What was the problem? I pondered this question as I brushed my teeth and undressed in the bathroom. Was I hung up on petty domestic complaints—socks on the floor, volume too high on the TV? Or had I lived alone for so long that I was finding it hard to let go of my deep-rooted sense of independence?
All I knew was that we seemed to be out of sync lately, especially with our schedules. In order to pursue his passion for photography as an art form and not just a job, Wes had been getting up early to take advantage of the golden hour shortly after sunrise. I, on the other hand, had been working late, both at the office and at home.
That must be it, I decided. Work-related stress was spilling over at home. For the past few weeks I’d been spending extra hours at the office preparing for a custody hearing. With children at stake and a client on edge, I wasn’t about to show up underprepared. Fortunately, my hard work paid off and we had a happy outcome. I should have been out celebrating, or taking a much-needed breather. Instead, my boss piled on networking events and community service.
I tiptoed into the bedroom and slipped under the covers next to Wes. I supposed the truth was a combination of things. I had to admit I was still getting used to the idea of sharing my home and my life with another person. But I had no regrets. As I snuggled up against Wes’s warm body, I was grateful that the next day was Saturday. I could sleep in and spend a deliciously languid day hanging out with my man.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. My plans fell apart with the ring of the phone at 7:00 a.m. It was my boss, Beverly Olsen.
“Keli, sorry to call you so early,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “The photographer wants to do our group photo this morning at the office. Do you think you can be here by nine? Wear your navy suit and a white blouse. And maybe a string of pearls, if you have any.”
“Photographer?” I rubbed my eyes and tried to remember.
“From the Bar Association magazine,” she said impatiently. “For my profile, remember? They want to include a photo of all the partners.”
“Oh, right. Okay. No problem.”
I hung up and looked at the empty space in the bed next to me. Then I heard a sound in the doorway. Wes came in and leaned against the jamb. Even through my bleary eyes, he looked incredibly sexy with his dark, tousled hair and unshaven jawline. He had his camera around his neck and a scowl on his lips. “You’re leaving?”
“It won’t take long,” I said. “Just a quick little photoshoot at the office.”
“Right.” He knew there was no such thing as a quick photoshoot. He also knew I never took quick trips to the office. This wasn’t the first time I’d been called in on a weekend.
So much for my lazy Saturday. I dragged myself to the shower and got ready for work, grumbling to myself the whole time. A little while later, I arrived at the office dressed for success—or at least the appearance of success—in a pressed suit, sensible pumps, and smooth French twist.
My boss took one look at me and shook her head. “Hair down, Keli. Pulled back is a bit too severe. Let’s not hide your lovely locks. We’re going for approachable here. Trustworthy.”
I opened my mouth to respond but found myself at a loss for words. Beverly’s own silver-streaked auburn hair was piled high on her head. I supposed that was different. Her trademark coiffure was like a crown, marking her as the boss lady.
I slipped into my private office to brush out my hair—and to suppress the negative feelings that threatened to reveal themselves in my expression. I seemed to be doing that at work a lot lately, tamping down feelings of discontent.
After a quick round of ujjayi breathing, which I had learned in yoga class, I returned to the lobby with my game face on. The photographer was still conferring with Beverly and adjusting the lights, so I joined the other partners, Kris, Randall, and Crenshaw, at the coffee bar in Beverly’s private lounge. Crenshaw was reading something out loud from his smartphone.
“How awful,” said Kris. “I can’t imagine finding—” She stopped midsentence when she saw me.
“What’s awful?” I asked.
“A body was found in the woods early this morning, out near Briar Creek Cabins,” said Crenshaw. “A woman, shot once in the back. Evidently the authorities haven’t been able to ID her yet.”
A feeling of dread coursed through my veins, and I grabbed the back of a nearby armchair to steady myself.
“Yeah,” said Randall. “For once someone besides you found the body.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kris, touching my arm. “This must bring back bad memories for you.”
I shrugged and reached for the glass water pitcher. Right, I thought. That must be it. My past experiences finding murder victims must account for the slight tremble in my hand as I poured a glass of water.
Beverly called us to the lobby. I put the grim news out of my mind and plastered a smile on my face. It was time to look happy. And trustworthy.
The photoshoot proceeded along fairly smoothly, though the photographer had to keep telling Crenshaw to lower his chin. After several shots, we took a short break while the magazine people set up a new location. That’s when I heard my cell phone ring. I dug it out of my purse, expecting it to be Mrs. Hammerlin again. To my surprise, the display said Edindale Police.
“Hello?” I answered, my heart already beating faster.
“Keli Milanni? This is Detective Adrian Rhinehardt.”
I swallowed hard. Adrian Rhinehardt was a homicide detective. Our paths had crossed more than once over the past couple of years. “Hello, Detective,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to have to ask this, but could you please meet me down at the medical examiner’s office? There’s a body here I’m hoping you can identify.”
CHAPTER FOUR
My colleagues offered to accompany me to the ME’s office, but I turned them down. There was only one person I wanted at my side. Wes made it to my office in record time, and we drove to the county building together. Detective Rhinehardt met us at the entrance.
Stocky and muscular, with a buzz cut that de-emphasized his receding hairline, Adrian Rhinehardt was a man who inspired confidence. In all my previous encounters with him, he’d been cool and serious, but today he seemed warmer. I noted his rumpled dress shirt and the lines around his eyes and wondered if, like me, he’d been called in to work on his day off.
He led us to a small, private room decorated in soft blues and greens. “Please sit down,” he said, motioning to a pair of upholstered chairs situated on one side of a large table-like writing desk. He sat on the other side, just as the door opened and a petite woman slipped quietly inside. “This is Amy Tracy,” the detective said. “She’s a grief counselor, here to lend her support.”
We shook hands and took our seats. I sat on the edge of the chair and squeezed my hands together to keep them from shaking. I had never done anything like this before and didn’t know what to expect. The support of Wes’s steady hand on my back helped, but only a little.
Detective Rhinehardt gathered a stack of papers in front of him and tapped them together. “First off,” he said, “in case you’re wondering, we’re not going over to the morgue. Nowadays, the ID is done by photo.”
“Oh! I didn’t know.” That made me feel slightly better.
Rhinehardt cleared his throat. “Now then, I am truly sorry for asking you to come here like this. I know this isn’t pleasant. But I have to ask—would you mind sharing your thoughts? You didn’t seem very surprised when I called.” He paused a beat and eyed me carefully. “Do you have any idea who this woman might be? She was found in Shawnee this morning without any identification. She had a purse on her with some cash, but there was no driver’s license or any credit cards.”
I nodded. “Yes. I—I do have an idea. I have an aunt who was supposed to pick someone up at the airport yesterday and didn’t show.”
Rhinehardt dropped his shoulders in a subtle gesture of relief. His job had just gotten a whole lot easier. “Oka
y,” he said. “Now I just need to get some information from you.” He pulled out a form from his stack of papers and began filling out the top section.
Amy leaned forward. “Were you and your aunt close?”
“Actually . . . not very. I didn’t even know she was in town.” I turned to Rhinehardt. “How did you know to call me?”
“There was a paper in her pocket,” he said. “Here, I’ll show you.” He retrieved a Ziploc bag from a nearby box and laid it flat on the table. Inside was a handwritten note. It appeared to be a to-do list:
– See Ricki
– Pick up Fredeline
– Call Keli
When I recognized my phone number printed next to the name “Keli,” a small cry of sadness escaped my lips. This was really happening.
“Fredeline is the woman who flew in to see my aunt,” I told the detective. “She told me she was looking forward to finally meeting her. I guess they had corresponded only by letter and phone.” In typical Josephine fashion.
I provided Rhinehardt the contact information Fredeline had left with me. Then I told him the details he needed for his form—my own contact information, as well as Josephine’s full name, age, and next of kin. When he finished writing, Rhinehardt sat back and peered carefully at me once again. “How are you doing? Would you like a glass of water? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” I appreciated his solicitude, but I was anxious to get on with it already. I was also hoping he would answer some of my own questions when we were through.
“Okay.” He pulled a manila envelope from the evidence box, set it on the table, and touched it with his finger. “There’s a single photo in here,” he said. “It’s the face only. There are no marks, no indication of trauma. Are you up for taking a look? Just to confirm it’s her?”
Amy leaned in and spoke gently. “You can take your time. There’s no rush.”
I took a deep breath. As distressing as it might be, I did want to see the photo. I hated the circumstances, but I wanted to see her face. For years I had wanted to meet her, and I was curious about what she looked like. There was only one problem. Since I didn’t know what she looked like, I wouldn’t be able to provide a positive ID.
I thought for a moment, then had an idea. “Is it okay if I call someone to join me? It’s someone else who knew Josephine, perhaps even better than I.”
Rhinehardt agreed. I stepped out of the room and placed the call to Fern Lopez, an old acquaintance of Josephine’s from her commune days. In spite of Fern’s past reticence whenever I asked her about my aunt, I felt sure they were still in touch. Her reaction when I explained where I was, and why, confirmed my hunch. She said she’d come right away.
Half an hour later, I was seated across from Rhinehardt once again, with Wes on my left and Fern Lopez on my right. She wore a paint-splattered smock over faded jeans, and had her long, gray-streaked black hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Specks of blue paint dotted her sun-browned face.
After Rhinehardt took her information, writing “friend” for relationship to the deceased, he brought out the dreaded envelope once again. This time, when he asked if we were ready to see the photograph, we both nodded. He slid it out of the envelope and placed it in front of us.
It was an 8 × 10 portrait of her head and shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her skin colorless and waxy. If not for the pale blue sheet at the bottom of the picture, I might have thought the photo was in black-and-white. Short gray hair lay in tumbled waves around her flat, lifeless face.
“That’s her,” said Fern.
Tears sprang to my eyes. Amy handed me a tissue, which I took and squeezed between my fingers. What got me, I realized, was not so much the confirmation that the dead woman was Aunt Josephine. Or even the picture itself. It was the shape of her face. The squarish angles, the wide mouth, and even the small nose—these were my mother’s features. In a few more years, this could be my mother’s face.
Rhinehardt put the photo away. After a moment of silence, he thanked us and offered his condolences. Then he pulled out a pad of paper. “If you don’t mind, I have a few more questions. Ms. Lopez, when did you last see Josephine?”
Fern’s eyes flicked to me, then down at the table. “May,” she answered.
I knew it. Whenever I had questioned Fern about Josephine, she’d always said they had lost touch years ago. I knew she was holding back.
“And where was this?” Rhinehardt asked.
“At my place. She stayed with me for about a week.”
“On vacation?”
“She liked to travel. She was passing through Edindale, heading east.”
“How often did she pass through?”
Fern lifted her arms in a slow shrug, but Rhinehardt continued to look at her, his expression impassive. Finally, she relented. “Two or three times a year, maybe.”
“What?” I blurted the word before I could stop myself. If Josephine visited Fern two or three times a year, that meant she’d been to Edindale at least twenty times since I’d lived here. And she never once stopped by to see me.
Wes reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. Rhinehardt regarded me for a minute, then returned his attention to Fern. “Did you know she was in town yesterday?”
“No.”
“Where else might she have been staying?”
“I couldn’t say.”
At that moment, a cell phone jingled loudly. Wes jumped up and quickly quieted the phone in his pocket. “Sorry about that.”
I took advantage of the interruption to change the subject. Recalling the newspaper article Crenshaw had read, I said, “Detective, is it true that she was shot in the back? Is that how she died?”
He hesitated, apparently reluctant to discuss an ongoing investigation. Then he seemed to remember why we were there—to identify the body of a loved one, not to be interrogated.
“That’s correct,” he said. “She had been shot only once. I can’t tell you the distance or type of weapon. The medical examiner hasn’t completed her report yet.”
“Where exactly was she found?” I asked. “Had her body been moved after she was shot?”
Rhinehardt closed his notebook and stood up. “We don’t think she was moved,” he said. “I believe she died on the spot where she was found, a short distance from a hiking trail near Briar Creek Cabins. A guest in one of the cabins is the one who found her.”
“And she was just found this morning? She was supposed to be at the airport yesterday afternoon. Isn’t it odd that no one found her sooner? Also, did anyone hear a shot?”
Detective Rhinehardt smiled. “Ms. Milanni, I think you’re in the wrong business. You should have been an investigator instead of an attorney.” He opened the door, so we all stood and gathered our things. Amy Tracy gave Fern and me her business card and said to call anytime. Rhinehardt assured us that the police would be making all the inquiries I could think of, and more. He also promised to be in touch when Josephine’s body and personal effects were ready to be released to the family, including some rings and a necklace she’d been wearing.
The family. I was going to have to call my mom with this terrible news. I wished I had more information to give her. She would have so many questions.
I turned back to the detective. “How long do you think it will be? Will you have to keep her until the case is solved?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Only until the autopsy is complete. It shouldn’t be more than a week or so.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you need some help with funeral plans?” asked Amy. “There are two funeral directors here in town. Here, let me give you their numbers.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tight. Funeral plans. One more thing I’d have to talk to my mom about. “Thanks, Amy.” I took the paper from her and dropped it into my purse. Then I accepted Wes’s outstretched hand.
As we left the building, my mind returned to Fredeline. The poor woman had been frantically trying to track down Josephine since th
e day before. I felt bad for not taking her more seriously. I should call her, I thought, before the police seek her out for questioning. Maybe I’d even invite her to join me for dinner. Wes would be working at the newspaper office this evening, and I had already made plans to hang out with Farrah at one of our favorite local wineries. I decided to extend the same invitation to Fern.
“No,” she said bluntly. “I need to get home. I have things to do tonight.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s okay. I understand. Maybe another time.”
Without answering, she reached into her patchwork purse and pulled out her car keys.
“Thank you for coming,” I said. “I’m sure this must have been very difficult.”
She paused and stared into the distance. “I liked Josie,” she said. “I’m sorry this happened. But I can’t say I’m shocked. Josie was a risk taker. She made sacrifices, she took risks, and, along the way, she made a number of enemies.” Fern shook her head. “No. I’m not shocked at all.”
CHAPTER FIVE
When I related what Fern had said, a few hours later at the Hillside Winery, Fredeline Paul wrinkled her brow. “Josephine was kind and generous. I don’t know how she could have had one enemy, much less many.”
“Fern Lopez.” Farrah tapped her pink fingernails on the metal café table. “She’s always been a little paranoid, right?”
“True.” I sipped my wine, a warm, luscious burgundy, and eyed the view from the winery’s patio. Rolling hills sloped toward a colorful tree line in the distance, where brilliant golden yellow and burnt orange leaves had an uplifting effect, even as several of them fluttered to the ground. After the difficult phone call with my mom, I was more than ready to have a drink or three.
I turned back to the group of women chatting companionably and nibbling on cucumber and watercress triangle sandwiches. Besides Fredeline, who was grateful to join us, and Farrah, who was happy to expand our gathering, I had invited my friend Mila Douglas. As a Wiccan high priestess and owner of my favorite occult gift shop, Mila had become something of a mentor to me, as well as a surrogate big sister. I found that she often lent a calm, reassuring presence.
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