All Signs Point to Murder

by Connie Di Marco

  “I’ll be right back.” Brooke walked down the hall to her bedroom and retrieved a sleeping pill and a glass of water from the bath, carrying it back to the guest room. “Here, Mom. Take a sip and swallow this. You’ll sleep for several hours, and I’ll come in and nap with you in a bit.”

  Mary dutifully took the small pill that was offered and drank the glass of water. She looked up at her eldest daughter and whispered, “She was our baby, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, Mom. Our baby.”

  Brooke’s eyes were red and tear-stained. “Julia, will you sit with Mom till she’s asleep? I need to call her doctor and a lawyer and try to figure out what to do next. Matt’s going to stay upstairs with Ashley. I don’t want her around all this.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Brooke left the room, shutting the door gently behind her. I climbed onto the bed and propped myself against the headboard with an extra pillow. I stroked Mary’s head. She lay quietly, finally closing her eyes, her small frame barely lifting the covers. I must have dozed off myself at some point, but woke to hear voices in the downstairs hallway. I lifted my head and peeked over at Mary. She was breathing deeply and fast asleep.

  I sat up and moved very carefully off the bed. I tiptoed barefoot to the doorway and slipped out to the hallway. Leaning over the railing, I heard Geneva’s voice, and David’s as well. My heart ached for Geneva. Her lovely wedding and now this.

  I waited until the voices diminished and hurried down the stairs to the den, where I splashed water on my face and stripped off my pajamas. I dressed in fresh clothes, pulled the sheets off the bed, and bundled up the laundry. I badly wanted to shower, but under the circumstances decided to wait until I was home.

  In the kitchen, Sofia, Brooke’s housekeeper, was at the stove pouring a ladle of batter onto the grill. She was a tall Russian woman with a round face and pale blue eyes that were swollen from crying. The smell of pancakes and bacon assailed my nostrils. Geneva, David, Dan, and Brooke sat at the table with barely touched breakfast plates in front of them. They all looked up as I entered.

  “Oh, Julia.” Geneva rose and came toward me. We hugged and she held on to me tightly. “My sister …”

  “I’m so sorry, Geneva.”

  She fought back tears. “Come sit down with us and have some food. We can’t eat anything at all.” I sat in the empty chair between Geneva and Dan. “Where’s Matt? Where’s Andy?”

  Dan was clenching his hands, his knuckles white. “They left a little while ago.”

  A tense silence followed. I’d interrupted a family discussion. Geneva and David appeared to be the peacekeepers in the situation, while Brooke and Dan faced each other across the table.

  “What are you going to do?” Dan finally spoke.

  Brooke looked at him. “What should I do? What am I supposed to do?”

  Sofia placed a dish with pancakes and strips of bacon in front of me. It smelled delicious, but my stomach turned at the thought

  of food. She set a napkin and silverware next to my place and then silently gathered up all the untouched food.

  “It was a horrible accident, Dan. He didn’t intend to hurt anyone. Someone took shots at him. What could he do? He didn’t realize it was Moira in the dark.”

  “So he claims.”

  “What the hell are you saying? That this was deliberate? That Rob knew Moira was in the garage? That he intended to shoot her? Come on, Dan.”

  “I don’t know,” Dan grumbled. “I don’t know what the hell to think.”

  Brooke turned to me. “They found bullets in the wall near where Rob was standing. That’s evidence that someone did shoot at him.”

  “Do they think it was Moira? I didn’t see another gun.” I looked around the table and everyone fell silent. Finally, Brooke spoke.

  “I think that’s what the search was all about last night. And I don’t know what they think. They’ll find out she had problems. Drinking was just part of it. She had issues with me, with Rob, with everything. We thought she was doing much better lately, though. We did everything we could to help her out. I helped her with money. We gave her one of our cars. But in a way … I don’t know … I think maybe it just made things worse. I think she resented me for it.”

  I glanced at Dan, but he’d remained silent. David heaved a sigh and shot a concerned look at Geneva.

  “How’s Mom? Is she still asleep?” Brooke asked me.

  “Yes. It looks like she’ll sleep a while longer too.”

  “Good. It’s going to be so hard on her.” Brooke turned to her sister. “Geneva … do you think Mom should stay here with me?”

  “Not if they’re going to release Rob. It might be better if she wasn’t here for now.”

  “Can she stay with you and David?”

  David said, “She’s welcome to. We’re certainly not going anywhere now. I don’t think she should be alone either, but there’s construction going on at our house. It might be too disruptive for her.”

  Geneva spoke up. “We can stay at Mom’s for the time being. There’s plenty of room there.”

  “Good idea.” David responded. “I might have to be at the house sometimes for the construction crew, but …” He smiled ruefully. “I’d rather be with you at your mom’s than alone in the house right now.” He reached for Geneva’s hand under the kitchen table and clasped it tightly.

  The phone rang and Brooke jumped up to grab it. “Maybe that’s Rob now.” She answered, then listened carefully.

  “Thanks for letting us know.” She hung up and turned to Geneva. “That was the manager at the Inn. They heard from the hospital that Sally Stark, your wedding coordinator, is still unconscious.”

  “What?” Geneva paled.

  “They’re trying to diagnose her condition.”

  “Oh my God,” Geneva mumbled.

  “The police might want to talk to us,” Brooke replied.

  A chill ran up my spine. I recalled Moira’s words: That was meant for me. I had a clear recollection of Sally Stark belting down a drink by the dance floor. Had she drunk from Moira’s glass? Moira thought her earlier drink had been tampered with. I shot a look at Dan. His eyes widened and he returned my look. He made a barely perceptible gesture, as if asking for my silence for now.

  “Our lawyer, Marjorie, called a while ago,” Brooke said. “She’s a former colleague of Rob’s. They’re meeting downtown. I don’t think the police were particularly impressed that Rob’s a well-known criminal defense attorney.” She sighed. “But he was a prosecutor with the district attorney’s office years ago. He still has friends there. Marjorie thought maybe some of them might put in a good word for him. There’s a chance he could be released on his own recognizance.”

  “Brooke, I’ll stay here with you for now,” Dan said. He turned to me. “Do you mind, Julia?”

  “No, not at all. You need to be here. I’ll get a taxi.”

  Geneva and David made plans to take Mary home as soon as she awoke. There was nothing more I could do except clear out and let them grieve in peace. I went to the den, straightened up the room, and when everyone had moved into the living room, I returned to the kitchen. Sofia was working in the laundry room. She turned and took the bundle from my arms.

  “Thank you. You’re very thoughtful.” She spoke with only a slight trace of accent.

  “Sofia, last night I was wearing Brooke’s robe and slippers and I think they might still be down in the garage.”

  “Police say I can’t clean down there yet. But I throw them away later. I don’t think Mrs. Brooke should see those things again.” Sofia turned away and muttered something under her breath in Russian.

  “What did you say?”

  Sofia looked at me and blushed. “Sorry. Something my grandfather used to say …” She hesitated. “Not to clean blood until murder is avenged.”

  I st
ared at her and shuddered involuntarily. I headed down the stairs to the garage. My bedclothes of the night before were still in the pile where I’d left them. I looked around at the walls and saw numbered tags where bullets had been removed, a rough outline where Moira had lain, and an area of dried blood staining the concrete. Sofia’s words echoed in my head.

  I went back upstairs to say goodbye.

  “Goodbye, dear, and thank you. Is very sad day, but I know Mr. Ramer never meant this.”

  “How did Rob and his sister-in-law get along?”

  “Oh, not good. Not good at all.” Sofia poured detergent into the washer and set the dials for the next cycle.

  “How come?”

  “Mr. Ramer, he is a very … uh … stiff person? Is that right word?”

  “You mean rigid?”

  “Rigid. Yes. Not a bad person, very kind, but he never liked his sister’s drinking, worried about little Ashley too.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t blame him for that. He is good father.”

  “Moira was around a lot?”

  “All the time. She stay over a lot too. She love that little girl, and Mrs. Brooke always like to have her sister here, but Mr. Ramer worried, he didn’t like her sister around so much.”

  “I see.” It backed up what I’d already heard.

  “But this is terrible thing. I don’t know … how everyone can get over this.” Sofia pushed the lid down on the washer and pulled the knob out. Water gushed as she wiped her hands. She shook her head and returned to the kitchen.

  I called a taxi from the phone in the den and somehow managed to get all my things, even the rolled-up bridesmaid gown and shoes, into my tote bag. I found Geneva and David in the living room and said goodbye, telling Geneva I’d call her later.

  “Brooke’s on the phone in the library, talking to the attorney.” Geneva replied.

  “Please tell her I had to leave but to call me if there’s anything I can do for her.”

  “I will. It’s probably best if we’re all out of her house soon.”

  I trudged down the stairs with my belongings and sat on the low wall in front of the house amid the hydrangea bushes. A few sidelong looks were aimed at me by curious neighbors walking by. I slipped on a large pair of sunglasses. A news van turned onto Clay and cruised slowly down the street. I spotted my taxi coming in the opposite direction. As I stepped onto the street to wave, a curtain slipped back into place in an upstairs room in a house across the street.

  The taxi stopped and I tossed my tote bag onto the back seat and climbed in. The well-tended façade of 793 Clay gave away nothing of the previous night’s horror.

  eight

  It was almost noon by the time the taxi pulled up to my grandmother’s house in Castle Alley. I paid the driver, lugged my bag up the granite stairway, and let myself into her apartment.

  My grandmother, Gloria, still lives in the house where I grew up, a three-story clapboard in North Beach divided into two flats. Kuan Lee, her old friend, lives on the first floor while Gloria occupies the second and third floors. A small sign hung on Kuan’s doorway to alert anyone who might knock that he was with a client. Kuan is an herbologist and practitioner of Chinese medicine who sees clients in his home. He’s in his seventies now, and like my grandmother, remains spry and healthy. He’s become quite famous in the city and his services are always in demand.

  I had a raging headache and my body ached all over. Whether it was the shock of the previous night or the lack of sleep, I didn’t know, but at that moment I would have happily availed myself of his services.

  I locked the door behind me and climbed the stairway to the upstairs flat, calling out to my grandmother. No answer. I was secretly relieved I wouldn’t have to face her right away. I wasn’t in the mood to relive the events of the night before so soon.

  Wizard trotted down the stairs from the third floor, his bell tinkling as he came to greet me. I picked him up and hugged him. He butted his forehead against mine—his way of returning a hug. Gloria had been spoiling him horribly, and his twenty-pound fat black body would weigh twenty-five pounds if I didn’t get him home soon. He jumped out of my arms and ran to the kitchen, expecting a treat. I ignored him and climbed the stairs to my former bedroom, now Gloria’s sitting room. I dumped my purse and tote bag on a chair and grabbed two aspirin from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I downed them with a glass of water and plopped on the bed, clothes and all. I dragged a crocheted quilt up to my chin and fell into a leaden sleep.

  I woke after a dreamless three-hour nap. Wizard had disappeared and my grandmother still wasn’t home. It was Sunday, which meant she’d gone to church in the morning and would probably be busy all day with some sort of endeavor. Her latest hobby was kickboxing. I worried she’d hurt herself. I stumbled down to the kitchen and heated a cup of leftover coffee in the microwave, chugged it down, and returned upstairs to straighten up. Finally I took a shower, happy to be washing chemicals out of my hair, changed into fresh clothes, and brushed my teeth. I pulled my mop of unruly hair, still damp, back in a clasp and slapped on a little makeup.

  Lists of things I needed to do were forming in my head. And at the top of the list was returning Celia’s call. I grimaced, took a deep breath, and looked up her number in my address book. I know Michael’s mother’s number by heart, but a strange mental block always forms whenever I pick up the phone to call her.

  Michael had been the warmest, most caring person in the world. I couldn’t reconcile what I knew of him with the woman who was his mother. In Celia’s mind, no one was good enough for her son. She’d disliked me on sight. I know that now. At first, I’d been terribly wounded by her cold courtesy and barely concealed resentment. After Michael’s death, I found that there was no comfort from that quarter, nor did she want any consolation from me. I’d tried, but there didn’t seem to be any avenue to improve the situation. Logically, there was no cause for guilt on my part, but emotions are never logical. And Celia was a class A guilt trip.

  I dialed her number. The phone rang three times and I prepared to leave her a message. She picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Celia. Hello. It’s Julia.” I hadn’t spoken to her for several months. For the first year or so after Michael’s death, I’d made a point, for my own sense of propriety, to call her at least once a week. Later, the calls were once a month, to ask if there was anything I could do for her. I always received a chilly “No, thank you” in a tone that implied I had asked a favor of her. Eventually my calls became less and less frequent and finally stopped. I wasn’t proud of my reaction to her, but I told myself that had she been a different person, I would have made it my business to stay in better touch.

  “Julia. Yes. I’m sure you know why I’m calling.”

  “Uh, not exactly.” I wracked my brain, wondering if I’d forgotten a conversation.

  “It’s about Michael’s things.”

  “Michael’s things?” What was she talking about?

  “At your apartment. I’m sure there are personal items that you haven’t returned to me.”

  “Well …” I mentally reviewed the contents of my closet. There undoubtedly were things that had belonged to Michael, things of his that had accumulated at my old place. We’d planned that when Michael returned from a cave exploration in Guatemala, I would give up my apartment and move into his larger space. After his death, I moved to 30th Avenue in the Richmond instead. I couldn’t bear to look at anything of his and just packed everything except his letters away quickly, before I was swamped with grief once again.

  “I don’t think—” I began.

  “I’m quite sure I’m correct. I must ask you to go through your things and check. I’m sure there are clothing, books, notebooks, whatever. Under the circumstances, I feel I’ve been extremely patient.”

  I wondered what circumstances she was referring to. “Celia, as you know, I moved not that l
ong ago. I do have some boxes still unopened and I’ll be happy to check as soon as I can.” I wasn’t looking forward to picking at old wounds, but now I’d have to do just that.

  “Anything you have of Michael’s belongs to his family.” Ah, there it was. The unspoken cut. We hadn’t married. I was not family. I felt the knife blade slip smoothly between my ribs. That old familiar sense of not belonging … the child with her face pressed against the windowpane, looking in, never being a part of. My parents both died when I was five years old, killed in a collision on the Bay Bridge. Gloria raised me, and although there’s no doubt in my mind that my grandmother loves me with all her heart, I’ve always carried the sense of being an orphan. Celia knew instinctively how best to hurt.

  I took a deep breath, not wanting to react with anger. “Of course it does, Celia. I will definitely go through everything in storage and I’ll give you a ring in a few days.”

  “I’ll call you again if I don’t hear from you.” With that parting shot, Celia hung up without a goodbye. I felt an angry flush rise to my cheeks. To an empty phone I replied. “I’m sure you will.”

  I dreaded the thought of having to search through at least six or seven boxes still packed away. There were a lot of old mementos from childhood or college in there. But there would definitely be some items—perhaps books, and of course photos and letters—that Michael and I had shared. Celia was not getting my photos and letters. Had she always been this cold and difficult, or since Michael’s death had she gone further off the rails? I’d heard through a mutual friend that Michael’s former bedroom at her house had become a shrine to the son who no longer lived. A sense of sadness swept over me. Who was I to judge? What tortures did Celia suffer daily? I had lost my lover, but Celia had lost a child.

  I bundled the bridesmaid dress and matching shoes into a separate bag. My grandmother would know if there was a current clothing drive going on at her church or in the neighborhood. She’d been a seamstress most of her working life and was always in demand for those types of fundraisers. I could come back later in the evening for Wizard and all his paraphernalia.