* * *
Leigh Ann, Scott, and I squeezed into Vicki’s small office, standing around, taking turns sitting on the one guest chair, talking quietly so as not to disturb her, working behind her desk, ignoring us. Out the window I could see Ellis and Officer Meade sitting in his idling SUV, waiting.
At five after two, another police vehicle, this one marked, pulled into the lot and rolled to a stop next to Ellis’s. Two minutes later, the cruiser turned onto Route 1 and Officer Meade headed our way. She stepped inside the office and handed Vicki a legal-sized document.
Vicki read it through and stood up. “Okay, then.”
She brought out the shears, and we followed her as she strode across the lot. Ellis used them, snapping Henri’s metal lock like a matchstick. He swung the door wide and switched on his torch.
A jumble of broken objects littered the floor, chunks of blue and white porcelain, maybe from a vase or garden stool, and shards of crystal. Before I had a coherent thought about why trashed items would be in the locker, Leigh Ann shrieked, a guttural sound that made me jump. She stumbled backward two steps, then froze, her index finger pointing toward the storage room. Her arm dropped, her eyes fluttered, and she spiraled to the ground.
“Leigh Ann!” Scott exclaimed, lunging to catch her as she fell.
I took a step to help, then stopped. Scott caught her before she hit the pavement. Holding her upright, he looked around wildly, uncertain what to do, uncertain what was happening. I peered into the unit and finally saw what Leigh Ann had seen right away. Henri lay facedown on the ground, half hidden by a stack of unlabeled cardboard boxes.
I gasped. “Oh, my God!” I whispered, then covered my mouth with my gloved hands.
Henri’s arms were bent and his fingers curled as if he’d braced himself to break his fall. His gold wedding band glinted as Ellis’s flashlight passed over his hand. Henri’s head was turned to the right. His eyes were closed. Congealed blood dotted and striped his face and pooled alongside his head.
Without warning, Leigh Ann recovered from her faint, screamed like nothing I’ve ever heard, a wild animal shriek, and lurched forward, breaking from Scott’s grip. She plunged into the storage unit and hurled herself on top of Henri’s corpse, flailing. Her screams escalated into wails, echoing off the corrugated metal walls and ceiling, a death knell.
Ellis strode after her, reaching her in four paces. He grasped her under her arms and lifted her off Henri’s body as if she weighed nothing. Dangling her in front of him, he backed out of the unit, her feet two feet off the ground. She thrashed, kicking air, kicking him, her wails now high-pitched screeches. He lowered her to the ground, then grasped her arms when she tried to rush back into the locker. Scott tried to subdue her, but she slapped and punched and kicked. She was hysterical, out of control.
I felt weak with horror and fear. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t focus. Tiny gold dots flecked in front of my eyes, and I realized I was hyperventilating and if I didn’t stop, I would faint. I leaned over, clutching my legs behind my knees, and took in a long, slow breath, exhaling through my mouth, and then took another deep, deep breath. The gold specks dissipated, and I grew calmer. I raised myself up, continuing my slow-breathing ritual until the phenomenon I called crisis-calm took hold.
In the frenzied period before crisis-calm kicks in and during the muddled confusion after a crisis has passed, I seem unable to put two coherent thoughts together. Yet from the day when I was eight and witnessed a car rollover while walking to school, I’ve been able to maintain my composure during emergencies, no matter what. That day, I’d run to the nearest house, yelling, panicked. The grandmotherly woman who’d opened the door understood what was needed before I’d finished my first disjointed sentence. She called for an ambulance, then accompanied me back to the accident scene. Once there, she instructed me to keep passersby away from the injured driver. She sat on the ground next to the man, speaking slowly and softly, reassuring him that help was on the way. After he was released from the hospital, he told my parents how much he appreciated my quick action, that my running for help had probably saved his life. I knew that the EMTs’ quick response mattered, but I thought it was that woman’s poise and compassion more than anything that helped him hang on. From that experience, from that woman, I learned the value of calmness in the face of chaos. Today, watching Leigh Ann struggle, seeing how she seemed to not even hear Scott’s repeated admonitions, “Calm down, Leigh Ann, calm down,” I knew I might be able to help. I ran toward her.
“Henri! Henri!” she yelled, thrashing, screaming, “Let me go! Let me go!”
I touched her tear-stained cheek. “Leigh Ann,” I said, inches from her face. “You’ve got to let the police work. We won’t leave you alone. Scott is here. You won’t be alone.”
Leigh Ann didn’t seem to hear me or to understand what was happening, and I wondered if Ellis would have to place her in handcuffs to quell her attack, to stop her from hurting herself or further corrupting the crime scene, when all at once, as if she’d used up all the energy she had available, she went limp and stopped hollering. Silent tears replaced shrieks. She hiccupped and closed her eyes, and Ellis let her go and stepped back. She swayed for a moment, then righted herself and grew still. She opened her eyes, blinking as if the light were too bright. She didn’t speak. Scott slipped his arm around her shoulders, and Leigh Ann rested her head on his chest.
“Take her to the office,” Ellis said.
Scott nodded, and they walked slowly across the lot.
Once she was out of earshot, Ellis asked, “Can you see enough of his face to identify him from here?”
Ellis’s turbocharged torch cast an intense white light on Henri’s head. He lay on concrete, his right profile in view.
“Yes,” I whispered. “That’s Henri Dubois.”
Ellis thanked me, then began an inch-by-inch examination of the storage locker. Standing outside, he directed his flashlight along the concrete flooring, looking for I didn’t know what. Officer Meade was on her phone. Two police vehicles drove into the lot, a cruiser and one from the medical examiner’s office. So fast, I thought. I’d expected a delay of hours before the ME arrived, yet here she was within minutes. I stood unobtrusively off to one side. Two uniformed police officers, one I didn’t recognize, and the other an older man named Griff, opened the patrol car’s trunk and pulled out orange plastic cones and a large roll of yellow and black police tape. Officer Meade and Griff used the cones to create a secure zone about 150 by 50 feet, encompassing the entire locker frontage and a wide swath beyond.
“What do we have?” Dr. Graham, the medical examiner, asked as she got out of her car. I didn’t know her, but I’d seen her on the news. She was petite and young and, from all reports, a stickler for details.
Griff moved the cone closest to the storage facility aside, and she stepped into the secure area. Ellis pointed into the unit, and she scanned it.
“The victim’s widow was here when the corpse was discovered,” Ellis said. “She entered the unit and hugged the body.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Dr. Graham asked.
“No.”
“Great. I can hear the defense lawyer now. ‘How do you know that dirt you’re saying matches dirt on my client’s sneakers wasn’t introduced by the widow?’”
“I know. I got her out quickly. It was all I could do.”
She nodded. “Any more bad news?”
He shook his head. “That’s it.”
She opened her black bag and extracted plastic booties, two pairs, and handed one set to Ellis. She leaned against the outside wall to slip hers on, then entered the storage unit, stepping carefully. Once Ellis had his booties on, he picked his way across the rubble and joined her at the body. They squatted near Henri’s head and began to talk, their voices too low for me to hear.
I shut my eyes, my breathing still too shallow, my shoulder muscles knotted. A dog barked. Cars rumbled along Route 1. A
bird called out, one high chirp. I focused on my breathing, the only thing I could control, and stayed that way, unmoving and concentrated, until a vehicle, desperate for a new muffler, charged into the lot. I opened my eyes as it screeched to a stop with a jerk. It was Wes, driving his old clunker. He bolted out and ran toward me. Officer Meade, standing outside the secure area, threw out her arm to stop him.
“You need to back off,” she told him.
“Why?” he demanded, sounding shocked.
“This is a crime scene.”
“What’s the crime?”
She folded her lips and didn’t reply.
“What’s going on, Josie?” Wes called to me.
I shut my eyes again and tuned out his shotgun-style questioning. After a minute, he stopped. When I opened my eyes this time, I found him glaring at me. He raised his right index finger and thumb to his ear, miming holding a telephone receiver, then pointed his left index finger at my chest, and mouthed, “Call me.” I glanced at the three police officers. Their eyes were on him, not me, so I nodded, one nod, then waggled my fingers at him, shooing him away. He turned his attention to the storage unit, pushing against the police tape to peer inside.
Dr. Graham and Ellis stepped out, still talking in near-whispers.
“I’ll call you as soon as I have anything,” Dr. Graham said.
Griff slid the cone out of the way, opening a narrow alley, just wide enough for her to pass through.
“What’s the verdict, Doc?” Wes called, jogging to join her.
She acted like he wasn’t there, got situated in her car, started the engine, and drove off. If Wes hadn’t jumped out of the way, I think she would have hit him.
“Chief Hunter?” Wes yelled, unabashed. “What’s going on?”
“Do you have a pen, Wes? I’m ready to give you an exclusive, my first statement regarding this situation.”
“Great!” Wes said. He used his teeth to pull off his glove, dug into an inside jacket pocket, and extracted a ratty-looking lined piece of notebook paper and a pen. “I’m ready.”
Ellis nodded. “The body of Henri Dubois, who’d been reported missing by his wife, Leigh Ann Dubois, has been found. Until the medical examiner determines the cause and manner of death, I will make no further comment about those issues. If anyone saw Mr. Dubois at any point yesterday afternoon, please contact our office. Anonymous tips are welcome. You have the number, right, Wes?”
“Yup. Off the record, is it murder?” Wes asked, sounding depressingly eager.
“Off the record, yes. He was bludgeoned to death by something smooth and fairly thin, like a section of pipe.”
Wes’s eyes lit up, and I knew him well enough to know that his excitement wasn’t from hearing that Henri had been beaten to death, but from getting the news ahead of anyone else.
“Or a baseball bat?” Wes suggested.
“Could be, although that may be too wide and/or too rounded. The ME will let us know the dimensions and if there are any splinters in his scalp, something that would indicate whether the weapon was made of wood or iron or whatever.”
Wes nodded. “Is there anything in the room that might be the weapon?”
“Early days to speculate.”
“We’re off the record, Chief.”
“Same answer.”
“What else can you tell me?” Wes asked.
“He’s been dead for hours, although in this weather, it’s hard to guess. More on that from the ME after the autopsy.”
“So all you want me to publish now is the call for witnesses?”
“That’s right. We need any and all information about this heinous crime, and witnesses can and often do play a crucial role in uncovering the truth.”
“Good one, Chief! Got it.”
Wes ran for his car and was gone. Knowing him, I bet he would call in his story while beelining for Leigh Ann’s shop or house, hoping to win another exclusive.
Ellis turned to me. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me figure out what’s broken and why and whether anything, collectibles and such, is missing.”
“I’ll do anything I can.”
“It’ll be a while before we can get inside. In the meantime, I want to get going on statements. I need to hang here for a few minutes, but there’s no reason for you to stand around in the cold. You okay with letting Scott and Leigh Ann follow you to the station?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Ellis said something to Officer Meade, and she jogged to Vicki’s office. Within seconds, Leigh Ann and Scott stepped outside. Leigh Ann looked awful, her skin pasty white, her gait a shuffle, her shoulders bowed. Scott stayed close to her, casting anxious glances in her direction every few seconds.
A black SUV drove up, and a man and a woman got out. The man pulled a black boxy case from the rear while the woman greeted Chief Hunter, then stepped over the crime scene tape. Moments later, an ambulance entered the lot, and we all turned to watch it back up to the tape barricade.
“We’ll let you know when you can take the corpse,” the woman called to the ambulance driver, a young man who’d stepped out of the cab to light a cigarette.
The driver nodded but didn’t reply.
As I walked slowly toward my car, I watched the two techs begin their meticulous work, one video-recording the scene, the other photographing every inch. The man extracted a thick pile of plastic evidence bags and two pairs of tweezers.
I blinked away tears. Poor Henri. I felt weighed down by grief, rudderless and awash with sadness. Life as I knew it had changed forever. Life as Leigh Ann knew it was over.
CHAPTER TEN
While I waited for Leigh Ann and Scott to pull up behind me at the parking lot exit, ready to follow me to the Rocky Point police station, I dug my phone out of my tote bag. I had three voice mails, two e-mails, and one text message—all, except one of the voice mails, from Wes. I didn’t bother listening or reading his messages. I knew what he wanted, what he always wanted—information. Later, I thought. I’ll deal with Wes later. Ty had called at two, just as Ellis was opening Henri’s unit. I leaned back, the heat finally coming. I wiggled my feet, hoping they’d thaw soon, and glanced into the rearview mirror. Scott was backing out of his parking spot. I shut my eyes to listen to Ty’s message in private.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, and listening to the rich timbre of his voice, I felt my tension ease, just a bit. “Give me a call when you get a chance. Is it snowing there yet? It’s coming down at a pretty good clip up here—there’s already a couple of inches on the ground. Regardless, if the highways are open, I’ll come home. If not, not. I’ve booked a room here just in case. Let me know if you decide to stay at my place so I’ll know where to come home to. Love you, babe.”
I hit the RETURN CALL button, and his phone went directly to voice mail.
“Hi, Ty,” I said. “I got your message. I hate that you might not get home tonight, but of course I understand, and of course you shouldn’t push it. It’s not snowing yet, but it looks as if it may start any second. I was hoping to talk to you directly … I have news, terrible, terrible news.” My throat closed, and I choked, then coughed. After a moment, I was able to continue. “Sorry. It’s Henri, Ty. He’s dead, murdered. I’ll tell you everything later. Right now, I have to go to the police station. Don’t worry … I’m okay. Leigh Ann … Leigh Ann isn’t doing well … but why would she be, you know? Anyway … when I’m done with the police, I think I’ll go to my place. Maybe Zoë will be around.” I paused for a moment, thinking what else I wanted to say. “I love you, Ty.”
Scott rolled to a stop in back of me. I met his eyes in the mirror and nodded. I slipped in my earpiece and called my office. Cara answered, and I told her I wouldn’t be back to work. I didn’t tell her about Henri. I didn’t want to talk about it. Instead I asked about business, my default coping mechanism. I listened to her everything-is-fine news and felt the quaking world begin to right itself. Work has spared my soul more than once.
I dr
ove slowly, signaling turns well in advance, and kept looking into the rearview mirror. Scott was a cautious driver, keeping pace without tailgating.
Cara reported that all the hearts and heart-themed collectibles Prescott’s had gathered throughout the year had sold at the tag sale, creating a familiar tug of conflicting emotions—selling out was great news, but selling out meant missed opportunity; if only we’d had more inventory in stock, we might have sold more. She added that Gretchen and Eric would share closing-up duties and that she’d make certain that Hank was set up with extra food and water in case the coming storm was superbad and we couldn’t get in on Monday. I had her confirm that the generators were all good to go, an insurance requirement to ensure that our security system was never compromised, and was reassured when she told me they all were fully gassed up.
I clicked off the phone, and as the reprieve that talking business had provided ended, my eyes filled. I swallowed heavily, willing myself not to cry. It worked. Instead of letting myself feel, I forced myself to think. I considered whether the bad-news call Henri took on Thursday was, in fact, the precipitating event that led to his murder, or whether it was not a cause but an effect, resulting from some other incident. Or maybe it was totally unrelated to his death. I had no way of knowing, which meant I needed to tell Ellis about it. I felt a momentary stab of resentment that Henri had put me in this position by making it clear that I was the only one he’d told about the call, followed by a longer, sharper stab of guilt that I would even for a moment resent the actions of a murdered man—worse, that I could in any way resent the actions of a murdered friend. I bit my lip, ashamed.
Flurries hit the windshield.
The heat was pumping, but it didn’t warm me. I was cold to my bones and sad deeper than that.
* * *
The Rocky Point police station was set back from Ocean Avenue, across from the beach. The building that housed the police station had been designed to look like local cottages, with wood siding weathered to a light dove gray, shutters painted a dark forest green, and a mansard roof. On a sunny summer afternoon, the view from the parking lot included undulating near-white sand, seashell pink wild roses, and tall grasses waving in the soft breeze that almost always wafted in from the west. Now, all I saw was snow.
Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries) Page 8
