by Alt, Madelyn
“Where are we going?”
“Just driving. Want to talk about what happened earlier today?”
“I don’t know. Care to apologize?”
“What? Apologize? For doing my job?”
“Well, I could say it’s for being an asshole, but I don’t think that would be kindly accepted, either.”
His lips twisted into a grimace. “You’re really angry.”
“Yup.” Hey, if he could do it, so could I.
“Maggie, that’s ridiculous. I’m a deputy. It’s my job. You know this.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I do what the chief tells me to do, even when—as in this case—there’s nothing to investigate. Despite the fact that there’s nothing illegal in the works. But I’ll tell you this much. If I thought there was anything there to worry about . . . I’d have been after you myself. No question about it.”
“You know full well there’s nothing here for anyone to worry about!” I hissed.
If he weren’t driving, he’d have thrown both hands up in the air, I just knew it. “Well, then, what the hell difference does it make anyway?”
“Because . . . it’s the principle of the thing.” You didn’t stand up to your boss on my behalf was my more specific answer. Unfortunately for him, I was just irritated enough to make him dig for it.
From the looks of it, he was just as irritable as I was. “The principle of the thing.”
“Yeah.”
The police radio squawked and called out Tom’s badge number. The distraction was just enough to cut through the intensity of the moment. Tom reached over and yanked the mouthpiece from the clip. “Go ahead, Dispatch.”
“We’ve got a situation brewing out at the Grace Baptist Church.” The dispatcher read off the address, then added, “10-96 possible.”
“En route, Dispatch.”
I didn’t have time to protest. He flipped on the lights and siren and wheeled the cruiser around in a wide U-turn once traffic had stopped to allow the movement, speeding off in the direction of the church, which was as far across town from where we were as you could get. “So, I’m going along for the ride, huh? What’s a 10-96?”
“Possible crazy person. Er, person with a mental condition or disorder,” he amended.
“At Grace Baptist? Criminey, what is going on out there?”
We were about to see.
The fact that a disturbance of some sort was underway was completely apparent the moment we pulled into the parking lot. Up on the hill to the back of the church, a number of people had gathered—none recognizable from this distance.
Tom went through his usual split-second routine of unsnapping his gun and stun-gun holsters. “You stay here while I take care of this. Lock the doors.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket knife, which he tossed to me. “For protection.”
It was a ritual I knew by rote by now. Tom headed off up the hill toward the small gathering of people, one of whom seemed to be flailing arms at the others. I shook my head, bemused. Was it just me, or did Grace Baptist just have the kind of energy that drew drama and trauma to its doors? But maybe that was unfair. Certainly there had been plenty of people in attendance yesterday afternoon who didn’t seem to fit into that category.
The car was getting hot already. I pressed the button to roll down the window as perspiration broke out on my forehead. Voices filtered down to me, muffled by distance. I turned to watch the proceedings. The 10-96 arm flailer seemed to be a large woman, facing down four men, a couple of them wearing hard hats and some sort of electronic equipment. She held a small stack of papers in her hand that flapped when she shoved them at the men. They showed up really nicely against her purple-spotted shirt . . .
Uh-oh.
I got out of the car quickly, clutching Minnie’s carrier, and began to hurry up the gradual hill toward the site of the cave-in, which seemed to be a pretty popular place of late. I stopped to place Minnie’s carrier under a shady tree.
As I came into earshot, I could hear Marian Tabor holding forth. “I have an order here, signed and sealed by Judge Maywater, that says you have to stop any and all progress to clear, move earth, or construct any structure until the historical society can have a chance to inspect the site in order to ascertain the historical value of its contents, if any.” Marian Tabor waved the papers again. “And this fool here tells me he’s not stopping the progress without the consent of all interested parties. Where’s that pastor? I want to talk to the pastor.”
The two men in business casual exchanged a glance, and as I approached I thought I saw one of them roll his eyes. The two men in hard hats with the equipment didn’t seem to care—they were standing back, waiting for their next order. One of them yawned.
“Now, Mrs. Tabor—” Tom began.
“Ms.”
“Ms. Tabor. May I see the paperwork, please? And while we’re at it, could everyone please back away from the crime scene tape. You are not to cross that line.”
Marian handed it over with a flourish and a haughty sniff at the men, who complied with Tom’s order by edging away from the yellow-and-black tape, but not by much. “I’m sure you can see clearly that the order is, well, in order.”
Tom scanned the document, then glanced up at one of the two business casuals. “The document does appear to be legal and binding.”
Business Casual Number Two’s face reddened. “Now, that can’t be! What legal claim can the historical society have anyway? There’s not been enough time for a judge to be consulted and sign off on a written order!”
Tom checked the last page and shrugged. “Judge Maywater signed it at three fifteen this afternoon.”
All looked at Marian, who had just noticed me coming up from the cruiser. She winked at me, looking smug as she advised them, “Judge Maywater is a good friend and benefactor of the county historical society. And a good thing, too! Otherwise who knows how many historical sites would be at risk? We have to preserve these things for our children and our children’s children.”
Business Casual Number Two sputtered, “Dirt? We’re gonna preserve dirt? Our men are already sitting idle because of the—”
His partner shut him up with a wave of his hand.
Tom took charge. “May I ask what business you have out this way?”
Business Casual Number One pulled out his card. “David Furlow, Furlow Construction Company. My company is handling the excavation and construction of the new wing for the church. And Steve here is right. Per our findings, the rest of the site is structurally sound, enough to allow us to do what we need to do. And time, as you know, is money.”
“Money, pfft. That the site was left open to air overnight is regrettable—especially in light of what happened here last night, I must say—but at least we are able to do something now. This is a site that could have historical significance,” Marian stated firmly. “All we require is to be allowed the time to have someone come out to take a look down in the buried room so that anything of historical value might be catalogued and preserved. That’s all. Surely this can be done expediently enough to satisfy all concerned.”
Footfalls on the sidewalk leading from the church alerted us all to someone else’s approach. I glanced over my shoulder. Pastor Bob was hurrying over; the only variation in his uniform of a suit and hard-soled shoes was the color: black today.
“I hope this flurry of activity today means we can soon get underway again with the construction?” he asked in his flowery, effusive manner. He rocked back on his heels and rubbed his hands together, waiting for someone to answer.
Tom did the honors. “I’m afraid not, Reverend. There has been a hiccup, one that I’m sure you’ll understand. Judge Maywater has granted a stay on proceeding with the expansion until such a time as the newly exposed site can be properly assessed for historical value.”
No one said a word about the inappropriateness of rushing to move forward with a construction plan when a corpse had just been discovered on the s
ite less than twenty-four hours previously. This evident lack of concern really troubled me in a person who was supposed to be a man of God. It just seemed somehow wrong.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Reverend. With a woman dead on scene, you want to press on? Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Trust Marian to have her say. Not that she didn’t have her own agenda with the site . . .
Pastor Bob drew himself up, now all bluster and uncertainty. “Well, of course we wouldn’t move ahead until such a time as was good and proper,” he backtracked as Business Casual Number Two—Steve, was it?—groaned and grumbled. “We wouldn’t wish to offend or seem insensitive to the poor deceased woman—”
“And neither would the historical society, of course,” Marian purred. “I know that there has already been a letter sent to Chief Boggs and Special Investigator Fielding here”—she smiled blindingly at Tom—“requesting that the society be informed of the right to proceed just as soon as the crime scene has been wholly processed. Once our experts are satisfied, you will be more than free to proceed with your plans.”
Tom stepped in to take over. “If everyone could please evacuate the crime scene area, I would appreciate it. Mr. Furlow, if you could have the results of your safety inspection forwarded to me at the police station for our investigation, that would be extremely helpful—”
Furlow whipped out a leather-bound folder. “I have a preliminary carbon right here. Everything should be in order. I will, of course, have my assistant forward a more professional copy when I get back to the office, but this should get you started.” He handed Tom a yellow sheet of paper, scribbled over with a bold hand.
Tom nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll forward it on to the public building inspector’s office as well. If you and your men are done here, you’re free to leave.”
Understanding they had been summarily dismissed, the four men looked at each other, then quietly and mutually made the decision to leave.
To Marian, Tom said, “Ms. Tabor, I’ll check with the office and will let you know when you can have your experts come in.”
“Thank you, Deputy Fielding. I trust there will be no further trouble on that end.”
“Well . . .” Tom cleared his throat. “Forgive me for saying so, ma’am, but had you waited for the sheriff’s department to issue the order as per procedure, there wouldn’t have been trouble to begin with. It would have been handled.”
Marian laughed, not at all put out by the admonish ment. She was too strong-willed to care much. “Ah, but what fun would that have been? A librarian has to take her excitement where she can get it, Deputy. Besides,” she said, “if I’d waited, they might have been readying up their crew before the sheriff’s department could even get out here.”
“Not with the crime scene investigation enforced,” Tom reminded her. “Else they would risk legal proceedings against them and their company.”
Marian just smiled. “Well, that being the case . . . I’ll just toddle off, then.” She waved to me and began to walk slowly back to her vehicle. Much more slowly than I would have expected. From her gait one would think she had suddenly tacked an additional thirty years on to her age. A pretense so that she could take her time and absorb everything around her? That was my guess . . . and she wasn’t missing a single detail, by the looks of things. Truth be told? I don’t think she ever did. Mind like a steel trap, that woman.
Tom turned his attentions to Pastor Bob, who was standing by. “Reverend, I’m sorry your plans have been interrupted, but I’m sure you understand the seriousness of the issue we are dealing with.”
Pastor Bob nodded distractedly. “Certainly I do. It is a tragedy what happened here, with Miss Maddox. A life cut short. A real shame. Of course I didn’t know her very well—she had only recently joined the church as I recall.”
“Nine months ago.”
Pastor Bob paused. “Come again?”
Tom consulted his notebook. “According to your wife, who graciously checked for me this morning, church records show that Veronica Maddox first started attending services regularly about nine months ago.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. I didn’t realize it had been that long. So many parishioners. You understand. Of course I do try my best to acquaint myself with as many as possible, but sometimes that’s just not feasible in the short term.”
Tom nodded, his mirrored aviators hiding any sign of emotion. “Of course.”
Something was troubling me, nudging me in the back of my mind. U-L-C . . . The letters whispered through my mind again. You’ll see, you’ll see. We’ll see what?
“Well, thank you for coming out, Deputy. Do you have any idea when the crime scene investigation will be complete? We really would like to get moving on things as soon as we can.”
“Not long, I shouldn’t think. We’ll be in touch. Oh, one more thing. Our investigation didn’t turn up much in the way of physical evidence at the crime scene itself. There is a possibility that the young woman was killed elsewhere—on site or off, we don’t know—and dumped there. If you notice anything suspicious elsewhere on the church grounds, let us know. You know how things usually look around here, and my investigators don’t.”
Pastor Bob nodded his head like a great shaggy dog with big, woeful eyes and sighed. “Of course. A tragedy. Just a tragedy.” After a moment’s pause, he brightened. “Well, if you won’t need me any further, I have next week’s sermon to work on.”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll just take a look around. Make sure everything’s secure.”
“Feel free. I’ll be in my office if you should need me.”
Tom watched him go, his face expressionless behind the shades. When the good pastor was out of earshot, he turned to me, keeping his voice low. “Thought I told you to stay in the car.”
I shrugged, not ready to apologize. “It was hot in there.”
“You could have switched the engine and the AC both on.”
“I didn’t want to be accused of tampering with police property.”
He gave me a look, the kind he always gave me when he thought I was being dramatic. “You’re doing it again, you know.”
I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? I knew exactly what I was doing . . . just as he knew what he was doing. Moreover, I couldn’t even say I was particularly sorry. Bitchy? Maybe. But every girl has her moments. It hadn’t exactly been the most stellar day in the history of dating.
“I have to go check on a few things. Are you staying put?”
“Are you kidding?”
He sighed. “Come on, then.”
I did pause to check on Minnie, but she was tucked up in a little ball in her mesh-sided carrier, snoozing away in the shade of the thickly-leafed maple tree, so I tiptoed away to follow Tom as he made his investigatory rounds. “What are we checking on?” I asked him curiously.
“I am going to walk the property to look for likely points of interest that might have been missed in the dark last night. You are going to stand back and observe and not touch anything or get in the way at all.”
It was his right as a deputy to tell me what to do . . . but the attitude still irked me.
So I followed as he circumnavigated the church, getting down on his knees to search through thicker tufts of sun-fried grass, walking the halls of the church itself, walking back out to where Veronica’s body had lain crumpled down in the cave-in itself, then turning to do a complete one-eighty. He stopped, mid-pivot, squinted, cocked his head thoughtfully, then began to walk back up toward the church.
“What is it?” I couldn’t help myself. The silence was getting old.
He glanced over as though he’d forgotten I’d been his shadow for the last thirty minutes. “Well, it occurs to me that if the Maddox woman’s body was dumped in the hole over there—and that’s a given—then someone would have had to carry or transport her body from wherever it was that her murder took place.”
It was the same thing he’d been discussing with Chief Boggs and Sheriff Reed at the police
department. “Makes sense to me.”
“So . . . I don’t know if you know this, but the human body, when it isn’t controlled or helped along by the person themselves, isn’t exactly easy to lift. It’s not just a matter of weight, but of balance and heft and flopping body parts—”
“Nice visual.”
“Thanks. As I was saying, it makes sense to me that the easiest way to move a body would be to drag it or to use some kind of transport.”
I frowned, looking around at the ground. The grass in the vicinity, where it hadn’t been scraped away by the payloader before the cave-in had occurred, had been trampled down so much during the beginning of the excavation process by both feet and machinery that I didn’t see how anything could be pinpointed as evidence of someone having dragged or transported a dead body. And if the murderer were strong enough, surely the weight of the body wouldn’t matter.
“So,” Tom continued, “what I’m thinking is that they would have looked for something to help them to do it.”
“Like a hospital gurney,” I quipped.
“Yeah, like a gurney. Smart-ass.”
“Always here to help.”
“Actually, what I was thinking of would be more like a lawn cart or a lawnmower of some sort. You know, gardening implements. And with the church’s flower garden just up the hill . . .”
Without another word he started tromping up said gentle slope, leaving me to follow or not.
Chapter 13
The garden’s old-fashioned iron gate was closed. As Tom pushed it inward, it squeaked on its hinges, like a crow cawing harshly in protest at an outsider’s intrusion. He looked around the garden, his eyes taking in everything. The shadows were beginning to extend outward where the sky-high sanctuary banked the space with its soaring stained glass window. The sun was beginning its downward path in the sky, giving the place a welcome respite with an at least ten-degree drop in temperature from outside the space. In the bigger picture, it was not much . . . but I was grateful.
“Nice here,” he commented off-handedly.
