Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 by Scandal in Fair Haven Page B

who made the call to the police reporting the murder?”
    He leaned back in his chair. His face remained agreeable, but disdain flashed briefly in his eyes.
    “If we knew who called, Mrs. Collins, it would not be listed as a call from an unidentified person.”
    “Have you made an effort to discover the caller’s identity?”
    He nodded amiably. “Of course. We have asked the news media to invite the caller to contact us.”
    “Has it occurred to you that the caller may have committed the murder after arranging for Craig to conveniently arrive on the scene?”
    “In police work, it is extremely common to receive tips from people who don’t want to be involved, Mrs. Collins. It seems quite probable that someone came to that house, discovered Mrs. Matthews’s body, knew the police must be called, but chose not to get dragged into our investigation.”
    “Do you know that Craig received two uncompleted calls at the bookstore and that immediately after that a clerk received the message asking him to pick up a fruit basket and bring it home?”
    His tone was patient. “There is no confirmation of the purported hangups. But even if they occurred, that kind of thing happens all the time. A wrong number. Caller hangs up. Redials. Makes the same mistake. Hangs up again. Those calls prove nothing. As for the fruit basket”—he shrugged—“there’s no proof at all that the caller wasn’t Mrs. Matthews.” He picked up a silver pen, rolled it in hisfingers. “Has it occurred to you, Mrs. Collins”—there was only a shadow of an edge to his tone—“that the mixup over that fruit basket may have set off the quarrel?”
    “What quarrel?”
    “The quarrel between Mr. Matthews and his wife. Obviously, he came home and a violent argument ensued. Maybe it made him mad that she called and treated him like an errand boy. Apparently, she was good at that. Or maybe there was a fruit basket somewhere else and she was furious he didn’t go to the right store. We’ll never know exactly what happened. But anybody can see that they had a real row and he went crazy. He threw the cooking stuff around, then stalked after her to the playhouse and shot her.”
    “When did he get the gun?”
    “He was mad. He stormed outside. He kept his gun in the glove compartment. He got it, ran back through the house to the playhouse. Bang.” His tone was impatient.
    “Captain, do me a favor. Picture somebody tossing all that food around. Why didn’t Patty Kay have sticky stuff all over her? At the very least, there should have been some on her shoes.”
    He shrugged. “Maybe she flounced out of the kitchen and he threw the stuff after she left because she’d made him mad. We don’t know. We do know that he’d made it clear he was sick and tired of that cheesecake. It’s one of those things that happens between couples where the object itself seems absurd to have caused trouble. It happens all the time.”
    I didn’t try to argue. Walsh’s mind was made up. But the fallacy—assuming you believed Craig’s estimate of his time of arrival—was clear. If Craig arrived home at five o’clock and the anonymous call to the police was made atsix minutes after five, there wasn’t time for Craig and Patty Kay to have quarreled and for Craig to have shot her and left before this mysterious passerby happened to discover her body and made the call to the Fair Haven Police Department.
    Proving the time Craig arrived home would be a strong argument for the defense.
    But would a jury buy into it in the face of the bloodied shirt, his flight, and his clumsy attempt to dispose of the murder weapon?
    Walsh glanced, not too obviously, at his watch.
    “Captain, I don’t wish to take up too much of your time. I just have a few more questions….”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Has the article in which the revolver was wrapped been found?”
    “No.”
    “Were any traces of that fiber found in Craig’s car?”
    “Yes. Beneath the driver’s