Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

  “This is adorable,” I said, looking around. The clearing gave way to prairie grasses, and beyond that was forest, far enough away so that the trees didn’t feel like they were looming over you. The wide expanse of sky was breathtaking, the constellations vivid and fresh. Overhead, the nearly full moon hung cool and luminous, casting crisp shadows and silhouettes. I breathed deeply. “It’s like a fairytale.”

  “It was a summer cabin, but he winterized it himself,” she said, pride and affection mingling in her voice. “He wanted something close to the river so he could fish. I worried about how remote it was, but we had such fun here.”

  I wondered if Laura saw memories instead of shadows as she gazed around the darkened clearing. I hoped, for her sake, that they were good ones. She led the way up the painted steps and through the screen porch, then into the unlocked cottage, reaching unerringly for the light switch.

  Inside was a disaster. It looked like someone had ransacked the house, and I reached for my phone, ready to dial 9-1-1. But Laura’s demeanor, tense yet unsurprised, suggested it was the usual state of things.

  “He gave up cigars about a year ago,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Still smells like them, though.”

  She led the way through the stacks of newspapers and magazines, past half-assembled blenders and lamps and a fireplace with cold ashes piled in the grate. She gestured to the couch in front of the fireplace. “My dad’s office.”

  “Not a big fan of filing, I see.” Papers—invoices, manuals, brochures, notes, receipts—lay in untidy heaps across what I assumed was a coffee table.

  “I think it’s why I became a librarian,” she said, smiling. “My rebellious phase involved putting things in alphabetical order.”

  “We’re going to need to go through all of that.” My voice betrayed my dismay.

  She nodded. “If it’s too much . . .”

  “I’m happy to help,” I told her, omitting the real reason. “For now, let’s concentrate on finding open invoices. Everything else we can either burn or put aside for later.”

  Two hours later, the fire blazed merrily as we threw junk mail and old brochures into the flames. The table in front of us was nearly clear, and a pile of papers, sizable but tidy, sat on the sofa between us.

  “Is this the last of it? Would he have kept anything in a workshop, maybe?”

  “He only kept fishing stuff and tools in the barn, and the second bedroom was CJ’s, for their overnights.” Tears welled up, and she covered her eyes. “I’m sorry. Coming in here and handling all his stuff seems so final, but I still can’t believe he’s gone. It doesn’t seem real.”

  “That’s totally natural,” I said. “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “I should be past it by now,” she said. “There are stages of grief, aren’t there? Denial’s one of the first. I shouldn’t be looking around and expecting to see him.”

  My heart twisted. “Laura, my dad died when I was CJ’s age. Even now, when I go home, I expect to wake up and find him making pancakes and burning the bacon. I’m angry when I see he’s not there, and it’s been twenty-six years.” Which might explain some part of why I came home so rarely, but I pushed the thought away. “Grief isn’t a straight line, it’s a spiral. You’re going to pass through those stages again and again, for the rest of your life. But as long as you’re moving up on the spiral instead of down . . .”

  I trailed off, and she gave me a watery smile. “Thanks, Frankie. I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me, but I appreciate it.”

  Now, I told myself. Tell her now. But the force of her grief stopped me. Better to wait until I had more answers than questions. “Laura . . .”

  “I’m going to fix some tea,” she said and pushed herself off the couch. “Want some?”

  What I really wanted was to find Clem’s medication. It would have been the easiest way to poison him, assuming it was a slow-acting drug, and it would explain why his blood work was off. Not to mention, it would be a lot easier to convince Noah that Clem had been murdered if I could hand him a bottle of poison instead of a chart I wasn’t supposed to have.

  “Sure,” I said. “Okay if I use the restroom?”

  “Of course,” she called back.

  Instead of the tiny bathroom, clearly visible from where I was sitting, I slipped into Clem’s bedroom, keeping my footsteps light. It was as messy as the rest of the house. Nudging a mound of dirty laundry aside, I scanned the top of the dresser for pill bottles. Nothing but a framed picture of a much-younger Clem with a woman who must have been Laura’s mom, countless school and candid pictures of CJ, and what must have been Laura’s senior graduation picture, complete with the requisite head-tilt and demurely folded hands. A few of Clem’s fishing conquests were mounted on the walls, and I avoided their glassy gaze as examined the nightstand next to the unmade bed. One of the fish burst into song, warbling about taking him to the river, and I jumped back, hand over my heart.

  “Are you okay?” Laura called.

  “Yeah, just a wrong turn.” I glared at the plastic fish and made my escape.

  The bathroom was barely big enough to fit me. If I stood in the center of the room, I could touch opposite walls simply by lifting my arms. I couldn’t imagine how Clem had managed it. I flushed the toilet and ran the water as if washing my hands, hoping the noise would cover my inspection of the medicine cabinet.

  Clem was a man of simple hygiene. Toothbrush, toothpaste, safety razor, and shaving cream. A comb and a can of spray deodorant. A box of cotton swabs and a bottle of aspirin. But that was it. I gently shut the cabinet door, turned off the water, and pondered. Clem’s meds had to be in the kitchen. I needed to get Laura out of the way.

  “Let me help,” I said, popping into the kitchen. “You shouldn’t be waiting on me.”

  “I’ll have to sell this place,” she said miserably. “He worked so hard to fix it up, and CJ loves it here, but . . .”

  I took the tea kettle out of her unresisting hands and set it on the stove. “You could move in, couldn’t you?”

  She blinked, as if she’d never considered the idea. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Laura,” I said gently. “Do you know who inherits? Did your dad have a will?”

  She shrugged. “A basic one. Everything goes to me.”

  I rummaged for mugs in the cupboard, keeping an eye out for pill bottles. “What about your husband?”

  “Jimmy? He doesn’t get anything.” There was no smugness in her words, only relief.

  “Can he claim your inheritance as joint property? Ask for half in the divorce?”

  “I suppose. I’d need to ask a lawyer, but it’s not like I can afford one.” She paused and handed me the box of plain black tea bags. “Unless I sold this place.”

  Clem’s bank account wasn’t carrying much of a balance, but riverfront land with a restored cottage would bring a nice chunk of change. We’d also found a small life insurance policy in the piles of paperwork. Plenty of motive for Jimmy to get rid of his father-in-law, especially if he thought Laura would be divorcing him soon.

  “Go sit by the fire,” I ordered as the kettle began whistling. Laura obeyed gratefully. Once she was in the other room, I began my search, calling out, “Do you want sugar? The milk has probably gone bad.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Nothing yet. I tugged on cabinets and drawers, trying to sound as if I was looking for snacks. “You should eat something.”

  “I just ate,” Laura pointed out.

  I kept searching. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and then . . . “Bingo.” Inside the battered metal breadbox stood a collection of orange plastic pill bottles.

  “What’s bingo?” Laura asked from behind me.

  I jumped and turned to face her. “Toast,” I said, improvising. “Toast is a good consoling food. Let me fix you some.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Dinner at your house. A few hours ago.” Sh
e frowned. “Is everything okay? You seem tense.”

  “Just worried about you,” I assured her.

  Outside, a branch snapped, loud as a gunshot. Laura whipped around. “What was that?”

  While her back was turned, I snatched up the pill bottles and tucked them in my vest pocket. “Wildlife?”

  “I don’t hear any wildlife,” she said. She was right. The sound of crickets and rustling birds had stopped, the surrounding forest holding its breath. I followed suit.

  Laura crossed the living room with slow, cautious steps, and I realized how visible we must be through the large picture windows, lamplit against the darkness outside. For the second time that night, I pulled out my phone, ready to call the police. My other hand reached for the chef’s knife resting on the counter.

  “Hello?” Laura called, stepping onto the screen porch before I could stop her. “Is someone there?”

  The silence held, deep and impenetrable. There was a quick shuffling sound, as if someone was crunching through leaves, and I tightened my grip on the knife. Before I could tell Laura to come back inside, she darted forward and slapped at the porch wall.

  The clearing outside lit up like a football field—floodlights crisscrossed the yard, bringing everything into halogen-lit sharpness.

  Laura’s shoulders relaxed. “Come see,” she said. I joined her, still gripping the knife, and she pointed to a pile of firewood. The bushy ringed tail of a raccoon disappeared behind it.

  I set the knife down and pressed my hand to my chest. “Time to go, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears with shaking hands. “We can come back if we need anything else. During the day.”

  We locked up the cabin, double-checking every door and window, and headed to the car. Before climbing inside, I paused to listen again. There was nothing to hear but the murmur of the river and the whisper of leaves, the faint rustling of animals through prairie grass. If there was something else out there—something big enough to make a branch snap—it was either long-gone or very, very good at hiding.

  “Do you think we got everything we needed?” Laura asked as we drove away.

  My hand drifted to my pocket, where Clem’s medication was nestled. “I hope so.”

  I locked the door and kept my gaze fixed on the side mirror until we were safely back in town.

  Later that night, I lay on my bottom bunk and listened to Riley’s snores. One arm dangled over the edge of her mattress, poking out through the guardrail, swaying gently.

  My gut told me a stray raccoon hadn’t been the only one lurking outside the cabin. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the only person who’d make that kind of trek was the person who’d murdered Clem. But why? To scare us, or worse? Was there something in the cabin the killer hadn’t wanted us to find? I’d examined the pills I’d swiped, but unfortunately, none of them were marked with a skull and crossbones. I’d need to look them up online or, better yet, find someone to help identify them.

  In the meantime, Laura and I had compiled a list of Clem’s customers. I was hoping one of them would be able to explain where Clem had gotten the money to pay for CJ’s medicine. Every detective story I’d ever read said to follow the money, and that’s what I intended to do. So far, all the trails led back to Jimmy Madigan. A little more proof, and I’d be able to clear my name and get justice for Clem.

  A few feet away, the window rattled. I went still.

  The noise came again—tiny raps scattering across the glass. As if someone was throwing gravel.

  Riley snorted and rolled over. I slid out of bed and crept to the window, peering through the curtains to the yard below.

  And there, in a bed of fading marigolds, stood Noah MacLean.

  FOURTEEN

  Noah looked up at me, grin spreading across his face, eyes crinkling, and in the moonlight, it was easy to imagine I had fallen back in time.

  How many nights had he come to my window, just like this? More than he should have, fewer than I would have liked. The window squeaked once as I lifted the sash and carefully popped out the screen.

  Some things you never lose the knack of.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed, leaning out to get a better view of him. He was clearly off-duty, sporting well-worn jeans and a chamois-colored work shirt, thumbs hooked in belt loops.

  “You wanted information about Jensen, didn’t you?”

  I checked my watch. “At one in the morning?”

  “Figured you’d be up. Don’t you work nights?”

  “I’m not working.”

  “You were up, though.”

  I couldn’t deny it.

  “Come on down, Frankie,” he cajoled, mischief in his voice.

  “What about my mom?” I said reflexively, hearing echoes of my seventeen-year-old self. I shook my head. “Nevermind. Hold on.”

  I tugged my fleece over my head and clambered out the window, lowering it again so the draft wouldn’t wake Riley. The trick to sneaking out of my house was that, instead of climbing—or dropping—down to the yard, it was better to climb up, grab hold of the Japanese maple that soared alongside the house, and make your way down the tree. Less scrabbling against the brick, easier on the fingertips, and when my mom sawed off the limb directly across from my bedroom window, much sneakier. I took the same path now, but what had seemed like a daring climb as a teenager paled in comparison to some of the ascents I’d completed in the last few years. Even so, my heart was racing, my hands so slick I wished for a bag of chalk.

  I landed softly on the grass a few feet away from Noah, who’d reached out an arm to steady me. Unnecessary, but I didn’t shake him off. I curled my bare toes in the chilly grass.

  “You could have used the door,” he said mildly.

  “What’s the fun of that?” I kept my voice low and glanced up at my darkened window, but the purple-striped curtains didn’t even twitch.

  “Just like old times,” he said, and I lifted a brow. “Okay, fine. This time, we’re only talking.”

  “Good,” I said, and led the way to the backyard. My mom’s cutting garden swayed gently in the night breeze. This late in the season, most of the flowers were spent, but the sunflowers and hydrangeas were holding on, the blooms ghostly in the moonlight. Riley’s swing set stood nearby, and I settled myself on the tire swing. Wordlessly, Noah spun it around, and I lost myself in the dizziness for a moment. When it slowed, I looked up at him. “What did you find out about Clem?”

  His expression darkened. “Hi, Noah. How was your night, Noah? Thanks so much for poking around on my behalf, Noah.”

  I sighed. “Hello, and how was your night, and thanks for doing this.”

  “Hello to you, too. My night was productive.” He gave the swing a gentle push. “And you’re welcome.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said. “I really do. What did you dig up?”

  “Clem Jensen was a jack of all trades. He was the guy you hired when you had a bunch of little jobs you wanted taken care of in one go, or when your contractor bailed halfway through, or you needed some routine maintenance. Putting in storm windows or removing window air conditioners, cleaning out the gutters every fall or rototilling the vegetable garden every March.”

  That fit with the records we’d found at his house—a few big, monthly accounts, but mostly it was an assortment of small- to medium-sized jobs. None of them were regular, but taken together, it was enough to make a living.

  “Was he good at it?”

  “Seems like it. Had a reputation for doing the job right, not charging an arm and a leg. He did a stint in Vietnam, so he spent some time down at the VFW. Otherwise he mostly kept to himself or spent time with his daughter and grandson. He was pretty crazy about them, I guess—his wife died about ten years back, so they’re all he had. Everyone I talked to said Clem was a pretty good guy. Not a lot of close friends, but he’ll be missed.”

  Good to know, I mused, but nothing earth-shattering. “A
nything else? Had he been acting strangely lately?”

  He squinted at me. “Funny you should ask. Seems your friend Clem had turned into quite the dreamer in the last few months.”

  “Oh?”

  “Used to be, all he could talk about was the grandson, but in the last few months, it was all about making plans for the future. Taking a big fishing trip out west, getting rid of the son-in-law.”

  “Getting rid of? He wanted to kill Jimmy?”

  “He never came out and said that. He kept hinting that things were going to change, that his ship had finally come in. Said he’d finally hit the jackpot.”

  “He was gambling?” I hadn’t seen so much as a matchbook from the casinos at the cabin, but maybe that was because he’d given up his cigars.

  Noah frowned. “That’s what I figured, but according to his friends at the VFW, Clem wasn’t a gambling man. His wife thought it was a sin, and his daughter thought it was a waste. Even when he went to the casinos, he never did more than play the nickel slots and hit the buffet.”

  So Clem’s windfall was still a mystery. Annoyed with myself for landing back at square one, I said, “Shouldn’t you be reading this from a little notepad? Cops love their little notepads.”

  “Maybe if this was an official investigation. Since it’s a favor for a friend, I decided to be a little less formal.” He paused, then leaned forward and plucked a maple leaf from my hair, and held it out to me like a flower.

  I took it from him, careful that our fingertips didn’t touch.

  “Are we friends now, Frankie?”

  I ran my thumb along the veins of the leaf. “I guess so? If you want to be.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, “I get it now, why you had to leave. I shouldn’t have tried to guilt you into staying.”

  I swallowed hard. “No more wrong than me trying to guilt you into coming with me. It was a long time ago, Noah. We were kids. We didn’t know any better.”