by Liz Bradbury
“Oh, mmm,” she murmured, pushing down her jeans for more access.
And then we heard the distinct noise of a dog-collar tinkling. Gabriel Carbondale was walking Buster, his huge Harlequin Great Dane.
“He’ll notice us,” sighed Kathryn regretfully.
“Maybe not,” I said, pressing her further under the branches.
Gabe Carbondale passed unseeing just feet in front of us and Buster only turned his head for a second to meet my eyes. He did a Scooby head tilt and then went on.
“Good dog!” I mouthed soundlessly, nodding like a bobblehead. Carbondale was beyond our view when I drew Kathryn from the yew branches to resume the course of her promises.
And then an echoing shot rang out. A slug ricocheted off a grave marker with a ping-zip and a puff of rock dust. Then another shot, this time louder, and then the low rumble I’d heard the night before. Gabe Carbondale screamed like a frightened boy-band fan. Before reality even registered in Kathryn, I’d spun her around and pressed her down into the protected hollow. She crouched, grasping the situation.
“Stay here. Don’t move,” I said in a low voice.
I reached up and chinned my way over the building wall, flattening myself on the roof in one smooth movement. The slate shingles were the definition of stone cold against my bare hands. I’d pocketed my gloves when I’d begun to touch Kathryn. I pulled out my cell phone and called 911, gave the 10-13 code for shots fired, and my name and location.
I peered over the roof edge, scanning the cemetery for the shooter. Carbondale was kneeling with his hands on the ground, shaking his head and gasping. About twenty feet ahead of him, near the base of The Lost Bride, was a body in a blue down jacket. A moment later, a person in a maroon hoodie ran up to the body, looked at it, then stood straight when the police sirens blared up the street. The person ran east behind a tall stand of yews.
I glanced back over the edge of the mausoleum and called softly, “Kathryn, stay where you are. Please don’t move.”
She looked up at me and nodded.
I rolled to the other edge of the roof and dropped down silently, wishing I’d brought my Beretta along. I hesitated, acutely aware that someone with a gun was nearby.
The body groaned. It was the start of a death rattle. I sprinted to the person on the ground, pulled off my scarf, wadded it up, and pressed with all my might against blood flowing from the front and back wounds.
“Don’t die! Fight!” I yelled urgently, pulling out my phone with one hand to shout for an ambulance to come with the police.
Twenty feet away, Gabriel Carbondale threw up.
Chapter 4
“Yes, it’s cold, but you see, I’m a professor at Irwin College and I was reviewing the historic art and architecture here.”
Kathryn was giving her statement to the police. She hadn’t really seen anything, just heard the shots. The officer interviewing her was trying to figure out why anyone would be in a cemetery on a day like this, unless they had to bury somebody.
The first police car arrived four minutes after I called. Two minutes later the ambulance pulled up. The EMTs took over for me, but it was too late. They cleaned the dead man’s blood off my hands, but my jacket was ruined. That seems to happen to me a lot. One of the EMTs loaned me a hoodie. I transferred the stuff from my pockets, and the EMTs bagged my blood-covered jacket and scarf and gave the bag to the crime scene team.
I’d given my formal statement already, so I went back to the spot in which Kathryn and I had been rolling in the pine boughs and retrieved the bag of sculpture. Then I drifted toward the crime scene. The cop let Kathryn go. She waved to me and sped off to her meeting.
One of Fenchester’s finest, Ed O’Brien, was leading the investigation. He’d been my boss in my previous life. He was balding and had the ruddy complexion of a guy who drank a lot of beer. He was smart and hard-working but lacked imagination. He patted me on the back.
O’Brien spoke as though the crime scene itself was the first half of his sentence. “Carbondale couldn’t have done it. No gun, no powder burns, wrong position.” He reached into his lined black raincoat to offer me a stick of gum. “You see anything?”
I passed on the gum and said, “Lieutenants don’t investigate crime scenes and I thought you retired?”
“It was a deal I couldn’t refuse, Maggie. I retired from being a Lt., and got rehired as a sergeant. Means I get my pension, I get to investigate crimes again, I get my salary as a sergeant too, and if I live long enough, I could actually get another pension.”
“You’re kidding.”
“True. I’m saving the city money. Less paper work, more action, and now my wife’s gone, gives me something to do.” O’Brien turned back to the crime scene. “The other guy. Tell me again.”
“He came from the right, stopped to look at the body, then kept running east behind those yew trees. He had a maroon-colored hoodie, dark blue jeans, and dirty white sneakers. The hood was up, so I didn’t see a face, but his hands were white. Could have been a woman but I’d say from the posture it was a man. About five feet eight inches tall. 150 pounds. Fast runner. I heard a rumbling sound, then the victim moaned a few times and I hurried over to him.”
O’Brien nodded as he took notes.
“What does Carbondale say?”
Gabe was sitting a few headstones away, shaking his head.
“He’s a basket case. He saw the dude in the blue jacket, heard the shots, saw blue jacket fall down. Saw blood, started to freak, and he’s still freaking. Didn’t see the second dude; probably had his eyes closed by then.” O’Brien took a deep breath and looked around the cemetery. “So where’s the shooter? Might have been a gang banger, maybe hiding in one of the crypts. But my team checked all the open buildings and they’re all clean. Small. Barely room for one person to turn around.”
“ID on the victim?” I asked.
“Nothing I could see. No tattoos or gang symbols either. In his pockets was about $500 cash, disposable cell phone, and a set of keys... um... Chevy key, standard house key, brass skeleton key like they use in row houses. It’s a load of cash for a guy like this. You’re really not supposed to be in on this but want to see him?”
I nodded.
We looked at the stark white face of a young man who’d woken up this morning with no idea that this day would be his last. His brown eyes were fixed in a death stare and becoming cloudy. He had a fringe of beard, pale white skin, a brown scarf, and red chapped hands. Under his open blue down jacket was a thin red sweater over a white tee shirt. He had new baggy jeans and black sneakers. A bullet hole and a big red stain made the outfit horrible.
I took out my phone and snapped a picture of his face.
“What does the Medical Examiner think?” I asked.
“One shot, medium caliber. Ten to fifteen feet away, to the back. Went through the heart, exit wound in the jacket front.”
“And Carbondale didn’t see the shooter?” I asked.
“No, he says he only saw the vic fall,” said O’Brien.
“Any other witnesses?”
“Little girl down near the entrance saw the shooting from outside the fence over there but didn’t see anyone exit the gate.”
“I’m not sold on the guy in the maroon hoodie doing it. Have the guys checked for trees or buildings near the fence that someone could use to climb over?”
“Why the hell don’t you like Hoodie for this?” O’Brien asked.
“He didn’t have a gun in his hand and your guys haven’t found one. And he came from the wrong direction. If the vic was shot in the back, This suspect was in the wrong place to do it, and Ed, don’t call grown women girls. It’s so ’70s.”
O’Brien snorted, then looked up at the overcast sky. He sighed. “Look, Maggie, unless this was a gang thing you know we suck at this. If you can help...”
“Sure Ed. It was my job to be looking out for crime in this place, so I’ll do what I can, but right now I don’t know any more than you
do. I want to talk to Carbondale.”
I moved over to where Gabe Carbondale was sitting.
“Gabe?” I said gently.
He looked up, unseeing.
“Gabe!” I yelled to get his attention. “Did you see anyone?”
He shook his head. He was shivering.
“What were you doing here?”
“Walking Buster. Oh crap, where is he?” He shook his head and gagged. “I’m going to be sick again.” He leaned over and dry heaved.
“Buster’s over there.” I pointed to the giant Great Dane sitting on a toppled gravestone.
Gabe saw the coroner’s crew taking the body away and retched again.
“You can go now. Sergeant O’Brien arranged for someone to take you home.” Gabe called Buster and they lurched into a squad car.
I walked over to the place where the body had fallen.
Cops were still combing the leaf-strewn ground to find the spent slug of the ricochet. I was glad it wasn’t my job to look for it. Gray skies were darkening and it was bitterly cold, though still early afternoon.
At a distance, a uniform officer was talking to a young woman. She was wearing layered sweaters, a navy plaid skirt, and heavy woolen tights. She wore a light blue wool cap pulled over black hair, and from what I could see she had an attractive face. She nodded. The officer left, and she walked directly across the street.
I wanted to talk to her, so I followed her. It’s something private eyes do. She walked south on 11th, crossed the Mews, turned right and went up Washington past the Moyer & Jones lumber yard, to the corner of 13th. She entered the front door of a big row house that had been divided into apartments.
Lights in each of the apartments were on except the one on the ground floor. In a minute a light came on in there too. I could see her through the window talking off scarves and then going into another room.
My cell chimed. It was Gabriel Carbondale.
His voice was high pitched. “Maggie, can you come over? I’m so confused, this is all... I was only talking about gangs and vandals, but this is... Can you come right now?”
I walked back down Washington to Gabriel Carbondale’s house on 10th Street. After all, he was the paying client.
*******
When Gabriel and Suzanne Carbondale lived together in this historic row home, two doors south of Amanda Knightbridge’s, Suzanne had been responsible for their home’s decor. I’d been there a couple of times, but not since Suzanne left six weeks ago. At that time, the place was bright and comfortable with beautiful details. Suzanne liked subtle art that made you think and laugh.
She had a number of abstract paintings by local artists. She’d even bought and framed one of my sketches of the Mews and hung it in the kitchen next to a lovely Matisse collage print.
Gabe Carbondale answered the bell. His face was gaunt and his eyes were hollow from shock and hurling. He seemed relieved to see me and agitated at the same time. Though indisputably pompous, Carbondale was fairly handsome, but right now he had a mean-old-man face. He looked as though he was going to yell, “You kids get outta my yard!” at any second.
The house had totally changed. Instead of light airy colors, the living room was the dark green of Jaguar sports cars. There was a pair of 19th century hunting prints over the fireplace and duck decoys on the mantel. The leather sofa was still in place, but there was a huge plasma flat screen on the wall.
The room looked so self-consciously masculine that the word overcompensating was ringing in my ears. Nothing of Suzanne remained, as though Gabe was trying to erase her. But then I guess if I’d been dumped the way Gabe was, I also might want to wash that gal right outta my hair.
Buster woofed hello from behind the closed kitchen door.
Gabe said, “Samson’s here. The police told me I shouldn’t be alone and Samson was walking by.”
Samson Henshaw, former architect now realtor, sat stonily in an arm chair. He lived in the Mews with his wife Lois, the one who had been at the neighborhood meeting and spouted her incongruous comment.
Henshaw was tall and craggy. Straight women would probably find him ruggedly handsome. He had regular features and a good head of dark brown hair, but he seemed terminally sad, like a Basset off his Prozac. His general Squidward aspect had intensified since he and Lois first moved to the Mews.
Washington Mews has a gossip network that moves faster than rabbits on Red Bull. According to Cora Martin, one of the linchpins of communication, Samson’s problem was domestic.
And right now the scowl he was giving Gabe behind his back was verging on pure loathing. Since when did Samson hate Gabe?
Gabe grunted me back to the present. He said, “Look, Maggie, I need to tell you about something.” He glanced at Samson, hesitating.
Gabe’s cell phone rang and he literally jumped into the air, hunching his back like a startled cat. He picked up the phone and held it to his ear. Then he remembered to say, “Hello?”
He paused listening for a long time as if he’d forgotten how to speak. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “Yes, it, uh, made my hair stand on end. I’ll not sleep one wink. Yes, she’s here now.” He listened again staring at the floor and finally said, “Yes, thank you, good-bye.” He clicked it off, turned, and focused his eyes.
“Who was that?” I asked at the height of nosiness.
“That Staplehurst woman from the museum. She heard about the... you know... I guess it’s already on the newspaper’s web site. She wants you to stop by her office with a copy of the crime report and you can sign something, and then she can submit the grant. She’s on deadline.”
It seemed a little insensitive to me that less than an hour after the murder Piper Staplehurst jumped on it as the proof she needed for the grant. Of course, maybe the streaming news hadn’t touched on Gabe as the prime witness.
Gabe looked at his cell and then turned to me. “Maggie, I could have been shot.” He cleared his throat again. “Dead as a doornail. If I’d gotten there earlier, it might have been time for me to shuffle off this mortal coil.” He shrugged, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He put his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath. Gabe Carbondale’s shocky face had turned as white as The Lost Bride’s. He dropped his cell. The cover cracked and the phone bounced into Buster’s water dish by the hearth.
“Crap,” he said, reaching for it.
“You’ll have to get another one now. They never work after they’ve been in water.” Samson snorted grimly.
“I have another one around here somewhere,” Gabe said vaguely.
“Gabe, most murders happen between people who know each other. This wasn’t aimed at you,” I said, trying to be reassuring.
“Murder! It wasn’t murder. It was a gang thing.”
“No, it was murder. An unarmed man was killed by another person with a gun. That’s kind of the definition of murder, Gabe,” I said.
His face went even whiter.
Samson slapped his hand on the chair arm impatiently. He’d gotten roped into playing nursemaid and he didn’t like it.
I said to Gabe, “Do you want me to keep working on the crime in the cemetery? Things are a little different now.”
“Huh? Oh, no, don’t go on. Crime has been established surely, so the game is up. You can just send me a bill for last night.”
“OK, but I think I’ll continue to look into it on my own a little.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because murder messes with my feng shui. I don’t like it when someone is killed on my watch. Tell me again what happened from your perspective.”
Gabe Carbondale paused to think, then took a deep breath and said that Buster had wanted to go out. “So I put on his leash and walked him over to the graveyard. We went up the main trail then turned right to loop around and, just as I got near the fence, I heard a shot. I looked up, saw someone in a blue down jacket running, then another shot and he fell down as cold as any stone. I didn’t see anything else.”
He’d skipp
ed saying, I screamed like a twelve year old girl, closed my eyes, and fainted. But I couldn’t blame Gabe. No matter how macho you are, you never know how you’re going to react when faced with blood and fear. At least once a year, one of Farrel’s burly male woodworking students has an eyes-roll-back moment after a careless slip of a chisel.
I’d seen some horrific traffic deaths while I was on the highway patrol in Indiana after grad school. I was the first woman on the force in that part of the state, so a slew of unwelcoming veterans turned up to watch me fall apart at my introductory pile-up. I didn’t, though. It took all my concentration but I was able to remove myself from the bloody scene and view it as though it was a painting. It was a valuable skill.
“Did you hear anything? Think carefully. You heard the shots and the sound of someone running and...?”
He shook his head. “Wind in the trees?”
Samson Henshaw said, “Look Gabe, I really have to go. You’re OK right?” Without waiting for an answer, Henshaw went to the door and jumped ship.
Gabe was still shivering. He should have called someone like Cora Martin for support. She’d have made him tea and cookies, covered him with a warm blanket, and had him watch some classic movie on TV.
“Gabe, see if there’s a game on. I’ll make you something to eat.”
I went down a little hallway, passed a half-bath, and turned left into the kitchen. One of the biggest indoor pets in the world shuffled over to me. I petted him lavishly. He was black and white like a Holstein cow. Suzanne named him Buster, not only because his huge wagging tail busted things, but because his markings were like Buster Brown saddle shoes.
Yet this Buster was way too big to live in a shoe. In fact, he was almost too big for this kitchen. Great Danes are the couch potatoes of large dogs. They like to relax and be petted. They love people. I guess that doesn’t describe all Great Danes, but it describes Buster. He was a very loyal dog. Loyal to Suzanne. Suzanne had walked out on Buster too. I wondered if Buster was as pissed off about that as Jessie.
Buster woofed quietly, then lay back down on the floor. I stepped over him to find some beer and something with which to make a few sandwiches.
