“Ms. Teagarden,” I said.
“You the one that found them?”
“Yes. They’re up on the roof. Under the plastic.”
“The picture man should be here in a minute,” he said. It sounded as though he were talking about Mr. Rogers; Padgett Lanier was one of those people who think because I’m small, I’m childlike. “I’d better let him go up first. Did you touch anything while you were up there, honey? How’d you happen to go up on the roof? Wait, here comes Jack; you might as well tell both of us at once.”
Detective Sergeant Jack Burns came next, and I heaved a sigh when I saw him emerge from his car. He hated my guts. On the other hand, he treated me like an adult. Burns was wearing one of his hideous suits, which he apparently bought at garage sales held on dark nights. He stood looking at the ladder with a face even grimmer than usual. He did not relish making the climb. His no-color hair was scantier than when I’d last seen him, and the flesh of his face was sagging.
Lynn Liggett Smith was right behind him, looking as slim, tall, and competent as ever, and she had the “picture man” with her. Several other cars pulled in after Lynn’s, and it began to seem that whoever was off duty or had decided they weren’t needed at the moment had driven out to the Julius place to see what was happening. It was the place to be if you were a cop.
Martin murmured, “Is there no other crime in this town that needs investigating? Surely somebody is running a stop sign somewhere.”
“Most of them, probably, were here six years ago,” I said.
After a thoughtful moment, he nodded.
Padgett Lanier conferred with Jack Burns, and the picture man was dispatched up the ladder first. Lynn went up after him to help carry his equipment. Fortunately, she was wearing slacks. She looked through the rungs at me on her way up. She shook her head slightly, as if I’d gotten up to another naughty trick.
The yard fell silent. All the policemen—and aside from Lynn, they were all male—looked up at the roof above our heads. I could hear the scrape of the photographer ’s shoes as he scrambled up the roof; the pause as he reached the top, saw the tarp. He said something to Lynn; I heard her reply, “Here,” as she handed him his camera from her place on the ladder. I could only see her feet from my chair. Presumably he took a few pictures. I heard him say, “Lift the tarp for me, Detective, ” and then Lynn’s progress across the roof. I swear I heard the rattle of the stiff, cracking plastic as Lynn raised it.
“They’re stacked on top of each other, Martin,” I murmured. “I guess it’s all three of them.”
“Mostly bones, Roe?” Martin asked. His face was calm, and I knew he was being matter-of-fact because he knew I needed it. And because he had seen death far more often than I.
“Yes . . . mostly. The wig is on her skull. I told you that. I don’t understand about the wig.”
“Probably a synthetic.”
“No, no. It’s the wrong wig.”
His eyes were questioning and he leaned closer, but at that moment Lynn came down the ladder, turned to her superiors, and nodded curtly.
“Three of them,” she said. “Three skulls, anyway.”
A collective sigh seemed to go up from the people on my front lawn.
“Jerry’s going to pass the tarp down,” she said. “Then he’ll take more pictures.” She went to her car and got a large plastic garbage bag. She beckoned to a patrolman. He sprang to help, and they spread the mouth of the garbage bag wide. There were a series of scraping sounds as the photographer/policeman removed the tarp.
“Need someone up here to pass it down!” he called.
Jack Burns shambled forward to the foot of the ladder and began to climb heavily. He had pulled on plastic gloves.
They made an effort to pass the tarp down folded, so nothing would spill from its surface, but it was cracking with age and a few pieces had to be retrieved from the bushes around the porch. Finally it was sealed in the garbage bag and placed in Lynn’s car.
“Get whoever’s on dispatch to call Morrilton Funeral Home to come out here. Tell them what to expect, ” she told the patrolman who’d helped hold the bag. He nodded and went to his patrol car radio.
Some of the men approached Lynn with a request, and after a moment’s thought, she nodded. They converged at the foot of the ladder. One by one the men climbed up. We would hear the scrape of heavy official shoes, a silence as he peeked over the porch roof, then he would come down. The process would be repeated. While that was going on, Lynn and her two superiors congregated on the porch. Shelby got up and arranged three chairs facing ours. Angel took Martin’s chair. He and Shelby stood on the side of the porch, where Angel and I could see them. This did not suit Jack Burns, I could tell, but he could hardly tell our husbands to leave when Angel and I were innocent bystanders to another family’s tragedy.
“Could we move inside?” he asked, with as much geniality as he could muster.
Angel had actually shifted in her seat preparatory to rising when I said, “I’d really rather not.” She shot me a startled look and tried to settle back as though she’d never moved. I saw from the corner of my eye that Martin had blinked in surprise, and Shelby turned to one side to hide a grin.
Lynn, Lanier, and Jack Burns all looked surprised, too.
I didn’t want my house invaded.
“Well, it is a right nice day out here,” Lanier said smoothly.
“How did you come to go up on the roof, Roe?” Lynn asked.
“Angel and I were playing Frisbee.”
Lanier looked from Angel to me, comparing our sizes, and put his hand over his mouth to shield his smile.
“Angel threw the Frisbee, there was a gust of wind, and it ended up going up on the roof. I got the ladder, climbed up, got the Frisbee, and found—them.”
“You were there, Mrs. Youngblood?” Lynn asked politely.
“I was holding the ladder. I’m scared of heights.”
“What happened to your face, young lady?” Jack Burns asked, in tones of tender solicitousness.
“I fell on the gravel driveway, and I couldn’t catch myself in time,” Angel said. Her hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were perfectly relaxed.
“And you, Mr. Bartell?” Lynn asked suddenly, swinging around in her seat to look at Martin. “Where were you when your wife went up on the roof? And Mr. Youngblood?”
“I was driving in from the airport. I got here while my wife was up on the roof,” Martin responded. “I’ve been away on a business trip.”
“I was asleep,” Shelby said.
“You’re not working today?”
“I felt sick this morning, and didn’t go in. As a matter of fact, I started feeling real bad yesterday afternoon, all of a sudden. I came home from work then and haven’t been back since.”
Shelby had neatly covered his sudden departure from work yesterday afternoon after Angel had called him. A “just in case” move, I thought.
That was really all Lynn could ask us, given the circumstances. Perhaps it was even one or two questions more than she should have asked us, come to think about it.
“I’m taking my wife inside now, she’s had a shock,” Martin said. The police cars were vanishing one by one, but local people were beginning to drive by; someone had been listening to a scanner. A hearse from Morrilton Funeral Home pulled into our driveway, and abruptly I could hardly wait to be inside the house.
There was no reason for me to stay, so Lynn nodded. Shelby and Angel came in with us. Martin pulled the drape cord in the living room and blocked out the cruising cars and the police and the funeral-home men. But nothing could block out the sounds from the roof.
Chapter Fourteen
I wanted the Youngbloods to go to their apartment. I wanted to forget about the mad ax-man and the bones on the roof. I wanted to watch an old movie on the TV, curled up on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn and maybe a beer. I wanted Martin upstairs after the movie was over. Or even earlier.
But his agenda w
as different, I realized with a sigh.
He gathered us around the table in the kitchen.
“Now, what happened yesterday?” he asked.
I told him again, and then Angel began her part, her battered face more testimony than her words.
I slumped back in my chair sullenly. A night short on sleep and two days of violent emotions were taking their toll. I was very tired and very sick of crises. I wanted this all to go away, just for a little while, so I could make one of my slow adjustments. But of course I was thinking again of the man who had run at me, and now that I was too tired to be scared, I thought more of his face. While Martin was saying something about security to the Youngbloods, something about the bushes, I realized that there had been something faintly familiar about the man. I associated him with construction, building . . .
The phone rang. I went to the counter to answer it. Sally Allison wanted to know all about the skeletons on the roof; she was not in her “friend” mode, but in her “reporter” mode. I told her.
“You know,” she said, “the police will call in the forensic anthropologist on this one. Did you know Georgia is the only state with a forensic anthropologist on the payroll? He’s never been called to a case in Spalding County before! He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” I said, “if it wasn’t the Juliuses?”
Dead silence. Then Sally laughed uncertainly. “Who else could it be, Roe?” she asked, as carefully as though she were speaking to a lunatic.
I thought, If I were rested I could figure this out, something important. “Never mind,” I said. “See you later, Sally.” I hung up, and the phone rang again. I dealt with that call. Then another. Finally, I switched off the sound and turned on the answering machine.
I sat down at the table with the others, who had been conferring in low voices all this time.
“Roe,” Martin began, and I knew he was about to tell me what to do.
“Martin,” I interrupted. “I think Angel and I will take a few days off and fly to New Orleans.”
They all gaped at me. It was very gratifying.
“I know you need to go to Guatemala, and I expect Shelby needs to be getting back to work before the other people at the plant start to ask questions, so the best thing, with the phone ringing off the wall and all, would be for me—and Angel, since you think I need a bodyguard—to just go somewhere. And I think we might go to New Orleans. It’s been years since I was there.”
Martin looked suspicious. But he said, “That sounds good, Roe. Angel, how does that sound to you?”
“Suits me,” Angel said cautiously. “I can pack and be ready to go in thirty minutes.”
“That would give me a chance to look into having some security installed here,” Shelby said.
“I don’t want to find an armed fortress when I come back,” I told him.
He did not even look at Martin; give him credit for that. “I won’t do anything until I talk to you both,” he said.
I nodded and stood up in a very pronounced way. The Youngbloods rose instantly and left for their apartment. Martin went to the living room and looked through the crack in the drapes.
“They’re leaving,” he said, not turning around. “All the police. The hearse has gone.”
I waited.
He finally faced me. “Roe, I don’t know what to tell you now. Nothing has turned out as we planned. I wanted a good life for us, I wanted to provide for you and take care of you, and I never wanted any harm or upset to come to you. I thought I could keep the gun thing separate. I thought I would go to work at the plant and come home and you would tell me about whatever you were interested in and I would enjoy it and we would make love every night.”
Maybe I had sort of planned on all that, too.
“Well, Martin. It looks like we’re not going to have that, exactly.” I walked over and put my arms around him, lay my head against his chest. He squeezed me so hard I thought I would squeak. “We’ll have something different, though. If you can disentangle yourself from this arms thing . . .” we have a chance, I finished silently. “But,” I resumed, “we can still go for part of your expectations.”
“Hmmmm?”
“We can make love every night.”
“Let’s go upstairs.”
“Good idea.”
Readers, he carried me.
New Orleans. In New Orleans, Angel’s battered face attracted little attention. Angel followed me grimly through the gorgeous new Aquarium of the Americas at the foot of Canal Street. Angel sulkily refused iced coffee and beignets at the Cafe du Monde. Angel accepted the rooms and the service at the Hyatt Regency with calm disdain. When a tattooed man on Bourbon Street grabbed my arm and made a suggestion so bizarre and indecent that my jaw dropped open, Angel stepped up from behind me, pressed his arm in a particular spot right above his elbow, and glanced back with grim satisfaction while he rubbed his useless arm and cursed.
“Why are we really here?” she asked after I’d bought my mother some antique earrings at a little shop in the French Quarter.
“Let’s go on the walking tour of the cemetery,” I suggested. We met the tour guide at a little cafe close to the police station. The cafe was loaded with charm and fancy versions of coffee. The guide was also loaded with charm, if an offbeat brand, and I found myself as curious about his sex life as I was about the tour, which was very interesting—though I can’t say Angel seemed too impressed. After we’d received the lecture about staying with the group since there’d been some muggings in the cemetery, I saw from Angel’s restive gaze and alert stance that she was aching for someone to try to attack us.
“Why are we really here?” she asked, as we ate in a Cajun restaurant across from the convention center.
“Let’s go to the zoo tomorrow,” I suggested.
When we got back to the Hyatt, I found Martin had left a voice message on my room telephone. “I’m here, I’m trying hard, and it looks possible but difficult,” he said. “I miss you more than I can say.” I had a sudden blur of tears in my eyes and sat on the side of my bed gripping a Kleenex.
It wasn’t the message I’d hoped for. Dawdling in New Orleans, having a good time, wasn’t going to work. I was going to have to try Plan B.
I should have called Sally Allison. It would have helped a lot. But frankly, it never occurred to me.
“Tomorrow, Angel,” I said, “we’re going to work.”
“About damn time.”
Chapter Fifteen
Angel was driving. She was very comfortable and competent behind the wheel. She’d opened up enough to tell me she’d taken several driving courses especially for bodyguards. We were going out to Metairie, a giant suburb of New Orleans, where Melba Totino had lived with her sister before she’d moved to Lawrenceton.
There was a phone listing for Mrs. Totino’s sister, Alicia Manigault, in the Metairie phone book.
Mrs. Totino had gotten all misty when she spoke of her former home, but I couldn’t see much about Metairie to love, from the interstate, anyway. There were hundreds of small houses jammed into tiny lots, charmless and styleless, leavened by an occasional motel or restaurant or strip shopping center. Surely there were prettier parts of Metairie somewhere?
The heat had begun in earnest here, and I shuddered when I thought of what it must be like in July or August. We had the air-conditioning on in the rental car, and I still felt sticky when we got out on the short, narrow street where Alicia Manigault lived. Scrubby, stunted palms were planted here and there in tiny yards. All the houses were very small and one story, and though some of them were spic and span, others were in need of repair and paint. I would hate living in a place like this more than anything I could imagine. I felt very there-but -for-the-grace-of-God.
The squat flat-roofed house at the phone book address was moderately well cared for. The grass was mowed, but there were no ornamental touches to the yard, beyond some straggly foundation bushes. The house, formerly barn red, was peel
ing, and the side facing the afternoon sun was noticeably lighter than the rest of the house.
Angel unfolded herself from the dark green rental car and surveyed the street expressionlessly. “What do you want to do?” she asked.
“Ring the doorbell.”
The whole property was enclosed in a low chain-link fence. The gate creaked.
There didn’t seem to be a doorbell, so I knocked instead. My heart was beating uncomfortably.
A young woman answered.
I had never seen her before. She was very fat, very fair, wearing a pink dollar-store “Plus-Size” muumuu.
“What you want?” she asked. She didn’t look unfriendly, just busy.
“Is Mrs. Manigault here?” I asked.
“Alicia? No, she’s not here.”
“She doesn’t live here?”
“Well, it’s her house,” the young woman said, her small blue eyes blinking in a puzzled way behind blue-framed glasses.
“And you rent it from her,” Angel said.
“My husband and me, yeah, we do. What you want with Alicia?” A strange sound behind her made the young woman turn her head.
“Listen, come on in,” she said. “I got a sick dog in here.”
We followed her into the tiniest living room I had ever seen. It was jammed with vinyl furniture covered with crocheted afghans in a variety of patterns. The only thing they had in common was a stunningly dreadful combination of colors. Angel and I gaped.
“I know,” the woman said, with a little laugh, “everyone just cain’t believe it. I sell them at craft shows on the weekend, but the ones in here are my favorites. I just couldn’t sell them. My husband always says, ‘You’d think we got cold here!’ ”
She bent over a basket in the corner by a doorway into, I thought, the kitchen. When she straightened, she had in her arms a tiny black dog with brown on its muzzle—a Toy Manchester, I thought.
“Kickapoo,” she said proudly. “That’s his name.”
Angel made a snorting noise and I realized she was trying not to laugh. I was too concerned by the obvious illness of the dog. It was limp and listless in her arms.
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