LaToya: Episode XXXIX – Tangled Alibis

 

The discreet buzz of one of the telephones sliced through the tension in the room, giving me a moment to catch my breath. Mr. Wright's eyes darted toward the phone, and with an exasperated snap, he grabbed the receiver.

"Do not disturb me," he barked before slamming it back down with an ominous click that seemed to echo in the charged atmosphere.

“How many times did Miss York pose for the portrait?” I asked, trying to mask the excitement building inside me.

Mr. Wright shot me a look that screamed annoyance. He frowned, checked his gleaming gold Citizen watch, and then, with a huff, muttered, “Three or four times, I think. I can’t give you much longer. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

I felt a rush of determination. I knew I was teetering on the edge of breaking this case wide open, and there was no way I’d let him rush me. I threw out the question I knew would grab him by the throat.

“There is a question,” I said, leaning forward. “Who do you think murdered Mr. Anthony Graves?”

His face froze, his thick features turning rigid. He leaned over his desk, his glare so fierce it could have cut glass. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded. “What has Mr. Anthony Graves’ death got to do with you?”

“Are you aware that Captain Wilkens thinks Mrs. Graves was responsible for her husband’s death?” I countered, watching his reaction like a hawk.

His nostrils flared. “Captain Wilkens had no right to say such a thing,” he snarled. “He had no proof, and he lost his job because he was stupid enough to suspect her.”

“But do you really think Reuben Hightower killed Mr. Anthony Graves?” I pressed on.

He hesitated, his lips tightening. “How do I know?” he said curtly. “I’m not a policeman. The police thought so. What more do you want?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Graves was supposed to have horsewhipped Mr. Hightower,” I said. “Captain Wilkens thought this was unlikely.”

“Of course it was,” Mr. Wright retorted, a touch of scorn creeping into his voice. “It was absurd. Mr. Graves was always lenient with hunters. I personally caught Mr. Hightower trespassing on the estate several times, but Mr. Graves wouldn’t prosecute. Utter nonsense.”

“And yet Mrs. Graves said he horsewhipped Mr. Hightower,” I pointed out. “That supplied the motive for the murder, didn’t it?”

Mr. Wright shifted uneasily, his polished exterior cracking just a little. “I know that,” he admitted. “I told Commissioner Lawson that Mr. Graves would never have done such a thing, but it was my word against hers. And Lawson preferred to believe her.” He stared down at his snowy blotter, his fingers drumming rhythmically. “Another reason why I thought it unlikely that Mr. Hightower was involved was that he never used a gun. He hunted at night with a catapult and a flashlight. He’d blind the wild geese with the light, then knock them down with the catapult. He could get close to the house without us ever hearing him. Mr. Graves was killed in a clearing far from the geese, nowhere near where Hightower hunted. He always stayed around the summer house on the west side of the estate.”

“Would that be far from where Mr. Graves was murdered?” I asked.

Mr. Wright stood, walked to a filing cabinet, and pulled out a folded map. “This,” he said, spreading it across his mahogany desk, “is Mr. Graves’ estate. Here’s where Mr. Graves was shot. And here’s the summer house. As you can see, it’s a good half-mile between the two places.”

I traced the path on the map, frowning. “How did Mr. Hightower get into the estate? Weren’t there guards patrolling?”

He folded his arms. “We had a guard at the gate and another patrolling near the house,” he said. “Mr. Hightower came through the main road gate, up the clearing, into the woods, and down to the summer house,” Mr. Wright explained, his finger gliding over the route on the map.

“Then he did pass the place where Mr. Graves was shot?” I asked, my mind racing.

“Yes,” he conceded. “But only at night. He’d never be there at seven in the morning when Mr. Graves was shot.”

I glanced at him. “Would you mind if I borrowed this map for a couple of days?”

He hesitated but finally shrugged. “All right,” he said. “But I want it back.”

“Thanks,” I said, tucking the map under my arm. I leaned in, my voice dropping. “And for what it’s worth, I think Captain Wilkens was right. Mrs. Graves is responsible for her husband’s death.”

Mr. Wright sank into his chair, staring at his manicured hands. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and troubled. “She couldn’t have done it,” he insisted. “She was in Hollywood at the time. Yes, she had motive. They didn’t get along. He didn’t approve of her extravagance, even though he adored her. There were whispers about her and that fellow, Saul Bolton. She wanted Mr. Graves to sell the Golden Triangle club to Saul, but Mr. Graves wouldn’t hear of it. He was planning to get rid of Saul.” Mr. Wright’s fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm. “At the time, I was in a tight spot. Mr. Graves left me in a position of trust. It was hard to contradict Mrs. Graves in the press. Honestly, I didn’t want to get dragged into it. I was relieved to leave.”

He sat back, silent, leaving a thick cloud of unanswered questions hanging between us.

As I carefully folded the map, I couldn't help but let curiosity spill out of me. “Mrs. Graves tells me she stayed at the Hollywood Hotel in California," I said. "I suppose she and her husband were regulars in California?”

He nodded, with a knowing look. “At least twice a year,” he replied, a trace of nostalgia in his voice. “Mr. Graves is crazy about California. Loves the place like it’s paradise on Earth.”

My brow furrowed. “They always stayed at the Hollywood Hotel?” I prodded.

“Not exactly,” he admitted. “Their usual spot was the Ritz in Los Angeles. Honestly, I was floored when Mrs. Blake—Mrs. Graves’ sister—asked me to book a suite at the Hollywood Hotel. Said she needed a change of scenery.”

I tilted my head, intrigued. “I see,” I said slowly, eyeing Mr. Wright. “One more thing, Mr. Wright. While Mrs. Graves was in California, she supposedly met a stripper named Breonna Adams. Does that name ring any bells?”

His expression tightened, and he leaned in. “A girl by that name did show up at Mrs. Graves’ house two days after she returned from California,” he revealed. “Security at the gate called me, wondering if Mrs. Graves would want to see her.”

My heart raced with anticipation. “And did she?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he confirmed. “I didn’t see the girl myself—I was knee-deep in Mr. Graves’ affairs at the time—but Mrs. Graves instructed me to tell the security guard to let her in.”

I latched onto the thread. “You wouldn’t know if this girl gave an address along with her name, would you?” I asked, hopeful.

“It should be in the visitors’ book,” he said, scratching his chin. “I remember it was just the town, though. No specific address.”

My pulse quickened. “Was it Baltimore?” I pressed.

“That’s right,” he confirmed, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

I took a deep breath, ready to connect the dots. “Mr. Graves was murdered on August 6. Two days later, on August 8, Miss Adams paid a visit. Sound correct?” I asked.

“Yep,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Then on August 9, Miss York—using the alias LaToya Young—pops up in Baltimore. That very evening, Saul Bolton, masquerading as Eddie Peterson, also makes his entrance,” I continued. “August 17, Miss York is kidnapped and brutally murdered. Same night, Saul Bolton vanishes from Baltimore. Then, on August 20, Miss Adams has a 'freak' fall down a flight of stairs and snaps her neck, and the stage doorkeeper at the club where Miss York worked—the one who played a role in her kidnapping—gets killed in a hit-and-run. Quite the dramatic series of events, wouldn’t you say?”

Mr. Wright’s eyes went wide, confusion clouding his face. He looked at me like I’d just slapped him with a cold fish. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice shaking. “What on Earth are you getting at?”

I flashed him a sly smile as I stood up, tucking the map of the Anthony Graves estate into my hip pocket. “If luck’s on my side,” I said, my voice dripping with mystery, “I’ll have all the answers in a day or two. But luck has to be in my corner first.”

He sputtered, “But wait, hold on…”

“Just give me a couple of days, Mr. Wright,” I cut him off with a wink, and then I left him there, his mouth hanging open. He stared at me, wide-eyed, like a codfish dangling helplessly on a hook.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 39

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 40, which  will be published here next Sunday.