Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

  “Enough, Jimmy,” I heard her say. “I’m working.”

  “And I’m buying,” he said with a smirk.

  She shoved past him. “Not from me.”

  “Come on, darlin’. Play nice and I’ll leave a big tip.”

  “Thought you were broke, Madigan,” called the bartender. “You finally get a job?”

  Jimmy Madigan. I froze, unable to stop staring. Laura’s husband. No wonder she wanted a divorce—I couldn’t imagine what she’d seen in him to begin with. They seemed not just mismatched but from two entirely different species.

  “I’m not gonna need one,” he replied. “Big payout coming my way real soon.”

  “You say that every time you head over to the riverboat,” said the bartender. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Not the boat,” Jimmy said. “Didn’t you hear? My wife’s old man died.”

  “Clem?” The bartender shook his head. “That’s a damn shame.”

  Jimmy snorted. “Not for me. Couldn’t wait till he kicked off, the way he was always interfering. A man’s marriage is his own business. I warned him to stay out of it.”

  Had he, now? Interesting—I’d assumed there was bad blood between the two men, but this sounded like more than animosity. This sounded like a motive. Even though my skin was crawling, I edged closer.

  “What was there to stay out of?” the waitress scoffed. “She dumped you.”

  “She didn’t appreciate what she had,” Jimmy said, turning a ferocious scowl on her. “Now that Daddy’s not taking care of her, she’ll come home. Especially after the hospital pays up.”

  “For what?” she shot back.

  “A settlement. That’s what they call it, so I don’t sue for . . .” He put his hand over his heart. “Emotional distress.”

  The bartender turned toward me, clearly disgusted. “Help you, sweetheart?”

  I jolted. “Oh. Um . . .”

  Jimmy turned to focus on me, his eyes traveling lazily over my body. Up close, his complexion was sallow, skin drawn tightly over sharp cheekbones and jaw. In a kinder face, it would have been striking, but Jimmy just looked . . . hungry. “Put it on my tab,” he ordered the bartender and sidled over.

  “Haven’t seen you here before.” He smelled of cigarettes and stale beer. I shifted away, but he followed, deliberately crowding me.

  “Just visiting,” I said coolly, and turned to the waitress. “We’re ready for the check.”

  “Sorry about that,” she replied. She ripped our bill off the order pad and held it out.

  Jimmy plucked it from her hand, held it out of my reach. “Night’s just starting. Why don’t you stay? We can get to know each other better.”

  He trailed a finger along my arm, and instinct kicked in.

  Nobody’s ever happy to come to the ER; some people, in fact, are downright uncooperative. And while nurses like Marcus, roughly the size of Mount Rushmore, can easily restrain patients, I lack the height—and muscle mass—to stop a raging meth addict through sheer force. Instead, I’ve developed other techniques.

  Grabbing his wrist, I twisted, fast and hard, far enough to transfer the force up to his shoulder. Not enough to break anything, of course, but I applied enough torque to make his face go white. He dropped to his knees, swearing a blue streak.

  The room stilled.

  “Thanks, but I know everything I need to.”

  From behind me, Garima whispered, so low only I could hear it, “Don’t give Strack more ammunition.”

  With a sigh, I let go. Jimmy scrambled up, color flooding his face, spewing obscenities.

  Garima pulled out her wallet, but the bartender waved her away. “No charge, ladies. Thanks for the show.”

  “Our pleasure,” she said and hustled me out of Crossroads.

  * * *

  “Jimmy wanted Clem dead,” I said as we drove home. “You heard him. He wanted Laura back, and he was always looking for a chance to make a buck.”

  “You think he killed Clem so he could sue the hospital? That seems a little complicated for a guy like Jimmy. He doesn’t strike me as the criminal mastermind type.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t thinking about a lawsuit,” I admitted. “But he might have been hoping there was a life insurance policy or some kind of inheritance.”

  Garima glanced at me, then returned her attention to the road. “An hour ago you were talking medical error. Now you think it’s murder?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “Which is why I want to see the postmortem.”

  “Strack isn’t going to give it to you,” she said. “Why not go to the police? I’m sure Noah would listen to you.”

  He might, but listening and believing were two different things. I’d squandered Noah’s belief in me twelve years ago, and I doubted it would be easily replenished.

  “What would I say? I have a gut feeling? Jimmy Madigan was running his mouth at a bar? I need some kind of proof. If I can’t get it from Clem’s chart, where am I going to find it?”

  We drove through the deserted town square, antique streetlights glowing warmly along the empty sidewalks. Most of Stillwater went to bed early, especially on a weeknight. As we passed the darkened windows of Stapleton and Sons, I wondered again what Charlie wasn’t saying and if the books would tell a different story altogether.

  And then it hit me.

  Medical records weren’t the only paper trail Clem had left. “Stop the car!”

  Garima, ever-unflappable, coasted to the curb. “What’s wrong?”

  “Clem was a handyman,” I said. “My mom said he was a wholesale customer, so we must have records about his account.”

  “How does that help you?”

  “His account balance should give me an idea of how his business is doing—if he has a lot of clients, if he’s paying his bills on time. If Clem’s making good money, Jimmy has a better motive.”

  “You could also ask his daughter,” Garima said, in the same no-nonsense tone she had taken with Charlie. “If she’s his next-of-kin, she can probably get his bank records.”

  “I met Laura yesterday,” I said. “If I ask for her father’s bank records, she’ll think I’m a lunatic, at best. Plus, she’s grieving—I don’t want to tell her it was murder until I know for sure.”

  “Fair point,” Garima said. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  “Nah. I’ll be fine,” I said, climbing out of the car.

  “How will you get home?”

  “Walk,” I said. “It’s not so bad from here. I did it all the time when I was a kid.”

  “It’s late,” she pointed out. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

  “It’s Stillwater,” I replied. “Thanks for the girls’ night.”

  “Anytime,” she said. “Be careful, Nancy Drew.”

  I snorted and waved as she drove off.

  The night was cool and clear as I made my way toward the back parking lot. My mom’s key ring was jam-packed, but it was easy to pick out the one I needed. The store’s oversized brass key was the same one we’d had when I was a kid.

  I fitted the key into the lock and gave it the usual tug and twist. I heard the familiar thud of the deadbolt, the screech of the door as I pushed it open, and then . . . nothing.

  That wasn’t right. I should have heard the alarm, a shrill beeping that lasted until someone punched in the security code. If the code wasn’t entered in sixty seconds, the alarm company alerted the police.

  Had Charlie upgraded to a silent alarm? I dashed to the control panel, in the back of the store. The last thing I needed was Stillwater’s finest arriving on the scene, lights ablaze. I’d never live it down.

  The control panel was the same one we’d had growing up, but the digital display wasn’t requesting a code or counting down, the way it used to. Instead, it blinked a steady, repeating message: “System offline. Call manufacturer for reinstatement.”

  I hadn’t heard an alarm because there was no alarm. Charlie had let the contract
lapse. Stillwater Gen wasn’t the only place lacking in security.

  Annoyed, I turned to survey the room and found myself frozen. I was alone in the family store for the first time since I was a teenager.

  It smelled exactly the same. The faintly dusty scent of machine oil and lumber and metal, the lingering aroma of coffee, the funky, almost vegetal odor of rope, contrasting with the sharpness of freshly mixed paint. I forced myself to take a halting step toward the back counter, fumbling in the semidarkness. My fingers brushed against the varnished wood, and suddenly, I was six years old and seated atop the counter, practicing my spelling and stuffing my cheeks with powdered sugar–covered doughnut holes while my father debated the merits of hex-screws versus Phillips with a customer, his laugh filling the room. He reached out to tug my pigtail, and I caught a whiff of his aftershave—bay rum, familiar and dear.

  I blinked, and the memory vanished.

  Alone again.

  I hadn’t given much thought to the matter when I was a kid, but now the full weight of nearly a century and a half pressed down on me. Stapletons had run this store since shortly after Stillwater was founded in the late 1800s. The oak counter under my hand was the same that had been here back then; generation after generation of my ancestors had stood behind it—and everything we sold.

  I had turned my back on all of it.

  Twelve years ago, I’d told myself I was chasing a dream, leaving Stillwater for a bigger, better life. Now I wondered if I’d also been running away from both memory and responsibility. What did it say about me, that I’d stayed gone for so long? Nothing flattering.

  I wandered the worn wooden floor, not bothering to turn on the lights. Even now, I knew every inch of the store by heart, and each one held memories.

  Stapleton and Sons was originally a single building—seven aisles wide, stocking everything from hammers to drawer pulls to paint thinner, the merchandise crammed all the way to the ceiling. Up front was a single register and seasonal goods. Over the years, the store had expanded, taking over what had once been a five-and-dime next door. The second room held construction materials—plumbing equipment, drywall, lumber, and the like, as well as bigger merchandise—lawnmowers and grills in the summer, and snowblowers and salt in the winter. But the real action happened at the back counter. This was where we took care of special orders and wholesale customers, people who needed pipe or lumber or a chimney’s worth of brick. The regulars viewed it as a sort of social club. Metal stools were tucked under the massive oak slab, so they could settle in and discuss a project at length; a special few even kept their own coffee mug hanging from the pegboard along the back wall.

  Clem would have spent time here, with the other contractors, and it struck me that Charlie must have known him. I wondered how hard she’d take the news of his death. Charlie was a practical sort of person; normally I wouldn’t have expected hysterics. But her state of mind right now was anything but normal.

  Either way, she’d have information on him in the office.

  The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I made my way to the staircase, situated between the main room and the addition. My mom had argued for linoleum when I was a kid, but my dad had insisted on keeping the original wood. History was more important than convenience, he’d said. I was glad to see Charlie agreed, though the floor could use a fresh coat of stain—the center of each aisle was worn down to bare wood. She’d fixed up the front windows, but everything else remained where it had always been. If I cared to look, I’d find extra stock in the basement, current orders in a wire bin behind the counter, and old files upstairs.

  Out of habit, I skipped over the noisy fourth stair and used the key to unlock the second-floor apartment. Cozy and bright, it had been the original Stapleton home, back in 1873. Over the years it had been a bachelor pad, a newlywed love nest, and a mother-in-law’s suite. Unlike Matt and Charlie, I’d never lived in the apartment—though in high school, there had been plenty of nights I’d snuck out and met Noah here.

  Since he and I were both still alive, I assumed my mother had never found out.

  Now the apartment served as office space. I flicked on the lights and trailed through the rooms, getting reacquainted. The kitchen held industrial quantities of coffee supplies and a few snacks. One bedroom was stuffed to the gills with papers and filing cabinets, while the other held toys and an ancient twin bed. A scarred wooden table sat in the middle of the living room, a laser printer on the floor nearby. The sight of all those invoices and the old printing calculator sent me back in time to the nights when my mom would bring dinner from home and we’d eat from paper plates on the floor while she did the books. Charlie and I would fall asleep, curled up like puppies, until it was time to go home—but this tiny, slant-roofed apartment felt like home too.

  I sat down at the table and began sorting through papers. The stack of orders was depressingly short—and the stack of bills alarmingly long. Guilt twinged in my gut. Charlie had made it clear that this wasn’t my business, quite literally. Yet here I was, pawing through the books as if I had a right to inspect what I’d walked away from.

  I don’t know how long I examined the papers on the table. None of them related to Clem, but I couldn’t look away. Business was down. Accounts weren’t paying their bills. The weekend sales had dropped off to the point that Charlie was covering weekends herself, and they were down to two other employees—one of which was Uncle Marshall.

  I frowned. We’d always had employees, and we’d treated them well. But Uncle Marshall didn’t seem to be pulling a paycheck.

  I wasn’t sure Charlie was drawing a paycheck.

  I pushed the papers away. Prying again, and this time for no reason other than sheer nosiness. This wasn’t what I’d come for. None of the papers looked like they related to Clem, so I moved to the bedroom and started rifling through the filing cabinets. The drawers shrieked, metal on metal, as I pulled them out, and I shuddered.

  In the silence that followed came the long, low groan of the fourth stair.

  I froze.

  Old houses settle and creak. Like people, their bones grow noisy as they age, no matter how well kept they are. But this wasn’t the typical noise of a house settling.

  Someone was here.

  I hadn’t locked the door behind me.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. My name was all over the hospital now, thanks to Strack and the lawsuit. In a town like Stillwater, it wouldn’t be hard to track me down—everyone knew where my mom lived. But to find me at the store, at this time of night, meant I’d been followed.

  Jimmy.

  Whether he had killed Clem or not, I’d humiliated him at Crossroads. He could have easily tailed Garima’s car and seen me enter. Completely alone and easy prey.

  Not so easy, though. He should have realized that when I wrenched his arm.

  My temper surged, along with the impulse to teach Jimmy the lesson he’d failed to grasp the first time we tangled. But as I looked around for a weapon, finding nothing but a stapler, reason crept in. My phone was downstairs, out of reach. No doubt Jimmy was better armed, and I already suspected he was capable of murder. As much as I hated to admit it, flight was a better choice than fight, at least for now.

  Stapler in hand, I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Above the toilet was a small window overlooking the flat roof next door. It wouldn’t be my first time sneaking out this way.

  The window was unlocked. I made a mental note to talk with Charlie about the store’s lack of security, then slid the sash up. The swollen frame emitted a squeal of protest, and I went still, certain the intruder had heard it.

  Nothing but stealthy footsteps.

  I popped out the screen, climbed onto the toilet lid, and . . .

  “Sheriff’s department! Come on out.”

  I groaned. So much for avoiding attention.

  “Out. Now. Hands where I can see them.”

  “Noah?”

  A beat.

  “Frankie?
”

  Definitely Noah. I wobbled on my makeshift perch and jumped to the floor, cracking my elbow on the side of the sink. “Ow!”

  “Frankie!” The knob rattled in the frame, and then there was the thud of flesh hitting wood. “Are you okay? Is there someone . . .”

  “It’s just me.” I fumbled with the lock and wrenched the door open.

  Noah, gun drawn, stood inches away.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, gaping at him.

  He holstered the gun and studied me. “Someone called in suspicious activity—no car in the lot, and someone moving around upstairs. I was close, and when I got here the back door was open.”

  “That was me,” I said, rubbing my elbow.

  “I can see that.” He paused, peering over my shoulder. “Climbing out the window?”

  “Like riding a bike,” I said. “You never forget how.”

  He chuckled. “What are you doing here?”

  I paused. “Paperwork.”

  “Thought the business was Charlie’s thing.” The words echoed the last fight we’d ever had. There’s no reason for me to stay. The business is Charlie’s thing, not mine. As if Noah was no reason at all.

  When I could keep my voice even, I said, “Charlie’s got her hands full right now. You know, with the newborn?”

  Noah’s radio crackled, requesting his status. “Hold on,” he said, and turned to speak with the dispatcher. Then he shifted, putting his full attention on me again, and I felt myself flush despite the cold night air pouring through the window.

  “So,” he said, “urgent hardware business. At midnight on a Monday.”

  I wrestled the sash down while I answered. “Turns out that patient of mine—Clem Jensen—was a customer. I wanted to look at his account.” To deflect more questions, I asked one of my own. “Have you found out anything, by the way?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Why are you so interested? Seems like you’d be the last person to get involved with the good citizens of Stillwater.”

  The barb stung, but I didn’t want him to see it. I brushed past him into the living room. “I don’t like losing patients.”