by Julie Hyzy
Scott always reached for the business section first while Bruce snagged the front page and I grabbed travel. After devouring those, we moved to other sections as we shuffled through the entire edition, exchanging, sharing, and occasionally commenting on interesting tidbits as we came across them.
Bootsie settled onto the back windowsill, staring out, blinking with drowsy contentment.
Scott folded down the front of the paper. “You think Bennett will make a formal announcement once the DNA results are in? I mean, do you think he intends to make your relationship public?”
“I hope not.” I tamped down a tickle of unease. “He’s agreed to keep it to our circle of confidantes for now.”
“A circle that keeps growing,” Bruce reminded me. “Seriously, Grace, who doesn’t know about the DNA testing?”
I shifted in my seat. “You think I’m fooling myself believing that we can keep this quiet, don’t you?”
Scott and Bruce exchanged a glance before Scott went on. “Your assistant, Frances, has been in on this from the beginning and you know what a gossip she is.”
“She promised,” I said.
“What about Hillary?” Bruce asked.
“Hillary has to be kept in the loop,” I said. “And as Bennett’s stepdaughter it’s in her own best interests to keep this quiet. If it turns out that I am related to Bennett—”
“As we all know you are,” Bruce said.
“If I am,” I continued, “that knocks Hillary down a peg, at least in the public’s eye. No, she won’t say anything.”
They exchanged another glance.
“What?” I asked. “Why do I get the feeling that the two of you are hiding something from me?”
Scott gave his partner the “Why not?” look, and Bruce laid down his newspaper to look me straight in the eye. “We overheard a conversation between a couple of patrons during a tasting last night.”
I sat up straighter. “Who was it? What did they say?”
“We don’t know them,” he said. “Not by name, at least. They’ve been in a few times. It seems the trip you and Bennett took to the lab, as well as your celebratory luncheon afterward, didn’t go unnoticed. Tongues are wagging and there’s speculation about what’s really going on.”
“We’re pretty sure they wanted us to overhear their conversation,” Scott said, “because they know we all live together.”
“What do they think is going on?”
The corner of Scott’s mouth twisted upward. “There are a couple of theories out there, but the front-runner is that you and Bennett are planning to get married and all these tests are to rule out social disease.”
Laughter burst out of me so quickly that I was glad I hadn’t just swigged a mouthful of coffee. “Are you kidding me?”
Bruce sobered instantly. “The thing is, Grace, the temptation to correct them is real. Scott and I won’t to say a word because we have your best interests at heart. But what happens when Hillary, or Frances, or Tooney is confronted? Will they be able to hold back?”
Bootsie howled, interrupting us. Alert and on her feet now, though still perched on the sill, she stared out the back window. Her black-and-white face moved side to side, as though tracking a large animal.
Bruce’s question lingered in the air as I got up to see what held the little cat’s attention. The moment I rose, however, Bootsie bounced off the ledge to stare at the back door.
“Maybe that FBI guy showed up after all,” Scott said.
Our back bell rang. One second later came an extended and forceful knock.
Before answering I parted the curtains to check to see who it was.
“Flynn?” My voice went high with surprise as I grasped the knob and pulled the door open.
The young detective seemed as shocked by my quick answer as I was to see him in my backyard. He wore a simple black jacket with its collar turned up against the cold and a navy blue knit hat over his bald head. Clouds of breath poured out of him. I got the impression he’d jogged his way over.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Wiry and perpetually impatient, Flynn took time to scowl before answering. “This isn’t a social call, I can tell you that much.”
Bootsie jumped onto the countertop nearest the door to get a better look. I took her in my arms, unlatched the outer door, and pushed it toward him. “Come on in. Would you like coffee?”
Flynn eyed my seated roommates, offered a perfunctory greeting, and sniffed the air. “If it’s made.”
Scott took Bootsie, freeing me to pour Flynn a steaming mug. As I handed it to him I noticed his hands were bare and red-chapped with cold. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Have a seat,” Bruce said.
Flynn took a sip and shook his head. “Prefer to stay on my feet.”
The unexpected arrival of a homicide detective in my kitchen probably should have thrown me into a panic, but I’d gotten to know Flynn—and his partner, Rodriguez—fairly well over the past couple of years and I knew that their chief often called one of them in to assist on less-deadly matters when the department was shorthanded. While I didn’t count the two as friends, we were cordial acquaintances.
“I hear Rodriguez is back from medical leave,” I said. “How’s he doing?”
“You’ll see for yourself in a minute. He’s on his way.”
“Rodriguez is here, too?” I asked. All of a sudden Flynn’s presence took on a far more ominous significance. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s see. Two homicide detectives and a crew of evidence technicians? Not to mention the coroner. What do you think is going on?”
Scott’s face drained of color and he pulled Bootsie closer to his chest. “Has someone been killed?”
Flynn held the mug in both hands as he took a sip. “Good coffee. The call came in about an hour ago.” He pointed toward the house next to mine, the opposite side from Tooney’s.
“Who was it?”
“Relax,” Flynn said. “Nobody we know. Well, at least nobody from around here. We’re canvassing the neighborhood. The 911 caller thought he was a drunk sleeping it off but worried he might die of exposure.”
“Is that what happened?” Bruce asked.
Flynn smirked over the rim of the mug. “Only if you count exposure to gunshots. Two.” Nodding appreciatively at our pained reactions, he took another drink of his coffee.
Rodriguez arrived, wrapping me in a bear hug the moment I opened the door. “So good to see you, Miz Wheaton,” he said close to my ear. Stepping back to hold me at arm’s length, he grinned. “How’ve you been?” He raised a hand to my roommates. “Looks like we disturbed a comfortable morning here. My apologies. I hope you are all doing well?”
Taken aback by his effusive greeting, I stammered, “We’re great, thanks.” A second later, I recovered conversational footing. “But you,” I said, “you look wonderful. How much weight have you lost?”
“More than I’m willing to admit.” He patted his middle. “Still a long way to go, but I’m finally on the right track.”
Rodriguez had suffered a massive heart attack some months ago and had subsequently undergone surgery to repair a ruptured aortic valve. He’d been a large man for as long as I’d known him, but had ballooned in weight in the months before his attack.
“I’m happy to hear it,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Very proud of you.”
“My doctors and my wife have been battling me about my weight for years.” He pointed to his chest. “It wasn’t until my ticker got in on the action that I decided to listen up.”
“We’re all very glad you did.”
Next to him, Flynn fidgeted. “Are we done with the warm and fuzzies yet? Can we get back to our homicide?”
“Of course, amigo.” Rodriguez flicked a judgmental glance at the coffee mug in Flynn’s hands. “Forgive
me for interrupting your expert interrogation. Pray continue.” Though his words were sharp, the amusement in Rodriguez’s eyes never dimmed.
Flynn took a final slug of the coffee then placed the mug on the countertop next to the sink. He flipped open his notebook and pulled out a pencil. “Were any of you home yesterday between noon and three?”
Bruce pointed to himself and then to Scott. “We were both at the wine shop.”
I raised a hand. “I was at Lucatorto Labs, then out for lunch. Ronny Tooney was with me. We left here a little bit after eleven.”
“That’s right,” Rodriguez said. “When will you and Mr. Marshfield get the results back to find out if you’re related?”
“You know about the test?”
The older detective shrugged. “Everything having to do with the Marshfield family is big news. I can’t say that the town is buzzing about it yet, but word is getting around.”
“We were hoping to keep it quiet.”
Rodriguez held a finger to his lips. “No one will hear it from me.”
“Getting back to the investigation,” Flynn said with an annoyed glance at his partner, “we were planning to talk to Tooney, along with your neighbors on the other side. Once we ID our victim, we’ll also want to know if anyone noticed suspicious activity yesterday.”
“You don’t know who the victim is?” Scott asked.
“No wallet, no ID. Evidence technicians are going over the scene right now,” Rodriguez said. “Who robs someone in a residential backyard? In this neighborhood? What was the guy doing there anyway? I don’t think he was planning to be outside for very long; he wasn’t even wearing a coat. Don’t like it. Doesn’t compute.”
“Hang on a minute,” I said. “What did he look like?”
Flynn and Rodriguez lasered their attention on me. “Holding out on us?” Flynn asked.
“There was an FBI agent here yesterday asking questions. I didn’t have time to talk with him because of my appointment with Bennett. He said he would come back later, but never showed up. He wasn’t wearing an overcoat, either.”
Rodriguez lowered his chin and stared at me. “FBI?”
“What did he want with you?” Flynn asked.
“I never found out.”
The younger detective pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why am I not surprised?”
“You don’t think that’s who your victim is, do you?”
The two men exchanged a glance. Rodriguez tugged the collar of his jacket tight around his neck. “You want to grab a coat, Miz Wheaton? Maybe you should come take a look.”
Chapter 6
Rodriguez made his laborious way up the slight incline that ran along the back of my property. Flynn and I stayed with him even though we both could have made the trek in about half the time.
“Snowed again yesterday.” Rodriguez swung an arm out, pointing at the footprints ahead of us. “These, leading to your house and back, are from me and my partner.” His words came out in billows of white, chopped and heavy with effort. “No footprints around the body, except for the kids’ who found him. So we know he was there for some time.”
“The uniforms first on the scene said the victim had snow on him, too. That’s probably why no one noticed him until this morning.”
“Kids found him?” I asked.
“Yeah. Your neighbor’s son and daughter went out to play. Wanted to make snow angels. Found the guy ‘sleeping’ in their yard. Turned out to be dead instead.”
“Grace, hello? Grace?” I turned toward the high-pitched greeting to find my neighbors from across the street, an older brother-sister team, making their way toward me.
I let out a little groan.
“What’s wrong?” Flynn asked.
“Nosy people,” I said under my breath. “What’s worse is that I can never remember if their names are Carl and Chris, or Chris and Carla.”
The siblings, both in their sixties and wearing identical blue parkas and forest-green rain boots, slogged uphill on short legs. He was slim, she was not. By the time they reached us, their breath was puffing out from their slack lips, shooting into the cold air like smoke from a steam train.
The brother asked, “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
The sister pointed. “That’s the coroner’s van, isn’t it? Is somebody dead? What have you gotten into this time, Grace?”
When she started walking uphill again, Flynn stopped her. “This is a crime scene,” he said. “I can’t let you go any farther.”
“You’re letting her go up there.” The brother pointed at me, looking petulant.
“Miz Wheaton may be able to identify the victim,” Rodriguez said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
“Identify the victim?” the brother repeated as his sister yelped. “Is it someone we know?”
Rodriguez held up a hand to quiet their rising hysteria. “We’ll update you as soon as we can.” He pantomimed scanning the street. “Which house is yours?”
They pointed at the same time, their extended arms forming a giant V behind them. “That one,” they said in unison.
“I will be sure to stop by to talk with you when we’re done here.” Rodriguez may have noticed Flynn’s impatience as the younger detective bounced on the balls of his feet, but missed Flynn rolling his eyes. “Why don’t you wait for me there?”
The siblings seemed disappointed to have gotten all dressed up in their heavy outerwear only to be turned away, but when Rodriguez added, “And I’ll tell you as much as I can, all right?” they acquiesced.
“Don’t forget us,” the sister said.
Flynn raised his voice to their departing backs. “Not a chance of that.”
The far end of my property backed up to three other yards: Tooney’s place to the west, a neighbor I didn’t know to the north, and a family with two kids to the east. As we headed uphill, I caught sight of a handful of uniformed officers rubbing their hands together and breathing into their fists as they stomped the ground to stay warm.
“We talked with the kids’ parents, who are about as eager to get out of this town as your buddy Pedota was,” Flynn said, with a scathing look at me. I thought about Todd Pedota and his involvement in the last murder investigation. Flynn was right. The moment my former neighbor had been exonerated, he’d put his house up for sale and disappeared. “They’re horrified to have their kids stumble across a dead man, as you might imagine. And because of all the murders that have taken place at Marshfield, they’re convinced you’re somehow involved.”
“I’m not,” I said.
Flynn smirked. “Those two people in the parkas seemed ready to blame you, too.”
The coroner’s van was parked between two homes, back end doors open in anticipation of its grisly cargo. Rodriguez raised a hand in greeting to the two men standing next to the dark vehicle. “That’s the new coroner,” he said. “You meet him yet?”
A heartbeat later it registered that he was talking to me. “Uh, no. No reason to.”
“Good guy.” Rodriguez’s words were still breathy and brief. I found myself wishing he’d stop talking and conserve energy.
Two of the uniformed officers around the body stepped aside to give us a better view. The victim was lying faceup, arms spread on either side of his body, as though entreating the skies for help. As heavily stained as it was with blood, I recognized the suit. And even though his expression—eyes closed and openmouthed—was unfamiliar, I recognized the man immediately.
“That’s him,” I said. “That’s the FBI agent who came to my door.”
I shivered as the evidence technicians finished taking photos, collecting samples, making notes, and conferring with Rodriguez and Flynn. Yesterday’s chill was nothing compared to the icy cold we were experiencing today and I wasn’t properly outfitted. Expecting this to have be
en a quick trip out to my yard and back, I’d pulled rubber rain boots over my fuzzy socks and grabbed the nearest jacket I could find—my trench coat. No hat, no mittens. The coat was lined, but against the sharp breeze it was like wearing a bedsheet. My hair twisted up and around my head; my eyes watered.
“We need to ask you a few more questions, Miz Wheaton,” Rodriguez said when he noticed me rubbing my nose with the back of my bare hand. “But there’s no reason for you stand out here in the cold.”
“It’s not that bad.” As uncomfortable as it was out there, I didn’t want to leave until I knew what had happened.
He waved aside my lie and called to one of the two men standing by the idling coroner’s vehicle. “Hey, Dr. Bradley, would it be okay if Miz Wheaton warms up in your van? She’s our best witness so far.”
The taller of the two men stepped forward. Brown curls twisted out from around his knit cap and although he looked to be only in his late thirties, he walked with a cane. His shiny black jacket sported the county emblem rendered in gold with his title, “Coroner” embroidered beneath. With his alert eyes and serious demeanor, he definitely looked the part.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“So this is the legendary Grace Wheaton,” the man said. Letting go of his cane long enough to remove one glove, he extended his right hand to me. “I understand you kept my predecessor busy. I’m Joe,” he said as we shook. “Happy to meet you.”
“Same here,” I said instinctively, although I would have been content not to have dealings with our county coroner. Now or ever.
“Your hands are freezing,” he said. “Come on, the cab section ought to be toasty.”
“I’m fine, really.”
He’d tugged his glove back on and grabbed hold of his cane again. Lifting it slightly off the ground, he tapped it against his leg. “Injury,” he said, even though I hadn’t asked. “I pretend I’m Willy Wonka. Come on.”
I didn’t want to be a bother, but I was beginning to lose feeling in my fingers. “Thanks.”
We trudged around the vehicle together. “I know that spending time in the coroner’s van is probably not on anyone’s bucket list”—though his words were deadpan, amusement sparked his eyes—“but it will keep you out of the wind.”
