Aurora 08 - Poppy Done To Death (9 page)

I sat on the side of the bed and realized that what I missed was not Robin exactly, and not sex exactly. And it wasn’t missing Martin, either, though still at rare moments I felt I was being stabbed, the flash of grief was so intense. What I was missing at this moment was the state of being married. I missed having someone there to share the little moments of my day. I missed having someone someone to whom I was the most important person on earth. I missed being part of a team, whose job was always to back each other up.

Even the least perfect marriage has moments that are wonderful, and mine had been far from the least perfect.

I made myself go into my bathroom and begin my nightly routine. I was being ridiculous. My sister-in-law had died an awful death this morning, and here I was, blubbering about not having anyone to sleep with tonight. I was a ridiculous human being. I should know better, I told myself. There were far more terrifying things in the world, and one of those things was very close.

Somewhere in our town, tonight, a person was talking, or brushing his teeth, or making love to a spouse. Yet that person knew he—or she—had committed murder. That person had knocked Poppy down with vicious blows. That person had watched the life drain out of one of the most vital women I’d ever known . . . and done nothing to help her.

Now that was something to brood about.

I woke up when my alarm went off the next morning. It was 6:30, and the glass doors onto the patio showed me it was a beautiful day. I felt wonderful for about thirty seconds, until I remembered the events of the previous day, which had been a Monday.

The rest of the week wasn’t going to be good.

Look on it as a challenge, I told myself briskly. Something rebellious within me muttered back that it was sick of challenges.

But I was now an official Uppity Woman, and I would not let a bad Monday ruin the rest of my week.

This new point of view got me through my morning shower and my simple hair/makeup/clothes routine. After I’d made my bed, I went out to see what I could do for my company before I left for work. I was only a part-time employee, but today I had to work six hours, and tomorrow, too.

A glance into Phillip’s room told me he was still asleep. The Wynns were already up and gone, their bedroom door left half-open. They’d positioned a note where I’d left the key, telling me that they were going out for breakfast, then over to my mother’s, and probably from there to the police department.

John David should be with them, and I hoped he had realized that, too. I wondered if the police were going to let them into the house anytime soon. I also wondered if they had arranged for anyone to clean up the mess in Poppy’s kitchen. I knew there were professional crime-scene cleanup teams in Los Angeles and other big cities, but there sure wasn’t one in Lawrenceton, and I didn’t think there was such a company in Atlanta. But if there was, would they come out to Lawrenceton? Wouldn’t such a service cost a great deal?

I poured myself a cup of just-perked coffee and buttered my slice of toast, so deep in my thoughts that I hardly noticed what I was doing. I was really hooked on the idea of getting that house cleaned.

I decided I would be willing to pay the fee as my way of easing the burden on my mother’s family. How could I find out? My Atlanta telephone book was an old one, scrounged from a friend in the city who’d been about to toss it. I wasn’t sure what the Yellow Pages listing would be under. I would call SPACOLEC and ask Arthur if he’d heard about any such service. I wasn’t real excited about initiating any contact with Arthur, in case he had a relapse into thinking he was in love with me, but it was probably the quickest way to get that information. I looked up the general number and punched it in. It was very early, but with a murder case going, Arthur would be at his desk, I was fairly sure.

While I was talking to the dispatcher, I spotted a small crumpled wad of paper on my polished wooden floor, under one of the barstools at the breakfast bar. I stooped to pick it up, frowning. I don’t like littering, either inside or outside. In fact, I’ve become kind of a crank about neatness, which my mother thinks is hilarious. While Arthur’s extension rang, I flattened the little ball out.

The small piece of paper was a receipt from a gas station, the Grabbit Kwik, which was on the highway between Lawrenceton and the interstate. I shrugged, then walked around the counter so I could toss the slip into the garbage. I was mostly thinking about the phone call.

Then the time printed on the slip registered. Whoever had dropped it had gotten gas the morning before at 10:22, right about when I’d been talking to Poppy on the phone.

My fingers closed around the slip of paper. It had a slick feel, and the wrinkles in it looked gray.

“Hello?” Arthur’s voice.

“Arthur, this is Roe.”

After a moment’s silence, Arthur said, “You call to confess?”

I laughed. I hoped that was the correct response. On the other hand, laughing about my sister-in-law’s death was really outrageous. “No, it’s not that easy,” I said, trying to sound very sober.

“I wanted to ask you if you knew of a crime-scene cleanup business in Atlanta? And if I could find someone willing to do that, when could they get into the house?”

“Yes, there’s a crime cleanup business there,” Arthur said. “The guy who started it up came by the office last week and left some cards. It’s called Scene Clean, and this guy named Zachary Lee is the one who owns it. For all I know, he’s the sole employee, too. He used to be a lab tech for the Atlanta Police Department.”

“Thanks. Can you give me his number?”

Arthur dug up the card and read the information to me.

“Probably later this afternoon will be okay, as far as him getting in,” Arthur said. “I think your hiring him is a good idea, if what I’ve read about crime-scene cleanup teams applies to Zach Lee. It could very well be that John David’s insurance will pay for the bill, or maybe crime victims’ compensation.”

“I never thought of that.” I’d made up my mind to shoulder the cost, but if insurance would cover it, all to the good.

“I hope they can get the . . . well, the stains . . . out of that rug by the back door,” Arthur said.

I found that comment somewhat odd. It was a second before I responded, “The one Poppy liked so much, the one she found at some flea market? Ah ... I guess that would be a good thing. But all I care about is getting John David and Chase back into the house so they can get clothes and things they need.”

“Sure.” Arthur seemed to be coming out of his little fugue. “Well, let me know how it goes with Zachary Lee.”

“Thanks,” I said again. “I’ll give this man a call after I check with John David.” I started to say something about the Grabbit Kwik charge slip, and then I realized that by itself, it was meaningless. So, someone had stopped for gas between Atlanta and Lawrenceton? Lots of people did that every day. I needed to sit down and think of exactly who had been in my house, before this piece of paper acquired any significance.

“Roe, you’re not close to John David, are you?”

I thought about it for a few seconds. “Nope, I guess not.”

“If you knew something about him, in relation to Poppy’s death, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure,” I said promptly, before I could think twice. If I held back, it wouldn’t be for the sake of John David, but for his father—as it happened, though, my conscience was clear. That’s what I told Arthur.

He made a sort of noise in his throat, an unconvinced sound. “I’ll let John David know about getting back in the house,” he said. I thanked him again for the Scene Clean information, and my mind had already moved on to the slip on the counter in front of me before I hung up the phone, though I reminded myself to go back over that conversation when I didn’t have anything else to worry about.

Who’d been in my house yesterday?

Marvin and Sandy Wynn, my brother, Phillip, and Cartland Sewell—the lawyer formerly known as Bubba. Oh, and Avery; he’d come in briefly, too. Could I have acquired the slip somehow? I pick up things all the time, because I hate litter. My purse is always full of other people’s grocery store receipts, rubber bands, paper clips—all sorts of detritus that people leave lying around. It was faintly possible that I’d picked up the receipt myself, stuck it in my pocket or purse for later disposal.

But I tended to discount that theory. For one thing, I would not have rolled it into a ball. I would have folded it. That’s just what I do. For another thing, yesterday had been kind of a tense day, what with the newness of being an Uppity Woman, Poppy’s tardiness, and then the awful shock of finding her body, and I didn’t think my mind had even registered litter all day long.

So, most likely, one of the people who’d come into my house had dropped the receipt. And none of them was supposed to have been anywhere around Grabbit Kwik at that hour of the morning. Marvin and Sandy Wynn were supposedly in their retirement condominium, almost three hours away. Melinda was with me. Cartland was in Mecklinburg, making a speech. Avery was—where had Avery been? At work, exactly where he was supposed to be, most likely. At least Melinda hadn’t mentioned Avery being scheduled to do anything out of the ordinary.

But without saying anything to anyone else, I needed to check on all these people, just for my own peace of mind. I could think of no reason why anyone would have wanted Poppy dead, not any reason that made sense to me. I didn’t really think John David would marry Romney Burns, now that he was a widower, no matter what Romney might imagine. It was somewhat easier to believe Cartland would have divorced Liz to marry Poppy (which reminded me that I was going to have to have another unpleasant conversation today). But I found myself reluctant to believe that such activity would have been reciprocated: Would Poppy have left John David, cleaved to Cartland? That was hard to imagine.

And Poppy’s parents—having gone through so much hell to bring her up, it was highly unlikely they’d have snuffed her out.

My brother Phillip had been on a bus. Or so he said. No witnesses, at least none that he could produce quickly, I was sure. But why on earth would he have been interested in killing Poppy, a woman he didn’t even know? Besides, he wouldn’t have needed a receipt for gas. He had no vehicle.

Avery seemed happy enough with Melinda. Why would he have laid a hand on his sister-in-law?

But just at a surface level, Avery had had a better chance than anyone to be on that road at that time. He had a secretary, but she only came in in the afternoon. Avery shared a suite of offices, and the secretary, with another CPA, but essentially he worked by himself.

Someone had dropped that receipt on my floor, and none of the people who could have done it should have done it. I just didn’t want to imagine that one of them was capable of driving a knife into Poppy.

As I dialed the Atlanta number, I realized something else was bothering me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Scene Clean,” said a happy male voice.

I introduced myself and explained the situation.

“Of course, I’d be glad to help you out,” Zachary Lee said enthusiastically. I wondered if I were his first customer. “But I have to have the home owner’s written permission, you understand. And the responsibility for the bill?”

“I’ll be responsible,” I said firmly. I could ask John David about the insurance coverage some other time. “Mr. Queensland can give you written permission, and I’ll meet you there this afternoon at four, unless I call you and tell you otherwise.” I gave the cheerful Mr. Lee my phone numbers, house and cell, John David’s number, and the address on Swanson Lane.

Phillip staggered into the bathroom as I hung up. I was relieved to see him, because I had to go to work and we had to discuss what he would do while I was gone. I began to make a list while I waited for him to emerge; he seemed to be taking yet another marathon shower.

I scrawled a number of items on an old envelope. I’d number them later. “When Memorial Service or Funeral?” I wrote, and then, “T’giving.” Entries under that included, “turkey,”

“celery,” “sweet pot.,” “cran sauce.” Mother had invited me over to have Thanksgiving dinner with her and John, Melinda and Avery had been scheduled to go to Melinda’s parents’ home in Groton, and Poppy and John David had been wavering between accepting an invitation from some college friends or throwing in with my mother’s plans. Now, of course, all these arrangements would be in disarray. Poppy’s murder—and, to a much lesser extent, the unexpected presence of Phillip— naturally would alter the next few days beyond all recognition. No one in the family would want to think about the holiday, but we would all have to.

I was supposed to work today and tomorrow, though the library would be closed Thursday and Friday. Lawrenceton more or less shuts down on Thanksgiving, though not as much as it used to when I was a kid.

Phillip emerged from the steamy bathroom, wearing the bathrobe again. I was glad to see he looked pretty alert. When I offered toast or cereal, he said he didn’t normally eat breakfast right after he rose. I bit my tongue to keep from pointing out he’d been up for a good thirty minutes in the shower, and he poured a glass of orange juice and sat by me on one of the high stools at the counter.

“You look ready for work,” he observed. “So, what’s my agenda for today?”

“If you left the bathroom in a mess, you need to go in and clean it. Remember, the Wynns are staying here,” I said. Phillip looked distinctly alarmed and unhappy at continuing to live in such close proximity to unknown old people who were in the middle of such a crisis. Tough.

“Also,” I said, “here is a pad and a pen. There are going to be lots of phone calls today. Please write down each one: the time, the caller, and the message. Here’s my phone number at work.

Every two hours, call me and let me hear the list. Some of these I’ll have to act on pretty quickly. Now, there’s a remote possibility people will bring food by here if they hear the Wynns are staying with me. You accept the dish, write down any instructions about heating or refrigerating it, and who brought it.”