What We Bury

by Carolyn Arnold

  “She was probably attacked just down the street. Maybe near one of the bars or restaurants.”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  “Okay, then, that takes us back to why she didn’t seek help. And if there was an eyewitness or more, where are they now?”

  She stopped walking, considered Terry’s questions.

  “Gotcha stumped?” He smiled.

  “A little, yeah. But,” she said, “just because the attacker got spooked doesn’t mean someone was there. Could have just been a noise—” Her mind returned to Mrs. Bernstein’s statement about waking up in the early hours and hearing something outside.

  “Maddy?” Terry prompted.

  “Rhea Bernstein told us that she heard a thump about one in the morning.”

  “So?”

  “So I just assumed it was Doe closing the shed door or even nothing of importance, but what if Doe did seek help from the Bernsteins, and the thump Rhea heard had actually been Doe knocking on one of their doors?”

  “Okay, but…” Terry let that dangle. “If Doe was attacked where people could potentially be around, you’re telling me she never sought out their help? Or that no one saw her? That she walked to the Bernsteins with intention?”

  “It’s almost starting to seem like it. But that also brings to my attention that someone—homeowners even—along Burnham Street might have seen a woman hobbling along the sidewalk. But you also know what people can be like. They don’t want to get involved and are fearful for their own safety. And as I had mentioned earlier, Doe wouldn’t have been in a rational state of mind. She could have appeared intimidating.”

  “I get all that, but it’s also possible Doe had a hard time finding help. People would have still been in the bars drinking. Assuming the thump Mrs. Bernstein heard about one in the morning is related to Doe.”

  “Yep, and that would leave the parking lots rather empty of people, as well as the alleyways that run between the bars and restaurants and behind, if I remember right.” She resumed walking until she came to a public parking lot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Assuming Doe had a vehicle and drove herself down here, she could have parked here.” She waved a hand at a city sign that indicated no parking on either side of Burnham Street.

  “And how do you intend to…” Terry’s eyes skimmed the packed lot. It was going on four in the afternoon, and people were already venturing to the area for meals and drinks.

  The sun winked off the windshields and had her reaching into her jacket pocket for her sunglasses. She came out empty-handed, but no surprise. She had a hard time hanging on to shades.

  Terry had his on when she looked over at him.

  She started, “We search the lot, see if—”

  “One of the vehicles jumps out and says, ‘I belong to a dead woman.’”

  “Very funny.”

  “Jeez. Lighten up. What’s wrong with you? It’s Saturday, and if one of us would normally be griping about working—”

  “My mood has nothing to do with working.” She regretted the admission immediately. There was no way she was going to get into the tension in her relationship with Troy.

  “Then, what?”

  Terry had told her before that she was known to pry, but he was a pro himself. “We have a case to solve. Let’s focus on that.”

  “Fine,” he huffed. “If she was accosted in the parking lot, to me that supports the possibility that she was mugged. Think about it, she was about to get into her vehicle and her attacker confronts her. Maybe he or she left because they simply got what they wanted—her purse, phone, possibly jewelry.”

  “Okay, I can get behind that theory. But let’s see if we can prove it.”

  He held eye contact, and it drilled in how different she was acting today, certainly not her usual self. Terry was typically the one telling her they needed proof.

  “Actually…” Terry groaned. “If her attacker came at her when she was at her vehicle, they might have stolen it too. Then we’ll have nothing to find.”

  She didn’t want to entertain the idea, but it was possible. It could also explain why Doe was left to get away on foot—not that she would have been in any shape to drive. “Let’s just spread out.” She looked over the lot and noticed there were flyers stuck under the wipers of several vehicles. She snatched one. For some band playing that night at Luck of the Irish pub, which was the bar just next door. But it gave her an idea. “If Doe parked here, and assuming no one stole her vehicle—” she shot a seething look at Terry “—she would likely have a parking ticket on her hood. You go that way, and I’ll start here.”

  Terry did as she asked, and she began with the row closest to her. After a few lanes, she was about to give up when she spotted a small slip stuck under the wiper of an older, gray sedan. She tore it off and yelled, “Jackpot!”

  He whistled at the ticket. “Fifty bucks. Ouch.”

  She was more interested in the time stamps than the fine. “Doe—”

  “You’re assuming.”

  “Doe,” she repeated, “parked here at eight last night and paid for four hours.”

  Terry bobbed his head side to side. “Lines up with the time-of-death window. Could be her car.”

  “I’d say it’s a good bet—”

  “Then—”

  “No,” she shot him down again. She wasn’t in the mood to make wagers on the case. She was in the mood for answers, though. She pulled out her phone and called Higgins.

  “Hey-lo,” he answered.

  “It’s Madison, but I’m going to guess you knew that.”

  “Caller ID was a nifty invention.”

  “I need you to do something quick for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Need you to run a plate number…” She gave him the tag.

  “One second.” The clicking of keys, then, “It’s registered to a Chantelle Carson. Age forty-eight— Oh yeah, that’s Jane Doe all right. I have her license photo in front of me. Blond, shoulder-length, gray eyes, round face, five eight. Where did you see the plate?”

  “Her car’s in the public lot on Burnham Street, just east of the bars and restaurants.”

  “I assume you had a good reason to be curious?”

  “Taught by the best.”

  “Impressive.”

  She beamed and nodded at Terry. “We have her,” she said to him. To Higgins, “Her next of kin? Address?” She put him on speaker for Terry’s benefit. No one else was around.

  “I’ll shoot it all over to you,” Higgins told her.

  “Great. And if you could also get an officer over here to watch the car until it’s processed and brought in?”

  “You know it.”

  “And please let Richards know Doe’s identity,” she added.

  “Absolutely.”

  With that, she hung up and smirked at Terry. “Turns out it was a good thing we went for a walk.”

  “I hate it when you brag.”

  -

  Six

  Madison cupped her eyes and squinted into the sedan’s driver’s-side window. It was immaculately kept. No dust on the dash or garbage within sight. It was possible Carson was the type who stuffed crap under her seat, though. Madison went around the car, repeating the process. “Wow, she keeps this thing clean.”

  “Not everyone treats their car like a garbage bin on four wheels.”

  “In your words, hardy-har. I’m too busy to—”

  “An excuse. Everyone’s busy.”

  She’d defend herself, but he was right. She had a horrible habit of tossing trash over her shoulder into the back seat. She wasn’t quite as bad as she used to be because it drove Troy mad.

  “So Carson came down here last night at eight,” she started, “but then where did she go?” She looked toward the si
dewalk.

  “Again, a crystal ball would be helpful.”

  “Wouldn’t it.” She scanned the area. There were trees at the east end of the lot, separating it from the neighboring property, which was a house. The north side offered an optional entry point off Napoleon Avenue. “If she was attacked near here, why not head back to her car?”

  “We don’t know where her keys are. Maybe her attacker took them, leaving her without a way to get in her vehicle.”

  Madison chewed her bottom lip and stepped to the sidewalk, looked east. Nothing but houses. “What compelled her down the street as far as the Bernsteins’?” Her phone pinged with a text. A message from Higgins. “Next of kin is her ex-husband. Bill Carson. Higgins is sending more info to me via email, including his address. I also have Carson’s phone number.” They could potentially track it, but first, to even see if it was on, Madison called the number. She got a message that the line was no longer in service. She shared that with Terry as her phone beeped again. “And we have Carson’s DMV picture.”

  “Not that we should be flashing that around until the ex-husband is notified.”

  She hated that he was right. “We can still ask around, using her description. Maybe someone saw the altercation?” She paused, taking in all the houses, and added, “Surely someone saw her stumbling along the sidewalk.”

  A police cruiser pulled into the lot, Higgins behind the wheel. He parked next to Carson’s car and got out.

  “I know I requested officers to canvass Burnham, but with her car being here, it’s even more important that it gets done,” Madison said.

  Higgins nodded. “I get that. I’ll update the officers who will be working the street about her car.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “We’ll leave this to you, then.”

  “Why?” Terry asked. “Where are we going?”

  “To do some canvassing ourselves.”

  “Shouldn’t we notify the ex—”

  “Just amuse me for a minute.” She proceeded west along Burnham Street.

  The first establishment west of the public parking lot was Luck of the Irish. The pub was next to a restaurant Madison wouldn’t return to or recommend. The service was slow, the food bland, and the prices ridiculous.

  The laneway between the two businesses was just wide enough for one-way traffic. And only the select few were rewarded with parking at the backside of the pub and restaurant. Any delivery trucks bringing food and drink to the establishments would have had to park temporarily at the curb or go around to Napoleon Avenue.

  Madison walked down the lane to the lot, and someone coughing got her attention. A man in his late forties/early fifties stood on a small stoop with cracked and crooked concrete steps outside a back door, a burning cigarette in hand.

  He took a toke, exhaled. “Can I help you with something?”

  Madison and Terry raised their badges.

  “Detectives with the Stiles PD,” she said, closing the distance between herself and the man. He didn’t move except to take another drag on his smoke. “Were you in the area last night, say from about nine until two this morning?”

  “Rather specific window.” He flicked ash, took another hit. His eyes were beady and lazily drifted from her to Terry and back again.

  She didn’t want to get into the fact a woman was found dead not too far from there, especially without her next of kin being informed, but she wanted to probe some. He might have seen the attack. “Can you just answer my question?”

  “I was working in the kitchen until ten. Headed out and went straight home.” He extinguished his cigarette on a plate he held in his right hand.

  “You didn’t take any smoke breaks?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  Madison wanted so badly to show him the DMV photo of Chantelle Carson but would follow protocol. “During your shift, did you happen to hear or see any altercations—either out here or maybe one that started inside the pub?” If the thump Mrs. Bernstein had heard was Carson, this man would have long been home by the time she was attacked, but until they had definitive reason to believe the noise was Carson, they had to consider the entire TOD window.

  “I don’t recall. Nothing out here anyway.” He waved his cigarette over the lot. “If there was an argument out front, I might not have heard it.”

  “And nothing of that sort made it back to you in the kitchen?” She just wanted to be certain.

  “Nope. Just a typical Friday. College kids out to get hammered.”

  “Did you notice any people in their forties in the crowd? I know you work in the kitchen, but you must pop into the dining room sometimes.”

  “There’s usually some any given night. But like I said, no rumbles in the jungle.” The man smiled at Terry.

  “Okay,” she said. “We might be around later.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, darlin’.”

  She left thinking that some people really were an acquired taste.

  Terry walked the lot. She looked to the west of the pub, toward the restaurant and beyond it, to the back of the establishments within line of sight, of which there were several. Other businesses were across the street too. That also equated to a lot of dumpsters, and until they had a better way of knowing where the attack had taken place, searching all of them for the mere possibility of finding evidence didn’t make sense.

  “Let’s head back,” she said. “We’ll talk to the Bernsteins now that we have Doe’s real name and a photo.” Given that the body was found on their property, an exception could be made.

  “And the other bars and restaurants?”

  “I’ll have Higgins get officers to pay them a visit.” She pulled her phone and keyed a quick text to that effect. “We’ll also need to get ahold of the city for traffic-cam footage.” She pointed just west of the pub and restaurant where Burnham intersected with Market Street. “It could give us something.” She called her contact at the city but had to leave a message. She hung up and filled in Terry.

  “Not much of a surprise with it being Saturday.”

  “Nope.” It didn’t mean that it wasn’t frustrating. It was also frustrating that bars and restaurants along the stretch likely had security cameras but wouldn’t hand them over without a warrant. And without something that confirmed Carson was indeed attacked in the immediate vicinity, no judge would approve the request.

  -

  Seven

  By the time Madison and Terry walked through the Bernsteins’ back gate, Richards and Milo were removing Carson’s body from the outbuilding. The loss of life sank in Madison’s gut. She would certainly do all she could to find that woman justice.

  Madison hurried to catch up with them as they stopped at the entrance to the side gate. “When will you be conducting the autopsy?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Richards said.

  “More specifically?” She raised her brows and pressed her lips.

  “Rather get it over and done, so let’s say eight.”

  Eight, Sunday morning. She must have been delusional to think she’d get to sleep in. After all, she had the homicide case and her own business to take care of tonight.

  “Did you hear me?” Richards prompted.

  “I’ll be there.” Madison passed a side-glance at Terry, and he sighed. Though she wasn’t sure why. He’d probably have gotten his run in by that time. People who ran and did mornings were a true enigma to her.

  Richards and Milo saw themselves out with some help from a nearby officer who came along and got the gate.

  She headed to the door off the lower deck, Terry following.

  Estelle opened the door just as they reached it. Her complexion was ashen, and she was hugging herself.

  “How are you doing?” Madison asked, though it seemed obvious her real estate agent wasn’t doing that great.

  “I don’t know
how you do this all the time.” She gestured a hand toward the shed. “Dealing with dead bodies… Murder. Guess I like to live in my safe, little bubble.”

  Madison touched her arm. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “I guess.” A visible shiver tore through her.

  “We need to speak with the Bernsteins again,” Madison told her agent.

  Estelle stepped back and let them inside.

  Madison and Terry wiped their shoes on the mat and went up to the sitting room, Estelle in tow.

  Oliver was walking from the kitchen with two steaming mugs, one of which he handed to Rhea, who was seated on the couch where she’d been before. She probably hadn’t even left the spot.

  Madison remained standing and said, “We have an identity on her now.”

  Rhea’s breath caught, and she exhaled a jagged sigh.

  “The woman was Chantelle Carson.” Madison watched the Bernsteins’ body language and facial tells. Slumped shoulders, wet eyes. “You knew her?”

  Oliver’s mouth set in a straight line, and he nodded.

  Madison dropped into the chair she’d sat in the first time she talked to them. Her insides were quaking. She’d had a feeling there was a connection between Carson and the Bernsteins. “How?”

  Oliver wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “She helped us set up property insurance recently. Gave us a good deal too.”

  If Carson was in insurance and had written up the Bernsteins’ policy, it would make sense that she’d know about the outbuilding. “What company does she work for?” They could get this from a report, but why wait?

  “Southern Life,” Oliver said.

  Madison nodded. There was another thing they needed to clear up, though. “Mrs. Bernstein, you said that you heard a thump in the morning, around one o’clock?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is it possible that someone had knocked on one of your doors?”

  Rhea seemed to consider Madison’s question. “I’m not sure.”