A Deeper Darkness (5 page)

Amazing, how they were both talking around him. As if saying his name would cause him to reappear, insubstantial and transparent, to stare at them sadly. It might, at that. The name of the dead is a powerful beast indeed.

Eleanor deflated. “Oh, Sam, maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Maybe I can’t accept the fact that fate decided his time was up. But something is nagging at me. It just feels wrong. It feels all wrong.”

She drank some of her tea, then set the cup down on the counter.

“How are you, Sam? You’ve gotten entirely too thin, but that’s to be expected. I did, too, when Jack died.”

Sam’s hands were tightly clenched in her lap. She noticed how red they were, how worn.

One Mississippi
…

No, no, no. Not now. Not here. The two worlds must not be allowed to collide.

Normal. Nominal.

Sam couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t escape it. She picked up her teacup and sloshed a bit over the edge, over her fingers, onto her blouse.

“Damn it. Look at that.”

She rose from the stool, apologetic, and started the water running as quickly as she could. Felt the anxiety slink away, content to retreat into its dank hole.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four
.

Eleanor watched her silently. She felt the woman’s eyes boring into her back. Sam gazed out the window to the small garden planted in the backyard. Saw a flash of white, heard giggling. She turned the water hotter.

When she felt marginally cleaner, she made her way back to the stool and sat.

“I’m fine, Eleanor. Let’s talk more about…Eddie. When did you see him last?”

Eleanor squinted her eyes at Sam, but let it lie. Thank God. Sam was only one woman and, in her mind, not a very strong one, either. She couldn’t manage everything, all the emotions and sadness and fears and hopes, for herself and Eleanor, too. She just needed to keep treading water, and the whole world would keep spinning. At least for another round of sunsets.

“He was over here last week, with the girls. Sunday dinner. Susan wasn’t feeling well, so she stayed home. We had a roast, watched some movies. A typical Sunday afternoon.”

“And?” Sam prompted. “Come on, Eleanor. What aren’t you telling me?”

Eleanor chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then stood and went to the far side of the kitchen. She opened a drawer. Sam could see it was the junk drawer. Everyone had them. She immediately thought about what was in hers: batteries, scissors, take-out menus, twisty ties, pliers. A small pink barrette.

Nausea roiled in her stomach, she tamped it down.
Stop it, Sam. Now isn’t the time
.

Eleanor crossed the kitchen and handed Sam a folded piece of paper.

“You’re right. There is more. This is why I wanted you here, Sam. I just remembered it yesterday. Right before I called. I’d put it in the drawer and with everything that happened…”

Sam took the proffered note. The paper was simple, thin, torn from a spiral-bound notebook, folded in thirds.

Sam unfolded the note carefully. On it were four words, written in all caps:

DO THE RIGHT THING

Chapter Eight

Georgetown
Dr. Samantha Owens

Evidence. This was evidence. They shouldn’t be touching this. This was an open threat.

“Eleanor, do you have gloves?”

“Winter gloves. Not the kind you’re looking for, I expect.”

She’d diminished in the few moments Sam had spent staring at the note. Gone from a strong, self-assured mother to a frail old woman. As if she knew that she was right.

Sam laid the note on the counter carefully.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s not mine. Eddie brought it with him to lunch. ‘For safekeeping,’ he said. He wouldn’t tell me where he got it, or when, or what it meant, just asked that I keep it hidden. So you see, it couldn’t have been random. I know he was murdered.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“No.”

Sam whirled on her.

“Why the hell not? They need this information. This creates more than reasonable doubt that this wasn’t a simple carjacking. You withholding the note…” She trailed off. She’d been about to say that withholding the note could have given Donovan’s killer time to get away, but laying that blame on Eleanor wouldn’t be fair. It was foolhardy, keeping the full truth from the police, but not life-ending.

Eleanor sat heavily on the stool. Her face was haggard.

“So he
was
murdered? It wasn’t random?”

“Eleanor, I don’t know. I can’t say right now. But I’d like to get a chance to look at the autopsy notes right away, see if there’s something they may have missed. What’s the name of the detective working the case?”

Eleanor had prepared a file folder that had all the information Sam would need stowed inside. The gesture made Sam sad. Eleanor had spent years on the Hill as the legislative director to several Virginia congressmen and had hated retiring.

Old habits die hard.

She handed the folder to Sam. A business card was paper-clipped to the front.

“Darren Fletcher. And he seemed none too happy to be dealing with the case.”

“Some cops aren’t the most friendly, that’s for sure. Tell me, what else did Eddie say about the note? Was he frightened? Annoyed? Secretive?”

“He just said he didn’t want Susan seeing it.”

“He didn’t want me seeing
what?
”

Eleanor and Sam both jumped. A petite blonde woman stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed defensively, staring at them both.

Sam had never met Eddie’s wife, nor seen pictures, but this had to be Susan Donovan.

“Grammy! Grammy! Grammy!” Two little girls ran into the room. Eleanor immediately dropped to her knees and gathered them to her bosom. Sam forced herself to swallow, stay still. Every muscle in her body fired. She wanted to run as far away from the girls as possible. She gritted her teeth and looked out the kitchen window so they wouldn’t see the sudden tears in her eyes.

The petite woman came all the way into the kitchen, removed her sunglasses. Sam gathered her self-control and met Susan’s eye. She could see why she wore the glasses, despite the fact there was no sun to be seen. The woman’s eyes were red and swollen, devoid of makeup, with dark circles underneath. On closer inspection, Sam saw her hair was dirty, unwashed for two, maybe three days.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“I’m Dr. Samantha Owens. I am so sorry for your loss.” Sam resisted the urge to stick out her hand, like they were at a social mixer.

She was glad she didn’t. The woman gave her a quick, hateful glance.

“Oh. It’s
you
.
Our
loss, don’t you mean, Doctor? Considering how well you knew my husband.”

“Susan,” Eleanor cautioned. “Little pitchers.”

That was enough to stop the woman’s attack. She glanced at the girls. “Go watch TV in Grammy’s room, okay, chickens?”

In the weary way of children who know the adults need to converse, they detangled themselves from their grandmother’s loving arms and silently melted away. Sam had seen that resigned maturity happen with children forced to grow up too quickly many times before. It was as if Death knocked on their doors as he passed and told them to behave, or they’d be next.

She tamped down her annoyance with Susan Donovan and tried again.

“Yes, he was my friend, too. But we hadn’t spoken in years.”

Susan regarded her warily, then dismissed her entirely, turning to Eleanor. “What didn’t Eddie want me to see?”

Eleanor hesitated a moment, handed her the note.

Susan read it, flipped the page over, shook her head.

“What is this?”

“I don’t know, dear. Something Eddie gave me for safekeeping.”

“And you didn’t tell me about it? You showed
her
instead?”

Her
.

Sam nearly burst out laughing—when she was growing up, and her father was telling stories, he sometimes referred to Sam’s mother as
her
. Laura would always retort, “Who’s her, the cat’s mother?”

The cat’s mother.

“What’s so funny?” Susan was glaring at her.

“Nothing,” Sam said, sobered. “A memory, from my childhood. It’s really nothing. Susan, truly, I am sorry. Eddie was a good man. He loved you very much.”

“If you didn’t talk to him in years, how do you know all that?” Susan was starting to look dangerous—ready to cry or scream, or fly apart at the seams. Sam recognized the look and realized she needed to tread carefully.

“Eleanor has been kind enough to share occasional updates with me.”

Susan froze, unable or unwilling to acknowledge the perceived transgression from her mother-in-law. She changed the subject instead. “What exactly is it you plan to do here, Dr. Owens? Did my mother-in-law explain that I will not give my permission for a second autopsy?
Professionals
have done their jobs. There’s already been enough damage to my family. We can’t bring him back.”

Sam turned on her medical examiner persona. She’d heard this argument too many times to count from a victim’s loved one, usually in denial of a primary autopsy. “Don’t you want the person who did this to see justice?”

“Of course I do. But knowing won’t change anything. Eddie is still dead. Cutting him open again won’t bring him back to life.”

Sam understood that. She understood it more than Susan could possibly know. She tried another tact.

“I hate to mention this, but if he
was
murdered, and not randomly carjacked, you and the girls could be in danger, as well. Are you willing to risk their lives, too?”

“That’s one hell of a low blow. And the only person who doesn’t think this was a carjacking is Eleanor.”

“And me. This note feels real. And if Eddie was purposefully targeted, the danger to you and your family is a reality, Mrs. Donovan. Unfortunately, I see my share of violent crime. I’ve been a victim of it myself. So I understand that sometimes, when the primary target is neutralized, and the end game has not been played out, the ones closest to the victim are also at risk.”

“You’re just trying to scare me. You hateful woman.”

Sam did laugh then, albeit humorlessly and briefly. “I may be. But when it comes to protecting your children, I trust that you can put your ego aside for one minute and think about them.”

“That’s enough!” Eleanor snapped. “We can’t be squabbling like this. Susan, please. Let Sam do her job. Let’s put all our minds at ease.” Eleanor softened her tone. “At the very least, give your permission for Sam to look over the autopsy report and speak with the medical examiner. There’s nothing intrusive about that.”

Susan pulled at her ponytail. Sam could tell she was embarrassed by her outburst. Susan struck her as a woman who didn’t like to lose control. Sam understood that, too.

“Fine,” Susan said at last. “Look at the notes. But after that, I trust you’ll go back to your life in Tennessee and leave us to bury our dead.”

She swept from the room, calling for her daughters.

Sam shared a long look with Eleanor. “You could have warned me that she hates me.”

Eleanor began to tidy up their tea things.

“She doesn’t hate you. She’s just afraid of what you might find.”

Chapter Nine

Georgetown
Maggie Lyons

Jennifer was just blowing out the candles on her cake when the doorbell rang.

Maggie Lyons waved her hands over the table to dissipate the smoke, kissed her daughter on the top of the head and said, “Hold on a minute, sweetie. I’ll cut it for you in a second. Let me just see who’s at the door.”

She tried to ignore the outpouring of cries followed by naughty laughter that emerged from the kitchen as she left, knowing full well the wolves had descended and there would be a mess when she returned. But that was fine. It was her baby’s birthday, and they were all a little hopped up on sugar and excitement. By the time she got back, the boys would be covered in icing. As would the table. And Jennifer.

The porch light was still on. She’d forgotten; she flipped the switch into the off position. Through the beveled glass of the front door, she could see two men in suits standing outside. One was about six foot, with brown hair cut close to his head. The other was shorter, squat, a bodybuilder. His arms stood out from his body almost at angles.

Cops.

What had that fool done now?

She pulled the door open, frowning. The taller of the two nodded at her.

“Ma’am? I’m Detective Darren Fletcher. This is Detective Lonnie Hart. We’re with Metro P.D. We need to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?”

She smiled in apology, slipped out the door and pulled it closed behind her. She knew what this was about. Her jerk of an ex-husband, who had turned from a fine, upstanding young lawyer into a degenerate alcoholic who liked to bust her around when he didn’t get his way. At least he was paying the child support again—though she knew his firm had garnisheed his future earnings to make that happen. They didn’t need the scandal, wanted her kept quiet and comfortable so she didn’t sue. Like she would—but that wasn’t the point.

“Can we do this out here? I don’t want the kids to hear.”

“Sure.” Fletcher studied his notebook. “You’re Margaret Lyons?”

“Yes, I am.” She heard the weariness in her voice. God, they had all fallen so far. “So what did Roy do now?”

Fletcher’s eyebrows creased, and the shorter man, Hart, chimed in. “Who’s Roy?”

Maggie leaned against the column. “My ex, of course. He’s a frequent flyer with you. Gets delinquent on his support payments. Likes to get into fights. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Oh,” Fletcher said. “This isn’t about him. At least, I don’t think so. It’s about the homicide across the street.”

“The
what?
Someone was killed? Here? Who?”

She straightened up and looked past the two men, finally registering the multitude of police cars that were parked down the street. Man, she needed to get some more sleep. How did she miss this? And she was shocked the kids hadn’t noticed. Granted, they were all in the kitchen, which faced the garden, enticed with birthday cake, but one of the boys usually grabbed the paper for her in the morning. She glanced down. The paper was still on the porch. She felt a flash of anger.

God, Maggie, get it together. Someone’s dead and you’re worried about the kids’ chores.

The detective was talking again. She tuned back in.

“Yes, ma’am. Happened overnight, sometime between two and four. We’re just checking to see if you heard or saw anything strange last night.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who’s dead?”

Fletcher looked at Hart, who nodded imperceptibly.

“His name is Harold Croswell.”

Maggie felt the wind leave her body, an exhalation she hoped the detectives didn’t notice.

She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with him. Where did this happen? I mean, which house?”

Fletcher pointed over his shoulder to the Federal-style brick town house across the way.

“But that’s Mrs. Emerson’s place. She’s in France for the spring and summer.”

“So the house was vacant?” Fletcher asked.

“It’s supposed to be. She travels quite a bit. A widow. A merry widow. George Emerson, that’s her husband, died three years ago. She’s been lonely, says travel helps.”

Fletcher shifted and she realized she sounded like an idiot. That wouldn’t do.

“God, I’m sorry, I’m babbling. Maybe this man was a friend of hers. She’s had a string of boyfriends. Amazing, really, a woman of her age keeping that pace.”

“He might have been a bit young for her,” Hart said dryly. “Do you have contact information for Mrs. Emerson?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. She has a housekeeper, though. She’d probably have all that.”

“Regular housekeeper?”

“Yes. Daily when she’s home, weekly when she’s out of town.” She smiled apologetically. “Sure would be nice. I work full-time, trying to make partner, and with the three kids, and Roy… Well, things are a bit of a mess.”

“You know when the maid was here last?”

“Um.” Maggie thought about it. “Yesterday morning, maybe.”

“This is a nice neighborhood,” Fletcher said.

“Yeah, it is. I’ve lived here my whole life—my parents left me the place when they passed. But it’s not the kind you’d expect people to be murdered in.”

The detectives were silent for a minute, just watching her. She hated how cops made her feel guilty, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Maggie heard the kids’ screaming laughter, the decibels leaking out through the closed door.

“Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s my daughter’s birthday, we’re having cake. Is there anything else?”

Fletcher shook his head. “No, ma’am. Here’s my info. If you remember anything, please give us a call. Thanks for your time.”

She took his card and went back inside. Shut the door, then turned the dead bolt. Debated telling the kids, decided against it. Keep them in the kitchen, away from the scene. They’d be fascinated and horrified, wanting all the details, then would have nightmares. Like Jen had last night. She really needed to smack Bobby for giving her that book. But they may be more cooperative… No. Better to keep them in the dark.

She dropped Fletcher’s card on the table by the door and steeled herself for what she had to do next.

She never even thought about what Jen had said to her, that small, scared voice in the dark. All she knew was as soon as they had their cake, she had to get them all out.

She’d read about Donovan’s death. A carjacking. On the surface, a senseless act. But now, three days later, Croswell had been murdered in a house right across the street from her very own?

The message was clear. One could be chalked up to a mishap. But two?

The tiniest frisson of fear cruised down her spine. She shook it off. Pulled open the hall closet door and grabbed her bug-out bag, plus the smaller pack she had for the kids.

Fucking past. She was never going to escape it, was she?