Just then, my mom’s car rounded the corner and squealed to a stop right in front of us. She jumped out without even cutting the engine off, and had her arms wrapped around me almost before I stood up. It was a repeat, basically, of the first few minutes of Tim’s arrival. Lots of hugging and kissing, plus tears. However, once she had convinced herself I was okay, she started fussing.
My Mom is gorgeous. She looks a lot like Michelle Pfeiffer. Picture Michelle when she was in that movie with George Clooney, but with a text-book southern drawl, and you’ve got Mom. She’s also got the whole southern belle, steel magnolia thing down to a science. Women think she’s awesome and want to be her best friend and men fall madly in love with her.
“Martina Gayle, I am mind-boggled about all of this!” Her face was even paler than Tim’s had been. On her, it was a good look. “First, I think that I’m going to come here and find you, my precious baby, dead. Yet, there you are, sitting on the porch steps cool as a cucumber, chatting it up with Timothy like everything’s right as rain. What on earth were you thinking? Didn’t you know I’d hear the call and worry? You really should have phoned me immediately. How could you scare me like that?”
While Mom was giving her lecture, Charli pulled up and we went through the whole “hugging, crying, fussing at Marty for making them worry about me” routine again.
“Geez, y’all! You act like I somehow did this on purpose just to ruin your day. I literally got home a few minutes ago and found her on my kitchen floor. I didn’t exactly get up this morning and decide to get involved in another murder, you know?”
“Who is she, anyway?” Tim cut in. “I barely got a glance, but she looks sort of familiar.”
“Her name’s Sabrina Lewis,” I said.
Charli gasped. “I know her! Sort of. She was on that committee I chaired back in June for the food-drive we had after the big storm. She was a quiet little thing. She didn’t come to many of our meetings, but must have had some good connections because she brought in a lot of money. She worked at Glenvar Gifts and Things. You know, that froufrou knick-knack shop on Main across from the coffee shop? How on earth did she get in your apartment?”
“She lives – lived – in the building behind here. I met her at Pilazzo’s last night after you and John left. She is – was – one of Harry’s friends. Anyway, her boyfriend got drunk and hit her after they got home. I don’t know why, but she came to my apartment after it happened. I guess her friends weren’t back from wherever they’d gone. She said she didn’t have anywhere else to go and begged me to let her stay the night. I couldn’t exactly kick her out, so I said sure. I tried to get her to call it in, have him arrested, but she refused. Anyway, I left her asleep on the sofa this morning. I never thought she’d still be here when I got home. And I certainly didn’t expect to find her dead on my kitchen floor.”
Mom suddenly stopped being “Mom” and transformed into Maggie Sheffield, Ace Reporter. (She works as a reporter for our local weekly, the Glenvar News-Record, but she’s not content. She’s constantly trying to figure out how to get a job as an investigative reporter for a bigger daily paper. To that end, she’s always trying to get scoops, which she posts on her paper’s blog. She’s pretty successful; the News-Record’s blog site gets way more hits than one might expect.)
She pulled a leather bound steno pad from her purse and started firing off questions, furiously scribbling notes the whole time.
Charli hugged herself as if she was cold. “I don’t get it. Why on earth would she stay with someone who hit her?”
“I wish I knew,” Tim answered. “This sort of thing is just too damned common. It’s too bad she didn’t report that he hit her. We’d have at least run him in until he sobered up. I bet she’d probably still be alive, if she’d have let Marty call us.”
I know he wasn’t blaming me, but I lost it as soon as he said that. Of course I’d been having the same thoughts in the back of my mind nearly from the minute I saw her lying on the floor, but when Tim said it out loud, it really hit home. I don’t know if I’ve ever in my life cried harder or felt guiltier about anything than I did at that moment.
It took about ten minutes and two purse-sized packs of tissues to finally get myself under control. And, that’s when Detective Winger, star of the Glenvar Police Department detective squad, showed up.
As I mentioned, Detective Winger and I had a prior relationship and, again, as I mentioned, it was not a good one. He’d been convinced I’d killed Charli’s neighbor and had treated me accordingly. As a result, I’d not been particularly friendly toward him once the real murderer had been exposed. Eventually, he apologized and we sort of came to a truce. I was hopeful this new development was not going to push us back to square one.
Detective Winger was a nice enough looking man, but basically unremarkable. If I’d been asked to pick him out of a police line-up, I’m not sure I could have. He had the regulation hair cut, was average sized, and wore an inexpensive navy blue suit. I suspect it had been purchased more for its ability to not wrinkle than for its style. After he’d checked out the “scene of the crime” aka my kitchen, he “invited” me to join him for a talk.
We went to his car, an older model, white Chevy Impala. The only way I could tell it was a police car was the radio unit under the dashboard. Unlike Tim, who had to write down notes in a tiny notebook, the detective was equipped with a laptop. He flicked it on and gave me the go ahead.
“Okay, Miss Sheffield, start at the beginning.”
The beginning? “Uh, sir, what, uh, what beginning? When I came home today and found her? Or last night?”
He sighed impatiently. “Let’s start with when the victim first arrived at your apartment. Officer Unser told me that she showed up about one this morning after being abused by her partner. Why don’t you start there?”
Frankly, I was worried that, once again, Detective Winger would decide I was guilty of murder. And, of course, that made me nervous, which meant I stuttered and stammered and generally sounded like a complete idiot. I kept stopping and going back to add more details as they popped in my head, which mainly led Detective Winger to become more and more exasperated with me. I could tell because he sighed often, clenched his jaw a lot, and punched the keys of his computer so hard that I thought he was going to break his fingers.
Eventually, I managed to get the whole story told. Winger asked a bunch of questions, clarifying some of the details, until he evidently felt like he had at least a rudimentary picture of what happened. As soon as he finished our interview, he left me alone, standing by his car, while he spoke with Rowena to confirm my timeline and find out if she’d noticed anything suspicious that morning.
She hadn’t. Rowena works part-time as a church secretary three days a week. That particular day she had left at eight to meet some friends for breakfast. She told Winger my door was closed when she left because she’d knocked on it, wanting to make sure Sabrina was okay. No one had answered. She’d just arrived home from work when she heard me screaming and rushed in to see if everything was all right. Which, of course, it wasn’t. Tim told me later that everyone else in the building had also been questioned. None of them had noticed anything out of sorts when they left that morning either.
When Detective Winger finished talking to Rowena, he found me once more sitting on the steps of the apartment building, discussing with Mom and Charli where I was staying that night. Well, the two of them were discussing. I’d said I was going to stay at Tim’s, which set Mom off on one of her infamous lectures.
She has definite ideas about how properly brought up young southern women should behave and I often don’t measure up to those standards. Mom thinks I am trying my best to single-handedly destroy the reputation of the entire Tarelton clan, which is her side of the family. Staying at Tim’s registered way high on the list of reputation demolishers. (She’s not particularly worried about the reputation of the Sheffields, my dad’s folks. She decided they were hopeless from the get go. She m
arried him anyway, despite her own mother’s vehement disapproval. But, that’s another story.)
Normally, I would have argued with her, but in light of what was going on around me, it felt like a frivolous and selfish concern. Instead, I simply sat there, letting her and Charli figure it all out. I tuned them out, replaying finding Sabrina over and over and over again. Wishing I could somehow time-travel back to the previous night and fix everything so that Sabrina would still be alive.
“We’re going to let Officer Unser into the apartment to get whatever you need for the next couple of days,” the detective told me. “Unfortunately, you can’t go in yourself. I expect we’ll have it locked down until Thursday or so. In the meantime, you’re going to want to talk to your landlord about getting the scene cleaned up. They’ll know who to call. If not, our secretary can give you some names.”
I guess I stared at him blankly, because he asked if I understood. Of course I didn’t. He explained that it wasn’t the police department’s job to clean up the crime scene once they were done collecting evidence. Not that I had any intention of ever living there again, but I would have to go back in to move. I shuddered at the thought.
While Tim was inside getting my things, Detective Winger cautioned me not to talk about the crime to anyone other than his people. He was especially adamant that I not contact Harry, whom I’d told him I’d spent the afternoon with.
Oops. Well, technically, I hadn’t told anyone other than the police anything. Except for Mom and Charli, of course. Actually, I realized then that I had never gotten around to mentioning Mark Donavan’s name or the baseball team connection to either of them, thanks to my melt-down at Tim’s suggestion that a phone call to the police might have saved Sabrina.
I had known pretty quickly that going to the game that night was out, so while I’d waited for the detective to arrive, I’d sent a vague text to Harry telling him something had come up. Despite occasional lapses that indicate otherwise, I’m actually not stupid. I knew enough to keep my mouth shut until Sabrina’s family and friends were notified and questioned. I guess Harry either hadn’t seen the text or was too busy to text back, because I still hadn’t heard from him when the detective gave me the warning.
I showed him the message I’d sent Harry, and gave my assurances that I’d keep my lips sealed until after he’d had a chance to meet with Mark Donavan. Finally, Detective Winger left, bound for Glenvar Municipal Field to have a heart-to-heart with Sabrina’s scumbag boyfriend. And, hopefully, to throw his lousy rear end in jail for her murder.
After reminding Mom she was terrified of cats, and explaining that if Delbert couldn’t stay at her house, neither could I, I took Rowena up on her offer to let the two of us bunk at her place until my apartment was cleared and cleaned and I could move. It seemed like the perfect solution since Delbert had been traumatized enough for one day and had fallen madly in love with Rowena. Or at least with the salmon she kept feeding him.
Once that was settled, Mom, Dad (who’d joined us to see for himself that I was still alive), and Charli finally left. Tim and I picked up some sandwiches from Pilazzo’s and went back to his place. While we ate, he filled me in on the scuttlebutt about the investigation, courtesy of the Glenvar PD grapevine.
“Charli was right about Sabrina. She worked over on Main Street at that little gift shop. You know, one of those places people hardly ever go into?” We were out on his tiny balcony, digging into our steak sandwiches and drinking beer.
“How on earth do those stores stay in business?”
“Online sales, from what I gather. I guess they even had some international business, mainly Germany and Canada. Winger talked to the woman who owns the shop. She said Sabrina ran the place since April and did a really good job. The owner, Mrs. Conner, lives in Myrtle Beach. She’s pretty hands-off, from the sound of it. Said she hadn’t talked to Sabrina in about a week or so.”
“So that explains why no one checked to see why she didn’t show up to work.”
Tim took a swig of his beer. “Well, the store’s closed on Sundays and Mondays, so nobody would have really noticed until tomorrow.”
“What about the creep? Did Winger arrest him? Smack him around a little? That’s what we should do after we eat. Hop on over to wherever he is and knock him around, see how he likes it.”
“Do you want to hear what happened or not?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll shut up.” I reached in the six-pack cooler and snagged another icy beer. Usually, I don’t drink much, but the way I was feeling, I figured it was about the only way I was going to get any sleep.
“Winger said when he told him about her being dead, Donavan broke down and bawled like a baby.”
“I’ll bet. Of course, he probably only cried because he knew he was going to jail. Do you think he’ll get the death penalty?”
“Dang, Marty, they haven’t even charged the guy yet. There’s no evidence against him so far. He told Winger that when he woke up this morning on Sabrina’s bed, he’d had a raging hangover. And that it wasn’t unusual for her to be gone before he got up because she liked to go down to the gym at the crack of dawn, and sometimes she went to work early or on her days off. He thought she was filling a big order and assumed that’s why she wasn’t there.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said when we saw him and his roommate, Doug, out at the lake today.”
“You saw Donavan? What time? Did you happen to mention that little fact to Winger?”
“Well, no. I didn’t think it was important. I figure he killed her and then went off to have fun with his buddy. Guys like that are plain evil. He actually laughed at a joke Doug made about her kicking his butt for getting so drunk last night and spilling beer all over. I really hate that guy. I hope he fries.”
“Dang it, Marty. Of course it’s important. The man is innocent until proven guilty. What time did you see him?”
“I don’t know. About noon, I guess. They said they’d been out there since eight. That seemed like a lie to me. No way would anyone be riding bikes for that long. How boring.”
Tim did a face palm. “You. Are. Exasperating. Think, Marty. Rowena said your door was closed at eight. It was open when you came home. Which means the killer left it open. Mark Donavan signed in with the park manager out at the lake at seven fifty. The manager swears he was there the whole time and Donavan’s truck never moved. Initial ruling is that Sabrina was killed between eight and eleven. It had to have been after Rowena left at eight. Which means Donavan didn’t do it. Unless he snuck past the manager on his bike and rode the twenty-three miles to your place. Without being seen by anyone, of course. He would have had to have killed her, rode back, and met back up with his friend in less than an hour. I’m going to go call Winger. He’ll probably want to talk to you again, see if there’s any other info you forgot to mention.”
Tim called Detective Winger, who asked to speak to me. He was a tad angry I’d neglected to tell him about seeing Mark and Doug. Mainly because he thought I was anxious to see Donavan charged. I was, of course, but only if the guy was actually guilty. Tim’s timeline convinced me. I apologized for my lapse.
“It’s all right, Ms. Sheffield. This time, anyway. Your information doesn’t change anything about the case. Please, though, make sure you tell me everything in the future. You never know what will be the key to solving the murder. Now, I have another question. When she came to your apartment, did Sabrina Lewis have a purse? They didn’t find one at your place, in her car, or at her apartment. Donavan said she always carried one.”
I squinched my eyes and visualized Sabrina’s bag. “A medium-sized, black leather hobo style one. That brand with the fake key attached. My sister, Charli, has a brown one like it. My mom bought it for her for her birthday.”
“Your mother bought Sabrina Lewis a purse?”
“No, Mom bought one for my sister. Oh. I guess that wasn’t relevant. I guess you want me to stick to the facts. Man, this is all so danged hard, sir.”
&nb
sp; The detective actually chuckled, asked a few more questions about Sabrina’s purse, thanked me, and finally, mercifully ended the call. I was anxious to get off the phone. I had something on my mind and wanted Tim’s thoughts.
I handed him back his phone. “Hey, buddy, I have one question: if Mark Donavan didn’t kill her, then who?”
Tim finished chewing the last of the massive double chocolate brownies he’d bought at the bakery after we picked up the subs. He barely met my gaze and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking.
I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud, so I whispered it. “Do you, do you think it could have been someone who mixed us up? Someone out to kill me instead of her?”
Tim shook his head violently. “No. Don’t even think that. You locked up when you left. She had to have let in whoever it was. She was in your kitchen. Probably getting ready to fix the two of them something to eat or drink.
“I sure hope you’re right.”
Neither one of us said much after that. We sipped our beers, watching people drive up to the complex, gawk at my building, and point to my apartment. I know there’s not much to do in Glenvar, but it seemed to me that some of the people who lived there must have been really bored if they found looking at a three level, brown, shingle-sided apartment building where a woman was murdered entertaining.
After about thirty minutes Tim yawned. “By the way, I meant to ask you earlier, what’s the deal with you and this Harry guy? What were y’all doing out at the lake?
“The usual stuff, hiking, kayaking.”
Tim snorted. “The usual stuff? Whenever I try to get you to go with me, you always tell me you hate hiking, and after we went that one time you swore you’d drown before you ever got in a kayak again.”
“Maybe I’m changing.”
He snorted again. “Right. My guess is you’re doing what you usually do: trying to make that guy think you’re something you’re not.”
“What do you mean by that? You sound like Mom and Charli.”
The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1 Page 48
