This is Part III of a seven part series that will conclude on Sunday.

Proving the adage that “the rich are different”, Angela Crane didn’t spend the night in jail. Her attorney, Franklin Danbury, made arrangements with Chief Martin that his client be released into his custody with a $100,000 bond posted. Angela was tucked tightly in the satin sheets of the master bedroom of the plantation-style home, where she’d shot her husband just a few hours before in the study right below. She slept like a log.

Dropping her back at the estate, Danbury told her “Get set some rest, I’ll be back tomorrow.” She took him at his word. So much so that, when he rang the next morning at 10:00, she was still asleep upstairs. Sophie Sweetwater, the imposing African American housekeeper, let him in and had him take a seat in what she called ‘the drawing room’. Sophie Sweetwater was a woman who was hard to pin down in just about every way. She seemed much more forward than a typical housekeeper, as though she was given more responsibility than just dusting the knick-knacks and arranging breakfast. Strong features and the whitest teeth Danbury had ever seen, he couldn’t pin down her age but was confident it was between thirty-five and sixty-five.

The hour he waited while the lady of the house made herself presentable afforded Danbury the opportunity to have a look around and try to determine the lay of the land.  The books on the shelves were as rare and valuable as the art on the wall.  For whatever demons he may have had that caused him to meet his demise at the hand of a beautiful young wife, he certainly had refined tastes leading up to it.

Sophie came back to check on him after thirty minutes, bringing him a tall orange juice on a silver tray.  “Shouldn’t be much longer,” she said as he took it off the tray and enjoyed a sip.

“Is this a screwdriver?” Danbury said, somewhat startled by the contents of the glass.  “It’s not even 9:00 yet!”

“Time operates differently out here,” Sophie replied as she turned and headed back towards the kitchen.  It made Danbury wonder if she was referring to Fort Stockton, the Central Time Zone, or another dimension.

Opening the French doors leading out to the pool, Danbury headed across the manicured south lawn and out to the carriage house. He wanted to see what might be tucked away in that little piece of Paradise Theodore Crane had created for himself on the plains of West Texas. The imposing carriage house looked like just the place that might contain some clues as to the drama being acted out on the stage in the main house. Sliding open one of the big arched doors on the south end of the huge two-story clapboard building, he wasn’t disappointed.

Inside the carriage house sat a 1955 Mercedes-Benz 220 Cabriolet A. The thing looked like it had been waxed weekly, if not more. The coal black bodywork had a mirror-like finish on it that allowed Danbury to see himself as he walked over to it for a better look. The inside was as immaculate as the outside, swaddled in kid glove leather that matched the hue of the sheet they used to carry Crane out of his study.

Raising the hood revealed a 2.2 liter M 180 inline-six with a single overhead camshaft and a Rolex downdraft carburetor. Danbury guessed the thing to be about eighty horsepower, but figured that was all it would need. A car like this one shouldn’t be driven so fast that those who it passed couldn’t get a good look at the man behind the wheel. The Silvertown wide whites stood out against the background of the jet black bodywork, making the car look like a black and white picture, even though it was in full color.

At the rear of the car, Danbury turned the horizontal handle of the boot to reveal a full set of Karl Baisch tan leather luggage, custom fit to the trunk of the car.  He glanced around as discreetly as possible to make sure none of the help was around or watching.  Quickly, he loosened the leather straps holding the luggage in place and popped open the silver buckles of each piece to view the contents, if there were any.

Not wanting to spend an inordinate amount of time in the carriage house, Danbury quickly reassembled the contents of the boot to their original configuration and strapped everything back down. Peering over the folded down top and towards the dash, he noted the key was in the ignition. “Of course it is,” he said to himself. “One doesn’t have to worry about theft inside your own Fort Knox.” He closed the trunk lid as quietly as he could, walked over to the driver’s door, reached in and turned the key of the ignition enough for the accessories to come on. The fuel gauge left to the full mark while the Becker Mexico radio began to warm up and flicker on.

Figuring enough time had gone by for the mistress of the house to finally be presentable, Danbury turned towards the open doors at the end of the carriage house to make his way back to the main house. On his way out the door, he noticed the rug from the study rolled up and leaned against the wall in the corner, as though it was no different from a used mop. “I suppose it isn’t,” he chuckled. “It mopped up Theodore Crane.”

Walking by the pool, he noticed Sophie at the door watching; waiting for him. She tended to look down her nose towards him, a glance he did not often receive, nor did he appreciate. As he approached the door, she picked up the silver tray sitting on the table next to it. On it was another Screwdriver. He took the glass from the tray as she said, “Madam’s ready for you now.” He looked around, but Madam was not to be found. Sophie turned and walked across the room towards the grand stairs leading to the second floor. At the bottom of the steps she pointed up the stairs and to the right. “The master suite is down the hall on the right. Double doors at the end. Can’t miss it.” She turned and walked away. As she did, he poured the contents of the glass into a huge potted plant at the base of the stairs and took them two at a time to get to the top.

At the end of the hall Danbury knocked lightly on the door and then went in.  Inside the massive master bedroom was an equally massive canopied four poster bed.  On the end of it sat Angela Crane.  The hour had been well spent doing hair and make-up.  Very little time had been spent on getting dressed.  Angela was decked out in lingerie fit for a honeymoon, covered up only with the idea of a see-through covering made of some type of lace.  Some women wore their sensuality like a pair of finely crafted Fratelli Orsini kid gloves; Angela wore hers like a broken-in Rawlings catcher’s mitt. Her ample Dagmars put those on Danbury’s new Cadillac Eldorado to shame.

“Good morning Mr. Danbury,” Angela said in a voice just slightly louder than a whisper.  “We do get started early, don’t we?”

“Not too early for a couple Screwdrivers,” he said as he noticed one, mostly consumed, on the nightstand.

“Takes the edge off,” she replied.  “You understand.”

“I’m going to need you to show me around the house.  Walk me through what happened last night.  Tell me everything that led up to the shooting.”  Danbury did everything he could to keep his eyes targeted on Angela’s face as he spoke.  She did everything she could to be sure he couldn’t.

“Of course,” she replied.  “I see you’ve already gotten familiar with the carriage house.” Danbury looked  surprised.  She glanced towards one of the tall, floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the pool and carriage house.

“Indeed.  It looks like your husband was getting ready for a trip.  Bags were packed.  Only his clothes in the luggage.  Tank was full of gas.  Do you know where he might have been headed.”  

Angela looked at him and smiled.  “Ours was a complex marriage.  Things weren’t always as they appeared.  I don’t know for sure if he was planning a trip or not.”  She seemed a bit disappointed that he was able to stave off the visuals she was providing, but thought better of it when she remembered his tenacity was one of the reasons she’d selected him for his services.  Nonetheless, the second reason was to see if the package matched the wrapping, and he was doing nothing to loosen the bow.

In the hour that followed, Angela gave Danbury a tour of the mansion, allowing him to spend as much or as little time in each of the rooms they went into as he saw fit. “Impressive home,” Danbury said near the conclusion of the tour. “Your husband had exquisite taste for the absolute finest available.”

She nodded, assuming it to be a compliment to his taste in women, as well.  They walked down the hall to the study where the murder had taken place.  It was neat as a pin, though the floor was slightly darker where the rug had been the night before, a result of all the sunshine coming in through the French doors having slightly bleached the hardwood floors everywhere else.  ”I saw the rug rolled up in the carriage house,” Danbury noted.

“Can’t decide whether to try to have it cleaned or burned.”  She looked around the room briefly.  “A nasty reminder.  But I did love that rug.”

“What’s on the other side of that door?” Danbury asked.

“Ah.  The dark room.”

Angela opened the door. Inside the lights burned red. Trays of chemicals sat on tables, pictures hung from a line where they’d been hung to dry, not fully developed. The ones he could make out seemed to feature Angela. In most she was wearing less than she was while giving him the tour, meaning nothing. “Theodore was quite the photographer, as you can see. I wouldn’t call him an amateur; he had more skills than any professional photographer I’ve ever been involved with,” Angela said. “And I’ve been involved with some.” She giggled slightly in a way that Danbury was reluctant to analyze.

“I haven’t seen any staff since we began the tour,” Danbury noted.

“I sent them home.  Figured we would need privacy.  Why don’t I make us some refreshments and we can sit on the patio by the pool and continue our discussion?”  Angela turned on her high heeled slipper with fur straps across the tops that matched her manicured toenails and headed out the door of the study and towards the bar in the great room.  

Danbury waited for her to finish the drinks and then opened the door. As they headed to the pool to sit down, Danbury looked back at the Southern Plantation styled house. “This place has more columns than the Sunday edition of the New York Times.”

“And the stories inside are a lot more interesting,” Angela replied as she sat down.

“Has Thomas been told of his father’s death?” Danbury asked, hoping to catch his client off guard.  

“Right after you left last night,” Angela replied calmly.

“Is he coming in for the funeral?” Danbury asked.

“Already here.  Has been for a while.  Staying out in the carriage house.  There’s an apartment above the cars.”  Just then Angela remembered something.  “By the way, I’m going to need the Dual-Ghia back!”

“It’s out front.  I told my secretary I’d call her when our appointment was over.  She’ll drive out and pick me up.  Was Thomas here at the time of the incident?”

“No.  In town carousing, I suppose.  He’s a wild one, that boy.  I told him when he stumbled in late last night.  Was there a Porsche in the carriage house?” she asked.

“Don’t recall seeing one.  But I was focused on the Mercedes.”

“He took it well.  He and his father weren’t close.  I suppose it’s still difficult, but he’s resilient,” Angela noted matter-of-factly.  “Of course he’ll be helping me work through the arrangements.”

“So let me just get this straight, Mrs. Crane,” Danbury began.  “You freely admit to murdering your husband.  You have little concern about the consequences, legal or otherwise.  His only child is living in the carriage house and has no problem working with the woman who murdered his father to get him planted and move on with life?”

“Self defense, Mr. Danbury.  I explained that it was self defense.  I’m sure when you present the facts, everything will fall into place,” Angela explained.  “And Thomas is fully aware of the level of difficulty living with Theodore Crane.  There are no hard feelings.”

Franklin Danbury was trying to put together a picture of exactly what he was looking at.  However, he was struggling with framing the shot.

If you’re enjoying the blog, particularly this installment, hit the LIKE button. If you want each post delivered to you inbox mail, put your email in the SUBSCRIBE box. The blog is not supported by advertising. If you’d like to help defray the costs, buy the Captain a cuppa coffee. It’s appreciated.