by Sara Rosett
Mitch rounded the slight curve and a strip of yellow tape barred the drive. He threw the minivan into park and we both jumped out. Before we could even get to the line of tape, which I saw was printed with the bold words DO NOT CROSS, a uniformed officer, a young man with closely cropped brown hair and a smattering of freckles, stepped in our path.
“No one beyond this point. You’ll have to back up.”
Mitch wasn’t listening to him. He was scanning the scene behind the tape barrier. Several official cars and SUVs were parked around the front of the Arts and Crafts–style bungalow with faded blue trim and a porch swing. The front door was propped open and a group of people in uniforms stood on the wide front porch, between the hefty porch pillars that had a base of smooth river rocks set in concrete. Wooden pillars extended upward to meet the sloping roofline. A dormer window in the half story upstairs broke up the roofline. Off to the side of the house, a tire swing, which hung from a large mimosa tree, spun slowly in the breeze. I didn’t see Mitch’s dad or Aunt Christine anywhere.
The young officer in front of us said, “I need you to turn that minivan around.”
An engine rumbled to a stop behind us and I saw it was another minivan, this one black. I stared at the small, almost delicate lettering on the side. CRIME SCENE UNIT. I whipped around to the young officer. “What’s going on?”
“Murder investigation.”
Ellie Avery’s Tips for Preserving Family Treasures
As with any organizing project, it’s important to take time to survey the task before you begin. Decide how you can break the project down into manageable tasks. For instance, instead of thinking, “I want to organize all the memory boxes in the garage,” you could set a goal of organizing photos first, school papers and projects next, and historical/genealogical items last. Not only does dividing one large job into several more manageable tasks provide you with a game plan, it also keeps you from feeling overwhelmed.
Chapter Two
“Murder investigation?” Mitch and I chorused as a woman in her midthirties slipped under the tape line beside us, causing her shoulder-length black hair, which was pulled back in a clip, to slide over her shoulder and reveal the word “Sheriff” across the back of her bulky black jacket. She gave the officer a disapproving look and said, “I believe what Officer—” she paused to read his nameplate and add a measure of reproof as she stared at him, “—Taggart meant to say was that this is an investigation of a possible crime scene.” The woman’s words were clipped and there was no trace of the soft, unhurried rhythms of Officer Taggart’s southern accent.
The young officer blinked and I could see him fighting down a flash of anger. He nodded curtly and said, “Of course, Detective Kalra. Sorry.”
Mitch assumed his dealing-with-bureaucracy tone. “Look, I see you’re busy, but we need to know what’s going on here. I’m Mitch Avery. That’s my grandfather’s house. My dad and aunt are supposed to be here. Can we go inside?” Mitch’s years in the air force had given him plenty of experience untangling red tape. He had much more patience in that area than I did. Dealing with the minutia of official procedures drives me crazy, but Mitch had learned how to work the system: be understanding and courteous. And sometimes he brought out the big guns—his smile, which somehow brought people around to his side.
Mitch wasn’t smiling at Detective Kalra, which I thought was probably good. She looked like the type of person who cut straight to the point. I doubted Mitch’s special please-help-me-we’re-both-on-the-same-side smile would have any impact on her. Detective Kalra pressed her full lips together as she looked us both over. “Wait here,” she instructed before she crossed the gravel drive and went up the steps to the house.
Mitch and I exchanged glances while Officer Taggart ignored us and checked the knots that held the tape line up. We stepped back and I said, “At least she seems to be the right person to talk to here.”
“Yeah, she’s definitely checked out on peanut butter and jelly,” Mitch said in a low voice. Officer Taggart shot us a puzzled look, but I knew exactly what Mitch meant. A few years ago, Mitch had requested his flight meal, asking for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The airman making the meals had said, “I can only make you a peanut butter sandwich. I’ve been checked out on peanut better, but not on jelly.” The situation was typical of the absurd rules and regulations that are layered throughout government bureaucracy. Since the peanut butter and jelly incident, if we found someone who could cut through all the red tape and get things done, we’d say that the person was “checked out on peanut better and jelly.” Detective Kalra certainly seemed like the person who was in charge here and could get us into the house.
We shared a grin and the creases at the corners of Mitch’s eyes crinkled together. The knot of tension and worry that had been with me since Mitch retreated into his withdrawn, thoughtful mood eased a bit. It was so nice to have this shorthand language of references that we understood perfectly, but would be utter nonsense to anyone else.
Detective Kalra emerged from the house and crossed back to us. “Only one of you,” she said as she lifted the tape line. Mitch glanced at me and I nodded for him to go. It was his grandfather. He ducked under the yellow strip and followed her to the house.
“So where do you want me to move the van?” I called to Officer Taggart, who’d moved to the other side of the yard. I figured I’d be as cooperative as possible. We didn’t want to annoy anyone in law enforcement.
“Put it over there beside the garage.” I found my extra set of keys in my purse and climbed in the van. There wasn’t much space to maneuver because the crime scene van had parked so close behind us, but Officer Taggart waved me back and forth until I’d inched out of the confined space. I parked in the small clearing beside the detached garage and blew out a puff of breath, relieved that I hadn’t dented the bumper on the crime scene van.
I hopped out of the van and made my way carefully down the tiny path that ran beside the detached garage, which was in the shade and smelled earthy and slightly damp. Set at a right angle to the house, the garage was as old as the house and built in the same Arts and Crafts bungalow style. Grandpa Franklin had given up driving. During our last visit, Caroline told us that Bill and Aunt Christine had convinced him to sell his car after he’d nearly run down the mailman on a foggy morning. He hadn’t wanted to give it up, but they’d persuaded him. Grandpa Franklin managed to sell his immaculately maintained Town Car for more than Blue Book value and that had made him happy. He’d then used the garage for storage, and I doubted anyone had been inside for weeks, if not months, but it was included in the yellow tape enclosure that circled the house.
There was no sign of Mitch or any other relatives in the yard. The air felt sharp and cold against my face and when I breathed out, I could see a trace of vapor in the air. I shoved my hands in my pockets and settled in to wait. The sun was sliding lower behind the clouds, seeming to hurry along the evening darkness. It felt as if it was closer to six, when it would be fully dark, rather than four.
Officer Taggart had moved the tape so that the crime scene van was able to park in front of the house. He’d secured the tape back in place and was now swiveled to face the house, with his back to me as he talked to another officer. The crowd on the porch was gone and the front door was closed. I couldn’t see anything through the windows, but I did spot Bill’s Saab parked around the far side of the house by the kitchen door. The other officer went into the house and Officer Taggart spotted me. He walked over and I expected him to tell me to step away from the yellow tape, but he nodded to me and said, “I doubt it’ll be much longer, ma’am.”
“Really? They’re almost done?”
“Yes, ma’am. There’s hardly anything to process. Just a window.”
I wanted to ask him about the window, but a woman jogged up the drive and gripped the tape line with her gloved hands. “What’s going on, Officer?” She was dressed for exercise in a long-sleeved pink T-shirt and had an orange
Windbreaker tied around her waist over black running pants. Her short hair was caught up in a tiny ponytail that extended only half an inch. The rest of her dry blond hair stuck out around her flushed face in a crackly halo. Red earmuffs accented her flushed cheeks. She was breathing hard, sending out white puffs of air as she exhaled. She looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her. Was she one of Mitch’s distant relatives?
Officer Taggart dropped back into his official capacity and said, “Step back, please.”
She released the tape and said, “Please tell me nothing has happened to that sweet Mr. Avery. He’s alright, isn’t he?” Her voice had a definite nasal quality and there was no southern drawl in her quick speech pattern, so she wasn’t related to Mitch. All his relatives had grown up in the South and had the accent to prove it.
The earlier reprimand from the detective must have made an impression because Officer Taggart only said, “I can’t really say, ma’am.”
“Well, who can tell me?” she persisted. “I want to make sure he’s okay.”
“I can’t say anything else. It’s Mrs. Key, isn’t it? Would you like to sit down on the porch swing?”
“No. I mean, yes, I’m Ms. Key—actually, call me Maggie. But no, I can’t sit. I have to cool down,” she said as she paced in a circle with her hands on her hips. Her breathing was slowing now, returning to normal.
Her gloved hands fluttered up to her forehead, then down to her throat. “Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it? You’d be able to tell me, if he was okay. Since you’re not saying anything . . . then . . . something has happened to him. “ She ripped off the gloves and I saw she had tiny, delicate hands. She pressed her fingers to her lips.
Maggie Key, I repeated in my mind. That name sounded familiar, too.
Officer Taggart glanced around, looking as if he wished the detective would show up and dispatch the jogger. She was blinking her large brown eyes rapidly and was on the verge of tears. Clearly, dealing with weepy women was not his forte. “Don’t you live up the road?” he asked. “Would you like an escort home? We can give you a ride.”
She removed her fingers from her lips. “Yes, I live up the road, up on that rise,” she said with a vague gesture over her left shoulder. “I knew something was wrong last night. There was so much activity down here. I can see it from my office.”
I glanced behind her at the low hill on the other side of the road. I could only see a roofline and the dull gleam of two windows.
She switched her balled up gloves from hand to hand and I wondered if I didn’t know her, if it was just that she reminded me of someone . . . my crazy aunt Donna—that was it. She had the same fussy, dithering aura of my aunt Donna, as if there were a million thoughts and ideas buzzing in the air around her and she flitted from one to another with dizzying randomness.
Maggie continued, “It was so unusual—that’s why it caught my attention. I couldn’t get back to sleep after the storm, so I decided I might as well get some work done. I was in my office. It’s always so quiet around here, but after the storm I saw a car—a little red one, I think. It drove in here. I saw the color when it pulled up near the porch light—it was either red or burgundy, it’s hard to tell in the dark—and I thought it was odd. I hoped he wasn’t sick. I just assumed it was his daughter coming to check on him, but I remembered this morning that she drives a white car, so it couldn’t have been her, could it?”
She clinched the gloves and Officer Taggart said, “Wait here, ma’am. I’ll see if the detective can talk to you.”
Before he reached the front door, it opened and Mitch came outside with his hand under Aunt Christine’s elbow. At least, I thought it was Aunt Christine. I looked closer. Yes, I recognized her plump figure and round face, but everything else about her looked different. Her hair, which had been short and gray, was longer and fell in soft brown waves around her face. And instead of the functional pastel cotton sweatshirts and stretchy pants with elastic waistbands she usually wore, she had on a smart black and white jacket with a geometric pattern. And were those boot-cut jeans? I blinked. Aunt Christine looked good. She’d had quite a makeover. But when she was closer to me, I could see her shell-shocked face. She was unsteady on her feet and I don’t know if she would have made it across the yard without Mitch. He helped her under the tape line and I immediately took her other arm. She didn’t look as if she could stand up on her own. “Aunt Christine, are you feeling alright?” She didn’t answer me and I realized she was repeating something in a low murmur. Concerned, I looked at Mitch. “Is she sick?” I asked quietly.
Mitch gave me a half nod, a warning, I realized. “She’s exhausted. She’s been up all night. We need to get her home. Detective Kalra cleared her to leave.” We helped Aunt Christine into the van and as we pulled away from the house, I saw Detective Kalra speaking to the jogger. Maggie Key. I chewed on my lip, still not quite able to place her.
It only took a few moments to reach Aunt Christine’s small white frame house with the ornamental wishing well and porch glider. We parked in the carport, which was empty, and I wondered where her car was—still at the hospital, or maybe at Grandpa Franklin’s house? The side of the carport facing away from the house was covered with a trellis interwoven with coral honeysuckle.
I helped Aunt Christine out of the van and we inched our way along the wall of fragrant vines. The bright red trumpets stood out sharply against the dark leaves, the only spot of color in the landscape of dark green pines, brown tree trunks, and fallen leaves. I was surprised at how wobbly she was. She stumbled on the steps and I steadied her. Mitch hurried to catch up with us. He found her keys and unlocked the front door.
Her gaze was focused on the welcome mat as she repeated the phrase, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”
I scrunched my eyebrows together and said, “Didn’t mean what, Aunt Christine?” but I couldn’t break into her abstraction. “Aunt Christine, what did you—” I began, but Mitch shoved the door open and guided her inside.
“Here we go. You need to get some rest.”
Being back in her own house must have penetrated her reverie because Aunt Christine pulled herself away from both of us and moved slowly to the snack bar that divided the living room from the kitchen. She put her purse on the counter and stepped out of her low-heeled boots, another change in her wardrobe. A yellow and green bird was squawking at her from its cage in the living room. “Hello, Einstein,” she said as she filled a small cup with water, then went to the cage and topped off the water bottle. She checked the food, all the while talking to the bird, apologizing for leaving him alone. I supposed she was moving on autopilot, going through her usual just-arrived-home routine.
The small living area was furnished in a shabby chic style with a pink upholstered couch, white wicker chairs with cabbage rose cushions, and delicate tables painted in a distressed white finish. I thought the art on the walls was modern art, which didn’t quite go with the rest of the room, but then I looked closer at one of the pictures near me and realized it was a child’s painting of a flower, proudly signed, “Elizabeth, age 5,” and I realized that the artwork was probably from her kindergarten students.
She shuffled back to the kitchen to place the cup in the sink and then stopped abruptly as she looked across the counter at us, as if she was noticing us for the first time.
Her eyes watered and she began to sob. I hurried over to her and put one arm around her shaking shoulders.
“He’s gone. He’s gone and I shouldn’t have . . . I wish . . .” Her words became incoherent. Mitch was fingering his cell phone and said quietly, “Think I should call Aunt Nanette?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what to do to comfort Aunt Christine.
“No! Not her!” She sniffled and wiped under her eyes. “Not her,” she repeated, but in a calmer tone. “I’m just so tired. It’s hitting me all at once. That he’s gone.”
I squeezed her shoulders and said, “Of course. You’ve been up all night and need
to get some sleep.” I steered her through the living room to the small hallway, which led to the bedrooms. She went in one of the bedrooms and I followed her, uncertainly. “Do you want any help? Would you like to change clothes?”
“Yes, I’ll change,” she said, opening a closet and removing a leopard print track suit, “but I can manage.” She crossed the room to the master bathroom and closed the door. This room continued the shabby chic theme. A peach-and-cream comforter covered the white wrought-iron bedframe. The walls were painted the same peach shade. A stenciled border of ivy leaves ran around the top of the walls and satiny, cream-colored curtains pooled on the hardwood floor. The room felt cozy and extremely feminine. A dressing table with a peach satin skirt was scattered with lotions and makeup.
The door opened and Aunt Christine came out wearing the track suit. She had the clothes she’d been wearing draped over her arm. She looked like she was ready to drop. “Let me take those for you.” I hurried over. “I’ll hang them up. Do you want me to get you anything? Call anyone for you?”
“No, I don’t need anyone. I just need to lie down.” She curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.
I hung the clothes on her peach padded hangers, then covered her with a throw that was folded over a bench at the end of the bed. She was already breathing heavily and she reminded me of my kids, who, after an exhausting day, were able to drop off to sleep as soon as their heads touched the pillow. She twitched in her sleep and began murmuring again. I leaned down to readjust the throw and heard her say, “I’m so sorry, Dad . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Chapter Three
A hand came down on my shoulder and I jumped. “Ellie,” Mitch said, nodding to the door. “Did you hear that?” I asked, not budging. I listened for more, but Aunt Christine’s breathing was slow and even. Her face looked peaceful and relaxed. With her full, slightly flushed cheeks, she reminded me of the saccharine-sweet Rococo paintings of matrons, all delicate white skin with an excess of flowers and ruffles and cupids.
