by Ginny Aiken
“I know. It’s that part where we’re called to be a living sacrifice to God and the part about the regular renewing of our minds that trip me up all the time.”
“That’s what gets us all, the day-after-day part. That’s why the Christian life is a walk we take with the heavenly Father. We pick it up every morning we spend down here. Meeting Jesus is only the first step on that walk.”
I sighed. “I think I need to put in some knee time. Karate Chop Cop will be after me soon enough, and I have to fortify myself.”
“That’s an awful name for such a lovely young woman.” Dad gave me a crooked smile. “I’m very proud of you though. You’ve made great progress in one year.”
“What can I say? I went backward when I should have stood firm. Now I’m going forward at a snail’s pace. And even though it’s not in such a dramatic lurch, I seem to fall back all the time. I’m getting whiplash from the zigzag jolts.”
“But you haven’t denied the Lord again. And that’s a tremendous accomplishment. Trust him, honey. He won’t fail you.”
For a moment the bad memories threatened to return, but as I went up the stairs, I whispered, “Be not afraid...”
I crawled into bed with Dad’s resounding amen in my mind.
Early the next morning, while I hovered in that woozy stage between wakefulness and sleep, I heard a car door slam outside and footsteps on the front porch.
Midas went ballistic.
I dragged myself upright and walked to the window. I groaned.
“Be right there,” I called out.
At the front door, I greeted homicide detective Lila Tsu. “Come on in.”
She tipped her head in a slight nod. “How are you?”
I pointed her to the white-cotton slipcovered sofa. “Fine, if you don’t consider walking out onto a dead body a problem.”
“I do, and that’s why I asked. This is the second time I’ve dealt with you after you’ve done it.”
Lila’s rose-colored suit looked great against the white slipcover on the sofa—and on her. My pajamas left me at a disadvantage.
“I’m sure you’re not here to check out my mental state. I expected you sometime last night.”
“It was a long one.” She pulled out her silver pen and that familiar notebook from her chic square purse. “Why don’t you tell me about yesterday afternoon, starting with your call to Deedee Marshall.”
I related everything I remembered. I even told her about Noreen’s call. Then, when I got to the part where Deedee threw open the patio door, my voice quit. Nothing more came out.
“That’s when you went to the patio, right?”
Thank goodness for the detective’s much-vaunted talent for her job. Her question forced me to focus and function. “Yes.”
“I realize this will be hard, but I need you to tell me exactly what you saw.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. This was where I hadn’t wanted to go. “The ocean view’s amazing there. And yesterday afternoon was beautiful. Everything looked crisp, fresh-starched, and ironed. But I couldn’t miss the... the body. It was just there. On the patio floor. In all the blood.”
“Could you tell me how the furniture was arranged?”
“I didn’t notice any until I looked for Deedee. And that was after Dutch got there. Hmm... let me think. Four redwood chairs with green, tan, and brown plaid cushions. Oh, and the table. The round table was in the middle of the chairs.”
“You’re sure Dutch Merrill wasn’t there when you arrived?”
“He wasn’t on the street in front of the property, he wasn’t on the long drive up to the house, he wasn’t on the front lawn, and he wasn’t in the foyer, hall, or kitchen either. That’s all I saw of the Marshalls’ place.”
“How did he come out onto the patio?”
“What do you mean?”
“From which direction did he come?”
I noticed her precise manner of speech. “He came out the kitchen door.”
“Do you know how he entered the house?”
“Never thought to ask, but I would imagine the Marshalls have some kind of help. Maybe whoever it is let him in.”
Lila narrowed her almond eyes. “Have you spoken with Mr. Merrill since yesterday afternoon?”
I shook my head and pointed at my Betty Boop pajamas. “You woke me up.”
“Did you two compare notes?”
“What, are you nuts? We didn’t compare anything.”
“I’m as sane as ever. It’s just interesting—and somewhat alarming—that you explained Dutch’s arrival the same way he did.”
“Give me a break. I was just being logical—something you’ve never accused me of being.”
“Exactly. That’s why I have to wonder how you came up with the same information Mr. Merrill gave me.”
“Why? Did you expect the guy to leap over tall buildings to get from the front to the back of the house?”
She tightened her lips at my flip response. “Could he have hidden somewhere nearby?”
“Don’t you think it’d be a little hard for a six-foot-plus guy to hide in a couple of rosebushes?”
Lila shrugged. She returned her pen and notebook to the black purse, snapped the bag shut, and stood. She turned to leave, but I’d reached the end of my rope. I erupted to my feet and tried but failed to keep the sarcasm out of my words.
“I know how serious you are about your job, but don’t you think you can tell me something about the girl? What you’ve learned?”
The detective faced me but didn’t speak.
I pressed on. “I mean, just from your questions, and that you asked them in the first place, I know she didn’t just bleed to death from a paper cut.”
“The sarcasm is superfluous. But yes. You’re right. It was not a wholly natural death.”
Her clear, intent gaze zeroed in on me. I recalled the many times she’d put me under her investigative microscope the year before. I didn’t get a good feeling.
“So what you’re saying—”
“What I’m saying, Haley, is that I have a multitude of questions about Dutch Merrill and Katherine Cecilia Richardson’s unexplained and untimely death.”
“Go for it.”
“Did Dutch give you the girl’s name yesterday?”
“Of course not. You were there when he said she looked familiar, but he didn’t know from where.” I didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “Does this mean he does know her?”
“He knows the family.”
I took a sharp breath. Things didn’t look good for the guy. “How...?”
“Business and personal.”
Lila’s clipped response gave me a weird feeling. “Something tells me there’s trouble in that paradise.”
She fixed her dark eyes on me. “Bad blood.”
“And you’re wondering if that bad blood might’ve led him to...”
Lila nodded.
“Hmm....”
“That’s all you have to say, Ms. Farrell?”
“So we’re back to the Ms. Farrell. The girl must have been murdered.”
“It’s not official yet. But what is certain is that a healthy fourteen-year-old girl, the daughter of someone toward whom Dutch harbored ill will, hemorrhaged vaginally on the back patio of a home Dutch is about to remodel.”
My breathing grew shallow. Chills returned. Bile churned up my throat. “She hemorrhaged vaginally?”
“Preliminary results show that KC Richardson gave birth shortly before she bled to death on the Marshalls’ back patio. Nobody knew she was pregnant. Not even her boyfriend.” Lila’s eyelids lowered, turning her eyes into angry balls of jet. “Who fathered KC’s child?”
I gave a vague wave. That didn’t matter so much. Something else mattered much, much more.
I opened my mouth to set free the words I eked out from the deepest corner of my heart. “Where’s... KC’s... child?”
Lila’s dark eyes reflected my distress. “I don’t know, but I have to, a
nd soon enough I will.”
A shot of grief made it hard to breathe. “It’s horrible. A child gave birth to another child, and now one’s dead and the other...”
“That’s the reality of my job. No one wins, not even when I succeed.”
“How do you handle it?”
“How do you manage your demons?”
I laughed without humor. “Don’t forget our sparring match.”
“My question was rhetorical, Haley. I know how you cope with life’s horrors. Tyler wasn’t that far off when he said you and I have a lot in common. If nothing else, we both take out our stress on punching bags, bricks and boards, or equally trained martial artists.”
I studied her for a long moment. “Hey, did you ever get that new pup you wanted?”
“I’ve been too busy to even look for one.”
“Midas’s mom had a new litter. You asked me to tell you when he had siblings. Do you want the breeder’s phone number?”
The longing on her face caught me by surprise. It made her more human than I’d seen her before.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I work such long hours that I doubt I can give the poor baby the attention it needs.” She glanced down at the floor. “I’ll have to pass. Maybe when things are calmer at the department—”
“Are you telling me you figure the crazies are going give you and your giant Smurfs a break sometime soon?”
Her smile curved up only one side of her mouth. “A girl can always hope.”
“Yeah, sure, and someday my prince will come on some enchanted evening, and we’ll climb every mountain with a lonely goatherd in a surrey with a fringe on the top.”
By the time I finished my wacko spiel, Lila’s smile had evened out, and her expression told me loud and clear she doubted my sanity. But I knew I was right, so I went on.
“You’re never going to clean up all the swill fallen humans spew around. So then what? Are you ready to go through life without a golden to make you crazy in that special goldenish way? Uh-uh. That’s too easy.”
“You are crazy.”
“Certifiable, but you still need a dog. There’s just something way real about walking around the neighborhood with a doggy-doo bag in hand. Housebreaking makes you look beyond all the other junk.”
Did I really say that? To a cop? Oh boy.
“As weird as that is, you might be on to something there. Okay.”
“Okay, what? That housebreaking’s a pill? That poop scooping stinks—for real? Or that you’ll call about a pup?”
“That a puppy will probably do me good, which is what you said without coming right out and saying it. I’m guilty of tunnel vision.”
“I’ll say. And I’m awfully glad I found the light at the end of your tunnel. Hard to believe though it might be, I almost feel sorry for Dutch. You’re a formidable enemy.”
“I’m not Dutch’s enemy any more than I was yours. It’s my job to find out the truth.”
“That’s not how I saw it.”
“Sometimes things aren’t as they seem.”
I tilted my head to study her. “Maybe you’ll remember that the next time you insist Dutch killed that girl.”
“I haven’t said he killed her, just that he might have had something to do with her unexplained death. Do you have evidence he didn’t?”
“No, and I’m not saying he’s innocent either. I’m just echoing you. This situation may not be as it first appears. There’s probably a truckload of muck you have to rake up before you find the truth. At least, that’s what happened to me last year.”
“Crime’s not clean and neat, Haley.”
“Never thought it was.” I headed for the kitchen, where I keep the dog breeder’s info. “That’s why you need a pooch to keep you sane.”
Lila didn’t answer. I came back to the living room, neon-orange sticky note in hand. “Here you go. Don’t wait too long though. The Gold Dust Kennel has a great reputation, and their pups sell fast. You need a dog to own you in the worst way.”
She chuckled. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? They own you more than you own them.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, and if you hear anything or if Dutch tells you anything that might help, please give me a call.”
“Did you forget already how I hounded you last year with every idea I got and each maybe-clue I found? Of course I’ll call you if I think of anything.”
The detective stopped at the front door. “I almost forgot. I’ll need your camera—you did take pictures at the Marshalls’, didn’t you?”
“I did. But why would you want pictures of antiques, a kitchen wall, and an old back door?”
“I don’t want them for their own sake, but you might have caught something important when you took the shots.”
“Great,” I muttered on my way to my portfolio. “Now I’m going to have to get a disposable until you let me spring this one back out of your evidentiary clutches. And I’ll need to go out to the house again. I still want to do the redesign, and I’ll need photos to prepare a proposal.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Yeah. I guess I will.” I handed her the camera. “But hey! Gotta look on the bright side. At least I’m not the one you’re dissecting this time.”
“You’re not all the way in the clear. Not yet. You were one of the first on the scene, and this is your second strange death in about a year.”
“It may be the second one I uncovered, but as far as any crime I might’ve committed? Uh-uh. I’m still at zilch.” I opened the door for Karate Chop Cop. “And you know it.”
After another of her piercing looks, Lila turned and went toward her plain-vanilla unmarked car. She opened the door, tossed her purse inside, and called out, “I’ll reserve comment on that until I know who did what.”
“I’ll be waiting for that comment.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Oh, I won’t, but I could. I know you’ll find I’m right.”
After Lila left, it took me a few minutes to remember what today was.
Bummer. It was Saturday.
Now, for most people, Saturday means the weekend, that they can put in some more sack time than usual, that they can do as little or as much as they want. For me, on the other hand, Saturday means something a bit different.
Saturdays are missionary society meeting days.
I have nothing against missionaries or the church groups that support their devoted work in the trenches. My quibble is with the meetings themselves.
Last year I was named to the post of president of the Wilmont River Church’s missionary society thanks to the silken bullying of a late member of the congregation. She and a bunch of others believed, and most still do, that I’m the rightful heir to my mother’s favorite position now that Mom is no longer with us. I, on the other hand, know I’m as well suited to the job as Austin Powers is to the redesign of the White House.
But I’m coming around. There’s nothing like the satisfaction I get when an update comes from the mission field. The missionaries we support are so grateful for our help, and they manage to accomplish so many minor miracles on a shoestring that no one—certainly not me—can be so coldhearted as to not be moved by their great faith. I’m glad my inheritance allows me to contribute more than I ever could before.
This Saturday, fresh off my grisly discovery last night, found me right back to my earlier reluctance. I didn’t want to deal with fundraising schemes or Robert’s Rules or the petty rivalries that mushroom between members with exasperating regularity.
I especially hate to deal with Penny Harham.
Penny, Wilmont’s postal clerk, can’t stand me, and she makes sure everyone knows it each time we meet. But since Penny is a pillar of Dad’s congregation, she isn’t someone I want to alienate, so I slave to keep the peace for the sake of Dad’s sanity.
At the risk of mine.
Then I remembered the agenda I’d worked up for today’s meeting. I was exci
ted by what I learned when I researched one of my better ideas. I hoped the rest of the members shared my interest. I hurried through my shower and cut short my usual argument with Midas. He wanted to come along, but I didn’t want him there to distract the membership. He’s a favorite with the congregation, and even more so with the ladies of the missionary society.
With wet streamers of hair glommed onto my clean T-shirt, I ran into the church’s activity room just as the donated grandfather clock struck the last gong of nine—a good thing, since one of Penny’s favorite hobbies is keeping an eagle eye on my occasional tardiness.
Ina Appleton, our hospitality chair, met me with a cup of bliss, better known as Starbucks House Blend. “Here you go, Haley. And don’t let Penny get to you. She’s in an especially foul mood today.”
Swell. Just what I wanted to hear.
I took my place behind the lectern at the front of the room and brought down the gavel. The room fell silent, and I surveyed my... subjects?
Yikes! This whole presidency thing was getting to me.
I shook off the momentary imperial delusions. “Hi, everyone. I’m so glad you’re here. As all of you know, I want to put together a missions trip to Indonesia. I did some reading and made a bunch of phone calls, and I’m ready to roll. Those poor, poor people are still hurting from the earthquakes and tsunami, and whatever we do to help is only a drop in the bucket, but...”
The meeting was a winner. Seventeen women pledged to travel to the ravaged area, and seven spouses, cell-phoned during the reading of last meeting’s minutes, promised to make the trip as well. Later, during the refreshments and fellowship time, I noticed a newcomer.
I held out my hand. “Hi. I’m Haley Farrell, the pastor’s daughter and president of the society. I’ve never seen you here before, so I’d like to take the time to welcome you.”
The silver-haired woman shook my hand with a pleasant, firm grip and offered a warm smile. “Thank you, Haley. I’m Madeleine Ogleby. I moved to the area to be closer to my only daughter. She married four months ago, a local gentleman she met through business contacts. I... I’ve had a difficult pair of years, and I found I missed her too much to stay back home in Portland.”
A bittersweet pang struck hard. “I can relate. I still miss my mother, and she’s been gone for a couple of years.”
