by Sara Rosett
“The war. They served together,” he said, then leaned—wobbled? —toward Maggie. “And you? How did you know Franklin Avery?” Was there something else there in his question? A hint of accusation? No, I decided as I searched Stan’s round face, which was open and guileless.
Maggie said, “I’d talk to him at the end of my run. During the spring and fall, he was always outside, puttering about in the yard or sitting on the porch. At first, I waved to him, but eventually, I stopped to chat almost every day.”
Stan nodded and said, “I can see why you’d do that.” Again, there seemed to be a whiff of some extra layer of meaning in the air, but only for a second. “Well,” Stan pivoted toward me and tilted forward in a small bow. “Pleased to meet you. And Ms. Key, delighted. I must say that meeting you today has brought joy to an otherwise distressing and sad day.”
He walked to the casket and Maggie and I exchanged a look. I said, “Well, that was . . . interesting. You must get tired of being accosted by strangers.”
“No, not really. Being a writer is lonely, you know. That’s why I had to come today. I spend most of my days communing with my laptop and to talk to someone—an actual real, live human being—as opposed to a virtual conversation like e-mail or Twitter or Facebook, well, chatting with Mr. Avery was often the highlight of my day.” Her words faltered and she swallowed. “I will miss him,” she said as she opened her bag again and found a tissue.
“We all will,” I said.
Maggie nodded and said, “I should talk to the rest of the family.” She moved on and I noticed Stan Anderson leaving the room. I went to check on Aunt Christine. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to seeing the casket after this morning’s fiasco, but she’d been relatively calm. Roy was with her and she’d gripped his hand as she viewed Grandpa Franklin’s body. She’d cried a little bit and then recovered. Now she was standing beside Roy, talking to some neighbors that I’d met earlier. Interestingly, except for holding his hand earlier, she and Roy were maintaining at least a foot of space between them. It looked like Mitch and I were the only people who knew how close they were.
The crowd shifted and I saw Mitch staring down into the casket. I went over and slipped my hand into his. “Hey,” I said, softly. “How are you doing?”
He squeezed my hand instead of speaking. We stood that way for a while. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and we moved away from the casket. He put his arm around me and dropped his head down to my ear to whisper, “Thanks for being here.”
“Of course,” I said. I leaned back so that I could look at his face as I said, “About earlier, at the pool, I feel bad about what I said . . .” I trailed off because I really did think that the Averys would close ranks to protect their own, but I hated the tension between us. “Look, I don’t want us to fight.”
“Me either—well, unless we get to make up. That’s the only good part about fighting,” he said, and I could have sworn he waggled his eyebrows.
“Oh, I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to use your charming personality to distract me—get me to forget that something strange is going on.”
“I’d hoped more than my personality would be involved.”
“Mitch,” I said, glancing around the room. “I can’t believe this. Are you actually flirting with me during your grandfather’s visitation?” The corners of his lips turned up as he gave a small shrug. “Maybe,” he said.
“You are trying to distract me. How about a truce? You open your mind to the possibility that something . . . problematic . . . is going on and I’ll see if there’s anyone who doesn’t have the last name of Avery who might be doing these things.”
He looked at the ceiling for a moment, then locked back onto my gaze. “Deal. I’m always open to possibilities.”
The next morning, I was again the first one awake. The house was completely quiet. No kids giggling and no aromas wafting from the kitchen. I made an effort to relax back into sleep, but I gave up after fifteen minutes and crawled out of bed, careful not to wake Mitch. I pawed through our jumble of clothes and decided I had to do some laundry, as I pulled on sweatpants and one of Mitch’s Air Force Academy sweatshirts.
Five minutes later, I was standing in the driveway in the weak morning sun, twisting my hair up in a clip. The air was frigid and I wished I’d thought to grab my gloves. I shoved my hands in my pockets and set off at a near run to try and warm up. After a block, I was warmer and relaxed my shoulders, which I’d had shrugged up near my ears in an effort to maximize my body heat. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and settled into a steady stride, arms pumping, breathing out clouds of white air. A trash truck rumbled in the distance and a hound barked a few streets over. I turned the corner at the end of the block. A strip of dead grass planted with old-growth maples separated the sidewalk from the street. Most of the houses along the street had waist- or shoulder-high bushes lining the sidewalk. I’m sure in the summer it was a shady, leafy haven from the heat, but now it was a dim, dormant corridor of twisty brown branches interspersed with gaps of leaf-strewn concrete driveways. A few feet in front of me where the tall hedge stopped at the edge of the concrete driveway, someone stepped into my path.
Instinctively, I veered to the side, making for the street, and then it registered: the person was Detective Kalra. “Hello, Mrs. Avery. Do you have a moment?” she asked. She wasn’t wearing the bulky jacket with the official logo. Instead, she had on a purple cashmere sweater, gray slacks, and black boots. She was holding a newspaper.
“Detective Kalra,” I said, moving back to the sidewalk. “You surprised me.”
“Sorry. Would you like to come inside for a moment?” she asked, pointing up the driveway with the newspaper toward a brown brick rancher with pale yellow shutters. “I’ve got coffee, if you’d like a cup.”
“No, thanks. I didn’t realize you lived in the neighborhood,” I said slowly, wondering why she was being so solicitous—it was quite different from her almost antagonistic approach last time we’d spoken. And no matter how nice she was right now, I didn’t want to share a cup of coffee.
“Since I saw you walking yesterday morning, I thought you might be by today. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. She certainly hadn’t been giving off a let’s-be-friends vibe the last time we’d talked. Was this some sort of one-person version of the good cop–bad cop routine? “Thanks again, but I really do have to get back. The funeral is today,” I said, and moved to step around her.
“I think the sheriff’s department was too quick to close the investigation into the Franklin Avery situation.”
“You made that quite clear the last time we spoke,” I said, over my shoulder.
“I didn’t get your message until late yesterday. Rickets tried to make sure I didn’t get it at all.” I turned and walked back to her as she said, “I didn’t find out about the situation at the funeral home until last night. Look, I didn’t want to do this on the street,” she said as she gestured up and down the tree-lined avenue with the newspaper she held, “but I think something is wrong.”
The frosty air was seeping back into my body, and my ears, face, and fingers were beginning to tingle. “Why are you telling me this? And why the friendly approach? Is it because you didn’t get anywhere being intimidating and now you’re trying to be my buddy?”
“No. I’m being straight with you.” She gazed at me with her dark eyes, her face frank and open. A slight frown wrinkled the skin between her arched brows. She looked troubled. Her mouth quirked down and she hesitated a moment before plunging in and speaking quickly as if she wanted to get the words out in a rush. “Yesterday, I thought I could get the case reopened if I uncovered new evidence, but the pushback I got when I asked about your message and the way the funeral home incident was handled . . . well, I’ll just say that Bud Avery has some good friends in this town. He wanted the case wrapped up and he got it.”
“Uncle Bud put pressure on the police to close the case with
out investigating?” I asked, momentarily forgetting about my increasingly numb fingers.
She nodded, her dark gaze holding mine. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
“Grandpa Franklin didn’t die a natural death?”
“No, I’m not saying that,” she said quickly as her frown deepened. She looked away at a car moving slowly down the street.
“Well, what do you mean? You can’t just throw that out there.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put it that way. His autopsy came back clean—nothing. No unexpected drugs, no unusual bruises, marks, or cuts. And the scene at the house—no footprints outside the window. No unexpected fingerprints, nothing to indicate a struggle or intruder except the broken window, which could be a result of the storm. It’s all very clean and tidy—on paper.” She shook her head. “But there’s something. I don’t know what it is. The whole situation doesn’t feel right.”
“So you were fishing yesterday when you asked about my aunt?” I said, still wondering why she was sharing all these details with me. The case was closed, but I’d found out that trying to get investigators to share information was about as easy as getting the kids to confess to marking on the wall with crayons.
She sighed and slid the newspaper out of its protective plastic sleeve, then tucked it under one arm. “You could call it that, I guess. I was thinking more along the lines of following up my last hunch.”
“You think Aunt Christine murdered her father?” As soon as I said the words aloud, I realized how ridiculous they sounded. Even though I’d thought something strange was going on with her rambling words, deep down, I didn’t want to believe she’d hurt Grandpa Franklin. “That’s absurd.”
She carefully folded the plastic sleeve into thirds. “I agree with you,” she said as she stuffed the plastic into her pocket and shifted her gaze to my face. “But Mr. Avery did take up quite a bit of her time. Maybe her boyfriend was tired of waiting.”
“You think Roy—”
“It’s a possibility, is all I’m saying,” she said, interrupting me. “That’s what we do, explore possibilities, at least when we’re able to do our job properly,” she said with more bite in her tone, but I realized her frustration wasn’t directed at me.
“So what are you going to do? You can’t just drop this bombshell and walk away.”
“I never intended to do that. I have a conference in Memphis I have to attend, or, more accurately, have been ordered to attend. I’ll be back on Monday. In the meantime, you have my card. I’d like you to call my cell phone if anything else unusual happens.”
I didn’t answer right away. I let my gaze drift to the black Camry in the driveway behind Detective Kalra where her rolling suitcase sat waiting beside the open trunk. She was asking me to side with her instead of the Avery family. I chewed my lip, thinking about it. Mitch would be furious if he knew. He’d already made it clear that any dirty laundry should stay inside the family. But this wasn’t some family squabble. This was a possible murder. And if it was murder, I couldn’t keep quiet. It was better to find out the truth. I gave her a quick nod, then said, “But what will you do? You’ve already said the case is closed.”
She swallowed. “I can go over a certain person’s head to get the case reopened, but I need more than I have right now.” She looked slightly nauseous at the thought.
I said, “That would have to be a risky step, career-wise, I mean.”
She pressed her lips together in a line as she nodded. “Yes. Yes, it would be, but I can’t stand by and let someone get away with murder. If it was murder,” she added quickly. “You see it’s too big a question to leave open, don’t you?”
“Yes, I certainly do. But what I still don’t understand is why I’m suddenly your confidante.”
She pulled the newspaper out from under her arm and cocked her head to the side as she studied me. “Well, you’re part of the Avery family, but you’re not.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re inside their circle, but you’re not part of the circle. Not quite. You married into the family. You didn’t grow up here. There’s a division between you and them.”
I stared at her, partly offended and partly irritated that she’d read the situation so accurately.
She frowned. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but it’s quite clear to an outsider like me that you haven’t been completely absorbed into the Avery family. I get the sense that you’re resisting total submersion,” she said. “You’re my way inside, the best I’ve got with my limited abilities right now.”
I blew out a breath. “Well, if all your hunches are as dead-on as that assessment, then I can see why you’d want to follow up on them,” I said.
“Oh, I’m good at my job, I will admit that.” She released a small smile as she acknowledged the compliment, then her face turned serious. “Thank you for listening, Mrs. Avery. I know this is not what any family member wants to hear. I’m sorry my unorthodox methods have pulled you into this.”
I shrugged. “I’m quite familiar with unorthodox methods, Detective.”
She raised her eyebrows and said, “So I’ve heard.”
Ellie Avery’s Tips for Preserving Family Treasures
Unusual Ways to Preserve and Organize Artwork
• Oversized items—take a photo of items that are too large to store, like oversized paintings, a model volcano, or rock collections.
• Change the format—you can have children’s artwork reproduced on everyday items like refrigerator magnets, coffee cups, calendars, or T-shirts.
• New art from old—create a collage with pieces cut from several different art projects. Use a collage frame with individual framed sections, or overlap the projects in a single large frame.
Chapter Ten
“Didn’t the soloist sound beautiful?” one woman asked as she dipped a baby carrot in a pool of ranch dressing on her small plate.
“Oh, yes,” the woman beside her said, her highlighted blond bangs bobbing as she nodded. “The best rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ I’ve heard in a long time,” she agreed before she speared a sausage ball with a toothpick and popped it into her mouth.
I picked up a discarded plastic cup and plate from the fireplace mantel and edged around the women who were wearing dark suits. I assumed from the way they’d greeted Caroline that they were Realtors and knew her from work. The funeral and graveside service were over and we were back at Caroline and Bill’s house. The funeral had been held at Grandpa Franklin’s Baptist church, which had been packed with mourners. The service had gone quickly and I hadn’t caught all of it because my mind kept drifting to my encounter with Detective Kalra. The music had been superb. The soloist did have an excellent, effortless voice. Uncle Bud’s reading of the poem had also been moving simply because he didn’t seem the type to recite poetry. He’d looked slightly uncomfortable in his suit and kept pulling at his tie, but now that the service was over, he’d lost the jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing the phoenix tattoo, and he looked more like his normal self. Not as many people came to the graveside service, which was even shorter. A small contingent of family and friends had returned to Caroline and Bill’s house for food. I drifted around the room, picking up trash, hearing snatches of conversation.
“. . . and then there was that story he used to tell about how he talked his younger brother into jumping off the barn with a bedsheet as a parachute,” Dan said.
Laughter sounded from the group of men gathered on the couch holding cups of coffee, then one of them shook his head and said, “Lucky for Frank, his brother landed in a pile of hay.”
I stacked a few more discarded cups and moved to the dining room where Felicity was staring at Aunt Gwen as she said, “. . . You don’t mean that was true? He really did travel to China? I thought that was just one of his stories.”
“Oh, no . . . I think it was when he was in his twenties. You know that ornate brown box on the shelf under the windows? He brought that back . . .�
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I moved back into the kitchen to dump the trash, thinking that Felicity was the last person she should tell about old—which in Felicity’s mind probably equaled valuable—Chinese boxes. I made a mental note to check and see if they were still there the next time we went over.
Aunt Christine and Roy were sitting beside each other on the couch. He stretched his arm across the back cushions and Aunt Christine inched away, looking uncomfortable.
The kids circled through the living room again and I shooed them back to the bedrooms. All we needed was for one of the kids to come skidding down the hall and run into an adult carrying coffee and a plate of food. They seemed to be handling the events of the day okay. I didn’t think Nathan fully understood what had happened, but Livvy did. She’d cried that morning, when we left for the funeral.
“Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
I turned and saw Maggie. She was wearing a dark tunic sweater in a loose weave that came down to her hips and partially covered a crinkly black skirt. A flowing multicolored scarf was wrapped around her neck and hung almost to the hem of her skirt. She was digging around in a large shoulder bag. “Is your daughter here? I brought . . . well, I thought . . . oh, where is it? Here we go,” she said as she pulled out a book. I recognized it as the newest book in the mystery series, which Livvy had borrowed from her cousin.
“Livvy will be so excited. I’ll go find her.”
When I returned with a curious Livvy in tow, Maggie crouched down to her level. She had a pen uncapped and poised over the title page. “Hi, Livvy. Your mom told me how much you enjoy my books. Can I sign this one for you?”
Livvy’s eyes widened as her gaze ricocheted from the book to Maggie’s face and back again. “Oh! You’re—you write the books—my favorite—”
Since it looked like it might be awhile before Livvy was capable of a coherent sentence, I leaned down and said, “Yes, I’m sure Livvy would like that very much.”
