“Relieving his bladder?” I said blandly. It had sounded from the autopsy report that Carl hadn’t had full gender reassignment surgery, so perhaps he had never used a urinal, and only a stall. But really what business was any of this of ours? What did it have to do with Christ or even the priesthood?
“Well, I just think it’s sick and wrong for a woman to wear men’s clothing all the time,” said Verity. “After all, God made women for a reason. He wanted us to become mothers and have children, didn’t He?”
“Not all women can have children,” I pointed out. “Do you think they aren’t serving their purpose to God? Are they useless?”
“Of course not,” said Verity hotly. Tears started in her eyes and I wondered if I’d touched a sore spot there. Was one of her daughters infertile? I remembered that someone may have told me something about that.
“I think we have to continue thinking of Carl as a man, not as a woman pretending to be a man,” I said.
“So people should just be allowed to be whatever gender they want? What if people switch back and forth, man one day and woman the next? Like putting on new clothes? Don’t you think that’s wrong?” said Verity.
I thought she was exaggerating the idea of transgenderism to the point of absurdity.
“I don’t know. This is one of those things that I think we just have to leave to God,” I said, trying to be conciliatory.
Verity didn’t seem to be happy with this. She became more animated. “But—what if other women decide they want to do what he did? Just stop being women and become men instead? There will be an epidemic. Everyone will want to be a man.”
I was very quiet. She had just revealed a lot about how she felt as a Mormon woman.
“Anyway, it seems to me that he was sick,” said Verity.
She still referred to Carl as a “he,” I noticed. I considered that a small victory.
“Maybe I should pray for him, so that he’ll be able to cross over from spirit prison to spirit paradise, once he’s repented of what he did here.”
I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t believe that God would require such a sacrifice to enter heaven. It wouldn’t be heaven then, would it? Not for me, and not for Carl.
Chapter 11
On Saturday, the police went to interview Emma Ashby. In the midst of it, she called me in hysterics, and I rushed over. When I got to the Ashbys’, a detective I didn’t know, an African-American woman who looked to be in her early thirties, was sitting with Emma in the kitchen. Other officers were searching the family room, bedrooms, and offices.
“Hello. I’m Detective Gore.” The officer waved to a chair for me to sit in next to Emma. “I suggested that Mrs. Ashby might like to have a family friend with her, or perhaps even a lawyer. She chose you.”
I looked at Emma. She squirmed in the chair, and her hands were cold as ice when I touched them briefly to reassure her. “I’m here. I’ll be right here for all of this,” I said.
“Thank you,” Emma managed. She had broken out in some kind of stress rash. There were patches of red, scaly skin peeling off her forehead and cheeks and nose.
“We have reason to believe that the person who murdered Mr. Ashby a week ago was a woman,” said Detective Gore.
“And what reason is this?” I asked, turning to the detective.
“I’m afraid that I can’t give out details about the investigation at this time.”
But they were searching the house. I thought of the pink scarf I’d seen on the floor near his dead body, the scarf I’d assumed he’d been strangled with. Was that why they thought it was a woman? Did it have some connection to Emma?
I looked at the trembling woman next to me, the woman who had made me jealous over Kurt the last time we were here, who had said she was helpless without her husband. It seemed impossible to believe that she could have found the strength to strangle anyone, let alone the husband she needed so desperately.
“We would like to know if you have an alibi for the time of the murder, Mrs. Ashby,” said Detective Gore. She had a spiral-bound notebook and a ballpoint pen out.
“I was home all evening,” said Emma. She looked at me and rubbed at her face. The scales were shedding and drifting in the air like lint.
“Was anyone here with you between the hours of six p.m. and eight p.m.?”
“My—William was here until six. Then he went out with friends. And Alice was here until seven, I think,” said Emma.
I noticed the kitchen was perfectly clean now. The countertops were wiped, the dishes put away. All the appliances were shining. I wondered what had driven Emma to do that.
“So you have no alibi from seven p.m. until what time?”
Emma looked at me again. “I called Linda at about midnight,” she said.
I nodded at the detective. “That’s true. She called to tell me she was worried about Carl.” And why would she have been worried about him if she had killed him herself?
“We would like to take your fingerprints, if you don’t mind. To rule you out as a possible suspect, of course,” said the detective.
“But her fingerprints might have been on Carl anyway,” I said. “She might have been in that room in the church recently enough to leave other evidence, too.” I was defending her because I didn’t want her upset over nothing. Besides, it was a waste of everyone’s time.
The detective glanced up at me, then returned her attention to Emma. “If you choose to decline, we will have to wait until we can force your compliance.”
Emma would never have been good in a poker game. “No, no. I don’t want you to have to do that. I don’t have anything to hide,” she said. She laid her hands on the wooden table. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll have the kit brought in.”
Emma was being so cooperative. She always was, it seemed.
“Are you going to tell us what you are searching for?” I asked. “Isn’t it required for you to state what it is in the warrant?”
The detective spread her hands expansively. “Mrs. Ashby gave us permission to search the house without a warrant,” she said. I had the impression that she wasn’t waiting with bated breath on the results of the search. Why? Was it because she thought Emma was innocent, as I did?
Emma looked at me nervously. “Should I not have done that? The detective said the sooner they rule me out, the sooner they can go on to investigate other suspects and find the real murderer.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said dubiously. I glanced back at Detective Gore. She was watching me closely now, and it made me acutely uncomfortable.
I could hear footsteps overhead and drawers opening and closing. What had they found up there?
“Can you tell us the name of anyone who had a grudge against Carl? Anyone you’d heard him argue with recently?” asked Detective Gore. I wondered how many murder cases she’d investigated.
“I don’t know of anyone who had a grudge against Carl. He was a kind and upright man,” said Emma. “As for arguing, I suppose he argued with Linda sometimes. He disagreed with her about things like the role of women in the Mormon church. Last Friday, for example, the week before Carl died, we both left a dinner with Linda and her husband because she and Carl argued.”
I stared at Emma in shock. That was the way she remembered the bishopric dinner? That I was the one who had argued with Carl? I didn’t contradict her, but it was odd.
“But I’m sure Linda, as a righteous Mormon bishop’s wife, would never have sunk to such violence as this,” said Detective Gore with a faint note of sarcasm, turning to me. “Even so, I suppose I’ll ask where you were the night of Carl Ashby’s death.”
“I was at home,” I said coldly.
“Alone?”
“My husband was there some of the time,” I said.
“Hmm,” said the detectiv
e. “I would have thought you and your husband would be together every hour you could manage. Perfectly devoted and eternally married couple and all.”
I felt myself grow hot at the mockery. So, she wasn’t Mormon. Did that mean she had no respect for the institution of marriage?
“Carl had views about men and women that I disagreed with,” I said.
When I said nothing else, Gore turned back to Emma. “Mrs. Ashby, did you notice any changes in your husband lately?”
I was extremely relieved that the focus was back on Emma.
Emma chewed at her lower lip. “No, none at all. He was the same loving man that he had always been, at least to me and the children.”
What? “I thought you said that Carl was more irritable lately,” I said. When Emma had talked to Kurt and me some days after the murder, she’d unmistakably hinted that Carl had been unhappy about more than the argument at the bishopric dinner. She’d said he argued with William, and with Grant Rhodes.
Now Emma shook her head and seemed so completely confused that I wanted to text Kurt and ask him if I’d misremembered completely. “You’re the only one he was irritable with, Linda. You picked a fight. You do that sometimes.” Emma ducked her head shyly, as if embarrassed to accuse me, and then let Detective Gore take over.
I couldn’t believe that Emma was doing this on purpose. She had to simply be confused. And I wasn’t going to point a finger at her with the detective in the room. Besides, I was very well schooled at biting my tongue.
“So Carl didn’t mention any problems at work or worries about anyone he worked with in the church?” Gore asked.
Emma shook her head. “He was a perfect husband and father and we all miss him so much already. I don’t know how we’re going to get through this.”
“He was a businessman, I understand?” said Gore.
“He was in stock trading,” said Emma. “He worked for himself.”
“And did he do well?”
“Very well,” said Emma. “We have plenty of money. And of course, he had his nest egg to rely on as well.”
“Nest egg?” said Gore, leaning forward, pen on paper.
“He invented a medical device some years ago.”
“What was it?” asked Gore, scribbling away.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Emma, her hands held out innocently. “He didn’t tell me the technical details. He just made sure that I knew it would keep us financially secure no matter what happened. Something about copyright or patent laws.”
I could believe Emma was this naïve, but I didn’t know if Detective Gore did.
“Is there someplace I can find that information?” asked Gore.
“It’s probably in his files somewhere,” said Emma.
“Of course. We’ll look at those files. But there were no financial problems currently? No one angry at him for owing money? No one he was suing? Anything like that?” When Emma just shook her head without elaborating, Gore added, “I’m just trying to see if there were any red flags in his life that might help point us toward the murderer.”
But before Emma could respond, there was a drumroll of feet coming down the stairs. Three white, male uniformed officers appeared in the kitchen. “Ma’am,” said one of them to Gore, and shook his head. “We did find these, in the basement.” Another man held up a bag containing a half-dozen medical syringes.
Gore nodded as if she had expected those.
I guessed that this was the testosterone that Carl had been giving himself to look more masculine, with facial hair and vocal changes. Did he have a doctor prescribing those for him somewhere, or had he found a black-market source for them?
“All right, then,” said Detective Gore to Emma. “We’ll get the fingerprinting kit from the car and we’ll be out of your hair.” She nodded to one of the uniformed policemen, and in a few minutes, he came back with the fingerprinting kit. “I hope you accept my condolences for your loss, Mrs. Ashby. And of course my apologies for this intrusion.”
I watched the fingerprinting procedure, feeling guilty I hadn’t encouraged Emma to talk to her lawyer first about it.
Detective Gore and her team had finished taking Emma’s prints and were packing up to be on their way when the back door slammed loud enough to make me jump. It was William, and he was scowling.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded of the police officers. “What are you doing with my mother?”
“It’s okay, William.” Emma shot up from her seat. “You don’t need to worry about this. They’re just trying to find out what happened to your father.”
“Mom, you can’t be that stupid,” William said. “They’re taking your fingerprints because they’re going to accuse you of killing him.”
“But I didn’t, William. So there’s no need to worry about that.” Utterly calm.
William threw up his hands. “And since when did that stop the police? They go for the easiest target and then close the case.”
I thought William might possibly have been watching too many TV murder shows. Or did he know something the rest of us didn’t? Was there any possibility that William could have killed his father? Emma had already admitted he wasn’t at home.
William wasn’t very muscular, but he was taller than Carl. Could he have strangled his father and then come home to fall asleep that night, leaving his mother to deal with everything? He had been strangely insistent on going to school the morning after his father’s death.
“I assure you, Mr. Ashby, we are going to find out the truth here,” said Detective Gore forcefully. She was taller than William was, and weighed a good deal more. She held her head high, right in William’s personal space.
“Well, then, do whatever. Just stay out of my life,” said William, and he disappeared upstairs.
“I apologize for my son,” Emma said to Gore as the detective followed her colleagues out. “He’s had a very difficult week.”
But my thoughts were still spinning on the possibility that William might have killed his father. It seemed so far-fetched, but my gut reaction was that something here was wrong. Had William discovered his father’s secret?
As the police vehicles pulled out, I wished I could do more for Emma. But I left her with a casserole the Relief Society had brought in, and the promise that she could call me if she needed anything.
At home, I told Kurt what had happened.
“That sounds like they’re looking at Emma as a suspect,” he said.
“Either her or William.”
“That’s ridiculous. They’re the victims in this case, and anyone who knows them should see that immediately. I’m going to call President Frost.”
I thought for a moment about Kurt’s initial assessment that Carl was a liar and deserved to have his sealings canceled, and his assumption that a teenage boy and his mother couldn’t possibly be murderers. Was I falling prey to the same assumptions?
“You don’t feel that President Frost interfering in this case is, well, wrong?” I asked, thinking that the quick cleanup on the Sunday after the murder must have been partly due to President Frost’s intervention as well.
“Not if Emma Ashby is innocent,” said Kurt. “And I’m sure President Frost will pray about it before he does anything.”
I wasn’t convinced praying about it was a pass to use arm-twisting or Mormon connections to influence the outcome of a police investigation.
Chapter 12
We had our regular family dinner that Sunday night. All five of my boys (Adam, Joseph, Zachary, Kenneth, and Samuel) and my two daughters-in-law drove over to our house in Draper for the evening. Willow, Joseph’s wife, was noticeably pregnant now. I think I was as excited about the new baby as either of the prospective parents. However, I was surprised that Joseph was the one who was having the first grandchild, and not Adam, who was older. But Adam had gone on a mission and Jo
seph hadn’t, so Joseph had actually been married for longer.
Samuel, the only one of my sons who still lived with us, was late since he was coming from work. Kurt disliked the fact that the summer job Samuel had found was at the local movie theater, which meant he had to work every other Sunday. I was pretty sure that Samuel had taken the job at least in part to avoid church and not just to save money for college.
“Let me go change!” Samuel called as he went up the stairs two at a time. “Be right back!”
“That’s one kid who is desperate to go to college,” said Adam, nodding fondly after his little brother.
“Just wait until he’s there. He’ll have so many girls chasing him, he’ll ask to come home on the weekends just to get away from them,” said Kenneth.
Samuel was a good kid. More than that, he was the most empathetic of all my sons. He hurt when others hurt, and he was the kind of teenage boy whose shoulder the girls of his group would cry on when they had been mistreated by others. I had always assumed that he would do something extraordinary with his life, including marrying a woman who was his equal in tender kindness and deep thought.
Shortly afterward, Samuel came back downstairs in jeans and a T-shirt advertising one of the new Mormon music groups I didn’t know. Kurt was vaguely suspicious of them all, assuming any group that became successful outside of Utah must have lowered their religious standards. Samuel’s jeans were very tight. He had bought them himself with money he had earned from his job.
Maybe Kenneth was right about girls chasing him at college, after all.
I handed Samuel a plate and he piled it high with food, then dug in while the talk around him resumed. Joseph helped Willow move to the couch so she would be more comfortable. Marie joined them, chatting about baby things, despite the fact that she and Adam had shown no interest in getting pregnant. But that was their business, not mine.
At the table, Kenneth mentioned his new business venture, laundromats. He suggested that Samuel could get a job there that would pay better than the movie theater. “As soon as I’m up and going, which will be in a couple of months’ time,” he said, “you can work part-time through college.”
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