Grace to the Finish

by Julie Hyzy

  “Grandchildren,” Scott corrected. “There’s another one on the way.”

  “Virginia married?” Rodriguez asked.

  “She’s widowed,” the guys answered together.

  Anton withdrew deeper into the basement even though we’d widened our perimeter around the base of the stairs to give Rodriguez room to move. The detective didn’t seem to mind us sticking around as long as we didn’t interfere.

  This lower level stretched the full length and width of the building, but lacked the high ceilings and industrial panache the main floor offered. This was a stout, damp-smelling space chock-full of heavy equipment. Aisles of piles. Like a grocery store of junk. All covered in thick dust.

  I tried to imagine how Virginia had fallen and landed face up. Perhaps she twisted in a vain attempt to right herself as she tumbled. Sixty-five years old seemed about right. She had on a silky blouse beneath her red jacket. Wandering a little closer, I noticed that her sleeve cuffs were slightly frayed. Her black polyester pants looked as though she’d hemmed them herself. Both of her soft-soled, sensible shoes were still on her feet.

  Behind me, in the shadows, Anton dragged a wooden crate out from beneath a cluttered table. He offered a seat.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’d rather watch.”

  He sat down and mopped his head with a plaid handkerchief.

  Scott shot me a worried look before sitting next to the elderly man. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Anton offered a weak smile. “I am what you call squeamish.” He held the patterned cloth near his eyes as though to block his view. “I prefer not to see.”

  “Maybe it would be better for you to wait upstairs,” I said, pointing to the second stairway at the basement’s south end. “Would that be all right, Detective?”

  Rodriguez was crouched near Virginia’s head, one hand gripping his phone, the other hanging limp by his knee. There would have been a time when the middle-aged detective wouldn’t have been able to lower himself to the floor without risking injury. After a near-fatal heart attack, the once-portly cop—though he would never be slim—had lost at least half his weight.

  “Go ahead,” he said without looking up. “I may have questions for you later, though, so don’t leave.”

  When Anton’s shoulders slumped in relief, Scott took him by the arm. “I’ll go with you,” he said, leading the older man to the far staircase. My roommates exchanged a look of such helpless despair that my heart broke for them. This was a terrible way to begin our new venture. The worst way.

  In the chilly belowground space, I’d been holding my arms close, hugging myself for warmth as I paced behind Rodriguez, stealing glances at the deceased Virginia.

  Rodriguez rose. “I agree it looks like a fall,” he said, “but I called the coroner to come, too, just to be sure. You remember him, don’t you? Joe Bradley?”

  I fixed the homicide detective with a glare. “Ha-ha.”

  “Whatever happened between you two? I thought you guys were going to get together.”

  Behind Rodriguez, Bruce held up both hands as if to say: “Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell him.”

  “We were,” I admitted. “We had a date set up right after . . .”

  “Right after the business with Frances?” Rodriguez asked.

  I caught my lower lip with my teeth, astonished to realize how little time had passed between then and now. “Was that only three weeks ago?” I asked.

  “Give or take.” Rodriguez made a so-so motion with his hand.

  “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, Detective,” I said, “but I could go without these impromptu meetings for longer periods of time.”

  “You do keep us busy.” He scratched his chin as he walked around Virginia’s prone form again. “But you’re avoiding the question. What happened? Change your mind?”

  I glanced over at Bruce, who shrugged as if to remind me that one broken date did not mean complete failure to connect.

  “He got called out of town,” I said. “No explanation, except to say that it involved family.”

  Rodriguez studied Virginia for a moment, then frowned up the staircase. “And you haven’t rescheduled?” he asked.

  “Between his weekends on call and my issues with my sister, no,” I said. “We haven’t.” I waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know anything about these family issues Joe talked about?”

  Rodriguez faced me. His deep brown eyes were warm but held a hint of sadness. “Have you told him about your sister? Does he know that Liza is due back here any day now?”

  I shook my head. “I figured there was time for that.”

  He nodded. “Just as there’s time for him to tell you his story.”

  “You’re being very cryptic,” I said.

  Bruce broke in. “If you know something important about the guy, shouldn’t you tell Grace?”

  Rodriguez turned to my roommate with a wry grin. “I can tell you that he isn’t a serial killer, if that’s what you’re worried about. He doesn’t have a criminal record of any kind. But if Grace and Joe are really interested in a relationship, they ought to peel away the layers of their lives at a pace that works for them.”

  Bruce frowned, giving me a look that said that he would much rather I be provided a full dossier first.

  Rodriguez crouched again, this time a few feet beyond Virginia’s head. He closed one eye and squinted up the steps. “You Googled him, I assume,” he said.

  “Joe?” I asked. Of course he meant Joe. “I did. There’s not much there, other than the fact that he’s a doctor. He doesn’t seem to participate in social media. Unless he does so under a pseudonym. Which I think is unlikely.”

  “Me too.” As Rodriguez stood again, Flynn and the forensic team made their way down the far staircase. The wiry young detective led two professionals, both of whom I’d met before, across the basement’s expanse.

  “Another murder, Grace?” Flynn asked. “How many does this make for you?”

  “Not this time,” I said. “Looks like she fell.”

  Behind me, Rodriguez said, “Maybe.”

  I spun. “You don’t think so?”

  “Let’s wait for Joe to arrive,” the older detective said mildly. “He’ll let us know if we need to do an autopsy.”

  “If?” Bruce asked. “Aren’t autopsies standard procedure in situations like this?”

  Flynn rolled his eyes. “That’s what everybody thinks. You watch too much TV.”

  Bruce shot me a look of exasperation, but held his tongue.

  Rodriguez waved the air between them. “Autopsies aren’t always required,” he said, affecting a teacher-like tone. “If our victim’s injuries are consistent with a fall and we determine she had reason to be here alone, her death will be ruled an accident.”

  “And that’s what you think happened,” I said.

  He ran his gaze up and down the steps again. “Maybe.”

  Less than five minutes later, Joe arrived. Though he still used a cane, he seemed to be walking with a less-pronounced limp.

  “Hi, Grace. Good to see you,” he said as he donned latex gloves and stretchy blue booties. I barely managed to return the greeting when he addressed Rodriguez. “What do we have here?”

  As the detectives brought Joe up to speed on the situation, he made a slow circuit around Virginia’s body, calling out observations to an aide to record as he did so. With brisk efficiency, the assistants set up three bright floodlights and fixed their beams on Virginia, making the scene a surreal death tableau.

  Joe was about six feet tall with wavy hair, an almost constant five o’clock shadow, and eyes that crinkled merrily when he smiled. I watched for a while impressed, though not surprised, by his thoroughness.

  Bruce sidled up. “How long do these things take?”

  “No idea.” I shrugged. “I�
��m not usually present for this part.”

  “Mind if I walk around a bit?” he asked. “Even a space this big starts to feel claustrophobic when there’s a dead body lying nearby.”

  I still wore my trench coat and had my arms crossed for warmth. “Claustrophobic and cold,” I said. “I’ll join you.”

  Rodriguez glanced up, giving us a nod of encouragement. He’d find us when he needed us.

  Although the basement was chilly and smelled of wet wood, it was well illuminated. Fluorescent fixtures, like bright stripes in the ceiling, cast their cold, sterile light on the detritus below.

  Bruce and I strolled past piles of equipment, supplies, and machinery that had been crammed into makeshift rows. “What is all this stuff?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Ours now.” Running a finger along the lip of a metallic apparatus that resembled a giant vise turned sideways, he said, “The dust is so heavy down here we’ll need hazmat suits to clean this place out.”

  “I think we should hire professionals to do that. What if there are toxic substances down here? Those who do this for a living will know what to look for far better than you or I or Scott would.”

  “True, but the cost may be prohibitive.”

  I didn’t say anything. Although Bruce and Scott were the new owners of record of the building, I was the silent partner who had put up funds to enable the purchase. We’d settled on a system that I completely agreed with: They’d solicit my opinion before making any major decisions, but Amethyst Cellars’s day-to-day business dealings were all theirs. Our new friend Anton served as a paid consultant.

  I wanted to offer to cover the costs of a professional cleaning company, but knew better than to undermine their power by setting myself up as the controller of the purse strings who made things happen whenever I felt like it. Let them come to a decision on their own. If I constantly stepped in to affect outcomes, it wouldn’t be long before they started to resent my influence. Bruce and Scott had run the original Amethyst Cellars successfully—without any help from me—for a number of years. Despite the fact that this new location involved a considerable level of complexity, my roommates needed to have the freedom to run it on their own. I pulled in my lips and said nothing.

  We made our way down one row and up the second, emerging near where we’d started. Before turning left to start down the next aisle, I glanced over at Rodriguez and Flynn. The younger detective had begun to pace. Joe continued his assessment, oblivious to everything but Virginia’s prone form. It didn’t look as though we would be missed anytime soon.

  I stopped to examine an eight-foot folding table that sat at the mouth of the next row. “What do you think was here?” I asked.

  Bruce, having gotten a few steps ahead of me, turned to look. “I have no idea.”

  As he ambled back, I tilted my head to study the tabletop, far less dusty than most of the rest of the horizontal surfaces. Not only that, there were large, roughly rectangular patches that were practically dust-free. “I thought you said you haven’t removed anything from down here.” I bent down to look under the table, thinking that perhaps items had been relocated below but the floor beneath the collapsible countertop was clear.

  “We haven’t.” Bruce blinked his puzzlement.

  “Clearly, whatever had been on this table has been moved. Fairly recently, too.”

  Bruce reached to touch one of the clear areas, but I stopped him.

  “Hang on a second. Let’s not disturb this yet.”

  He shot me a look of concern. “What are you thinking?”

  I wasn’t sure precisely. “All those agreements you signed gave you and Scott ownership of the building and all its contents.” Though the gesture was unnecessary, I pointed. “If neither of you removed the items that were here as recently as”—I guessed, based on the dust variations—“yesterday, then who took them?”

  Bruce shrugged. “There’s no indication of a break-in,” he said. “And even if there were, nothing else seems disturbed.” He perched his hands on his hips and did a slow rotation. “Not that I can tell anyway.”

  “Do you think that perhaps there was a break-in, and Virginia walked in on the thieves while they were stealing these . . . whatevers?”

  “You mean that maybe she didn’t fall down the stairs? That she may have been pushed?”

  I tapped a knuckle against my chin. “This could all be crazy speculation. There’s probably a rational explanation. But I do think it’s worth mentioning to Rodriguez.”

  As though he’d heard us, the detective lifted his head and turned our way.

  I beckoned to him. “Do you have a minute, Detective?”

  He mumbled something to Flynn then came over to where we were standing. He listened as we recounted the details of the baffling dust patterns.

  “It looks to me as though several sizable items were taken away recently,” I said. “And from what Virginia told Bruce and Scott, no one except bank officers had access to the building.”

  “Oh, and the inspector,” Bruce piped in. “I’d forgotten about her.”

  “Village inspector?” Rodriguez asked. “I thought they were all male.”

  “No, the one we hired when we bid on the building,” he said, turning to me. “You remember, Grace. We had her take a look at the structure to make sure it was sound before we moved forward. She found a few things we’ll need to address—termites, for one—but otherwise pronounced this a good deal.”

  I expected Rodriguez to dismiss our dust discovery as unimportant, but he’d begun scribbling in his notebook again. “How long ago did she come through? It sounds as though it was some time ago. Not recently.”

  “Her first inspection was days after we decided to move forward on the deal,” Bruce said. “But she provided a second, final inspection two days ago. To make sure nothing material had changed.”

  Rodriguez grunted. “She got a name?”

  Bruce nodded. “Hang on.” He pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his contacts. “I can’t remember it at the moment. Cynthia something. Wait. Here it is.” He rattled off the woman’s information while Rodriguez took it all down.

  The detective pursed his lips as he wrote, shooting wary glances back where Joe was finishing up his examination.

  Bruce and I exchanged a glance. “What is it?” I asked Rodriguez. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  I watched indecision roll across the detective’s face. He pursed his lips again, then lowered his head and spoke quietly. “Joe believes the some of the injuries that Ms. Frisbie sustained are inconsistent with a fall down the stairs.”

  Bruce’s eyes went wide. “She didn’t fall?”

  “Oh, she fell all right,” Rodriguez said. “But Joe’s preliminary examination leads him to suspect she may have fought off an attacker and been hit by something heavy first. He believes that blow, along with the fall, contributed to her death. He won’t go on record until he’s had a closer look, though.”

  “Do you think Virginia surprised a thief and he killed her?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t rule it out. Good going, Grace,” he said.

  At that moment, Flynn came bounding over. “Looks like our victim is headed to the carving table after all.” He rubbed his hands together. Maybe he was trying to warm them, I told myself, but a glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “And this time, the investigation is all ours, right, Rodriguez?”

  “Not so fast, amigo,” he said.

  Catching a clue from our expressions, Flynn glanced down at the empty table, then back up at me. “You just can’t stay out of our business, can you, Grace?”

  Chapter 3

  Rodriguez and Flynn asked the evidence techs to photograph the dust patterns, then pulled out their phones to snap a few shots of their own. The two detectives decided to spend time examining the rest of the basement, looking for anything else t
hat might provide a clue to how Virginia died.

  “There are two individuals upstairs,” Rodriguez said to a pair of uniformed cops. “Scott and Anton. Please ask them to wait for us. We’ll have a few questions for them. Also, try to keep them from wandering around. The scene has already been trampled on. Let’s not make it worse.”

  When they started for the stairs, Bruce said, “I’ll go up with them.”

  Rodriguez nodded. He and Flynn started down the first aisle, exactly the way Bruce and I had.

  With everyone else gone, I wandered back to where Joe worked alone, squinting in the bright artificial light as he knelt next to the body. He noticed me watching.

  “Crouching is a little hard for me, still,” he said as he placed one gloved hand on Virginia’s shoulder, the other on her hip, ready to turn her over.

  “Is it okay if I watch?” I asked. “I promise not to get too close.”

  He glanced up, taking a moment to focus, then smiled. “That seems to be our problem, doesn’t it? Not being able to get close?”

  Pleased that he’d opened the door to a bit of an awkward subject, I decided to push it a little further. “How did your family issue work out? Is everything okay?”

  “Long story,” he said, retuning his attention to the matters at hand. “One of these days, when you and I have a chance to have a real conversation . . .” He let the thought hang as he eased Virginia’s body onto its side. “Hello, what’s this?”

  Instinctively, I stepped forward. “What is it?”

  Using the back of his wrist to scratch the side of his head, he frowned. “A credit card?”

  “You don’t sound so sure.” Maintaining my distance, I came around to see better as he pulled out what resembled giant plastic tweezers.

  “Hang on,” he said. Using the tool, he lifted a maroon rectangle of plastic off the floor, which did, indeed, resemble a credit card. A second, similar card lay below it.

  “What are they?” I asked.

  He held the first card up, making it easier for me to see. “I’d say it is a credit card, or was supposed to be.”