by Ginny Aiken
A bright sun in the clear blue sky belied the bad rap the Seattle area gets for its weather. True, it had rained earlier in the day, but all that had done was clean the world and leave it luminous and fresh scented.
I breathed deep and savored the essence of my hometown. The perfume of sea-salty air mixed with the aroma of living soil, then tangled with the spice of the ubiquitous evergreens. No other place on earth smells like Wilmont, Seattle, and the Puget Sound. Not that I've traveled much to test my conviction. My quirky bias made me grin.
I rounded the corner and went around the back of the mansion. That part of the house had a quilt of vegetation tucked in around the brick foundation. A vast elephant fern frond blocked my way. I had to push hard to move the greenery aside. "Marge?"
All I got for my effort was a sprinkle of raindrops from that morning's shower. I continued to pick my way around the landscaping. My shoes sank into the loamy ground.
"Marge? Where are you?"
Still no answer.
Then I saw it. A stain the color of Cherry Coke stood out against the grass at the base of a massive rhododendron. My worry congealed into fear, and I fought the urge to run.
I couldn't leave. Not until I knew what had made the stain. And found Marge.
I bent for a closer look at the spot. A rusty, copper smell muddied the fresh tang of the Pacific Northwest.
My heart pounded, but I pressed on. To one side and behind the rhododendron, another heavy fern got in my way. But between its wavy leaves, I spied a sliver of plum.
My stomach turned.
When I shoved that frond out of my way, I moaned. Marge lay under the shrubbery, her head in an ocean of her own blood.
Darkness yawned, and a pit swallowed me. Sweat drenched me. Horror made me frantic. I fell, reached for a handhold, grabbed a rock. A weird, high-pitched sound pierced the fog around me. It took me a couple of seconds to recognize the screams as mine. Ozzie materialized and joined his moans to my cries.
I willed myself to stop. I shut my eyes tight, hugged myself. None of it helped. The image of Marge burned in my mind.
A crowd formed around Ozzie and me, and in spite of my misery, I had the sense to warn them. "Move back. Call the police."
"Do you think she's..." I recognized the woman's voice but couldn't identify her right then.
"Have you touched her?" a man asked.
"Is that blood?" someone else wanted to know.
My stomach lurched. My whole body shuddered. The tremors reached my fingers, and they shook like leaves in a gale.
"I ..." My throat shut out my words.
"She asked you to move back, didn't she?" a third man asked. I recognized that voice too but couldn't place it either. "From where I'm standing," he added, "Mrs. Norwalk looks dead, and Ms. Farrell and Mr. Krieger need room. Move back!"
I clenched my fists, blinked over and over. I didn't feel any better, but I did catch a glimpse of a tall, muscular man, his broad chest covered with a polo shirt the color of his green eyes.
He pulled a cell phone from his belt, pushed some buttons, and then spoke. He nodded, flipped the gadget shut, and tucked it back in place. With a glare at a curious woman in acid yellow, he knelt at my side, cupped my elbow, helped me sit then stand.
"They're on their way," he said. "At least Wilmont's small. They'll be here in minutes." To the gawkers, he added, "The police dispatcher asked that everyone return to the parlor and dining room. We're not to speak to each other or touch anything, and no one can leave."
He turned to Noreen. "Find the security guy. I don't see him anywhere, and he should have shown up at Haley's first yell."
The welcome wail of a siren struck me as perfect punctuation for his words. Noreen's glare, now that she was at the other end of an order, made things click back to reality for me. Dutch Merrill's take-charge attitude bugged Noreen; he'd trampled her authoritarian toes.
On the other hand, I appreciated his intervention. Without his grip on my arm, I'd have quivered back to the ground at Marge's side. I felt that weak.
I hated it.
To get out of Dutch's grip, I had to use the strength I'd developed in four years of martial arts training. "I'm fine."
The guard ran up. "Wha ... what happened?"
Dutch pointed to where Marge lay. 'And where were you?"
With a bluster and a blush to the roots of his disappearing hairline, the man said, "I ... well, you see..." He hitched up his khaki uniform pants, then stared at the sky. "I had to use the ... john, and the latch stuck ..."
Grover Potter, as per his badge, bit his bottom lip. He turned to me. "Begging pardon, ma'am."
My smile wasn't worth much, but at least it showed up. I felt sorry for him, for Marge. For me. A tear rolled down my cheek. I swiped it away and fought down the sob before it got out.
My closest friend, the person who knew me best, was dead. I didn't need to get any closer to the body to know Marge's essence was gone.
As soon as I stepped away from Dutch, chills riddled me. By now the shivers weren't so bad, but the frozen sensation felt as though it had come to stay.
From what sounded like a great distance, I heard Dutch say, "She found Mrs. Norwalk."
I clamped down on my emotions and listened. The police had come. When an officer knelt by Marge, I nearly chased him away. It felt like an insult for anyone to see her like that, damaged, broken.
But the man had a job to do.
I looked around. At Dutch's right stood a petite Asian woman, her dark hair gathered in a sleek knot at the nape of her neck. Her rose-colored suit matched the simple elegance of her hairstyle, while the frown on her pretty face seemed out of place.
With a glance, the woman put me under a microscope.
Since the best defense is always a good offense, I extended my hand. "Haley Farrell. I came outside to look for Marge when she didn't show up after the intermission. I found her just as she is. Nobody disturbed her, although I can't vouch for the lawn. When I screamed, everyone came running. I'm sorry about the footprints."
The woman's hand was as cool and smooth as her appearance. "I'm Lila Tsu," she said. "Detective with the Wilmont PD. I'll be heading the investigation."
I nodded.
The detective continued. "You need to go back inside. We'll take statements from everyone, but we have to secure the area first. We also have to wait for the coroner. Since Wilmont isn't big enough for us to have our own, it will take him some time to get through the Seattle traffic."
I nodded again.
Detective Tsu's eyes narrowed. "Remember, Ms. Farrell, you can't speak to anyone. I understand it's hard to wait in silence, but it's in your best interest to do so."
Did she think I wanted to while away my afternoon with Marge's clients? I gave a third brief nod and, now mostly numb, headed for the house. When I reached the columned front porch, I heard a hiss.
"Over here, Miss Farrell."
"Ozzie! What are you doing? The police asked everyone to go inside."
"I've been waiting for you, miss. I must ask-"
"Don't say anything else. We're not supposed to talk."
Ozzie's eyes bulged. He looked about to burst. Someone else to feel sorry for. I knew how much I wanted-needed-to talk to someone about what I'd found, what I'd seen. But cops mean business.
I patted Ozzie's shoulder, then led him inside. Unnatural silence filled rooms that a short while ago had hummed with excitement. As I looked for an empty chair, I saw a policeman scribble in a small notebook. At his side, Penny Harham whispered and nodded sagaciously.
Great. If the cops relied on her, they'd never learn what happened to Marge. Penny's vision of reality is hers and hers alone.
Hours trickled by in itchy silence. The lousy metal chair made my back hurt. Some rows back, a man gave in to fatigue, and his snores kept the rest of us wide awake. Finally, Detective Tsu appeared with the officer who'd spoken to Penny. Just like that, the atmosphere changed.
I sat up. M
aybe we'd all get sent home soon. Dad was probably wondering what had happened to me. I'd told him I'd be home no later than two o'clock, and it was going on five by now.
"If I could have your attention," Detective Tsu said. "Because there are so many of you, we're going to take down names and addresses and contact you at home."
Relief rustled through the crowd.
"Wait," cautioned the detective, her hand up like a traffic cop's. "Some of you will still need to stay." Her needle gaze skewered me. "Since Ms. Farrell and Mr. Krieger were the first on the scene, I'll need them to stay. Those who live outside the Seattle area will also have to wait for us to get to you today. And if anyone has information that might help, please don't wait for us to ask. Tell us now."
My hope for a quick return home flapped away on the wings of a musical but steely voice.
Soon that voice peppered me with more questions than I'd ever thought any one person could ask. Everything from my education to Marge's favorite foods was fair game.
Exhaustion took its toll; my answers took a turn down Cranky Lane.
Detective Tsu didn't like the trip. "I understand this is tedious, but a woman lost her life-"
"You don't have to tell me. I found her. And she means-" My voice broke. I tried again. "She meant a lot to me. I've told you all I know. Most of your questions have nothing to do with anything, at least not with what I saw today." Hysteria sprouted. "Can I please go home?"
Ms. Tsu checked her watch, then scanned the room and nodded to the officer by the door. He hurried over. "They're waiting."
"I guess we can wrap it up for tonight." The elegant detective turned off her pocket recorder. "We'll be in touch again, Ms. Farrell. Even without the necessary autopsy, it's obvious Mrs. Norwalk was murdered, and since you found the victim, we will have more questions for you."
She put her notebook, silver-toned pen, and recorder in a square leather purse. She slanted me another laser look. "You'll need to identify the body before you leave."
"Me? Why? Everyone saw Marge. Everyone knows who died. Why do I have to ... to see ... her again?"
Bile jetted up my throat. I didn't want to look at that empty shell under the shrubs again. I wanted to remember my mentor as the vibrant woman I'd known for years. I didn't want to face that lifeless, spiritless ... thing another time.
Detective Tsu remained implacable. "The coroner needs a formal identification."
"Can't Ozzie do it?" I was desperate. "How about Steve? Steve Norwalk, Marge's husband."
"Officer Young is still taking Mr. Krieger's statement, and Mr. Norwalk is out of town. It won't take but a minute, Ms. Farrell. You said you wanted to leave, so please come with us. You can go home afterward."
I grabbed my backpack purse and stood. I could do this. I could. If I'd made it through the last four years, then I'd also survive this.
"Fine," I said.
My steps echoed in the empty rooms.
Outside, I rounded a corner and went to the backyard. A yellow ribbon screamed "Crime Scene" and added to the surreal quality of the lavender dusk. I slowed down as I approached three men around what looked like a lumpy bag.
I gagged.
I can do it. I can do it.
"Here's Ms. Farrell," Detective Tsu said.
A nondescript gentleman in a short-sleeved plaid shirt and new-looking jeans knelt by the lump and ripped the zipper open. "Come closer."
I bit my lip. Marge's blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses, high forehead, straight nose, and wide mouth were there. Marge wasn't.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Identify the body, please," the man said.
"It was Marge Norwalk. It's an empty body now." Nausea swelled. "I have to go. Please."
My Honda Civic had never seemed so far away. I ran, gulped down evening air, prayed I wouldn't vomit and humiliate myself. I don't know how I made it to the relative safety of my car.
By virtue of sheer cussed determination, I didn't hit anything on the way home. On autopilot, I parked in the manse's driveway, locked the car, and ran up the front steps. A light shone in the living room. The strains of Pachelbel's "Canon" reached out through the open window.
I was home.
But would I ever be safe?
"Haley?" Dad called out.
Every bone in my body melted at the sound of that muchloved voice. I stumbled in. "Yeah, I'm home. I'm so ... sorry ... I'm late . . . "
Sobs stole my voice. Dad wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. He led me to the sofa, where he continued to hold me. He rocked me like he had when I was little. I wished I still were. Then what I'd seen wouldn't be real. I wouldn't have had to go through it.
But I wasn't a child. The pain told me I hadn't imagined a thing. And I hadn't explained my anguish to Dad.
In a guttural croak, I said, "Marge is dead."
My father closed his eyes. His lips moved in prayer. My tears flowed on, silent now. As they did for the rest of the night.
The phone rang me awake only moments after I finally fell asleep. At least, that was how I felt. I reached for the miserable machine. "Wilmont River Church manse, Haley speaking."
"They canceled the auction," Dutch growled.
"And a very good morning to you too." His words registered. I reeled from the fresh flood of images and fell back against the pillows. "They? The auction?"
"Yes, Haley, the auction. The sale of the Gerrity mansion was called off. By the police. Because it was the scene of a crime, they sealed the property and postponed the sale indefinitely."
"Gee. Thanks for the news. Tell me again why you felt the need to share with me."
"Because according to the morning paper, you're about to become filthy rich. And your fingerprints and footprints were all over the place. That big inheritance gives you an awfully good reason to want Mrs. Norwalk dead, doesn't it?"
This had to be a nightmare. It made no sense.
He made no sense.
"What are you talking about? And why are you yelling at me?"
"Inheritance, Haley." I heard him fight for control. Then his words came out measured, careful. "I'm talking about Marge Norwalk's will. The one where she cuts her husband out without a penny. According to her lawyer, you get everything, even the auction house. The same auction house the Gerrity heirs hired to sell the matriarch's mansion. Marge's lawyer leaked the details. It's all in the Seattle Times for you to read."
My head spun. The world had tilted out of orbit at the Gerrity the day before, and it refused to settle back down. "I'm sure there's some kind of mistake. I know nothing about Marge's will or any newspaper story. All I know is that my friend died a horrible death yesterday."
"Your friend isn't the only casualty, you know."
"Oh?"
"The renovation of that mansion means a great deal to me, and a murder investigation means trouble. I need that job, and the killer is responsible for the delay."
My temper began a slow boil. "You know, Dutch Merrill, you give one fabulous condolence call. On top of that, your insinuations are offensive, and you're making me mad. I've never hurt anybody, especially not Marge. And I resent-"
"I resent your interfering with Marge's life, and as a result, mine. I'm as sorry as the next guy about her death. She seemed okay. But she's gone, and you have the best motive for wanting her dead. Plus, your fingerprints put you at the scene. I can't afford to let your greed keep me from getting on with my life."
"Now, you listen to me-"
"No, you listen to me. I'm going to do everything in my power to help the cops nail the killer so Noreen can buy the Gerrity. The sooner the better. And from where I sit, lady, you're it."
"It? You're nuts. I have nothing to gain from Marge's death. You don't know what you're saying."
Tears poured again, but I fought the sobs with everything I had. I refused to give this wacko a glimpse into my grief.
I went on. "I don't want her money or her company or her stuff-I never did. I want her friends
hip, her kindness ... even her lectures. But now she's gone, and I have nothing left. How dare you-"
"Can the drama. I don't buy it. I'm going to watch every step you take. You watch. At the first mistake, I'll have the cops all over you faster than you can sneeze."
He killed the call with a slam.
I stared at the phone. That had to hold the Nobel prize for worst wake-up call. "He's out of his sleazy, corner-cutting, cheap, and shoddy mind," I muttered. I needed to hear something, even my own rant about the disturbing dolt.
"Now there's a word for you," I added when Midas licked my chin. "Disturbing. As in disturbed. As in Dutch Merrill is one disturbed character."
The saddest eyes in creation, that unique, heart-tug brown gaze of the golden retriever, followed me as I stood, dug out clean underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt from my blue milkpainted chest of drawers, then made a beeline for the shower. Doggy nails clicked against hardwood floors, a comforting, familiar sound.
"Haley?" Dad called from downstairs.
"Yeah?"
"Who was that?"
Dutch's rugged good looks flashed through my mind. Too bad he's certifiable. What a waste. "Just a wrong number." Boy, did he ever have the wrong number. To accuse me-me!
"Oh. Okay."
The scent of cinnamon wafted up from below. My mouth watered.
Dad added, "There's coffee, and the apple muffins just came out of the oven."
Love and guilt mingled. When he has something on his mind, Dad bakes. His apple muffins constitute a major food group all their own just like Starbucks fine roasts and Milky Way bars. As he tried to comfort himself, he'd comfort me too.
"I'll be right down." I started the shower. Dad knows how much Marge meant to me. He'd always encouraged our friendship, even more in the last few years.
I frothed a glob of coconut-scented shampoo between my palms and scrubbed my scalp. I'd be pretty happy if I could wash away the trash life dumped on me as easily as I could suds out grime.
A slimeball nearly did me in four years ago, and by extension, Mom and Dad too. They'd clung to their faith and waited for miraculous healing. I, on the other hand, couldn't. What the sicko did to me killed my faith.
