by Dave Daren
“You can put your coat and shoes here,” she offered as she held the door open. “Of course, you’re not obligated to stay.”
“I don’t mind staying for a couple of minutes,” I said as I shrugged off my coat and began to take off my shoes. “I still have some questions regarding Mr. Morris’ case.”
“Of course,” she said and began to walk toward a thermostat just to the left of the staircase. “Is the house too cold? I can turn up the heat.”
“No, I’m fine,” I answered as I placed my coat and shoes into the closet.
I retrieved my journal and pen from my pocket before shutting the closet door, and then I walked down the hallway that opened into the living room on the right and the kitchen and dining area on the left. Windows on the opposite wall allowed sunlight into the house, and this negated the need for manmade lights. Unlike Vann’s home, there was a decidedly more feminine influence in the home, from the pastel colors on the wall to the cream-colored sectional that filled the living room.
There was a coffee table with a yellow tablecloth between the couch and an unused fireplace. A ship in a bottle stood on the mantelpiece, and behind that was a large flat screen TV. I had a feeling that Mrs. Morris wasn’t responsible for the placement of the bottle above the fireplace, especially since there was a display case in both corners of the living room filled with more ships in bottles of various sizes. I had a sneaking suspicion that the outlier was an attempt by Mr. Morris to gain some control over the shared living space.
“Quite a collection,” I said as I moved toward one of the display cases to get a better look.
The largest ship floated on fake water while surrounded by icebergs. Its white sails were full of wind and propelled the ship on a path straight for an iceberg. This scene was the beginning of a shipwreck, and I found myself wondering who had built it.
“Uh, sure,” Mrs. Morris replied as she started up the stairs.
With the homeowner upstairs and out of sight, I took a few moments to investigate the rest of the main floor. The dining area on the other side of the room housed an elegant, wooden table that seated up to six. Rather than a ship in the bottle, a vase full of pink lilies was the table’s centerpiece carefully placed on top of a blue and white table runner with a floral pattern. Were these pleasant decorations meant to sooth Mrs. Morris’ sensitive senses or impress guests that came over? I couldn’t imagine the frail woman playing host and entertaining guests as they laughed and talked around the table. If she could barely survive an argument between Yura and Tash, then surely the noise of a large dinner party would have split her head in two.
I walked through an open archway into the kitchen, and I noticed the table runner’s floral pattern continued here in the form of place mats on the counters. Peeking out from under the mats was a white granite countertop, and its sleek look gleamed in full display on the island that stood in the middle of the room. The granite, however, was not the star of the room.
That honor went to the sparkling appliances in pristine conditions. The refrigerator contained a water dispenser, an ice maker, and a touch screen that currently displayed a recipe for lemon-pepper salmon. The electric stove was stainless steel with a matching microwave built into the cabinet above it, and its interface and number dials lit up with blue LED lights.
These appliances had to have cost a fortune both to buy and to install, especially in a remote city like Utqiagvik. They were still spotless and so that meant they were recently purchased. The entire kitchen itself, I realized, was incredibly clean, and so I wondered if this was the outcome of a meticulous wife or an infrequently used room.
The sink was empty of any dishes, and a quick peek in the dishwater told the same story. Who primarily used the kitchen? Did anyone? I was trying to piece together an idea of the kind of relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Morris. Were they as close as Mr. Morris believed themselves to be?
The only evidence that suggested someone spent time in the kitchen was a large plate covered with aluminum foil on the island. Someone had made a meal and protected it for later enjoyment, but that person didn’t necessarily have to be anyone from the Morris household. Maybe a friend had brought it over? I was about to lift the foil and see what was on the plate when I heard Mrs. Morris come down the stairs. Her feet slapped the hardwood floor and then the tiled floor as she entered the kitchen. Her hand was balled around something.
“Mrs. Morris,” I greeted her.
“Diana,” she corrected me and smiled.
She opened a cabinet full of cups and coffee mugs which she studied intently for a moment. When she reached a decision, she grabbed a glass, set it on the counter, and then retrieved a Brita pitcher from the refrigerator. I arched an eyebrow at her avoidance of the water dispenser built into the fridge, but she paid me no attention. She threw whatever was balled in her fist into her mouth, and then filled her glass with water from the pitcher. She threw back her head as she chased down what I assumed to be aspirin with water. She cleared her throat a couple of times before deciding to drink more.
“Would you like some water?” she asked as she shook the pitcher in her hand.
“No, but thank you,” I answered. “Is the water dispenser broken?”
I pointed at the refrigerator and the water dispenser with the blue backlighting.
“It works,” she answered as she returned the pitcher to the refrigerator. “Austin swears the water is fine, but I don’t believe it. I drank some, and it made me feel ill for a week. So I’m sticking with my Brita.”
“Understandable,” I replied with a nod, but I found it hard to trust the opinion of a woman whose well-being could be jeopardized by the sound of people yelling.
“Would you like something else?” the frail woman asked as she waved her hand toward the open fridge.
“No, no, I’m fine,” I insisted.
“Okay, but you let me know if you need anything,” she instructed as she closed the fridge. “I don’t often have guests over, so I want to make sure I’m being a good host.”
Three white barstools with light-pink cushioned seats lined the island, and Diana pulled out the one on the far right to sit in it. She first clasped her hands and placed them on the island, but something made her press her palms against the countertop as though checking something. It must have been the cool temperature because she then pressed her forehead against the granite and sighed in relief.
I watched her for a while until it felt awkward and then pulled out the barstool closest to me. The noise of the barstool’s legs scraping across the floor made Diana flinch, and she turned her head sideways to look at me. The third barstool stood between us like a chaperone for a teenage date, and I wondered if Diana and Morris sat so far apart during their own meals. I placed my journal on the island and tried to decide what question to ask first.
“I’m sorry for the unprofessional posture,” she apologized and began to sit up straight.
“You don’t need to apologize for being comfortable in your own house,” I reassured her.
“Yes, but we’re here to talk about something serious,” she explained. “It’s only appropriate that I give this conversation my full attention, especially since it could help Austin.”
“Right, right,” I said.
For Diana to be a plausible suspect in this case, she needed a reason to murder Vann and frame her own husband, and I figured I could find those reasons by talking to her about anything but the case. I had questions about the night of the murder, and her relationship with Vann, but those explicit questions were never going to get me anywhere. They rarely ever did. It was the innocuous questions and simple comments that proved to be the most effective at getting people to talk. Everyone wanted to talk about themselves, but they just needed to be assured that someone wanted to listen.
“This is a very nice kitchen,” I said as I looked over at the refrigerator and then the stove.
“It is,” Diana agreed with a soft chuckle. “One of the few times Austin’
s used his money for something practical.”
Bingo. Now there was a topic to explore. Morris’ comment about the cost of raising children had rubbed me the wrong way, and the bad feeling only got worse when more and more evidence suggested he should be making quite a sum from his fishing job. No funds were being allocated toward the maintenance of his boat, and so he had more to spend on his home life than most captains. But Diana was suggesting the lack of money didn’t stem from his dangerous profession, but from his poor spending habits.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Does he usually buy impractical things?”
The wife sighed and rubbed her wrist as if that motion provided some comfort. When she caught me watching, she stopped and then slumped back down to press her forehead against the cool granite. Since we weren’t discussing the murder case just yet, she must have decided she didn’t need to maintain a professional posture. She turned her head to look at me, grimaced, and then returned her forehead to the granite. When she spoke, she spoke into the counter.
“You noticed the ship in a bottle collection in the living room, right?” she asked, and this confirmed she hadn’t really heard me earlier.
“Yes, it’s very extensive,” I answered.
“That’s Austin’s current obsession,” she explained. “They come and go like the waves. Very poetic considering his profession. Right now, it’s ships in bottles. Last month, it was upgrading the kitchen. A year ago, it was comic books, and the year before that it was baseball cards. Every time, I tell him not to go overboard because I don’t want the house to be full of junk, and every time, he blows thousands of dollars on stuff he’ll lock away in a trunk in a couple of months to make space for his new interests.”
Diana sat up and rubbed the back of her neck, then her forehead, and finally her wrist. The movement was automatic, and I wondered if she actually felt pain in any of the places she touched.
“He never spends so much that I worry about paying bills or buying groceries,” she continued. “But still, that’s thousands of dollars that could have been in our bank accounts collecting interest or used toward something useful.”
“You two share your bank accounts?” I asked, though it sounded perfectly normal, but it was the fact that she mentioned it that piqued my interest.
“Yes,” she answered. “But really, it’s Austin’s money.”
“As in, he doesn’t allow you to spend how you please?” I questioned with a raise of my eyebrows.
Mr. Morris hadn’t struck me as a controlling husband. If anything, he seemed more like the type who didn’t pay much attention.
“No, no,” she protested with a quick shake of her hands. “What I mean is that Austin is the breadwinner. He’s the one who goes out to sea and catches the fish. I just divide the money between the crew and buy supplies for the next fishing trip. In my eyes, the money all belongs to Austin. I’m free to use the money as I please, but because Austin spends it so freely, I don’t feel comfortable spending even more of it.”
“From what I’m hearing, it sounds like Mr. Morris is a very selfish man,” I said.
She arched her eyebrows at me, and I wondered if I had overstepped my boundaries. I wanted to see how she would react to this. Would she reveal a deep-seated hatred for the fool she called her husband, or would she lash out at me for badmouthing the love of her life? I needed to know if Diana was at a point in her marriage where she would be willing to frame her husband for murder, and if that was true, then all she needed was a reason for her to murder Vann.
“I guess he is,” Diana agreed with an embarrassed smile. “At the same time, though, I’ve always just let him drag me along with his plans. Moving to Alaska was his idea, not mine, and I just went along with it.”
Her reaction and answer were not what I’d expected, and I couldn’t tell if her embarrassment stemmed from feeling ashamed of her marriage to Morris or feeling ashamed for letting herself be at the mercy of Morris’ actions. Regardless, shame was not a good emotion to express when discussing your spouse, but was it the right emotion for murder? It didn’t make sense for Diana to frame Morris because she was embarrassed to be with him, especially when an issue like that could easily be resolved through divorce.
“You just went along with it?” I asked. “Didn’t you have any plans of your own?”
“I did,” she responded, and she looked off to the side as though remembering something. “I had an internship with a marketing company in Washington after I graduated college. They offered me a full position, but Austin promised me a fortune from catching fish in Alaska. And, well, Alaska sounded cool. A little too cool, as it turned out.”
She faked a shiver and flashed a playful smile. Her eyes returned to look at me, and I instantly saw the allure in her gaze. This was what had drawn Morris in, I was sure. I could imagine their eyes meeting across the room, and the power and pull of her gaze must have carried him over to strike up a conversation. But what had Morris offered in return to lure her in? Nothing she had said made this apparent, and I began to wonder if she even knew anymore.
“It’s funny,” the pale woman continued. “I never thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives here. I was so certain that we would live here a couple of years, make enough to invest in a business that could become a chain across the States, and then move somewhere else. Somewhere warmer.”
“But you soon realized that wasn’t going to happen with Austin’s spending habits,” I guessed.
“I realized the business wasn’t going to happen,” she explained. “I still thought we would move. It wasn’t until he upgraded the kitchen that I realized we were staying. You don’t spend that much money on one part of the house if you’re not planning on living in it for… the rest of your life.”
She leaned forward to hang her head in her hands and then used her fingertips to massage her forehead. She grimaced, and I argued with myself as to whether or not the color had drained from her face.
“I should take some more aspirin,” she whispered to herself as she deepened the massage on her forehead.
“Should we continue this another time?” I asked as I gently placed my hand on her arm.
She looked at my hand and then at my face. I thought I had offended her and began to pull my hand away, but then I watched a grateful smile light up her face. This time, I did see the color return to her cheeks and the rosy hue that suddenly gave her a healthy glow. There was blood in her veins after all, and it was pumping quite well by the look of things.
I was starting to think her ailment was largely psychological since it only seemed to strike when she was dealing with something that upset her, like Austin’s spending habits. If she hated living in Alaska, then that would explain why she was sick all the time.
“No, it’s okay,” she answered and patted my hand. “I appreciate your concern, but your job would be easier if we did this all in one sitting. I don’t want you to have to look for me later, especially since I won’t be in town starting tomorrow.”
“What’s happening tomorrow?” I asked as I arched my eyebrows.
“Austin didn’t tell you,” she sighed. “I swear that man lives in his own head, and he assumes we all know the layout of his mind just as well as he does. The fishing trip is tomorrow. Luke, Marleen, and I leave in the evening.”
“In the middle of a murder investigation?” I questioned.
“I know it doesn’t look good,” she admitted. “But we can’t afford to put our lives on hold for this case, especially when we don’t know how long this investigation will last.”
“I understand that,” I said. “But couldn’t you guys have waited a week? To go fishing two days after your competitor dies does not help prove your innocence.”
Diana’s eyes widened at me.
“Oh,” she gasped. “I’m a suspect.”
She looked down at the countertop and frowned.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she whispered. “It makes sense. If Austin didn’t kill Va
nn, then someone else did, and that person could be anyone. I just thought… I don’t know. I thought you wanted to talk to me because you wanted me to prove why Austin’s innocent, not to explain why I’m not guilty.”
“And you should view it that way,” I reassured her. “By proving your innocence, you narrow my list of suspects, and that means I’m one step closer to getting your husband out of this mess.”
“Okay,” she said with a nod, but she still frowned.
Her mind was far away, and I wondered if telling spontaneous lies was a household trait. The color in her cheeks disappeared as she brought her hand to her wrist. She stretched out her fingers as though to rub the area but changed her mind halfway through. She awkwardly brought her hand to the back of her neck and rubbed there instead.
“Just be completely honest with me,” I told her in the hopes of discouraging any ideas she had. “Where were you on the night of Vann’s murder?”
“That’s easy,” she sighed and then smiled a little. “I was here asleep. I took some pills around nine and fell asleep immediately.”
“Can Mr. Morris confirm this?” I asked.
“He’ll say that it’s true if you ask him,” she answered. “But he wasn’t home when I went to bed. I think he was looking for Harrison at that point.”
“Do you always turn in so early?” I asked.
“Yes,” she responded. “My doctor recently prescribed me Sonata to help me fall asleep. If I’m lucky, one dose is all I need to get through the night. Occasionally, I wake up in the middle of the night and need a second dose. I don’t want my body to become dependent, so I’ve stopped doing that. I have to find some other way to fall asleep, and that can take hours. I don’t want to end up waking up at one or two in the afternoon and find half my day gone, so I have to go to bed as early as possible.”
