Murder Is No Accident

by A. H. Gabhart

  5

  The thick wooden door muted Sonny’s protests. Inside the hall with Geraldine Harper’s bags at the bottom of the stairs to indicate why he was there, the silence seemed to grow and surround him. It was too easy to imagine all the Chandlers from the past arrayed up and down the stairway. Watching him. Keeping their secrets.

  Michael wasn’t looking for secrets from the past, although Miss Fonda’s words about her sister had tickled his curiosity. But she hadn’t been talking about Geraldine Harper. Geraldine was who lay dead upstairs today. And it didn’t matter that he had no idea what he was looking for or expected to find. He just wanted to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Not that it wasn’t already out of the ordinary. An untimely death like this was shocking. Tragic. Sorrowful. But never ordinary. And this one had some added oddities. Someone had seen Geraldine’s body, had perhaps watched her fall, and then called to report it with the woman’s own phone before propping that phone beside the dead woman’s purse and disappearing. Had that person seen Miss Fonda come into the house? Had Miss Fonda seen whoever it was?

  Questions without answers. His job was to find answers. So, whether those outside liked it or not, he had to check out the house. Without interference. Justin Thatcher might be a mild-mannered man, but given a task, he did it. Lester too. The blue lights of his patrol car bounced against the front windows. He started to radio Lester to kill the lights, but then again, maybe those flashing lights would keep Sonny in his place. Make him realize this was police business.

  The back door was locked. He tested it. No windows were open or broken. The hardwood floors didn’t show any dusty footprints. He swiped his finger on the table in the front room. Very little dust anywhere.

  Upstairs, things were the same. Geraldine Harper at the bottom of the stairs. Her legs askew, with one stocking-covered foot stuck out toward him. Poor woman wouldn’t like being so disheveled. Geraldine always looked ready to conquer the day. She wore her tailored suits like a uniform. The colors might vary, but the style rarely did. Her one feminine touch was a scarf precisely arranged around her neck. This day her suit was navy. A dark red scarf drifted across the floor beside her like a trail of blood.

  Michael gingerly stepped over her body to the narrow stairs. He found Geraldine’s missing shoe halfway up the steps.

  The third-floor hallway was not large and airy like the halls on the bottom two floors. The ceilings here were only seven foot instead of twelve, and the narrow hallway was dim with no outside light. He flipped on the light switch and moved down the hall, checking each room. A floorboard creaked in front of the last room. Nothing unusual about creaking boards in a house this old. The unusual thing was how the rooms all seemed frozen in time. Waiting for something. Or someone.

  The same way Aunt Lindy said the Keane house was waiting for him. Once he married. Somehow, thinking about that made the Chandler ghosts more real. He knew about the shadows of ancestors past.

  When he stepped into this last room, a bit of glass crunched underfoot. A broken lamp. Broken today? Or weeks ago? Impossible to know, but no one had cleaned up the glass. It was simply pushed into a pile away from the door. Perhaps by Geraldine. She could have opened the door and knocked the lamp off the table that wobbled when he touched it. Then something, perhaps her phone ringing, could have sent her rushing down the stairs. A slip and a stumble on those steps and that was a call she never answered.

  He could check her phone to test that theory, but Geraldine went full steam ahead all the time. She wouldn’t have wanted to miss a potential sale if she forgot to carry her phone upstairs with her. That would be unusual for Geraldine. Her phone was generally plastered against her ear, but she could have forgotten to put the phone in her pocket while she looked over the house. Unless the other person took the phone downstairs to leave by Geraldine’s purse.

  That other person. What was sometimes called a person of interest in an investigation. A talk with whoever that was might clear up a lot of questions. But so far Michael had found no clues as to who that person of interest might be.

  This room was small, like the others on this floor. Barely room for the rickety table, a four-drawer chest, a chair, and a black iron bed. The bed’s plain blue spread was rumpled where one of the pillows was missing.

  A shiver surprised him. The air in here was cooler than the rest of the house. A ghost, Betty Jean would say. She watched those ghost hunter shows on television where a burst of cooler air supposedly proved a ghost nearby. He wasn’t concerned with ghosts, in spite of his earlier imaginings or the stories about the Chandler mansion being haunted.

  People liked to imagine ghosts. Passersby sometimes claimed a woman stared out the upper windows or they saw smoke coming out of the old chimneys that hadn’t been in use for decades. The storytellers would have new grist for their ghost story mills now.

  Michael pulled the lace curtains back to check for an open or broken window. Everything intact. Nobody was likely to attempt to climb out these windows. It was a long way to the ground and the near-vertical tile roof would be almost impossible to navigate.

  The cooler air must be coming from the tower room. Of course, that was where people claimed to spot the ghost too. A small octagonal room rose above the roofline like a turret on a castle.

  He’d checked everywhere else. No need leaving this stone unturned. Slats nailed to the wall made a ladder up to a trapdoor. Some of the steps gave a little under Michael’s weight, but they didn’t break away from the wall. He pushed open the trapdoor and stepped up higher to peer into the small room. No one there, but the missing pillow was next to a wooden box against the back wall.

  Michael pulled himself up into the room and stepped with care on the old flooring. It took him a minute to realize what bothered him about the room. No cobwebs. No dust on the box. And there on one of the windowpanes was a spot someone had wiped clean to peer out. But who?

  For a moment, he stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, as though expecting the walls to whisper an answer. But the walls kept their secrets.

  Michael peered out the window. The clean spot was well below his eye level. So that ruled out Geraldine Harper. She didn’t lack much being as tall as Michael. She wouldn’t have climbed up into the tower room anyway and certainly wouldn’t have carried a pillow up here to sit awhile. Geraldine rarely sat awhile anywhere.

  A few new cars had joined the others in the driveway. Sonny’s BMW wasn’t one of them. Up here with little insulation, it was easier to hear the complaints rising from the men on the porch. Michael couldn’t make out words, but the mood was easy to guess.

  Time to quit hunting answers that might not even matter and take care of Geraldine’s body. The person using the tower room surely had nothing to do with Geraldine’s death. Unless. Whoever it was could have startled Geraldine. Made her fall.

  He would have to ferret out the person who made the nest here to question them, but for now, it would stay routine. No need worrying what had to be an accident into something worse. Miss Fonda’s words about somebody causing it were hardly reason to be suspicious.Not in her current state of health.

  After climbing down the plank ladder, he settled the trapdoor back into place. Then he wasted no time heading back to the steps. The stairwell was dark. The bulb in the light above the stairs must need replacing. Geraldine might have missed a step and not been able to catch the railing nailed to the wall. She could have lost her footing. Perhaps her long scarf had come undone and tripped her up.

  A few minutes later, that was what Justin decided when he examined the body. Steep stairs. Slick-soled shoes with two-inch heels. A trailing scarf. A woman perhaps going too fast. A woman who had hurried to her death. A regrettable accident. But an accident.

  Why would it be anything else? Geraldine Harper might not have been the most popular person in Hidden Springs, but nobody had any reason to want her dead. Certainly not Sonny Elwood, the one person who knew for sure Geraldine would
be at the Chandler house. He wanted her to sell the house.

  Sonny had followed them upstairs after Michael let Justin in. Michael couldn’t think of a reason to keep him out. It might not be Sonny’s house, but he was the one handling Miss Fonda’s business in the absence of his mother. Somebody died in that house. Insurance could be involved.

  “I can’t believe this,” Sonny muttered when he saw Geraldine. His face went so white that Michael jerked a chair out of one of the rooms for Sonny to sit. The man sank down in it and held his head in his hands. “This can’t be happening.”

  “But it did. Accidents happen all the time.” Justin looked up from the clipboard he was writing on.

  “She should have waited until I got here to come upstairs. It wasn’t professional of her to be looking over the house without me with her, was it?”

  “She must have had a key,” Michael said.

  “I did give her a key, but I didn’t think she would fall down the steps and break her neck. Is that what happened?” Sonny raised his head to peek over at the body. “A broken neck?”

  “Appears so,” Justin said. “Or perhaps a blow to the head. Certain medications make falls extremely dangerous and more apt to be fatal.”

  “Was she taking that kind of medicine?” Sonny sounded hopeful. “That would keep her family from suing, wouldn’t it?”

  “I am not privy to Mrs. Harper’s medications.” Justin’s voice was stiff. Sonny had obviously strained even Justin’s vast supply of patience.

  “But it’s your job to find that out, isn’t it?” Sonny insisted. “Things like that have to be determined. Cause of death and all. You can’t overlook those possibilities.”

  “No, indeed. I will make a full report.” Justin took a couple of photographs with his phone.

  “Why are you taking pictures?” Sonny asked. “You aren’t going to give them to Leland, are you? He’ll have a field day with this.”

  “The photos are for my report.” Justin didn’t look around at Sonny. Instead he gave the stair railing a little shake. “This appears to be a bit loose. Perhaps a contributing factor.”

  “Loose? That could be a liability claim.” With a groan, Sonny dropped his face down into his hands again.

  “Anybody else have a key to the house?” Michael asked. “Felicia maybe?”

  “Why would Felicia have a key to the house?” Sonny looked up with a frown.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “I haven’t given her a key,” Sonny said.

  “So you and your mother are the only ones with keys.”

  Sonny licked his lips. “Aunt Fonnie still has a key. It’s in her purse at the home. Mother said it wouldn’t hurt anything to let her keep it. It’s not like she can remember to bring it with her when she makes a run for it from Mrs. Gibson’s.”

  “She was in the house when I got here. Had already found Geraldine’s body.”

  “You wouldn’t have thought she could have climbed all those stairs,” Justin said. “Or would have wanted to. Doesn’t she normally just sit down and wait for someone to take her back to the home?”

  “When the door is locked. Sonny’s right about her not remembering to bring her key. The door wasn’t locked today.” Michael shrugged a little. “Who knows why she came up the steps. But when she saw the body, she thought it was her sister, Audrey.”

  “I told you that you can’t pay attention to anything Aunt Fonnie says, Deputy. The dementia makes her touched in the head.” Sonny made a little circle with his finger next to his temple.

  “Do you know anything about her sister?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t see what she has to do with anything. She died years ago,” Sonny said.

  “I remember her.” Justin spoke up. “I wasn’t coroner when she died, but I had started working with Mr. Fields, who had the funeral home before me. She died here in the house. An accidental fall.”

  “These stairs?” Michael asked.

  “Not sure about that. It’s been a long time ago. Let me see. That would have been around 1980. But I do remember Miss Fonda being beside herself with grief. The only person who could console her at all was Audrey’s son, Brad. He was about nine at the time, as best I remember, but a brave little guy, considering everything.”

  “What happened to him?” Michael asked.

  “What difference does any of this make?” Sonny stood up, his voice rising. “It isn’t Audrey there now. It’s Geraldine Harper.” He pointed at the body.

  Justin gave Sonny a cool look. “A little history of the house might be something you need to hear.” Justin turned back to Michael. “Audrey’s husband was Bradley Carlson. After Audrey died, he took little Brad and moved back to Indiana. He was from somewhere up there. He ended up serving as a representative in Congress. Not sure if he still is or not. Haven’t heard anything about him for a while.”

  “Didn’t he ever bring the boy back to visit or anything?”

  “Not as far as I know. He might have thought the memories would be too distressing for the child. But Miss Fonda doted on little Brad. Broke her heart when his father took him away.” Justin shook his head. “She never had much good to say about Bradley even before Audrey’s accident.”

  “An unlucky house.” Michael stared over at Geraldine’s body, now draped with a black plastic cover Justin had in his bag.

  “It’s just a house,” Sonny said. “So can we stick to the here and now? And not dwell on ancient history.”

  “Not exactly ancient history.” Justin looked like he wouldn’t mind having some of that duct tape Michael had wished for earlier as he peered over at Sonny. “But back to business. I’ll get my gurney, but we’ll have to carry her down the stairs on a stretcher. I’ll need help.”

  Sonny held his hands up and backed against the wall. “Don’t look at me. Not my job.”

  Michael let out a sigh. “Some of these days you’re going to have to hire an assistant, Justin.”

  “You want the job?” The corners of Justin’s lips turned up. “Pay’s not too good, but your clients don’t put up any fuss. There can be some bothersome background noise at times, though.” He picked up his bag and headed for the stairs.

  Sonny watched him disappear down the stairs. “A man has to have something wrong with him to be a funeral director.”

  “Justin’s good at his job.”

  “Good at fixing up dead people.” Sonny’s turned his back to the body and shivered. “Creepy, is what I say.”

  Michael didn’t bother responding.

  “If we’re through here, I need to find out if Felicia brought my car back in one piece. I can’t believe she pulled out right in front of that truck. Last time she gets my keys.”

  Keys made Michael remember his question about the house keys. “Just one more thing, Sonny. You say you have a key. Your mother has a key and Miss Fonda has a key. So did you give Geraldine your key?”

  “Mother left her key with me. That’s the one I gave Geraldine, but I don’t see what it matters how many keys I have. You can take a key to Jim’s Hardware and get a dozen copies made if you want to.”

  “Have you done that? Had more keys made?”

  “Not for the front door. I did for the back door after we took Aunt Fonnie to the home. We couldn’t find any extra keys for it, and I had to give one to Mary Greene. She cleans the place once a month.” Sonny stared at Michael. “Why do you keep asking about keys?”

  “Somebody called to report the accident. They used Geraldine’s phone. Makes me think somebody was in the house when Geraldine got here.”

  “You think somebody broke in to steal something?” Sonny frowned.

  “Hard to say. I didn’t see any sign of forcible entry. You notice anything missing?”

  “How would anybody know, with all the stuff in here?” Sonny looked around, but there was nothing in the hallway. “This place is the next thing to a museum. Or junk warehouse.”

  “Maybe your mother would know when she gets hom
e.”

  “Who knows when that will be? She’s out there enjoying the Arizona sun while I’m left here holding the bag with Aunt Fonnie.” Sonny edged away from Michael toward the stairs.

  Downstairs Justin’s gurney banged against the door and then rolled to the bottom of the stairs. Sonny stepped a little closer to the stairs, obviously anxious to be gone before the body was loaded on the stretcher.

  Michael gave up on getting any more answers from Sonny. “If you do notice anything gone, you can let me know.”

  “I’m still selling the place.” Sonny looked back at Michael from the top of the stairs. “There are other real estate people. The ghosts can’t kill them all off.”

  Michael didn’t know if Sonny was being serious or not. But the man did turn and run down the steps as though some of those ghosts might be after him. A corpse could make a person jumpy. But it would be better if Michael didn’t jump to conclusions. More than likely, Justin was right. Geraldine tripped on the stairs. Nothing more. Even if someone was in the house when she got here, that didn’t mean the woman’s fall wasn’t still an accident. Or Audrey’s death years ago either. The authorities would have investigated her death and must have declared it an accident too. Miss Fonda saying somebody caused it didn’t change that. Sonny was right that nothing she said now could be considered fact without corroboration from other sources.

  Whether Geraldine’s death was something Michael could tie up in a neat package didn’t really matter. Life was often messy. So was death.

  6

  The coffeepot was off and Betty Jean was on her feet, keys in hand, when Michael got back to the office. A look of relief flashed across her face as she dropped the keys down into her purple-and-pink purse. “Good. You can lock up.”

  Michael glanced at the big clock over the door. Seven minutes before five. “Out the door a little early, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not out the door. Just ready to be out the door, but now that you’re here, the world won’t come to an end if I leave a few minutes early. I put in plenty of extra time.” She glared at him as though daring him to deny that. “Plenty of it.”