Life Support (40 page)

Rena looked up at him in shock. “But I told you I hadn't had anything to drink!”

“I've heard that before.”

“No!” Rena raised her voice and banged her fists against the steering wheel. “This is not fair!”

The officer's eyes grew larger, and he touched the handcuffs attached to his belt.

“Mrs. Richardson, it will be better if you cooperate, so I don't have to use restraints. Please get out of the car.”

Rena jerked open the door, and the officer backed up. When he did, he stepped in a small hole, lost his footing, and fell backward. His head slammed against the edge of the pavement with a loud snap. He groaned once and then lay still.

Rena gasped and stared at the lawman's motionless form. She looked over her shoulder. Cars were whizzing by on the nearby highway, but unless someone looked directly down the side road they would not see the officer's body. Rena stared at his face. A fly landed on the policeman's large nose and walked around it several times before buzzing off. The officer's mouth was opened wide, and Rena could see several gold crowns on his upper molars. She shuddered. She did not want to touch another body that looked dead.

She crept from the car and knelt down beside the body. Leaning over, she put her ear as close to Dixon's gaping mouth as possible. There was no sound of air coming in or going out. She listened for several seconds but couldn't detect the whisper of a wheeze or rasp. The deputy's chest was motionless, and there was no sign of a heartbeat in the large arteries that ran up the side of the neck. The notebook containing the written record of their conversation lay several inches from his left hand. Gingerly picking up the notebook, she got back into her car and tried to think through her options.

She could start the car's engine and be gone in fifteen seconds; however, she had to assume the officer had reported her license plate number when he stopped the car. There was no chance for anonymity if she fled. The police would be in her driveway before nightfall and drag her to jail for a crime she didn't commit.

But how to explain what had happened if she stayed and phoned 911 created an equally troubling dilemma. She'd done nothing wrong except violate a few minor traffic laws that the fat deputy blew out of proportion. The body lying on the side of the road was not her fault.

It was a tragic accident.

33

He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual.

THOMAS JEFFERSON

A
lexia's nervousness about the unknown intruders quickly subsided, and in the afternoon she went out for a swim. It might have been her imagination, but her appreciation for the beauty of the marsh and the barrier island was heightened by the new vision that had come to her spirit. The texture of the marsh grass, the purity of the sand dunes, and the majesty of the ocean had never been more vivid. Even Boris seemed more alive as he stood proudly in the bow of the little boat and later ran wildly down the beach.

The phone rang in the kitchen. Still rubbing her hair with a towel, Alexia picked up the phone. It was Rena Richardson. She spoke rapidly in a breathless voice.

“Alexia. It's Rena. My car was stolen this afternoon.”

“What?”

“My red convertible. I'd left it in front of the house with the keys in it, and someone must have taken it for a joy ride. They drove toward Charleston and were stopped for speeding by the police.”

“Where is it now?”

“In Charleston. But it's more serious than a carjacking. The officer who stopped the thief was killed. Whoever took the car knocked him down and broke his neck. A detective from Charleston is on his way to Santee and wants to interview me. I need you with me.”

Alexia looked at the clock. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“What should I do if the detective gets here before you?”

“Be polite, but ask him to wait until I arrive. You've not done anything wrong, so it won't be a problem. He should know the rules.”

Peering around the curtains in the living room, Rena saw a gray sedan drive slowly up the driveway. Only an unmarked police vehicle could be so nondescript. She stepped back and leaned against the wall. The detective from Charleston couldn't be as bad as the disfigured Giles Porter. She'd survived the Mitchell County officer's inquisition and should be able to weather another one, especially with Alexia at her side from the beginning.

The doorbell rang, and although Rena was only a few steps away, she slowly counted to twenty-five before answering it. A tall, thin man with round glasses and a thin mustache, wearing an open-collared shirt and olive pants, stood on the landing. He looked more like an accountant than a homicide detective. His normal appearance immediately set Rena at ease.

“I'm Detective Byron Devereaux with the Charleston County Sheriff 's Department,” he said in a friendly yet serious voice. “Are you Mrs. Richardson?”

Rena nodded. “Yes, please come in. I thought we could talk in the study.”

She led the detective through the living room into a smaller rectangular room that was filled with leather furniture. Along the walls were wooden bookcases of three different heights. Neither Rena nor Baxter were avid readers, and the bookcases contained few books. A large oriental rug covered the center of the floor.

“Have a seat,” she said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, black would be fine.”

Rena left the room, satisfied that she was performing perfectly as a southern hostess. When the coffee was ready, she lingered in the kitchen, hoping Alexia would arrive before she had to return and face the detective. The doorbell sounded again, and Rena rushed to answer it. It was Alexia.

“Come in. He's already here,” Rena whispered. “But we haven't talked at all. I was getting him a cup of coffee.”

Rena led Alexia to the kitchen.

“Is there anything I shouldn't say?” Rena asked in a low voice as they put a silver coffeepot and three white cups on a silver tray.

“About what?” Alexia responded. “Just tell him the car was stolen. He'll want to know when you noticed that it was missing and whether you've seen any suspicious people in the area. It should be routine. Do you have any idea who stole it?”

“No, but after what's happened to me recently, I'm terrified of the police.”

“I'll try to take care of as much as I can,” Alexia reassured her.

They went into the study. The detective was standing in front of one of the bookcases. Alexia introduced herself.

“I asked Ms. Lindale to come over in case you have questions that I can't answer,” Rena said. “She handles everything for me and my family”—she paused and glanced at Alexia—“I mean for me.”

Rena sat down on a love seat beside the sofa and poured a cup of coffee for Alexia, who sat across from the detective. Rena's hand trembled slightly when she tipped up the coffeepot. She glanced at the detective, who was closely watching her.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “This whole thing has really upset me.”

“It's normal that you'd be nervous. I'll try to be as quick as possible. We're just beginning our investigation.”

He took out a small notebook identical to the one used by the officer who had stopped Rena and began with several background questions. When he asked whether she was married, Rena picked up a tissue and looked away.

“Ms. Richardson's husband is on life support in a hospital in Greenville,” Alexia quickly interjected. “He fell from a cliff while they were hiking a few weeks ago and has never regained consciousness.”

“I'm sorry,” the detective replied. “Do you need to take a short break?”

“Go ahead,” Rena sniffed. “I want to help you.”

“Okay. When did you first notice that your car was missing?”

“It was in front of the house in the same area where you parked. I'd gone out for a long walk, and when I got back, it was gone.”

“You mentioned on the phone that you'd left the keys in it. Why did you do that?”

“I grew up in the country where we didn't worry about car thieves. I drove the car early this morning and didn't bother to take out the keys. My husband has told me not to leave the keys in it”—Rena touched her right eye again with the tissue—“but I guess I forgot. I never suspected anyone would steal the car from our driveway, and the thought that they could have come into the house terrifies me.”

The officer looked down at his notebook. “What did you do when you saw it was gone?”

“At first I thought someone was playing a joke on me. You know how things go through your mind when you're caught by surprise. I checked in the garage and walked back to the street to see if someone had driven it around the corner. When I realized it was really gone, I called 911 and reported it missing.”

“What time did you call 911?”

“I don't remember exactly. I think they keep a record of that, don't they?”

“Yes. I'm just trying to see what you remember.”

Rena's heart sped up. The detective was trying to trap her. She spoke slowly.

“It was about an hour before you phoned from Charleston.”

The detective tapped the notebook with his pen. “What did you tell the 911 operator about the theft?”

Rena froze. She couldn't remember what she'd told the 911 operator. The events she'd manufactured in her mind during the taxi ride from Charleston grew fuzzy.

“Uh, what I'm telling you. If I told the 911 operator anything else, I can't remember it now. Have you listened to the tape of the call?”

“No,” the detective answered casually. “It might be helpful for you to hear it and see if it jogs your memory.”

“There's not much to remember,” Rena replied. “The car was here. Then it was gone.”

“What time did you drive the car this morning?”

“Very early. Before seven o'clock. I couldn't sleep and went out to get a bagel and cup of coffee.”

“Where did you go?”

“Just to a convenience store.”

“Which one?”

Rena turned toward Alexia. “It's near the courthouse. What's the name of the one on the corner?”

“Franklin's Quick Stop. It's an independent store on the corner of King Street and Burns Avenue,” Alexia said.

“That's it,” Rena said.

“Did you see anybody you know there?” he asked.

“No. I've lived here less than a year, so I don't know a lot of people.”

The detective made notes. “Okay. What time did you leave to go on your walk?”

“Around noon.”

“Where did you go?”

“I walked all the way to Freedom Park. I had a lot to think about with everything that has happened with my husband and needed some fresh air to clear my head. I sat on a bench for a while and read.”

“What did you read?”

“A woman's magazine.”

“Did you see anybody you knew at the park?”

“No. There weren't many people there.”

The detective backtracked in time. “Did you notice anyone unusual in the area when you left the house?”

“No. It's a quiet street. Most of the homes are older, and we haven't had any problems with crime as long as I've been here. I know the police send a car through the neighborhood several times a day.”

“Is there anyone who knows you leave your keys in the car?”

“No one except Baxter.”

“Who is Baxter?”

“My husband.”

The detective made another note. “Sorry. What about any yard workers, maids, friends?”

Rena shook her head. “I have a maid who cleans twice a week, but she barely speaks English, and I don't think she drives. There is a company that does all the landscaping and work on the lawn, but I don't know any of them personally. None of my friends know about the car keys except one woman I play tennis with.”

“What's your friend's name and where does she live?”

“Jeannie Coulter. She lives in Vanguard Point.”

“It's a golf course neighborhood about a mile from town,” Alexia said.

“And she has a new Mercedes convertible,” Rena added. “Please don't contact Jeannie and say that I thought she stole my car.”

“I wouldn't do that,” the detective replied. “And the maid's name?”

Rena blushed. “I think it's Marie. I don't know her last name. She didn't come today.”

“Where does she live?”

Rena turned her palms up in front of her. “I don't have any idea. She came from a housecleaning service in town called Ready Maids.”

“Did the landscape company come today?”

“No.”

The detective closed his notebook and took out a fingerprint card. “I apologize for asking you to do this, but I need your fingerprints.”

Rena swallowed but her mouth was suddenly dry. She couldn't imagine what she'd said that proved she was lying.

The detective continued. “We want to dust the car and identify any prints that are not yours.”

“That's not a problem,” Alexia said. “Go ahead, Rena.”

Rena tried to dispel the sudden surge of anxiety that had swept over her.

“I've never done this before,” she said, nervously glancing at Alexia. “I mean except for a situation that was a misunderstanding.”

The detective ignored her comment, gently took her index finger, inked it, and rolled it across a small rectangular box on the card.

“Did your husband ever drive the car?” he asked.

“A few times.”

“We'll need to contact the hospital and get a set of prints from him, too. Whoever took the car wiped the steering wheel and shift lever with a cloth before abandoning it. There are plenty of fingerprints on the seats, door handles, glove compartment, and other places. We can only hope a stray print survived that will match something in the national data bank.”