What We Bury

by Carolyn Arnold

  The part of the house they could see was tidy and compact with everything seeming to have its place. There was a mild odor that kept hitting her, but she couldn’t quite pin its source. Her guess was something food related.

  “Here we go…” Stevens was back, holding a ledger open. He drew a fingertip down the page, licked his finger and flipped to the next page. “Ah, here we go.”

  “Do you manage or own a lot of properties?” she asked.

  “Five properties. Some are duplexes, and others, small apartments.” He looked up from where he’d been in the book. “Here it is. Name’s Shannon Keller.”

  “Do you know where Keller moved?” Maybe if they could find her, they’d find Abbott.

  “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “And she moved out when?” Madison’s phone pinged with a text message, but she’d check it after they left.

  “October.”

  That would make sense, as Mary Smith had told them she moved into the place in November. “And how long did you rent it to her?”

  “A few years.”

  Madison nodded. “Do you have her phone number by chance?”

  “Nah, sorry.”

  “Well, thank you for her name.”

  “Don’t you mention it. I stand behind Stiles’s finest.” Stevens closed the book and tucked it under his right arm and waved his left hand.

  She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she repeated.

  “No. Thank you.” Stevens shoved out his hand, nearly dropping the book in the process.

  She shook his hand, then Stevens took Terry’s.

  “Thank you,” he told Terry.

  Terry just dipped his head, also smiling.

  It felt like she was walking tall on the way back to the car. It had been far too long since the last time someone had expressed their gratitude for cops. Sadly, many people tended to judge the whole of law enforcement by the bad ones. Stevens’s faith instilled an even greater desire to bring down the corrupt cops before they destroyed all she held dear.

  She checked her phone, and the message was from Cynthia. “Looks like we have another lead.” She filled Terry in after reading. “Cynthia received the phone logs from Stiles Wireless. One number called Carson fifty times in the week leading up to her murder. Cyn tracked it back to a John Clayton, here in Stiles.” She put the car into gear.

  -

  Thirty-One

  Just after three in the afternoon, and Madison’s doctor’s appointment was at four. She should probably let Terry tackle John Clayton on his own, but if necessary, she’d reschedule with her doctor. This was a solid lead, and she wanted to see the man face-to-face for herself, not hear about him from a second-hand account.

  Clayton’s criminal background was clean, but he was employed as a chef at the Pig King in the north end. The restaurant specialized in barbecued meat, primarily pork, as their name implied.

  They drove to the place figuring that, with the time of day, they’d most likely find him in the kitchen.

  Madison stepped inside and slowed her breathing. The smell of slow-roasting meat and sweet barbecue sauce was overpowering and flipped her stomach. She flashed her badge at the hostess and requested to speak with John Clayton. The hostess nodded and went toward the back.

  “John’s busy. Is there something I can help you with?” It was the manager who ended up coming to see what she and Terry wanted. He was a potbellied, middle-aged man. The only thing going for him was a full head of hair.

  “What you can help us with is getting Mr. Clayton,” she said.

  The manager sighed dramatically and opened his mouth, shut it, opened it. “Very well. I can spare him for no more than five minutes, though, and then he needs to get back to work. The crowds start rolling in just after five, and there’s lots to prepare. Follow me.” He took them back to the kitchen and shouted, “John!”

  A large man, easily close to four hundred pounds, was chopping meat on a block. At the sound of his name, he suspended his cleaver in mid-strike. He squinted at Madison and Terry, his eyes small and beady and sunken in his face. “Who are you?” Obviously annoyed at the interruption and not in the mood to talk.

  Well, too bad. “We’re detectives with the Stiles PD, and we need to speak with you about Chantelle Carson.”

  The manager glanced from Madison to Clayton and slunk out of the room, seemingly not wanting to get involved in whatever this was about.

  Clayton stared at Madison, and she could see his mind spinning and trying to decide whether he should run, but he wasn’t exactly in the shape for it. Score for her.

  He set down the cleaver and held up both his hands. “I’ll stop calling her.”

  “Huh, it’s only part of the reason we’re here.” Madison moved farther into the kitchen. “But why did you call her so much?”

  Clayton’s eyes darted from her to Terry to the door, and he started to move. He only got as far as the other side of the counter since she’d darted quickly to block him.

  “Let’s just talk. Okay?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. She did.” He clenched his jaw and crossed his arms.

  “How do you figure?”

  “She rejected my application, and she wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “This was all about insurance?” Madison asked.

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “So what? You intended to force her to hear what you had to say?” Madison said. “Fifty phone calls in the last week is a lot. Harassment.”

  “She just wouldn’t listen,” he spat.

  “There would have been reasons you were rejected. What were they?” Madison wanted to get to the heart of his rage and take its temperature.

  Clayton pressed his lips together like a fish and waved a hand down his body. “She gave me some scripted reply that I didn’t qualify for critical care coverage because of my weight.”

  “That must have made you feel—”

  “Pissed off? Yeah. I work in this kitchen eight hours a day, and I’m just fine. Do you see me panting?”

  Surprisingly, she didn’t. There was just a sheen of sweat on his forehead and face, but she probably looked the same. The kitchen was hot. “But this made you mad?”

  “Sure. Now, maybe I shouldn’t have called her so much, and I’ll back off. Had no idea she was going to get the cops involved.”

  Madison stayed silent and walked around the counter, looking at the meat that Clayton had been chopping when they arrived. She held down the urge to gag at the sight of the pale flesh piled on the block.

  “You really here because of the calls?” Clayton’s cheeks went a bright shade of red—from his weight, the stress of their visit, or from fear of being found out.

  “As I said, that’s only part of it. Chantelle Carson was found murdered Saturday afternoon. Stabbed to death.” Technically, she’d bled out, but if it hadn’t been for the stabbing, she’d still be alive.

  “She…She was…”

  “Murdered,” Madison stamped out. “And you called her right up until the day before her attack. You just said that being rejected made you ‘pissed off.’”

  “Sure did, but I— You think I killed her?”

  Madison hitched a shoulder as if to say, Why not?

  “No.” Clayton shook his head. “My rejection was prejudice in action. I carry extra pounds, sure, but I have a clean bill of health. Check with my doctor. That’s what I wanted her to do. Even the nurse who came to my house told me my blood pressure was spot-on. Denying me coverage is prejudice in action.”

  “Insurance is a business, based on statistics, and they have a right to refuse anyone they want.” Madison recalled Bill Carson’s comment about the system being nothing more than black-and-white. “You refused to accept they had that right. I mean, obviously. Harassing Ms. Carson. Where were you Friday night from n
ine until two Saturday morning?”

  “I was here.”

  “If we spoke to your manager, he’ll verify that you were here the entire time?”

  Clayton gulped.

  Madison scanned the kitchen and set her gaze on the knives, of which there were plenty. She walked over for a closer look. “Stainless steel blades?”

  “Of…of course,” Clayton stuttered.

  “You wouldn’t mind if we took one?” She leveled her gaze on him.

  “You’d have to talk to Phil.”

  “Who’s Phil?” she asked.

  “The manager.”

  They hadn’t gotten his name. Her eye landed on a few empty spots in a knife block. “You’re missing a few already.”

  “Ah, yeah…” Clayton wiped his brow. “They wear down over time.”

  “Huh.” Madison returned to Clayton’s side. “When did you leave here Friday night?”

  He scanned her face. “About eleven.”

  “Where did you go?” She swore she saw fresh beads of sweat forming. He was the right height for Carson’s attacker, but would he have the physical ability to do the deed? Then again, he wasn’t panting like one might expect with such an obese person.

  “I went home. I was exhausted. I’d started at noon that day.”

  “Can anyone verify that you went home?” she asked.

  “Ah, no, I live alone. Well, I have Sophie, but she’s a cat.”

  “No landlord or neighbors who might have seen you?”

  “Maybe?”

  “Well, you’re leaving us in a tough spot, Mr. Clayton. You’d have motive to want Ms. Carson dead—” she flailed a hand across the kitchen “—and access to an assortment of knives.”

  “Wait. You can’t think that I…” He wiped his forehead again. “Just because I know how to work a knife?”

  “Because you had motive. Did you miss that part? She denied your application for insurance, and unlike a rational person who just accepts that and moves on, you set out to harass her. You called her numerous times. Did you stalk her too?” Madison looked at Terry. “We should talk to her landlord and neighbors, see if they saw Clayton hanging around.”

  Clayton held up his hands. “Please…Okay, I was stupid. I…I may have followed her home once.”

  She’d heard enough. “You’re coming downtown with us.”

  “No, please. Just listen to me.”

  “We will. Down at the station.”

  “I could lose my job.”

  “You should have thought of that before.” Madison motioned for Terry to round up Clayton.

  “Come on, Mr. Clayton,” Terry said. “If you come without resisting, this will go a lot smoother.”

  They filled in the manager on their way out and were met with a lot of pleas and panic, but they had little choice but to take his head chef. And if Clayton had killed Carson, he wouldn’t be returning any time soon. Getting the boss to hand over a knife for comparison was rather easy, and he didn’t request a warrant.

  Terry got Clayton into the back of the department car. It wasn’t an official arrest yet, so no need to call in a cruiser. Outside the car, Madison spoke to Terry.

  “I’ve got to leave him with you. As much as I hate to.”

  “Why?”

  “I have that doctor’s appointment.” So much for keeping the time from him.

  “By all means, then go. I can handle this, and I’ll keep you posted.”

  “I’ll join you at the station when I get out.” She wasn’t going to tell him she also had to see her shrink. Just let him think her general practitioner took longer to get her in.

  “Fine by me. Go, take care of yourself.”

  She nodded and got into the driver’s seat. She’d drive Terry and Clayton downtown and then head out, but she needed to hustle because the clock was ticking.

  -

  Thirty-Two

  Madison was checking into her doctor’s office at three fifty-five—five minutes to spare. Some might say she was late. She’d say she was right on time. She didn’t even have to sit down before a nurse guided her to a room. That was a bonus, because she always cringed at the thought of sitting around a bunch of sick people with their runny noses and coughing and their kids touching everything with their sticky little fingers with no respect for boundaries.

  She filled the nurse in on the purpose of the visit with the clear disclaimer that she was feeling better now but wanted to honor her appointment.

  “Dr. Talmadge will be right with you,” the nurse said and left.

  Posters on the wall testified to the dangers of smoking, the importance of screening for breast cancer and how to go about self-testing, and how strokes were the silent killer. There were certainly a lot of ways to leave this world. All Madison knew was she wasn’t ready to exit.

  There was a knock, and the door inched open. Dr. Talmadge poked his head in, then entered the rest of the way. He closed the door behind him.

  “Hello, Madison. It’s been a long time since you were in.”

  “I’d say that’s a good thing. No offense.” She smiled and held up a hand.

  “None taken.” Talmadge came from England, and his voice still carried the beautiful English accent. She’d been seeing him since she was a little girl; he had another practice outside of Stiles, in the small town where she grew up. He put his clipboard on the counter, next to the sink. “So, what brings you here today?”

  He could easily consult the nurse’s notes, and Madison was sure he probably had, but as she liked to hear things from, say, a suspect’s lips, he liked to hear his patients confirm their maladies.

  “I’m actually feeling fine now.”

  He dropped onto a stool and smiled at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You’re the same every time I see you. You obviously had something that brought you to me, but you always downplay whatever it is. Just tell me what prompted you to make the appointment.”

  “Fair enough. I’ve been feeling nauseous off and on for several days now. But today I was able to keep food down, and I’m much better.”

  “When did the nausea start?”

  She’d been trying to figure that out but couldn’t quite remember. “I’m not sure exactly, but it hung around for a few days.”

  “You mentioned keeping food down. Before today, you experienced vomiting?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I see.” Talmadge wrote something on the pages attached to the clipboard.

  She was afraid to ask what he meant by I see. It sounded so menacing. She cleared her throat and braved speaking anyhow. “My partner, at work,” she clarified, “said that nausea can be a symptom of cancer.”

  He paused writing and met her eyes. “It can be a symptom of many things.” He got off his stool. “I’d like to run some bloodwork, and we’ll go from there. That okay?”

  She turned her head for that next step. She didn’t want to witness the process.

  She felt the tiniest pinch—not her issue—but she’d made the mistake once of watching the vial fill with blood, swore she could feel it leaving her body. She never made that mistake again.

  “All righty, all done.”

  She dared to look now. Talmadge pressed a cotton ball over the pinprick and slapped on a Band-Aid. “You’re quick,” she said, appreciating that he hadn’t delegated the task to a nurse, like most doctors would have.

  “I didn’t get this handsome and skilled in just a few years.” He smiled and headed toward the door.

  “When should I have the results?”

  “A couple days, max. I’ll call if there’s anything to worry about.”

  She slipped off the examination table. “Do you think I have anything to worry about?”

  Talmadge stopped next to the door, and he dipped his
chin and said, “Worry is always a waste of time and energy.” He held her gaze until she nodded.

  Wise words, but much harder to implement. If only he’d given her something to go on besides a dose of adage, something more clinical and scientific. Maybe even assuaged her concerns about cancer, but he hadn’t.

  -

  Thirty-Three

  Madison left Talmadge’s office and headed for Dr. Connor’s. If traffic had cooperated, she’d have made it on time, but she turned up ten minutes late for her appointment.

  She checked in and took a seat in Connor’s waiting area. The office was essentially three spaces—one for reception, another for waiting, and then the therapy room. Each area felt intimate and was decorated in soft hues, probably to have a soothing effect on patients.

  “Madison.” Connor had come to collect her. If she had been with a patient, Madison never saw him or her leave.

  “Hi.” Madison stood and followed the doctor into her office.

  Connor sank into her chair that looked far more comfortable than the couch, even with its throw pillows. Madison piled them to the side, except for one that she hugged to herself.

  “What’s happened since the last time I saw you? It’s been over a month.”

  There wasn’t so much judgment in Connor’s tone or words as there was definite concern.

  “Not a whole lot,” Madison lied.

  “Last time we spoke, you were battling with guilt over your sister’s abduction.” Connor’s face was soft and motherly.

  Madison gripped the pillow tighter, and after realizing it, she loosened her hold. “I’ve been very busy.” Spoken as if that stopped the guilt from surfacing. It was her actions, her interference with the mob that had resulted in Chelsea’s ordeal three months ago. Still, Madison refused to walk away—all because she couldn’t ignore what was going on in her city.

  “Often it’s easier to keep busy than to face our feelings.”

  Madison stifled the urge to defend herself and insist that she had truly been busy, but maybe some of it had been self-inflicted busyness. Then again, she felt like if she didn’t expose the corrupt cops, no one would. Most of the Stiles PD also believed the Mafia had left town when clearly that wasn’t the case. Not with a house registered to a company attached to Roman Petrov.