Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

  Instead, with a swish of his crooked, matted orange tail, he settled himself at the end of the hand tools aisle.

  “Shoo,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t move, knowing that whatever he was guiding me toward was nothing I wanted to see. “Please.”

  He stared at me, his tail thumping.

  I looked at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Customers would be arriving soon, hoping to get a jump on their weekend projects.

  I’d never liked the way this corner of the store was shadowy, the light from the big front windows not quite reaching to the back. It was too easy to let my imagination take over. My tendency to see the worst possible scenario was handy when dealing with a critical patient, less so when it was what I very much hoped was a vermin issue. “Riley, hit the lights.”

  A moment later, the fluorescents flickered on with a low hum. The cat yowled again.

  “Fine,” I said. “But don’t think this is job security. We sell mousetraps, you know. Aisle seven.”

  I reached the end of the aisle.

  Vermin indeed.

  Jimmy Madigan was lying face up on the wooden floor, eyes sightless, blood pooling beneath him, skin the color of old oatmeal.

  And in my professional opinion, very, very dead.

  * * *

  The cat chirruped, as if curious, and I snapped into crisis mode. “Riley, go to the diner.”

  “What about the cat?” Her voice drew closer.

  I scrambled around the corner, blocking her from the sight of Jimmy’s body.

  “Diner,” I said firmly, and walked her back to the door, digging in my backpack. “Here’s some money. Get yourself a good breakfast.”

  “I had a good breakfast. Remember? Grandma made scrambled eggs.”

  “Fine. Get yourself a doughnut.”

  “Didn’t you already bring some for the customers?” She took in my expression and quit arguing. “What kind do you want?”

  “I don’t. Stay at the diner until your dad gets there, okay?”

  “Aunt Frankie . . .”

  “Go.” I scooted her out the door and raced back to Jimmy, tugging out the spare latex gloves I kept in a side pocket of my backpack. Teeth gritted, I knelt, searching his neck for a pulse. Unsurprisingly, there was none. His skin was cool to the touch, with the clay-like feel of the recently dead. I lifted his hand. Not quite rigor mortis, not yet, but any chance to save him was long gone.

  I stood, intending to get my phone, and then hesitated. The store had been locked when I arrived. How had Jimmy gotten in, and more importantly, why? Was he looking for me? Noah had warned me he was dangerous. Maybe Laura had told him about my theory—maybe she’d confronted him, and he’d come looking for me to plead his case. Or more likely, looking for revenge.

  Revenge. I’ll handle it, Laura had said.

  My nausea returned and my knees went weak. I forced myself to breathe slowly, through my mouth. Ignoring my phone, I crouched down next to Jimmy’s body. No question about the weapon. Dozens of tools were scattered on the ground, as if there’d been a fight and someone had been thrown into the shelves. But only one of them was covered in blood. A chisel—top of the line, I noted, from a company in Tennessee named Whiskey River Tools. It had a hand-forged beveled edge with a polished maple grip, ideal for woodworking.

  And apparently, murder.

  I inspected Jimmy carefully, peeling back his quilted flannel jacket, lifting his blood-soaked T-shirt, noting the wounds as if I was making a report to my attending: a single inch-long laceration between the ninth and tenth ribs, no lacerations on the arms or hands or face, nothing to indicate any defensive injuries.

  If there’d been a struggle, he’d been winning until the thin blade of the chisel was driven into his heart.

  Hard to tell any more without a more thorough exam, but nothing I’d seen set my mind at ease about Laura. I couldn’t quite understand why they’d met here, but I could picture it perfectly: she’d accused him, they’d fought, and Jimmy had overpowered her, tossing her into the array of tools. Laura had grabbed the first weapon that came to hand.

  It was self-defense. Surely the police would see it, too. Surely Noah, of all people, would understand. He’d witnessed plenty of similar scenarios, growing up.

  But something about it bothered me. Bothered me in the same way Clem’s death had—something vague and nebulous but important. Something other than the fact there had been a murder in my store.

  Not my store, I reminded myself. Charlie’s. I was just visiting, and soon I’d be able to put all of this behind me.

  Unfortunately, soon was not the same as now.

  The cat paced at the end of the aisle, his tail brushing against the end cap.

  I straightened, peeling off my gloves. “That was not a mouse. No tuna for you,” I added, reaching down to pet him, wanting some degree of comfort.

  He swiped at the back of my hand with a needle-like claw. I yelped as the blood welled up and glared at the cat as he scampered out the still-propped-open door.

  I wiped my hands on my jeans, then went to retrieve my phone. Time to call the police.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Well, this is a hell of a mess,” Noah said mildly, leaning against the counter as half the deputies in the county swarmed through the store.

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “We’re going to be closed for most of the day. My mother’s going to kill me. At least that’ll be an easy one to solve.”

  “I don’t think it’ll hurt business any. Everyone’s going to stop in. Rubbernecking.” He shifted his gaze to me, assessing. “You seem pretty calm.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve seen a stabbing victim. Not even the hundredth.”

  “First time it’s on your turf, though. Any idea how he got here?”

  I shook my head. “Riley and I came in to open, and he was lying there.” I didn’t mention the cat.

  “Where’s Riley now?”

  “I called Matt to pick her up from the diner. She shouldn’t see this.”

  “That kind of thing tends to scar a kid,” he agreed, and there were shadows in his green eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  I looked away, the sudden silence an acknowledgment that we’d both seen too much, too early—me, huddled in the corner of my father’s hospital room while the staff tried to save him, Noah, taking care of his brothers and sisters when he was still a kid himself. It shouldn’t have surprised me that he’d become a police officer. He’d stayed in Stillwater to protect his siblings; it was only natural that he’d eventually make a career out of it.

  The ME bustled over. “It’s not an exact finding, but based on rigor and lividity, I’d say he’s been dead approximately three hours. At least two, certainly no more than five. Single wound between the ninth and tenth ribs. I’ll have to open him up to be sure, but based on the angle and blood loss, I’m guessing the weapon pierced the right ventricle.”

  Exactly what I’d thought. I tried not to feel smug.

  Another deputy, listening in, said, “Signs of a struggle, but limited to the immediate area. Maybe he was here on a burglary?” He looked me over. “Anything missing?”

  “No,” I said, then considered it more carefully. “I don’t think so, anyway. He wasn’t here to rob us.”

  “What was he here for?” Noah asked. “Can’t imagine the answer’s any good.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying not to think of Laura. “I don’t even know how he got in.”

  “Any idea who’d want to kill him?”

  I hesitated a second too long. “A charmer like Jimmy? Half the town, probably.” I shoved my hair out of my face and forced myself to meet his eyes.

  “Probably,” he agreed. “But why now?”

  “Who knows?” I wound a lock of hair around my finger. The crime scene technicians were gathering evidence, taking pictures, and slipping the fallen screwdrivers into evidence bags. Everything was covered in fine black fingerprint powder. Charlie was going to
be furious: inventory screwed up, lost business, bloodstains covering the floor. It would take me forever to put the store back together, but all I wanted to do was find Laura.

  It was my fault. The details didn’t really matter. Laura had confronted Jimmy because of my accusation, and he’d responded with violence. I wondered how badly she was injured, wondered how hard it would be to make the case for self-defense. My stomach twisted. I might not have stabbed Jimmy, but I’d set Laura on this path. In my own way, I was just as guilty.

  Noah caught my hand, disentangled it from my hair, and inspected it. “How’d you hurt your hand?”

  I glanced down at the rusty red smear against my skin.

  “There was a cat when I came in,” I said. “He took a swipe at me.”

  I left out the part where the cat led me to Jimmy’s body. Telling Noah that his only witness was a feral cat wouldn’t improve his mood any, not that I should be worried about Noah’s moods.

  “In the store?” Noah asked, plainly disbelieving. “Your mom let . . .”

  “He’s a stray. He followed me home a few nights ago. I might have fed him. A few times.”

  “Might have.”

  “He’s very skinny,” I said. “You know us Stapletons. We’re always worried people haven’t gotten enough to eat.”

  Noah had spent plenty of time at our kitchen table, fending off third or fourth helpings from my mother.

  “I remember.” He frowned. “We’re going to need to take a sample.”

  I paused in the middle of pulling out the first aid kit from beneath the counter. “Excuse me?”

  “You found the body, and you’re injured. We’re taking a sample.”

  “It’s a cat scratch!”

  “It’s standard procedure. I can get a court order, if you’re going to be a pain about it.”

  “Fine,” I said, and he called over a tech to take the sample while I huffed and rolled my eyes.

  When we’d finished, he said, “Go over it again.”

  I recounted my grisly discovery, stopping periodically as Noah asked questions, helping me reconstruct the morning in minute detail. He was a good listener, waiting for natural pauses before he interrupted, asking skillful questions that drew out information I didn’t realize I knew. The entire time, I was aware of Jimmy’s body behind me, the pool of blood, and the now-familiar, irritating sensation I was overlooking something.

  “And then you guys got here,” I said, finishing up, wondering how I was going to get to Laura before the police did.

  “Mmn-hmn.” Noah tapped his pen on the top of his notebook. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I just gave you a blow-by-blow of everything I saw.”

  “True. But that’s not all you know, is it? You’re holding something back. Don’t lie to me, Frankie. We both know you can’t pull it off.”

  I hesitated, then offered up the only thing I could without implicating Laura. “There’s something wrong. I don’t know what it is yet. I just know there’s something . . . not right about Jimmy’s body.”

  “His body.”

  “Yes. No.” I drummed my fingers in frustration. “The body? The crime scene? The weapon? I don’t know, and my head is buzzing, and I can’t place it. But it’s off. It’s not what it looks like.”

  Just like Clem.

  “Frankie,” he said in a low voice, “that’s exactly what people say when they’re caught at the scene of the crime.”

  “I wasn’t caught,” I said. “I called you here. And I’m not saying it to defend myself, because I don’t need to defend myself. Something here doesn’t fit.”

  Noah sighed. “That’s what’s bothering you? Something in the crime scene doesn’t fit? That’s it?”

  “The dead body in aisle four isn’t helping my mood any.”

  “I see. You talk to Laura yet?” he asked.

  “Laura Madigan? No. Why would I talk to Laura? You were the first person I called. Check my phone, if you don’t believe me.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “I meant about the autopsy.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” There was no point in lying about something Noah could easily verify.

  “How’d she take it?”

  I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen the knotted muscles there. “I told her someone had murdered her father, Noah. How do you think she took it?”

  “Did you tell her that someone was Jimmy?”

  Before I could answer, a voice carried across the store. “This is my building, Travis Anderson, and I don’t care if it is a crime scene. My tax dollars pay your salary, young man, so you either let me on my property or I can come back with your mother.”

  “Guess Riley told my mom.”

  Noah sighed deeply. “Let her through, Anderson.”

  My mother appeared a moment later, smoothing her hair back into its bun. “Noah. Glad to see someone in the sheriff’s department has an ounce of sense.”

  “Mrs. Stapleton. Deputy Anderson is right, ma’am. This is a crime scene. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “This is my building, my business, and my daughter. Where else would I be?”

  I could think of several million other places, but Mom brushed Noah aside with a sweep of her enormous purse. “You’re hurt, Francesca!”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Literally a scratch.”

  “Has she received medical attention?” she demanded of Noah.

  “Yes. My own,” I said. “Mom, honestly. It’s nothing. Noah and his team will be finished up in . . .” I glanced at Noah, eyebrows raised.

  “As soon as possible,” Noah said. “Frankie’s free to go. She’s answered all our questions. For now.”

  “Questions? Don’t say you suspect her!”

  Noah didn’t reply, instead addressing me directly. “You’re not heading back to Chicago anytime soon, are you? Fiancé’s not expecting you?”

  I paused and shook my head. My mother’s eyes narrowed.

  “Glad to hear it.” The firmness in his voice made it clear that he was speaking in a professional capacity, not a personal one.

  My mother crossed her arms and looked over Noah with an expression that made me cower. “Someone’s going to need to clean up this blood,” she said. “Mops are in aisle seven.”

  With that, she took me by the elbow and marched me out the door.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mom hustled me into her enormous Buick, but instead of driving home, she pulled into the parking lot of the Lutheran church down the street, out of sight of the police.

  “Francesca, why is there a dead body in my store?”

  I sank lower in the seat. “Because someone stabbed him with a three-quarter-inch Whiskey River chisel.”

  “Don’t be smart,” she snapped.

  “Trust me, I’m not,” I said. “I don’t know why he was there.”

  “Or who killed him?”

  I stayed silent, and she eyed me speculatively. “Who was he?”

  “Jimmy Madigan.”

  “Laura’s husband? The gambler?” She folded her arms and stared at the white clapboard steeple. “I see.”

  And she did, I was certain.

  “Mom, there’s no sense in taking me home. I’ll go back and wait until Noah and his team are done, then lock up.”

  Her eyes widened in horror. “We’re not closing!”

  “The store is a crime scene,” I said. “We can’t exactly open for business as usual.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “We’ll need more people. Matt and Riley can help; I suppose Uncle Marshall can pitch in, too.”

  I drew back. “What? No. We need to stay closed for today. Tomorrow, too, maybe. Out of respect.”

  “For a gambler who cheats on his wife and doesn’t take care of his child?” she snorted. “What’s to respect? We’ve already lost the Saturday morning crowd. We can’t close for the whole day.”

  “Nobody’s going to shop at a crime scene,” I said, aghast.

  “Of course they are,” she replied. “
This is better than advertising. By lunchtime, every person in Stillwater is going to remember some sort of urgent home repair they need to take care of. As soon as the MacLean boy leaves, they’ll be on our doorstep, looking for gossip and spackle.”

  “That’s . . . mercenary.”

  “That’s business,” she said airily. “And good business, to boot. I’ll pick up extra doughnuts. You make sure there’s plenty of coffee.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “Someone needs to tell Laura.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure she doesn’t already know?”

  I didn’t answer, which was all the admission my mother needed. “Andrew Kleeman is supposed to be quite a good defense lawyer. Remind her not to say anything until he gets there.”

  “You have hidden depths, don’t you, Mom?”

  She smiled. “I’m so glad you finally noticed.”

  * * *

  I headed to Laura’s tidy white cottage, my steps dragging. Would she even be home? What if she and CJ were already on the run? The police would come calling soon enough—they always looked at the spouse, especially if it was an estranged spouse. Would I be considered an accessory after the fact, once Noah realized I’d known it was Laura all along? I hadn’t lied, exactly. I’d just wanted to make sure she had someone on her side, after everything she’d been through.

  And then my feet stopped completely as an entirely different possibility presented itself.

  What if I’d been blinded by sympathy—I’d taken Laura’s meekness at face value, but what if she’d been manipulating me all along? What if she and Jimmy had planned Clem’s death together, and she’d turned on him when I got too close to the truth?

  Is that what I’d missed?

  A moment later, CJ came around the house, holding a rake that was far too tall for him. “Hi, Miss Stapleton!” he called, spotting me. He trotted over. “Did you bring Riley with you? I have to rake leaves, but we could jump in them when I’m done.”

  “Sorry, it’s only me,” I said, forcing a smile. “Is your mom home?”

  He nodded. “She’s inside.”