The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1)

by Matty Dalrymple

  Chapter 10

  On a blustery morning in April, Ella Franklin was scrambling eggs for breakfast for her and her husband, Edwin, in their Tinicum Township row house. Edwin sat at the table sipping black coffee and reading the Daily News. Ella heard the scratching at the door that meant that their terrier mutt, Dolly, was back from her patrol of the neighborhood. The police had warned the Franklins about letting Dolly roam free but she did love visiting the neighbors (and the Franklins had never heard any of the neighbors say that they didn’t love Dolly’s visits), not to mention exploring the wildlife refuge which was practically next door.

  Ella put down the spatula, wiped her hands on the dishtowel, and opened the door. Dolly trotted in with something in her mouth, headed for her dog bed in the corner, and flopped down with her back to the room.

  “Edwin, she’s got something,” said Ella and went back to the stove.

  “Now what,” said Edwin, levering himself up from the table and crossing to Dolly’s dog bed. “Give it up, Dolly,” he said, bending down. Dolly gave a slight growl and hunched protectively over her prize. Edwin pulled Dolly up by her collar so he could see what she had and, when he did, jumped back so suddenly that he banged into the corner of the kitchen table, sloshing coffee onto the newspaper.

  “DOLLY, DROP IT!” he yelled, and Dolly, who had never in her life had Edwin yell at her, promptly dropped it and slunk behind Ella.

  “What in the world …” Ella said, turning from the stove then her words died as she saw what Dolly had brought in.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  “I think it’s a hand,” said Edwin, his voice quavering.

  Ella clapped her hand over her mouth, then ran to the bathroom.

  Edwin scooped Dolly up, put her in the laundry room and shut the door, then grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

  Chapter 11

  Joe Booth showed his badge to the guard at the gate and was waved through to the building housing the Delaware County Medical Examiner’s offices.

  Roger Stanislaus, the ME, was tall and aristocratic looking, of an indeterminate age, with fine, faded blond hair combed back from a high forehead and wire rim glasses that he would push up on top of his head when looking at something up close. He had a slight accent that Joe was never able to place more specifically than to assume it was European. His clothes were classic and, Joe suspected, not off the rack.

  Joe found Roger in the office area adjacent to the labs, flipping through a manila folder in consultation with one of his assistants. The assistant could hardly have looked less like Roger—short and stocky, with red hair pulled back in a pony tail, and tattered jeans emerging from the bottom of a lab coat which had “Pete” embroidered on the chest. Roger glanced up and, seeing Joe, said, “Detective Joseph Booth, it’s been too long!” Not even Joe’s mother called him Joseph. Roger’s colleague rolled his eyes.

  “Yup, too long, Roger. You’ve got something for me?”

  “Yes indeed,” said Roger, handing the manila folder to the other man. “Take care of that, will you, Peter?”

  “Sure,” said Pete, who nodded to Joe and then disappeared into a back room.

  Roger removed his coat—a fine wool with microscopic black and white checks—and hung it on a wooden hanger on a coat rack in the corner, replacing it with a spotless white lab coat from another hanger on the rack. “I do believe we have found your missing young lady.”

  “Elizabeth Firth?”

  “The very same. I knew her, you know. Not well. Spoke with her a few times at charity events.”

  Joe recalled having seen a photo of Roger in Philadelphia Magazine a few years before, escorting a wealthy-looking older woman to a charity dinner. Joe pictured Roger eliciting shrieks of horror and delight from his table mates with stories gleaned from his “day job.”

  “Sorry to hear she was someone you knew,” said Joe.

  “Yes, well, these things happen,” said Roger cheerfully. “Come with me.” He pushed through a swinging door into a room with a stainless steel examination table in its center—empty, Joe noted with relief—and a bank of refrigerated compartments for storing bodies along one wall.

  Roger picked a manila folder out of a rack on the wall, scanned it quickly, then crossed to the compartments and slid one open. On it lay a plastic body bag like many others Joe had seen but the contours of this one looked flatter than normal.

  Roger flipped through some papers in the folder. “We determined her identity based on dental records. The body was in a sleeping bag but that didn’t prevent animal predation. Also the decomposition was pretty advanced. Want to see?”

  “No,” said Joe hastily. “They found her in Tinicum Marsh?”

  “Yes, but not in the marshy area, in a dry area.”

  “Buried?”

  “No, on the surface.”

  “I don’t suppose she had just decided to take a camping trip in the wildlife refuge,” said Joe, wishing Roger would slide the compartment shut.

  “Not unless she decided to tie herself into the sleeping bag when it was time for bed,” said Roger with what sounded to Joe like a chuckle although, he thought, it might have been an aborted cough.

  “What was the cause of death?”

  Roger sighed. “Hard to say. No evidence of gunshot or knife wounds, no significant broken bones. There were a couple of hairline fractures of the skull but I don’t think they would have been enough to kill her, although possibly enough to knock her out. If I had to guess I’d say she had been choked—there was damage to her larynx but I couldn’t say definitively that it happened when she was killed.”

  “Was she dressed?”

  “Yes, she was fully clothed. There was a coat stuffed into the bag with her.”

  “Any ideas why she wasn’t wearing her coat?”

  “Oh, I can come up with all sorts of ideas, all pure speculation. She was mugged and the mugger had her take her coat off so he could search her pockets. Or he planned to rape her and was having her disrobe but got interrupted. Or she was indoors somewhere and had taken off her coat before she was killed and the killer had to get rid of it.”

  “Or she was killed at her own home and someone took her coat out of the closet to make it look like she had left the house on her own.”

  Roger cocked an eye at Joe. “You know, I like that idea best because I thought it was odd that there wasn’t a scarf or gloves with the body. Especially the scarf. The coat had a low V neckline and the blouse she was wearing was low cut and you would think that she would have wanted something around her neck—she disappeared in February, right? But maybe the killer used the scarf to choke her and kept it as some kind of souvenir.”

  “Or was just in a panic and didn’t think about it.”

  “Also a possibility,” conceded Roger, “although not as interesting.” He glanced back at his notes. “However she died, at some point she was in the trunk of a car. There were carpet fibers from the trunk of a car, some on the body and some on the sleeping bag, mainly around her head and feet. I’m guessing there was something like a garbage bag on the floor of the trunk that kept fibers from getting on the mid-section of her body and the sleeping bag but that didn’t cover the area where her head and feet were resting.”

  “So if there were fibers on the body as well as on the sleeping bag, it sounds like she wasn’t in the sleeping bag the whole time she was in the trunk of the car. She might have been put in the sleeping bag later. Which might suggest that the murder wasn’t pre-meditated, otherwise the killer might have had the sleeping bag ready to put her in immediately.” Joe rubbed his jaw tiredly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised she was in a car, probably not many murders actually happen in Tinicum Marsh—she had to get there somehow.”

  “Ah, but this is more interesting. This particular type of carpeting has been used for the last several years in the Mercedes E-Class which, according to the file, is the kind of car that her husband drives. Did anyone do an analysis on his car?”<
br />
  Joe grimaced with annoyance. “Turns out he took it to a self-service car wash after driving to the shore, supposedly to look for his wife.”

  “Those self-service vacuums aren’t very effective—I don’t bother with them myself—there might still be some evidence in the car, even after all this time—”

  “That’s not the worst of it—while Firth Senior’s lawyers were fighting us about getting a search warrant for the car, some guy backed into Biden Firth’s car and the place that did the repairs detailed it.”

  Roger snorted. “God, what are the chances.”

  “We even looked into whether Firth somehow arranged for the guy to hit his car or specifically asked for the detailing. The first seems unlikely and the repair place confirms Firth didn’t make any special requests, they detail all the cars they work on. If he did kill his wife, it was just a lucky break for him.”

  “Firth one, dead wife and police zero,” said Roger, removing his glasses and polishing them contemplatively with a silk handkerchief.

  Chapter 12

  The Sunday after Elizabeth’s body was identified, Biden used his key to let himself into the offices of Firth Investments. There was none of the bustle that generally filled the offices and hallways, created by ambitious young men and women who were involved in managing his father’s real estate holdings. In fact, Biden was counting on the quiet, planning to spend a few hours in his office with the Sunday Chronicle and a large Starbucks. His unease at being in his own house had only gotten worse as the weeks went on—he always felt like someone was in the room with him.

  On the way down the hall to his office, he saw that the door of his father’s office was partially open and a light was on. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He considered trying to sneak out but it would be humiliating if his father caught him. He dropped the newspaper into the trash can next to the secretary’s desk and knocked on the frame of the office door. His father looked up from a fan of papers on his desk, a red pen poised over them. He rarely worked on his computer, preferring to have his secretary print out hardcopies of documents for him.

  “What are you doing here today?” asked Morgan Firth.

  Biden shrugged. “Thought I’d catch up a little.”

  Morgan beckoned Biden into the office and then waved him toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. Biden slid into one, wondering if it had been the decorator’s idea or his father’s to put visitors in a chair that felt like a trap.

  Morgan took off his glasses and put down his pen. “You don’t need to be here today of all days.”

  Biden had barely been to the office at all since Elizabeth had disappeared, despite his father’s advice that work was just the thing to take his mind off the waiting. Biden shrugged again and looked out the window behind Morgan’s desk.

  Morgan sighed and sat back in his chair. He rotated his chair so that he too was looking out the window and then turned back. “The Dormands are arranging the memorial service?”

  “Yes. Amelia said she wanted to do it.”

  “You talked to them?”

  “Briefly.”

  “I don’t know why you told the police you hit her,” said Morgan irritably.

  “Because that’s what happened.” Morgan didn’t say anything. “It was the only time.”

  “Her parents don’t want to hear that there was even one time, Biden.” There was a long pause, then Morgan Firth sighed. “You know your mother and I thought the world of Elizabeth,” he said. “She was a fine woman. A fine wife and mother. Would have made a fine executive if she had decided to stay with the company.”

  An executive. Biden couldn’t recall that his father had ever suggested that he, Biden, would ever be an executive with the company.

  Morgan Firth shook his head. “It’s a terrible, terrible thing. You think a place like Rittenhouse Square will be relatively safe but I suppose nowhere is safe these days.” He looked closely at Biden. “Sophia, she’s doing OK?”

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  “Do you need us to take her for a while?”

  “No, I can take care of it,” said Biden, bristling a bit.

  “You’re taking care of Sophie?” asked Morgan skeptically.

  “Well, me and Joan.”

  “Ah, Joan, yes, that’s good,” said Morgan, sitting back in his chair and examining Biden. “You don’t look so good, Biden,” he said. “Maybe you should go home and rest. You’ve been through a lot. No one would fault you for not working today.” He picked up his pen, indicating that the conversation was over. “You let me and your mother know if you need anything.”

  Biden struggled out of the slippery chair and nodded. “Maybe I will go home.”

  Morgan nodded and put his glasses back on.

  Biden turned to leave then stopped at the door. “I’m thinking of selling the house.”

  Morgan took his glasses off again and looked at Biden, his face impassive. “Bad memories?” he said eventually.

  Biden shrugged. “Sophia and I don’t need all that room.”

  “And Joan,” said Morgan.

  “Why this sudden obsession with Joan?” said Biden peevishly. His wife had just been found dead, he guessed he had the right to be peevish.

  Morgan opened his mouth then clamped it shut and scowled at Biden for a few seconds, then said, “Biden, you’re a good father but you’re not a ... caretaker. Actually, neither was Elizabeth—that’s why you have Joan and Esme. I don’t think now’s the time to decide you’re going to let Joan go. It would be disruptive to Sophie. Especially if you’re also thinking of selling the house.”

  “I don’t need all that room.”

  Morgan sat back in his chair and considered Biden for a few moments. “You could move back home,” he said eventually, “maybe rent the house out in case you change your mind. Now’s not really a good time to sell. Your mother would love having Sophie around. And Joan could have the apartment over the garage.”

  “I’ll think about it. But I’m going to give Mark Pironi a call.”

  Morgan shrugged. “It’s your decision.”

  Biden nodded and pulled the door closed silently behind him.

  Biden didn’t go back to the office after that, although his pay checks continued to arrive in the mail.

  Chapter 13

  Elizabeth Dormand Firth’s memorial service was held on a pretty April Saturday at a Presbyterian church just over the border of southern Chester County in Delaware. The ground was still wet from rain during the night but the day was sunny and warming, the trees beginning to show blossoms. The parking lot was full of Mercedes and Porsches and even a Bentley—Joe was glad he had taken his elderly Accord through the car wash on the way to the service. He was wearing his standard funeral suit which he noticed was a little tighter in the waist than it had been the last time he had worn it. He arrived early, having overestimated how long it would take him to get there, and passed the time wandering through the churchyard reading the grave markers.

  Once the guests started to arrive he took up position—unobtrusively, he hoped—in the back of the church with Harry Deng. It was standard procedure for the investigating detective to attend any memorial or funeral service for the victim of an open case since it was not unheard of for a murderer to show up to observe, or perhaps even to participate in, the event. It was a sign of Elizabeth’s father’s influence that two detectives had been assigned to cover the service and the reception to follow but Joe doubted that after this much time they would glean anything useful from the exercise.

  The small church was packed with attractive, well-groomed, and expensively dressed people of all ages, most of whom seemed to know each other. Joe couldn’t remember a time he had seen so many women in hats. He saw Lydia Levere, dwarfed by a man Joe assumed to be her husband who was built like a linebacker—she likes all her possessions big, he thought.

  Amelia Dormand, Elizabeth’s mother, sat in the front row, her tanned face a stony mask, her black hair pu
lled back in a severe bun, her unadorned dress—which even Joe could tell was finely made—as black as her hair. Throughout the service, she sat with her back ramrod straight, staring straight ahead, seemingly unaware of her husband’s hand on her back. Bob Dormand wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and periodically patted his wife’s back, a gesture that seemed more comforting to him than to her.

  Biden Firth and his parents sat in the front row across the aisle from the Dormands. Biden glanced over at his in-laws periodically but neither of them returned his glances.

  The service was short and, as far as Joe could tell, right from the prayer book. No one other than the pastor spoke. When it was over, the Dormands and then the Firths passed down the aisle, Joe slipping out after them. The Dormands stepped into a black limousine waiting at the door while the Firths went to a large, older model Mercedes, the elder Firths in front, Biden in back.

  The cars streamed out of the church parking lot and down Kennett Pike to the Hotel du Pont where a reception was to be held. They passed private schools sequestered behind brick walls and upscale shopping centers and, nearing the hotel, entered Wilmington’s financial district, largely unpopulated on the weekend. Most of the guests used the hotel’s valet parking but Joe parked his car in the self-park lot across the street.

  The reception was held in a series of rooms off the lobby with richly paneled walls decorated with original paintings by Andrew, N.C., and Jamie Wyeth. Waiters moved through the crowd taking drink orders and passing hors d’oeuvres. There was murmured conversation and the occasional burst of surprised, but quickly suppressed, laughter.

  Harry, who was much more smartly dressed than Joe and seemed to be enjoying the event, swirled his glass of tonic water.

  “They’ve got a couple of private security guards making sure it’s invited guests only”—Harry nodded to a couple of equally nattily-dressed men wearing discreet ear pieces with cords running into the back of their jackets—“but it looks like they don’t have much to do. I’m surprised that there aren’t more crashers.”