by Ann B. Ross
“I just hate the thought of going public,” I said in defense of my hesitancy. “Like, you know, I was trying to get on television so somebody could ask me how it felt to find a dead person. The less people know my business, the better I like it, because it’ll spread all over town.” Everybody would want to know why I had been visiting Connie in the first place, and, after my promise to the pastor, how would I answer that?
“Miss Julia,” Lillian said, hovering over me with a hot water bottle she wanted to put at my feet. “Miss Julia, you better do what Mr. Sam say. They swear out a warrant on you, you’ll wisht you had.”
“Honey,” Sam said with some urgency, “from what you’ve told me, you left fingerprints, handprints, and footprints all over that kitchen. Now, let’s call Coleman and tell him you found her.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said, getting to my feet. “He’ll listen to me without jumping to any unwarranted conclusions. I just hope he’s not about to climb a sign anytime soon.”
Then I stopped on my way to the telephone. “He won’t be on duty. He’s off somewhere with half the deputies on the force working on that platform he intends to sit on.”
“Just talk to the dispatcher,” Sam said, taking my arm and walking me to the counter. He handed the phone to me. “You don’t want them to waste investigative time tracking you down.”
“Track me down? Will they do that?” Of course they would—I knew that. I knew I couldn’t bury my head and pretend I had no knowledge of Connie’s death. I mean, I didn’t have any knowledge of it, but they might think differently, especially with my prints on the coffeepot, the edge of the counter, Connie’s shoulder, and apparently in a puddle of her blood. Only I didn’t remember doing that.
“All right,” I said, taking the phone. “I’m just putting off the inevitable. I’ll call, but we better prepare ourselves for gossip to run rampant.”
Just as I began to dial the number, the front doorbell rang.
“Saved by the bell,” I said with a weak smile. “At least for a little while.”
• • •
Well, not exactly saved by anything. When Sam answered the door, in walked a looming and glowering Lieutenant Wayne Peavey—my longtime nemesis.
I stopped short there in the middle of the hall, mesmerized again by his sheer size. Well over six feet tall with a corresponding width of body mass, clad in an official navy blue puffy cold-weather jacket, he filled whatever room he entered. And right at that moment he was doing it in our front hall.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” Sam said as he held the door open. “We were just about to call you.”
Ignoring these welcoming words, the lieutenant’s eyes lit on me as I stood behind Sam. “Mrs. Murdoch, we’d like you to come down to the sheriff’s office and give a statement concerning your activities today. Would you be willing to do that?”
He couched his words in a question, but I knew I had little choice in the matter. But that didn’t stop me from trying.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll be happy to give a statement, but I’d prefer to do it here if it’s all the same to you. I mean, since you’re already here. Would you like some refreshments, Lieutenant? Hot cocoa? Coffee? It’s cold out tonight.”
“We need to get this done right away,” he said, paying no attention to my courteous offer. “And it’s best to do it at the station.”
“Sam?” I turned to my retired-from-the-practice-of-law husband, expecting a vigorous defense on my behalf.
“Come on in, Lieutenant,” Sam said. “We’ll get our coats.”
“I’ll wait here,” the lieutenant said firmly. “And you’re welcome to come down anytime, Mr. Murdoch, but your wife shouldn’t delay any longer than she already has.”
“Are you arresting me?” I quavered. “I had every intention of contacting you.”
“No, honey,” Sam said before the lieutenant could respond. “It’s just routine to get statements from everybody who might know something about a crime.”
“But I don’t know anything.”
Lieutenant Peavey was having none of it. “We know you were there. A witness has come forward.”
“Who?” I demanded. I knew there’d been somebody in the house besides me. And Connie. “Who was it?”
Lieutenant Peavey’s mouth tightened, as if he hated giving out any information. “The security guard at the gate. He takes down the tag number of every visitor. You were there, and he saw you going and coming.”
Why, that tattletale, I thought.
“Sam?” I said again, feeling surrounded and trapped even though I’d only been doing a good deed at the request of my pastor. Now look where I was.
“It’s all right, Julia,” Sam said. “I’ll call Binkie and she’ll meet us there.”
“Binkie? Why? I don’t need a lawyer. I mean, I have you. Don’t I?”
“Better to have Binkie,” he said. “I’m not in active practice, and we’re too close. Lieutenant,” he went on, turning to him, “could you give us a minute to call her attorney?”
“I thought her attorney would’ve already been here,” Lieutenant Peavey said, lasering his eyes at me again. “Considering the fact that Mrs. Murdoch has delayed reporting the crime.”
“Well, not for all that long,” I said. “I’ve only been home barely thirty minutes, and I had to wash my hands and . . .” I started, but Sam interrupted me.
“Hold on,” he said, turning toward the library. “I’m calling her attorney now.”
He left me alone with Lieutenant Peavey, while tremors ran up and down my body and Lieutenant Peavey shifted from one foot to the other. I was anxious to stay and he was anxious to go.
“Listen, Lieutenant,” Sam said as he came back into the hall. He was exhibiting a little anxiety himself. “Ms. Enloe Bates doesn’t answer. Can you give us a little more time so I can track her down?”
Well, no, he couldn’t, although he was nice enough about it, suggesting that I ride with him while Sam followed along with Binkie—if he could find her. So, feeling outside myself, I allowed Sam to help with my coat, permitted Lieutenant Peavey to take my elbow and guide me down the front steps into the cold night, and let him usher me into the front seat of his patrol car.
At least he didn’t put me in the back behind the wire cage, so that everybody who saw me would think I was a hardened criminal.
I scrunched back into a corner of the seat, hoping no one would see me and holding on to Sam’s last words to me, “Don’t worry, honey, you’ll be back home in no time. I’ll get Binkie and we’ll be right behind you. In fact, I’ll go pick her up.”
It was dark inside the car except for the glow of the rows of flashing red and green lights of electronic equipment on and under the dashboard. Lieutenant Peavey mumbled something into a microphone about a female in the car at 5:25 P.M.
I didn’t think it incumbent on me to engage him in conversation, so I looked out the window at the night lights on the street corners and in closed shops, thinking how I’d failed to appreciate my freedom when I had it. People were home safe and comfortable, unshaken by having found a dead acquaintance and being subsequently questioned about their complicity in same, while I was caught up in a web of suspicion and uncertainty.
I cleared my throat. “Lieutenant Peavey?” I ventured.
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”
He gave me a quick glance. “Only when we arrest you.”
“I thought that’s what you’d just done.”
“Not yet. You’ll give us a statement, answer a few questions, and that’ll be it. Unless we find further evidence that implicates you.”
Prints! I thought—finger, hand, and foot, just as Sam had said. I was in big trouble, unless . . . unless they find somebody else’s prints as well. And surely they would, I assured myself, because
I most certainly was not the only person who’d been there.
“How long before you know if there’s more evidence?” It flashed through my mind to wonder if I’d have enough time to abscond to a faraway location.
“We’re still collecting it from the scene,” Lieutenant Peavey said, being, I suddenly realized, uncommonly communicative. Did that have a sinister meaning? Did they become nicer once they had you in their grasp? “There’ll be some people we can exclude and some we’ll have an interest in.”
Have an interest in? That didn’t sound good.
I needed to know what category I was in. “Does that mean I’m one of those persons of interest?”
“We don’t use that term,” Lieutenant Peavey said.
“Well, what do you use?”
“Suspects.”
Chapter 13
Lieutenant Peavey led me inside the sheriff’s department, down a hall, and into a small room about the size of my kitchen pantry. The word INTERVIEW was on a plaque beside the door, which was better than CELL BLOCK. The decor, however, left a lot to be desired, there being only a mirror on the wall and no pictures. The only furnishings were a table with one chair on the far side and two chairs on the near side. He directed me to the single chair.
“Detective Ellis will be right in,” the lieutenant said as he turned to leave. He stopped at the door as if he’d just thought of something. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A cold drink? What would you like?”
“I’d like to go home.”
He shook his head, either to deny my request or in disgust at my recalcitrance. With no other response, he shut the door behind him and left me. And left me.
I thought they’d forgotten I was there, but just as I was about to get up and remind them, the door opened and a man some inches shorter than Lieutenant Peavey but equally as wide entered with a warm smile.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, drawing out one of the chairs opposite me and taking a seat. “Busy night. Now, Mrs. Murdoch, I know you’re anxious to get home, so all we want from you is an account of what happened this afternoon. Oh, by the way,” he went on with a warm smile, “I’m Detective Ellis, and my job is to make you as comfortable as possible, get your statement, then send you on home.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because I’m more than ready to go.” Actually, it was a great relief to deal with a man of some refinement, rather than the uncivil lieutenant.
“Okay, then. Just look this over,” he said, sliding a pen and a page of closely typed sentences toward me. “And sign at the bottom. All it does is give us permission to take your statement. It’ll save you a little time and get you home quicker. Although,” he said, then paused as he searched my face, “I know you’ve asked for your lawyer, so we can continue to wait for her if that’s what you want to do.”
“I don’t know what could be keeping her,” I said, looking around with some anxiety, “but I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.” I scanned the page, found the blank for my signature, and signed my name. I slid it back across the table.
“I don’t blame you,” Detective Ellis said, implying that he would’ve done the same. “We’ll be through here before you know it. Now, for your protection and with your permission, I’m going to record our interview.” Then with an easy grin, he said, “That’ll keep us law enforcement types on our toes.” He put a small recording machine on the table, turned it on, and stated my name, his name, the date, and the time.
“Is this legal?” I asked, fearful of having every word I said recorded for posterity and anybody else who wanted to listen. I could possibly change my mind at some point in the proceedings, or my memory could fail me, or I might just wish I’d worded something differently. “I mean, I thought we were just going to talk. Maybe I should wait for my lawyer after all.”
“It’s entirely your decision, ma’am,” Detective Ellis said, clicking off the recorder and getting to his feet. “I just thought you’d rather go ahead and get this done so you could leave. But we’ll wait if that’s what you want.”
“Well, I don’t know. I thought she’d be here by now, but I don’t want to drag this out half the night. Let’s just go ahead and get it over with.”
“That’s the ticket,” he said with an approving smile as he clicked the recorder on again. He was such a nice man that it pleased me to please him. “We’ll have ourselves a little chat, and then you’ll be through.
“Now, in your own words, Mrs. Murdoch,” he went on, settling back in his chair, “why don’t you start by telling me when and why you went to the Clayborn house this afternoon?”
“Well,” I said, my mind racing to determine what and how much to tell. I was still committed to the promise I’d made to Pastor Ledbetter, so I couldn’t reveal that my visit to Connie had been an effort toward home missions outreach. “Well,” I said again, “I didn’t know Connie Clayborn well, but I called her this morning . . .”
“Hold right there,” Detective Ellis said, sitting up. “You made the first contact?”
“Well, yes,” I said, not understanding his need to clarify such a minor matter. “The first contact today. But she started it all last week when she had a social event for a dozen or so local women, of whom I was one. So I called to thank her for the invitation she’d extended to me, and she invited me to come over this afternoon about four o’clock. To talk, you know. She said she wanted to get to know me better, but she’d just received a large shipment from Europe—I don’t know what it was, furniture and so on, I suppose—they’d just recently moved here, you know. Anyway, she said she’d be busy until late afternoon.” I paused, thinking rapidly. “I almost suggested another day because the weather was so threatening, and I wish I had. But she encouraged me to come, and to come to the back door because her front hall was full of crates and boxes. The shipment from Europe, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” Detective Ellis said. “And did you go to the back door?”
“Yes, I did, and almost left because no one answered the door—another thing I wish I’d done. The lights were on in the kitchen, but nowhere else in the house. That I could see, that is. And it was getting dark and the wind was picking up, so after ringing the bell and rapping on the window, I was about to leave.”
“Did it upset you that she’d invited you, then didn’t answer the door?”
I thought for a minute. “No, I don’t think it did. I think I was relieved to forgo a visit so I could get back home before dark. I thought maybe she was in the bathroom or maybe in the front of the house where she couldn’t hear me. See, Detective Ellis, when you pay a visit to someone, just showing up when you’re supposed to counts as a visit made. Doesn’t matter whether the hostess is there or not, so I figured I’d done my duty and started to leave. I would’ve left a calling card if I’d had any with me.”
“But you didn’t leave.”
“No, because I saw the shoe.”
“The shoe? Where? Outside?”
“Oh, no, it was inside. I saw it through the window. It was a clunky shoe like the ones Connie wears. Wore, I mean. Like she wore. It was lying sideways on the floor. The heel and the sole were sticking out beyond the counter—that’s all I could see from the window.”
“So you were looking through the window. Over the sink?”
I looked at him, wondering what he could be thinking. “No, Detective, I did not climb up on anything to look through a high window. If you’ve been to her house, you’ll know that the back door is half window, the top half. I was looking through that.”
“Oh, right. Just trying to get the full picture. So what did you think when you saw the shoe?”
“I’m not sure I thought anything. Just reacted, I guess. No, wait a minute. I guess I thought she’d fallen and was hurt. Anyway, I knocked louder and rattled the doorknob. That’s when I found that the door wasn’t locked, so I went in to be of help
if I could. And there she was—sprawled out on the kitchen floor right up next to the row of sink cabinets with that one foot—with the shoe on it—sticking out just where I or anyone could see it from outside.”
“Okay, so what did you do?”
“Well, and this was the strangest thing, Detective, and I have no explanation for it. It was like I took it all in at once—Connie just lying there, blood puddles and spatters all over the place, that fan whirling overhead as hard as it could go, pots and pans scattered around, a dust mop under the table, a chair lying on its back with its legs up in the air—and, see, that wasn’t like Connie at all. As far as I’d been able to determine during my previous visit, she was a meticulous housekeeper.
“Anyway,” I went on, brushing back my hair from the heat in the room, “the first, and seemingly the most important, thing I noticed was the heavy smell of burned coffee, and, see, Detective Ellis, that’s what I can’t explain. The first thing I did was walk right past Connie and unplug the coffeepot. That’s what was so strange. I mean, except for finding her unconscious on the floor, which is what I thought she was. At first.”
“Uh-huh, so then what?”
“Then I squatted down beside her, called her name, then shook her shoulder.” I shuddered. “I wish I hadn’t done that, either, because that’s when I realized that she wasn’t just unconscious.” I paused, recalling the feel of Connie’s shoulder. “That, and the one eye staring out over the puddle of blood under her head.”
“So you moved her head out of the blood, right?”
“No! Where are you getting this, Detective? No, I did not touch her again. Oh, wait, yes, I did. I pulled her skirt tail down. It was hiked up over her hips, and I knew she’d be embarrassed to death to know that her underclothes were on display. And just as I was about to get up—see, I was still crouched down beside her—that’s when the lights went out and I heard a noise somewhere in the front of the house.” I really shuddered then, just thinking of it.
