The door to the stairs at the end of the hall was open so I could hear the front door. At a little after one it opened and closed. Moments later footsteps sounded on the stairs, then quieted on the carpet. I stuck a bookmark right in the middle of a steamy love scene and waited.
Barr came into the bedroom, tugging at his tie. “Oh, hon.” He stopped and looked down at me apologetically. “I didn’t really mean for you to stay awake. I’m exhausted, not quite up for—”
“Like I could have slept. Don’t worry—I’m not exactly in a sexy mood, either. Have you eaten?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t have time.”
I threw back the covers and slipped on my ducky slippers. “There’s some leftover chicken downstairs.”
“I don’t want to wake anyone,” he said, sinking onto the bed and pulling off one cowboy boot and then the other.
“How about a quick grilled cheese?”
His smile was tired. “Sure. Thanks.”
I bustled down to the kitchenette, flipped on the overhead light and got out a cast-iron pan. I buttered two pieces of Meghan’s
homemade bread and began slicing sharp cheddar. Barr joined me, wearing a pair of worn flannel pajama pants that were a whole lot more attractive than they sound. Doing my best to ignore the impure thoughts my tired husband’s bare chest aroused, I dug around in the half-sized fridge, found some ham, and added a few thin slices to the sandwich. Once it was sizzling in the pan and the smell of browning bread filled the small space, I sat down across from him.
“So?”
He took a deep breath. “Well, there’ll be a full autopsy later. But she was definitely hit on the head with the proverbial blunt instrument a couple days ago. Probably a shovel. She was killed in the last twelve to thirty-six hours. The heat in the compost pile kind of fudged up the time of death, so that’s as close as the M.E. could get. Unfortunately, that means alibis will be almost impossible to identify or track.”
I winced. “So you’re investigating it as a homicide.”
“Absolutely.” He grimaced. Opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head.
I knew enough to let it go … and circle back later. “Did you find out who she is … was?”
“No idea. They took her fingerprints, but running them takes a while, and she’d have to be in the system already for there to be a match. I won’t say it’s impossible to identify her that way, but it might be a long shot. We did get a pretty decent picture, though.”
I perked up at that. Getting up to flip his sandwich, I asked, “Do you have it?”
“Hang on a sec.”
By the time he returned from the bedroom, his sandwich was oozing cheese onto a plate. I added a few potato chips, silently asked the local food gods’ forgiveness, poured a tall glass of iced herbal tea, and put his late dinner in front of him. He handed me the eight-by-ten photo, face down, and dug in.
Sinking into the chair opposite, I fingered the thick glossy paper without turning it over. It was quite possible I was about to look at the picture of someone I knew, or at least someone I’d met. I inhaled, braced, and flipped it over.
The photo had a kind of sepia quality, as if it weren’t really in color but not black-and-white, either. But instead of sepia browns it was in varying shades of blue and gray. Must have been a result of the light in the morgue where the picture had been taken. I had to admit the thought kind of gave me the heebie-jeebies.
The mystery woman was shown from her bare shoulders up. Strands of short, mouse-brown hair escaped in a dirty halo around her face. Her neck was slender, her skin unlined and very pale. Well, duh. It would be, wouldn’t it? High cheekbones and a heart-shaped face revealed classic bone structure. Even in repose, she was stunning.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve never seen her before.”
Barr swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He’d already snarfed half the sandwich. “I’m not surprised. If you’d known her, I would have expected Ruth Black to, as well. Tom and Allie Turner didn’t recognize her, either.”
“Who all did you show it to?”
“The Turners, Jake Beagle’s wife—”
“Felicia,” I said.
He nodded. “And Bette Anders down the street. After that it was just too late.”
“What about Nate Snow and dear little Clarissa?”
“It was after nine by the time I got out there. I think I woke the Turners up.”
“I bet you did. They’re farmers, after all. Early risers by definition.”
“Tom said Nate went to see a movie in Monroe with his girlfriend, and Clarissa was already asleep. At least that’s what they said. I doubt they wanted her to see it.”
“Probably not. What about Hallie?”
“She was out, too. Tom didn’t know where.” He took a sip of iced tea. “Allie gave me a list of all the CSA members. There are more than I thought.”
“Do I detect a note of frustration?”
“It’s a ton of legwork. I don’t want to offload it onto patrol, though.” He shrugged and shoved the last of the sandwich in his mouth.
I leaned my elbow on the table and rested my chin on my palm. “Does Sergeant Zahn really want my help?”
Barr eyed me, slowly chewing.
“More importantly, do you want my help?”
He swallowed and took a final swig of iced tea. Then he put out his hand parallel to the table and made a waffle-y back-and-forth gesture. “I’m ambivalent. I do like it when you’re involved in my work, and I know you’re good at finding things out.”
I thought of Kelly telling me the same thing and tried not to preen.
“But on the other hand, it can be dangerous. I don’t like that.”
“What you do every day is dangerous. I don’t stop you.”
“Sophie Mae, it’s my job.”
“Which you chose. You know you could do something else if you wanted to.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
“But you have a point,” he said. “You’re a grown woman. I can’t tell you what to do. Besides, your moxie is one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”
“Oh, you silver-tongued devil.” I leaned across the table and kissed him. His lips tasted of honey-cured ham. “Do you want another sandwich?”
He shook his head. “Nah. It’ll be hard enough to sleep as it is.”
“I doubt that.” I rose and rinsed his dishes in the sink while he went in the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Flipping off the light switch, I shuffled down to our bedroom. He’d tumbled into bed and now reached for his light.
I crawled in beside him. “Barr?”
“Hmm?”
“You were going to tell me something else earlier. Something about why you’re investigating this as a homicide. She was hit in the head, right?”
There was a long silence, and I thought he’d gone to sleep. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Yes. But blunt force trauma wasn’t the cause of death.”
My forehead wrinkled. “Then what was?”
After a long moment he opened his eyes and looked at me in the dim light. “Suffocation.”
It took me a few moments to get it. Stunned, I sat up in bed. “She was buried alive?”
He exhaled and nodded. “We’ll know for sure after the full autopsy. But, yeah. It sure looks like it.”
Seven
Sure enough, my dear husband drifted off in no time. But if thinking about the striped sock was bad, the idea of how that poor woman had died was much, much worse. Simple exhaustion finally overcame my imagination, and I drifted off.
I came awake a few hours later, clawing the bedclothes and gulping at the air like a drowning woman. My throat ached. Where was that piercing shriek coming from?
Oh. That was me.
“What’s wrong?!”
And that was Barr, struggling to a sitting position beside me and flipping on the bedside light.
“Sophie Mae! What’s wrong?”
I let out a shaky breath and immediately sucked in another. My lips tingled, and I could feel my hands beginning to cramp. Great. I was hyperventilating. I squeezed my eyes shut and carefully slowed my breathing. “Sorry. Bad dream.” A vague memory surfaced of crushing darkness, of nothingness—no light, no air. No hope.
No life.
“God, babe. C’mere.” My sweetie wrapped his arms around me, and we sank back to the pillows.
Footsteps pounded on the stairs, and moments later a frantic-looking Meghan stood in the bedroom doorway, a sleepy Erin wandering up behind her. “What’s the matter?”
So much for the door at the end of the hall. I sat up again.
“Just a bad dream,” I said. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
Relief flooded her face. “You sure?” She looked at Barr for confirmation.
He nodded. “Go back to bed.”
“Are you okay, Sophie Mae?” Erin asked in a small voice.
“I’m fine, Bug. See you in the morning.”
Meghan shepherded her daughter back downstairs.
I was still trembling. Barr flipped off the light.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked in a voice ripe with sleep.
“Nah. Thanks. You go on back to sleep.”
Safely ensconced in his embrace, I stared at the window. A whisper of breeze made the curtain flutter. His soft snoring began in my ear. A hint of jasmine from the vine in the backyard curled into the room. The gray square of night outside offset the darkness of the rest of the bedroom but already beckoned with the surety of morning for yours truly.
The compost lady wasn’t so lucky.
_____
A kiss on my cheek woke me to full daylight Tuesday morning.
“I’m on my way,” Barr murmured. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
Rubbing my eyes with one hand, I raised up on the other elbow. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven, but I’ve got paperwork to do before the interview.”
“Oh, God. I shouldn’t have slept so long.” I sat up and threw off the covers. “Another interview?” The department had been working through the applicants for the open detective position for weeks now. So far most of the candidates had been wildly inappropriate. Only one had piqued any interest, and she’d taken a job in Seattle.
“This one doesn’t sound too great, either.” He turned toward the door. “Some funny discrepancies in his work history Zahn needs to check out.”
“Barr? Did you mean it about my helping you with this case?”
He turned back. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. But I really want to do something. That poor woman died so horribly. Maybe I could show that picture around to the list Allie Turner gave you?” I’d come up with the idea before finally drifting off again right before dawn. “This afternoon all the members will be coming to the farm to pick up their vegetables and eggs for the week.”
A slow nod from my husband. “Yeah.” He looked thoughtful. “We need to find out who the Jane Doe is ASAP, and that would certainly save me some time.”
I swung my feet to the floor. “Perfect. I’ll lie in wait for them in the distribution shed.”
He smiled and bent to kiss me again. “Do what you can, and I’ll tell Zahn so he won’t get his shorts in a twist when he finds out.”
“Yessir.” I felt better now that I had the go-ahead.
That dream had been a doozy. Even as I slipped into yoga pants and a T-shirt, it lingered like a bad odor on the edges of my thoughts.
_____
Walking into the kitchen, I offered Meghan a hearty, if somewhat forced, “Good morning!”
“Good—” she looked up. “Oh, no.”
I froze with my hand halfway to the coffeepot. “What?”
“You changed your mind.”
“About …?”
“I can tell. You’re going to stick your nose into that woman’s death.” Her sigh was long and loud.
How did she do that? “How do you do that?” I poured my coffee.
“A bad dream that brought you awake screaming. Dark circles under your eyes—you hardly slept last night, thinking about her. But you’re cheerful this morning anyway, complete with a bounce in your step. A bounce of purpose.” Her jaw set. “I can tell.”
My laugh ended with a little quiver. “Maybe you should be the one finding out who she is.”
She held up her hand. “No thanks. I had quite enough yesterday.” Her arm dropped. “Wait a second. The police still don’t know who she is?”
“Nope.” I took a sip. “But it was murder. No question.” I paused for a beat. “And get this—she was buried alive.”
Meghan’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Yes. Well, probably.”
“That’s … that’s …”
I turned and looked at her over the steam curling out of my cup. “There aren’t really any good words, are there?”
Eyes still showing a lot of white, she shook her head.
“I’m only going to try to find out who she was. Barr got a picture of her after they cleaned her all up and showed it to the Turners, but they didn’t recognize her.”
“He didn’t show it to me,” Meghan said. “He sat right there and ate blueberry pancakes this morning and never said a word.”
“Pancakes—that’s what I smell! Was Erin around? I bet that’s why he didn’t say anything.”
She still didn’t look happy.
“Wait here.”
I ran upstairs and retrieved the picture from the bedroom. Glancing out the window, I saw Erin in the chicken pen. She’d been spending a lot of time with the hens lately, and she’d mentioned showing them at the upcoming Evergreen State Fair. Back in the kitchen, I shoved the photo at my friend.
With thumb and forefinger she took it from me. After a few moments loaded with hesitation, she flipped it over. A quick glance, and she looked away. “Nope. Sorry.”
I took it from her, peering at that pretty face. Ruth was right. She didn’t look very old. Mid-twenties was my guess. “Are you sure? You didn’t look at it very long.”
Meghan sighed and held out her hand. This time she stared at it for a long time. Finally she licked her lips and looked up at me. “I feel like I should know her.”
My pulse quickened. “Well, do you or don’t you?”
One side of her mouth quirked up in apology. “Maybe I just wish I did.”
Well, heck. So did I. My shoulders slumped.
My housemate sat down at the table. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m sure someone will recognize her.” I changed the subject. “Are there any pancakes left?”
“Barr grabbed the last two when he left. I could make more, though.”
“Nah, that’s okay.” I slid into a chair and leaned my elbows on the butcher block table. “I bet there are still plenty of blueberries, though.”
She laughed and got up, opening the refrigerator. “Tons. I was going to freeze some this afternoon.” We’d been eating up all the fresh berries we got from the farm share, so the previous weekend Meghan, Erin, and I had trooped out to a U-pick farm to load up on freezables.
I pulled the photo toward me again, grimacing at the woman’s closed eyelids. “I wonder what color her eyes were.”
Meghan put a bowl of fresh blueberries dripping in cream on the table by my elbow and leaned over my shoulder. “Hard to tell. Who knows whether that was even her natural hair color.”
“No one dyes their hair such a dull color, do they?”
“That looks like the bird lady,” Erin said from my other side.
“Erin!” Meghan straightened up so fast I thought she’d throw out her back.
I whisked the photo under the table. “You sneaked up on us.”<
br />
“It’s not my fault if you’re too busy to hear me come in. What’s with the picture?”
I cocked my head. “Did you mean the bird lady in your novel?” Actually, her book sounded more fantastical than fantasy, given the increasingly crazy stuff Erin talked about now and again. For example, one character was an old lady who was part flamingo—pink hair, had a habit of standing on one leg, inordinately fond of fish. Erin called her the bird lady.
Now she looked at me with pity. “Of course not. My bird lady isn’t a real person, Sophie Mae.”
I took her note of condescension as my due. “Then what did you mean?”
She went to the counter and extracted an oatmeal cookie from the jar. “I dunno.”
“Do, too,” I said.
“Erin! You just had breakfast!” Meghan chided.
“So? This is my breakfast dessert,” her daughter said and disappeared down the hall to her bedroom.
That little stinker knew something.
Meghan turned to me in wonder. “She is just out and out defying me.”
“Um, yeah. Didn’t you do that as a kid?”
“Of course not.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“I got along great with my parents.”
“That’s not the point. You and Erin get along great, too. Now she’s testing your boundaries.”
“Well, I don’t like it.” Worry creased my friend’s forehead.
I got up to give her a hug. “This isn’t like you. You’ve always handled your rather amazing kid with such grace and ease. You can’t fold when things start to get difficult.”
“I know that. I just don’t know how to handle her.”
“The same way you always have. With love and reason.”
“I guess.”
“She’s the same kid, only she’s starting that journey to being a grown-up. One day she’ll be a real, live, functional adult in society.”
She shook her head. “Yeah, yeah. I get that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I’m starting menopause.”
I barked a laugh. “At thirty-eight? You’d better not be!”
“Are you sick, Mom?” Erin asked from the kitchen doorway.
Now Meghan laughed. “No.”
Deadly Row to Hoe Page 4
