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55
ST. LUMIS
POLICE STATION
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Pippa pumped her fist. “Halfway through the alumni list at MICA, and I finally found Jason Osbourne, now a commercial artist, who graduated with Ronald and knew both him and Marsia Gay. He remembered both of them made a good-size splash, lots of talent.” She sat back in her chair and grinned like a sinner. “And he said they were an item, a couple, in the year they were there together.”
“Nailed it. Good, Cinelli.” Wilde sat back in his chair, rubbed his eyes. “After all those phone calls to the faculty at MICA without any luck, I thought that particular well might be dry. So let’s make the assumption the girlfriend at the cabin where Major Trumbo died was Marsia Gay. Then Mrs. Trumbo lied about not knowing her and she must have had a strong reason.
“Let me ask you—do you think Ronald was the man who knocked you out, tied you up, and took your cell? And then drove to Washington and set fire to Savich and Sherlock’s house?”
Pippa sat back in her chair, closed her eyes. She was tired, hyped, her brain still going a mile a minute. She cocked an eye at him and said through a yawn, “Makes sense.”
Wilde pulled out his cell and punched in a number. “Call me a dolt. Ronald hasn’t been in Baltimore, but here in St. Lumis.” He said into his cell, “Davie, do you know Ronald Pomfrey, Mrs. Trumbo’s son?”
Davie sounded out of breath. “Well, Chief, sure I know him, a nice enough guy, I guess, all into his art, does pictures on looms, real pretty. Then maybe something happened, I don’t know what, but he left St. Lumis. You weren’t here yet, so more than three years ago.”
“Have you seen him recently? Here, in St. Lumis?”
A moment of silence, then, “Now you mention it, I did catch sight of him Saturday in the middle of a knot of Halloween tourists. He was all bundled up, but I could tell it was him, even with his sunglasses on. He seemed to be in a hurry, so I didn’t speak to him.”
Wilde felt his heart pound. Gotcha. “Thanks, Davie. You get the possum yesterday?”
“Sure did. I took him out to the marshland and let him go. He wasn’t happy, but I figured he’d have a better chance of finding a girlfriend there than in Mrs. Gilly’s she-shed.”
When Wilde laid his cell on top of his desk, Pippa was grinning. “So that places Ronald Pomfrey right here in town on Saturday. Let’s back up. Ronald and Marsia hooked up at MICA, and they were close enough that she went with him and his family to his cabin in the Poconos. After the major’s death, she appears to have gone her own way. Why? Because of what happened at that cabin?”
Wilde was weaving a pen through his fingers, a longtime habit. “But how does that explain why Ronald would be willing to attack you and try to burn down an FBI agent’s house for her? Is it all about money? Dillon told me she has around seventy thousand dollars in her bank account, but you know her lawyer will eat up all that. So she wouldn’t have enough money to tempt Ronald into torching Savich’s house. Why would he turn into an arsonist for her?” He paused a moment, then, “Savich is certain Marsia Gay is behind the fire?”
“Yes, he’s positive. She as good as admitted it to him.”
Wilde said, “Then it all has to go back to the four of them at Ronald’s cabin. We found that community hospital about forty-five minutes away. An ambulance could have gotten to Major Trumbo and taken him to the ER or pronounced him dead at the cabin, which would have meant a doctor signed off on it. And that would have meant records, Cinelli. Why aren’t there records?”
Pippa shrugged. “Maybe when they realized he was dead, they decided not to bother, took his body elsewhere.”
“Maybe, but I’m hearing a drum banging, Cinelli. What if Major Trumbo didn’t die of a heart attack? Remember, both Mrs. Filly and Mrs. Trumbo said he was nasty, maybe an abuser.”
Pippa straightened in her chair. “So you’re saying Mrs. Trumbo helped him to the hereafter? We’re talking murder then, Wilde. And Marsia Gay was there to see it.”
