Cry From The Grave
Chapter 34
They arrived at their destination in Hazelwood an hour later. A Motorcycle had clipped a Ford F150 pickup truck on Interstate 70 westbound, and the resulting pileup forced a delay that held them up longer than Ballack wanted. Tori concluded a lengthy zigzag by waggling south through St. Ann before heading north on Lindbergh. Just before the intersection with 270, they eased into a neighborhood of modest single-family homes. Tori turned left off Utz Lane and headed down Blackberry Meadow Lane before pulling over so that Ballack's ramp could lower into the street side.
"I sure hope this isn't a waste of time and energy," said Tori as she put the ramp back up and locked the Sprinter. "If they died seven years back, we might get a couple of residents who recall things vaguely. But you never know. This area doesn't strike me as a place where you put down deep roots."
"What makes you say that, Tor?" Ballack asked as he scooted down the street toward the newest of the houses. "Close proximity to the traffic on 270?"
"And not far enough away from the airport," Tori added, "so I'm sure the people here aren't too appreciative of the noise."
Ballack stopped in front of the new house. Many on the block were about sixteen hundred square feet, but this one topped two thousand.
"Forgot the ramp in case we're invited in?" he asked his partner.
Tori shook her head. "Let's see if they come out."
"Sympathy factor for the cripple," Ballack deadpanned. "Beautiful."
Tori rang the bell twice before giving three sharp raps to the door. Ballack heard the yapping of a dog and then saw a Scottish terrier poke his nose through a set of faux wood blinds in the front window. The deadbolt clicked and a fresh-faced woman of shoulder-length red hair opened the inner door with only the storm glass between her and the outside. Her hair was wet as if she had just recently showered, and she wore a royal blue and white striped button-down shirt with faded jeans. Ballack caught the squeal of a child calling in the background. As the woman opened the door, Ballack noticed she had alternating blue and white polish on her toenails.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was neither welcoming nor antagonistic. She intoned her question as if she was reading from a grocery list.
Ballack had previously looked at the mailbox at the street and decided to gamble on the posted name as hers. "Mrs. Phillips?"
A boy of about four waddled toward her and wrapped his arms around her thin legs from behind. She absorbed his tackle easily and brushed a cowlick of hair from her eyes. "I'm Shari Phillips. Why do you ask?"
"Thank you, Shari. My name is Cameron Ballack. I'm a detective for the Special Investigative Division of Metro St. Louis, as is my partner Tori Vaughan. To be assured of our identity, here are our badges."
Shari Phillips looked satisfied. Picking up the child, she stepped onto the front porch, looking at Ballack on the entry path. "Again, Detective Ballack, why do you ask me my name?"
"Just a prelude to asking how long you've lived at this address," Tori said.
"A little under five years. Why?"
"This isn't our usual method of introduction, Mrs. Phillips," Ballack replied reassuringly, dropping his voice so the boy wouldn't be unsettled, "but we are in the middle of a murder investigation, and our sources indicate that a suspicious death took place on this property seven years ago. This house has a fresher look than the others on the block. Were you the first owners of this new structure?"
Shari Phillips looked at both of them in turn before smoothing her son's hair and setting him on his feet. "Greg, honey, run back inside a play for a bit. Mommy will take you to the library in a few minutes." Little Greg blinked twice, looked his mother full in the face, and then dutifully tottered back into the house.
She turned back to Ballack. "We are the original owners, of this new house, at least. We were informed, as a matter of full disclosure, what had happened to the previous structure." She took two steps to the side and wrapped a slender arm around the support pillar. "Are you asking about what happened to the last owners?"
"That's a potentially connected issue to our present investigation," Ballack replied. "How did you come to move here?"
"My husband Chad works for Boeing, so aside from being in a decent neighborhood, this place offered easy access to work. You can't beat being about five minutes away, gas prices being what they are. This was a decent place to start a family and Greg came along soon after."
"How old is he?" asked Tori, pointing inside.
"About three and a half," Shari responded. "He's our first and not our last. We found out last week we're expecting again. Mid-June next year."
"Congratulations," said Ballack. "But in reference to earlier, how much do you know about the former owners?"
"Just that it was a house fire. Tragic, but I know nothing beyond that."
"Any neighbors who remember that far back?"
She thought hard for a moment. "Actually, you could ask the Yeasts. Donna Yeast lives across the street two doors down that way." She pointed out the house to them. "Her husband is at work, at the airport. But Donna's car is home. If anyone might know something, it's her."
"Thank you very much," said Ballack, "and sorry to hold you up from taking your son out. If you remember or hear of anything else, please give us a call."
Tori handed Shari her card and they turned to traverse the street. "Looks like rain," she said to her partner.
Ballack nodded and sped onward to the Yeast residence, where Tori drove the van into the driveway there and then procured the portable ramp from the Sprinter. Ballack informed Donna Yeast of their need to ask her questions about the Traffords, and--rather than exhibiting any reticence--she turned out to be a gracious host. Although their food sat heavily in their systems, Ballack and Tori accepted her offer of hot chocolate. She even directed them to her back porch, where the ramp could be positioned for a gentler incline. Tori sat in one of the rattan chairs while Donna took the love seat. Ballack took several sips of his hot chocolate while Tori asked the perfunctory questions about the Yeasts' time in St. Louis, how the neighborhood had changed, and Donna's experience teaching at Ritenour High School. She managed to substitute in area schools upwards of five times a month but was glad to have this day off. "Book club," she said, eyes twinkling. "Monday is my holy day."
"Which book are you reading now?" asked Ballack, who was thoroughly relishing his drink.
"Well, we went through a Southern Gothic phase within the past year, and so we did a rotation of Cormac McCarthy's The Orchard Keeper, Mitch Cullen's Tideland, and then Purple Jesus by Ron Cooper. Then we decided to go for a mystery and did The King of Lies."
"John Hart," nodded Ballack.
Donna Yeast gave a beaming smile. "You know of him?"
"One of my father's favorites. I've read that one and then devoured Down River."
"Yes, we enjoyed The King of Lies and probably would have gone on to his next one, but a couple of ladies were dying to get back into some Pat Conroy, so they persuaded us to try South of Broad."
Ballack gulped down the last of his hot chocolate. "A great read. 'A story changes every time you say it out loud. When you put it on paper, it can never change. But the more times you tell it, the more changes will occur. A story is a living thing; it moves and shifts.' Conroy is uncanny in his accuracy."
Donna Yeast kept her sparkling green eyes on Ballack, who looked sideways at Tori and figured the literary appreciation needed to cease. "Mrs. Yeast," he began, slowing the cadence of his voice. "In reference to the Traffords, how long did their time here overlap with your own?"
"Oh, for about twenty-two years, Detective. They were here before us and we moved in, let's see--in 1983. Of course, they had that poor young man. Dave. What an absolute sweetheart. He would drop anything to help you. I have so many memories of him raking leaves and gathering pine cones. You see that wreath there? Over the mantle? One of his creations."
Ballack looked at the wreath, which in the array of the Yeasts' early Christmas decorating was one item among many. Even the Christmas tree, he noted, was set up though not trimmed. The wreath had been beautifully put together, with pine needles lacquered and the cones dipped in gold paint. A continuous red ribbon swathed the circumference of the wreath at three-inch intervals, and a simple circular clay ornament hung from the apex of the circle. A Scripture reference was carved in the top portion of the solid loop.
Tori stood to get a better look at Dave Trafford's creation. "Malachi 4:2?"
"That poor boy would quote it so often," said Donna, "as if it was his only hope. The sun of righteousness will rise..."
"With healing in its wings," Ballack finished the quote, the memory of one of his father's Advent sermons holding firm.
"When did he make this?" asked Tori.
Donna thought for a few seconds. "Oh, let's see. He was in college at the time. He was always in and out of UMSL. Just couldn't commit to his studies but I couldn't blame him. Such an anxious creature. This, I believe, he made for me in 1986, so let me see. He was twenty-six when he died, so that made him twenty at the time he gave me the wreath."
"Had Dave always exhibited anxiety and other psychological issues?" Ballack asked. "Was bipolar disorder one of them?
"He was diagnosed with that back in the day," nodded Donna. "So far back that's when most people commonly called it manic-depressive disorder. Maybe if he lived today, they could do so much more for him."
"He was in the care of a Dr. Dean Hibbler. Does that name ring a bell?"
"Oh well. We were probably the closest friends the Traffords had on the block. Yes, we remember the Hibbler fiasco."
"What happened that made it a fiasco?" asked Tori, her notepad out and her pen ready to move in rapid-fire fashion.
"Dr. Hibbler had seen Dave for about three years, but every time Dave would be making progress, something would come up from the doctor's end of things. A long vacation, one of his many hunting trips, or something. Dave was the type who not only benefited from a regular schedule, but who also needed constant attention. When Dr. Hibbler would take time off and cancel appointments, Dave read that as rejection. He'd go into a tailspin."
"Do you recall the events surrounding Dave's death?" Ballack inquired.
"Poor Marta. She broke down from that day onward. And Paul was a shell of his former self," Donna began. "It was one of Hibbler's hunting trips. That, I think, came out in the records when they went to court. All Dave needed was a refill on his prescription medication, from what Marta told me. Dr. Hibbler had already left and the receptionist stonewalled Dave's request. Not that she could order a prescription; I understand she had to follow proper protocol. But Dave was desperate. And then they confirmed through phone records that the receptionist had called the doctor. Hibbler even confessed in court that she had specifically mentioned Dave to him. And then under oath, the receptionist...I forget her name...anyhow, she said Hibbler refused to help and wished Dave would just go away. Those exact words! Go away! Dear Lord, I still see Marta crumbling under the shock of it all."
"But he didn't commit suicide," Ballack reminded her.
"No, but his manner of death was a distinction without a difference. The policeman who found him said that people would race their cars alongside Tower Grove Park and he likely wandered out there, wrong place, wrong time. Paul and Marta couldn't find him one night--twenty years ago, in fact--as he had taken their car. He had let no one know where he was."
"His entire family had no idea where he was?" Tori pressed.
"Neither Paul nor Marta," Donna replied, "and he did have a sister, an older sister. Jennifer. But when we arrived here she was in college at Mizzou. She was in pre-med or health sciences or something, but I don't remember it working out. She was the black sheep of the family, I'd say. She married a couple years after Dave's death, but I sure can't remember her husband that well. Last name was Dunnigan. Not that Jennifer was around much. Rather surly at times. Not as pleasant as Dave was." And here she paused to dab her eyes.
"Let's go with this," Ballack said, wanting to get to the main reason they were there. "Paul and Marta's death. Were you here that night?"
Donna held her silence for several moments, wiping her eyes with a fresh Kleenex. "Yes. Yes."
Ballack waited. With no further exposition forthcoming, he asked, "What do you remember, Mrs. Yeast? It will help us if you can be as specific as possible."
"God loves his double-edged swords, doesn't He?" asked Donna. "Memories of pleasure mixed with unspeakable pain. It was seven years back. I'm sure you've checked out the official report from the police. You know what you're doing. But yes, there's nothing like an eyewitness account from over the years. It was late that night. About eleven o'clock. I was having difficulty sleeping and so I went into the kitchen. Some people like a cup of something warm, or comfort food. My late-night sleep aid was popcorn. I wasn't worried about waking Craig. He can sleep through a nuclear attack. I had the popcorn in the microwave and was just set to take it out when I saw something flickering in the shadows of the house. I was worried it might be an intruder, so I grabbed my rolling pin, worried that if I called for Craig I might get attacked. Stupid, I know, but I didn't think too well. But no one was in the house. The flickers came from across the street at the Trafford's house. Flames belching out of it like an industrial factory explosion. I dropped the rolling pin on my foot so bad that I could only hobble into the bedroom to wake Craig. We both got outside--I remember it was a pretty warm night for November, and extremely dry--and there were people milling around, shocked, shedding tears, every worry and emotion possible. The Kinders--they lived three doors down from us at the time but both have died since--had already called the fire department, but one look at that house told everyone it would do no good other than containing the flames and keep the surrounding houses safe."
"When did you notice the Traffords weren't outside?" asked Tori.
"The Kinders told us, and just as they informed us, there was a minor explosion from the house and the roof caved in. The fire engine showed up a minute later but, like I said, they could do little of consequence."
"The report we heard was Paul and Marta Trafford had been bound to their beds. So suicide is moot, but do you have any idea who might want to do them harm?"
"No one," said Donna, tears streaming noiselessly down her face even as her voice remained strangely firm. "There was no one who could have wanted them dead!"
"Somebody did," Ballack cautioned. "Might it have been someone out for their money?"
"You mean the settlement from Dave's death? The negligence lawsuit?"
"Actually," Ballack said, his finger upraised for emphasis as he leafed through the documents provided by Dan Sumner. "It was a medical malpractice suit. Three million dollars was the awarded amount, correct."
"I believe that's what Marta said, yes, although she didn't speak of that figure again."
"They put the total amount into a trust, correct?"
"I don't know the exact details, Detective. They didn't share what they were doing with the money, and I didn't ask."
"As a longtime friend, they hadn't made you or your husband a beneficiary of any trust in the event of their death?"
Donna Yeast was visibly shocked. "No, I am telling you they never told me what they did with the money! We were cut into any deal because we didn't know what they did. It sure didn't affect them, I'll tell you that for nothing! They fixed up their house a bit. New patio on the back. But they didn't flash the money around. That's all I knew then or know now!"
Tori decided to take a card off their deck. "The reason we are pressing this matter, Mrs. Yeast, is because a month before their deaths, the Traffords met with Dr. Hibbler in an attempt to reconcile with him."
"What?"
"And as a show of good faith and a demonstration they held no ill will toward him, they gave the three million back to him."
Donna Yeast looked agape at Ballack for confirmation. "Completely true," he said. "They wanted him to know they didn't hold him accountable for Dave's death."
"They did what? They said what?"
"Mrs. Yeast, we just came from a meeting with Dr. Hibbler's attorney. I have the deposition here among these documents."
"But why is that even necessary to your investigation? I mean, you are pursuing the Traffords' deaths, right? It's their cold case you're dealing with!"
"To be sure, Mrs. Yeast," replied Ballack, once again puncturing the air with his index finger, "we are pursuing a murder inquiry. But the reason we are here is that two days ago at St. Matthew's Grove Hospice in Webster Groves, Dr. Hibbler was murdered in his office." Ballack waited, unwilling to inform Donna of Father Giles' death, as well. "This puts the death of the Traffords in a very interesting light. Not a clear light, mind you, but hopefully you can see why we are asking questions."
"I do," said Donna after a pregnant pause. "But I've just told you everything Craig and I know about it. Now you've filled my heart with new questions and worries about something still unsolved."
"That's an open matter that we intend to close, Mrs. Yeast. Thank you for your time and for the hot chocolate. Please let us know of anything that might come to mind if you have a sudden moment of remembrance. Here's my card."
Donna took Ballack's card, then Tori's as she handed one to her. "I will if I can, Detectives," she muttered, staring at the cards in a dreamlike trance. "But I will say this much: It has been too painful to dredge up these memories, and if I can avoid having any more, I will."
"I understand, ma'am," Ballack replied, putting his wheelchair in gear for the trip back to the Sprinter. "But given everything we've brought out here, there may be more than we realize, that the deaths of the Traffords and Dr. Hibbler are profoundly connected in a significant way."
Ballack stopped in front of the new house. Many on the block were about sixteen hundred square feet, but this one topped two thousand.
"Forgot the ramp in case we're invited in?" he asked his partner.
Tori shook her head. "Let's see if they come out."
"Sympathy factor for the cripple," Ballack deadpanned. "Beautiful."
Tori rang the bell twice before giving three sharp raps to the door. Ballack heard the yapping of a dog and then saw a Scottish terrier poke his nose through a set of faux wood blinds in the front window. The deadbolt clicked and a fresh-faced woman of shoulder-length red hair opened the inner door with only the storm glass between her and the outside. Her hair was wet as if she had just recently showered, and she wore a royal blue and white striped button-down shirt with faded jeans. Ballack caught the squeal of a child calling in the background. As the woman opened the door, Ballack noticed she had alternating blue and white polish on her toenails.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was neither welcoming nor antagonistic. She intoned her question as if she was reading from a grocery list.
Ballack had previously looked at the mailbox at the street and decided to gamble on the posted name as hers. "Mrs. Phillips?"
A boy of about four waddled toward her and wrapped his arms around her thin legs from behind. She absorbed his tackle easily and brushed a cowlick of hair from her eyes. "I'm Shari Phillips. Why do you ask?"
"Thank you, Shari. My name is Cameron Ballack. I'm a detective for the Special Investigative Division of Metro St. Louis, as is my partner Tori Vaughan. To be assured of our identity, here are our badges."
Shari Phillips looked satisfied. Picking up the child, she stepped onto the front porch, looking at Ballack on the entry path. "Again, Detective Ballack, why do you ask me my name?"
"Just a prelude to asking how long you've lived at this address," Tori said.
"A little under five years. Why?"
"This isn't our usual method of introduction, Mrs. Phillips," Ballack replied reassuringly, dropping his voice so the boy wouldn't be unsettled, "but we are in the middle of a murder investigation, and our sources indicate that a suspicious death took place on this property seven years ago. This house has a fresher look than the others on the block. Were you the first owners of this new structure?"
Shari Phillips looked at both of them in turn before smoothing her son's hair and setting him on his feet. "Greg, honey, run back inside a play for a bit. Mommy will take you to the library in a few minutes." Little Greg blinked twice, looked his mother full in the face, and then dutifully tottered back into the house.
She turned back to Ballack. "We are the original owners, of this new house, at least. We were informed, as a matter of full disclosure, what had happened to the previous structure." She took two steps to the side and wrapped a slender arm around the support pillar. "Are you asking about what happened to the last owners?"
"That's a potentially connected issue to our present investigation," Ballack replied. "How did you come to move here?"
"My husband Chad works for Boeing, so aside from being in a decent neighborhood, this place offered easy access to work. You can't beat being about five minutes away, gas prices being what they are. This was a decent place to start a family and Greg came along soon after."
"How old is he?" asked Tori, pointing inside.
"About three and a half," Shari responded. "He's our first and not our last. We found out last week we're expecting again. Mid-June next year."
"Congratulations," said Ballack. "But in reference to earlier, how much do you know about the former owners?"
"Just that it was a house fire. Tragic, but I know nothing beyond that."
"Any neighbors who remember that far back?"
She thought hard for a moment. "Actually, you could ask the Yeasts. Donna Yeast lives across the street two doors down that way." She pointed out the house to them. "Her husband is at work, at the airport. But Donna's car is home. If anyone might know something, it's her."
"Thank you very much," said Ballack, "and sorry to hold you up from taking your son out. If you remember or hear of anything else, please give us a call."
Tori handed Shari her card and they turned to traverse the street. "Looks like rain," she said to her partner.
Ballack nodded and sped onward to the Yeast residence, where Tori drove the van into the driveway there and then procured the portable ramp from the Sprinter. Ballack informed Donna Yeast of their need to ask her questions about the Traffords, and--rather than exhibiting any reticence--she turned out to be a gracious host. Although their food sat heavily in their systems, Ballack and Tori accepted her offer of hot chocolate. She even directed them to her back porch, where the ramp could be positioned for a gentler incline. Tori sat in one of the rattan chairs while Donna took the love seat. Ballack took several sips of his hot chocolate while Tori asked the perfunctory questions about the Yeasts' time in St. Louis, how the neighborhood had changed, and Donna's experience teaching at Ritenour High School. She managed to substitute in area schools upwards of five times a month but was glad to have this day off. "Book club," she said, eyes twinkling. "Monday is my holy day."
"Which book are you reading now?" asked Ballack, who was thoroughly relishing his drink.
"Well, we went through a Southern Gothic phase within the past year, and so we did a rotation of Cormac McCarthy's The Orchard Keeper, Mitch Cullen's Tideland, and then Purple Jesus by Ron Cooper. Then we decided to go for a mystery and did The King of Lies."
"John Hart," nodded Ballack.
Donna Yeast gave a beaming smile. "You know of him?"
"One of my father's favorites. I've read that one and then devoured Down River."
"Yes, we enjoyed The King of Lies and probably would have gone on to his next one, but a couple of ladies were dying to get back into some Pat Conroy, so they persuaded us to try South of Broad."
Ballack gulped down the last of his hot chocolate. "A great read. 'A story changes every time you say it out loud. When you put it on paper, it can never change. But the more times you tell it, the more changes will occur. A story is a living thing; it moves and shifts.' Conroy is uncanny in his accuracy."
Donna Yeast kept her sparkling green eyes on Ballack, who looked sideways at Tori and figured the literary appreciation needed to cease. "Mrs. Yeast," he began, slowing the cadence of his voice. "In reference to the Traffords, how long did their time here overlap with your own?"
"Oh, for about twenty-two years, Detective. They were here before us and we moved in, let's see--in 1983. Of course, they had that poor young man. Dave. What an absolute sweetheart. He would drop anything to help you. I have so many memories of him raking leaves and gathering pine cones. You see that wreath there? Over the mantle? One of his creations."
Ballack looked at the wreath, which in the array of the Yeasts' early Christmas decorating was one item among many. Even the Christmas tree, he noted, was set up though not trimmed. The wreath had been beautifully put together, with pine needles lacquered and the cones dipped in gold paint. A continuous red ribbon swathed the circumference of the wreath at three-inch intervals, and a simple circular clay ornament hung from the apex of the circle. A Scripture reference was carved in the top portion of the solid loop.
Tori stood to get a better look at Dave Trafford's creation. "Malachi 4:2?"
"That poor boy would quote it so often," said Donna, "as if it was his only hope. The sun of righteousness will rise..."
"With healing in its wings," Ballack finished the quote, the memory of one of his father's Advent sermons holding firm.
"When did he make this?" asked Tori.
Donna thought for a few seconds. "Oh, let's see. He was in college at the time. He was always in and out of UMSL. Just couldn't commit to his studies but I couldn't blame him. Such an anxious creature. This, I believe, he made for me in 1986, so let me see. He was twenty-six when he died, so that made him twenty at the time he gave me the wreath."
"Had Dave always exhibited anxiety and other psychological issues?" Ballack asked. "Was bipolar disorder one of them?
"He was diagnosed with that back in the day," nodded Donna. "So far back that's when most people commonly called it manic-depressive disorder. Maybe if he lived today, they could do so much more for him."
"He was in the care of a Dr. Dean Hibbler. Does that name ring a bell?"
"Oh well. We were probably the closest friends the Traffords had on the block. Yes, we remember the Hibbler fiasco."
"What happened that made it a fiasco?" asked Tori, her notepad out and her pen ready to move in rapid-fire fashion.
"Dr. Hibbler had seen Dave for about three years, but every time Dave would be making progress, something would come up from the doctor's end of things. A long vacation, one of his many hunting trips, or something. Dave was the type who not only benefited from a regular schedule, but who also needed constant attention. When Dr. Hibbler would take time off and cancel appointments, Dave read that as rejection. He'd go into a tailspin."
"Do you recall the events surrounding Dave's death?" Ballack inquired.
"Poor Marta. She broke down from that day onward. And Paul was a shell of his former self," Donna began. "It was one of Hibbler's hunting trips. That, I think, came out in the records when they went to court. All Dave needed was a refill on his prescription medication, from what Marta told me. Dr. Hibbler had already left and the receptionist stonewalled Dave's request. Not that she could order a prescription; I understand she had to follow proper protocol. But Dave was desperate. And then they confirmed through phone records that the receptionist had called the doctor. Hibbler even confessed in court that she had specifically mentioned Dave to him. And then under oath, the receptionist...I forget her name...anyhow, she said Hibbler refused to help and wished Dave would just go away. Those exact words! Go away! Dear Lord, I still see Marta crumbling under the shock of it all."
"But he didn't commit suicide," Ballack reminded her.
"No, but his manner of death was a distinction without a difference. The policeman who found him said that people would race their cars alongside Tower Grove Park and he likely wandered out there, wrong place, wrong time. Paul and Marta couldn't find him one night--twenty years ago, in fact--as he had taken their car. He had let no one know where he was."
"His entire family had no idea where he was?" Tori pressed.
"Neither Paul nor Marta," Donna replied, "and he did have a sister, an older sister. Jennifer. But when we arrived here she was in college at Mizzou. She was in pre-med or health sciences or something, but I don't remember it working out. She was the black sheep of the family, I'd say. She married a couple years after Dave's death, but I sure can't remember her husband that well. Last name was Dunnigan. Not that Jennifer was around much. Rather surly at times. Not as pleasant as Dave was." And here she paused to dab her eyes.
"Let's go with this," Ballack said, wanting to get to the main reason they were there. "Paul and Marta's death. Were you here that night?"
Donna held her silence for several moments, wiping her eyes with a fresh Kleenex. "Yes. Yes."
Ballack waited. With no further exposition forthcoming, he asked, "What do you remember, Mrs. Yeast? It will help us if you can be as specific as possible."
"God loves his double-edged swords, doesn't He?" asked Donna. "Memories of pleasure mixed with unspeakable pain. It was seven years back. I'm sure you've checked out the official report from the police. You know what you're doing. But yes, there's nothing like an eyewitness account from over the years. It was late that night. About eleven o'clock. I was having difficulty sleeping and so I went into the kitchen. Some people like a cup of something warm, or comfort food. My late-night sleep aid was popcorn. I wasn't worried about waking Craig. He can sleep through a nuclear attack. I had the popcorn in the microwave and was just set to take it out when I saw something flickering in the shadows of the house. I was worried it might be an intruder, so I grabbed my rolling pin, worried that if I called for Craig I might get attacked. Stupid, I know, but I didn't think too well. But no one was in the house. The flickers came from across the street at the Trafford's house. Flames belching out of it like an industrial factory explosion. I dropped the rolling pin on my foot so bad that I could only hobble into the bedroom to wake Craig. We both got outside--I remember it was a pretty warm night for November, and extremely dry--and there were people milling around, shocked, shedding tears, every worry and emotion possible. The Kinders--they lived three doors down from us at the time but both have died since--had already called the fire department, but one look at that house told everyone it would do no good other than containing the flames and keep the surrounding houses safe."
"When did you notice the Traffords weren't outside?" asked Tori.
"The Kinders told us, and just as they informed us, there was a minor explosion from the house and the roof caved in. The fire engine showed up a minute later but, like I said, they could do little of consequence."
"The report we heard was Paul and Marta Trafford had been bound to their beds. So suicide is moot, but do you have any idea who might want to do them harm?"
"No one," said Donna, tears streaming noiselessly down her face even as her voice remained strangely firm. "There was no one who could have wanted them dead!"
"Somebody did," Ballack cautioned. "Might it have been someone out for their money?"
"You mean the settlement from Dave's death? The negligence lawsuit?"
"Actually," Ballack said, his finger upraised for emphasis as he leafed through the documents provided by Dan Sumner. "It was a medical malpractice suit. Three million dollars was the awarded amount, correct."
"I believe that's what Marta said, yes, although she didn't speak of that figure again."
"They put the total amount into a trust, correct?"
"I don't know the exact details, Detective. They didn't share what they were doing with the money, and I didn't ask."
"As a longtime friend, they hadn't made you or your husband a beneficiary of any trust in the event of their death?"
Donna Yeast was visibly shocked. "No, I am telling you they never told me what they did with the money! We were cut into any deal because we didn't know what they did. It sure didn't affect them, I'll tell you that for nothing! They fixed up their house a bit. New patio on the back. But they didn't flash the money around. That's all I knew then or know now!"
Tori decided to take a card off their deck. "The reason we are pressing this matter, Mrs. Yeast, is because a month before their deaths, the Traffords met with Dr. Hibbler in an attempt to reconcile with him."
"What?"
"And as a show of good faith and a demonstration they held no ill will toward him, they gave the three million back to him."
Donna Yeast looked agape at Ballack for confirmation. "Completely true," he said. "They wanted him to know they didn't hold him accountable for Dave's death."
"They did what? They said what?"
"Mrs. Yeast, we just came from a meeting with Dr. Hibbler's attorney. I have the deposition here among these documents."
"But why is that even necessary to your investigation? I mean, you are pursuing the Traffords' deaths, right? It's their cold case you're dealing with!"
"To be sure, Mrs. Yeast," replied Ballack, once again puncturing the air with his index finger, "we are pursuing a murder inquiry. But the reason we are here is that two days ago at St. Matthew's Grove Hospice in Webster Groves, Dr. Hibbler was murdered in his office." Ballack waited, unwilling to inform Donna of Father Giles' death, as well. "This puts the death of the Traffords in a very interesting light. Not a clear light, mind you, but hopefully you can see why we are asking questions."
"I do," said Donna after a pregnant pause. "But I've just told you everything Craig and I know about it. Now you've filled my heart with new questions and worries about something still unsolved."
"That's an open matter that we intend to close, Mrs. Yeast. Thank you for your time and for the hot chocolate. Please let us know of anything that might come to mind if you have a sudden moment of remembrance. Here's my card."
Donna took Ballack's card, then Tori's as she handed one to her. "I will if I can, Detectives," she muttered, staring at the cards in a dreamlike trance. "But I will say this much: It has been too painful to dredge up these memories, and if I can avoid having any more, I will."
"I understand, ma'am," Ballack replied, putting his wheelchair in gear for the trip back to the Sprinter. "But given everything we've brought out here, there may be more than we realize, that the deaths of the Traffords and Dr. Hibbler are profoundly connected in a significant way."
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