by Sara Rosett
Mitch rubbed his chin across my hair. “What did you go on about?”
“Everything!” I leaned back in his arms. “I blabbed away and now Waraday thinks I killed Jean.”
“Why?”
I broke out of the embrace and paced into the kitchen, giving Rex a routine rub on his head. He trotted off, his welcoming duty seen to. I stripped off the hospital booties and stuffed them in the trash. “Because Gabrielle accused me of killing Jean.”
I could tell I’d stunned him into silence. Mitch wasn’t the type of person to speak quickly, without thinking. He usually considered before he spoke, but right now he was speechless. He walked slowly to the kitchen, crossed his arms, and leaned against the door frame.
“I happened to kick what was obviously the murder weapon so there’s blood on my boots—her blood. And my fingerprints are going to be on the diamond that killed her.” I was striding around the island as I talked.
“Two questions,” Mitch said, his tone calm, his face frowning. I caught sight of my dim reflection in the microwave. My hair, which had been tossed by the wind, was a chaotic mess and my eyes were wide with fear. I ran my fingers through my hair, combing it behind my ears, and took a deep breath as Mitch asked, “One, you’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“Yes, there’s no question. It was murder. Someone bashed in the back of her skull,” I said, pacing to the end of the island and back again. “With a diamond-shaped paperweight, like the one we used to have—do you remember it?”
He nodded. “Ah, that was my second question.”
“What?” I paused in my circuit of the island. “Oh. Right. I see. How could a diamond kill someone? It can if it’s a heavy Lucite paperweight about three inches high with a sharp point.” I stopped pacing and looked back at him. “It was horrible, Mitch. Whoever did that to her . . . I can’t imagine . . .”
I trailed off, gripping the back of one of the bar stools to steady myself as the mental image of Jean’s body flashed into my mind again. I felt breathless and light-headed. Mitch unfolded himself from his leaning pose and came over to me. “Sit down,” he said, pulling out the bar stool and guiding me into it. “Your hands are freezing and you’re shaking. You need food.”
He put hot water on to boil, then rummaged around in the refrigerator. I was generally the food person in our house. I cooked and Mitch cleaned up, but I suddenly felt so drained I didn’t think I could move. Mitch assembled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me, ordered me to eat it, then set a steaming mug of hot cocoa beside my plate.
I didn’t think I could eat anything, but a whiff of the chocolaty aroma wafted up and I reconsidered. I devoured the sandwich and sipped the cocoa as fast as I could. Mitch watched me eat, sipping from his own mug. I felt better after I ate, more normal and grounded. I realized my toes were freezing so I went to the bedroom, slipped on my thick house shoes, and returned to the kitchen.
“Thanks.”
Mitch raised his mug. “Just give my girl some chocolate and she’s fine.”
I had to smile as I hopped back up on the bar stool. “That is usually true.” My good humor faded as quickly as it came. “Except this time, I don’t think chocolate is going to fix everything.”
I went back to the beginning and told Mitch everything that had happened, winding up with Waraday’s confiscation of my boots. “That’s when he told me he needed my shoes. To test the blood, I assume. Then I was fingerprinted and my hands were photographed.” I took another sip of the cocoa to ward off the chill that was again creeping through me. “They took a sample of the blood that had dried on my finger, too.” I tilted my mug, watching as the dregs of my hot chocolate puddled on one side. “This is really bad, Mitch. I got the feeling that the crime scene people wanted to take my clothes, too—something about blood spatter—but there wasn’t anything on them so Waraday told them to leave it and go back to processing the garage.”
Mitch wiped his hands down over his mouth. “You just told them all this . . . everything?”
“Well, yes,” I said, shifting on the bar stool. I leaned forward, bracing my arms on the countertop of the kitchen island. “It seemed like a good idea to tell Waraday everything. You know he would have found out about the argument that Gabrielle and I had, anyway. Honesty is the best policy and all that.”
“Your argument with Gabrielle doesn’t give you a motive to murder Jean. It’s unrelated,” Mitch pointed out, logically.
“Yes, but patching up the argument with Gabrielle was the reason I was there. I’m not going to just drop by Jean’s house in the middle of the day.”
Mitch nodded, his gaze fixed out the window on the bare tree branches dancing in the breeze. “You don’t have a motive, though. You didn’t have a reason to kill Jean.”
“Why would anyone want to kill her? She was such a sweet person. I don’t understand it.” I twisted my mug around by the handle. “But I could tell that Waraday viewed me as more than a coincidental bystander who happened to find her.”
“Why did you think that?” Mitch asked, watching me over the rim of his mug.
“He didn’t like it when I got involved in the search for Jodi or that mess with Colonel Pershall. He thought it was odd that I was interested in those cases. And now to find me at the scene of a murder with blood on my boot and hands . . .” I rubbed my forehead. “I thought if I explained it—the blood and fingerprints—he’d understand. It is a reasonable explanation, and it’s the truth. It’s exactly what happened, but that didn’t seem to matter.” I shrugged. “It was like driving in that ice storm I got caught in when we lived in Washington State. I was moving along the road just fine and then before I realized what happened, I was sliding diagonally, pumping the brakes, and turning the wheel, but it did absolutely nothing.” Fortunately, I’d drifted into a huge snow bank at such a low speed that no damage was done that time, but now . . . I had that same out-of-control feeling and was worried the outcome wouldn’t be so harmless.
Mitch put his mug down with a click. “I’m going to call Legal, see if the JAG can recommend an attorney in North Dawkins.”
Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season
Gift Wrap
To take the hassle out of gift wrapping, create a gift wrapping storage container with everything you need. A narrow, long plastic bin works well. Place wrapping paper in the bin and reserve space for bows, ribbon, gift tags, tape, and scissors. Gallon-size, zippered, plastic bags are great for storing these smaller items if you don’t want to purchase additional plastic containers. Flatten gift bags and tissue paper and store on top of wrapping paper, or if you have a large number of gift bags, create a separate bin for bags and tissue paper.
Chapter Seven
Friday
It had been easier to pretend that nothing was wrong after Abby and the kids arrived home and I was caught up in the normal weeknight chaos of math problems, spelling words, and cooking dinner, but I moved through the routine actions with the weight of worry pressing down on me. I couldn’t quite put out of my mind the awful way Jean had died and I couldn’t keep from jumping every time Rex barked as a car surged down our street or a car door slammed. Mitch, Abby, and I had rehashed everything last night after the kids had gone to bed, as we waited for a call from Mitch’s lawyer friend, the JAG, which was military lingo for Judge Advocate General. They were the military lawyers who worked at the base. But the call didn’t come and we’d all eventually gone to bed. I hadn’t slept much.
The next morning, I was in the middle of another crazy rush to get everyone dressed, fed, and draped with appropriate backpacks and lunch boxes when the phone rang. I stepped around Abby, who was zipping Nathan into his coat, and reached for the phone. Rex pranced, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth, through the kitchen with Charlie trailing alongside of him, halfheartedly trying to jump on his back. I waited for them to clear my path. How could two more people—one of them child-size—make the house seem so much more crowded?
“You made
the news,” Nadia said as soon as I answered.
“No.” My heart plummeted as I remembered the reporter trying to interview me. “Well, maybe a lot of people won’t see it—newspapers are dying, right?”
“Not the paper. You’re on the local television news.”
Livvy tugged at my sleeve. “We’re going, Mom.”
“What? Hold on, Nadia,” I said, and leaned down to give Livvy a hug and Nathan a quick kiss on his head.
“Boys, you’re in the back,” Abby shouted as she heaved her tote bag on her shoulder and the kids disappeared through the door to the garage.
“Nadia says it’s on the news.” I rushed into the living room and dug in the couch cushions for the remote. No one ever put it back in its place in the ornamental box on the coffee table. “Hold on,” I said, flipping throw pillows over. Just because one person in a family is organized doesn’t mean everyone will be.
“You’re on the news,” Nadia corrected in my ear. “We’re watching it in the teachers’ lounge. “They had a teaser before the commercial and your picture was definitely on camera. I thought you’d want to know. I’ve got to go—I have a conference in five minutes, but I want all the details later,” she said before hanging up.
Finally, I found the remote and clicked to the news channel. Abby walked over, her hand hooked into the straps of her tote bag, keys jangling as she walked.
“Jean Renee Williams was found dead early yesterday afternoon in the Shadow Ridge subdivision,” a female voice said as a wide shot of Jean’s cul-de-sac filled the screen. The shot narrowed and focused on the open garage door, then panned to the driveway where I stood talking to Detective Waraday. My face was pale and with the wind flinging my hair around until it practically stood on end, I looked like I’d been Livvy’s test subject in her static electricity show-and-tell project. “A sheriff’s department spokesman said the body was discovered around noon yesterday. Cause of death has not been released and investigators wouldn’t speculate on whether or not the killing is linked to the recent rash of breakins around the county. This North Dawkins woman, Ellie Avery, is believed to be a person of interest in the case.” The shot switched to a grainy close-up of me with my wild hair. “Neighbors are shocked,” the female voice continued as I dropped down onto the couch, devastated that my picture and name were on the news. Person of interest! I wasn’t a person of interest. I was a bystander, a witness.
The video cut to a close-up of a bald man with oval glasses. “How do you feel, knowing a woman was murdered in broad daylight in your neighborhood?” the unseen reporter asked, then angled the microphone to the man.
“Scared. We’re all scared. This isn’t the sort of neighborhood where things like this happen—” I hit the MUTE button. I knew word of Jean’s death and my involvement in its discovery would spread quickly, but now I doubted there would be anyone in all of the county who didn’t know about it.
Abby squeezed my shoulder and said, “I’ve got to go. Call me if you need me, okay? You’ve got my new cell phone number?” She’d bought a new one last night.
“Yes. Right,” I said, standing up and clicking the television off. “Thanks for taking the kids again today.” Her head was tilted as she studied me with a concerned look. To lighten the mood, I said, “I could get used to this—having you chauffeur the kids around. It’s almost like having a live-in nanny.”
“Um-hum. It’s the least I can do, since you’re letting me mess up your guest room and most of your house so I can get a decent night’s sleep.” Her face turned serious. “Don’t brood all day. Do something. Get out of the house. I’m sure the lawyer will call you back soon.”
“I will. I have a few follow-ups and it’s my turn to volunteer at the food bank today.”
“Good,” Abby said. “Don’t skip it. You’ll feel better if you don’t mope all day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a mock salute.
“Peanut butter, aisle three,” I muttered to myself as I consulted a list taped to the top of the waist-high counter that served as the front desk of the food bank. Abby had been right. Getting out of the house and doing something completely different was exactly what I needed. The lawyer friend still hadn’t called, but I shoved that thought aside to deal with later. If there was no word from him by this afternoon, I would make some calls of my own. But that was for later. Right now I was up to my elbows in food that needed to be sorted before the food bank opened later this afternoon.
I balanced the three jumbo containers of store-brand peanut butter in my arms and walked down the concrete floor to the correct aisle, where I stacked them on the shelf beside containers of varying sizes and brands. The food bank received donations from local restaurants, but a large amount of the food they distributed came from individual donations. I smiled as I scanned the shelf, noting that there was everything from a small two-ounce jar of crunchy organic peanut butter to an extra large thirty-ounce jar of plain Peter Pan peanut butter. I loved the uniqueness of it. The mishmash of jars and flavors showed that individuals were digging in their home pantries or dropping extra food into their grocery carts to help hungry people.
My phone vibrated in my back pocket as I went back to the counter for the next load. It was a text message that read, Can’t meet next week. Sorry! Will reschedule. Nancy.
“Not another one,” I muttered as I tapped out an upbeat reply.
I didn’t feel upbeat. Nancy had been my only other new client lead besides Marie. I’d tried to follow up with two other previous clients—part of my maintain-my-client-list campaign—but one person had been too busy to take my call and sent word through her secretary that she was fine and she’d call if she needed anything else. Translation: the old don’t-call-me, I’ll-call-you ploy. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be calling me anytime soon. The other woman’s voice had gone strained as she muttered something about seeing me on the news. She couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. So, now, not only were my established clients avoiding me, my potential clients who’d expressed an interest in a consultation were cancelling on me, too.
I jammed the phone back in my pocket and sorted another load of food, this one mostly spaghetti noodles, sauce, and cereal. I checked my watch. I had another two hours before the food bank opened its doors for afternoon pickup, but I hustled, sorting the last of the donations onto their designated shelves, because I had to pick up the kids from school today.
The wind buffeted the steel frame of the building, the only noise besides the low music that came from an old radio on the counter. I knew that Emily, the volunteer coordinator for Helping Hands, was at the back of the warehouse in her office. But I hadn’t seen her since she set me to work and disappeared to her office in “the headquarters” as she laughingly called it, behind the aisles of food where flimsy walls separated three stripped-down offices.
The food bank was located in the quiet grassy meadow behind the church we attended, North Dawkins Community Church. Surrounded on three sides with parking lots, the church was a modern blend of natural wood and glass with a large lobby area that contained a coffee bar with free high-speed Internet and a scattering of comfortable chairs and high-topped tables. A cross was placed high on a lobby wall lined with fieldstone. The church was a longtime partner of Helping Hands and when the nonprofit lost their lease after their original building was sold, the empty lot at the back of the church seemed the perfect place for the food bank. There was access from the church parking lot, yet the location was sheltered and private since it wasn’t in direct view of the road, which was a very big deal.
I’d learned that anonymity was important to some people who came to the food bank, especially to people who’d been hit hard by the economic slowdown and who had never had to ask for help before. Lots of people didn’t want to be seen coming and going from the food bank, or even parking in the food bank parking lot. The warehouse building with a swath of gravel for parking was the first phase for the food bank—an initial low-cost way to get set up—bu
t I’d heard that plans were in the works for a more permanent building at the same location.
The Boss’s version of “Merry Christmas, Baby” came on and I turned up the volume before extracting a Hershey’s kiss from the small supply I kept in the pocket of my fleece vest. I popped the chocolate in my mouth. A girl needs her energy.
The door flew open and Diane, the food bank manager, hurried inside on a burst of cold air. She held a large cardboard box in her arms and used her foot to kick the heavy steel door closed. “Oh, it’s you today, Ellie! And, look, you’ve already finished sorting the donations. Great!” She set the box down on the counter, then smoothed her short, brown hair off her fine-featured face. Diane was in her midthirties and seemed to have boundless energy and enthusiasm, which reminded me of Nathan’s kindergarten teacher—all sunny smiles and upbeat positive reinforcement, which I was sure was essential when you worked with volunteers, but her attitude did occasionally make me feel as if she were going to tell me it was time to finger-paint. I’d worked with her a few other times when I volunteered, but I didn’t know her all that well.
I expected Diane to head for her office, but instead she draped her arms over the box and leaned toward me. I noticed that her eyes were pink and swollen. “Ellie, you were there, weren’t you? I saw you on the news.” Her upbeat tone had dropped away.
“Apparently you and every organizing client I’ve ever had,” I said. I had no idea so many people watched the news in the morning.
“Well, it was on the front page of the paper, too,” Diane said with a grimace.
“My picture?”
“Yes, well, it was an inset. The big picture was of Jean from a spouse function at the base a few years ago, but you were there, too, in a kind of collage beside another photo of the open garage.”
