Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “Do me a favor and look for signs of defensive wounds on the body during the autopsy. I have very strong doubts about Ducky killing herself, and I know she would not have gone down without a fight.”

  “Why are you so certain she wouldn’t have committed suicide, as the detectives concluded in their initial investigation this morning?” Wendy asked me.

  I went on to tell her what I’d just told Wyatt and Stone. I listed off all the things Ducky had told me she wanted to do after she retired, repeating some of what I’d told everyone, including her, at the supper table the previous night. I described the excitement Ducky displayed while uncharacteristically chattering on about her plans. I described the tattoo she’d so proudly shown me. By the time I was through, I could tell Wendy was harboring some doubt about the validity of the librarian’s death being ruled as a suicide.

  “That is awfully strange,” Wendy said. “I suppose she could have been trying to throw you off with all her bucket list talk, but what would she have stood to gain by that? I will run it by Nate so he will also be on the lookout for any signs of a struggle on the body during the autopsy.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it. And please don’t call her ‘the body.’ I find it unnerving, and somewhat offensive.”

  “Sorry, Mom. It’s a force of habit from working in the coroner’s lab every day. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.”

  “I know, honey. I’m just stressed out right now.”

  “As well you should be.”

  “Call me this evening with the results of the autopsy, okay? I’m very anxious to see what you discover,” I said.

  “Of course. Now go sit on your back porch with your ever-present cup of coffee, and try to relax and unwind a bit. I’ll give you a ring this evening.”

  After the call ended, I decided Wendy’s suggestion was a good one. I put on a sweatshirt and retreated to the back porch with a cup of steaming fresh-brewed java. Stone soon joined me with his own cup, and we sat quietly, saying very little as we were both engrossed in our own thoughts. I found myself unwinding somewhat, but knew I would never relax while the cause of Ducky’s demise was still up in the air. I considered scrounging up a load of laundry, just to keep myself occupied, until Wendy called with the autopsy results, but soon realized I was too bone-weary to remove myself from the lounge chair. Before long Stone was snoring in the other chair and, eventually, I too drifted off into a fitful slumber.

  Somewhere between dreaming that all my teeth were falling out one by one, while unsuccessfully trying to get a huge wad of bubble gum out of my mouth, and Stone giving me the Heimlich maneuver while I was participating in a hot dog eating contest against Pee Wee Hermann and Mean Joe Green, I dreamt I was being chased down a dark alley by a scary, wild-eyed man with a broken beer bottle in his hand. Even after the man morphed into a childhood friend of mine, and then finally into my late former mother-in-law, I kept running in sheer panic. I then stopped briefly at a café to purchase a cup of coffee before continuing my terrifying sprint down a dark, deserted highway. Apparently, even during my darkest hour, I had a caffeine addiction that couldn’t be denied.

  When Stone shook my shoulder an hour later, I was still damp with sweat and my heart was beating as if I’d just sprinted up the stairs to the top of the Empire State building. According to Stone, I’d been murmuring in my sleep, and tossing and turning in the lounge chair. Despite the nonsensical quality of my dreams, I was disturbed by the fear factor embedded in them. It was time to get up and go search through the inn for items I could justify washing, just to keep me busy while I tried to clear my mind.

  * * *

  I was deep in thought, while rinsing off the dishes after serving supper to the Spurleys from Nebraska, who had checked in about three o’clock. I was aware the tuna casserole I’d made tasted more like saturated sofa stuffing, with just a hint of lemon pepper, than anything a person would actually want to eat, but fortunately, our guests didn’t complain. I wondered for a moment if turmeric would have enhanced the flavor, had we had any on hand. The Senator and his wife seemed like a kind, laid-back couple, and knew from our dinner conversation that I’d had a traumatic morning. They were very sympathetic about my emotional distress.

  And Stone was too much of a gentleman to ever criticize my cooking, no matter how God-awful the new recipes I attempted turned out. He never failed to kiss me after every meal and thank me for preparing it. The closest he’d ever come to objecting to a dish I’d served, was when he referred to my seven-layer lasagna as a “valiant effort.” Even I couldn’t choke down that culinary catastrophe, and from years of eating my own cooking, I could force down some really offensive vittles.

  When the phone rang, it startled me. I dropped a wine glass into the porcelain sink, shattering it. I didn’t even hesitate to consider the mess. Instead, I dried my hands quickly with a dishtowel and rushed to answer the phone. As I’d hoped, it was Wendy calling in regard to the results of the autopsy.

  “Hi Mom,” she greeted me. “I told Nate about our conversation earlier, and he agreed that from your conversation with Ducky yesterday, she didn’t sound like someone on the verge of ending their life. And we did find multiple hematomas on her arms.”

  “Hematomas?”

  “Bruises, basically. But as you surely know, when a person ages their skin gets considerably thinner. Sometimes an insignificant bump against a doorframe can cause major discoloration in the skin of a person Ducky’s age or even yours. Because of the nature of these hematomas, they might be considered suspicious, but can’t be definitively considered defensive wounds. And other than that, there was really nothing of any significance to be found, other than the telltale ligature marks around her neck that had the characteristic inverted ‘V’ shape, which indicates suicide rather than homicide.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “When a body is already deceased, as in the event of having been murdered before the hanging, the ligature mark is nearly always a straight-line bruise. However, in the event of a suicide, where the person is still alive when the hanging occurs, the bruise is typically in the shape of an inverted ‘V,’ as was the case with Ducky. The bruising in the entire neck region was fairly extensive, but not inconsistent with the type of bruising associated with thin skin, like we saw on her arms.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to think now,” I admitted. “Because she had on long sleeves yesterday, I didn’t see if there were already any hematomas on her arms before I left, but I’m still not one-hundred-percent convinced Ducky’s responsible for her own death, despite what the evidence suggests.”

  “You might have to just accept it and let it be. We are waiting for the results of a tox screen, however, looking for signs of things like chloroform, or perhaps Rohypnol, Ketamine or GHB.”

  “What are those?”

  “Date rape drugs.”

  “Oh, good Lord. Wendy, please tell me Ducky wasn’t raped too,” I said.

  “No, she was not sexually assaulted. These drugs could render her unconscious, or unable to defend herself. But there are a lot of drugs out there that could knock a person out. We don’t suspect this was the case, however, because we found no visible injection sites. The tox screen results are due back tomorrow morning though, and I’ll call you when we get them.”

  “Good. Thanks honey!”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Mom. It’s not likely anything will show up that will point to anything but a suicide. Had we found definitive signs of her being dead prior to the hanging, we’d surely have a case for murder. But, Mom, do you realize how hard it would be for an individual to physically carry another person, no doubt kicking and screaming for all they were worth, up a ladder and then carry out the actual hanging? Ms. Duckworthy was for certain still alive prior to her neck being broken as a result of the hanging.”

  “Yes, I’ve considered the logistics involved, and do find it difficult to imagine. I don’t recall what the noose was constructed of, do you? I was in
shock at the time.”

  “It was crudely made out of a rope. There were quite a few particles of vectran found on her clothing and in her hair, as well as a few equine hairs. The rope was probably around a horse’s neck before it was around Ducky’s neck. Did she mention owning horses to you? Do you know if she lived on a farm?”

  “No, but we never discussed where she lived. I assumed it was right here in town and never inquired.”

  “Ducky would most likely have brought it to work with her, since it isn’t something you’d typically find in a library,” Wendy continued. “That points to a pre-medicated, well-thought-out plan, and not a spur of the moment decision to kill oneself.”

  “I didn’t see any rope in the library, but Ducky got very irritated when I messed with the stuff on her desk. I guess it’s possible she didn’t want me discovering the rope in one of the drawers, probably already tied into a noose. Had I stumbled across it, I would have naturally questioned her, and if not satisfied with her response, I might have called Wyatt to come check it out. And Ducky probably would have guessed that’d be my reaction.”

  “True,” Wendy agreed.

  “Still, I’m having trouble accepting her death as a suicide. If it was, she did one hell of a brilliant job of acting when she discussed her future with me. I’m not going to let this drop until I delve into it a little deeper.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Wendy said, with a long drawn-out sigh of dismay. “Mom, please don’t get involved in this incident. The detectives will thoroughly go through every little detail and come up with a conclusive answer. They’ll be able to come to a qualified and accurate determination about what occurred last night in the library, I promise you.”

  “We’ll see,” was my short reply. I could hear my daughter groaning in exasperation as I hung up the phone.

  * * *

  After a restless night, I got up early the next morning and joined Stone in the kitchen for coffee. He was always up and about at the crack of dawn, and usually had the paper read before I even woke up. He stayed just long enough to ask how I was doing, and then went upstairs to do some measuring for his remodeling project.

  I flipped through the paper, not really concentrating on anything I read, and finished off three cups of coffee. I read the front-page article about Ducky’s “suicide” several times and found nothing of significance in it. I then spent the next couple of hours dusting every horizontal surface in the entire inn. The floors needing vacuuming, too, but I wanted to make sure I could hear the phone when it rang. So instead, I scrubbed every toilet in the place with a bleach-based toilet bowl cleaner solution, ruining my sweatshirt and favorite pair of jeans in the process. They now had little white blotches where the solution had splashed on them and bleached out the fabric. Once the toilets were sparkling, I started in the kitchen washing the windows, and proceeded through the inn, room by room, until there wasn’t one streak on any glass surface, including the bathroom mirrors.

  Exhausted, I poured myself another much-needed cup of coffee, and sat down at the table while coating chicken breasts and thighs to fry later on for supper. I was rinsing blood off my index finger, from a self-inflicted paring knife wound, when the phone finally rang at about ten-thirty.

  “Hello,” I said breathlessly into the handset, after seeing Wendy’s number on the caller I.D. monitor.

  “I was right, Mom. Nothing on the tox screen report to indicate Ducky had anything unusual in her system. Nate has signed the death certificate and put down ‘suicide’ as the C.O.D.”

  “I’m shocked, and somewhat disappointed to hear that, I must say.”

  “I knew you would be, but that’s the way it is. I’m sorry. I know how badly you didn’t want to believe Ducky could kill herself,” Wendy said.

  “I still can’t honestly say I’m totally convinced, but I do appreciate you calling me with the results. Say, did you by chance read the suicide note?”

  “No, I just heard the gist of it.”

  “Do you know where it is now?”

  “I’d assume the police department has it.”

  “Okay, just curious,” I said.

  “Uh—huh. I’m sure that’s all there is to it. You do know what curiosity did to the damned cat, don’t you, Mom?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll let you get back to work now, and talk to you later.” I hung up before Wendy could climb up on her soapbox and start lecturing me about the hazards of my doing a little investigating on my own, as she was prone to do. I quickly picked the phone back up, and waited for a dial tone, before punching in Wyatt’s cell phone number. After exchanging a few pleasantries with the detective, I got around to why I’d placed the call in the first place.

  “While I have you on the line, Wyatt, do you have access to Ducky’s suicide note?”

  “I think Detective Travis has the note on his desk. He was just finishing up the paperwork on yesterday’s 9-1-1 call. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just hoping to get an opportunity to read it. I don’t think I can let it go without reading it, and trying to come to grips with Ducky’s reasoning, in her own words, for ending her life.”

  “And that’s all there is to it?” He asked, with a hint of mistrust in his voice.

  “Of course,” I replied. Wyatt was known to get on that exact same soapbox as Wendy, and Stone, for that matter, so I tried to cut him off at the quick. “I’m not sure I like Detective Travis very much. He was quite rude and insensitive while questioning me yesterday. What’s your impression of him? I know you haven’t had the opportunity to work with him yet.”

  Wyatt nodded, before replying. “Well, Clint seems very driven and anxious to succeed, but also very introspective. He doesn’t interact much with the other officers, but he doesn’t know any of us well yet, either. So really, I have very little to base an opinion on so far. He probably was just uptight because it was the first fatality case he’d been involved in.”

  “Oh, okay. That makes sense,” I said. Actually, it made very little sense to me. The new officer hadn’t seemed uptight or upset about Ducky’s death, but more as if he were totally unaffected by it. He seemed concerned about something, but it certainly didn’t have anything to do with the librarian’s death, I was pretty sure. I was about to drop the subject and ring off, when Wyatt’s next words stopped me.

  “I’ll see if I can make you a Xerox copy of the note and drop it by later after my shift. I guess letting you read the note can’t bring any harm to you, and maybe you’ll feel more assured after you’ve seen it with your own eyes.”

  “Thanks, Wyatt. It might be best if you didn’t tell Detective Travis who you’re making a copy of it for. I got the impression he didn’t care for me any more than I did for him.”

  “I don’t know how Clint could dislike you, or hold any bias against you at all, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll just make the copy when he’s out on patrol.”

  “Thanks, Wyatt. I appreciate it.”

  * * *

  It was early in the evening when Wyatt walked in the back door and sat down at the kitchen table. I turned the burner off from under the frying pan so the chicken wouldn’t burn while I visited with the detective.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot,” I said.

  “Sure, why not? What’s one more hit of caffeine? Since I’ve started visiting you here at the inn almost every day, I’ve gotten very little sleep. Why in the world would I want to start now?”

  While I was getting a clean coffee cup out of the dishwasher, Stone joined us in the kitchen, so I snatched another cup off the top rack and closed the door. I placed the cream and sugar decanters in front of Wyatt, and then set down the full coffee cups. Before I sat down myself, I placed a plate of snickerdoodles in the middle of the table, knowing Wyatt liked sweet treats with his coffee, and Stone could never resist a cookie either.

  Stone shot Wyatt a look of disapproval after the detective had placed a piece of typing paper in front
of me and said, “Here’s the Xerox copy of Ducky’s suicide note that you requested.”

  “Does Detective Travis know you got this for me?”

  “No, he was out on a call, I’d guess. I haven’t seen him all afternoon,” Wyatt said.

  “Do you really have to encourage Lexie?” Stone asked Wyatt. “I can already see where her interest in this situation is heading.”

  “Well, it’s no longer an open case, Stone. It’s more of a cut, dried, and closed case of suicide. I didn’t really see what harm could come of Lexie reading the suicide note, and I can understand her interest in it.”

  “Okay, I just had a bad feeling about it. My intuition regarding Lexie’s intentions has always been pretty spot-on, so I am probably just over-reacting,” Stone said.

  For Stone’s benefit, I read the note aloud.

  “To Whom it May Concern. I have willingly made the choice to end my life because I can’t seem to accept the idea of a life without a job to go to every day. Spending endless hours doing nothing with Quentin is not my idea of contentment, although this is not the fault of my husband in any way. It’s just something in me that can’t stand the idea of too much idle time. I’d like to express my love for Quentin, my daughter, and, of course, my beautiful grandchildren, Marissa and Bernie, and I apologize for the fact I’ll no longer be a part of their lives. I’m afraid I’d be so adversely affected by the idea of being retired that I wouldn’t be very good company to any of them, anyway. I never have dealt well with change, and know I couldn’t cope with what would have been the biggest change ever in my life. Please forgive me for taking the cowardly way out.

  Sincerely, Bertha Duckworthy.”

  There were tears running down my cheeks by the time I’d finished reading the note I held in my trembling hand. Nothing about it rang true to me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling this wasn’t a note Ducky would have contrived, but it tugged at my heartstrings, nonetheless. There was something else about it that troubled me, but I couldn’t put a finger on it at the time. All I could do was shrug my shoulders, and thank Wyatt for getting me a copy of it to read.