by Sara Rosett
“I know it sounds crazy, but that is what Ms. McCormick said.”
He took me through Ms. McCormick’s story, then circled back and asked me about certain points again. Finally, he put his notebook and pen away. “It would make this whole situation much easier if she’d kept the note demanding money from her,” he said.
“Do you think it could be true?” I asked. “I’ve heard some other . . . rumors. Nothing substantial, but . . .”
He took out his notebook again, and I recounted what Margo had told me without mentioning her name. “And then Gabrielle Matheson called me and told me she had some juicy gossip about something shady going on in the office, but I haven’t heard back from her, so I don’t know exactly what she was talking about.” I frowned. “In fact, it’s odd that she hasn’t called me back. That’s not like her.”
Detective Waraday’s chest heaved with a silent sigh as he added Gabrielle’s name to his notebook. “I wouldn’t worry about it. If there is one person who knows how to look out for herself, it’s Mrs. Matheson.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s true.”
He rubbed his hand down over his face, muffling his next words. “That was an inappropriate comment. I’m putting in too many hours, if I’m not censoring myself.”
“I suppose something can be inappropriate but still true,” I said with a grin.
“If that means I can count on you not to pass that comment on to Mrs. Matheson, then thank you.” He stood and moved to open the door for me, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I thought you were giving up sleuthing,” he said.
I threw up a hand. “I’m trying. It’s not like I was camped out, waiting for Ms. McCormick to come back to the school. And about the blackmail, what M—” I cleared my throat, realizing I’d almost given away Margo’s name. “. . . my friend told me about the rumors . . . well, I’m sure you can imagine what the number-one topic of conversation is among people connected to the school—Klea’s death—so it’s not like I’m seeking this out.”
Detective Waraday nodded. “Right. Just be careful. The possibilities are narrowing. That’s got to make the murderer nervous.”
“Are you narrowing things down?”
“Oh, yes. We may have this resolved shortly. About the note and the handwriting samples . . . I have a local consultant—a person I’ve used a few times. I called her in, and she took a look at the two samples before I sent everything off to the state crime lab. She’s confident the same person wrote both the note you received and the gaming flowchart.”
“So Ms. McCormick did write the note that was in Livvy’s take-home folder.”
Detective Waraday nodded. “And probably threw the brick through the window of your van. I checked with the teachers in the rooms on either side of Ms. McCormick’s room, asking them about the time period after you spoke to Ms. McCormick in the teachers’ lounge. Ms. McCormick wasn’t in her classroom when the bell rang for that next period. One of the teachers in the room next door to her classroom said she had to go over and tell Ms. McCormick’s class to be quiet. Ms. McCormick arrived a minute or so later, slightly out of breath and with her hair windblown. Would she have known which car was yours?”
“Yes. All the teachers take turns monitoring drop-off and pickup. I’m sure she’d remember that I had a minivan. If she didn’t remember exactly which one, she’d just have to look for the one with my kids’ name tags hanging from the rearview mirror.” The school required parents to hang laminated tags from their rearview mirror with the names of their students on it, to help keep the drop-off and pickup lines moving. “She didn’t actually admit to throwing a brick at my van, but she told me she wanted me to back off.”
“So now it’s just a question of running down this blackmail thing, seeing if there is any truth in that,” Detective Waraday said.
“But Ms. McCormick didn’t think it was Klea who was blackmailing her.”
“Right. But she’s lied before,” Detective Waraday said simply.
He opened the door, and let me precede him out of the office. Mrs. Kirk was at the counter, speaking to a teacher. Marie’s desk was finally empty and the basket of inter-office envelopes sat invitingly unattended, but I thought that Detective Waraday would definitely see it as stepping on his toes if I tried to get a look at them. I settled for pointing out the envelopes quietly to Detective Waraday while Mrs. Kirk finished up at the counter. When she turned around, Detective Waraday thanked her for the use of her office, then said, “I’d like to make sure that Ms. McCormick didn’t put any of her other papers in your inter-office mail. It would be helpful if I could check that. I can have the search warrant extended to include the office. . . .”
Mrs. Kirk said, “No need,” and gestured to Marie’s desk and the stack of envelopes. “There they are. Help yourself. You can even use Marie’s desk. She’s at lunch.”
Detective Waraday sat down and began to unwind the string on the top envelope. I left the office and spotted Livvy’s class going into the lunchroom. She had late lunch today. She waved and slowed down. “Are you here to have lunch with me?”
I checked my watch and saw that I had some time. “If you’d like that,” I said, and she nodded.
I wasn’t sure what had brought on the sudden change of her being okay being seen with me, but I figured I’d enjoy it while I could. I ate a lunch of watery spaghetti and heard all about Livvy’s science class and their last experiment of the year, building a suspension bridge for toy cars using clothespins, paper, and yarn. Her team had built the only bridge that hadn’t collapsed. Watching her animated face and listening to her and her friends describe their design, often speaking over each other in their excitement, I wished the rest of the school year could be more like the end of the year.
The end of the year—when the standardized tests were over—was when the kids got to do all the fun stuff. Instead of studying for the standardized tests, why couldn’t the kids do more hands-on activities like this throughout the year? Abby and I discussed this topic often—in fact, I knew not to get her started on it unless I had plenty of time to listen.
We turned in our trays, and I said good-bye to Livvy and her friends. “See you at the end-of-school party, Mrs. Avery,” one of Livvy’s friends called as I left. The parties were still a week away, but the kids were already looking forward to them.
I gathered up my laptop and left the school for the organizing appointment with my new client. I wished Marguerite-with-the-last-name-left-blank had given me more details. It would have been nice to have a better idea of what she was hoping for, but she hadn’t filled in any of the additional fields except the one for how she heard about me. She’d marked From a Friend, but that was it, except for the address.
North Dawkins was an interesting mix of densely packed stands of pines, sprawling rural areas with small ranch homes on large lots, and pockets of suburbia with street grids and modern homes. Marguerite lived in one of the more rural areas, and I was glad I had used my GPS as I turned onto the unmarked and slightly rutted lane that ran through a thick copse of pines.
The trees fell away, and I drove into a small clearing with a pale yellow frame house with a connected carport, which was obviously a more modern addition, tacked on to the side. A little flowerbed of orange and yellow flowers ringed the foundation of the house and a pair of white iron chairs were positioned at the side of the clearing in the shade of the pines.
I followed the rutted tracks to the carport and parked behind a silver two-door sedan. It was another muggy day, and the air felt heavy and stagnant as I walked around to the back of the van to gather my tote bag with all my organizing paraphernalia. Except for the faint call of a bird, the clearing was absolutely quiet and still. Not even a gust of wind ruffled the tops of the pines.
I climbed the steps to the wooden porch and rang the bell next to the door, which had a metal screen door mounted in front of it. I waited, surveying the porch swing with its flowered cushion and the hanging pots of petun
ias. A bee buzzed lazily from one bright pink flower to another. After a few minutes, I rang the bell again, leaning a bit longer on the button, but I didn’t hear any sounds from inside to indicate someone was on his or her way to the door. Despite the car parked to the side of the house, it felt like no one was home. I knocked on the frame of the metal screen door. It clattered, sounding extra loud in the stillness, and the bee bobbed off around the side of the house.
It certainly wasn’t the first time someone had forgotten an appointment with me, but it was unusual that someone would not show up for an appointment they’d made only a few hours earlier. With sweat already beading along my hairline, I shifted over a few steps, taking a peek in the windows on either side of the front door. Through the window on the left, I could see a dining room table and a corner cabinet with antique plates displayed. Clearly, Marguerite didn’t need my help organizing that spotless room. I moved to the other window and caught my breath.
A woman lay sprawled on a couch. My hands began to shake as I reached for my phone to call 911 even though I knew it was too late to help her. There could be no mistake—with her white skin and jaw hanging open, she was dead. But what was worse was that it wasn’t some stranger named Marguerite. It was Peg.
Chapter Eighteen
I don’t know how long it was until I heard the low rev of an engine. I looked up and saw a sheriff’s car bump down the rutted road toward me. I’d dialed 911 and then called Detective Waraday and left him a message when he didn’t answer.
My legs had felt unsteady, and I’d moved over to the porch steps. I had dropped down onto the lowest step and put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, fighting off the surge of nausea that hit me as I thought about Peg’s slack and lifeless face.
The deputy parked the car near the steps. He came out of his vehicle slowly. He was a young man in his twenties with dark hair and eyes. RAMIREZ was printed on his name tag. “You made the emergency call?”
I nodded, grabbed the step’s handrail, and levered myself up. “Yes. I had an appointment here at two—I’m a professional organizer—but no one answered the door, so I looked in the window and saw her. She’s on the couch,” I said, looking over my shoulder to the house.
“Name?”
“She’s Peg Watson. She worked at the elementary school.”
“No, your name.”
“Oh. Ellie Avery.”
He methodically took down my name and contact information, then told me to stay where I was and climbed the steps to the porch. He peered in both windows for a moment, then went to the front door. He tugged on the screen door’s handle, and it opened with a screech. He raised his hand and knocked on the wooden front door, but it swung open at the first touch of his knuckles.
He turned back to me. “Did you go inside?”
“No. I just rang the bell and knocked on the screen.”
“You didn’t notice that the door wasn’t closed?”
“No.”
He was about to enter the house when the sound of another car engine filled the air. It was Detective Waraday. He parked beside the sheriff’s car and crossed quickly to the steps. He must have received my message because he said, “It’s Peg Watson? You’re sure?”
I nodded. “I could see her through the window.” He went up the steps, paused to glance in the front window, then moved to the front door. “William,” Detective Waraday said in greeting.
The deputy nodded. “Detective. I haven’t been in yet.” He glanced over Detective Waraday’s shoulder to me. “Witness states that she didn’t enter the house.” He waved at the door. “It opened when I knocked.”
Detective Waraday removed some plastic gloves from his pocket and handed a pair to Deputy Ramirez. “I have a feeling we’ll need these.” He lifted his chin toward the open door as he worked his fingers into the gloves, indicating that the deputy should move into the house.
They were in the house for about five minutes before Detective Waraday came back outside and moved slowly down the steps, his face grim.
“You didn’t enter the house?”
“No. I rang the bell and knocked. I didn’t even know Peg lived here. I mean, she does live here, right?”
“Yes. This is her residence. Let’s move over to those chairs in the shade.” Detective Waraday pulled off the plastic gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. I realized that I was sweaty, too. Normally, I spent as little time as possible outdoors when it was hot and muggy, but the heat hadn’t even registered. My shirt pressed damply against the skin between my shoulder blades, but I felt cold. The warm metal of the chair against the back of my legs actually felt soothing.
Detective Waraday sat down across from me and said, “Why are you here?”
I explained about the online appointment system and even showed him the message on my phone. “See, it says the client is Marguerite. Why would someone put in a fake name and then give this address?” I asked. I’d been pondering that question while I waited for the officers to come back out of the house.
“It wasn’t a fake name,” Detective Waraday said. “Not technically. Ms. Watson’s full name is Marguerite Erica Watson. Peg is a nickname. When did you get that message?” Detective Waraday asked.
“This morning.”
“Had Ms. Watson ever mentioned setting up an appointment with you?”
“No, never.” I shook my head. “In fact, she hardly ever spoke to me . . . or anyone, really, that I saw. She was very, um, antisocial. Kept to herself.”
He handed my phone back. “I’d like to have my tech people take a look at that message.”
“Of course.” I put my phone back in my pocket. “What happened?”
“Overdose,” Detective Waraday said. “Prescription painkillers.”
“That’s—that’s terrible.”
“Unfortunately, we’re seeing it more and more—accidental overdose, I mean,” he said, his face bleak.
“I had no idea that she had any sort of . . . problem like that.”
“Oh, not her. I meant in general we’re seeing more and more deaths related to painkillers. No, I didn’t see any evidence that she was an addict. It appears that she used painkillers that were prescribed to her several months ago by a reputable local dentist, probably after a dental surgery.”
I frowned. “I do remember back around January, right after Christmas break, that Peg was extra . . . um, grumpy.” I cleared my throat, feeling guilty about talking about Peg this way, but it was true and if it could help Detective Waraday narrow down the possibilities, then I should tell him.
He nodded, and I went on, “Anyway, it was during that time—right after school started in January—that Marie told me that Peg had her wisdom teeth removed.”
“That makes sense,” he said. “In cases with addicts, it is common to find meds from these fake ‘pain centers’ that have popped up. We’re cracking down on them, and we’ve made a lot of progress, but there are still some out there. It doesn’t seem that was what was going on here.”
“Peg was sick earlier today,” I said, “but I can’t imagine she would have taken a prescription painkiller for a virus or flu or whatever it was that she had. At least, not intentionally. Is there a chance that she got—I don’t know—mixed up or something and took the wrong medicine?”
“I’m afraid not.” He reached inside his jacket and removed a white sheet of paper that was already encased in plastic. “Suicide,” he said as he handed it to me.
I blinked and scanned the typed page with Peg’s signature at the bottom. I read a few lines, then looked up at him. It wasn’t long and began without a salutation: I can’t stand it anymore. It’s too difficult. Now that everyone will know, I don’t want to go on. It’s true that I took money from people, but they were so dumb that they deserved it. If they hadn’t been doing things they shouldn’t, they wouldn’t have had anything to worry about. Same thing with Klea. If she had minded her own business, I wouldn�
�t have had to kill her.
The typed signature was Peg’s full name, Marguerite Erica Watson, and under her name was a date, today’s date. I looked up at Detective Waraday. “She says she did it—that she killed Klea,” I said, amazed.
He nodded. “And admits to the blackmail, too.”
“How terrible,” I said again, and handed the paper back to him. I felt even colder than I had before and wrapped my arms across my waist.
Detective Waraday’s phone rang, and he took the call, saying only a few words and listening for long moments. I stared at the tall pines behind Detective Waraday, my thoughts swirling—Peg, dead. It was so shocking. And the things that were coming out—blackmail at the school, not to mention murder. I thought back to the morning that Klea had gone missing. While moms were squeezing into tiny chairs and nibbling muffins with their kids, Peg had killed Klea. Something—some stray thought—flitted in and out of my mind, but before I could grasp it, it disappeared. It had been there, something that seemed important, too. But now it was gone like a wisp of ground fog that appeared in the morning, then vanished as soon as the sun hit it.
Detective Waraday hung up and shifted back to me. “Would you say Ms. Watson had been depressed or frightened lately?”
“I suppose I should say that I didn’t know her well enough to answer that question, but as little as I knew her, I would say no. She didn’t seem at all like someone who would commit suicide.” I paused, thinking over my interactions, then said, “But Marie is who you should talk to about that.” I sat forward suddenly. “Why would someone make an appointment to organize their closets, then kill themselves later that day? That just seems odd.”
“I agree, but if she made the appointment, then later realized the net was closing around her . . . perhaps she decided she’d rather die than face the consequences of her actions. Could she have overheard Ms. McCormick’s accusations?”
“It’s possible she could have,” I said. “Anyone could have been in the hallway and heard us, but I didn’t see Peg. But then Peg got sick and left the school. Could it be . . . ? You’re sure her death was an overdose, not something else? I wonder if she had some sort of medical condition. . . .”
