Wall-To-Wall Dead (9 page)

“What did Wayne say?”

“Nothing,” Derek said, looking surprised. “I told you.”

“I thought maybe you said that because Amelia was standing here.”

He shook his head. “What was there to say, Avery? He called the ME’s office and he’s on his way. With Brandon.”

Brandon Thomas is Wayne’s youngest and most gung-ho deputy. He’d like to spend all of his time fiddling with forensic evidence and crime scene investigations, but Waterfield has a minuscule police department, and everyone has to do their share of patrolling and directing traffic. Whenever he gets the chance to gather hairs and fibers and spread fingerprint dust, he’s like a kid in a candy store, though.

“He said to stay out,” Derek added, “and make sure no
one else went in, and not to do anything to disturb the scene. You know the drill.”

I did. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it. He’s on his way. We wait.”

“Fine.” I put my back to the wall and slid down until my butt was on the cold concrete of the floor. Derek followed suit, and there we sat, side by side, until I broke the silence again.

“I knew something was wrong.”

Derek turned to look at me, and I clarified, “This morning. When she wasn’t at the kitchen window. She was always there. Every morning when we got here, and every night when we left.”

“It’s only been a few days, Avery.”

“I know that. But if I’d made you open the door this morning, maybe…”

Derek shook his head. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. She was dead before we got here today.”

I sniffed, and then wished I hadn’t, as the smell permeated my nostrils. Better to breathe through my mouth for a while. “How do you know?”

“Do you really want me to explain rigor mortis and all the other things that happen to a body after death?”

Not really, no. “So she died last night?”

“The medical examiner will be able to make that determination better than I can,” Derek said. “I was just a general practitioner, and not for very long, and I dealt mostly with patients who were still alive. We lost one every once in a while, especially when I rotated in and out of the ER, but I’ve never had to do much on the forensic side. But if I had to guess, I’d say she probably died around nine o’clock last night.”

I swallowed. At nine o’clock, we’d been at Aunt Inga’s house, curled up on the sofa enjoying each other’s company.

Derek reached out and took my hand. “Don’t blame yourself, Avery. It has nothing to do with us.”

“I know that.” I turned my hand around and curled my
fingers through his. “I guess I feel bad because I didn’t really like her.”

Derek nodded. “It’s worse when it’s someone you don’t like. When someone you like dies, you’re sad and you mourn. But when it’s someone you don’t like, you feel guilty.”

He had that right. Not that I’d had a whole lot of experience with people dying. My dad when I was thirteen, but I’d been too young to really reflect on the deeper issues of what had happened, I think. My dad was gone, and I missed him, but I don’t know that I thought much beyond the immediate grief. Aunt Inga died last year, but I hadn’t really known her, and besides, I’d been in New York when it happened. And although there’s been a fair few deaths here in Waterfield since that time, I hadn’t known many of the victims well, either.

There was a sound downstairs—the front door unlocking, I realized—then footsteps in the hall below and up the stairs.

“That was fast,” Derek remarked.

“Maybe it’s someone else.”

The footsteps didn’t sound like Wayne. They were quicker, lighter. A moment later, the top of a sandy blond head appeared on the stairs, followed by a narrow face with a prominent nose, and a male body dressed in pale green surgical scrubs with the words “Waterfield Hospital” stamped on the chest. I didn’t need Derek’s greeting to know I was looking at Gregg Brewer, the resident from the second floor.

Gregg blinked for a second, as if unsure, and then his face cleared. “Derek, right? Dr. Ellis’s son?”

Derek nodded. “This is Avery, my fiancée.”

I managed a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Gregg nodded politely. “What’s going on?”

“She wasn’t at the window this morning.”

“I noticed.”

“She wasn’t at the window this afternoon, either. Amelia Easton, from the fourth floor, thought something was wrong. So we took the lock off to see.”

Gregg looked around. “Where’s Professor Easton?”

“I sent her upstairs,” Derek said.

“And no offense, but what are you doing here?”

“We bought the Antoninis’ condo a couple days ago. We’re renovating it.”

“Ah.” Gregg’s face cleared again. “Mariano mentioned that someone was working on it. Guess he didn’t realize I’d know you.” He shot another glance at Miss Shaw’s door. “So what’s going on?”

“She’s dead,” Derek said.

Gregg blinked pale eyelashes. “Dead?”

“Last night. Looks like something she ate.”

Gregg didn’t speak for a second. “Have you seen Mariano?” he asked.

It was my turn to blink, this time at the abrupt change of subject. “Sorry. No.”

“Do you need any help?”

Derek shook his head. “She’s way past the point where a doctor can help her. The police are on their way.”

“Police?”

“Unattended death,” Derek said. “Standard procedure. We’re just waiting until they get here and can secure the place.”

“Right.” Gregg glanced up the stairs in the direction of his own condo. “If you’ve got it covered, guess I’ll just go upstairs.”

“They’ll come find you if they need you.”

Gregg nodded. “See you later, then.”

He continued up the stairs, two steps at a time. By the time he reached the next landing, he was whistling. It took me a second to place the song, and then it hit me:
Ding-Dong! The Witch is dead
…

Derek glanced at me, but didn’t speak. I shrugged. Upstairs, we heard the key jingle and then the door open. The whistling stopped and Gregg’s voice called out, “Mariano? You here, babe? Did you hear the news?”

The closing of the door cut off the rest of the statement, if there was more, and we couldn’t hear Mariano’s answer.

“
He’s
not feeling guilty,” Derek said.

I shook my head.

“He was upstairs last night,
and
he’s a doctor. If he doesn’t feel guilty, you shouldn’t, either.”

I nodded. “I think maybe I should go downstairs and wait for Wayne. It takes a key to get inside.”

“He used to live here,” Derek answered, “and his son still does. In an apartment I’m sure Wayne still owns. He’ll have a key.”

“I could use some fresh air.”

“That’s a different story,” Derek said. “Go ahead. I’ll just sit here and make sure no one goes inside.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I got to my feet. “It’s the smell. It reminds me of that night in the tunnel under Cliff House. I’m feeling claustrophobic.”

The hallway felt too narrow, as if the walls were closing in. And although maybe we couldn’t really smell the odor through the door that Derek had pulled mostly shut, it was there in my nose.

“You don’t have to come back. I’ll do this.” He dug in his pocket. “Take the truck.”

“I don’t want to abandon you here—” I began.

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said. “I’ll get a ride home with Wayne. Or Brandon. Or Shannon. She’ll probably be by at some point to see Josh.”

“Maybe I’ll go visit Kate. If Wayne won’t be home for dinner, she might like some company.” Not for dinner, though. The thought of food wasn’t appealing at the moment. But the thought of company was.

“I’ll call you,” Derek said. “If I can’t work it out any other way, you’ll just have to come back for me.”

No problem. I just needed to get away for a while. I took the keys and headed down the stairs to the parking lot.

I was on my way out of the lot when Wayne’s police car came down the Augusta Road and turned in. He lingered for a second next to me, and we both rolled down our windows. “Leaving?” he said by way of greeting.

I nodded. “The smell is bothering me.”

Wayne wrinkled his nose. “Is it bad?”

“No, actually. But ever since that night I spent under Cliff House, it’s bothered me more. You don’t need me for anything, do you?”

“Know where to find you if I do,” Wayne grunted.

“I was thinking of heading over to the B and B to see Kate. Is she busy?”

“No more than usual. Tell her I’m sorry I won’t be home for dinner.” He put the police car back into gear and rolled into the parking lot. I turned the truck onto the Augusta Road in the direction of Waterfield Village.

The Waterfield Inn started life in the late 1890s as the home of the fabulously wealthy Ritter family, and is a gorgeous three-story Queen Anne construction in the heart of Waterfield’s historic district. It’s painted yellow with white trim, and has towers and turrets and porches and bay windows: every architectural excess imaginable, the very hallmark of the Queen Anne style.

By the time Kate got her hands on it, it had been turned into three apartments with three skuzzy little kitchens and three marginal bathrooms. She and Derek spent the better part of a year restoring the place to its former glory, and then last winter, Derek and I spent a few months turning the old carriage house on the back of the property into a love nest for Kate and Wayne. The chief of police, it turned out, didn’t want to live in the main house, where the guests might come across him wandering down the hall to the bathroom in his boxer shorts in the middle of the night.

Kate was in the carriage house when I got there. It was the middle of the week, so business was slow, and at dinnertime she doesn’t usually have much to do anyway, since a bed and breakfast is only licensed to serve breakfast and cold, boxed lunches. Most of the work happens early in the day: cooking and serving breakfast, cleaning up, changing sheets and towels…By the time the end of the day rolls around, there isn’t a whole lot left to do except hang out
and be available for questions. And with a mostly empty house, Kate had gone home—across the grass to the carriage house—and started cooking dinner for herself and the husband she expected to arrive soon.

She wasn’t thrilled when I told her he would be a while yet.

“Another one? You found another body?”

“I couldn’t help it. When we didn’t see Miss Shaw, we got worried. It just wasn’t like her not to sit at the window and watch everyone.”

“She was a nosy old bat,” Kate said, “God bless her soul.” She turned down the heat simmering under the homemade spaghetti sauce.

I nodded, grateful that the bubbling sauce—redolent of garlic, sundried tomatoes, and oregano—was helping to remove the sickly sweet stench in my nose. “One of the guys on the second floor was whistling ‘Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ when he went to tell his partner the news.”

“Most people don’t like a busybody,” Kate said. “I doubt she’ll be missed, poor thing. You want some dinner?”

“I could eat,” I said, surprised that I meant it. The delicious smell of the simmering sauce must have chased any lingering nausea out of my system. “But what about Wayne?”

“What about him?” Kate turned to pull flatware and glasses out of the kitchen cabinet. “If he can’t make it home for dinner, he can’t complain if someone else eats it instead.”

She took one look at my face and started laughing. “I’m joking, Avery. There’s plenty of sauce for all of us, and when he gets home, it’s a matter of ten minutes to toss a handful of noodles in a pot. Don’t worry about it; you’re not taking food out of my husband’s mouth.”

“Oh. OK.” I started breathing again. “In that case…sure, I’d love some dinner.”

“Make yourself comfortable.” She filled the plates with droopy strands of angel hair pasta before ladling chunky sweet-smelling sauce over top. My stomach rumbled.

“Smells good.”

“Hopefully it’ll taste good, too.” She put a plate in front of me. “Dig in.”

I dug.

Kate is a half-dozen years older than me, and a year or two older than Derek. They went out once or twice when she first moved to town and he’d just gotten dumped by Melissa, but things didn’t work out, for which I can only be grateful. She and I became friends as soon as I drove into Waterfield.

She’s taller than me—most people are—with a head full of bouncy copper-colored curls, framing a friendly face with freckles and warm hazel eyes. And although she’s not pretty in the conventional sense, the vivid coloring and Jane Russell figure make her a knockout. It’s no wonder at all that Derek liked her. She’s extremely likable. And it was obvious that marriage to Wayne agreed with her, because she was practically glowing with happiness.

“You look good,” I said.

She glanced at me across the table. “I feel good.”

“The house working out for you?” I glanced around at it. It was too small for a designated dining room, so we were sitting in the eat-in portion of the kitchen, at a small round café table for two, looking out at the yard behind the bed and breakfast. The kitchen cabinets were white, the counter marble, and the floors dark-stained wood. I’d done my best to make the whole carriage house look like a Parisian apartment, because Paris was where Kate and Wayne spent their honeymoon, and I wanted them to remember it every time they looked around.