Before Another Dies

by Alton L. Gansky

  “No news there. Since her car is missing we have to assume she drove off, but where? Where would you go?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You lost a husband to murder. If you were Mrs. Fritz, where would you go?”

  I had to think about that. “I remember being very confused the first few days. My emotions were all over the place, and it was hard for me to focus. Thankfully, I had help from my family. Peter’s parents were great, too. But that doesn’t help.” I didn’t want to think of those days. I spent too many months and years trying to focus on the good times before that day. Instinctively, I resisted anything that forced me to relive the worst days of my life. But I did it anyway. I recalled the phone call, the searing pain of the news, the fog that filled my brain, the calls I made that night, the place in the kitchen where I collapsed under the irresistible weight of grief.

  I once read an article by a psychologist who said the human mind cannot distinguish between reality and fiction. It’s the reason we jump in a scary movie. We know the scenes on the screen aren’t real; we even know that they’re two-dimensional representations of actors and events, but when the gun goes off, or the monster charges, we jump anyway. I told myself that Peter’s death was many years ago, and I was just trying to recall an interesting detail. My guts still twisted into a knot.

  “I’m sorry,” West said. Apparently I was more transparent than I realized. “I shouldn’t put you through this. I just thought you might have an idea.”

  “I do,” I said a moment later. “The day after I heard about Peter’s murder, I had an almost overwhelming desire to drive to LA and stand at the scene where he died. It made no sense, but the desire was there, and it kept growing. My mother talked me out of it, but I doubt she would have been able to if Peter had been killed outside of town instead of LA.”

  I looked at West and could tell that his mind had just found fourth gear. “It makes sense. It’s like those people who lose a son or daughter in an auto accident and cover the site with flowers, pictures, and toys.” His head gave a little nod. “She’s gone to the airport.”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Then that’s where we’re going.”

  We had been on the surface streets, working our way toward Fritzy’s house, but West made a command decision. He pressed the accelerator and steered toward the freeway. Five minutes later we were scooting down the wide ribbon of the 101.

  Ten minutes later I saw the signs to the Willis Jackson airport. I doubted West needed any signs. Minutes chugged by, and I spent the time praying I was right. Most people work through their grief in a normal pattern; some lose their minds. I was praying for the former and fearing the latter. Back on the surface streets, West pushed through traffic, passing when it was safe and tailgating when he couldn’t pass. He was making me nervous.

  He pulled up behind a Chevy pickup with what looked like a good ol’ boy behind the wheel. Bright spots appeared then disappeared on the tailgate of the truck. West was flashing his lights. The driver gave a wave that lacked some fingers. West mumbled something, reached down to a red plastic globe just under his police radio, and set it on the dashboard. A moment later, red light poured through the windshield. A half second after that, West reached for a switch on the radio, and I heard the blare of the police siren.

  The truck shot to the curb and began to slow. I caught a glimpse of the driver. His eyes were wide and his face seemed to have drained of color.

  “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to get to the airport.” He glanced at me and grinned.

  Jim Fritz’s shop was on the north side of the small airport. This was a municipal airport, owned by the city and used by recreational and business fliers. Unlike a large commercial airport Willis Jackson Field has only two short runways, a single tower, and a small terminal. No airlines landed here, nothing larger than a business jet. West steered the car through the parking lot toward a metal building a hundred yards north of the terminal. FRITZ AIRCRAFT SERVICES was painted in fading red letters on one side. That was our goal.

  West switched off the red light and pulled to the curb in front of the building, stopping in a no-parking zone. As I began to open my door, I heard him give our location over the radio. He slipped from his seat and started for the entrance door. By the time I made my exit, he was already trying the doorknob.

  “Locked. This way.” He pushed by me, rounded the building, and opened the chain-link gate that was meant to keep outsiders out. I saw an open silver hasp lock dangling on the gate. I followed West, who was moving faster than my pump-clad feet would allow. I saw him disappear around the runway side of the building. I rounded the same corner four steps behind him.

  She was there. Standing in front of one of two open bays, Fritzy was a frail statue. She wore the same dress I had seen her wear on Monday. Her hands clasped before her, just below the waist. A small beige purse hung from those hands like a frozen pendulum. West approached slowly. So did I. As I drew near I could see what was in the open bay. A white, single engine plane stood as if waiting for someone to call it back to life. It was one of those planes with the wings over the fuselage. Its cowling was open, revealing the engine—the same engine Jim Fritz had been working on the night he was killed. A yellow ribbon barricade ran from the doorjambs and across the open bay door.

  “Mrs. Fritz?” West said. “Are you all right?”

  Fritzy said nothing. I expected to see tears coursing down her checks but her eyes were dry. They were also empty.

  “Mrs. Fritz, you shouldn’t be here,” West said. He spoke with authority cushioned with kindness.

  I brushed past him and stood next to Fritzy. I looked into the bay. When the aircraft was towed in the day before, or whenever it arrived, it was just a simple plane. That’s all that most would see, but I knew Fritzy saw something different. It was the place her husband of decades had died—had been killed. I put my arm around her.

  “He was alone,” Fritzy said. “I was at home asleep when he died. He was here, by himself, no one to talk to, no one to hold his hand.”

  “Mrs. Fritz,” West began. “It wouldn’t matter—”

  I cut him off with a wave of my hand. He was still thinking with facts, Fritzy had moved beyond that.

  “Did you know that we still held hands? When we went shopping, or even when we were just walking down the street, he’d reach for my hand.”

  The tears were building. I wanted to do the stupid thing and say, “There, there, it’s all right,” but I caught myself. I knew better.

  She continued. “Jim used to say that when a couple stopped holding hands there was trouble brewing.”

  I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “He was a wise man, that husband of yours.”

  “I wish I could have been here for him. I know it wouldn’t have made any difference, but I still wish it. I wish it with all my heart. This hurts so much.” A sob escaped.

  I bit my lip.

  “I know,” I whispered. The whisper was unintentional. I wanted to sound strong, to show that life continues on after tragedy. I wanted her to see me, Madison Glenn, mayor of Santa Rita, widowed by violence but still a whole, strong, resolute person. What a sham. I was a papier-mâché battleship pretending to sail the high seas. At the moment I was nothing more than a paper cup in a hurricane.

  She looked at me. There was understanding in her eyes. She unclasped her hands and put an arm around my waist. Together we stared at the Cessna, the open engine that had been the last thing Jim had touched, and the cockpit where his body had been found. Fritzy made no attempt to cross the flimsy barricade. She was close enough.

  I heard footfalls and saw a uniformed officer round the same corner West and I had a few moments before. West saw him too. “Secure the front of the building.”

  The officer looked puzzled. “Sir? There’s nothing to secure.”

  West turned to face the man fully. “I said, secure the
front of the building.”

  The officer looked at West, then at us, and the light went on. “Of course.” West retreated to the corner of the building and pretended to watch airplanes land.

  Fritzy and I continued to stare at the Cessna. Something about it bothered me.

  chapter 13

  I drove Fritzy home in her car and used the time to tell her of my conversation with Pastor Lenny. She was grateful and said that if I trusted him, then she would do the same. West followed and then gave me a ride back to city hall. There was little conversation. I was as wrung out as a dishrag. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. West gave me the gift of silence while I tried to calm my nerves and quiet my brain.

  Once back in my office I spent the rest of the evening preparing for the city council meeting. A few minutes before seven, I entered the council chamber, then gaveled the meeting open precisely on time. The agenda was clean and simple, not unusual for the first meeting of the year. We followed our usual routine of roll call, the pledge of allegiance, the reading of the minutes, and report from the city manager. We waved the closed-session report since we had not met in closed session since before the holidays. We dealt with one zoning change, agreeing to allow a piece of residential property to be rezoned commercial.

  The only issue that was close to contentious was the election of one of the four sitting council members to the position of deputy mayor. To my surprise, Jon made a motion that a decision be put off until council had had time to discuss the matter in closed session. I was sure Tess had put him up to it, but nonetheless it came as a breath of fresh air. Tess seconded the motion. No surprise there. I waited for Titus or Larry to argue the point, but neither rose to the challenge. In the face of two murders, one the husband of a beloved employee, little that we did that night seemed to matter.

  We dismissed at 8:10. That night was a slow one, but there were storm clouds on the horizon. There were always storm clouds. I returned to my office, filed a few papers, and then drove home.

  Home sounded good. Before I pulled from the parking lot, I was already dreaming of a massive dose of hot chocolate and bed. It hadn’t occurred to me that I had skipped dinner until I turned on my street. Maybe a grilled cheese sandwich would precede the hot chocolate. I saw a large car at the curb. Someone was behind the wheel. A second later, I recognized the vehicle. It was a Ford Excursion—Jerry’s SUV. I pulled onto my drive and activated the garage door opener. Moments later, I was parked inside. I exited the car and saw Dr. Jerry Thomas standing on the driveway.

  “Chinese food?” He held up two white paper bags.

  “What are you doing here? And how do you know I haven’t eaten?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He smiled and held up the bag in his left hand. “Brownies. Warm brownies with macadamia nuts.”

  “For a physician, you sure are devious. Come in.”

  Jerry followed me through the garage and into the house. I closed the door with the press of a button, walked to my security system, and entered my code.

  I have known Jerry since high school, where we were sweethearts. Like many high school romances, nothing worked out. We each married someone else and lost that someone. My husband was dead; his wife was living somewhere with a man who had more money and didn’t keep doctor’s hours. Jerry is fairly trim, but over the last few months a little paunch had been testing his belt. Middle age catches up to everyone sooner or later.

  “So you haven’t eaten, right?” he said, making his way straight for my kitchen. The floor plan is simple. The first floor holds a large living room, which adjoins the dining room, which in turn is open to the kitchen. The rest of the lower floor is taken up by the laundry, walk-in pantry, and a large bathroom. Since I rattle around in this house alone, three of the four bedrooms are guest rooms. All the bedrooms are upstairs as is the game room, which I’ve converted to my home office.

  “No.” I set my purse down on one of the wrought-iron end tables that bracketed my white leather sofa. I walked to the dining room. “I was just thinking of a grilled cheese sandwich and some hot chocolate.”

  “Belay that grilled cheese, Matey. I’s brung you a bounty of Hunan shrimp, lo mein noodles, and kung pao chicken.”

  As he removed the small boxes of food from the bag, I pulled two plates from the cabinet. “What was that? An imitation of a pirate?”

  “Not just any pirate, a Chinese pirate. Nothing but the best for you.”

  “Were there Chinese pirates?” Sometimes Jerry was a nutcase.

  “Ask your dad, he’s the historian. I’m just a lowly pediatrician trying to do a good deed by feeding the mayor. It’s my civic duty.”

  “And Chinese food shouldn’t be eaten alone. Right?”

  “Absolutely. What say we eat out on the deck, then we can have brownies and hot chocolate.”

  “Both? That’s a little overkill, don’t you think?” I helped dish the food.

  “It will give our pancreases something to do, sort of insulin push-ups.”

  I was starting to feel good. The smell of the food made my stomach rumble, and Jerry’s off-the-wall humor made me smile. With plates filled with steaming chow, we went out the sliding glass door that separates my dining room from the outside and sat in the pair of loungers I kept for sunning.

  The night was cool but not cold, and the ocean breeze made the food smell even better, something I didn’t think was possible. “Sorry, I don’t have chopsticks. Forks will have to do.”

  “It’s a shame. You’d be impressed with my skill and dexterity. I’ve thought of teaching classes.”

  That made me laugh. “Last time I saw you wielding chopsticks, you dropped a shrimp in your shirt pocket.”

  “I was saving it.”

  The moon stood guard overhead and dribbled its light on the ocean. A lullaby of waves kissing the shore massaged my ears and mind. Tension began to drain from me. I was thankful Jerry had shown up. It was late, I was tired, but having a friend nearby was the best therapy.

  “You’ve had a rough couple of days,” Jerry said.

  “Is that why you’re here? To cheer me up?” The soft noodles were wonderful. Food was such wonderful therapy.

  “Partly. Partly because I like being with you. We haven’t talked in two weeks.”

  “It’s just been a week, Jerry.” In the distance tiny white lights danced on the water; fishing boats plying their trade.

  “Yeah, well, it seemed longer.”

  Jerry is a good friend, and there are times when we come close to being more. His gentle spirit, keen intelligence, and caring heart make him irresistible—at least they should. For some reason, I can’t move beyond friendship. I know if I winked at him twice he’d propose, but I’ve held off on winking. My mother thinks we’re ideal for each other. She’s probably right. So what’s the problem? I don’t know. I do know that when I am with Jerry, I keep comparing him to Judson West. It’s a stupid thing to do, but it comes from my unconscious, and that’s where I store all my stupidity. When I’m with West, I compare him to Jerry. Sometimes I feel like a boat with propellers fore and aft: I churn up a lot of water but don’t make much headway.

  “Thanks, Jerry, I needed this.”

  “What you need, young lady, is me, and you know it.”

  “Young lady,” I guffawed. “I haven’t been called young lady in a long time.”

  “Well, you’re not old.”

  “I feel old. I walked into a fast-food place the other day and I could see the counterperson eyeing me. I know she was wondering whether or not to offer me a senior discount.”

  “When you’re sixteen, everyone looks old.” He put his plate down. “I’ll be back. It’s time to rescue the brownies from the sack prison.”

  “I can do that.” I started to get up.

  “I know you can, but you’re not. Sit back down.”

  I did as I was told. He walked back into the house. I shouted, “There’s whipped cream in the fridge!” I paused then added, “It’s not mine.
I’m keeping it for my mother.”

  There was a laugh and a muted, “Yeah, right.”

  I leaned back in the lounge chair and let the cool night air wash over me. It was January, and the night was cool enough to raise the occasional goose bump but not enough to be uncomfortable. I love Southern California.

  Minutes later Jerry reappeared with brownies and hot chocolate on a tray. He set it down on the short redwood table between the lounge chairs and retook his seat. I took a brownie and studied it. Guilt covered me like the night air. I thought of the calories, the sugars, the refined flour. I chomped down. Wonderful! The second bite was better.

  We listened to the gentle surf and for a few moments I was able to forget about Jim Fritz, the dead man in the Gremlin, Tess and Jon, and life in general. A brownie on the shoreline is magic. I was in a thin glass bubble of comfort, but there’s a problem with thin glass bubbles.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Crash. Tinkle.

  Not really. Still, I told him what I knew and what I had seen.

  “So Detective West is handling the case?”

  “He’s the head of robbery-homicide and the only homicide detective we have.”

  “I don’t have a problem with it. I was just asking.”

  “That’s good.”

  He broke off a piece of brownie and nibbled it. That was Jerry: Do one thing at a time, do it slowly, do it well, and then move on. I was doing my best not to press the whole thing in my mouth and swallow it whole. “It’s odd. Both men had their necks broken. Both are indirectly tied to city hall; one by location of the murder, one by marriage.”

  “West made the same connection,” I said. “He also said they were intimate murders. By that, he meant that the murderer required a close proximity to the victim and had to make physical contact. That’s almost too obvious to state.”

  “Makes you wonder.” He broke off another piece of brownie and held it between his fingers as if it helped him think. “Are there other similarities?”

  “You’re not going private eye on me, are you?”