Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

“Are you having a good weekend?” I asked, feeling guilty. Small-talk as interrogation technique, especially small talk with a third grader, made me want another shower.

  CJ nodded enthusiastically. “We had movie night,” he said. “Popcorn and pizza and ice cream sundaes. It was fun.”

  “Sounds like it.” Jimmy had been killed in the wee hours of the morning; Laura wouldn’t have left CJ alone, would she? Somehow, I doubted it. And considering CJ’s cheery demeanor, the police hadn’t made it over here yet.

  Which meant I’d have to break the bad news.

  Again.

  “You’ll have to let yourself in,” Laura said through the screen door, “I’m baking bread.”

  “Smells good,” I said.

  She stood at the counter, hands covered in flour, kneading a mound of dough with fierce, efficient movements. There were three loaves already cooling on the counter. “You’ve been busy.”

  “It’s therapeutic,” she said grimly.

  I couldn’t help it—I scanned her hand and arms for bruises or scratches, searched her face for any sign that she’d been in a fight. She looked tense and unhappy and decidedly frosty despite the heat of the oven, but unharmed.

  Deftly shaping the loaf, she said, “I spoke to Walter Strack, at the hospital, and requested the autopsy. He’s not happy about it, but it’s not as if he could say no.”

  “Great.” There was no sense in mincing words. Noah would be by any minute to break the news—and ask questions. “Something’s happened, Laura. Something bad.”

  She slipped the loaf into its pan, hands shaking slightly. Then she crossed to the sink, rinsing off flour and checking on CJ through the green-curtained window. He was throwing armfuls of leaves in the air, undoing any progress he’d made with the rake.

  “No offense,” she said over her shoulder, “but every time you show up, the news gets worse.”

  “Well, let’s hope this is the last of it,” I said. “Jimmy’s dead.”

  She stared at me.

  “It happened early this morning, we think. At the hardware store.”

  “Jimmy’s dead?” Her gaze flew to CJ again. “You’re sure?”

  “I was the one who found him.”

  She sat down at the table with a thump. After a moment, she said, “Why was he at the hardware store?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It looks like there was a fight, and he was stabbed.”

  She let out a long, shuddering breath. Then her hands clenched in her lap, and she looked up at me, flushing. “I’m glad.”

  “Laura—”

  “No,” she said fiercely. “I’m glad. He murdered my father. He was a terrible husband. He treated CJ like he was . . . damaged. His own son.”

  “You can’t talk like that.”

  “Everyone knows it’s true. You think I don’t know what people say about us? The pity in their eyes? I’m tired of being pitied.”

  “Well, what do you think people are going to say now? The police don’t know what Jimmy was doing in the hardware store after closing. They don’t know who killed him. And nobody had a bigger motive than you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she protested.

  “Has that ever stopped the rumor mill in this town? The only way we’re going to clear you is to find whoever did it.” I’d been so certain Laura had been defending herself that I hadn’t even considered other suspects. “It has to be his partner, right? That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  She massaged her temples. “I guess, but why do it now? If they were going to split the settlement money, wouldn’t they wait until after the hospital had paid up? And why do it at your store?”

  “The police are wondering the same thing,” I said. “They’re going to want to question you, by the way. You need a lawyer.”

  “I can’t afford to—”

  “You can’t afford not to,” I said. “My mom knows somebody; I’ll call him. Noah’s not unreasonable,” I added. “It shouldn’t be too hard to make him see sense. The lawyer will have you home by dinner. CJ can stay at our house until you’re home.”

  “What if we’re next?” she asked, her face suddenly bone-white. “First my father, now Jimmy. What if the killer is after our whole family? CJ could be in danger.”

  They both could.

  Laura scrambled out of the chair, calling for CJ, ushering him into the living room to watch a video, barely concealing her panic.

  “What do I do?” she asked, her voice low and strained. “Should we call the police?”

  “Laura,” I said, “think very carefully. Can anyone verify that you were here last night?”

  She blinked. “Well, CJ. We watched a movie.”

  “After that? Once he was in bed. Did you send any e-mails or make any phone calls? Visit with a neighbor?”

  “An alibi, you mean?” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize I would need one.”

  “Me neither.” I dug my keys out of my backpack. “New plan. You guys are going on a trip.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been under lot of stress, you’re mourning your father, you wanted to get out of town for a bit.”

  “Frankie, I can’t . . .”

  “You can. You have to.” I slid my house key off the ring and pressed it into her shaking hands. “I’m not using my apartment. It’s a day’s drive, a great neighborhood. There’s a taco stand just down the block. Think of it as a vacation.”

  “You want us to hide?”

  I scribbled my address on a sheet of paper. “Just until we catch whoever killed Jimmy. It’s the safest thing for CJ and for you.”

  “But . . .”

  I spoke over her. “Your husband was found dead in my family’s store. You have no alibi. If you’re taken into custody, the police will call family services to take care of CJ. I don’t know who they’ll place him with, but I would rather not find out.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

  “Go pack a bag. And do it quick, because I’d estimate you’ve got thirty minutes before Stillwater’s finest show up on your doorstep.”

  It took Laura and CJ fifteen minutes to leave; it took me another five to turn off the oven and lock all the doors and windows. Four minutes later, I was rounding the end of the block just as Noah’s squad car pulled up to the house.

  Twenty-four minutes. I’d been an optimist.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I figured the last place Noah would look for me was back at the store, so after a quick stop at home for a shower and not-bloody clothes, I returned to the literal scene of the crime.

  My mother had been right. The store was packed—a constant flow of “customers” all gaping at the freshly scrubbed floor. I handed out Styrofoam cups of coffee, rang up bags of clothespins and paint trays, and deflected countless questions.

  “I never knew the little old ladies in this town were so bloodthirsty,” I muttered between sales.

  My mother smiled, nodded, and handed over a bag of light bulbs to the latest snoop. “Pity people don’t die in here more often.”

  “Are you listening to yourself? It’s a little disturbing. Not as disturbing as the number of chisels we’ve sold, mind you.”

  “Everyone wants the murder weapon,” she said and patted my arm. “Better restock while it’s quiet.”

  I headed into the basement and grabbed another box, arms straining under the weight. When I resurfaced, my mom was in front, merrily ringing up another purchase—and Noah was leaning against the back counter, scowling.

  “Quit that,” I said. “You’re scaring the customers.”

  “You tipped off Laura Madigan,” he growled, looming over me.

  “I notified Jimmy’s next of kin in a timely fashion.” I set the box on the floor and rubbed the reignited ache in my back. “It seemed like the decent thing to do.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I really couldn’t say.” I kept my face blank and began restocking the displa
y.

  “You really could,” he said. “Or I could arrest you.”

  “For what?” I shot back.

  “Obstruction of justice.”

  I’d been expecting this. “If Laura killed Jimmy, then I didn’t tip her off—she already knew he was dead. But she didn’t kill him, Noah. She was home with her kid all night.”

  “Can she prove it?” I didn’t reply, and he shook his head. “What was he doing here?”

  “How should I know? We weren’t buddies.”

  Noah seemed to read my mind. “Well, you’re the one accusing him of murder. Maybe he came here to confront you.”

  “Here? In the middle of the night? Do I look stupid enough to agree to that?” When Noah didn’t answer, I shoved him aside, none too gently, and began hanging up chisels. “Maybe he had an urgent home repair and decided . . .”

  I trailed off and stared blankly at the display in front of me. Row after row of hand-hammered murder weapons, hanging at eye level. Despite their exorbitant price tag, Charlie had given them a prime spot in the store, hoping they would stand out. “Decided . . .”

  “Decided what,” prompted Noah. “To steal a screwdriver?”

  I’d been about to suggest exactly that, but the screwdrivers weren’t the problem. I glanced around to make sure nobody overheard. By the front door, my mother was loudly nattering away, trying to distract the busybodies.

  “We are idiots. Both of us. Come here,” I told him, and walked over to where I’d found Jimmy. My stomach churned at the knowledge I was standing in the same spot he’d bled out, but I faced the center of the aisle, my heels against the shelves. “Pretend to strangle me.”

  The corner of Noah’s mouth twitched. “Gladly.”

  He put his hands around my neck, his fingers warm and gentle, his thumb brushing the hollow of my throat, and my pulse skipped.

  “Frankie . . .” he said softly, his breath ruffling my hair.

  “Pay attention.” I reached behind me, stretching out my arm. “I can’t reach the endcap.”

  His hands slide to my shoulders. “It’s five feet away. A gorilla couldn’t reach the endcap.”

  “Exactly.” I twisted away, forcing myself to recall every detail of this morning. “When I found Jimmy, there were tools all over the floor, like someone had been knocked into the shelves.”

  “Right,” said Noah. He plucked one of the screwdrivers off its hook, tested the edge with his thumb. “Whoever killed Jimmy—assuming it wasn’t you—managed to grab one of these and stab him.”

  “No, they didn’t. The killer used one of these high-end woodworking chisels, and those are only kept on the endcap. Nobody could have reached from here.”

  “It was premeditated?” He strode over to the display, brow furrowed. “If that’s the case, why didn’t Jimmy have defensive wounds?”

  “You know how cocky Jimmy was, and how clueless. He probably thought he could handle whoever he was meeting. They took him by surprise.”

  “Doesn’t rule out the wife.” He scowled down at me.

  “Oh, come off it,” I said, annoyed. “Laura didn’t kill him. She was home all night with her kid. Besides, she’s not the type.”

  “I know,” he said, but he didn’t sound happy about it. “Let’s take this outside.”

  Taking my elbow, he led me down the back steps and over to the shed, where we kept the bags of mulch and potting soil.

  “What’s your problem?” I asked, tugging free.

  “You had to touch the crime scene, didn’t you? Couldn’t resist checking it out.”

  “I found the crime scene. Of course I checked it out. But I was careful not to contaminate the scene—I wore gloves.”

  “I know,” he said. “We found them in the trash, covered in Jimmy’s blood. Where’d you get them?”

  “I work in a hospital, Noah. I always have a spare pair of gloves on me. What’s the big deal?”

  He spoke with exaggerated patience. “Your prints aren’t on the murder weapon.”

  A middle-aged couple walked by, eyeing us curiously. When they’d gone, I hissed, “Of course they aren’t. I’m not the killer.”

  “There are no prints on the murder weapon, Frankie. And there should be. Maybe not yours, but Charlie’s. Matt’s. Your mom. The handle is totally clean, which means the killer either wiped it down, or they wore gloves.”

  “You think it’s me?” I couldn’t help it—I laughed, and Noah’s expression darkened. “Be serious.”

  “You were investigating Jimmy Madigan. You’d fought with him; he’d threatened to blackmail you.” The memory of Jimmy’s sleazy innuendos at the motel rose up, and I winced as Noah continued, “His lawsuit was going to result in the suspension of your nursing license. And then . . . someone let him into the store. Someone had the key to get in, and the alarm code. Someone who could plausibly get Jimmy to come to the store in the dead of night. And the only person I know who fits those categories is you.”

  He took my hand in his—a comforting gesture, until he ran his thumb over the bandage covering my cat scratch. “And you were bleeding.”

  “Noah, come on. You know me. You know I wouldn’t do this.”

  “I knew you,” he said softly. “I don’t anymore.”

  My cheeks went hot. “The alarm’s not working. Charlie let the contract lapse. Anybody could have broken in, and the system wouldn’t have made a peep.”

  “They didn’t break in,” he said. “There’s no sign of forced entry, which means Jimmy—or the killer—had a key.”

  “There you go,” I said. “I haven’t had a key to the store in years. I have to borrow it from my mom every time I come over. Are you saying my mom snuck in here and jammed a chisel into Jimmy Madigan’s ribcage? Really?”

  He glanced at the store, as if she might have heard me.

  “I certainly wouldn’t cross her,” he said. “But no, I don’t like Lila for this.”

  “Oh, lovely. Me, then.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed. “No. But if that’s the case I can build after a few hours, imagine what the district attorney will do. You need to take this seriously.”

  “Do I look like I’m playing around? Someone was murdered in my store.” My family’s store, I corrected myself, but it didn’t stop the hot rush of anger. It was my store too, at least for the time being.

  “Why here?” Noah asked. “Why go the trouble of making it look like self-defense?”

  “To cover their tracks,” I said automatically. “Same as they did with Clem’s heart attack. They just . . . weren’t as subtle this time.”

  “I’d say so,” Noah agreed. “But they weren’t covering their tracks. They were laying false ones. Someone’s trying to frame you.”

  “Well, they’re doing a terrible job of it,” I retorted.

  “Pay attention, Frankie. The killer had a key, and they weren’t worried about the alarm, which means they’re familiar enough with this place to know it wasn’t operational. If it wasn’t you, it’s someone who can get to you. Or your family.”

  A wave of dizziness crashed over me as I finally understood what he was getting at.

  “The killer had a key.” I braced myself against the shed wall to keep from swaying. “How did he get a key?”

  “Has anybody lost one recently?”

  “I don’t think so. I used my mom’s this morning. Charlie’s is probably at the hospital, with the rest of her keys.”

  I clapped my hand to my mouth as nausea swelled. I fought it back, saying, “Laura and I think that Jimmy had a partner—someone in the hospital who helped him get access to Clem. Someone who could move around without being noticed. Someone who had access, even to restricted areas.”

  He held my gaze. “Areas like the maternity ward?”

  “Rowan,” I breathed, and then sprang into action, sprinting across the lot toward Noah’s cruiser. “Lights and sirens, Noah. Now.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “If they took Charlie
’s keys,” I said as we raced toward Stillwater Gen, “they could get into the house, too. They could get to Riley. Or my mom.”

  Rather than answer, Noah radioed in a request for a car to be sent to Matt and Charlie’s immediately, as well as a search of the house. After he’d signed off, he muttered, “Can’t wait to explain this to Lila.”

  “She’ll love it,” I said, fighting for calm. “Her tax dollars at work, and another bump for the store.”

  He cracked a smile and floored the accelerator.

  I jumped out of the car as soon as he slowed, tearing through the lobby and jamming my finger against the elevator button, pounding on the security door. Garima stopped in her tracks as the nurse buzzed me through. “What’s wrong?”

  “Jimmy Madigan’s dead,” I said, sprinting toward the NICU.

  “I heard,” she said, matching my pace. Behind us, I could hear Noah’s footsteps. “But—”

  “Someone got into the store,” I said. “They could get in here, too.”

  “Frankie,” she started, but I wasn’t listening. The thought of someone hurting Rowan, so tiny and defenseless, made me want to black out. Garima caught my arm moments before I reached the NICU door.

  “Settle down,” she snapped, blocking my way. “I’m not letting you upset the patients.”

  I forced myself to breathe. Noah caught up to us, and Garima’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

  “Rowan is fine,” she said. “I checked on her half an hour ago. Charlie, however, is livid. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear her in town.”

  “I need to see them.”

  “You can, once you calm down,” she said firmly. She steered me down the hall, voice low. “This is the most secure ward in the hospital. We have cameras everywhere. Nobody goes in or out of the NICU without prior authorization, and if anyone tried to take a baby out of the room, much less off the floor, it would trigger an automatic lockdown. Rowan’s safer here than anywhere.”

  Noah rested a hand on my shoulder. “She’s right. Before we put the entire hospital on alert, how about we check on those keys?”

  “Can we get into Charlie’s room?” I asked Garima.

  “I can’t authorize that.” She held up a hand as I protested. “I am going to get a cup of coffee. I can’t stop what I don’t witness.”