by Sara Rosett
“No,” she said sharply as she ran her knuckle under her eyes to wipe away a tear. “We have to. I have to know. I was so distraught, I didn’t notice anything and my memory of what happened isn’t good—it’s all mixed up. I don’t even know how long it took for the ambulance to get there. It felt like hours. And I didn’t even see the paperweight that you saw. That’s important.” She scooted forward on the bar stool, back in control of her emotions. “Now, when you first went in the garage, did you notice anything . . . did you hear anything or smell anything different or unusual, a scent of perfume, anything like that?”
I thought back. It was a good question. “Ah—no. I didn’t notice any unusual smell, nothing sticks out in my memory. It was warm. There was a space heater going. That’s the only sound I remember.”
Gabrielle wrote that down. “I didn’t notice that space heater, either. Jean did use it on really cold days, but I’m surprised she had it on when the door was up. Usually she was a stickler about stuff like that—leaving doors and windows open when the heat or air conditioning was running—that was one of her pet peeves. Anything else?”
“No, only the drone of the heater stands out,” I said, feeling in some absurd way like I was letting her down with my negative responses. “I wasn’t taking an inventory, well, except for her work area. It looked like a wonderful setup. Did you help her with it?”
“Yes. I drove down a few years ago and designed it for her. Okay, tell me about the paperweight. Are you sure it was the same one from the gift exchange?”
“There’s no way to know. There weren’t any special marks or anything on the one from the party that would identify it. Considering the paperweights were a promotional giveaway from my insurance agent, there are probably thousands of those in middle Georgia. I assumed the one I saw in the garage was the same one I gave Jean after the party because there was a box on the ground near her work area with the other white elephant gifts.” I shook my head. “The weird thing is that my fingerprints weren’t on it—so maybe it wasn’t mine.”
Gabrielle tapped her pen against her teeth, then said, “That’s interesting. Jean might have cleaned it—wiped it down—she tried to make everything look as good as possible before she photographed it. Or, it might be a completely different paperweight.”
“Yeah, but that would mean someone would have to know the paperweight was there and bring one exactly like that . . . and then remove the one I gave to Jean. No, that’s too convoluted.”
“Doesn’t matter how crazy it is. Right now, I’m writing everything down.”
“Okay, then say it was mine. There are no prints on it at all now. If Jean cleaned it and removed my prints, then where are her prints? And the prints of the person who hit her with it?”
Gabrielle winced slightly at my words, but said, “It must mean that whoever used it to kill her wore gloves or used a rag to hold it so their fingerprints wouldn’t be on it.”
“I’m not an expert on legal definitions, but wouldn’t that argue for premeditation?”
Gabrielle said, “I think you’re right, except how would the person know the paperweight would be there?”
My thoughts shot to the people closest to Jean—Simon and Gabrielle. Both of them would know her routines. Simon would probably have seen the box of gifts between the time Jean brought it home and when she died. At the party, Gabrielle had been around when several of us gave the white elephant gifts to Jean. So Gabrielle would have known what was in the box and she had set up Jean’s work area and knew her routines. I kept my thoughts to myself, suddenly feeling uncomfortable sharing theories with Gabrielle. I didn’t really know what her motives were. And even if the police had cleared Simon with his exercise class alibi . . . well, he was still Jean’s husband and wasn’t the spouse always on the suspect list? He could have had help.
Gabrielle brought me back to the present as she said, “Maybe the paperweight was just a handy object. There are lots of things in garages that are lethal . . .”
“But if it was planned, wouldn’t the killer bring a weapon?” I asked, thinking aloud.
“Maybe the murderer was afraid the weapon would be traced back to them. Better to use something from the house itself.” Gabrielle said, deep in thought.
I shifted uncomfortably, thinking the murderer wouldn’t have to bring a weapon if he—or she—knew one was going to be handy.
A thought that had been lurking in the back of my mind, indistinct and foggy, suddenly came into focus. “You’ve heard about the break-ins?”
Gabrielle nodded, her eyes widening. “The ones where the victims have been squadron spouses? Do you think it was—what do they call it on those television shows?—a robbery gone bad? Do you think Jean got in someone’s way and they freaked?”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “The situation with Jean doesn’t really fit the pattern.” Gabrielle was scribbling away on her notepad as I ticked off the differences on my fingers. “The other break-ins were at night, they were all at houses where the spouse was deployed, and no one was home. Well, except for one, when the family was away, at a hospital in Atlanta with a sick relative. And the break-in at Abby’s house. She was at home.”
She tapped the pen against her teeth again, then summarized, “The . . . incident . . . happened during the day and Simon isn’t deployed, but he was in the squadron and he is gone quite a bit during the day. Even with all that, it’s an angle we have to consider.”
“You should ask Waraday about it.”
“I will,” Gabrielle said.
I heard the wrap-up theme music from the kids’ show playing and asked quickly, “Do you know why she was wearing the red suit? It was yours, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was mine,” Gabrielle said, her eyebrows knitting together in a frown, “but I don’t know why she had it on. She asked if she could borrow it and I said of course. I never asked her why.”
“When did she ask to borrow it?”
Gabrielle tilted her head and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know . . . a few days before, maybe a week?”
“It could be important. Is there any way you can narrow it down?”
Gabrielle shrugged. “I don’t think so . . . it’s not like I made a note of it or anything. I remember we were on the phone when she asked, but we called each other all the time.”
“It wasn’t her usual style, not something she normally wore,” I said, hoping to jog her memory.
“No. She hated heels, which was such a drag because she never had any shoes that I wanted to borrow,” Gabrielle said with a sad smile.
“The suit was the only thing I thought that was strange . . . I wondered if she had a meeting or an appointment. I know she was supposed to meet Diane for lunch, but maybe she had something after . . .”
“Nothing I knew about,” Gabrielle said, writing on her notepad, “but I’ll see what I can find out.”
The kids’ show was over, so I sent Livvy and Nathan to brush their teeth, which bought me another few minutes. “What about the people in her life? I can’t think of anyone in the squadron who was upset or angry with her. Was there anyone in her family . . . ?” I let my words trail off because Gabrielle was shaking her head.
“No. No one.” Gabrielle capped her pen, closed her notepad, and shoved them in her purse. “I’ve thought about everyone—and I do mean everyone—who might want to hurt her. I can’t even think of anyone who was mad at her. She wasn’t one of those people to arouse emotions. She went through life . . . quietly—I guess that would be the word. She and Simon were happy. She missed Kurt, but was so proud of him, that he’d gotten into Har vard.”
I nodded, remembering how excited Jean had been when she told us her son was going away to such a prestigious school. “And how is Kurt?”
“Devastated, now, but before—great. He had a few bumps his first year, but now he’s a junior and has really settled in. He’s making good grades and has an internship lined up at a brokerage house next summer.”
“There aren’t any feuds or grudges in the family on either side.” She stood up and shrugged. “I can’t think of anything. She was in a book club, but I don’t think they’d met for several weeks. Some of the women came to the funeral and they all seemed broken up about Jean. I don’t think there’s anything there, but I’ll ask.”
Gabrielle left, promising—or possibly threatening—to call me the next day with any news and I was caught in the homework–dinner vortex for the next few hours and didn’t have a chance to read her notes. By the time the kids were in bed, I was exhausted. I staggered down the hall and dropped the bedtime story book, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, on the coffee table. I’d been reading the kids one chapter each night and Livvy said she hoped their Christmas pageant was as good as the one in the book. I collapsed onto the couch with Gabrielle’s typed notes and the mail. I clicked on the television because the house was too quiet.
It was the first chance I’d had to read Gabrielle’s account of where she’d been on the day Jean died. She’d had an interview with a local radio station at seven-thirteen a.m. She’d shared tips for juggling Christmas chaos, as they called it. I probably should have tuned in, I thought. I wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping up with our holiday activities.
I told myself not to be a sourpuss, but it still irked me that Gabrielle had waltzed into town and managed to snag my clients and local media attention. Not that I’d actively tried to secure spots on local radio and television—I was too busy with the clients I had and with my family to work in anything else. Correction: I had been too busy to court North Dawkins reporters. I wasn’t now. Maybe after Christmas . . . I shook my head. I couldn’t do everything. Let it go, I told myself, and got back to my reading.
Gabrielle had left the radio station at eight, driven to a client’s house—I grimaced when I saw it was my former client Stephanie—and worked with her until noon. After returning my call, she’d driven to Jean’s house where she found me in the garage huddled over Jean’s body.
I folded the paper in half, thoughtfully. I’d spoken with Paige around noon. I’d probably stayed there until twelve-fifteen or so, then spoke to Gabrielle and driven the short distance to Jean’s house. I’d probably arrived by twelve-twenty at the latest. I mentally calculated the distance from Stephanie’s upscale neighborhood to Jean’s house. Probably five minutes or so. But then that would mean that we’d have arrived at roughly the same time and I was sure I’d been in the garage at least five, maybe ten, minutes before Gabrielle arrived. I ran my hand down the fold of the paper. What took her so long? I yawned and stretched out on the couch, the mail balanced on my stomach. The last thing I remembered was opening a bill. I must have dropped off to sleep because I awoke to find Mitch leaning over me.
“I hope this isn’t a message. We’re not sleeping in separate beds, are we?” he asked.
“Uh?” I said inarticulately, taking in the bright television with the late-night talk show glowing behind Mitch, who was in his flight suit.
“You know, the bed is much more comfortable than this old couch,” he said, and I woke up enough to recognize the hint of a smile in his tone.
“Yes, but it’s not the same without you,” I said as I struggled into a sitting position, sending a cascade of bills and empty envelopes onto the floor. Rex, who I was sure had been sleeping curled up on the floor beside me, was walking around the room in a slightly loopy manner, hoping someone would either pet him or put him to bed. Mitch reached down to scratch Rex’s ears. “I heard Waraday was out here today,” Mitch said.
I scooped up the papers off the floor and rubbed my eyes. It only took a few seconds for the events of the day to come rushing back into focus. “Yeah. Yeah, he was,” I said with a sigh. “He took the clothes I was wearing when I found Jean, but I know there’s nothing incriminating on them. I think he was trying to rattle me. Don’t worry, though. Gabrielle and I are on it. We’re going to find some other suspects for Waraday besides me.”
“You and Gabrielle? Isn’t she the one you don’t like?”
Oops. Had I said that aloud? Dang it. I should have known better than to discuss things with Mitch when I was still groggy. If I’d been wide awake, I wouldn’t have let anything about my sleuthing slip out. Too late now to go back. “I still don’t like her. Don’t really trust her, either, but she’s got access to Waraday and to Jean’s family,” I said. “Of course, she hadn’t heard any earth-shattering news on either front.”
Mitch made a thoughtful “ah-hum” sound.
“You’re taking this whole search-of-the-house thing better than I thought. To say nothing of the Gabrielle issue.”
“I don’t like either situation, and I was upset when I heard about the search, but it’s not your fault that Waraday’s latched on to you. And, you’re right, Gabrielle might know something that would help you out. Besides, I can’t be mad at you for doing something that I’m doing as well.”
“I’m sure that would make sense if I hadn’t just come out of a deep sleep,” I said.
“I may have some news later,” he said as he reached out his hand and pulled me up.
“Really?”
“Maybe.” He wrapped his arm around me as we walked through the living room, Rex sagging along behind us. “I’ll know more tomorrow. Let’s go to bed.”
Tuesday
“Would you like some help with that?” I asked a woman who was struggling to balance a box of canned goods on the handle of her stroller. She tucked a strand of her pale blond hair back behind her ear and sent me a fleeting smile.
“Sure,” she said as her son twisted sideways in the stroller, straining against the belt that held him, and let out a scream that reverberated off the food bank’s steel walls. I had been unloading a corporate donation from a local restaurant when the front counter got busy. I wasn’t scheduled to help out at the food bank today, but I was covering for Cecilia. She’d mistakenly scheduled an appointment with her obstetrician for the same time as her volunteer shift.
As I took the pallet of canned goods topped with a large container of powdered milk, she said, “Sorry about the noise.” She was wearing a thin sweater and jeans. Her son, who looked to be about five or six months old, was bundled in a coat and knitted hat that covered his ears. She didn’t look like the stereotypical person you’d picture visiting a food bank, someone homeless or down on their luck. She looked like any one of the moms I’d be seeing in a little while at the carpool line, but I’d learned that people from all economic levels were struggling to make ends meet. She expertly held the heavy outer door open with her heel and maneuvered the stroller over the threshold.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said as I followed her outside and walked with her down the long ramp beside the wooden steps. “I have two kids and I swore my first one was going to be an opera singer. She could hit all the high notes.”
The woman smiled and said, “Over here,” indicating a large SUV. She opened the back and wheeled the stroller around the side while I loaded the food. The boy’s cries went down a notch as she transferred him to the infant seat. I closed the back door as quietly as I could, not wanting to startle him. There were several other cars ranged around the gravel lot with people loading and unloading food, but I did a double take and stared at one older Ford.
That wasn’t Simon, was it? I squinted and shaded my eyes. Yes, it was, I realized as I watched his wiry figure arrange food in the back of the Ford. He still looked pale, but he was smiling and, although I couldn’t hear what he was saying, I could tell he was keeping up an easy flow of conversation with an older, nearly bald man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and jeans, moving nervously from foot to foot while he waited for Simon to finish loading the food. Simon nodded at the man and shook his hand, indicating he’d close the trunk for him while the man climbed into his car.
The woman collapsed the stroller and I hurried to reopen the back of the SUV for her, surprised a
t how quickly I’d forgotten the stroller routine. It had only been a few years since I’d lugged a stroller and a diaper bag everywhere. “Thanks again,” the woman called as she hurried to the driver’s seat. I waved and turned back to watch Simon, intending to wait for him so we could walk in together. He pulled off his thick jacket and placed it on top of the food, then closed the trunk. He patted the car, waved to the man, and made his way across the parking lot. The older man had his eyes on the road and didn’t notice Simon wasn’t wearing his jacket.
I tilted my head and smiled at Simon as he made his way across the gravel lot toward me. “Helping Hands is doing clothing donations, too, now?” I asked, thinking that it was amazing enough that he was actually back working on the day after his wife’s funeral—and then he goes and gives his coat to a needy person. Most people wouldn’t be able to see past their own needs at a time like this. Had I seriously considered this guy as a murder suspect?
He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the Ford, which was creeping slowly over the speed bumps in the paved portion of the parking lot near the church. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” Simon said. “Against policy and all that.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. How are you doing?” I asked as we climbed the wooden stairs. I could tell from the dark circles under his eyes and the way he was moving—slowly, hanging on to the wood railing tightly and almost pulling himself up each step—that the last few days had taken an emotional and physical toll on him.
He gave a small shrug and turned his free hand up, palm out. “I don’t know. I’ll tell you later.”
“Working helps?” I asked.
“It does.” He opened the heavy door and waited for me to walk through first. “Gets me out of the house. I know everyone is shocked to see me today, but I can’t sit at home. It’s better to be here. At least here I can do something productive and make a difference, even if it is small.”
“I can see how that might help,” I said.
“Thanks for coming in today,” Simon said as I moved back to the spaghetti noodles and he walked to the offices at the back.
