A Dread So Deep

by Anita Rodgers

  Regardless of how Melanie got wind of it, Davis saw the keen interest in the C.O.D. as a red flag. Logan’s death seemed more likely to be an accident given how he died. But suicide was a possibility. Had Davis not witnessed the antagonism between the mother and sister-in-law, she’d have leaned toward accident. Bathtub drownings were more common than people realized. But the acrimony between the family members made her want to poke a few more bears before she ruled out foul play.

  “No offense, but that’s something I should discuss with Mrs. Logan.”

  From behind her, a woman said, “Discuss what with me?”

  Davis twisted toward the voice and knew immediately it was Christine Logan—a slender blonde with intense blue eyes and perfect skin. She wasn’t really beautiful and perhaps not even pretty but there was something ethereal about her—as if from another world. With the daylight streaming in behind her, she seemed to glow. Though as she stepped further into the room, the bruise on her left cheek seemed to diminish her beauty. “Christine Logan?”

  Christine all but ignored Davis and went straight to her sister. “What's happening? Why are the police here?” She flicked Davis a look. “Who is she? Where’s Phillip?”

  Davis thrust out her hand. “I'm Detective Davis, Mrs. Logan.” Christine ignored the offered hand and Davis let it drop awkwardly to her side. “I'm afraid your husband—”

  She jerked her head toward Davis. “What about my husband? Where is he?” She grabbed Melanie’s arm. “Where’s Phillip?” Questions rushed out of her in a non-stop stream and neither Davis nor Melanie could’ve answered her if they’d tried. Then, she actually stomped her foot and clutched her sister by the arms. “Will you please tell me what’s happening here?”

  Melanie pried Christine’s grasping fingers from her arm and took her hands. “Take a breath, honey. It’s not good news.”

  Oh, no you don’t. Davis cut Melanie off. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Logan but your husband is dead.”

  Christine twisted toward her and blinked. She stared at nothing, unable to process Davis’ words.

  Melanie put her arms around her sister for support. “Deep breaths, honey.”

  Christine swayed and dropped into a chair. Her head fell back and she stared without seeing. Davis didn’t quite buy it—was she for real?

  She pulled a chair close to Christine, blocking Melanie from access to her sister. “I'm sure this is a terrible shock. And I'm sorry for your loss. But if you’re up for it, I need to ask you some questions.

  Melanie paced in the background tossing in her two cents, though unwanted. “For God's sake, look at her, she’s in no shape for an interrogation.”

  Christine looked into Davis’ eyes. All there again. Focused. Maybe she really was shocked. Family members often had odd reactions to sudden deaths. Davis just couldn’t be sure. “What questions?”

  “Was your husband depressed? Under pressure, lately?”

  Christine looked past Davis to the foyer where police personnel worked and talked in hushed tones. “What happened to him? My husband? How did he die?”

  “We won’t know the cause of death until the autopsy.”

  Christine’s gaze returned to Davis. “Autopsy?”

  Melanie skirted around Davis and sat on the arm of Christine’s chair. “She's in shock. Can’t you see that?”

  Christine bumped her sister off the chair. “For God’s sake, Mel, what are you doing here? This isn't about you. This isn’t any of your business. Go home. You need to go home.”

  Melanie gaped silently at her sister. But Christine Logan won the staring contest, hands down. Curling her upper lip, Melanie picked up her bag, slipped on her shoes, and marched out of the room. Christine clenched her jaw as she tracked her sister leaving the room. No love lost there, either. Given the way Campbell had defended Christine to Cornelia, Davis had assumed they were close. She wondered if anyone liked anyone in the Logan family.

  Davis quietly went to the door and closed it against interruptions and returned to her seat. “Was he, Mrs. Logan? Depressed? Under some sort of pressure at work? Having problems with anybody?”

  Christine’s gaze wandered again. “It's a mistake. He's not dead. It's just not possible.”

  “It's not a mistake. His mother identified him.” Davis jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “Do you want to see him before we take him to the morgue?”

  Christine recoiled and jumped to her feet. “Morgue?” She went to the credenza behind the desk. Muttering to herself, she stared at the twenty some odd bottles and crystal decanters. Davis hadn’t noticed the bottles until then and they seemed like a kind of shrine to decadence. Christine selected a decanter and poured herself a glass of wine. Then stared at the glass in her hand as though she didn’t know how it got there.

  Davis took a couple steps toward her. “I don't think that's a good idea. The wine.”

  Christine snapped out of her daze, looked at the wineglass, then put it down. “You're right. He'd be furious. It's his wine.” Her voice changed to a more girlish tone. “Nobody drinks it but him.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I don't even like wine.” She swatted at her tears and turned to Davis. “I’m sorry, what did you ask me?” Switching back to her normal voice.

  Davis approached the desk. “Was your husband having problems?”

  Christine straightened the desk blotter and repositioned the desk lamp. “Just the usual. Delays, unhappy customers. The things that happen in all businesses.” She smiled. “He has a construction company.”

  Davis snapped her fingers. Logan Construction. She knew she’d seen him before. Christine frowned at the snapping fingers. Davis bowed her head. “Sorry, I just realized why your husband’s name was so familiar. He’s somewhat of a local celebrity.” And then it made sense to Davis why the case was getting the attention it was. Why she was there in the first place.

  Christine nodded. “Yes, he is.”

  Davis watched her for twitches or tells. “A friend of the mayor’s, right? Didn’t he build a house for him once upon a time?”

  Christine squinted at her, as though confused. “For lots of people. He has lots of important clients.”

  “So, he didn't mention anything in particular that was bothering him?” Davis eyed the bruise, while nicely diminished with makeup, the purple tinge still came through. “Perhaps you had an argument? Things got a little tense?”

  Christine’s gaze slid away from Davis to the door. “You never told me how he died.” Her gaze returned to Davis. “What happened to him?”

  Davis didn’t like to answer direct questions until she had the facts. And she didn’t have the facts. It seemed the longer she was there the fewer the facts she had. “It appears he drowned in the tub. We think it was an accident—maybe he had too much to drink then passed out and slid underwater.” She tilted her head at Christine. “Has that ever happened with him before?” Christine didn’t answer, just gazed at her with sapphire eyes that went on forever. “But we're not ruling out suicide.” Christine’s hand shot out and knocked over the wine glass. “Suicide?” She rounded the desk. “Was there a note?”

  Davis intercepted Christine and stopped the egress out of the room. “No. We haven’t found a note. As I said, after the autopsy—”

  Christine did an about face and hurried back to the desk. She cringed at the carpet and the girlish voice returned. “Look at this—I'll never get it out.” She knelt and blotted the spilled wine with a towel. She made a face at Davis. “He won’t like this. Not one bit. I'll have to call the carpet cleaners.”

  Davis couldn’t tell if it was an act or if Christine Logan was in shock—but she couldn’t conduct an interview with the woman in her current state. She put her pen and notepad away. “Maybe we should finish this later.”

  Christine gave up on the carpet and stood. She stared at the stain she’d only made worse and shook her head. “It's ruined. I'll have to replace it.” She chewed on her lip. “Don’t know how we’ll match it though.” Her sigh was child-
like. “We’ll probably have to re-carpet the entire room.”

  Davis put her hand on Christine’s shoulder. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”

  Tears spilled over the pale, sculpted cheeks—streaking the makeup that tried to hide the bruise. “Do you know a reputable carpet cleaner? I'm sorry. I just”—she pressed a hand to her lips—“he's gone? Are you sure? It’s really him?”

  Davis guided Christine to a chair and gave her a tissue. “It'll get better. But you have to give yourself time.”

  Christine blotted her tears and squared her shoulders. She perched at the edge of her chair. “I'm sorry.” She brushed her hair behind her shoulders. “I'm all right.” She cleared her throat. “Really, I am. I can answer your questions now.”

  Davis raised her hands. “It's okay, Mrs. Logan, we’ll finish another time. The Medical Examiner’s office will contact you when they're ready to release the body. Again, I'm sorry for your loss.”

  Davis started for the door, anxious to compare notes with Daniels. Something wasn’t right with the whole setup, but she didn’t know what. Yet.

  “Detective?” Davis twisted back and raised a brow. “Did it hurt? Did he die in pain?”

  Davis shook her head. “I don’t know.” She smiled kindly. “Take care, Mrs. Logan.”

  She closed the door behind her so Christine wouldn’t be disturbed. On her way out, she told the uniform in the hall to keep an eye on the missus. If she did anything out of the ordinary, she wanted to know.

  Her cell buzzed with a text from the D.A. The case she was due to testify in had been pushed back to next week. Davis grumbled because she’d have to get her good suit dry cleaned again.

  Daniels met her at the front door. He fell into step with her and they moved toward their ride. “So?”

  “Pretty cut and dry. No forced entry, no suicide note, no signs of a scuffle. Except for the glass and spilled booze on the rug.” Daniels rolled his eyes. “He was probably so hammered he knocked it over himself.”

  His take was the same as hers had been. Their routine was to do separate walk-throughs so neither would influence the other. Sometimes one caught something the other didn’t. Not this time.

  Davis nodded. “The mother said the wife never locked the door.” She hit her key fob and popped the locks on their car. “Frankie show you the scrip bottle from the trash?”

  Daniels nodded and eased into the passenger seat. “You ask me, he took the Sleeping Beauty nightcap. That was all she wrote.”

  The EMTs came out the front door with the body on a stretcher. They transferred him to a gurney and wheeled him to the ambo. “How much you figure he weighed?”

  Daniels bunched his shoulders. “Big guy. Two and change?”

  Davis switched on the engine. “So, if he went in the tub unwillingly it was either because somebody had a weapon on him or could overpower him physically.”

  Daniels stroked his chin, a wry smile teasing his lips. “Or a wily seductress.”

  Davis nodded. “Melanie Campbell could fit that bill.” She smirked at Daniels. “Did you meet her? What a piece of work.” She frowned. “But then so is the wife.” She squinted at the house. “The woman's a mess. Could be an act, though.” She eyed her partner. “You notice the bruise on her face?”

  Daniels chewed on his lip. “You think our dearly departed was a tough guy?”

  Davis wheeled the car away from the curb. It was a pretty street and the Jacarandas were starting to bloom. “Either that or the wife is a graceless clutz.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Let’s see if we have any domestic abuse calls on Logan.”

  Daniels grunted and ruminated in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he said, “We ain’t making something out of nothing here, right, Em?”

  She poked him with a finger. “Did you know that he’s Phillip Logan of Logan Construction?” She whistled. “Let’s see if he has any pending lawsuits against him too. Remember a few years back, he was in the news for a while. That development deal that went bad in South Central?”

  Daniels tutted and laughed. “So, what are we thinking? Gang hit?” He chortled. “Come on, Em. The dude died in the tub.”

  “So?”

  Daniels shook his head ruefully. “So, nothing. I already know you’re gonna make a big effing deal about this. And I need a doughnut. Or three.”

  Chapter 18

  AFTER SEVERAL TRIPS both upstairs and downstairs Christine had gathered all of Phillip’s pricey booze into the kitchen. She lined the bottles and decanters on the counter and emptied every one of them—letting out a little victory yelp with each bottle. She was literally pouring money down the drain and thought it was hilarious. How Phillip would have raged if he’d been there to see it. The thought only made her laugh more.

  It would take her a day, even two, to find all his drugs but she’d gladly spend the time to rid her home of the stuff. All the poison he’d digested that had fostered his rage would follow the booze down the drain. And be gone forever.

  Melanie swung through the kitchen door as though the mistress of the manor. Christine clenched her jaw, thinking it was time to change the locks and the alarm code. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor and Christine wanted to jam those down the disposal with the other garbage. “What are you doing?”

  Christine scowled. None of your business. “Getting rid of it. I don't want it around. It's poison. It kills people.”

  Mel leaned against the counter and watched the booze going down the drain. Her stare like a hot breath on the back of Christine’s neck. She ground her teeth, as though Christine was torturing her. With a sugared voice, she said, “You should lie down.”

  Christine shrugged off her hand. “You should go home.”

  Melanie clutched the designer scarf knotted artfully around her neck. “I wouldn't dream of leaving you.”

  Christine nudged her sister out of her way. The hovering was too much. Why couldn’t Mel just leave her alone? Was she there to spy? What had she told the police before she’d gotten home? Melanie was a born snoop and never hesitated to get in the middle of any situation. Christine was damned if she’d let her get in the middle of this one.

  Melanie played with the knob of the junk drawer—that still contained the dirty pictures of Christine and Michael. She bumped Melanie over. “I don’t need you here.”

  Mel threw up her hands. “Would you stop acting like a robot? You’re giving me palpitations.” Christine continued in her task, intoxicated with the power of destroying things Phillip loved. More than her. Certainly. Absolutely. Melanie got in her face and gawked. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Christine didn’t answer to Melanie. She didn’t answer to anyone anymore. She nudged her sister out of the way and loaded the empty decanters into the dishwasher. She set the machine on power scrub and turned it on.

  No matter how much she ignored Melanie she continued to her around the kitchen like she was afraid she’d miss something. Christine couldn’t stand it anymore. She clutched her hands into fists. “Will you please sit down? You’re driving me crazy”

  Melanie drew back. “I'm looking out for you.” Christine glared her into a seat at the table. “Okay, okay. I’m sitting, see?”

  Christine scrubbed the sink with bleach and cleanser. The pungent smell reminding her of Violet and the things she taught her when she was a child. First, above all else, was cleaning up your mess. Christine had learned that lesson well. She rinsed the sink then turned toward her sister. “I don’t need looking out for. I don’t need a babysitter. Or a protector or a keeper. I’m not a child.”

  Melanie seemed genuinely sad, but she was a good actress and Christine refused to be drawn in by her. “You don't mean that.”

  “I mean every single word of it.”

  Confused, Melanie looked around the kitchen. “What's wrong with you? Your husband just died and you're cleaning house?”

  Christine pulled off her gloves and dropped them in the trash. She eyed the
back door, anxious to get rid of Melanie—and those pictures in the drawer. She snapped at her sister. “Why do you treat me like I'm stupid? Do you think I don’t know that my husband just died?”

  Melanie popped out of her seat and clip-clopped across the kitchen to her. She patted Christine’s back, as though she was still five and scared of the monsters under the bed. “It's okay, honey, I understand. You're in shock.”

  Christine skirted around her and went to the refrigerator. “No, I’m hungry. I missed breakfast.” She patted her belly. “And since I’m eating for two now, I think some carbs are in order.”

  She pulled everything out of the refrigerator that would make a good sandwich—ham, turkey, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, mustard, and mayo. It was huge and she laughed, trying to get her mouth around it. With the first bite, she groaned. “So good.” She pointed to her sandwich. “Want one?

  Melanie covered her mouth. “I’d rather eat my jacket.”

  Christine taunted her with the sandwich, dripping mayo and mustard on the counter. “Oh come on, one little bite? It wouldn’t kill you to eat something once in a while. You can’t live on booze and cigarettes.”

  Melanie protected her blouse with her arms. “Get that thing away from me before you splash something on my shirt.”

  Christine snickered and took another bite. “Fine, eat your suit then.” She added a glass of milk and a bag of chips to her lunch, then sat at the island and ate in contentment. She ignored Mel. She needed to understand that her barging in privileges had been revoked. Those days were over. Now that Phillip was gone, she was in charge.

  Melanie couldn’t bear being snubbed and paced the kitchen. Her heels click, click, clicking. Christine wanted to yank them off Melanie’s feet and toss them out the door. Maybe her sister too. Finally, Melanie stopped pacing and fanned her arms. “Well? Are you going to tell me what happened to Phillip?”