreasonable. I only asked for what people could afford. And on Grimm Island, people can afford more than most.” She looked at Dash with something close to pride.
“I retired at sixty-five and haven’t worked a day since. My brokerage account is quite healthy.”
“James and Henry both decided to stop payments at the same time. Would you have killed James next?”
She snorted. “Of course not. James was an idiot. But Henry. I knew when Henry decided to stop paying that he’d start digging to find out who it was. He would have gotten to me. It was only a matter of when.”
She set the mug down.
“You knew his schedule,” I said. “You knew he was staying in Charleston the night before he died and his house would be empty.”
“Correct,” she said. “And I knew it was Lila Mae’s day off.
I took benzodiazepines from the sample cabinet.
” She said it all in the same even voice.
“I drove to the island before dawn that morning, with the rain coming down. The house was empty, and I let myself in through the back, put the pills in the decanter and left. I saw the blackmail note on his desk and knew I was making the right choice.”
“I think we have different understandings of what right choices are,” I said. “You came back later that night?”
“The storm helped,” she said. “It kept getting worse and there were power outages so it was pitch black out. I parked down the block with my lights off. Black rain slicker, hood up, gloves already on. I knew Henry was home because his car was in the drive. Henry had a generator and I could hear it buzzing. But the lights were all off downstairs. I let myself in through the back like before and climbed the stairs. I’d been in that house enough that I could have walked through blindfolded.
I listened to him talk to his sister. That was a real eye-opener.
At first I thought he might be talking about me.
” Her voice rose in pitch excitedly. “Then I waited in the hallway and watched through the crack in the door while he sat at his desk and poured himself a whiskey. He was going through papers and trying to read, and I could tell he was struggling with the drug. The drug takes time, but once it starts working it’s mighty.
So I bided my time and went in to see him.
“He was surprised, but polite. Old habits die hard. He was having trouble thinking or he would have asked what I was doing there in the middle of a storm. I poured myself a drink and took a seat. I wanted him to be comfortable so he’d keep drinking.
And then I told him all the things I knew, and how disappointed I was in him.
I wish you could have seen his face before he passed out. He was very surprised.”
I could hear the wind chimes give a loud jingle with a sudden burst of wind and it made me jump.
“Everyone knew Henry owned a gun, and that he kept it in the desk drawer.” She paused.
“I made sure his prints were the only ones on it, and helped him pull the trigger. I left the note where it was, thinking that was as good of a reason as any for a man to kill himself. And then I left. The rain washed most of the blood away that had gotten on my hand and rain slicker.”
“What about Milton?” I asked. “You took a risk.”
She gave a small, satisfied smile. “Milton had a situation of his own that I was aware of. All I had to do was leave a note for him that it would be best for Henry’s death to be ruled as suicide. He was very cooperative.”
“You made another mistake,” I said quietly. “Henry was left-handed. Seems like an important detail you missed.”
“I know,” she said. “I realized it too late. It just didn’t occur to me in the moment with my adrenaline racing.
I was so afraid he was going to wake up before I could get it done.
” She shook her head. “And his sister never let it go. I always had a feeling that detail would come back to haunt me. And then you knocked on my door.”
Dash was already on his feet.
“Noreen Goble,” he said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Henry Wainwright.”
She looked up at him from her chair. She didn’t run. She didn’t cry. She looked around her kitchen—the rooster collection on every shelf and surface, the crossword on the table, the calico cat on the counter, the light still coming warm through the window over the sink.
“I’m seventy-eight years old,” she said. “No jury in the state of South Carolina is going to convict me.”
“That’s up to the courts,” Dash said. “On your feet, please.”
She stood and smoothed her slacks. She held her wrists while Dash cuffed her and led her out to the deputies. They walked her down the front path in handcuffs, while neighbors watched in shock, and put her into the back of the waiting cruiser.
I stood on the porch after the cruiser pulled away and Dash came and stood beside me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I think so.” I looked at the ceramic rooster by the door. “I keep thinking about Josephine. She’s going to find out that somebody who worked for him for over two decades killed her brother.” I shook my head. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse than not knowing.”
“It’s the truth,” Dash said. “That’s what she asked for.”
“The truth,” I repeated. I didn’t meet his gaze.