by John Clement
He said, “Miss Hemingway, I’m sure I’m the last person you want to talk to right now, but…”
I held up one hand to stop him. “I know. I owe you an apology for running off the way I did. I’m sorry. I really am. I just felt like I’d run out of options.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Yeah, about that. Did you know it’s considered a crime to flee the scene of a homicide?”
I nodded, although flee seemed like an awfully strong word.
“And did you know it’s considered a crime to elude an officer of the law?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yeah. But did you know it’s considered stupid to wait around and see if a serial killer might murder you?”
He grinned and tossed his hair again. “Yeah. I have to admit you’ve got a point there. Umm … how are you?”
“I’m fine, I think.” I slid my hands down in my pockets. “I’m glad it’s all over. I’m not exactly sure I’ve had time to process the whole thing. How is Ms. Kramer?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Not good, actually. She’s holed up in the pool house. We’re trying to convince her to leave, to check in to a hotel or something, but she just wants to be left alone. I think she’s in shock, which is understandable, but also … well, I don’t think she has that many friends.”
“Has she eaten anything?”
“I don’t know. Her assistant…” He paused for a moment.
“Rajinder?”
“Yes. He stopped by earlier. He took some food over, but I doubt she’s touched it.”
My stomach tightened. I couldn’t help but imagine the horror of what Elba Kramer must have seen when she ran into that front room. And then out of nowhere I sensed that sickly sweet smell again—very faint, like a distant memory—but enough to make me think I was doomed for the rest of my life to smell perfume whenever the idea of murder came up.
I said, “I wish there was something I could do to help.”
He looked down, and I noticed he was holding a pair of bright blue rubber gloves. “Well, as a matter of fact, I was wondering if you might help me convince Ms. Kramer she should leave the house during the investigation. I think she might listen to you.”
“Why would you think that?”
“She told me the two of you have a long history together…?”
I nodded. “Oh, that.”
“But also, it would help with the investigation if you took a walk through the house with me.”
I said, “What investigation? I mean, they caught the killer … right?”
He said, “Yes, but not the people who hired him. And we think they may have had help from the inside.”
I thought of Rajinder and how sweet he’d been with Charlie. Was it possible Carthage thought he was involved somehow? And then there was the gardener. I’d seen her trimming the hedge when I walked up to the front door, but I hadn’t gotten a good look at her face. I wondered if Carthage had already questioned her.
I took a deep breath and sighed.
I doubted Elba would listen to me, and I definitely didn’t want to see the room where Albert Greco had been killed, and I honestly didn’t think anything I’d seen could help them find whoever it was that had betrayed Elba and her husband.
But, then again, I’ve spent a lot of time with cats, watching their movements, observing their hunting techniques, studying the way they home in on their target with every cell—from the tips of their tails to the point of every quivering whisker …
And if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s sniff out a rat.
27
I was standing on the back patio next to Detective Carthage, just beyond one of the big vine-covered columns. The sun was bouncing off the surface of the pool, sending rippling ribbons of light everywhere—completely at odds with the somber mood that lay like a fog over the entire Kramer residence.
It was entirely silent.
Usually, investigators and crime technicians mill about chatting freely, as if they find themselves at the scene of a crime every day, which of course they just about do. But the half dozen or so men and women moving around the property were dead quiet, and I wondered if it wasn’t out of respect for Ms. Kramer, who was still sitting by herself in the pool house with her canary.
I could see my reflection in the long glass wall of the living room, and I’m ashamed to admit that I noted how ridiculous I looked—still dressed in the same clothes I’d had on the day before, my hair a squirrel’s nest, not to mention the blue rubber gloves and the face mask that Detective Carthage had asked me to put on—neither of which made sense, by the way. He wasn’t wearing a mask, and I knew not to touch anything, plus I was pretty sure my fingerprints and DNA were all over the place, so it wasn’t like I could contaminate any evidence. Detective Carthage was still new on the job, though, so I figured he was probably just following the rules to the letter.
He said, “Ms. Kramer has done her best to fill me in on what she remembers, but it would be helpful if you could tell me what you saw. I know it’s difficult, but every detail, no matter how trivial it may seem, can be helpful. These situations are always hard, but I promise you’re safe. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
I tried not to cringe. He sounded like he was reading right out of a college textbook on the proper handling of a crime-scene witness, but I didn’t want to embarrass him. I just nodded politely as he rambled on.
Inside, there were a couple of men in the hallway at the front of the house, covered from head to toe in white hazmat suits. One of them had just come out of the study and was headed straight for us, walking along a line of white drop cloths laid on the floor. As soon as I saw what he was carrying, I should have looked away, but I couldn’t stop myself.
It was a plastic bag, about the size you’d use for a kitchen trash bin, except the plastic was see-through and much thicker. Inside was a matted mess of cardboard, full of ragged holes and soaked in dark, red blood. It seemed to glimmer in the sun, as if it had been sprinkled with sequins. Just then, I felt the curling tendrils of that sweet flowery scent start to wend their way into my brain. I put my hand out on the column to steady myself and mumbled, “Oh, please. Not again…”
Carthage said, “You alright?”
I shook my head, trying to shake the scent away as I pulled the mask off my face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me but … it’s this smell. I keep—”
“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted. “I should have warned you.” He pulled a face mask out of his back pocket. “I don’t even smell it anymore. Believe me, it’s much better now than it was yesterday.”
“Wait. What are you talking about?”
“The smell. That’s why I gave you that mask. Our crime cleanup crew is pretty good, but I don’t think they have a whole lot of experience when it comes to getting rid of perfume.”
I blinked. “Perfume. What perfume?”
His eyes widened. “Follow me.”
He led the way inside, staying in the middle of the white tarps, and I followed about five feet behind him. The closer we got to the front hall, the stronger the smell got, and by the time we stopped at the door to the study, I’d already guessed what had happened. It was those boxes I’d seen, stacked on top of the desk, plastered all over with red and white FRAGILE stickers.
Detective Carthage said, “According to Rajinder, there’d been a delivery that afternoon, not long before you arrived to meet Ms. Kramer. About five cases, from Paris. Normally, they would’ve been sent to the shop downtown, but there was a mix-up. Mr. Greco had just started unpacking them when…”
I stepped into the doorway and gasped.
For the most part, the room looked the same as I remembered it—the wall of leather-bound books, the Persian rug, the antique desk with the green armchair and the big boxy television behind it—except, now, almost every inch of it was riddled with bullet holes. There were two industrial-size flood lamps on tripods just inside the doorway, filling the room with white
light and illuminating spatters of blood on almost every surface.
Detective Carthage said, “From the position of his body, we believe he attempted to crawl over his desk for the door as soon as the gunfire started, but he didn’t stand a chance.”
I nodded mutely. I’ve never been that squeamish around blood, but it took all my concentration just to keep my balance. On the desk, surrounded by several disintegrated boxes, was a leather blotter with a large dark stain at its center …
And then there was the glass.
It was everywhere—tiny shards that sparkled like glitter in the harsh light. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were diamonds and not the shattered remains of French perfume bottles.
As Detective Carthage pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket, I let out a heavy shudder and massaged the space between my eyebrows with the tips of my fingers. That sweet smell was almost overwhelming—a thick, heady melange of magnolia, jasmine, and honeysuckle. I could almost taste it on my tongue.
Carthage looked concerned. “You okay?”
“Nothing. I just kept smelling it. This whole time, I thought it was my imagination. It reminded me of the magnolia tree in my driveway, where they found Mrs. Reed’s body … I thought I was losing my mind.”
His lips tightened into a vague smirk, as if the status of my mental stability was still open for discussion, and then he tapped at his cell phone. A cartoon-like image of a microphone appeared on the screen as he held it out in the space between us.
“This is Detective Matthew Carthage with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department. The time is twelve forty-five P.M. I’m at the home of Elba Kramer and Albert Greco, in the room where Albert Greco was murdered.” He turned to me. “Can you state your name, please?”
I frowned. “Huh?”
“I’m recording our interview. I just need you to state your name for the record.”
I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling like a suspect. “Dixie Hemingway.”
“Middle name?”
I paused.
No one knows my middle name, and I mean no one. I keep it safely guarded. In fact, normally Carthage would’ve needed to pull out every interrogation trick he’d learned in detective school to get it out of me—including any “enhanced techniques” he’d picked up along the way—but I think at that point I was a little off my game.
I said, “Sue.”
He leaned forward. “Sorry?”
“Sue!” I tried my best to make it sound like a powerful name—something commanding and respectable—instead of like the name of a prim and prissy Southern belle. “Dixie Sue Hemingway.”
“Okay. Can you please describe what you saw when you arrived here yesterday?”
I told him how Ms. Kramer had met me at the door, how I’d gotten a glimpse of her husband in the study, and how she’d said he wasn’t feeling too “social,” as she’d put it. And I told him how Ms. Kramer had lowered the living room windows into the floor, and how she’d asked Rajinder to go pick up a prescription for her.
“Did she say what the prescription was for?”
“No.”
“And did you see Rajinder leave the house?”
“No. I just remember Elba—I mean, Ms. Kramer—telling him he needed to hurry because the pharmacy closed at six. I didn’t see him again.”
“And did he seem nervous at all? Or distracted?”
“No. Not that I could tell. But I’d only met him the one time before, so I can’t say for sure. You don’t think he had something to do with this, do you?”
He shrugged slightly. “Elba Kramer had a lot of people in and out of the property—repairmen, hair stylists, assistants, etcetera. Until we have all the facts, I’m not closing any doors. Do you recall seeing anyone else in the house while you were here?”
I said, “Yes. When I first arrived, there was a woman in the front yard. The gardener. She was pruning those tall shrubs in the front.”
Carthage frowned, “Did you talk to her?”
“No. But Ms. Kramer said she was like a member of the family.”
“When was this?”
“When we were sitting in the living room. Rajinder had brought in some iced tea, and she said it was made with mint from the garden.”
He nodded. “The gardener’s name is Sally Ridge. She’s worked for Mr. Greco about ten years. She started out as a maid, but she hurt her back in a car accident, so now she helps with the garden, runs errands, shopping, etcetera.”
While he was talking, my eyes had fallen on a tiny yellow feather that lay at the edge of the Persian carpet closest to the door. About three feet farther in were two more feathers, one right next to the other, and then beyond that were a few more. I followed the line they made all the way across the carpet to the far wall of the study, where there was a large window—or, rather, what remained of a large window. Its splintered panes were hanging in pieces, some held in place only by the shards of glass that still clung to them, swinging gently in the breeze from outside. Along the top of the window was a brass bar, draped with folds of maroon velvet curtains so thick they would normally have blocked out every ounce of daylight, but midway down there was nothing left of them but tattered, bullet-torn shreds.
“Mrs. Hemingway?”
“Huh?”
“I asked what happened after you had tea…?”
“Sorry. I zoned out there for a minute … This is kind of overwhelming. Ms. Kramer was showing me around the pool house when it happened, but…”
He nodded. “I know. She could easily have brought you in this room first. Those curtains were closed when the gunman opened fire, so he was essentially shooting blind, but he made up for that with the sheer number of bullets he unloaded. From the pattern of the damage, we can tell he made at least three passes: one at chest level, one about waist height, and another along the floor. In other words, he made sure no one in this room got out alive. Well, that is, except…”
He directed my attention to the top left corner of the window, where there was a brass chain about three feet long hanging from the ceiling. A gold hoop, roughly three inches in diameter, dangled at its end.
“That birdcage would’ve been right above eye level.”
I said, “Which means…”
“Which means it just missed being blown to smithereens.”
I stared at the empty space where the cage would have been. Carthage was right. About a foot or so below the brass hoop, the velvet curtains hung in threads, but above they were completely intact.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, except, “Wow.”
“Yeah. That’s one lucky canary.”
“Yeah…”
I turned away from the window to face him. Over his shoulder I could see the doorway into the room across the hall. I heard his voice echo in my head. “Until we have all the facts, I’m not closing any doors.”
He held his phone out again, and I noticed there was a little red timer on the screen, ticking away just under the cartoon microphone. “So, Mrs. Hemingway, how long would you say you were sitting in the living room before Ms. Kramer took you over to the pool house?”
I said, “Yeah,” and stepped around him into the hall.
The room directly opposite the office was a guest bedroom. There was a queen-size bed with an orange-and-yellow striped comforter spread across it, and on the far wall was a white-lacquered dresser with a fringed lamp on top. I could tell the room didn’t get used much. It seemed a little empty compared with the rest of the house. Plus, there were a few boxes sitting on the bed and a couple more stacked against the wall on the side of the dresser. There was another box standing open at the foot of the bed with a box cutter lying next to it, and inside were stacks of clear plastic boxes with various pieces of jewelry inside—brooches, bracelets, earrings—nothing that looked particularly expensive, but I could tell it was probably all handmade.
There was also a little wire birdcage on the dresser, with a single sheet of newspaper laid u
nderneath. Attached to the side of the cage on the inside was a small acrylic-coated mirror, along with a plastic yellow perch and matching feed cups. The whole thing looked cheap and flimsy, like something you might pick up at a discount market or a dollar store. I figured it was probably the cage Ms. Kramer’s bird had come in when she bought it.
I turned to find Detective Carthage standing in the open doorway behind me. He had a slightly annoyed look on his face.
“Mrs. Hemingway, why do I think you’re not listening to me?”
I could feel my jaw tightening. I said, “Yesterday, when Ms. Kramer was showing me around the house, I didn’t see this room.”
“Yes…?”
I looked down. To the left of the doorway, lying in a wadded heap on the floor, was a thin cotton sheet. It was dark navy blue and small, like something for a child’s bed or a crib.
I said, “I didn’t see this room because this door was closed.”
He frowned slightly. “So … what are you saying?”
I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, but it was like something had clicked in my head. Or, more precisely, like my mind had been trapped in a deep, dark cave, miles underground, and someone had switched on a lightbulb … right in front of my face.
I felt my eyebrows creep up my forehead as I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“Is Rajinder still with Ms. Kramer?”
He shook his head. “He left a while ago. Why?”
I said, “I think we better go check on her.”
28
The first thing I saw when I opened the door to the pool house was Jane, Ms. Kramer’s canary, perched inside her gold birdcage all alone on the long glass coffee table in the living area. As I closed the door behind me, she pivoted her head from side to side and eyed me suspiciously.
There was a palpable stillness in the room. I took a couple of steps forward and tried to swallow, but my throat was so tight I could barely manage it. I peered down the hallway toward the spa area, but there was nothing I could see that would indicate anyone was there.
I stepped back slowly to the door and then heard a muffled sigh.
