Wolfe, She Cried

by Addison, Bliss

  She became aware of birds chirping, of the early morning sun, of the clean, fresh scent in the air, the song of the wind through the trees. Despite the chilly weather, she took a walk, wandering past boutiques, restaurants and offices on Main Street still as familiar to her as her name. For the moment, she didn’t want to think about her troubles or the past. Instead, she’d think about what she had to be thankful for—her freedom, her parents support, her job she loved so much, and Simon. She still loved him, really she had never stopped. He was the greatest love of her life. Funny it took a brush with her dark side to make her realize it. However she came about this revelation, she was thankful for it. In Simon’s eyes, she was a star and he was still the man who pledged his life and his love to her. Warmed by that knowledge, she felt able to face whatever life threw her way. Eventually, the harassment would stop. Constance, her tormentor, would tire of it. Her only wish was that it would happen soon. She shivered, still not reacclimated to the wet, cold weather on the island. Burrowing deeper into the folds of her jacket, she turned and sprinted toward the church parking lot. The thought of a cup of hot tea, a fire in the wood stove and Bear in her arms motivated her into a jog.

  Ten minutes later, she stepped into her cottage. She tossed her keys on the kitchen counter, plopped her purse on the peg on the wall behind the door, slipped out of her coat and draped it over a chair at the table. Bear greeted her with a nudge to her leg. She plucked her from the floor. “How’s my girl? Did you miss me?” The normally silent skunk answered her with a soft birdlike whistle. “You did? I missed you too!” She kissed the top of her head and scratched her ears. “Are you hungry?” Bear stared up at her with eyes a mixture of curiosity and love. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

  She opened the refrigerator and took out the plastic container marked ‘Apples and pears for Bear’. “Your favorite.” She set the bowl on the floor. The skunk devoured the fruit in one minute flat.

  While waiting for water to boil for tea, she threw logs over the still hot coals in the wood stove, then checked her answering machine. The machine blinked sixteen messages. She hit the play button. The sound of heavy breathing spilled from the speaker, then a thud as though the receiver slammed against a hard surface. Why are you doing this to me, Constance? When would it end? Why couldn’t Constance forgive and forget? Hadn’t the woman punished her enough? All sixteen calls were the same and all from a private number. No way to trace them without involving Simon, so she saw no way to legally put an end to the torment.

  She sank to her bottom on the floor and sobbed into her hands. Thirty minutes later, her tears all cried, she decided to take a shower. When she stood, fatigue overcame her. Gaston said to dismiss it. Depression caused the body to feel sensations. Easy for him to say when he wasn’t the one walking with cement blocks attached to his legs. Why did she come into the bedroom? She frowned and looked around for something to jog her memory. After a moment, the answer came. She stepped into the bathtub, turned on the shower and let the steaming water beat against the aches in her muscles. The sound of a door closing interrupted the pitter of shower spray. She turned off the faucet and listened. The cottage sat silent. Was her imagination running away on her? Was she hearing sounds when none existed?

  She wrapped herself in a terry cloth robe and cautiously made her way into the bedroom. Nothing appeared out of place. She shrugged it off, opened her lingerie drawer and gasped. Her usually neat and orderly undergarments lay in disarray, like someone rifled through it. It wasn’t like this last night, was it? Was she alone? She grabbed her gun from the bedside table and tiptoed through the cottage, checking the closets and the pantry. Relief washed through her when she found no one. Her purse sat open on the kitchen counter. What was it doing there? She checked her billfold. The cash was gone, but the charge cards remained. Swinging the door open and breathing hard, she ran into the yard, looked down the driveway and through the trees bordering the property, but there wasn’t anyone anywhere. Satisfied the intruder already left, she breathed a sigh of relief and went back into the cottage where fear gripped her in a chilling embrace. She needed someone with her and called the one person she could always rely on.

  “Simon, someone broke into my house. I think the intruder’s gone, but…”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She paced the length of the kitchen, worrying Constance had learned where she lived. Bear, curled on her blanket next to the door, watched her walk back and forth across the floor. She stopped to peer out the window. The sun had disappeared behind clouds and darkness settled in. It would rain soon. Shadows shifted or was it a trick of light fading to dark? Living alone never bothered her until lately. Now she wanted someone big and strong at her side. Simon’s face flashed before her eyes.

  Footsteps sounded on the porch and the door opened.

  Evie ran to Simon and threw herself against his chest.

  He wrapped his arms around her. “You’re trembling.”

  “I’m…fine. Just a little shaken.” She told him what happened. Normally, she was not a woman who needed rescuing. But someone in her home, invading her privacy, rifling through her undergarments, rattled her. Knowing who the someone might be, rattled her even more. Simon was here now. He would protect her from Constance. Thankful for his prompt response, she…prompt response. Too prompt. Where had he been that he arrived so quickly? Maybe Constance wasn’t the culprit. Maybe Simon’s concern was an act. Maybe he wanted retribution for leaving him the way she had all those years ago and terrorizing her was his way of punishing her.

  “How’d you get here so fast?” She jerked out of his arms and backed away. Her hand trembled against her lips.

  “I was on the highway just before your turnoff when you called.”

  Convenient. Maybe too much so. She stepped farther back, needing time to think.

  “Evie, why are you looking at me like that?” He frowned. “Surely, you don’t think it was me.”

  “Leave, Simon.” She lunged out of his reach when he made a move toward her.

  “Evie, what’s the matter with you?”

  Yes, what was the matter with her? She would never suspect him of wanting to harm her, but that was before life gave her a lesson in mistrust. “Leave.”

  “I don’t need your money. Why would I steal from you?”

  “To throw me off. To cast suspicion from yourself.” She took another step backward and set her chin. “Please, Simon, leave. I need to be alone.”

  After he left, she roamed from room to room. The Simon she knew wasn’t revengeful, but people changed. She had.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday morning, Detective Joshua Gormley, a balding man, average in every way except intelligence with an uncanny knack for solving crimes, sat at his desk flipping through the morning newspaper. Around him keyboards clacked, telephones rang, fax machines whirred and uniformed officers traveled the hallways. The scent of stale coffee and body odor permeated the air. After his divorce four years ago, his best friend became the bottle. For awhile, it provided him relief, but it almost cost him his job, the one thing he took great pride in. When he realized the consequences of liquor, he fought hard to keep his position with the Sibbett police department and to regain his reputation. To his credit and much to the jealousy of his colleagues, he’d solved every case assigned to him throughout his twenty years of service. He always worked alone and preferred it that way.

  He sipped his coffee and looked across the desks at his colleague, Phillip Payne. “Did you catch the game last night?” he asked, referring to a hockey game at the local civic center.

  “No, I missed it. My wife wanted to see some chick flick.”

  “Too bad. It was a good game. In the last period—”

  “Josh, a 911 just came in,” the dispatcher said from the doorway to the squad room. “There’s been a murder at the Lakeview Motel on Dorchester.”

  Gormley set his cup on the desk and stood. “I’m on it.”

  Ten mi
nutes later, he walked through the hallway on the first floor leading to Richard Coulton’s room. A uniformed officer who Gormley recognized as Rufus Smith spoke to a man off to one side. “What’ve we got?” Gormley asked.

  Smith checked his note pad. “Richard Coulton, age thirty-six, address 332 Erica Crescent, Sibbett.” He pointed to the man standing next to him. “This is the manager, Kevin King. The vic’s in the bedroom.”

  Gormley slipped on paper booties, walked into the room and halted. At first glance, he thought the victim was laying naked on a crimson bedspread. He stepped closer and realized blood saturated the white sheets. “Jesus. This is one sick fuck,” he said, staring at the castrated Coulton and the bullet hole in his chest. He scrutinized the room. There was no sign of a weapon and no sign of a struggle. He went back into the hallway.

  “Did you know the victim, Mr. King?” Gormley asked, taking a note pad from his jacket pocket.

  “Just as a guest of the hotel. He checked in here often.”

  “How often?”

  The manager looked off to a corner. “Maybe two or three times a month.”

  “Why?”

  He shifted his feet. “You know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Why don’t you spell it out for me?”

  “He brought his lady friends here, women he didn’t want his wife finding out about. He paid the staff for their silence.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He liked it rough.”

  With a twist of his head Gormley indicated Coulton’s room. “I don’t think that’s what he had in mind. Who found the body?”

  “A maid.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Anita Daley.”

  Gormley jotted her name down. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  King walked off to a corner and spoke into a walkie-talkie, then returned to Gormley. “She’s on her way.”

  A few minutes later, the day maid, an overweight, middle-aged woman with a pug nose, wide mouth and mottled skin, walked hesitantly through the corridor toward them.

  Gormley introduced himself and asked, “You found the body, Ms. Daley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you did—”

  “I didn’ do nothing. He was already dead when I came in. Do I need a lawyer?”

  “No, you don’t need a lawyer. From the time you entered the room to clean it,” he enunciated each word, “what did you do?”

  “I vacuumed the carpet, dusted and emptied the ashtray and the waste paper basket.”

  Damn. “Where did you empty them?”

  “In a garbage bag.” She pointed to the trolley in the hall.

  He motioned to Smith to grab the bag. “And get the contents from the vacuum cleaner too.” He turned back to the maid. “Then what did you do?”

  “I walked in there.” She pointed. “That’s when I saw him.”

  “Did you see anyone leave the room after you came on shift?”

  “No.” Her voice faltered.

  He sensed she held something back. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone or know who he was here with?”

  She stared down at her feet. “I didn’ see anyone.”

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Daley.” He flipped his note pad closed. “Mr. King, could you give me a list of the staff on duty last night?”

  The coroner and the fingerprint team arrived. Gormley ushered King out of the way.

  The following morning, when Gormley entered the back area of Beats & Bytes, the smell of ink and cleaning solvents greeted him. Dismantled computers and printers, mother boards and sticks of ram cluttered the floor and workstations. Sober-faced employees stood around talking in hushed voices. He headed toward the manager’s office.

  “Detective Gormley?” Bill Owens stood from behind his desk.

  “Yes.”

  “Have a seat, Detective.” Gormley sat.

  Owens settled back in his chair. “Terrible tragedy what happened to Richard.”

  “How long did he work here, Mr. Owens?”

  “Since we opened about five years ago. He was my top man, our computer guru. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix. Someone has big shoes to fill.”

  “What can you tell me about his personal life?”

  “He was quiet, kept to himself mostly, married. It seems not happily, though, doesn’t it? Boy, you just can’t tell about some people. You think you know them, and then… Was he really castrated like people are saying?”

  “Was he into drugs?”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Did he have any enemies? Did he gamble?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  Gormley flipped his note pad closed. “Can I talk to your staff?”

  “No problem. Follow me and I’ll introduce you.”

  In the workroom, Owens cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, this is Detective Joshua Gormley, and he’d like to ask you a few questions about Rick.”

  Gormley stepped forward. “Does anyone know why or who would have reason to kill Mr. Coulton? Did he have any enemies?”

  Everyone answered negatively. He let a moment pass before taking a business card from his pocket and placing it on a desk. “Give me a call if any of you remembers anything.” He moved toward the door and turned to Owens. “Did Coulton have any friends here? Anyone he socialized with?”

  “Richard and his wife weren’t social butterflies, if you know what I mean. They didn’t attend any Christmas party or summer picnics the company puts on. Like I said, he kept to himself.”

  Great. Gormley was where he started—without a lead.

  When he arrived back at the station an hour later, his captain, Andrew Withers, called him into his office. “Any leads?”

  “None.” Gormley sat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Coulton worked as a computer service technician at a small outfit called Beats and Bytes and no one knows anything about him. I talked to all the night staff at the motel, but they didn’t know anything or see anyone with Coulton when he checked in, which was around eight o’clock last night. No one heard any unusual noises. We’ve got cigarette butts with lipstick and that’s about all.”

  “What about the wife?”

  “I got zip from her.”

  “Keep on it. Wrap this up quickly.”

  A feeling came over Gormley that this murder would be his first unsolved case.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon leaned closer to his desk and reread the article in the morning paper: Richard Coulton was found mutilated and shot to death in his room at a local downtown motel in Sibbett yesterday. Homicide detective Joshua Gormley is urging anyone who saw Coulton Saturday night or has any information concerning the murder to contact him.

  If mutilated meant castrated…“Tallulah, get Joshua Gormley of the Sibbett PD on the phone for me, please.”

  “I’m busy right now.”

  “When you have a free moment then, darlin’.”

  His thoughts wandered to Evie and her accusation the day before. It worried him. In fact, she worried him. He stared into space and thought over the past two months. Her reactions sometimes bordered on irrational. She was not the confident, witty and personable woman who left him and Honeydale six years ago. Quite the opposite, in fact. For such a radical shift, something terrible had to have happened to her, something so bad she couldn’t tell even him. Needing to know whether she was a threat to herself or the welfare of her colleagues, he had called her commanding officer at the Concord PD. Captain Darius Brown was no help. Unblemished file. No warnings. No complaints. No reprimands. An exemplary employee. What Simon had wanted to know was what wasn’t in her file, but Brown remained adamant there wasn’t anything to tell. Though he sounded sincere, Simon doubted the attestation. There was always something to tell. Even he had little somethings to hide.

  He remembered the first time he said he loved her. It was her prom night. Over a decade ago, but the moment focused vividly. The dewy look of her face, he
r dazzling blue eyes, her quirky smile, the shimmering blue satin dress, she’d never looked so beautiful. There had been other women since she left, but none compared to her, none with whom he wanted to spend his life.

  Sometimes when she looked at him, he thought the love she felt for him was still there. Other times she looked like a scared little girl, but before he could delve into it, she put up a wall, an impenetrable wall. Not for the first time he wished she’d let him in. Maybe he could help. He wanted to help.

  Tallulah stuck her frizzy-haired head in the doorway. “Simon, Gormley’s out. I left a message for him to call you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turned to the window and watched maple leaves skitter into the November wind. If he weren’t careful and handled her with diplomacy, what Evie and he had shared would only be a pleasant memory for him to cherish. He wanted so much more.

  “Ahem,” a voice said at his back.

  Simon looked over his shoulder. “Well, hey there.” He swiveled his chair and stared into the freckled face of a flaxen haired little girl wearing a black watch jumper and red turtleneck sweater. Thick, dark eyebrows framed energetic blue eyes.

  “You have pigtails just like me,” she said, taking one in her hand and pointing it at him to demonstrate.

  “I guess I do.” He never thought of his braids in that manner, but he supposed she was right. “What can the chief of police do for you today?” He smiled.

  “You can tell me why you haven’t arrested the man who shot my Daddy.”

  “Who’s your Daddy?”

  “Douglas Theodore Miller.”

  “And you are?”

  “Kira Annabelle Miller.” Pigtails bobbed on her shoulders with each nod of her head.

  “Well, Ms. Miller, you have my word the Honeydale police department is doing everything in its power to make an arrest.”

  She nodded. One quick jerk of her head, then another. “Will that be soon?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

  “Technically.” She ran her fingers along the edge of the desk as though inspecting for dust.