by J. M. Madden
She frowned. “How can I when I feel like the entire town is judging me?”
She tried to step forward. Her legs didn’t comply. Will rushed to her side.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t stopped shaking since the other night.”
“It’s understandable,” I said.
She extended a flaccid hand. I accepted it.
“Please don’t leave,” she said. “I’ll talk to you. I’ll answer your questions.”
Seeing her now, the dark marks under her eyes, the look of grief and exhaustion, I understood Will was only trying to give her some time to push past her recent ordeal enough to have the conversation she probably wasn’t ready to have yet. Part of me felt like an ass for pushing him so hard.
“You will stay, won’t you?” she asked.
“I’ll admit, when I first arrived, I wanted to speak to you personally. Now, I can see your husband was right. You need your rest. I’d be happy to stop by tonight, or tomorrow even. Whenever you feel more rested. I can get started based on what I already know, and you can fill in the blanks for me next time we meet. Okay?”
She shook her head. “I can sleep later. All I want now is to clear my name.”
I returned to a sitting position.
Wren looked at her husband, tried to smile. “Could you … give us a minute?”
He didn’t move, visibly reluctant to leave her side.
“I’d rather stay,” he said.
“Please, Will.”
He sighed. “I don’t understand, but okay … I’ll go.”
Wren waited until the door closed and then leaned forward. “I feel terrible talking about what happened in front of him. It was hard enough to do it the first time.”
For the next several minutes, she rattled off as much as she could remember. When she finished, I said, “So, the last thing you remember is trying to leave the house while the killer was still there?”
She nodded. “I remember him breathing, standing in the shadows. Watching me.”
“Do you have any idea where he was in the room?”
“I don’t.”
“You said you could hear him breathing. Focus on that for a minute. Where was the sound coming from?”
“All around me. First I thought he was by the door, then in the corner, then behind the sofa. It was like he was nowhere and everywhere at the same time. There was a breeze blowing from the ceiling fan. It made it hard for me to pinpoint his exact location. I panicked, started dialing 9-1-1. He reached over my shoulder, snatched the phone from me.”
“So, he was behind you.”
“When he took my phone he was. When I stood up, tried to run, he wasn’t. He must have still been watching me though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“One minute I was running for the door, the next I woke up next to June with a knife in my hand that had previously been sticking out of June’s chest. My head was throbbing. I don’t know how long I’d been out. I reached out to June. Her body was cold, rigid. No pulse. I knew then that she was dead.”
“When you tried to escape the second time, why run to your car? Why not run to the neighbor’s house instead?”
“I never got a good look at the killer. I had no idea who I could trust. I no longer had my cell phone, and I couldn’t find June’s, so my first thought was to get out of there, get back home to my husband, tell him what happened, then call police.”
“The neighbor saw you run out of June’s house with the murder weapon in your hand. Why take the knife with you?”
She frowned. “Are you here to interrogate me or help me?”
“The best way for me to help you is to ask all the hard questions, the ones you don’t want to answer.”
“I was in shock. Not only was June dead, someone knocked me out and then staged the scene to make it look like I did it. I panicked, then I ran. It wasn’t until I reached my car that I realized I’d taken the knife with me. I remember looking up at the street lamp, then down, seeing June’s blood dripping from the tip of the knife onto on my skirt.”
“Tell me about the neighbor.”
“I heard a noise, someone yelling. I looked up. June’s neighbor was headed in my direction. She had a gun in her hand. All I could think about was why she was coming after me, and what she was doing outside at that hour.”
“Did June have any enemies?”
“She always spoke her mind, but no, I can’t think of anyone who wanted to harm her. The last time I saw her was earlier that night. We’d all gathered together for Sunday dinner just like we always do.”
“Who’s we?”
Wren gave me the names of everyone at the table, and then said, “It wasn’t a typical Sunday dinner.”
“What do you mean?”
“June wasn’t herself. She’s usually outspoken to a fault. She stayed quiet through most of dinner, and then she passed around some wine and announced she was selling her house and moving to a place called Seal Beach.”
Having been raised in California, Seal Beach was a place I knew well. Most people thought of the city and envisioned the ocean, the pier, the people in the active retirement town. Not me. My mind had never been content enough to settle on green pastures. When I thought of Seal Beach, a mass killing came to mind, one that had occurred about ten years before at Sunny Shore Diner. Seven killed, five wounded. The moral of that story? Don’t piss off your waitress, and always leave a tip.
“Why did your mother-in-law want to move to California?”
“To be with a man she met on the Internet.”
“Had June ever mentioned the man before?”
She shook her head.
“Did she mention his name?”
She gave me his name, first and last. Sebastian Ayres. Her eyes opened and closed. She was getting woozy. I didn’t have much time.
“How did June’s children react to the news of the boyfriend and the move?” I asked.
“Everyone was in shock. Simon stormed out. Patty and Will tried to reason with her. It didn’t matter. She’d made up her mind well before she said anything to us.”
The doorbell sounded. We both turned.
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Will walked from the bedroom, where he’d been waiting, and passed in front of us. He walked over to the door, answered it. From where I was sitting, I didn’t have a clear view of the person he was talking to on the other side, but I didn’t need one. I peeked through the blinds and recognized the truck parked outside.
I turned around just in time to see Cade enter the room. Eyes wide, he wasn’t smiling. He placed a hand on his hip, looked at me, and said, “Sloane? What are you doin’ here?”
SIX
Wren feverishly chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes focused on her fingers tucked in her lap. Will sat next to her, his hands brushing up and down her arms as if he were warming her in front of a fire. Neither spoke.
“Would you excuse us for a minute?” I asked.
She nodded.
I walked outside. Cade followed.
“I can explain,” I said.
“What in the hell is goin’ on?”
I relayed how I came to be there, icing the cake with, “When I moved here, you said I could take a case. Any case. You said you wouldn’t let it get in the way of our relationship. Remember?”
He crossed his arms in front of him, leaned against the door of his pick-up truck, and looked at me like he was trying to find a way to “undo” our aforementioned agreement. He could slice it any way he liked. There was no way to undo what was already done.
“I know what I said. I just didn’t think—”
“I’d take murder cases anymore?”
“Look, Sloane, this is a homicide investigation, and right now, she’s our prime suspect.”
“Are you worried about the conflict of interest? Or what people in this town will say if they learn the chief’s girlfriend has tak
en Wren Bancroft on as a client?”
“Neither. I’m wonderin’ how being on opposite sides will affect our relationship.”
I stepped back. “Are we on opposite sides? She’s a suspect. That’s it. We both want the same thing here. Justice. If she’s innocent, all that matters now is finding the truth.”
“There is no we when it comes to this case. I can’t help you.”
“I never asked for your help. Look, client or not, whatever I find out, whether it exonerates her or condemns her, I’ll do the right thing. I’m not ready to let her hang just yet. And you shouldn’t be either.”
“We found Wren’s cell phone, the one she said the killer snatched from her.”
“Where was it?”
“Beneath June’s body.”
“And?”
“We ran it for prints, only found Wren’s. We ran the knife too. Same outcome. And someone came forward today, saying June and Wren had a rocky relationship.”
“Who came forward?”
“I can’t say. Not right now. Not with you doin’ what you’re doin’.”
It was clear to me that Wren was being set up. What I couldn’t understand was … why wasn’t it clear to him?
“You’re letting the facts of the case sway your opinion,” I said.
“And you’re lettin’ the emotions of a woman sway yours.”
The comment stung harder than it should have, wounding me. I turned. He reached out. I jerked back.
“Sloane, don’t. See, this is what I was afraid of happenin’. I didn’t mean to—”
I turned and walked to my car, letting his words trail off behind me. Whatever he had to say now, it could wait. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to hear it.
Something foul was in the air, and I intended to find out what.
SEVEN
Barbara Fisher wasn’t what I expected, and part of me wondered if I was at the wrong house at first. At an approximate height of five foot eleven, the woman standing in front of me was the perfect example of what people referred to when they said sixty was the new forty. Whatever moisturizer she was using, I wanted to find it and bathe in it.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Are you Barbara Fisher, June’s neighbor?”
She nodded, her perfectly coifed, buttery hair bobbing up and down over her shoulders.
“You’re the woman who stopped Wren Bancroft from leaving June’s house the other night?” I asked.
She nodded again, and yet, I still couldn’t bring myself to believe it. I expected Annie Oakley, and instead, I was met with a much taller version of Ginger Rogers, who looked like she was more likely to spring into dance than point a pistol.
“Is … everything okay?” she asked.
“I was hoping I could speak to you about Wren Bancroft.”
Although subtle, unless my eyes were deceiving me, the gap in the space of the open front door was becoming narrower.
“Oh. I see. Why?”
“You were the only person who saw her fleeing the house after June died.”
“What I meant was, why do I need to talk to you? I already talked to the police.”
She was right. She didn’t need to talk to me.
“I’m assisting with the case,” I ventured.
She squinted, stared at me for a long time, then said, “I recognize you. You were the woman who found those kidnapped girls a couple years back, right?”
I smiled. The front door swung all the way open, and her facial expression changed. Instead of viewing me as a nuisance, I had now garnered the esteem of an A-list celebrity. Her speech quickened twice as fast as before. “Everyone in town still remembers what you did for Noah Tate a few years ago. You found his daughter when she went missing. Come in, come in!”
I went in. We walked to the dining room, sat at the table.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Anything at all?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“What about a glass of wine? I’ve got reds, whites … what’s your pleasure?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?”
I nodded. She continued.
“Who hired you?”
“Will Bancroft.”
She frowned. “Oh.”
“I just want to find out the truth, Mrs. Fisher.”
Barbara fiddled with the placemat in front of her, curling the edge of it around one of her fingers. “The truth is, she killed June. I know how hard it is to believe. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t seen it happen.”
“You didn’t see it actually happen though, did you? You only saw her fleeing June’s house with a bloody knife in her hand.”
“Doesn’t that make her guilty?”
“It makes her a suspect. It doesn’t convict her of the crime. You didn’t see her kill June. No one did.”
She laughed. “How on earth could she be innocent?”
I switched gears. I wouldn’t allow this to turn into a debate.
“Why were you up so late Sunday night?”
“Since when is eleven o’clock late? Most nights I’m lucky if I’m asleep by two a.m.”
“Where were you when you saw Wren?”
“In my bedroom.”
“What do you remember?”
“It was a quiet night. I heard … at least I thought I heard … a woman scream. I looked out the window, didn’t see anything. The lights were out at June’s house and also at my other neighbor’s house who lives a bit farther down the road. I couldn’t tell where the sound originated from, so I remained at the window for a few minutes, waiting for something to happen, anything to explain what I’d heard.”
“And then?”
“Nothing. I stood there ten, fifteen minutes maybe. Then I went to the dresser and pulled my husband’s gun out of the drawer.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was unnerved. My husband was working, and I was alone. It may not have looked like anything was wrong, but something was off. I could sense it.”
“What did you do next? Return to the window?”
“I sat on the bed, tried to calm myself down, convince myself I hadn’t heard anything. Then it happened again.”
“Another scream?”
She nodded.
“How much time passed between the first one and the second?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. At least ten minutes.” She leaned back on the chair, eyes glazed over like she’d taken herself back to that night. “You know what? It was longer. I’d say twenty minutes or more between the first one and the second.”
We were getting somewhere. Finally.
“Did the first scream and the second scream sound the same?”
She screwed up her face, looked at me like I’d just asked an absurd question. “A scream is a scream, isn’t it?”
I’d witnessed plenty in my line of work. Unless it was the same screamer both times, no two were ever the same. “If a person is being murdered, you’re either going to hear one scream or a series of screams, all happening in rapid succession. It’s unnatural for a murder victim to scream once and then again after so much time has passed.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“My guess? June was already dead, or close to it, when you heard scream number two. How long after the second scream did Wren flee the house?”
“Less than a minute. She ran out, glanced over her shoulder a couple times, and I saw the knife in her hand.”
“You saw a knife from this distance?” I stood, walked over to the window, stared down the pathway leading to June’s house. “Your eyesight must be amazing, because from where I stand, I’m not sure I could make out a knife even now, in broad daylight.”
“I was, uhh, looking through binoculars. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a nosey neighbor or anything. It’s just, when I heard that second scream, I needed to know what was going on.”
Or wanted to
know what was going on. Not that I blamed her. I would have been out the door after scream number one.
“You said Wren looked behind her when she ran out. Why would she do that if the only other person in the house was June, and June was already dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“How well do you know June?”
“Enough to borrow a cup of sugar when I need one.”
A cup of sugar wasn’t the same as bonding as friends. “And her family? How well did you know them?”
“Not well at all. We only bought this house nine months ago. The only one I ever met was Simon. Cute kid. Messed up though.”
“In what way?”
“One morning I was taking out the trash, and I saw him sleeping on June’s front lawn. He was wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else. He’d driven his motorcycle through her lawn, and it looked like he’d crashed it into her tree. Didn’t seem to be hurt though.”
“Any idea why he did that?”
“None. Like I said, I’m not a nosey neighbor. It was none of my business.”
And yet she’d just admitted to casing the neighborhood through a pair of binoculars. I grabbed my keys off the table and stood. “Thanks for answering my questions.”
“Wait, don’t you want to know what happened after she ran out, when I confronted her? Aren’t you going to ask me if I think she’s guilty?”
“She isn’t.”
“There’s no way for you to know she isn’t.”
Not yet, there wasn’t. But my gut instinct had never led me astray before. Besides, a window of opportunity had just opened up, and I had every intention of using it.
EIGHT
The police car backed out of June’s driveway, sailing up the paved road like a sports car on a racetrack. I watched it disappear around the corner and then glanced around, looking for an opportunity. June’s front door was covered with so much police tape it looked like it had been vandalized. I slid a strip of tape to the left, tried the handle. It was locked with a deadbolt, which meant no entry. No easy entry anyway.
I walked around the house to the back door. Also locked. But this time with a spring bolt. I reached inside my pocket and pulled out a few credit cards, riffling through them until I found my driver’s license—my preferred method of breaking and entering since laminated cards were bendier. I wedged the card between the door and the frame, pushed the card in, and slid the latch back.
