Harlow guided me through the labyrinth of one-way streets until we found ourselves parked in front of an old brick apartment building. Five stories high, the brick was cracked in several places, and the paint on the window trim was worn and weathered. Two large juniper bushes shrouded the front entrance, and I made an educated guess that we wouldn’t be finding an elevator inside. Harl started to pull out a cigarette but stopped as I shook my head.
“Don’t do it, not until you make up your mind about the baby.”
She growled something under her breath but shoved the cig back in the pack and jammed it into her purse. We made our way up the walk. “What floor does she live on, again?” I prayed Harl wouldn’t say “five”… or even “four.” Come to think of it, “two” wouldn’t be that great, and “three,” even worse. The bruise on my knee was hurting, and I didn’t look forward to climbing a bunch of stairs.
The gods of bliss were with me.
“The first—115.” Harlow stuffed the paper into her pocket and opened the door. I limped into the dimly lit hallway and blinked. We stopped for a moment to allow our eyes to adjust, then trekked down the narrow hallway. No sounds filtered into the hall; the rooms must be fairly well insulated or else nobody was home during the day.
110, 112… 115. As I approached the apartment I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Maybe Diana had stepped out to the laundry room or the incinerator, but it still seemed strange for someone in Seattle to leave her door unlocked. I looked back at Harl, uncertain whether to knock. I rapped lightly on the molding of the doorframe.
No answer. I knocked again.
Still no answer.
“What do you think? Should we wait, or leave a note?” I fished in my purse for a notebook and pen.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t think that she’d go far and leave her door open.”
It seemed odd to me, too. Something felt off—wrong. Take a deep breath. Count to five. Knock one more time. Still no answer. A wave of tension played up my spine, and I noticed that the hairs on my arms were standing up. Diana hadn’t stepped out—I knew it as sure as I knew that the other side of the door led to a place I didn’t want to go. Using the corner of my jacket, I gently pushed the door open.
“What are you doing?” Harlow hissed from behind me, but I waved for her to be quiet. The door creaked on its hinges, then gave way and opened another few inches—enough so I could peek around the corner.
I stuck my head in, as quietly as I could, and looked around. The room was furnished with antiques. A claw-foot sofa; dark, heavy end tables; art nouveau Tiffany lamps. For all I knew, they were real. I noticed the art decorating the walls: poster-size reproductions of Susan Mitchell’s book covers. Maybe Diana had forgiven her mother after all. I was about to turn around and leave when a bright red object poking out from behind the sofa caught my eye. At first, in the dim light, it was difficult to make out what it was. In a brilliant flash, with startling clarity, I realized that I was staring at a foot covered by a red stocking.
“Oh, my God!” I limped forward. There might be somebody still hiding in the apartment, but I didn’t have time to think about that.
Harlow pressed behind me. “What’s wrong?”
I stopped by the edge of the sofa and motioned for her to back away. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t even sit down.” Like a storm waiting to break, nausea welled in my stomach, and I swallowed the rising bile as I took in the scene.
Sprawled on the floor like one of those victims on Justice Files or America’s Most Wanted lay the body of a woman surrounded by a pool of drying blood. The resemblance to Susan was uncanny, and I knew that I was standing over Diana’s corpse. She lay on her back, and the look on her face was one of terrible surprise. The carpet around her was slick, saturated with blood from what looked like a single, deadly stab wound penetrating her heart. She had been dead several hours, from what I could guess.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I slipped into “action mode” and everything became distanced, surreal. I turned back to Harlow. “Out in the hall. Get out your cell phone and call 911. Ask them to send the paramedics and the police.” Even though I knew it was hopeless, I gingerly leaned down and felt for a pulse. Her skin was cold marble. “Diana’s been stabbed. She’s dead.”
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
NORMALLY I WOULD have expected her to freak out upon finding a dead body, but Harlow remained surprisingly calm. She tucked the hem of her coat around her hand and nudged the door open a little farther. Good, she was being careful. I heard her murmur into her cell phone before she stuck her head back through the door. “The cops will be here in a few minutes. I’m going to try to find the owner of this joint.”
As I took another look around, it occurred to me that perhaps the murderer was still hiding in the apartment. I peeked in the kitchenette and the closet-size bath. Nope. The studio was clear. The rolltop desk sat open, drawers toppled every which way, empty except for a scattering of calligraphy pens and pencils and splattered ink. With a queasy feeling, I noticed that the closest wall had been dotted with tiny drops of red—blood. Diana’s blood.
As I traced my steps back toward the door, a glint by one of the end tables caught my eye. I bent over to look. The shimmer was a silver cufflink in the shape of a crown. I longed to pick it up, check it for engravings, but the cops would have my head if I did.
Harlow hissed at me. “Someone’s coming. Get your butt out here!” Apparently she hadn’t found the landlady yet.
I hurried out to join her. Two uniformed men were striding down the hall.
“Over here, officers. We’re the ones who called you.” Hart’s voice was steadier than I trusted my own to be.
The cops gave us a long once-over, then turned their attention to the apartment. “Where’s the body?” The older cop had a knowing, tired look in his eyes, and I had the feeling he’d seen too many bodies lately.
I pointed. “The door was open when we got here. I went in, hoping to find Diana at home but instead I found her on the floor. I’m pretty sure she’s dead. There’s no pulse. We called the paramedics just in case, though. They haven’t gotten here yet.”
He and his partner took opposite sides of the door and motioned us away. I knew there was no one inside but didn’t want to admit that I’d rifled through the apartment, so we retreated far enough to be out of range. The older man pushed the door fully open and they went into what I had taken to calling their “search and secure” mode when I watched the police programs on the Discovery Channel.
After a few moments, the younger man—Officer Nelson—returned to the hall. He pulled out a notebook. We would have to go down to the station and give statements. The front door to the brownstone burst open, and the paramedics raced down the hall. It was too late, I thought. Diana wouldn’t be needing their services today.
We could hear them working on her as Nelson began to question us. After looking at our identification and noting our names and driver’s license numbers on his pad, he asked, “How do you know the deceased?”
“We don’t.”
He looked confused.
“We knew her mother, Susan Mitchell. Susan died last Thursday, and we weren’t sure if Diana had been notified. We wanted to make certain that the girl knew about her mother’s death.”
“Her mother died last week? What was the cause of death?”
I thought for a moment before I opened my mouth. Here was a chance to plant a seed, but I’d have to be careful. “Apparently she died of an overdose of insulin. The police are calling it an accident.”
“Her mother lived in Chiqetaw?” I nodded. Nelson scribbled this information down. “When you got here, did you touch anything?”
I squinted. “I don’t think so, but we can’t be totally sure—I did push the door open so I could go in. I also felt Diana’s wrist to see if she had a pulse.”
“We’ll need to get your fingerprints to eliminate them from any we find at the s
cene. What about people? Did you see anyone entering or leaving the apartment or the building?”
Both Harlow and I shook our heads. “Nobody.”
The officer paused as the other policeman emerged from the apartment.
The older man, whose nametag above his badge read “Leary,” flipped his notepad shut and tucked it into his pocket. “Coroner is on his way. There was nothing they could do. She never had a chance.”
Nelson handed Leary his notes. “Ladies, I’m sorry to detain you, but we need you to come down to the station and give your statements.”
I looked at Harl. We really didn’t have a choice. “We’ll do whatever we can. What’s the address? We can drive there.” They put in a call to the station. Within moments another prowl car had shown, up to escort us to the precinct.
On the drive downtown, Harlow and I got our stories straight. We didn’t have anything to hide, but I didn’t want the subject of Susan’s spirit to come up. We would stick with the fact that we wanted to make certain Diana had been informed of her mother’s death, that Susan had given Harlow the phone number for the apartment building.
The station was crowded, but so were most big-city precincts. We gave our names to the officer on duty and were led into a back hall, where they led me into one room while Harlow was taken to another. The woman taking my statement dutifully recorded everything I told her.
“Your relationship to the deceased?”
“She’s the daughter of a friend who died last week.”
She jotted that down and said, “Do you know if she has a husband or fiance or children we should notify?”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “We came down to make sure she knew her mother had died. I’ve never met the woman before.”
“I see. Can you recall anything that might be useful? A vehicle, a person outside the building?”
I answered as carefully as possible, sticking to what we had seen, which was nothing. After fifteen minutes, the interview was over and both Harlow and I emerged from our prospective rooms. The police thanked us and said they’d be in touch.
Harlow grabbed me by the elbow and we headed out of the precinct.
My stomach rumbled. “As Miranda would say, ‘that was fun… NOT.’ I suppose we should eat. That good with you?”
She was a little too pale for my comfort. “I think I could manage a salad. It’s hours past lunchtime, and I thought we’d be on our way back by this time.”
We stopped at the Keg. There wasn’t one in Seattle proper, so we braved rush-hour traffic and crossed the 520 floating bridge over to Bellevue, where we could find a franchise of the steakhouse. I shook my head as the line of cars grew longer and longer. “God, I’m so glad I don’t live here anymore. I think when we reach the restaurant, I’ll give Murray a call. See how the kids are.”
The hostess led Harl to a booth while I put through the call. I didn’t want the kids to know I was in Seattle or what had happened. Murray said they were fine, having a great time. They were both home from school and Miranda was studying while Kip was helping Murray finish the birdhouse for her mother. As I sketched out the details of the afternoon, I could hear the wheels turning in her head.
“Well, someone got to her before you did. The questions are: Who? and Why?”
“I’m thinking that Susan knew Diana was murdered—hence her drastic appearance in my living room this morning. That would put Diana’s death at about 5:00 a.m. How’s White Deer holding up with the kids?”
“Fine. She’s going to teach them how to weave a pot-holder. Miranda even put down her book when White Deer was talking about life on the reservation.”
“Who says miracles can’t happen? Okay, I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Kiss them for me, would you?” I made my way back through the crowded restaurant.
Harlow was munching on breadsticks, looking slightly green around the edges. “I’m queasy—I guess I waited too long to eat. Well, what do we do next?”
We put in our orders for chowder and salad. After the waitress left, I sipped the raspberry lemonade I’d ordered and thought about her question. “I suppose we might be able to get her neighbors to talk to us. If we do, are the police going to be upset?”
“Did you want to stay down here for the night?”
The waitress brought our bowls of steaming soup. My stomach growled. “Nah. I’m going to take a stab at exorcising Mr. B & U tomorrow. Maybe you can call her landlady? Find out a little more?” I buttered a roll, surprised at my appetite, but as the image of Diana’s corpse flashed through my mind and I pushed it away, I realized that coping with this was going to be harder than I thought.
Harl unfurled her napkin and laid it across her lap. “Let’s finish dinner and head home. This situation is getting more and more convoluted.”
AS SOON AS I arrived home, I called Andrew and asked him to come over. Harlow didn’t hang around; she was too tired and preoccupied with when and how to spring the news that she was pregnant to James.
By the time Andrew opened the door, I flew into his arms. “Diana’s dead.”
“What?”
“Somebody stabbed her… we found the body. It was awful, Andrew.”
“What? Are you okay? Is Harlow okay?” He braced my shoulders. “Emerald, this is getting too dangerous. You need to back off—I don’t want to see you hurt. Do a banishing or exorcism or whatever you need to chase the ghosts out of the house and let it drop. I don’t want to see anybody get hurt.” His fretting was both comforting and irritating.
“Andrew, stop.” Didn’t he realize that I wanted to back off, more than I would ever admit to anyone? I was in over my head, and the waters were rapidly becoming a whirlpool of confusion and danger, but there was no way I could untangle myself, not after everything that had happened. “If I could only wave a wand and say, ‘Poof, go away’ and make everything that had happened with Susan vanish in a puff of smoke, I would. But life doesn’t work like that.” I took his hand. “Spirits don’t work on a timetable or with laboratory precision. I made a promise to myself that I’d help her. I’m not giving up. And now… with Diana…”
I stopped, bringing my hand to my lips. In all the confusion, I had managed to push away the brutal image of her murder, of her petite frame sprawled on the floor, but the memory crashed into my mind, trampling my thoughts. I had seen plenty of TV shows and movies, but nothing could have ever prepared me for the real thing.
“I can’t forget the way she looked. The way the blood smelled.” I leaned against Andrew’s shoulder. “She was so young, she couldn’t be much more than twenty years old. I keep thinking how the cops wrote off Susan’s death as an accident. What if they’re wrong? What if the same person who killed Diana, killed her? Shouldn’t we do everything we can to make sure the murderer is brought to justice?”
He sighed. “When you put it like that, it’s hard to debate you, but I don’t want to see you get hurt, or Harlow, either. And I don’t look forward to any scuffles.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t do anything stupid.” I paced the length of the room.
“What is it?” Andrew asked.
“Do you think Walter might have something to do with Diana’s death? They didn’t get along. Susan was in the process of patching up the mother-daughter relationship. I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see anyone there, did you? Don’t be too quick to jump to conclusions. Coincidences do happen.”
Grumbling, I retreated to the kitchen and spread several slices of French bread with butter and Parmesan and popped it in the toaster oven. While I was waiting, I turned on the kettle and fixed a pot of Winterberry tea. Yes, coincidences did happen, but so did murder conspiracies. Bad guys were real, not pencil-drawn villains in a comic strip. I set everything on a tray for easy carrying and returned to the living room. “Take my mind off of the murder—tell me about your party.”
Andrew brushed my hair back. He poured our tea while I curled up in the rocking chair. “I didn’t mean that y
ou should forget what happened, Em. I’m not heartless. Anyway, the memorial will be at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday, in the high school cafeteria. They agreed to let us use it when I explained that it was a benefit for the memory of Susan Mitchell. She had a lot of teen fans—mostly girls. So it’s going to be a snarl of people. I ordered a couple of sheet cakes, gallons of punch, and several party trays of olives and cheese and crackers… the usual fare.”
“I guess Diana won’t be coming.” The thought that the young woman wouldn’t be there to attend her mother’s funeral memorial made me incredibly sad. “We don’t even know if she ever knew her mother was dead.”
Andrew sobered. “I guess we won’t ever get to know.”
With a deep breath, I shook off the mood as much as I could. “Didn’t the preparations set you back a bit? Those trays and cakes aren’t cheap.” I still wasn’t sure what Andrew’s financial situation was like but didn’t want to ask outright.
“The Chiqetaw Players offered to foot the bill for the food. Sort of their way of saying good-bye to her. The writing group chipped in, and we’re funding the centerpieces and the flowers. I’m supposed to make a speech about Susan, that I haven’t worked on at all. I’ll go over to the school Saturday afternoon and supervise the arrangement of the tables.” Andrew put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.
“When I think that you might have come in on that murder if you’d been a little bit earlier… my dear Ms. O’Brien… I do not want to lose you now that I’ve found you. You’re crazy as a loon, a contradiction in today’s world, and the sexiest woman I’ve met in years. I’m not going to take a chance on losing you before I truly get to know you.” He covered my lips with his own, and I shifted in his arms. “Emerald,” he whispered, his lips on my hair. “Emerald, is Harlow coming over tonight?”
My breath caught in my throat and I sounded throaty, sexy, so unlike my usual self. “No, she wanted to go to bed early.”
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