“Mr. Drew, I think we have a problem,” he said in a thick Southern accent.
“What is it, Levi?” Drew asked.
“I don’t . . . I wonder . . . well, I think something must have happened to the missus.”
Four
“What do you mean, Levi?” Drew asked as he put down his knife and fork, placed his napkin on the table, and stood.
“Her car is here,” Levi said.
The words he spoke weren’t alarming in themselves. In fact, they were quite innocuous. The tone in which he spoke them, however, sent chills down my spine.
“I don’t understand,” Drew said. “Has my mother returned?”
“That’s just it,” Levi replied. “I don’t think she ever left. I had to go out to the garage—to check the freezer for some more pastries—and her car was still in the garage. The missus is not in the car, not in the garage, and I didn’t see her come back into the house.”
“Did you see her leave?” I interrupted, thinking I wouldn’t have put it past her to return home, sneak into the house, and hide from the party just to make Linda angry.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. She said she was leaving, but I was so busy I don’t know if I actually saw her go.”
“Please, everyone, stay seated. I’ll check the garage. Excuse me.” Drew took long strides out of the room and followed Levi into the kitchen.
For a moment the rest of us remained in our seats. I glanced at Ian, who was staring at the doorway through which Drew had disappeared; Linda held on to the table as though debating whether she should use it to push herself out of the chair; Sally looked to be on the verge of tears again. Alan, Mid, and Shawn all looked concerned, but were deep in their own thoughts. Shawn pushed his glasses up his nose.
I didn’t understand any of their reactions. There was probably a reasonable explanation for Madeline’s car being in the garage, but these people knew her much better than I did. Perhaps this behavior was something to be concerned about, but at the moment I was more irritated than concerned. Later, I would regret my reaction.
“Well, excuse me, I think I’m going to see what’s going on,” Linda said as she stood.
“Want me to come?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I stood, and followed my friend as she made her way through the large restaurant-type kitchen and out a back door. By the time we were on a walkway headed toward the garage, the rest of the group was behind us. If Linda stopped, we’d bump together like a group of misdirected Keystone Kops.
I caught Ian’s gaze, and he mouthed a “be careful.” I didn’t understand the need to be careful or wary, but I nodded.
Just as we reached the four-stall garage, the automatic door rolled up, revealing Drew and Levi peering into a newer model silver Mercedes sedan.
“She’s not in the car?” Linda asked.
“No,” Drew answered. “It doesn’t look like it’s been driven recently. And the hood is cool.”
The garage was huge, but clean and mostly empty. A large freezer—the kind you find in restaurants—took up half of one stall. The Mercedes and a bicycle were the only other items in the huge space.
“Is that the only car she has?” I asked Linda.
“Yes.”
“Check the freezer,” Sally suggested.
In sync, we all turned to look at her as though we weren’t sure we’d heard her correctly. But Drew went to the freezer and pulled the door handle. Once a cloud of icy vapor dissipated, it was clear that there was nothing but food inside the thick walls.
“Well, that’s good. She didn’t go in there and hit her head, fall down, and die, or anything,” Sally said.
“Where’s your car, Levi?” I asked.
“Over there.” He pointed to an old blue VW Bug that was around the other side of the house. The back of the Bug stuck out from behind a corner of the brick mansion.
I took it upon myself to hurry over and glance in Levi’s car. There were a couple of old paperbacks on the front passenger seat, but other than that, it was empty. I rejoined the crowd just as everyone was heading back into the house.
“She must be inside somewhere,” Ian said as I merged next to him at the back of the parade of people.
“She’s probably fine. Just being difficult, you know. But this is beginning to feel weird,” I said quietly. Something wasn’t right, that much I was beginning to understand.
“I agree. Really, Becca, be careful. Other than Linda and Drew, we don’t know these people. And you’re right, this is definitely weird.”
“Yeah.”
We didn’t split up to search for Madeline, which is something I would later wonder about. Why didn’t we? Were we all feeling the heebie-jeebies that Ian and I had acknowledged? Was there, maybe, a killer among us who wanted people around all the time, so they could confirm an alibi or something? Was there more than one killer?
The mansion was as huge as it seemed, with three floors, long hallways, and big rooms. Madeline had great decorating taste, but it was mostly her fondness for purple that I noticed: purple pillows, random purple walls, upholstery, and so on.
We moved along the halls and through rooms together. Despite the largeness of the spaces, our big search party was crowded and uncomfortable. The only person who said much of anything was Drew, as he called “Mom” or “Madeline” over and over again.
There was never one word of response, not the sound of a television or radio on somewhere. The house was as silent as a tomb.
Finally, on the third floor, in the back corner, as far from the kitchen and dining room as we could get, we approached Madeline’s suite.
This was it—the last real spot to search. If she wasn’t in there, she wasn’t in the house.
Drew looked back as the rest of us watched him expectantly. For the first time since I’d met him at the Fall Equinox Dinner in September, he looked real, vulnerable, and worried, not the squared-away paragon of military perfection he was. He ran his hands through his mussed-up hair, and Linda stepped to his side, taking his hand.
Drew knocked on the door.
“Mom? You in there?”
No answer.
Drew turned the knob and pushed the door open wide. He and Linda stepped into the room. One of them gasped, and the rest of us hurried into horror.
Madeline Forsyth was on her back on her bed, a black-and-white checkered scarf pulled tight around her neck. One hand lay in a puddle of blood on the bed, and the other hand hung over the side, dripping blood from what looked like wounds on her palm. Her gray face and vacant eyes told the rest of the story: she was way dead.
Someone screamed, someone yelled, and someone fainted, but I’m not sure exactly who did what. I had seen Matt Simonsen’s dead body last fall, but this was different. I was physically closer to Madeline than I had ever let myself get to Matt, and I was part of the group discovering the body, not part of the group coming in later.
My stomach turned and I got light-headed. Someone took my arm and led me to the side of the room.
“Becca, you okay?” Ian asked.
I looked at his concerned expression, and nodded.
“Take a deep breath.”
I did as he instructed, and kept my eyes away from the gruesome scene. It was because I was purposely looking away that I happened to see something on the floor at Ian’s feet, next to a chaise.
I suddenly crouched.
“Becca?” Ian crouched with me and held tight to my arm. “Let me get you out of here.”
“I’m okay. I just . . . well . . .” I looked around at everyone else. No one was paying me or Ian a bit of attention. Everyone was in a state of shock or panic, or comforting or helping someone else.
“What?”
“Look.” I nodded toward the floor.
“Oh. Okay, we’ll show the police. Come on.”
But that wouldn’t do. I needed the object I saw. I had some questions that I wanted answered, and the most efficient way to get those answer
s was to take the object and inspect it myself.
I reached down, picked up Madeline’s cell phone, and put it in my pocket, all without using the tips of my fingers.
To his credit, though Ian did look shocked and displeased, he didn’t tell on me.
Five
Officer Sam Brion was the most efficient person I knew. Well, other than my sister, Allison. Sam, as I’d been told to call him during the last murder investigation in Monson, had the crime scene secured and all potential suspects/witnesses separated and readied for interview in record time.
Sam had come to South Carolina from Chicago about a year ago, under circumstances I hadn’t yet been able to figure out, but I knew there was something horrible in his past; something that had caused him to flee the big city and move to a place where murder wasn’t supposed to be such a common occurrence. All the best-laid plans . . .
I hadn’t seen him for a couple weeks, but we became friends when I threw myself into the middle of Matt Simonsen’s murder investigation. In fact, Sam’d been the one to save my life by taking down the killer before the killer could take me down.
“Becca,” he said without cracking a smile. He was definitely in work mode, his short brown hair slicked back and his uniform crisp and wrinkle-free. His bright blue eyes could sometimes be friendly, but they were professionally icy now.
“Hi, Sam.” I’d been assigned to the music room, which held a grand piano and a number of chairs and side tables. The piano was black, and the chairs were mostly beige and light yellow. I was perched on a piano bench that had been upholstered in purple fabric. Sam pulled a beige chair next to the bench and faced me.
“How are you?” he said without a hint that he was friendly and could be a fun guy.
“Not great. You?”
“The days without murder are better than the days with murder.”
“I agree.” I cleared my throat. I wanted him to quit being so official and just have a conversation, but I knew better. He was the consummate professional when it was required.
Over the last few months, and since he’d saved me from Matt Simonsen’s killer, we’d become good enough friends that he always visited me at Bailey’s whenever he was shopping, and every once in a while we’d run into each other at barbeques. Even though he and Ian were very different, they seemed to get along well, too.
“Tell me what you did today, in detail, beginning when Madeline Forsyth spoke to Linda McMahon at Bailey’s this morning.”
“Okay, sure. It went something like this . . .”
And I recounted my day, to the best of my memory and up to the point that we found Madeline’s body.
“You all found her body? You were all together?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think she might be alive?”
“She looked very dead. Oh, Sam, was . . . is she alive?”
“No, but I’d like for you to explain what you mean by ‘she looked very dead,’ ” Sam said, still stone-cold serious.
“A scarf was wrapped around her neck. Her face was gray and swollen, I think. Her eyes were bulging.” My stomach turned at the memory.
“What color was the scarf?”
“Black-and-white checkered,” I answered without hesitation.
“Anything else you can remember?”
“I think one of her hands was in a puddle of blood on the bed. Is that right? Is that really what I saw?”
“Anything else?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“Well, the other hand was hanging off the bed. There was more than one wound on that hand, right?”
“Why did you notice that?”
“I’m not sure. What were the wounds, Sam? Why was there more than one on the hand? They looked like they were in a line, I think, but I can’t be sure.”
“They were identical punctures that formed a straight line,” he said, sharing more than I bet he did with anyone else. “Do you know of anything that could do that?”
I shrugged. “A comb with really sharp teeth?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me what happened at dinner. What was discussed?”
Sam took notes in his small tan notebook as I replayed the dinner conversation. For the moment I left out my personal observations about Drew’s cousins. It wasn’t fair to judge them. I’d only just met them, and who knew what was behind their behavior?
“That it?” he asked when I finished.
“What do you think? Have you talked to the others? Do you think someone there was the killer?” I asked.
“I’m not going to tell you what I think, Becca. This is a murder investigation. One of the rules in the Police Handbook is that we’re not to reveal everything we think or know until we solve the case.” He didn’t smile.
“I know. I was just curious.”
“I know. How about you? You have anything else to add? What do you think—did someone you ate with seem murderous in any way?”
Again, I didn’t want to judge, but maybe Sam did need to know about any behavior that might not have been wholly appropriate.
“We hadn’t been eating long before the chef, Levi, came in to tell us he thought something was wrong. Before that, I thought Drew’s cousins were somewhat different, but I really hadn’t spent much time with them.”
“Different how?”
I told Sam about Sally’s visible emotions, Alan’s lack of a job, Shawn’s supposedly kicking Mid under the table, but, admittedly, none of it seemed like a killer’s behavior.
“Those are good things to note,” Sam said. “I’ll see if I can understand what might have been going on. Ms. McNeil, Sally, is certainly the most distraught of everyone we’ve talked to. Perhaps she’s just highly emotional.”
“How are Drew and Linda?”
“As fine as they can be, I suppose. Drew is upset, but he’s pretty practiced at being stoic. I think Linda just wants to make sure Drew’s okay,” Sam said as he peered at me. “Becca, do you think either Linda or Drew had something to do with Madeline’s murder?”
“Of course not!”
“I knew you’d answer like that. I’d like for you to step back a bit—back from your friendships with them. Do you think there’s any way either of them could have killed Madeline?”
No, I didn’t think either of them had it in them to kill Madeline, but I was almost sure that they both might have spent moments wishing Madeline wasn’t around any longer.
Finally I said, “No, Sam, I really don’t think so. Neither of them . . . well, they’re just both so . . . terrific, you know?”
Sam nodded. “I need to ask you a question, and you need to know how important it is for you to answer it one hundred percent correctly. What time did Linda leave Bailey’s?”
My stomach somersaulted. Linda had left Bailey’s early. I thought back to when I was helping her load the extra pies in her truck. She hadn’t been too upset, just distracted.
“I guess she left about one o’clock, maybe one-thirty,” I said. I left out which would have given her plenty of time to kill Madeline.
“Thank you, Becca,” Sam said, seemingly relieved at my answer.
“You sound like I got the answer right.”
“That’s when she said she left, and though I can’t rule her out at the moment—I can’t rule anyone out—I didn’t want her to have lied about the time she left.” Not only had Sam become a friend to me, but to most of my friends, too. He knew Linda and Drew, and from what I’d observed, he and Drew seemed to see the world the same way. They had lots in common, and Drew’s profession impressed Sam, just like it did the rest of us.
“Good, then, I guess.”
“Yes. Okay, anything else?” Sam closed the notebook and stood as though he was certain we were through.
Apparently, when I looked up at him, something terrible showed on my face, because his face fell and he sat down again.
“What is it, Becca?” he asked.
Once I’d put Madeline’s phone in my pocket, I couldn’t figure out
the best way to take it out and put it back. I had wanted to. I knew that taking it had been an impulsive and bad (putting it lightly) idea. And illegal, I was sure. But everything from that moment on had happened so quickly that I hadn’t had a chance to undo my mistake. I still had it in my pocket.
“Sam,” I began.
The look in his blue eyes shifted. He was still serious, but was now preparing to be angry.
“Becca, what is it?”
“Well, it was an impulse. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Becca. What. Did. You. Do?”
I sighed.
“Madeline’s cell phone is in my pocket.”
“What? Where did you get her phone?”
“It was in her bedroom, next to the chaise. I just reached down, picked it up—careful not to touch it with my fingertips—and put it in my pocket. I still haven’t touched it. It’s still there.”
Sam sat back in the chair and inspected me, his eyes going from ice to fire. For a long time he didn’t say anything.
“Why did you take the phone?”
I shrugged but didn’t answer. I planned to use that answer in a minute.
“Becca?”
“What?”
“I’m trying to figure out if I should arrest you now or wait until you call to ask another question pertinent to the case that will be none of your business.”
“Oh, I promise I’m not going to investigate this murder, Sam. I’m very sorry that Madeline was killed, but I have every confidence that you can handle this one by yourself. You don’t have to arrest me.”
There, I made him smile. Well, not really, but at least the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Stand up. Let’s get it out of there,” Sam said as he stood up.
I stood and reached for my pocket.
“No, stop! Let me do it.” Sam pulled latex gloves out of his back pocket. Even those seemed to be well folded and wrinkle-free. He snapped both gloves in place and stepped forward.
“You’re going to reach into my pocket? That seems a bit intrusive, doesn’t it?” I said, attempting to make him smile again.
Fruit of All Evil Page 4
