At the mayor’s request, mortician/coroner Herb Jameson had examined Frisky’s remains, only to find that the poor creature’s manner of death was “accidental.” His cause of death was ruled “eating rocks.”
That was the extent of Coroner Herbert Jameson’s hands-on experience.
Stella was concerned that if the identity of Priscilla’s killer turned out to be less than blatantly obvious—like if he hadn’t left his driver’s license at the scene—the murderer might just get away with it.
She watched as Herb knelt at the bottom of the stairs and stared at something of interest on the asphalt. Sheriff Gilford stood next to him, taking pictures of the spot with his fancy new waterproof Olympus camera—a gift from the town on the occasion of his twentieth anniversary of being sheriff.
On the other side of the alley, opposite the tavern and staircase, Deputy Augustus Faber and Deputy Mervin Jarvis were collecting bits and pieces of miscellaneous litter that had been tossed there, mostly by patrons of the Bulldog, who often stepped outside into the alley to have a private chat, to catch a breath of air that was slightly less stale than that inside, or, rumor had it, to purchase various types of contraband.
Wearing gloves and bored, disgruntled looks on their faces, Faber and Jarvis were placing each piece of “evidence” into a small brown paper bag the size of those that Stella used for packing the grandchildren’s school lunches—peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches and a banana.
For a moment, Stella thought of how eager little Savannah would have been to perform such a menial task. The girl would have been thrilled, not annoyed like these law enforcement officials.
Long ago, Stella had decided that she wouldn’t be at all surprised if her oldest grandchild grew up to become a police officer. Considering where she came from, that was a mighty high aspiration.
Standing outside the tape, Stella found herself wishing that she had a badge of her own to help her legally cross the barrier. She would have loved to hear what Herb and Sheriff Gilford were saying as they examined the spot of ground where, only hours before, Prissy had died in her arms.
Stella was thinking about how much more informed she was about the situation than either of those men.
No sooner had the thoughts crossed her mind than Sheriff Gilford seemed to sense her presence. He turned and looked in her direction.
The moment he saw Stella, he left Herb and hurried over to join her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Reid,” he told her, lifting the yellow tape and motioning for her to step inside the restricted area.
She did as he indicated, experiencing a mixture of contradictory emotions. She was honored that he would allow her this liberty and curious about what she might see in the daylight that she had missed in the darkness. But she was surprised at how strong the fear and the awful helplessness from the night before felt when they resurfaced.
“How are you today?” he asked, his eyes searching hers for an honest answer.
She gave him one. “Not so good. It was hard to get to sleep last night.”
“I’ve had a lot of those nights myself over the years,” he admitted. “That’s the worst part about this job. At least it is for me. You see things that you can’t unsee.”
Stella thought of Prissy Carr’s face—ghastly white in the headlights. “I understand. You get those pictures in your head, and they stick around for the rest of your life.”
“They do.”
“You must have a pretty big collection after all these years.”
“That’s for sure. I wouldn’t wish them on anybody. Not my worst enemy.”
Stella thought of the stickiness of Priscilla’s blood on her hands. “The pictures in your head, Sheriff, the things you felt and heard and smelled—does any of it fade with time? Even a little bit?”
He hesitated, and for the first time his eyes wouldn’t meet hers when he replied, “A little bit. But then you see a new sight, hear a new sound, and it brings it all back. Sometimes even worse, ’cause now you’ve got one bad experience piled on top of the other.”
Nodding, she said, “I understand. Leastways, I think I do. I don’t envy you.”
He gave a dry chuckle. “Most people don’t. But that’s okay. It’s not such a bad job.”
“Compared to what?”
Again, he laughed, but this time he had a twinkle in his eye, as well. “Oh, lion taming, cat herding, bullfighting.”
“Ballerina.”
“God forbid. Too rough on the toes, and don’t get me started about those scratchy tutus.”
He reached out, took her arm at the elbow, and guided her toward the staircase. “Would you mind speaking to Herb for a few minutes? He’s got a couple of questions for you.” He lowered his head closer to hers and whispered, “I think he’s little overwhelmed.”
“No surprise there. Who wouldn’t be? All he’s got to compare this to is the case of the rock-eatin’ cocker spaniel.”
“Exactly. I’d appreciate it if you’d help him out any way you can.”
A deep sense of satisfaction swept through Stella, from her head to her toes. The thought that she could help, actually be of service in this dreadful situation, pleased her enormously. Maybe the awful experience she’d had the night before could be used for good and, therefore, cause it to be worthwhile in the long run.
“I’d be happy to, Sheriff. I don’t know what I can add to your investigation, but I’ll sure give it my best shot.”
“That’s all anybody can ask.”
When Herb Jameson saw them coming, he stood and hurried over to meet them halfway.
Stella had always thought that Herb had an unlikely appearance for an undertaker. His complexion was deeply tanned, as he spent many hours chasing a golf ball around the back lawn of the mortuary when no “guests” were lying in state. His thick, wavy auburn hair had a mind of its own. In spite of the copious amounts of oil he used to slick it back, several strands insisted on hanging down his forehead and getting in his eyes, creating a less than solemn, polished appearance.
Herb’s wife had died a few years back, leaving him with three young daughters to raise. In the opinion of the townsfolk, Herb was doing a fine job of it. His girls were happy, healthy, and respectable in every way, their clothes clean and crisp, their hair carefully styled.
Herb had always been a better hairstylist than the town’s two beauticians. Some women had considered asking him to give them a special hairdo for their wedding or anniversary or a “glamour shot” photo session. But in the end, they had decided against it.
There was something a bit creepy about having an undertaker mess with your locks. Besides, sending the dearly departed of McGill on their way and raising three daughters kept Herb busy.
Stella couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t looked plumb worn out.
He always had a somber expression on his face, which Stella assumed was part of his job description. A body couldn’t go around looking jolly while conducting funerals.
Today he had been looking particularly grim. But when he saw her, something akin to a smile’s second cousin appeared on his face.
It occurred to her that he, too, seemed to think that she could help with the investigation. Once again, she found that to be comforting.
Maybe she had been put there in that alley last night to serve a purpose. A very good and important purpose.
Maybe she could help find justice for Priscilla Carr and somehow be instrumental in taking a very bad person out of society and putting them behind bars, where they couldn’t hurt anyone else ever again.
“Good morning to you, Sister Stella,” Herb greeted her.
The two of them had attended the same church for years, and addressing each other as “sister” and “brother” had been a long-standing tradition for as long as either of them could remember.
They weren’t likely to forgo the habit. Not even in the midst of something as serious as a murder investigation.
“Mornin’, Brother Herb,”
she said. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full here.”
“I sure do. Who’d have ever thought that we’d have to contend with such a thing right here in little ol’ McGill? I thought those boys putting outhouses up on top of barns was as bad as it’d ever get around these parts.” He shook his head sadly. “Now look at this. It’s a shame.”
“It is,” Stella agreed. “A cryin’ shame. Enough to melt a heart of stone.”
Herb gave her a doubtful look. “Well, it’s a shame, all right. But a cryin’ shame? I wouldn’t go all that far, considering who it was and all.”
“Who it was?” Stella bristled. “Are you telling me it’s less sad because Prissy wasn’t the most popular gal in town?”
Herb gave an ugly little snicker. “Reckon she was popular, all right. Not with the womenfolk, but with a lot of their husbands.” He drew himself up and straightened his tie. “There’s a word, more than one word, in fact, for women like Prissy. I won’t use it, of course, because I’m in the presence of a true lady such as yourself, Sist—”
“Shut up, Herb,” Gilford barked. “If you talked crap like that at your funeral home, you’d lose all your customers.”
Herb looked confused. “No I wouldn’t. I’m the only mortician in town.”
“We’d start building pine coffins and burying our own.” The sheriff waved Herb back toward the staircase. “Go take blood samples off that pavement, like you’re supposed to.”
“What for? You took pictures.”
“You can’t test pictures, now can you?”
“Test? Test the blood? For what?”
Stella forced herself not to shake her head.
The sheriff displayed no such self-restraint. “For God’s sake, man! Use your brain! First, you have to check it to see if it’s even human.”
“But we know it is. That’s where the Carr woman was when Sister Reid here tended to her.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me ‘sister’ no more,” Stella told the mortician with a sad, disappointed tone of voice. “I always thought well of you, Herb Jameson . . . the way you’re raisin’ them girls of yours on your own, the kindness you showed me and mine when my husband passed. But it don’t sit well with me, what I just heard you say. About a dead woman, at that.”
Herb seemed surprised and puzzled by her statement, but rather than answer her, he turned his attention back to Gilford. “I don’t have anything to check blood like that.”
“Then get something. We don’t want to arrest somebody, bring them to trial, and then have some defense attorney say it was the blood of some cat or dog that got hit back here in the alley.”
“Okay.” Herb didn’t look convinced, but he did seem leery of Gilford, who appeared to be getting more annoyed by the moment.
“You’re also going to have to check the blood type.”
“What?”
“You know . . . O negative. A positive. The blood type.”
“I don’t have a way to—”
“Get a kit. Some equipment. Whatever you need.”
“That stuff’s bound to be expensive.”
“Give me the bill, and I’ll pass it along to Kramer. He owes you one for that necropsy you did on Frisky.”
Herb hesitated a moment, but a stern look from Gilford sent him back to the staircase, where he opened a black briefcase he had left there and began to swab the asphalt.
“Lord, help us,” the sheriff muttered. “Before this is all said and done, he might be our second victim. I don’t know how much of this I can take.”
Stella smiled. “If you get desperate, I could send Savannah over. She probably knows just how to collect a blood specimen and how to test its type with stuff from the drugstore.”
“I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. ’Twasn’t a very windy day when that apple fell from the tree. She’s the spitting image of you at that age . . . looks and brains.”
“Why, thank you, Manny,” she said, allowing herself the rare liberty of using his first name since they were strolling down memory lane.
“Would you like to come into Miss Carr’s apartment with me?” he asked, suddenly all business again. “I’d appreciate a female’s sharp eye looking over the woman stuff that’s in there.”
“Of course. I’d be glad to,” she told him. “Like I said, I’ll do anything I can for Prissy. I don’t feel the same way about her as Herb there does.”
“That’s a good thing, and I respect you for it, Stella,” he replied. “But more people think like him in this town than you’d want to believe.”
“I know. People like to jump on folks who commit the obvious sins more than on ones who commit the less obvious. They’ll get all in a bother about fornication and the occasional curse word, and they forget about pride and greed and gossipin’.”
On their way to the staircase, they passed Herb, who was on his hands and knees, scrubbing blood off the pavement with cotton swabs.
Halfway up the steps, Stella whispered to Gilford, “Once you figure out who did this, you’d better squeeze him hard for a confession. ’Cause if you have to rely on physical evidence . . .”
“Exactly what I was thinking. I’d better dig out my cato’-nine-tails and my set of Christmas nut-cracking utensils.”
He opened the door and let her into the apartment ahead of him.
“Was it unlocked when you got here?” she asked.
“Yes. Wide open, in fact.”
She paused and carefully studied the doorknob, lock, and frame. “No signs of it being forced.”
“None that I could find.”
Stella walked to the middle of the small room that served as a modest studio apartment—a living room, eating area, kitchenette, and bedroom all in one. After looking around, she pointed to two doors on the back wall. “And those lead to . . . ?”
“The right one is a closet. The left is the bathroom.”
Taking in the overall dishevelment of the room, she said, “It’s hard to tell if there was a fight in here. Everything’s so topsy-turvy.”
“I know. But look at that hand mirror over there on the bed.”
He didn’t have to tell Stella not to touch anything in the room. She had listened to Savannah extol the virtues and procedures of Nancy Drew, the world’s best crime investigator, for hours on end.
She walked over to the bed and saw among the crumpled sheets and blankets a silver hand mirror. Probably solid sterling. It looked antique and expensive. Among the mostly simple, poorly constructed furnishings, it seemed out of place.
Stella couldn’t recall anyone ever mentioning that Prissy had a job of any sort or a reliable way to support herself. Stella couldn’t help wondering how she might have afforded such a pretty and valuable accessory.
The mirror’s glass was broken, and when Stella bent over to look at it more closely, she saw blood and some blond hair stuck to the frame, with its ornate baroque ornamentation.
More blood was spattered on the bedspread, the stains mingling with the orange rose print.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “You might have your murder weapon there.”
“If that’s what killed her,” Gilford said. “We won’t know for sure until Herb examines the body.”
“He’s a good mortician, but if he’s as good at doin’ an autopsy as he is at blood collectin’ and testin’—”
“I know. I’m getting an ulcer just thinking about it.”
“Other than the bleeding, were there any other signs of violence on the body that you could see?” Stella asked, dreading the answer. In the middle of the night, she had considered the fact that Priscilla might have been sexually assaulted. The woman’s clothes hadn’t appeared to be in disarray, but it had been so dark in the alley that Stella couldn’t be sure.
“I looked her over good there in the mortuary first thing this morning,” the sheriff replied as he took some photographs of the mirror from numerous angles. “I saw several bruises on her neck. Looked like where fingertips had d
ug in.”
Stella shuddered and said, “When she spoke my name, her voice was real hoarse and gravelly sounding. She was having a real tough time breathing there at the end, too.”
“Then it might be hard to establish whether it was the blow on the head or getting choked that killed her.” The sheriff slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, gingerly picked up the mirror, and slid it into a paper bag that was slightly larger than the ones being used by the deputies in the alley.
“Or being pushed down a flight of stairs.”
“That, too.”
“Seems like we got us several causes of death and a couple of suspects.” She glanced at her watch. “And it ain’t even ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Sounds like famous last words.”
“Speaking of suspects, were you able to find Elmer?”
Gilford taped the top of the bag closed. “I was. In fact, I had him in custody within an hour after you told me that you saw him here.”
“In custody? Does that mean you’ve charged him with the murder already?”
“No. I charged him for exposing himself to Myrtle Hickok when she was carrying her garbage out to the curb last night there by the old folks’ home. She called it in to the station about nine forty-five, right after he did it. At least we know where he was at that point in the evening.”
“Okay. Elmer Yonce, showin’ off his shortcomings. Thanks for sharin’ that, Sheriff. Talk about nasty images that’ll stay with a body for the rest of their life.”
“Sorry. It’s a dirty little habit that Elmer has. I’m surprised he hasn’t ‘made an ugly face’ at you before.”
“Nope. I’ve been spared that particular indignity. Thank goodness.”
Murder in Her Stocking Page 10
