A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (15 page)

“Oh gosh. How’s Mary Beth handling that?”

Parker nurtured; his wife had power lunches. “She’s in Denver for a conference. Missed the whole thing.”

“Lovely. Figures, doesn’t it?”

Parker was a small-town principal. Mary Beth commuted to her job as a mortgage banker. Parker excelled in stir-fry, Mary Beth in escrows.

“When I was in grade school, all the kids down the street got trench mouth. You never hear of that anymore, and I thought pink eye was a social disease. I was deathly afraid of both of them.”

Parker chuckled.

“How are your folks doing? Is your mom okay?”

“Pretty good. They ended up skipping the cruise—just couldn’t bring themselves to go.”

“I didn’t know. That’s too bad.”

“I didn’t even think to tell you. Sorry about that. Anyway, Mom’s actually better than Dad. He’s not sleeping, roams around the house all night, cat naps all day. He’s lost ten pounds.”

Before I could respond, there was a crash and a child cried.

Parker muttered something, and the phone thunked in my ear. A series of sounds erupted before he returned to the phone.

“I can tell you’re busy. I called to see if there’s anything I can do at Isca’s house—empty cupboards or something. I’m on vacation and have some time to kill.”
Ouch.
Poor choice of words. Bad enough being so deceptive.

There was a pause. “That’s really generous of you. Are you sure?”

“I’d like to help, if I can.” My voice choked and I cleared my throat. With all that had happened—being chased home, finding the money clip in Isca’s garden, Andy swiping it, groping with him under the stars and the dead crow, which bothered me a lot, the loss of my best friend had shamefully gotten pushed aside.

“Well, I’ll take you up on it gladly. We gave the food to the Rescue Mission. I just sent the house key to the director and told him to help himself. You can double-check the freezer and cupboards if you would.”

Trust Parker to trust a stranger
.

“There are her personal things though. Clothes. Jewelry.”

“I’d be glad to go through them and box stuff up, if it would help. I know it’s not easy for you to get up here.”

“Gosh, that’s really a load off my mind. The sooner things are wrapped up, the sooner we can move on. Keep anything you want, set aside anything Dominic might like, you know, when he’s older. Give everything else to Goodwill or some place.”

“How about the women’s shelter?”

“That’s fine. Wherever someone can use the stuff. Be sure and let me know if there are problems.”

“One more thing. I haven’t found anyone to cut the grass yet and its getting kind of long.”

“That’s okay. I’ll call a lawn service.”

I promised to call when I was done and hung up. I wasn’t sorry I’d made the offer but was ashamed of my deceit. Love for Isca and her family should have been the motive. Not an idea about finding her ad and re-running it. I decided not to ask Andy if he wanted to help. He sent too many mixed messages.

My wedding picture was on the wall. I tried to recapture memories of the short time we had had together, but like soap bubbles, they drifted away. Maybe it was just as well; I didn’t want another panic attack. He looked so cute in his tux, and so happy. We both did. He was too young for me now, though. When had I left him behind in his early manhood and matured into, well, thirty-something? Now Andy was making memories. I didn’t know if I liked the new reality.

The next day I was scheduled to make corndogs during the afternoon shift. It felt strange not to be at the office on a Monday. I caught up on some chores at home, did a little shopping and had coffee with the building’s oldest resident, Mrs. Sinkovich.

Just before I left, the phone rang. “Mercedes? This is Susan Northover.”

“Hi, Mrs. Northover. What’s up?”

“Well, we just heard from Stan.

Stan? Oh, right, the nephew or grandson or something she wants me to meet.

“I must have mentioned you work for a brokerage house because he wonders if you know of a company called Calculated Love.”

Calculated Love? Well, well, well.

“
As a matter of fact, I do.” I grinned. “If you give me his address, you can tell Stan I’ll send him some Calculated Love information he might be interested in.”

“Well, dear, that would be lovely. I’ll slide the address into your mailbox.”

I didn’t tell her I was going to send him a Standard and Poors investment statement.

My little joke.

* * *

I worked my shift happy to put everything else out of my mind. Cooking with the deep fat fryer was incredibly messy. I took a shower as soon as I got home and left the apartment with wet hair and a box of garbage bags. In the car, I dialed in an oldies station and sang “Material Girl” with Madonna. It was nearly seven when I pulled up in front of Isca’s place

No drapes at neighboring homes twitched; no one paid particular attention as I eased the car alongside the curb and got out with the bags and a couple boxes. I was glad Parker was going to call a lawn service. Isca’s front yard looked even more unkempt. Weeds sprouted from the recent rain. A notice from a nearby church outlining changes in services stuck out from the screen door. There were no more newspapers, but a phone book lay on the step.

A tall fir tree pierced a single cloud in the darkening sky. The police had never asked for Isca’s house key and I hadn’t volunteered it. I unlocked the front door and was glad of her’ outside miser light. The only discernible smell was that of a closed house. Wall switches immediately inside meant I didn’t have to enter a dark room. Even as a child I hated entering dark rooms. The problem wasn’t the dark, it was what I couldn’t see in the dark. Something that made deep malevolent shadows seemed to wiggle and writhe.

I turned on every light in the living room and then in the dining room, but the house’s aura didn’t feel good. In the kitchen there were tell-tale signs of the cupboards having been gone through, doors left ajar and some spilled spices on a counter. I checked each cupboard and closed the doors. I checked the refrigerator and freezer. They were empty of everything except ice. Best not to unplug them until someone was around to take care of melted water. I checked her wall phone. No dial tone.

The hallway doors were closed, an eerie reminder of the night we found Isca’s body. It seemed important to exorcise the memory of that awful night. I opened each door and turned on the lights. Everywhere was evidence of police activity, particularly black fingerprint powder. I’d heard from burglarized friends it was a real bugger to clean up.

Dominic’s room looked the same. The bloodstains, though, seemed less prominent.
Would they fade into the sheetrock
? Chalk marks and plenty of black powder showed where the police had concentrated their efforts. Black fly corpses were everywhere. The buzzing sound of flies in Isca’s congealed blood returned. Why had she been killed here? Why not in her room? Did Dominic’s room have a special meaning or was the reason as simple as it was where Isca ended up when she ran?

Leaving the door ajar, I crossed the hall to Isca’s room. The ceiling-hung planters were still there. One by one I took them off the chains and checked the pots for signs of life. The succulents were okay but the ferns were beyond watering. I put them in a garbage bag, took the others into the bathroom for a good soak and returned to the bedroom.

Isca’s chest of drawers contained tidy piles of underwear, sweaters and casual clothes. I took the lacy, delicate underwear out first. Her things were lovely, the underwear in a variety of colors. Most of it looked barely used. I put the panties and bras in a clean bag and hoped some battered and desperate women at the shelter would take pleasure in them. I was glad to get that voyeuristic job out of the way.

She hadn’t worn many sweaters. Except for two cashmere cardigans, the rest were wool blends. I decided to take Parker up on his offer to help myself and set the cashmere sweaters aside. The rest went into the bag. Methodically, I worked my way through the dresser. Before the bags got too heavy to lift, I carried them to the front door. A collection of perfume went into a box with other disposables. No one wanted half-filled bottles of perfume or containers of partially used makeup. The silver dresser set, though, was too pretty to give away. I put it aside to clean and save for Dominic. Someday it would be a keepsake for his children.

Isca had two jewelry boxes. I emptied them both and divided the contents:  one box for costume jewelry and one for anything gold or silver. That box I also set aside for Dominic. The smaller jewelry chest had a drawer at the bottom, and I pulled it open. Tucked inside was a snapshot of Isca, Andy and Dominic, taken when Dominic was quite young. Andy had longer hair and a boyish look he seemed to have lost. The baby’s hand reached toward a birdcage Isca held. Both Andy and Isca grinned at Dominic’s wonderment. Who’d taken the photo? The bird vendor? Why had Isca hidden away that particular picture when there must have been many others? Divorces were such complicated things.

Would I ever fall in love again? It seemed so easy for some women. Was that good? Was there something wrong with me? I loved being in love, but the idea of casual sex was foreign to my upbringing. I’d been ridiculed for that more than once. “Recreational sex” Dave called it. Then he laughed because I’d never heard the term before.

Quit over thinking and get back to work
. I put the picture in the box with Dominic’s things and opened the closet doors. Isca had quite a few cocktail dresses. I put them aside to go to a consignment shop. Any money they made could go to a college fund. Shoes, coats, jackets, suits and dresses all went into boxes which I labeled with a felt-tipped marker. The numbers by the front door grew. It was dark when I took them out and filled my trunk and backseat.

Back inside, I looked around for Isca’s personal papers. No desk but I eventually found her bills, bank books and other papers in the drawers of a nightstand. Like all of us at Jackson Johnston, she had to have an account with them where her paycheck could be deposited, but for privacy, she had her savings elsewhere. Her photo albums were also in the nightstand along with some bulging manila envelopes. I decided to take them home to sort through. I carried the envelopes and the things to be kept for Dominic out and put them on the front passenger seat. Back in Isca’s bedroom, I looked around and decided most of what was left could easily be sold at a garage sale. What a sad thing that the pieces that made up her life could so easily be disposed of—that her existence could so easily be eliminated. Dominic needed more. I took her framed, autographed cartoons off the walls and set them up beside the door. What else? What else would preserve her memory for him?

I was looking around when the bedside phone rang.
Isca’s sex line?
The sound was so loud and unexpected, I gave a small leap. I didn’t like phones. They reminded me of Jimmy Stewart trying to warn Grace Kelly about Raymond Burr in the movie,
Rear Window
.

Why hasn’t it been shut off? Parker must have forgotten

On the fourth ring, I picked up the receiver. “Hello, sugar,” I said in my best Mae West voice. “I’m back, sweetie, and I missed you.”

God only knows what possessed me.

The caller inhaled deeply and gasped. “You.” I didn’t recognize the voice but I knew horror when I heard it. “You’re dead.” What came next was a sort of grief-laden keening. Then the caller dropped the phone.

I sat down to keep from falling down and began to shake. Wasn’t the voice slightly familiar? Just slightly? I felt sure the caller was Isca’s murderer. I remembered a particular ghost story where a girl tried to rub off fingerprints on a mirror only to discover they’d come from something inside. With my senses full of premonitions of fear, I was unable to move. Except I had to. He knew someone was in the house. When he said, “you” did he know who I was?
Holy crap. I’ve gotta get out of here
. The phone rang again. I let it ring until I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed the receiver and laughed into it. A forced, fake laugh, to be sure, but I laughed and laughed and didn’t say anything. I wanted to scare him as badly as he’d scared me. At the other end of the line, someone moaned and hung up.

I raced around the house, turned off the lights and had a brief struggle at the front door with the pictures. I had to get out of there.

I leaped into the car, started the engine and lurched away from the curb. Papers and pictures flew off the front seat.

Behind me, a car turned the corner and started down the street.

Chapter 14

Driving away from Isca’s, I didn’t work the clutch properly and underfed the gas. Clatter, grind, tap, the car jerked like a teenager driving a stick shift. After two angry men rolled down their windows and yelled, I controlled myself. This was what I’d wanted—to make contact with the vicar, if that was who called. I didn’t feel great about it, though. In fact, I was pretty scared. Female private eyes weren’t only made of a lot sterner stuff than I but had a TV-glamorized profession.
Well, duh
. What if somewhere along the way I had to defend myself? I had an overwhelming urge to get rid of the clothes and move back home with my folks.