Home Stretch

by Jenna Bennett

  This guy did look vaguely familiar, though, even from the back. I turned to look at him.

  Tall, even sitting down, and dressed in a navy suit and tie. Reddish-blond hair and freckles in an angular face. A few years younger than Tim.

  Kenny. The name popped into my head. His name was Kenny. Kenneth Grimes. He lived in the neighborhood. Four or five months back, his partner had been murdered. Jogging in Shelby Park, as it happened.

  The victim, Virgil, had been a client of Tim’s with his previous boyfriend. So in a roundabout way, this might be a business luncheon. Maybe Kenny wanted to sell his house. He’d owned it since before Virgil moved in, but maybe, now that Virgil was dead, he couldn’t bear to live there anymore.

  Or maybe not. They were looking at one another very intently across the table. Maybe it wasn’t a business luncheon at all.

  The last time I’d seen Kenny, he’d been trading punches with Virgil’s ex on the floor of the funeral home, while the casket was threatening to—and eventually did—fall off its stand.

  Maybe he was ready to move on.

  Well, good for him, if he was. And good for Tim, too. Kenny seemed like a decent guy. He’d certainly mourned Virgil very sincerely. The brawling at the funeral notwithstanding.

  I ushered Mrs. Jenkins out of the restaurant and toward the car. I’m not even sure Tim noticed us going by.

  * * *

  We took the long way home. By which I mean that instead of driving directly home from the FinBar to the house on Potsdam, I decided to take the scenic route. In the opposite direction. Through Shelby Park. Call it curiosity, or maybe I was hoping that it would spur some kind of memory in Mrs. Jenkins. Something to help us—or help Detective Grimaldi and Rafe—figure out who had murdered Julia Poole and tried to drown her and Mrs. J.

  The road from the FinBar took us into the park on the north end, farthest from the river. We passed the golf course, and drove around Sevier Lake, where a few ducks were splashing in spite of the November temperatures. Up on the hill to our left, behind the trees, was the path where someone had lain in wait for Virgil and killed him this summer.

  On the other side of the lake were the baseball diamonds, and the entrance to the Shelby Bottoms Greenway. I drove slowly past. A train rumbled by, four stories in the air on top of the railroad trestle that crosses the river and the wetlands.

  There were very few people out. A jogger, as Virgil had been that evening in July. A woman with a baby stroller. In a month or two that might be me. Although, considering what I knew about Shelby Park and the bodies dumped here—Virgil’s hadn’t been the first, nor would Julia Poole’s be the last, I was sure—I’d do my walking in daylight.

  The road converged from the railroad trestle and turned west, toward downtown. Beyond the trees on the left I could see the river. The water was gray and choppy, even in the sunshine. And the river was high, maybe due to the rain we’d had over the past few days.

  Just ahead of us was the boat ramp, with a small parking lot next to it. I turned off the road and into one of the spaces.

  Other than us, the lot was empty. Through the trees, I could see a barge waiting on the other side of the river, laden with piles of dirt or maybe gravel. The ramp went down to the right of the car, and there was no evidence whatsoever to indicate that last night, a car with a dead body had been winched up from the river. There was no crime scene tape across the boat access, or anything like that.

  I glanced at Mrs. Jenkins. “Is this where Julia’s car ended up in the river?”

  She looked around, blankly. It looked like she either didn’t remember, or didn’t recognize the place.

  Unless I was wrong, and this wasn’t the boat ramp. I couldn’t think of another one, though. Not around here.

  I reached for my door handle. “Do you want to come out, or do you want to stay in the car?”

  Mrs. Jenkins wanted to stay in the car. I turned the engine off and put the key in my pocket, so she wouldn’t get the bright idea to drive away without me. I wasn’t sure whether she could drive—she probably didn’t have a license, and she’d have to sit on a pillow to see out over the dashboard—but better safe than sorry.

  And if she accidentally—or not so accidentally—locked herself in, I’d be able to unlock the doors again if I had the key.

  There wasn’t a whole lot to see, unfortunately. The ramp went at an angle into the water, the way boat ramps are wont to do. I stood at the top of it and imagined the darkness of one AM—there were no streetlights here, inside the park, and the lights across the river, where the barge was waiting, probably wouldn’t have been on that late on a weekend. And I knew from experience that there had been no moon. That’s what had made Mrs. Jenkins so hard to see in our front yard that night.

  I imagined the killer getting out of the car and stepping back to watch it roll down the ramp, picking up speed as it went. Faster and faster until it hit the water. Would it splash? Or just slip in, nose first, without making much noise?

  Had he had to give it a push, or had it rolled on its own?

  And then what had he done?

  I looked around.

  He could have walked away. There are several roads out of the park, including the one we’d come in on, the one we’d be leaving on, and one more, cutting straight through the park at a diagonal.

  Or he could have left a car parked here, the way mine was parked now. In one of the parking spaces. But that would mean the murder had been planned, and he’d known he’d be coming here and would need a ride home.

  And if he’d left his car here, how had he made it to Brentwood and the nursing home?

  If he’d driven Julia’s car here, had he left his own vehicle in Brentwood for the duration? So had he gone back there, then, from here?

  Or had he taken a cab to the nursing home for the midnight rendezvous, because he knew he’d have to drive Julia’s car here? That would mean he not only planned Julia’s murder, but her disposal, and knew enough about her to know her car would be available.

  I wandered back to the car in deep thoughts. Mrs. Jenkins looked sleepy. When I started the car and we drove away, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

  Seven

  When we got back home, I parked Mrs. Jenkins in front of the TV again. She probably needed some distraction and a nap, and I needed to visit the bathroom. That done, I picked up the phone.

  I thought about calling Rafe, but decided it would be better if I could just take care of this minor detail myself. So I called the nursing home directly.

  The woman who answered the phone must have been discombobulated, because it took her several rings to pick up, and when she did, she didn’t respond with the name of the place and a question about how she could help me. Instead, she just gave me a breathless, “Hello?”

  “Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to know if you could tell me when the funeral for Beverly Bristol is?”

  There was a pause. I thought I sensed suspicion wafting down the line, so I added, “My grandmother-in-law was a friend of Beverly’s. We know that she lived at your place when she died. So we thought you might have some information. If it hasn’t taken place already, my grandmother-in-law would like to go.”

  The thought had struck me in the FinBar earlier, when I’d seen Kenny Grimes and been reminded of the last funeral I’d gone to. Not that I expected a brawl to break out at Beverly’s funeral. Not unless she’d had a lot of money and her heirs were competing for it. That was always a possibility. But I sincerely thought that Mrs. J might want to go. She’d seemed sad when she told us that Beverly Bristol died. And it would be something for us to do together.

  Unless the funeral had already taken place, of course. It might have. She’d passed on last week. Her family might have gotten her into the ground already.

  The woman on the other end of the line—whom I didn’t know who was, since she hadn’t introduced herself—must have decided to trust me, even though she didn
’t know who I was, either. Or maybe she just figured she’d let the Bristol family deal with me, and no sweat off her nose.

  “It’s tomorrow. Ten o’clock. The Phillips-Robinson Funeral Home. It’s... um...” I heard the flapping of papers on the other end of the line.

  “I know where it is,” I said quickly.

  I did. I’d been there before. Starting with Brenda Puckett’s memorial service in August last year. And culminating with the knock-down, drag-out fight literally on top of Virgil Wright’s coffin this summer.

  Anyway, it was a few minutes away. Just a mile or two as the crow flew from where I was sitting. Maybe Beverly Bristol had lived in this area before she ended up in care in Brentwood. Or maybe one or more of her family members did.

  I thanked the staff member politely, and looked up the phone number for Phillips-Robinson to double check the information. They informed me that yes, there was indeed a visitation for Beverly Bristol scheduled for ten AM tomorrow, and I was welcome to attend.

  “In fact,” the funeral home receptionist told me, her voice lowered in confidentiality, “I don’t think we’re expecting a big crowd. The visitation is in the smallest viewing room.”

  Good to know. I thanked her, and hung up. Mrs. Jenkins was still in the parlor, in front of the TV, and I joined her. Pretty soon we were both napping.

  * * *

  Rafe came home around dinnertime, and brought Grimaldi with him. I had made enchiladas—the baby liked spicy foods, although my heartburn didn’t—and as we sat around the kitchen table, they filled us in. Or at least they filled me in; I wasn’t sure how much Mrs. Jenkins understood.

  “Julia Poole did show up for work Saturday night,” Grimaldi said, around bites of enchilada. “She clocked in at a few minutes before seven. And—”

  She gave me a look, and I closed my mouth again.

  “—two staff-members who were clocking out at seven and leaving for the night, talked to her.”

  So she’d actually been there. No one else had stamped her timecard for her.

  “She performed the bed check,” Grimaldi added, “starting at nine. All the residents were checked off, including your grandmother.”

  My grandmother-in-law. “Not to be picky,” I said, “but if she checked off Rafe’s grandmother as being in bed,” when she clearly hadn’t been, at least not later, “how can you trust that anyone else were where they were supposed to be? How can you even know that it was Julia who did the bed check?”

  “A couple of the residents confirmed it,” Grimaldi said. “Moving on: Once all the residents are in bed, she pretty much just spends the night reading and watching TV and trying to stay awake, in case anyone needs her. Most of the time no one does, but occasionally there’s an emergency.”

  Like Ms. Bristol falling down the stairs. Or like Julia getting her throat cut.

  Or for that matter like Mrs. Jenkins escaping, although no one had noticed that. It had been Julia’s job, and Julia had been otherwise occupied.

  “Any idea when she left the building? She wasn’t killed inside, I assume?”

  Rafe shook his head. His mouth was full of enchilada.

  “It’s a gated facility,” Grimaldi said.

  It was. I’d been there, and knew that there was a tall fence surrounding the property on all sides, and an electronic gate that stayed closed at all times. Just in case someone—like Mrs. Jenkins—managed to make it out of the building and halfway to freedom, I guess.

  This makes it sound like a prison. It’s not, I swear. It’s a very nice, homey sort of place with good food and walking paths and caring, competent staff.

  Julia Poole notwithstanding.

  “The gate was opened a few minutes before midnight,” Grimaldi said. “Whoever opened it had the code.”

  So someone who had been there before. Someone who worked there. Or someone who had been given the code by someone who worked there. Like Julia.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a camera at the gate?”

  Like I said, I’d been there. But I couldn’t remember every detail.

  “There’s a camera,” Grimaldi said, “so whoever’s inside can see whoever’s outside. But there’s no film.”

  What’s the point of a camera with no film in it? “So you don’t know who arrived.” I looked from one to the other of them.

  “Nobody admitted it,” Grimaldi said. “It doesn’t seem to have been anyone on a legitimate errand.”

  It was a little late in the day to be visiting a loved one. Although I supposed, in emergencies, they might have ambulances and such arriving in the middle of the night.

  “We did find the murder scene,” Rafe said. He sounded like he was trying to cheer me up.

  “Where was she killed?”

  “There’s a little gazebo near the river. Folks can sit there and look at the view.”

  On the other side of the seven-foot fence with the spikes on top. I nodded. “I remember. Seems like a nice place for a rendezvous.”

  Almost romantic. If you disregarded the rain that had swept through Middle Tennessee on Saturday night. The weather hadn’t been conducive at all to romance. At least not outside.

  Then again, there’s nothing romantic about murder.

  “The rain washed away a lot of the blood,” Grimaldi said. “There was some left in the protected area under the roof, but even there, the rain had hit most of it. But there was enough left to determine that the murder had taken place there.”

  “I don’t suppose you found the murder weapon?”

  She shook her head. “He must have taken it with him. The ME determined a very sharp, smooth blade.”

  “Like a scalpel.” Or straight razor. The kind of thing that had cut Brenda Puckett’s throat in August a year ago.

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “Beverly Bristol’s funeral is tomorrow morning,” I said. “I thought I might take Mrs. Jenkins to it.”

  I guess I was looking for approval, or permission. Or some reason, if one existed, why I shouldn’t.

  Rafe nodded. “”She’d like that.”

  If she remembered who Beverly Bristol was tomorrow morning. I wasn’t sure she would.

  But she might appreciate it even if she didn’t remember Beverly. And it would give us something to do, and a change of pace.

  I glanced at Grimaldi. “Sounds like a good idea,” she said.

  OK, then. “So what happens now? With the investigation, I mean?”

  The two of them exchanged a glance. “Since it wasn’t easy,” Grimaldi said, and clarified, “since we couldn’t determine who she met in the gazebo at midnight, we’ll have to rely on good, old-fashioned police work to figure it out. I’ll have to talk to her family and friends, her neighbors, to see if they knew who she was seeing. Someone she’d leave her job in the middle of the night, in the rain, to meet.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ll have to dig through her house and look at her cell phone records and that sort of thing. Boring routine.”

  “You don’t need me for that,” Rafe said. It was just as much statement as question. He’s no more fond of boring routine than anyone else.

  Although he was right: Grimaldi probably didn’t need him for it, and it wasn’t the kind of thing the TBI would normally get involved in. He was only involved now because of Mrs. Jenkins.

  Grimaldi shook her head. “I can handle it on my own. I might call you if I find another link to the nursing home. But if the only connection is that she happened to be murdered there, by someone who came from the outside, it’s none of your concern.”

  “Will you let us know how it goes?” I asked. I would have preferred for Rafe to stay in the investigation, to be honest, so we’d know what was going on. Just in case Grimaldi discovered that the person who had entered the property at midnight had been there on a legitimate errand and hadn’t killed Julia Poole. I still didn’t think Mrs. Jenkins had done it, but I didn’t want Grimaldi to get the idea that she might have. The fact that
Mrs. Jenkins wouldn’t, or more likely couldn’t, point the finger at someone else was a bit disturbing.

  “I’ll let you know,” Grimaldi said. She glanced at her watch. “I should probably get going. I have some reports to write up before I’m done for the day.”

  She pushed her chair back. “Thanks for dinner.”

  I did the same. “You’re always welcome. Thanks for staying to let us know what happened today.”

  I walked her to the door with Rafe right behind. We stood on the porch and waved until the sedan had disappeared down the road.

  “Anything I should know about?” I asked him, as we headed down the hallway toward the kitchen again.

  He shook his head.

  “Did you hear back from the TBI lab about your grandmother’s dress?”

  He winced. “Yeah.”

  “I guess it was Julia Poole’s blood?” Not very likely it would be anyone else’s, after all. But we hadn’t known about Julia when he dropped the dress off at the lab this morning.

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Did you tell Grimaldi?”

  He gave me a look. “No.”

  So we were still keeping the blood from the police. The look said, very clearly, that I was expected to keep my mouth shut about it, too.

  “I really don’t think your grandmother is in any danger from Grimaldi,” I said. “She knows that Mrs. Jenkins wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Rafe didn’t answer.

  “And anyway, someone arrived at the nursing home at midnight. That had to be whoever killed Julia. Right?”

  Rafe shrugged.

  “Well, who else could it be?”

  “Mighta been nobody,” Rafe said.

  “So who opened the gate? Someone did.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the opening to the kitchen. We’d stopped halfway down the hall to finish the conversation. “Coulda been my grandma.”