Angelo coordinated the removal of the body, and the C.S.I. team packed up and moved their base of operations to Anne’s house.
Max followed the path back to the house, admiring this tiny stretch of his backyard he’d never seen before. The creek surged forward, the sun caught the canopy of the oaks and sycamores, and a rabbit scurried under a bush, its heart racing, like Anne’s must have when attacked.
Max opened the front door, painted white. He stepped into a cozy living room with a southwestern rug in blues, golds, browns and reds. A log-like pine daybed served as a couch. Gray wolves traversed the snowy brown and white comforter and pillows. Indian knickknacks sat on shelves and side tables, giving the room a rustic air. A basket of wood sat next to a black wood-burning stove. Besides a tiny kitchen there was a tiny laundry room with a stackable washer and dryer, and a tiny half bath with a howling wolf tea candle holder.
Every detail informed Max that Anne had an affinity for the gray predator that traveled in family packs. Did she want a family? Or did she need the strength of a pack?
Max crept carefully into the master bedroom: colorful Talavera painted pots and vases overwhelmed his eyes in a dizzy display of color, tempered only by a white goose down comforter and pillows embroidered in large vibrant flowers. It was like stepping into a flower market in Mexico.
The bed had not been slept in. Anne never made it home.
Anne liked color. Lots of it. Why? Did she need to grab attention, excitement, thrills? Was her life so drab that she needed to spice it up? Did it remind her of home, a place from her youth? Did the colors simply make her happy?
Max slipped on a pair of gloves and opened a nightstand. He pushed aside over-the-counter sleeping pills, overdue bill notifications, sample medications in single-dose packages, birth control pills, casino chips, and a picture.
Max picked up the picture and gazed at Anne about ten or fifteen years younger. A long-haired boy with a mustache had his arm around her. They clung to each other like lovers. Another picture displayed an old man standing in front of a pre-fab home. Anne’s father, maybe. He and Anne had similar features, but Anne smiled and he scowled. Anne was even younger in this picture. A teen.
The overdue bills from five to six months back told him that Anne had financial problems. A newer bill showed her up-to-date. Either she hadn’t stuffed more overdue notices in the drawer or she had solved her problem. What did you do, Anne? Did you dig too deep a hole to climb out of? Did you ask the wrong guys for a ladder and they sucked you down?
In the master bathroom, Max found more Mexican pottery—trash can, cup, and soap dish—and a white shower curtain with a colorful Aztec design. But the bright colors could do nothing to bring life back to the yellowed vinyl floor and chipped tub. Even the white paint over the old cabinets could do nothing to give the room a face-lift.
Anne kept the place tidy and clean. She was organized, even meticulous. Maybe driven to perfection. Or did she organize her house in a way she failed to organize her life?
Max imagined Anne moving about the small space, building a log fire to warm up the house—it wouldn’t take much. From the master bedroom, he opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto a concrete patio with a white plastic table and four chairs. The view of the creek and the never-ending landscape created a vast wild space, the complete opposite of Anne’s little house.
Max sat on a chair. Where did Anne take a wrong turn? It was hard to imagine that way out here in this desolate but beautiful spot, Anne could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In all likelihood, she knew her attacker.
And that person savagely slammed a rock into her head and held her underwater—but who? And why?
3
Max followed the path to Eugene’s house.
He knocked on the door of the large, custom-built, single-story home that sprawled along the creek, like a country manor. White fences cordoned off considerable property. It was a perfect setting for horses, but there were none.
Cynthia Carter swung open the door, on which hung a floral wreath with a wooden placard that said “Home Sweet Home.” Her keen brown eyes spotted the gold Wine Valley Police logo on Max’s navy polo shirt. “Can I help you, officer?”
Cynthia had a round face and pale-skin devoid of make-up, which gave her a dowdy appearance. She pushed her thin brown hair, parted in the middle, behind her ears. She had to be mid-thirties, but the pink cotton dress and a white cotton apron trimmed with eyelets that read “My Secret Ingredient—Love” made her more of a life-sized fifties-era doll than an adult.
Max flashed his credentials. “Detective Max King. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Can I come in?”
Cynthia opened the door. “Of course, Detective King.” She yelled down a hallway off of the foyer, which opened into an expansive great room. “Papa! There’s a police detective here!” She turned back to Max. “You know what? I’ll go get him. He was up late last night playing poker with your chief. Make yourself comfortable.”
Max crossed a grand A-framed room with bare-beamed construction. Large windows acted like a living painting of the creek at the far end of the room. A massive stone fireplace took up one wall. To the left sat a kitchen with granite counters and white cabinets. A dining nook with a round table sat before the picture window. The living room bloomed with florals—floral couches, drapes, and burgeoning vases of faux bouquets, which created a garden that could never exist in the hot, dry weather outside.
A large Victorian doll house on a built-in white cabinet gave the room a homey touch, like a child lived here, but Max imagined it belonged to the girl who’d answered the door. It was, no doubt, a childhood prize worth keeping.
Compared to Max’s comfortably disheveled house, this room had a pristine, feminine touch—everything in its place. The scent of freshly baked bread filled his nostrils. His stomach grumbled.
Cynthia bounded into the kitchen, while Eugene lumbered across the room, still dazed with sleep. Eugene wore slippers and a hunter green bathrobe with his initials in gold lettering. It gave his bald, slim face and skinny build a hint of sophistication—forced, not natural, like he played the part of a country squire.
“Detective King? Can I make you some coffee or tea?” Cynthia slid a spatula under scones cooling on a baking sheet and set them on a wire rack.
“Nothing, thanks,” said Max.
Eugene settled on the sofa, while Max settled himself in an oversized floral armchair opposite him.
Before Max could begin, Cynthia swept beside him and set down a porcelain plate, on which sat a hot and fluffy blueberry scone.
“Fresh from the oven. You men never eat right. Please, eat.”
Cynthia handed her father another plate before dashing back to the kitchen and bringing him a cup of tea. She dashed once more, bringing back a plate and a cup for herself.
Max waited until the girl sat down next to her father. He needed their attention. He whipped out his notebook and pen. “This is never easy. But, Anne Martin is dead.”
Eugene had just set his cup to his lips, but it fell from his hands and broke the plate in his lap in two. Hot liquid spread over his thighs. He jumped up, as did Cynthia, who set her cup down, rushed to fetch a towel, and proceeded to wipe down her father’s robe and the coffee table and the sofa. “Oh, Father. What a mess!”
“Never mind that, Cynthia. She’s dead? Did you hear? How?” asked Eugene, collapsing into the sofa.
Cynthia kept wiping the carpet and sofa. “Well, staining the sofa won’t help, Papa.”
Max thought Cynthia’s reaction an odd one, but he’d seen so many variations over the years: there were the yellers, the fist-pounders, the wailers, the dumbfounded, the zombies, and the fainters.
Cynthia obviously needed to stay busy and organized to restore order. She set the towel on the table, sat beside her father, and took his hand in hers. “You’re right, Papa. I don’t mean to appear callous. I’m…stunned. What happened?”
“We don’t know yet
, but she was found beside the creek this morning. Dr. Grant had stopped by to see her, and he found her.” Max watched for reactions.
Cynthia blurted, “Oh, that’s awful! He dated her. Dr. Grant. You don’t suppose…I mean, he has a temper.”
“Anne broke up with him months ago,” said Eugene. “That’s old news. And he’s a doctor. He’s no killer.”
“My father is naïve,” said Cynthia. “I liked Anne, but she got around, if you know what I mean.”
“Cynthia!” reprimanded Eugene. “Have respect.”
Max interjected, “Did Anne leave with anyone last night?”
Eugene’s face flushed red. He stammered, “She left when the chief won the last hand, around midnight, I guess.”
Cynthia sipped her tea. “It was about a quarter past. Deon—that’s Deon Walker—and Lee—Lee Chen owns a flower shop in town—they left earlier, but the others all left at the same time. Shane, Anne, Kenneth, and the chief. Dad went to bed, and I finished cleaning up. I can’t stand waking up to a mess.”
“When did you go to bed?” asked Max.
“Oh, maybe a half hour later, at most. I’d been putting away the food and tidying up while the game came to an end. I don’t play cards. The crystal glasses need to be washed by hand.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Anne?” asked Max.
“Not a soul,” said Eugene. “She’s a nurse at the hospital. She takes care of people. I liked her.” He gazed at Cynthia. “I have such bad luck with women, don’t I? I should just quit trying.” Eugene’s chin dropped. His shoulders sagged like a defeated man.
Cynthia patted her father’s hand then gazed at Max. “It’s just the two of us. My mother passed when I was just turning sixteen. Dad didn’t date at all until a few years ago.”
“Did you ever date Anne?” asked Max.
Cynthia laughed and jumped in to answer. “Good heavens, no! He dated Mayleen, Lee’s daughter. But she dumped him and broke his heart. Didn’t she, Papa?”
Eugene rummaged in a drawer of the end table, grabbed a piece of paper, and threw it on the coffee table. “I don’t understand women.”
Cynthia reached for the note, but Max got to it first. “Papa, the detective doesn’t want to see your Dear John letter. Why did you keep it?”
“To remind me never to date again.”
The letter was simple:
Dear Eugene,
I can’t go through with this. You’re too nice a guy. I’m leaving town for good. Take care.
Love,
Mayleen
Eugene paused. He eyed Cynthia. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I…I liked Anne.”
“Did she feel the same?” asked Max.
“I thougth so. I’m not sure.” Eugene blushed. He kept his eyes on his daughter. “One of these days, you’ll leave me too, won’t you girl? Go off and marry Shane?”
“Shane Drake, the pharmacist?” Max flipped back a page in his book. Dr. Grant had given him the name earlier.
“Papa, stop it!” She turned to Max. “He asks me to marry him all the time, but he’s just teasing. He likes my cooking—that’s what he likes.”
Max made some notes. “What do you do, Eugene?”
“I own a mortuary and funeral parlor, one of the oldest in town. It belonged to my father, Crane Carter, but he’s passed. I’ve expanded business over the years. Cynthia helps out.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about Anne’s demeanor? Was she upset at all? Nervous?” asked Max.
“Quite the opposite,” said Eugene. “She’d been anxious for a long time, but last night, she seemed like her old self, laughing, flirting with the boys, truly happy. She won a few hands, but she kept playing until she lost it all to the chief.”
Cynthia agreed. “She did seem happy. She asked if I needed help cleaning up, but it was late, and I knew she was tired, so I said ‘no.’”
Max handed Eugene a card. “If you think of anything, no matter how small, call me. And stay in the area. I’ll need to speak with you again, I’m sure.”
Eugene nodded. “Of course.”
Cynthia jumped to her feet and walked Max to the door. She had wrapped Max’s untouched scone in a paper napkin and she handed it to him. “Take your scone. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Max took a bite to be polite. He preferred donuts, crumble or glazed, but the light, warm sweetness hit his tongue and instantly satisfied his stomach. “This really is good.” Max tried a little charm on his way out. “I see why Shane wants to marry you.”
Cynthia’s mouse-brown eyes lit up. “Thank you. That’s sweet of you to say.”
Max munched on the scone as he walked back along the creek to Anne’s house. He passed by the scene of the crime—now as pristine as before. Anne no longer lay next to the creek, but he could imagine her walking home along the serene path awash in moonlight, unaware it would be her last stroll beside the flowing waters and earth-scented bank.
Max’s father had taught him to get to know the victim—Who was Anne? How did she think? With whom did she associate? Did she have secrets? Only by knowing the victim, by seeing Anne walk along the path in the moonlight, could Max piece together the last moments of her life. He imagined her rising up from the bank of the river and continuing her walk home. As she passed by him, she gave him a Marilyn Monroe smile and implored, “You will find out who killed me. Won’t you, Max-y?”
4
Max wasted no time in making his rounds to the witnesses. Despite the fact that people routinely boasted, “I have nothing to hide,” the truth was that almost everyone had something to hide. If they didn’t worry about incriminating themselves, they worried about incriminating friends or family members. Occasionally, like with Eugene and Cynthia, they blathered openly instead.
Max knocked on the door of Shane Drake’s house, a beige and cream suburban tract home with a dead lawn and scraggly shrubs that desperately needed water, but city water rationing had left his neighbors’ lawns the same shade of brown. Max had to ring a few times before Drake opened the door.
Drake smoothed down his unkempt curly red hair and swiped at his beard. He didn’t seem to care about the wrinkles in his pajama pants that bore blue and white San Diego Padres logos, but he tugged at the black T-shirt that stretched over his big belly.
“Shane Drake, I’m Detective Max King. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Can I come in?”
Shane curled a finger, the sign for “permission granted,” and walked away. Drake smelled of beer. He held his back and stretched as he led the way to the small living room, a man cave—including darkened windows, an indicator he probably worked night shifts—and settled into a massage chair. Shane flipped the control and let out a sighing moan as rollers ran up and down his spine.
Upon seeing the disarray of clumped kitchen towels on the counter, food wrappers and boxes over-filling a tall trashcan, and pans left on the stove, Max somewhat appreciated the fact that he wasn’t the only disheveled human being on the planet. But he did make a mental note to pick up when he got home, so he would never let it get this bad.
“Bad back?” asked Max.
“Beyond bad. I worked construction in college. Had a nasty fall. Been in pain ever since. Good thing I’m a pharmacist—not that I self-medicate—that was a joke. Only legal prescriptions, which I can’t take as often as I’d like, because I work as a pharmacist. It’s complicated.”
“I wasn’t implying anything.”
“Just saving us both some time. Something wrong at the pharmacy? Robbery?”
Max watched for Drake’s reaction. “I’m sorry to inform you, but this morning, we found Anne Martin dead by Goldrush Creek.”
Drake’s eyes widened, his hands shot up, his jaw unhinged, but he stayed put. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Good God, no. What happened?”
Max could only ask questions. “We’re still not sure, but you can help. When did you see her last?”
“Last night at Eugene’s poker
game. We rotate. Eugene hosted.”
“I already interviewed Eugene and his daughter, Cynthia. When did you leave?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Midnight, half-past maybe. Chief Goldsby, Anne, Grant, and me. We all left together. Anne set off on the path home, and the rest of us hopped in our cars. Grant offered to walk Anne home, but she turned him down. Damn, if he’d have…maybe she’d…” He shook his head.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?”
“Anne? No. She’s a sweetheart, that one.”
“I hear she gambles?”
“Yeah, well, we all do—hence the monthly poker game—but all in good fun. Sometimes though, Anne, well, she didn’t know when to quit. Like last night. She was up twice but kept playing until she lost. But she makes good money at the hospital. We each bring a few hundred. It’s nothing she can’t afford, I think.”
Max noted that Drake didn’t know about her larger debts, which also meant that Grant hadn’t shared the details of Anne’s problem and neither had Anne. That seemed worth pondering later.
“I’m sorry to ask. This is routine. But did you have a relationship with Anne?”
Shane shook his head and let out a quick “Ha,” followed by, “No way. We were just friends. I’m not her type. She likes guys with expensive cars, like Dr. Grant.”
“And you’re dating Cynthia, Eugene’s daughter?”
“She’s not one for ‘dating.’ A real homebody. But I’m over a lot to visit. I think she’s afraid to leave her father. Good girl, that one. Good cook too. And if I so much as drop a wrapper on the table, there’s hell to pay. But I’d marry her in a heartbeat. A man gets tired of living alone. Poor kid has taken care of her father all these years since her mother died.”
“How did she die?”
“Accident. One day, Cynthia comes home from high school and finds her mother floating in the pool—that was the old home on Oak Street, not where they live now. Linda had been drinking, fell, hit her head, landed in the pool, and drowned. Cynthia took it real hard. Dropped out of high school. Never went back. I think she worried about getting her father through it. Eugene was a mess.”
Burgundy and Bodies Page 2
