Finding a Killer Read online

  “Treasure,” Mandy said, nodding. “In time, of course,” she added. “Dr. Cappes is dead and the killer must be located. After that task is complete, perhaps the game will…become very interesting.” Mandy looked at Mary. “I’ve talked enough. Leave me alone.”

  Mary was more than happy to oblige. She felt Mandy had spilled enough information onto the floor for her to sweep up and explore without the need to ask any more questions—for the time being. “Have a nice…afternoon, Mrs. Dalton,” Mary said and hurried out of the room. “What a monster,” she whispered.

  Betty spotted Mary and ran to her. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve just been bitten by a spider.”

  “Maybe I have.” Mary sighed and shook her head. “We have one last person to visit. Let’s see.” Mary pulled the list from her dress pocket. “We need to visit Mrs. Rose DeLane.”

  “Don’t bother,” a voice said.

  Mary and Betty spun around and spotted Ellie at the top of the stairs holding a wooden serving tray. “Rose takes very long afternoon naps. She’ll be asleep right about now.”

  “Oh, Nurse Ellie,” Mary said, “you frightened me. We didn’t hear you.”

  Sheriff Whitfield looked at Ellie. He hadn’t heard the woman climb the stairs either. He quickly walked to Mary and Betty. “I think you ladies could use a bite to eat. I’m a little hungry myself.”

  “I’m starving,” Betty confessed.

  Mary looked at Sheriff Whitfield. It was clear that the man was trying to get away from Nurse Ellie. “Nurse Ellie, may we go down to the kitchen and eat?” she asked in a polite voice.

  “I prepared afternoon sandwiches,” Ellie told Mary, offering her a kind smile that walked into the air weak and sad.

  “Nurse Ellie, I need you to stay upstairs, right in this hallway, and keep watch for me,” Sheriff Whitfield told Ellie. He studied the wooden food tray, spotted three plates holding two sandwiches apiece, and nodded his head. “Serve the sandwiches and then stand watch for me.”

  “But the killer,” Betty said, worried for Ellie’s safety.

  Sheriff Whitfield folded his arms. “Whoever killed Dr. Cappes isn’t going to kill again anytime soon,” he said and looked at Mary. “You talked with Mrs. Dalton. I think you understand what I mean.”

  Mary stared into Sheriff Whitfield’s eyes. She saw a very clever man hidden behind a thick beard. “I think I do understand what you mean,” she said and took Betty’s hand. “Come on, honey, we need to fill our tummies. No sense in working on an empty stomach.”

  “Nurse Ellie,” Sheriff Whitfield said, “please don’t leave the upstairs, and if anyone leaves their rooms, come and get me immediately.”

  Nurse Ellie looked down at the floor. “I’ll do what you ask of me.”

  Sheriff Whitfield put out a kind hand and touched Ellie’s shoulder. “When I find the killer,” he promised, “you’re going to be free of the chains wrapped around your heart. Just give me time and trust me, okay?”

  Ellie raised her eyes and looked at Sheriff Whitfield. “Sheriff, it’s too late for me to ever be free,” she said and walked away to Elizabeth Church’s door.

  “Come on, honey,” Mary whispered to Betty in a sad voice and walked to the top of the stairs.

  Betty looked back at Ellie, watched the old lady serve lunch to Mrs. Church, and felt her heart break. “She’s so…broken,” she told Mary, fighting back tears.

  “Secrets of the past,” Mary said and looked at Sheriff Whitfield. “Right, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Whitfield nodded. “I think you’re on the right track,” he said and walked Mary and Betty downstairs.

  Sheriff Whitfield entered a large, spacious kitchen that reminded him of an old European country trapped in the early 1920s; the only modern appliances he saw were a 1937 Norge gas range stove and a 1941 Westinghouse refrigerator. The kitchen smelled of fresh baked cinnamon rolls and coffee that called out to his hungry stomach. “Anyone for coffee?”

  “Me,” Betty said in a quick voice even though she still felt worried for Ellie. “Sheriff Whitfield, are you sure the killer won’t strike again?”

  “Not yet,” Sheriff Whitfield told Betty. He walked over to the stove, grabbed a blue and gray stove mitten, and picked up a silver coffee percolator. “Coffee cups?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Mary said and quickly searched the kitchen. She spotted a row of wooden cabinets and hurried over. She opened one and spotted a line of white coffee cups. “Here they are.”

  As Mary took down three coffee cups, Betty walked over to a wooden table covered with a simple blue and white tablecloth and examined a plate full of delicious sandwiches. “My, these sandwiches look good,” she said.

  “My momma always told me that a man who is willing to be hungry ain’t worth his keep,” Sheriff Whitfield told Betty. “I’m not saying a man can have a steak and potato dinner every night, but a man can always find a bite here and there.”

  Mary walked the three coffee cups in her hands over to the table and set them down. Sheriff Whitfield followed and filled the cups full of delicious coffee. “I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, “but before I tell you what my mind has been chewing on, I need to tell you ladies what Nurse Greta told me.”

  Betty picked up a sandwich and handed it to Sheriff Whitfield. The sheriff bowed his head, said a prayer of thanks, and then nodded his head. “Amen.”

  “Amen,” Mary whispered. She picked up a sandwich of her own, studied it, and then carefully took a bite. “Very good.”

  Betty tore into a sandwich, blushed, wiped her mouth, and let out an embarrassed smile. “Not very ladylike…I’m sorry.”

  “Momma always said the supper table is for eating, not for being ladylike.” Sheriff Whitfield smiled at Betty.

  “I still should show manners,” Betty said.

  Mary took another bite of her sandwich and walked her eyes around the spacious kitchen. A single back door stood in the far corner, facing the back lawn. “I wonder,” she said and walked over to the back door and checked the lock. “Locked.”

  Sheriff Whitfield picked up a cup of coffee and took a sip. “Ladies,” he said, “I don’t mean to scare you, but I think the killer is inside the hospital…and I think I might know who the killer is.”

  Betty froze. “You…the killer…is…”

  Mary walked back to the table. “Talk to us, Sheriff.”

  Sheriff Whitfield set down his coffee. “Nurse Greta told me that three patients left this hospital last week. One patient was a man named Ralph O’Malley.”

  “Ralph O’Malley?” Mary asked.

  “A banker from New York,” Sheriff Whitfield continued. “Now before I go any further let me make it clear that I’m not letting Nurse Greta off the hook. I’ll deal with her and that old man standing guard outside later. I’m not too worried about them getting in my way right now.” Sheriff Whitfield took a bite of his sandwich. “Nurse Greta ain’t all that smart and neither is that old man. Whoever killed Dr. Cappes sure put them into a deep hole that they’re trying to crawl out of. I’ll leave them stuck in the hole for now.”

  Mary picked up a cup of coffee. “I’ll still keep a careful eye on Nurse Greta, Sheriff. It seems to me that she’s a very desperate woman who may do something incredibly dangerous.”

  Sheriff Whitfield nodded. “I figured you would say that, Mary. I know you’re not the type of woman to let suspects sit in the corner for too long. But right now, we need to focus on Ralph O’Malley.”

  “I guess we do,” Betty said, looking confused. “Why would a banker all the way from New York come and stay here?”

  “A forty-four-year-old banker at that,” Sheriff Whitfield added.

  “Goodness,” Betty gasped. “Forty-four…” Betty looked at Mary. “Is that bad?”

  Mary put down her coffee. “A man that age has strength in his hands, honey,” she explained.

  “Right,” Sheriff Whitfield said. “Mary, before I go any further, tell me what information you go
t from Mrs. Dalton.”

  Marry looked at her sandwich and then raised her eyes up to Sheriff Whitfield. “Mrs. Dalton said she was involved with the railroad.”

  “Good,” Sheriff Whitfield said, “that’s what Nurse Greta told me. I needed to be sure, though. What else?”

  “Well,” Mary said, her brow furrowing, “I’m not really sure how to explain what Mrs. Dalton told me, Sheriff. It seemed to me that…yes, she was a bit…unstable in her mind…but not unstable enough to let me know that she was connected to my Uncle Albert somehow…to his past.” Mary put down her sandwich. “Sheriff, Uncle Albert revealed something to Betty and me earlier that I think you need to be aware of.”

  “I figured as much but didn’t want to press you ladies.” Sheriff Whitfield grabbed a brown chair and sat down. “Tell me all about Albert Malone and then we’ll talk about Mrs. Dalton and Ralph O’Malley and try to make some connections.”

  “But the killer?” Betty asked in a worried voice.

  “If I’m right,” Sheriff Whitfield told Betty, “the killer is under the thumb of someone here at the hospital and won’t strike again until he’s given permission. I think that person could be Mrs. Dalton, but I need to be certain. Ain’t no sense in flushing out a rat when a bigger rat needs to be caught first.”

  “I…well, if you say so,” Betty said. She eased down into a brown chair and looked up at Mary. “The floor is yours, honey.”

  Mary glanced around the kitchen and then walked her mind back to the Music Room. “Sheriff, Uncle Albert—at least in my opinion—is a tortured man who is really mentally…well…his mind is stormy.” Mary shook her head. “No, that isn’t right. What I meant to say is that Uncle Albert is tortured by guilt…guilt created from a crime carried out by a bitter, hurt heart.”

  Sheriff Whitfield took a sip of coffee. “What crime?” he asked.

  “Well,” Mary struggled, “I’m not sure if you would call what Uncle Albert did a crime or not.”

  “I guess you would have to call what Uncle Albert did a…sin,” Betty spoke up for Mary.

  Sheriff Whitfield looked intrigued. “What did Albert Malone do?”

  Mary drew in a deep breath, looked around the kitchen, and then whispered: “Uncle Albert stole gold from a man he let die.”

  “When?” Sheriff Whitfield asked without showing any shock at Mary’s confession. His years had taught him to gather information and then process it instead of strolling around one bit of evidence in shock.

  “During the First World War,” Mary continued, impressed with Sheriff Whitfield’s ability to stay on track without veering off for a sightseeing tour. “Uncle Albert was a surgeon.”

  Sheriff Whitfield took another sip of coffee. “That might explain his shaky hand. Years of fear can make a man’s hand shaky.”

  “Fear?” Betty asked, confused.

  “When a man has to cut into other men’s bodies enough times,” Sheriff Whitfield explained, “when he sees death enough times…a fear begins to grow inside of his heart…his soul. Albert Malone’s hand doesn’t shake because he’s old. His hand shakes because deep down he remembers the horrors his hands have witnessed.” Sheriff Whitfield lowered his eyes. “Albert Malone’s hands, Betty, have never forgotten.”

  “I…suppose they haven’t,” Betty whispered.

  The kitchen grew silent for a minute. Mary took the time to gather her thoughts and then said: “Nurse Greta was going to kill Dr. Cappes in order to blackmail Uncle Albert into giving up the gold he stole.”

  “Could be,” Sheriff Whitfield agreed.

  Mary nodded. “The gold Uncle Albert stole belonged to a German officer who I believe was the man Nurse Ellie was destined to marry.”

  Sheriff Whitfield took a slow sip of coffee. “Did Nurse Ellie tell you this?”

  “In her own way, yes,” Mary told Sheriff Whitfield. She looked around the kitchen again and continued. “Sheriff, I believe Nurse Greta…or Sam…somehow tracked down Uncle Albert years ago…and they have been watching him.” Mary rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Somehow Uncle Albert must have found out who they were…what they were planning…and called me for help. The only questions that consume my mind are, why did Nurse Greta and Sam wait so long if they knew Uncle Albert was the man who stole the German officer’s gold? And if Uncle Albert knew who Nurse Greta and Sam were, why did he keep coming back here to this awful hospital?”

  Sheriff Whitfield absorbed Mary’s words and stored them away into his mind. “We have facts and questions,” he told Mary. “Let’s focus on the facts.”

  “Okay,” Mary agreed.

  “We know that Albert Malone stole gold from a dead German officer, right?”

  “That’s what Uncle Albert confessed to Betty and me,” Mary told Sheriff Whitfield in a thoughtful voice. “Betty and I thought he was…crazy…and began to leave. As we did, Nurse Greta appeared and told us that Dr. Cappes had been murdered. That’s when we realized Uncle Albert might actually be telling the truth.”

  “Fair enough,” Sheriff Whitfield said. “Now let’s move on to the next fact.”

  “Nurse Ellie confessed her connection to the dead German officer,” Mary said, “which connects her to Uncle Albert.”

  “Along with Nurse Greta and the old man,” Sheriff Whitfield added.

  “Which leads us to believe they are responsible for the death of Dr. Cappes,” Mary continued.

  “While Nurse Greta and that creepy old man try to pin the blame on poor Uncle Albert and have him locked away in a mental home for prisoners—or even an actual prison—for the rest of his life,” Betty jumped in.

  “Unless Uncle Albert gives over the gold,” Mary finished. “But Uncle Albert knows that even if he surrenders the gold, Nurse Greta and Sam will still make sure he’s locked away for life.” Mary picked up her coffee. “Uncle Albert knew a murder was going to take place. He tried to warn Dr. Cappes, but Dr. Cappes wouldn’t listen. I think…that’s when he called me for help.”

  Sheriff Whitfield watched Mary take a sip of coffee. The woman had brains, which was a useful thing in a murder case. “Okay, now let’s focus on Mandy Dalton and Ralph O’Malley and connect them to Albert Malone.”

  Mary put down her coffee. “Mrs. Dalton was involved with the railroad,” she told Sheriff Whitfield. “She said that the railroads are useful during war…and after.” Mary looked at Betty, studied her best friend’s worried face, and then continued. “Sheriff, Uncle Albert had to have shipped the gold he stole home, right?” she asked.

  “Would seem that way,” Sheriff Whitfield agreed and waited for Mary to continue.

  Mary bit down on her lower lip. “What if,” she said, “Uncle Albert shipped the gold he stole home on a railroad that belonged to Mandy Dalton? And what if, somehow, either then or years later, Mandy Dalton became aware of the gold shipment?”

  “Mandy Dalton is a new patient at this hospital,” Sheriff Whitfield told Mary. “She stayed for a short visit last year and then came this past March and hasn’t left. And that makes me wonder about Ralph O’Malley and how long that fella has been visiting this hospital.”

  “Golly,” Betty said, “are you two saying that that mean old lady who was dressed like a pumpkin is after Uncle Albert’s gold?”

  “Could be,” Sheriff Whitfield told Betty. “Not only her, but her son, too.”

  “And you believe Mrs. Dalton’s son is this Ralph O’Malley, and that he is the killer?” Mary asked.

  Sheriff Whitfield grew silent for a minute and let his gut rather than his mind think. “I saw the knife, Mary. A woman didn’t kill Dr. Cappes, and as far as I can tell, neither did Albert Malone. It makes sense in my mind that Ralph O’Malley is the killer.”

  “A banker from New York,” Mary whispered to herself and thought of Mandy Dalton. “Could Ralph O’Malley really be Mrs. Dalton’s son?”

  Before anyone could answer, Nurse Greta came running into the kitchen. “His body…it’s missing!” she yelled.

  “
Dr. Cappes’s?” Sheriff Whitfield said, jumping to his feet.

  Greta nodded. “I…disobeyed your order and went to see the body again, hoping to find more evidence that would put Albert Malone in his place. When I opened the office door…the body of Dr. Cappes was no longer present.”

  Sheriff Whitfield drew out a 1941 Colt revolver from a holster attached to his waist. “Looks like the killer has been given new orders,” he said.

  “Oh dear,” Betty gasped and quickly gobbled down the last bite of her sandwich. “No sense in being scared on an empty stomach.”

  Mary studied Nurse Greta’s face. For the very first time she saw fear in the woman’s eyes. Whatever was happening—whoever the killer was—Nurse Greta wasn’t part of the plan, which made her a target. “Nurse Greta, maybe you should go upstairs and stand watch with your mother…I mean, Nurse Ellie.”

  “I want to take my mother,” Nurse Greta said, skipping her lies, “and leave this hospital. It’s clear that Albert Malone isn’t the killer as I had hoped…thought. It would be foolish for me to remain here.”

  “Foolish or not, you’re staying parked right here at this hospital,” Sheriff Whitfield told Greta in a firm voice. “If you leave this hospital, I’ll let the dogs loose on you.”

  “You dare risk my life?” Greta snapped.

  “Lady,” Sheriff Whitfield replied and quickly checked his gun, “I’m after a killer, and there are a whole lot of hidden corners that he could be hiding in.” Sheriff Whitfield looked up at Greta. “You stay put,” he said in a voice that defeated Greta’s urge to leave.

  “I will…do as you say,” Greta growled.

  “Yes, you will,” Sheriff Whitfield said, “and you’ll also tell me how long Ralph O’Malley has been a patient here at the hospital.”

  Greta’s face grew pale. “I—”

  “How long, lady?” Sheriff Whitfield snapped.

  “Less than a year,” Greta confessed in a strained, furious voice.

  Sheriff Whitfield looked at Mary and then back at Greta. “Go upstairs and stay put,” he ordered her. Greta looked at Mary and Betty with absolute revulsion and then raced out of the kitchen. “Okay, ladies,” the sheriff said, “stay close and holler if you see a mouse move. We’re going to go find ourselves a killer.”