The Abbotts had two children, Alice Ruth Abbott Drummond and a son, Ronald Justin Abbott, who’d died of pneumonia when he was five. How awful. Laurel felt a pang of compassion for the Abbotts. He’d died four months before the family’s departure for North Carolina. They must have wanted a new start, someplace free of memories. She couldn’t blame them. Their son’s death must have colored everything in their world—their jobs, their neighborhood, their relationships. The tragedy might help explain Stephen Abbott’s habitually dour aspect—maybe he was still mourning his lost son. How do you get over a child’s death?
How do you get over wanting a child? Beyond mentioning it to Geneva, Laurel hadn’t been dwelling this weekend on the decision she was contemplating, and the melancholy thought ambushed her. By having a baby. The answer leaped into her head. But it wasn’t that simple … or was it? Could it be that the barriers she perceived—her professional obligations, her reputation, her parents’ likely disapproval, wondering whether it was fair to the baby to bring him or her into the world without a father, the logistical and financial difficulties—were not that high? She keyed the ignition to get some air conditioning into the overheated car, and her energy revved along with the engine. You get over wanting a baby by having one. Over and over, the thought scrolled through her head, repeating like the severe weather warning crawl at the bottom of the television screen.
Unable now to concentrate on the Abbotts’ file, she closed out of it and tucked her phone into her purse. She fingered the keys Boone had given her. One was for a deadbolt and the other for a doorknob lock. You get over wanting a baby by having one. She banished the thought. Now was not the time, not with Evangeline’s death hanging over them. Laurel dropped the keys onto the passenger seat and put the car in gear. No time like the present.
Leaving the courthouse, Geneva briefly considered trying to locate a copy of Evangeline’s mother’s will, but she flat-out didn’t have the energy. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that task. On her way out of New Aberdeen, she cruised through a drive-through fast food joint and ordered a large milkshake. What she really craved after the police grilling was a vodka tonic; she could almost taste the tart sting of it on her tongue and feel the warmth washing through her, but those days were behind her forever. For. Ev. Er. This weekend had brought back some of the urges, true, but nothing would make her go back to who she’d been when she was drinking—not Evangeline’s murder, not even being arrested for it, if it came to that, which she sure as hell hoped it didn’t. She rubbed her belly, sucked hard on the straw, and pointed the car toward Cygne, one hand on the wheel and the other holding the sweating milkshake cup.
Driving one-handed, it seemed to take more effort than usual to make the turn out of the McDonald’s lot, but once on the main drag, the car picked up speed without a problem and Geneva relaxed. Buzzing the window down, she enjoyed the damp earth smells that floated in and the way the wind brushed her hair back. Just what she needed after the tight interview room that had smelled vaguely like a locker room. She’d take a shower when she got back, the longest, hottest shower of her life, to scrub away any microscopic bits from criminals and perverts that might have adhered to her in the police station. Good grief—she was beginning to think like Ellie. Maybe a phobia about germs was a side effect of motherhood. She tried to remember if Ellie had been germophobic before she had the twins.
Somehow, her thoughts drifted from germs to poison. Who had killed Evangeline? She tried to dispassionately consider each of her friends in turn, evaluating them with her psychologist’s eye rather than a friend’s eye. Laurel had the brains and the expertise to plan and get away with murder, she was sure, and she’d confessed that Vangie had threatened to disclose the truth about the plagiarism incident. Would that have affected her judge appointment? No idea. Regardless, Laurel had a lot of intellectual pride and the disclosure would have humiliated her. Dawn was the most mentally fragile, the most prone to taking offense where none was intended. She’d also been in love with Vangie at one time. Even back then, Geneva had known it was going to end badly, because Vangie was clearly having a fling while Dawn was hopelessly besotted.
The road swung to the left, and Geneva had to put muscle into steering the car through the turn. She frowned. She’d call the rental company when she got to Cygne to let them know the car was acting up. The inn was only a mile or so ahead. She returned to her mental inventory of her friends. Ellie was the strongest of them all physically. If there’d been a fight, Ellie would have prevailed. Ellie held on to her grudges, too. She couldn’t see a motive for Ellie, though. Of all of them, Ellie had had the most standoffish relationship with Vangie. Geneva passed the small farm that was the last building before the Cygne turn, and a Border collie charged toward the road, barking like he intended to fend off the Huns. She tried to give the wheel a twist to dodge the dog, but the car didn’t respond. Fear shot down her spine.
The tight turn that hid Cygne from sight loomed in front of her, and Geneva stomped on the brake as the car sailed straight ahead. Dropping the milkshake, she grabbed the wheel with both hands. Putting the force of her shoulders into turning the car, she felt a zip of pain up her side. The car responded sluggishly, turning enough that she didn’t barrel off the road and into the wide-trunked sycamore at the curve’s apex. The passenger-side tires slipped off the pavement and the car lurched hard enough to yank the steering wheel out of her hands. Geneva instinctively wrapped her arms around her belly as the car stopped hard, slinging her against the steering wheel.
Hands trembling, she unfastened her seat belt but found she was shaking too much to open the door. She bent forward and rested her head against the steering wheel while the collie carried on outside. Thank goodness the dog had charged the car so she realized before she came to the sharp turn that the steering wasn’t working. If she’d gone into it at full speed … she didn’t want to think about it.
Twenty-One
The map app on Laurel’s phone guided her to a semi-rural area two miles past the town limits. She knew when she left the city because the road devolved from smooth asphalt to a grooved surface that buzzed as the car’s wheels traveled over it. She almost missed the turnoff to a small collection of rickety duplexes and bungalows huddled under a faded sign announcing “Welcome home to Green Meadows.” If a healthy collection of weeds gone to seed counted as “green,” then the sign wasn’t lying. A field stretched beyond the rear of the housing area, harvested down to unidentifiable stalks, maybe tobacco. Acrid smoke irritated Laurel’s nose as she parked the car in front of Evangeline’s duplex and got out; someone was burning refuse.
Young kids argued in a backyard a couple of houses away, but she couldn’t see them. Other than that, there was little sign of occupation. Most of the area’s residents, she presumed, were at work on a Monday. The duplex wasn’t old, she decided on closer inspection, just thrown up quickly with shoddy construction techniques. The concrete pad that fronted the building had cracks in it, although a container of healthy red begonias and a yellow-and-teal welcome mat by the “A” unit made it cheerier. The duplex was set up so the entry doors were side-by-side, a mere two feet between them. Laurel inserted the keys into the door marked “B.” They turned easily. The door was level with the concrete outside, obviating the need for a ramp, and the door swung inward.
Laurel hesitated. She’d wanted the opportunity to poke around in Evangeline’s house, but now that she was here, it felt invasive. Chiding herself for being ridiculous, she stiff-armed the door wider and stepped in. The interior was muggy, with no air conditioner running, and tasted like water from a canteen, slightly stale and metallic. A drip sounded from somewhere.
Her gaze swept the room, and she realized after a disconcerting second that she almost expected it to look like the apartment they’d shared their senior year, which was stupid. That was the environment she most closely associated with Evangeline, though, so she’d automatically looked for the denim
bean-bag chair that had squatted near their television; the two-foot-tall fake Christmas tree they’d kept on a plant stand year-round, decked with blinking lights shaped like chili peppers; and the trunk claimed from beside a trash can that they had spray-painted cream with gilt trimming and used as a coffee table. None of those items were here, however. Instead, a living room suite upholstered in oatmeal tweed that could have been stamped “so boring it will fit with any décor” was arranged around a glass-topped table stacked with medical journals and brochures. No end tables or rugs. Perhaps the minimalist approach made it easier to maneuver the wheelchair? Not a Cosmo or a wedding mag in sight. No photos, no art on the walls. Evangeline had lied to Dawn about hanging her painting. How sad.
She drifted into the galley kitchen. Clean. Opening a few drawers and cabinets, she found nothing unexpected or out of place. The fridge likewise revealed nothing. A six-pack of beer, one missing, some condiments and salad dressings, a hunk of Parmesan, a half-full container of wheat germ, and some apples made up its contents. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, Laurel walked into the bedroom. It, too, was furnished with rental pieces—dresser, queen-sized bed, single bedside table—that made the space feel like an anonymous hotel room. Only the pale green duvet splashed with flowers and the apricot blanket folded at the foot of the bed brought Evangeline’s personality into the room. Like the living room and kitchen, the bedroom was neat—almost too neat, like Evangeline had been expecting company. She hadn’t been a slob when they’d lived together, but clutter didn’t bother her the way it did Laurel. There was no book open on the made bed, or litter of lacy bras, jeans, and shoes on the floor. The wheelchair had probably changed Evangeline’s habits; she wouldn’t have been able to wheel it over clothes on the floor.
Wishing she’d made more of an effort to stay in touch, that she knew more about what Evangeline’s life had been like, Laurel reached for the stuffed unicorn propped against the pillows. Rainbow. Her fingers caressed the thin plush. The unicorn had been a grubby gray, rather than snowy white, by the time she’d come to Grissom with Evangeline. Rainbow had watched them study and make out with boys and grouse about unfair tests. If Laurel remembered right, Rainbow was a gift from an aunt, and Evangeline hadn’t been one whit embarrassed about giving her childhood stuffie pride of place on her dorm room bed. Laurel had hidden the remnants of her own blankie in a drawstring bag under her pillow.
Hugging the soft toy to her chest, she sank onto the bed. Her chest felt tight, and she coughed roughly. Part of her wanted to cry, but the tears refused to come. Her throat and sinuses seemed clogged by burrs rather than by tears, and she coughed again, a jagged sound in the silence. She should finish up and get out of here. She squeezed Rainbow and positioned her carefully on the pillows.
Her gaze strayed to the bedside table. It held a lamp and alarm clock and nothing else. Tugging on the iron pull, Laurel slid the drawer open. A couple of pens, a bookmark, and a phone charging cord. If there’d been a phone or an address book, the police must have taken them. The closet was equally unrevealing, holding a meager collection of women’s clothes and shoes. No men’s stuff, so Ray must not have stayed over often. Maybe Evangeline stayed at his place, which would account for how few clothes were in the closet.
Laurel closed the closet door and approached the bathroom. It was large enough to accommodate the wheelchair, but windowless, with fluffy apricot towels and washcloths, and tile floor that extended without break into the handicap-access shower area, which had plenty of grab bars and a shower head with a flexible hose set within easy reach of someone in a wheelchair. This room felt more like Evangeline, with cosmetics chosen for their pretty compacts or sleek tubes corralled in an acrylic organizer on the counter, and a collection of fancy perfume atomizers and bottles lined up atop the toilet tank. She recognized some of them with a pang. Evangeline had kept the collection on a windowsill in their dorm room. Fingering a pink glass bottle, Laurel remembered how pretty it looked with the sun shining through it.
A scraping sound from the front of the house brought her head around. Before she could begin to wonder what the source was, a voice called, “Hey, you, thief! I’ve called the police. Don’t even bother trying to get away because I also wrote down your license plate number. You are one dumbass burglar.” The voice was female and fearless and held more Texas twang than North Carolina drawl.
“I’m not a thief,” Laurel called out, unsure whether to be nervous or laugh. Hands held unthreateningly at shoulder height, she walked to the bedroom door. From the end of the short hall, a woman peered at her, frying pan held in a batter’s position over her shoulder. She was shorter than Laurel, with a wiry build, and cinnamon-colored hair that kinked around her head in a vast cloud. With skin a shade lighter than her hair and blotched with large freckles on her bare arms and face, she could have been any age between forty and sixty. She wore blue hospital scrubs.
“I was a friend of Evangeline’s,” Laurel said, stepping cautiously into the hall. “The police gave me a key. Look.” She reached slowly into her pocket and brought out the key, dangling it so the woman could see. The frying pan lowered a fraction of an inch. “Are you a neighbor?”
“Next door,” the woman said, nodding toward the wall connecting the duplexes. She let the frying pan drop to her side. “I was just about to fry up an egg when I heard someone moving around in here. These walls are paper—you can hear the proverbial pin drop. I knew Evie was away—I’ve been picking up her mail—so I knew it wasn’t her. You say you know Evie?”
The unfamiliar shortening of Evangeline’s name threw Laurel for a moment, but she caught up and said, “Yes. We were roommates in college, friends.”
“Haven’t seen you around before,” the woman observed, eyes narrowing.
“I live in Colorado.”
Apparently accepting that, the woman said, “Do you know what’s up with Evie? I got off shift from the hospital this morning and found a note from the police tucked under my door saying they wanted to talk to me about her. She’s dead, isn’t she? You keep using the past tense.”
She didn’t sound grieved by the idea, so Laurel said bluntly, “Yes, she died Saturday night. You say you haven’t talked to the police yet?”
“I’m gonna give ’em a call after I’ve had my breakfast.” The woman moved closer, hand outstretched, and a wave of stale cigarette smoke wafted off of her. “Tisha Jackson. Can I offer you an egg?”
Tisha’s handshake was strong and straightforward. “Laurel Muir. I’d love an egg.”
Settled at Tisha’s dinette table fifteen minutes later with a hard fried egg, a slice of toast, and a glass of orange juice in front of her, and Tisha seated across from her tucking into a similar breakfast, Laurel asked, “Did you know Evangeline well?”
Tisha shook her head, frizzy hair shimmying. “She only moved in six months ago. I knew her to say ‘hey’ to and we kept an eye on each other’s places. There’s a coupla teens down the other end of the housing area who aren’t above chucking rocks into windows or breaking mirrors off cars for the hell of it. She watered my plants when I traveled, and I was picking up her mail this weekend, like I said.” She tipped her head backward to indicate the profusion of potted African violets, ferns, ivies, and other plants growing from every horizontal surface in the cheery kitchen. “Other than that … she stayed in a lot.” She finished her egg and lit up a cigarette. Exhaling a stream of smoke, she said, “You’d think a nurse would know better, wouldn’t you?”
“Did you look after her place while she was in Mexico?” Laurel chewed a bite of the rubbery egg.
“Mexico?” Tisha laughed. “Unless she went there and back in a day, she hasn’t been to Mexico since she lived here. I don’t even think she worked. Spent all day on that computer of hers.”
Laurel hadn’t seen a computer and supposed the police must have taken it. She frowned slightly. Why had Evangeline lied about going to Mexico? Was it p
ossible she meant she’d been there before her mother died? She tried to remember if Evangeline had said anything specific about the dates of her surgery, or if she’d only assumed it was very recent.
“Rarely went out, even though she had that van with hand controls so she could drive it. The miracles of modern science—and good insurance.” Tilting her head up, Tisha blew out a long stream of smoke.
“Did she have visitors?”
Tisha cocked her head. “What’s it to you?” Some of her earlier suspicion returned. Her gaze slid to the stove, as if she was assessing how long it would take to grab the frying pan again. She didn’t move, however.
Laurel decided to go with the truth. “She was murdered. I’m trying to figure out who did it.”
Tisha didn’t gasp or exclaim with horror. Instead, she looked thoughtful. She tapped her cigarette ash into an ashtray shaped like an armchair. “Why? Why not let the police figure it out?”
“My friends and I are suspects.” Laurel met the other woman’s gaze without blinking. “I didn’t do it, and I don’t think any of them did. The police do, so they’re not casting a very wide net.”
“So I invited a murder suspect into my kitchen?” A slow smile spread over Tisha’s face, creasing her freckled cheeks. “I suppose I’ve had worse.”
Laurel smiled ruefully. “I like to think ‘murder suspect’ is only a small part of my identity.”
Tisha chuckled. “Good one. Anyway, the only visitor I ever saw was a man, a burly guy with black hair. Her age, give or take.”
“Sounds like her fiancé, Ray.”
“Her fiancé, huh? Last time he was here, they argued like they’d been married twenty years. They had the music turned up so I couldn’t hear what about, but I could hear the yelling, even over the radio.”
That Last Weekend Page 19
