We’d been talking as we walked through the hospital and down a set of stairs to the ground floor. We eventually reached a pair of metal doors quite a distance from the cafeteria. Seth held up his badge to a reader on the wall. A buzzer sounded, and we pulled open the doors and entered the morgue. A technician in a white uniform sat behind a high wall overlooking a small vestibule. The three of us signed our names in the logbook with the date and time.
The morgue had recently been renovated, and I looked around, curious to see what changes had been made. To the left, through a glass wall, was the new viewing room for families. It had low lighting and chairs and a small sofa upholstered in gray mohair. A square table between the sofa and chairs held a box of tissues. The glass wall was fitted with curtains that, open now, could be drawn to provide privacy for the family during a viewing.
“Will anybody be touching the body, Dr. Hazlitt?” the technician asked.
“I may.”
“In that case, we’ll want all of you gowned and gloved.”
The technician unlatched the door to his area, and we were led past the viewing room, down a short corridor, and through another secured door into the autopsy room. It occurred to me that the hospital’s security was tighter for the deceased than for the living patients in the rooms upstairs.
Seth, Mort, and I were each given blue paper gowns that tied in the back and a pair of latex gloves. The drawers holding the bodies could be opened from both ends. One end could be slid out into the viewing room for the purpose of family identifying the individual; the other end of the drawer could be pulled the full length of the body into the autopsy room where we stood. The morgue technician slid open the drawer holding Cliff’s body.
Seth pulled back the sheet covering the body. “Proving homicidal asphyxiation is very difficult,” he said. “I want to caution you that the courts could challenge our findings. But I’m convinced that these markings on the corpse indicate foul play.” He pointed out the red dots on both the outside and inside of Cliff’s eyelids, the bruising around the nostrils and lips, and the line where his lower teeth had cut into the soft tissue inside his mouth.
I’ve seen many bodies over the years, but it’s not something you ever get used to—at least I don’t. While the body may be thought of as simply the husk that held the organs, bones, and blood vessels, I am always acutely aware that this was once a living, breathing person with thoughts and feelings, someone loved or loving—if he or she was fortunate. And those who come to the morgue to view the body, or observe it lying in a coffin at a funeral home, don’t consider what they see as simply a shell either. Instead, they invest the body with all the emotions and sentiments evoked when the person was alive.
Seth looked at Mort. “I’m planning to send the body back to the funeral home unless you need the morgue to hold it longer for some reason.”
“Did you take photos of the bruising?” Mort asked.
“We documented all our findings, both by photograph and X-ray, followed a comprehensive checklist as required in a forensic postmortem,” Seth said in clipped tones. “Apart from the delay in examination, we adhered to the model protocol meticulously.”
I knew Seth was beating himself up about not calling for an immediate autopsy following Cliff’s death, but he couldn’t take offense at Mort’s questions, much as he’d probably have liked to.
“Were there any defensive wounds?”
Seth shook his head. “The only thing we found were a few fibers caught in his fingernails. We sent the samples off for analysis.”
“Were they the same color as the fibers that you found in his throat?” I asked.
“Yes. They were green.”
“Do you have any idea where they came from?” Mort asked.
“I’m afraid I do.”
“What’s that?”
Seth covered Cliff’s face and slid the drawer closed. “My best guess is that they came from a hospital uniform.”
Chapter Fourteen
There is nothing more jarring and confusing than a phone ringing next to your bed at five a.m. The first few rings sounded distant to me, as though they came from another place, another house. But by the third ring there was no mistaking the origin—on my nightstand within a few feet of my ears.
“Hello?” I managed.
“Mrs. Fletcher?” a man’s voice said.
“Who else would—yes, this is Jessica Fletcher.”
“It’s Barnaby, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Barnaby? Barnaby Longshoot?”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s me, Barnaby. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“As a matter of fact you did, Barnaby.” I looked at the clock next to the phone. Five oh five. The dim light through my window confirmed that the sun still hadn’t made an appearance.
“Didn’t mean to, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve been up for an hour—was planning to go fishin’. Best time for fishin’ is right around sunup.”
I pushed myself into a sitting position in the bed and rubbed my eyes with my free hand. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re calling me at such an early hour, Barnaby?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have, ’cept I thought you’d want to know.”
“Know what?”
“That somebody’s broken into the Spencer Percy House.”
Now fully awake, I turned on the lamp on the nightstand. “Broken into the house, you say?”
“Yes, ma’am. Like I said, I was about to go fishin’ and was walkin’ past the Spencer Percy House when I saw it.”
“You saw someone break in?”
“Not exactly, but somebody sure is in there, playin’ music real loud, you know, that rock-and-roll kind of music. Plenty of lights on, too.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, ma’am. I thought that since you’ve been sort of in charge of getting the house ready for Miss Simpson to sell and all, and going through everything, that you were the one to call.”
I started to say something in response, but he added, “Besides, Mrs. Fletcher, everybody knows that you know a lot about such things.”
“I do?”
“You know, crimes and such.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, Barnaby, as much as I appreciate your thinking of me, the next call you make should be to the police.”
“Wouldn’t want to get involved with the police, Mrs. Fletcher. The sheriff, he’s got a short fuse as everybody knows and—”
“All right,” I said, eager to end the conversation, “I’ll call the sheriff’s office.”
“That’d be great, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry I woke you. I figured you were always up early writing your books and all.”
“That’s all right, Barnaby. Have a good day.”
I got up, slipped on my bathrobe and slippers, and padded to the kitchen, where I turned on the lights and took a few seconds to finish clearing my thoughts. Once I had, I used the phone to call police headquarters, where the deputy on duty answered. I explained who I was and told him about a break-in having been reported at the Spencer Percy House. I was quick to add that there probably was a logical explanation for it but thought I should report it.
“You’re down around that house at this hour, Mrs. Fletcher?” the deputy asked.
“No. Barnaby Longshoot called to tell me about what he saw, loud music and lights on, and—”
The deputy laughed. “Good ol’ Barnaby,” he said. “He sure is some character.”
“Yes, well—”
“I’ll send somebody over there to take a look,” he said. “May be just some kids having themselves a party.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “Thank you.”
It occurred to me after hanging up that Eve Simpson should be notified in the event someone was in the house and possibly causing damage. But it was too early to call her at home, and her office wouldn’t open for an
other three hours. Now wide awake, I made myself a cup of coffee, shook cereal into a bowl, added sliced banana, poured in some two-percent milk, and enjoyed a very early breakfast before showering and getting dressed.
The sun was now over the horizon, providing light as I climbed on my bicycle and pedaled in the direction of the seacoast where the Spencer Percy House cast a long shadow over the bluff above the beach. I thought of the rumors about the house being haunted, and had to smile as I envisioned the ghost—if there was one—playing loud rock-and-roll music as Barnaby had reported. Either that or whoever was playing the music had probably driven any ghosts far from the premises.
A Cabot Cove patrol car was parked in the driveway when I arrived, but there was no sign of the officer who’d driven it. I leaned my bike against a tree and looked at the house’s imposing front façade. Barnaby had been right. Rock-and-roll music was coming through open windows, and I heard male voices but couldn’t make out the substance of their conversation.
You really have no business being here, I told myself. But since I was, I decided to make my presence known. As I passed the patrol car, I noticed a large red motorcycle parked to the side. It was a lethal-looking machine resting on its kickstand with a red and yellow helmet hanging from one of the handlebars. Even though I had the key to the front door in my shoulder bag, I knocked. From inside I heard the same voices, louder this time, and the sound of footsteps. The door opened, and I was face-to-face with one of Sheriff Metzger’s veteran deputies, an old friend.
“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Surprised to see you here at this hour.”
“Good morning, Henry. I was the one who called in the report about someone being here,” I said. “Since I was already awake, I—”
“Come on in.”
He stepped aside to allow me to enter. Inside, the music was considerably louder. It came from upstairs.
“Who’s playing that music?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard.
“Elliot Cooper,” the deputy shouted back, “old Cliff Cooper’s grandson.”
“He’s here?”
“He surely is. At first I figured it to be some teenagers having a party, but turns out it’s just him.”
“How did he get in?” I asked.
“I asked him the same question, Mrs. Fletcher. He showed me a window around the side that he said he used to go in and out of when he lived here as a kid. No question about who he is—got lots of ID. He rode all the way here from Alaska on that hog out front.”
“Hog?”
“Motorcycle.”
“Right. I saw it when I arrived. I’d like to meet him.”
“Be my guest. I’m just leaving.”
“I’m sorry to have gotten you out for no reason.”
“No problem. Turned out to be a wild-goose chase, but better safe than sorry, I always say. You have yourself a good day, Mrs. Fletcher.”
The deputy left, and I stood at the foot of the staircase leading to the upper floors. It dawned on me that seeing a strange woman suddenly appear might unnerve Elliot Cooper, and I considered yelling before ascending the stairs. But I wasn’t sure whether my voice would be heard over the raucous music, so I went up, reached the landing, and found the bedroom where a young man was playing a guitar in sync with the recorded music—except there was no guitar. What was it called when someone pretended to hold a guitar? Air guitar. Yes, that was it. He was playing an “air guitar.”
“Excuse me,” I called out. I wasn’t sure if he heard me. I waited in the doorway until his gyrations caused him to turn in my direction. I waved with both hands.
He stopped twisting and turning and smiled.
“Hello,” I shouted.
“Hi,” he said.
“Could you turn down that music, please?”
“What?”
“The music. Could you turn it down or off?”
He nodded and, still bouncing up and down, reached out to turn a dial on the portable CD player. Now, there was silence.
I entered the room and extended my hand. “Good morning. I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, “and you’re Elliot Cooper. I was a friend of your grandfather.”
“You were? He had a lot of friends, I guess.”
“Yes, he was well liked. You’ve come all the way from Alaska.”
He grinned. “Finally got here.”
“Welcome home,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure that he still considered Cabot Cove his home.
“That was always the great thing about this house,” he said.
“What was?”
“You could play your music as loud as you wanted and there were no neighbors close enough to complain. That’s how it used to be anyway. Did I disturb you?”
“Me? Oh, no, I don’t live nearby. I can’t speak for the Conrad sisters, though.”
“They never minded my music. Or so they told me. Of course, by now, they’re probably a bit hard of hearing.” That prompted another smile, wider this time.
I took the opportunity to take him in more closely. He was a handsome young man, slightly more than six feet tall, and with a full head of thick black hair, its color matching his scraggly beard. He wore jeans, a tee shirt with a psychedelic swirl of red and yellow, and what appeared to be tall military boots laced all the way up, probably handy footwear when riding a large motorcycle.
He seemed amused by my perusal. “Do I pass?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do I pass your inspection?”
I smiled. “You do. But I recommend you get used to it. People in town haven’t seen you since you were a young teenager, and they’re likely to search your face for the boy they once knew.”
“Yeah. I figured that might happen.”
“How was your trip here?”
“It was great as long as the weather was okay. And a sticky clutch held me up for a while. Had to get it replaced.”
“I can’t imagine coming such a distance on a motorcycle.”
“Piece o’ cake,” he said.
“Especially from such a cold place as Alaska,” I added.
“It’s not that cold this time of year unless you’re up in the mountains.”
“Do you like living there?”
“Sure. I live in Sitka. It’s a seaside town not unlike Cabot Cove. Funny, I never thought of that until now. But it’s also different in that there’s lots of room to stretch out once you get beyond the shops. Lots of hiking and camping. You can be very happy by yourself. If Grandpa Cliff hadn’t died, I’d still be there.”
“You never thought about a trip home to see him?”
“I invited him to come visit me.”
“Did he ever go?” I asked, but I knew the answer.
“He said he would think about it, but I knew what that meant. It meant he didn’t want to turn me down outright, so he pretended a visit was under consideration. But I saw right through him.”
“Mind if I sit down?” I asked.
“Oh, sure.” He pointed to a small upholstered chair, which I took. He remained standing.
I wasn’t sure where to take the conversation and decided to talk with him about the house. “It must seem strange coming back to this house where you grew up, Elliot.”
“Yeah, it is a little, only I didn’t really grow up here. I mean, I was a baby when my folks left. Grandpa Cliff brought me up until—well, until he lost patience with me, I guess.” He chuckled. “He got annoyed with something I did and sent me off to boarding school to get straightened out, as he put it.” He paused as though gathering his thoughts about having been sent away. “I was pretty angry when Grandpa Cliff did that,” he said, “but I got over it. I liked being on my own and still do. He meant well, thought it would be best for me. It actually turned out pretty good, got me reading a lot of good books. I’m even writing a
novel.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I’m a writer, too.”
“Yeah. I thought your name was familiar. Some friends back in Alaska have all your books.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
He pulled up a faded red leather hassock and sat. “Listen. I have to ask you a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Is it true that somebody killed Grandpa Cliff?” he asked.
“I, ah—well, it appears that someone did. Who told you?”
“The attorney, Mr. Kramer. I contacted him yesterday to let him know I’d be arriving. He said he had something important to discuss with me when we met. I never was very good at waiting for anything. I’m not very patient. I nagged him until he told me the news.” He fixed his large gray eyes on me. “I hope they catch whoever did it.”
“I’m sure they will,” I said, though I didn’t know if I was answering honestly.
We talked for another fifteen minutes before I said, “Well, I’d better be going. It was nice meeting you, Elliot. I’m sure we’ll get a chance to spend more time together while you’re here.”
“That’d be nice,” he said.
I asked while we headed downstairs, “Will you be staying here at the house?”
“That’s my plan,” he said.
“It is, after all, your house now. Your grandfather left it to you.”
“Not quite,” he said. “He left a will instructing that the house be sold and that I get the money from it.”
I almost mentioned that I’d been the one who’d helped his grandfather draft the crude will, but I didn’t. Instead, I told him about the plans to sell his grandfather’s books to benefit the library.
He laughed. “You know, I think he probably would have loved that idea. He never knew what to do with a book when he finished it. I hope you don’t mind if I move the boxes out of the kitchen. It’s getting a little crowded in there.”
“The kitchen?” I said. “I don’t recall leaving boxes in the kitchen.”
“Well, they’re there now. Nearly killed myself trying to get to the refrigerator.”
“May I see?” I said, hurrying to the kitchen to find boxes scattered around the floor and piled up against one wall.
Murder, She Wrote: The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher Page 11
