Consider the Crows (5 page)

Susan nodded. “I won't be long. David, would you mind?” She led him along the driveway, intending to question him in her pickup.

When he realized where they were headed, he suggested his own car, a snappy little black Mercedes with soft leather interior. He started the motor and switched on the heater. “Was it really necessary to have your storm trooper standing guard?”

“White? A storm trooper?” White was an apple-cheeked kid who looked more like a boy scout than a police officer.

David smiled a wry acknowledgement. He had the half-angry expression that comes with “if only,” the constant replay so it all comes out right.

“All right, David, why did you move the body?”

“My God, Susan, she was facedown in the water. I didn't know she was dead.” He took in a breath and spoke in a calmer voice. “Sorry. I just feel some blame here. I never should have let her stay.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “I own the place. And the woods, however many acres. You can see the house has been abandoned for years. She liked it. She wanted to live in it.”

Susan turned to look through the rear window at the dilapidated house. “You rented that?”

“Yes, well, in love as in literature it's often difficult to understand someone else's choice. She wouldn't give up. She needed a place to live. It was empty. Why not? She loved the woods. Oh hell.” Resting an elbow on the steering wheel, he pinched the area between his eyebrows as though he had a headache.

“How could anybody in all good conscience collect rent for that?”

“I didn't go that far. She would live there and make this and that repair.”

The bright red paint on the front door must have been an attempt to impose some cheer on the squalor. “I'm surprised you weren't concerned about liability.”

“Believe me, I thought of that. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have allowed anyone in there.”

“But?”

“There was something so angry and needy about her that I felt sorry for her. She was a young lady battering at walls. She seemed totally guileless and trustworthy. I waived my better judgment. Based on my assessment of her, and let me remind you I've had a few years of judging character, and based on the strength of her desire to live here, and based on her financial position—” He stopped speaking as though he were addressing a jury. “She wanted a place where she could keep the dog. She couldn't find one. You think I could say no? I did have a contractor check it first. It's not as bad as it looks. At least, the structure's sound.”

“How long did she live here?”

“About three months.”

“Tell me what you know about her.” The heater hummed softly, sending out warm air. It certainly worked well; maybe there was something to all this luxury stuff. She unbuttoned her trenchcoat.

“Only her name.”

“David—”

“Oh yes, I asked. She'd recently arrived in Hampstead; she wouldn't say from where. She wouldn't tell me anything at all about herself. She was—” He put both hands high on the steering wheel. “Worried, troubled, apprehensive—” He lifted his shoulders. “I don't know. I tried to keep an eye on her.”

“How often did you see her?”

“Not as often as that question seems to imply,” he said dryly. “Half a dozen times, maybe.”

“What time did you get here this morning?”

“Ten.”

“Why did you come?”

“The furnace quit working. She phoned about it yesterday evening.”

“You fix furnaces too?”

“Of course not. I was going to look at it intelligently, kick it a few times and call somebody to fix it.”

“Why wait until this morning?”

“Her choice. She said she was busy, plans for the evening.”

“What plans?”

He hesitated a moment before answering. “She didn't say.”

“Did you ask?”

He sighed. “No.”

A flock of small birds swooped to the shrubbery in front of the car, hopped around twittering, and then took off again, dark spots against a cold gray sky.

“You came out with Dr. Egersund?”

He slouched back in the seat. “She came while I was waiting for Lynnelle.”

“You going to tell me what happened? Or make me get it question by question.”

“We're not friends here, is that it? You're just a cop doing a job.”

She shrugged, smiled, and nodded mildly. What kind of half-assed remark was that? He seemed to imply something that she didn't catch. The hell with it. She was a cop and this was her job. “What happened after Dr. Egersund arrived?”

He slouched further, letting his head rest on the seatback. “We stood around a while. The dog kept nudging us. She'd bound off, then trot back. Finally, we followed her.”

“Whose idea was that?”

He looked at her. “Dr. Egersund's.”

Susan waited.

He turned to look through the windshield. “The dog jumped in the creek. Pawed at Lynnelle, tugged at her. I got her face out of the water.” He paused. “It was obvious she was dead.”

“Did you touch anything in the house?”

“Only the telephone.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “And the leash. The damn dog didn't want to leave her.”

“Egersund go in the house?”

“No.”

“How well do you know her?”

“We just met.”

Susan buttoned up her trenchcoat and reached for the door handle. “Just for the record, where were you last night?”

He snapped alert. “It wasn't an accident?”

“Doesn't look that way.”

“I'm a suspect,” he said tightly.

“Come on, David, you're an attorney. You know how this works.”

“I see. What times are we talking about?”

“From around eight to eleven.”

“Home. Alone.”

She nodded, opened the door and slid out. “You better go and change into dry clothes.”

“If it's all the same with you, I'll wait till after you've wrung out Dr. Egersund.”

This concern seemed a little odd, if they'd just met.

Egersund looked as though she hadn't moved the entire time Susan was with David. She still stood by the back step, one hand bunching her jacket at the throat, dog at her feet. In response to some imperceptible stiffening, the dog sat up and shifted nervously. Egersund reached down to pat her and her fingers twisted the thick fur.

Mistake, Susan thought. I should have questioned her first. Now she's had time to think about the answers. “How long have you known Lynnelle Hames?”

“I didn't know her.” The words were barely audible, spoken through a thick gumbo of emotions.

What's this? “When did you meet her?”

Egersund blinked and seemed to bring her mind back from far away. “She came to my house last night and—”

“What time?” Susan deliberately interrupted. Rattle the woman a little, maybe shake her faith in her predetermined answers.

“About eight,” Egersund said and waited.

Susan also waited a beat, then asked, “Why?”

“I think she wanted to ask about math classes.”

The woman was lying, Susan thought, and not at all comfortable with it. Basically honest people don't make good liars. “You think?”

“I only assume that. She didn't stay long, simply said she'd changed her mind and then she left.”

“You didn't know her. She came to your house at eight o'clock at night. She didn't say why she came. The only thing she said was she changed her mind?”

Egersund didn't respond.

“I don't understand, Dr. Egersund, since you didn't know her, saw her so briefly, why you came out here this morning.”

She'd prepared herself for that one and had the answer ready.

“Her coat.” Egersund nodded at the blue down jacket lying across the board on the rope swing. “She forgot her coat.”

Forgot her coat. Uh-huh. It was cold; it was raining. Lynnelle wouldn't have forgotten her coat unless she was greatly upset. Now, just what might she be upset about? And why hasn't Egersund mentioned it?

The medics came out of the woods carrying a stretcher with a black body bag. The dog trembled and whimpered as they stumbled along over the stepping stones, passed under the oak tree and turned to go up the drive. They loaded the stretcher, slammed the doors, and tramped around to the front of the ambulance. When they pulled away, the dog yelped and lunged, twisting and straining. She managed to slip her collar and tore after it, barking frantically in a high-pitched bark. She charged down the driveway and along the road.

When the ambulance disappeared, she padded back slowly, head down, tail drooping, sides heaving. She flopped to the gravel and dropped her head to her paws.

5

“B
E IT EVER
so humble.” Susan, hands in her trenchcoat pockets, hunched her shoulders and shivered. The grim little house was so cold inside, her breath was visible.

“In a corner of hell called home,” Parkhurst said dryly, as he glanced around the kitchen.

She raised an eyebrow; he had a greater capacity for concealment than anybody she'd ever known, and this kind of offhand comment made her curious.

They did one quick pass through the house; living room, two bedrooms, old-fashioned bathroom with ancient, stained claw tub. Fingerprint powder was everywhere. No need to worry whether Osey had missed anything; he loved to lift prints, and checked every surface available to touch and many that were not. The clouds and narrow windows kept out much of the daylight, making the house dim and gloomy; it smelled of damp wood and mildew.

Parkhurst prowled beside her with a tighter than usual control on the taut, economical way he moved. That extra edge bothered her, made him distant, as though he had something on his mind. They weren't exactly friends, but she'd come to rely on him and they'd developed bonds of respect, even affection, from working closely together.

Back in the kitchen, they started a thorough search. Lynnelle had attempted to jolly the place up with patches of vivid color; pink-flowered curtains at the window, oranges in a pottery bowl with a deep blue glaze on the rickety table. Susan snagged one of two mismatched wooden chairs, climbed up and peered into cabinets, half her mind occupied at feeling into dark corners behind dishes and the other half trying to contend with the startling idea that bedrock Parkhurst could change to shifting sand. Personal problems? For Christ's sake, he had no right to be anything but a Herculean tower of strength.

“Considerate landlord,” he muttered.

She turned and looked down at him. “David?”

Parkhurst closed the door onto a closet space that housed the nonfunctioning furnace. “Who needs heat?”

“He offered to look at it.” Why did she feel pushed into defending David? “Lynnelle was the one who said it could wait until morning. She had plans. What could be more important than heat?”

Parkhurst grunted, his face impassive, but a small muscle ticked at the corner of his jaw, the way it did when he was angry. He crouched to sort through cleaning supplies under the sink.

“You get anything from those two?” she asked, meaning David and Egersund. She wanted to check Parkhurst's reactions against her own.

“Our lady math teacher was flat-out lying and making a poor job of it. McKinnon was smoother.”

“Smoother? You think David was lying?”

“At least withholding.”

She trusted Parkhurst's instincts and agreed with him about Egersund, but wasn't so certain he was right about David. For some reason, he'd taken a dislike to David.

She jumped down, moved the chair aside and knelt in front of the lower cabinet. Stacking canned goods, mostly dog food, on the floor, she made a mental note to pick up some cat food. Milk and salami probably wasn't an adequate diet. She didn't want the damn kitten to develop scurvy before she could get it back to Sophie.

One bedroom was completely empty except for a sleeping bag. The other also had a sleeping bag, a table lamp on the floor beside it, clothes hanging in the closet and, in the absence of a chest, cardboard cartons with socks, sweaters and underwear. A row of paperback books was lined up against the wall below the window. All the personal possessions in the whole house wouldn't amount to more than about one carload for the yellow VW.

“Why two sleeping bags?” she said.

“Guest room?”

“For someone who travels so light, it's odd she'd have two sleeping bags.”

“Dog has her own room?”

“The dog slept with her.” The blue bag was covered with white hairs. “Probably for companionship in this isolated place.”

Parkhurst, squatting on the balls of his feet, riffled through the books. She examined the clothes in the closet with a faint flavor of apology. Any death did away with privacy, leaving no chance to take care of jumbled drawers or messy closets, throw away the useless or embarrassing, or protect secrets. A violent death meant strangers picking through all the personal possessions.

After her first homicide investigation, she'd tossed out every nonessential in her apartment, but she had kept things that were important, pictures—even photos of numerous cousins she barely knew in her father's large Catholic family—and other things of no value, but that had meaning to her; the locket Aunt Frannyvan had given her for her eighth birthday, shawls knitted by her Grandmother Donovan, addresses of long-gone friends. There was nothing like that here, no hints to secrets, nothing that indicated who Lynnelle was, what she was like.

“Where did she come from?” Susan closed the closet door, leaned against it and crossed her arms. “Why was she here? Why isn't there anything to go on? No snapshots, no letters from friends, no phone numbers, address book. Nothing.”

“Runaway, maybe.”

“She's a little past the age for that.”