Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  That she was weak?

  “We’ll be in touch in the morning,” Hal said.

  “Get some rest,” Hailey added.

  “You guys, too.”

  Hailey reached out and squeezed her hand before turning down the hallway. She felt the solidarity. They were a team. She was no longer alone with Spencer.

  But as soon as the door was closed, she knew that wasn’t true.

  She poured herself a finger of bourbon, swallowed it in a single long gulp. Coughed into her back of her hand from the burn.

  Bringing them here was a mistake. She should have gone to the department. The issue wasn’t with Hailey or Hal. She would welcome them into her home. By bringing the conversation to her home, she had let Spencer in, as well.

  After years of fighting to keep him out, she had just opened the door and welcomed him in.

  6

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Still in uniform from a court appearance earlier in the day, Detective Harper Leighton was butterflying chicken breasts while oil heated in the fry pan. The window above the kitchen sink was open, the air outside stagnant and humid. May used to be cooler in Charleston. Her squad car read the temp as high as eighty-five today. Too hot for May. It meant July would be a bear.

  Harper moved the knife deftly. She’d been wielding a knife since toddlerhood, or at least a fry pan and a spatula, as one would expect from a girl who grew up in the back room of her parents’ restaurant. For her, cooking was as natural as driving. And like driving, while she did it deftly, she did not enjoy it. Not usually and especially not tonight. She had only just walked in the door from work fifteen minutes ago.

  It was nearly nine. She’d planned on coming home by six thirty or seven to make dinner and have it ready before Jed picked Lucy up from volleyball practice and arrived home. Nights like this, she had her go-to recipes. First on the list was her father’s fried chicken. Fill a Ziploc bag with flour, salt, pepper, paprika, and two shakes of cayenne the way she’d seen him do it a thousand times. He never measured. Half the time he wasn’t even watching what he was doing.

  Tonight, she wasn’t measuring either. Too tired, too hurried, too anxious to have dinner on the table so she could sit down.

  Maybe then she could leave behind the two vehicular homicides she was investigating, plus the domestic violence incident that had escalated into a shooting and killed a neighbor through an adjoining wall. Between the back-to-back interviews, follow-up interviews, and two trips to the lab, she’d been at her desk for only about three minutes, enough time to pop two Advil and make one phone call.

  She massaged the chicken to break up the last frozen bits, poured buttermilk into a stainless bowl, dunked the breasts one at a time, shook them in the bag until they were coated, and dropped them in the skillet. The oil crackled and hissed, and as it did she recalled the familiar smell of the crowded restaurant, her father’s hearty laugh, and the scent of vanilla custard that was one with her mother.

  Lucy would be starving, and she would enter the house with typical teenage drama. There’d be the rumble of the garage door, a slam followed by the quieter, gentler driver’s-side door closing as Jed also emerged from the car. Four quick breaths later, the kitchen door would burst open and shoes, backpack, gear, lunch box, water bottle would drop to the floor in a heap as she passed and stomped up the stairs.

  At fifteen, Lucy was predictable only in her mood swings. Ten years earlier, when their daughter reached school age, Harper and Jed had set out house rules. One was that coats, bags, shoes, and the like had to be hung up or out of the pathway to the garage.

  House rules had fallen apart sometime last spring when Lucy turned into—well, whatever this was. It was practically a fire danger the way stuff was strewn around.

  As Harper flipped the first breast, oil spit at her. She grabbed the apron off the hook and pulled it on over her blues, wishing she’d had time to change her clothes before cooking. She checked the biscuits in the oven, thankful for the dough her mother had brought by over the weekend and more grateful that they hadn’t baked it all for Sunday dinner. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were always a scramble. Harper worked tens, and they were the busiest days at the lab for Jed.

  Though she’d resisted Jed’s pragmatic response to her wanting another child when Lucy was two or three, she couldn’t imagine now how they could have managed two children.

  The garage door started with a kick and rumbled open as Harper slid the biscuits out of the oven. She swung open the refrigerator door, found a bottle of beer, and gave the door a bump with her hip to send it closed. The cap fought a little—probably the opener starting to wear down from use—but Harper won, and the cap popped off. She tossed it into the trash and tipped the bottle to her lips as the door opened from the garage.

  Jed entered first, scowling.

  She lowered the beer. “What’s wrong?”

  “According to your daughter, everything.”

  She was always Harper’s daughter when she was being moody and difficult. Unless it was Harper talking. Then she was Jed’s. “Want a beer?”

  “Uh, duh,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  Harper handed Jed her beer. “Lucy’s better at the eye roll.”

  “I know. I don’t have nearly as much practice,” he said with an exasperated sigh—another of Lucy’s favorite new mannerisms. Harper opened the refrigerator for another one.

  The phone rang.

  “You think it’s Lucy, calling from the car?”

  Jed’s hand hovered above the wireless receiver. “If it is, she is grounded for a month.”

  “Hello.” The smile vanished as he set down the beer. Harper closed the refrigerator.

  “Okay, Kathy. Hang on a sec. She’s right here.”

  Harper crossed to the phone.

  Jed covered the mouthpiece. “Frances Pinckney is dead.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Dead?”

  “Your mother just found her.”

  Harper reached for the phone, but before she could speak, the door from the garage slammed against the kitchen wall.

  Making a racket, Lucy kicked her shoes off as she entered the house, dropped her backpack and lunch sack onto the floor, and crossed to the kitchen table, where she dropped into a chair.

  “I’m absolutely starving,” she announced. “What’s for dinner?”

  7

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Harper arrived at the home of Frances Pinckney as the coroner’s vehicle was parking. Charleston County owned three coroner’s vans, but the one on the curb was the oldest by more than a decade. Rusted wheel wells and a rattling that could be heard a block away, the van was nicknamed “Bessie.” The fact that it was Bessie parked on the curb meant Burl Delford was on call. He was the only medical examiner who opted for the old van. The driver’s side door opened with an earsplitting screech, and Burl descended from the driver’s seat, cowboy boots first. “Evening, Detective,” he said with a nod.

  Burl was nearly six feet tall with a thick head of gray hair that was a little long for Charleston standards. He wore a mustache with full chops that he’d supposedly had since he could grow facial hair.

  Burl had been with the coroner’s office for thirty-five years.

  Never married, no kids, Burl spent his time off riding with a Baptist motorcycle club called the Holy Rollers. Harper was glad he was here. The coroner’s office had a good team, but Burl was old-school. For Frances Pinckney, he felt like the right match.

  “Evening, Burl.”

  “You up again?” he asked.

  “No. I called in and said I’d take it since we knew her,” she told him. She had grown up with Frances’s son, David. She would have to call him. Notifications were the toughest part—somehow even worse on the phone when she couldn’t touch their shoulders or hands, offer some physical contact with the news.

  “Heard your mama found her,” he said.

  “Harper!” came her mother’s voice as she
rushed across the sidewalk toward her daughter. There was an awkwardness to her mother’s movements—stiff and slow. They made her seem much older than sixty-eight.

  Kleenex clasped to her mouth, Kathy Leighton hugged Harper tight, pressing her face into her daughter’s shoulder. She smelled of onions and shrimp in Cajun seasoning. Beyond that, Harper smelled fresh-baked biscuits and vanilla custard. In her arms, her mother was soft and vulnerable in a way that was unsettling.

  “I can’t believe it’s Frances,” her mother said. “I just saw her at church on Sunday. Sat in the row behind her.”

  Harper had missed church to drive Lucy to a volleyball tournament in Myrtle Beach. “I’m so sorry, Mama. You should go home. Is Dad here?”

  She pulled away from her daughter and tugged her cotton shirt down over her ample hips as though to pull herself together. “No,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t reach him. He went over to the bar. Tuesdays, you know.”

  “Right.” Since retirement, her father joined three other retirees on Tuesdays to play Hearts and drink whiskey. “Okay. I’ll get someone to take you to pick up Daddy.” Harper kept one arm around her mother. She rubbed her shoulder the same way her mama used to rub hers. Months had passed since Lucy let Harper give her a hug. Now she was mothering her mother. Maybe that was just the natural way things shifted.

  Her mother shuddered with a cry, and new tears tracked paths down her cheeks. Harper took the Kleenex from her mother and wiped her cheeks. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I got a call from her neighbor Kimberly Walker. You know, the one who worked at the diner on and off ’round about when you were in high school. Always friendly and upbeat but always had her nose in someone else’s pie, if you get my meaning. She ended up marrying that widower Teddy Davies who lives right behind Frances. You remember her?”

  Harper shook her head.

  “Well, she’s been telling me how Frances’s dog barks all evening while she and Teddy are enjoying dinner and their evening TV programs. ’Course it doesn’t bother Teddy because he can’t hear a thing. She was going on about the dog so much, I told her to call me when he started barking.

  “So, she calls about eight forty,” her mother went on. “Says Cooper—that’s the dog—was making a terrible ruckus. I told her to go ring the bell, and she said she already did, but Frances wasn’t answering. I don’t know why on God’s green earth she didn’t just look into the window. She’d have seen Frances right there on the floor by the stairs.” She fought back tears. “I’ll never forget her lying on the floor. The angle of her neck, dear God.”

  Harper released her mother’s arm with a pat and took out her notebook. “You’re doing great, Mama. Just a few more questions.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you come straight over after Kimberly called?”

  “No. I tried calling Frances first. Tried her home a couple of times, then her mobile. She never has that thing on, so the call went straight to voicemail. But she usually answers her home line when I call. When she didn’t, I decided to come over and check on her.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  “I was here by ten to nine. Saw her straightaway and called the police. They called you.”

  Harper scratched a few notes, then waved one of the patrol officers over. “I’ve got to work, Mama. Andy will take you home.” To the officer, she said, “On the way, will you swing by the Tattooed Moose? Daddy is there playing cards, and I don’t want Mama at home alone.”

  “Sure thing, Detective. I’ll do it straightaway.”

  “Thanks.” Harper gave her mother a tight hug. “I’ll call to check on you a little later.”

  Her mother glanced back up at Frances Pinckney’s house. “I can’t believe you have to go in there and see her like that, Harper.”

  “It’s my job, Mama. I’ll be okay.”

  “Dear Lord, I don’t know how you do this job.”

  Harper kissed her mother and headed inside to the body. On the way in, she used her flashlight to study the lock on the door. There were no fresh marks, no scrapes to suggest someone had broken in. Windows lined the porch. There would be a lot of ways to get in. The crime scene analysts should be there soon. They could do a more thorough search of possible entry spots.

  In the foyer, Burl knelt next to Frances. As her mother had said, the dead woman’s neck was twisted from her shoulders at an unnatural angle.

  Harper had to take a breath before moving forward. This wasn’t the first victim she had known. Over the years, she had investigated the deaths of a few of her classmates and plenty of folks who used to frequent her parents’ diner. Some of the deaths had less impact than others.

  Seeing Frances Pinckney was heartbreaking.

  A petite lady with a sweet disposition, she lay dead in her velour jogging suit, eyes wide-open, fists clenched tight, and neck broken. The little dog she loved so much—a gift from her son—whimpered beside her. Frances’s expression was both desperate and angry.

  “What do you think?” Harper asked.

  “She’s been dead less than two hours,” Burl reported. “It might have been a cardiac event or stroke. If she was alive when she fell, hitting the banister would have been cause of death. Not hard to see that she broke her neck. The break might have been peri- or postmortem.” He paused to touch Mrs. Pinckney’s neck. “If it was cause of death, it’s a clean fracture. Would have been real quick. Painless.”

  “Small blessings,” Harper said.

  “Amen,” he agreed. “I’ll perform the autopsy in the morning. Take a look at her heart and brain for signs of some event. I’ll call when I’ve got some answers.”

  Harper stood again. “Thanks, Burl. I’m going to head over and talk to the neighbor.”

  Burl reached up to Frances’s face and used his thumb and forefinger to close her eyes.

  Tears stung as Harper walked out the front door. The tears were not because of Frances. It was her mother who upset her. Her mother refused to read scary books, wouldn’t watch detective shows. Now she had the image of her friend lying dead in her head.

  Harper checked which rooms were visible from the porch. Mostly she just needed the air. You’re human, she told herself. It’s okay to be human. When she came back around to the front of the house, she found the other patrol officer, Sam Pearson, on the front porch. And there she was crying. Perfect. She should have been there to comfort him, as this was his first dead body. Instead she moved awkwardly past without saying anything.

  Schoolmates from the time they were just out of diapers, Sam and Harper were also high school sweethearts. Sam had been the biggest catch in high school. He’d lettered in football, baseball, and basketball. Harper had been a track star, but she’d had none of the star appeal that Sam did. Despite the frequent attempts by one or another of the cheerleading squad to break them up, they’d stayed together through high school graduation.

  “I need to talk to Kimberly Walker. You want to come?”

  Sam cocked an eyebrow high the way he used to do in high school when he was teasing her about being bossy.

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Come on, Pearson. It’ll be fun.”

  The porch creaked as Sam followed her down the alley. He had almost five years with the department to her sixteen. Most of his peers in patrol were ten or twelve years his junior. Technically speaking, Harper was his superior, but she did her best not to act it. She supposed they had found a sort of comfortable awkwardness. It was just so different from the way they’d been in high school, and she had to force herself not to try for that old, easy banter.

  Harper rounded the house and walked about fifteen yards down the alley before stopping in front of a traditional Charleston single, painted white with green shutters. The large metal disk on the side of the house indicated that it was built prior to the earthquake of 1886.

  Because much of historic Charleston was built on landfill, the earthquake had caused houses to sink into the quicksand-like dirt they were buil
t on. The ones that survived the earthquake were fixed with bolts, which could be tightened over time to pull the houses back together, inch by inch. The disks merely created a pleasing aesthetic to cover the bolts.

  Before starting up the stairs, Harper checked her notes to confirm the address she had for Kimberly Walker. Sam crossed to the other set of stairs and moved up them quickly. As it wasn’t proper for men to see women walking up the stairs, where they might accidentally catch the view of her ankle or, heaven forbid, her calf, many of Charleston’s older homes were built with two sets of stairs.

  Etiquette dictated that the man be waiting when the woman arrived at the top of the stairs. Though he no longer looked like her high school sweetheart, there were parts of him there. Sam was always there, at the top, waiting. Even if he never met her eye.

  Strange what bitterness did. All over the fact that she had gone to UNC and he had stayed behind.

  Harper rang the bell while Sam stood back, hands clasped in front of him. Walker was home. At least that was what she’d told Harper’s mom.

  She reached for the bell again when Sam grabbed her hand. Their eyes met, and Sam dropped his hold. “She’s coming,” he said, nodding to the door.

  The front door cracked, and Harper displayed her badge. “Mrs. Walker, I’m—”

  “It’s Davies now. Mrs. Davies. And I know who you are,” she said, the frown running into the creases around her lips. “I worked for your parents for almost four years.”

  “I understand you heard noise coming from Mrs. Pinckney’s house this evening. We’d like to ask you a few questions if we could.”

  Kimberly Walker Davies unlocked the chain, opening the door with a flourish. She stood in a nightgown and matching robe in a color Harper would call salmon. Sam closed the door behind them. As Harper stepped inside, Mrs. Davies’s gown blended into the apricot-painted walls of the front room. Peach carpet and a chandelier that hung from the ceiling twenty or thirty feet above, with its heavy cut crystal leaves and cantaloupe accents. This was clearly her color.