Best Place to Die (9 page)

‘It's long and hard and . . .'

‘For Christ's sakes Arvin,' she snapped, picturing the rotund and mostly bald medical examiner, who was forever propositioning anything female with a pulse. At least, she hoped it only extended to those with pulses. She bit back a scathing remark. After all, she'd called him at home on a Sunday when she'd discovered Delia's body had been whisked off to Brattlebury Hospital. She was deep in favor territory. ‘Anything?' she asked.

And like a switch being thrown, Dr Arvin Storrs dropped the creepy flirtation. ‘Her neck was snapped at C-3, pelvis shattered in four places . . . but all post-mortem.'

Mattie's breath caught. ‘What are you saying?'

‘She'd been dead a good four hours before she went out that window, that's what I'm saying. So unless you believe in zombies she didn't jump; she was dropped, pushed, tossed, given the old heave ho . . .'

‘And the cause of death?'

‘Blunt trauma, to the back of the head, right above the occiput, a single blow from someone who knew what they were doing. You're looking for something smooth, round and heavy. Say between a bowling ball and a baseball. Think grapefruit sized. I'll tell you more when I have it, but thought you'd want to know this was no accident . . . and something else you might want—'

‘Yes?'

‘She'd had intercourse within an hour of death, two tops.'

‘Rape?'

‘Nothing to indicate that, absolutely no signs of a struggle, some minor abrasions and a bit of bruising.'

‘DNA?'

‘Not a hair that wasn't hers, at least not so far. And no sperm if that's what you're looking for . . .' Unable to stop himself, he added: ‘And if that is what you're looking for, I'd be happy to—'

‘Not in this lifetime, Arvin.' She cut him off short. A familiar excitement in her belly as the information sank in – homicide. She was about to hang up and then stopped. ‘Arvin?'

‘What?'

‘There were four other dead at the scene. One is an old doctor found in bed. It's probably smoke inhalation, but . . .' She remembered the tumbler of bourbon residue.

‘What? The only one they brought here was the Preston woman. Who was the doc?' He sounded annoyed.

‘Norman Trask, a surgeon.'

‘Where's the body?' he asked.

‘I don't know.'

‘Crap. If one's a homicide, and it turns out to be arson . . . then they're all homicides. Why the hell aren't they here?'

‘If I give you the names, will that help?'

‘I hate my job,' he said, at the prospect of multiple labor-intensive autopsies heading his way. ‘You know I've been cut back to a single assistant. And they're still looking for another ten-percent cut.'

‘It's the same everywhere,' she said, not wanting to get into another discussion on the wretched state economy and the new governor's promise to balance the budget, even if it meant closing prisons and laying off hundreds of state workers. She gave Arvin the names of the dead, and likely locations for their remains. ‘With Dr Trask,' she added, knowing from experience that the more information you gave Arvin about the crime and the scene, the more focused his findings would be. ‘The fire started in his living room. The state Fire Marshall won't commit to arson, and the local one insists it was an accident caused by oily rags spontaneously combusting in the guy's apartment. Either way, there was definitely accelerant. I'm very interested in the toxicology on him. He was found in bed, likely had been drinking.'

‘And you want to know how much?'

‘Yeah, and anything else he might have been taking.'

‘This day's going to go on forever,' he griped.

‘Sorry,' she said and hung up.

‘Is everything OK?' Ada asked.

‘Yes and no.' Mattie retrieved her recorder, noting how close Ada had moved; she'd obviously been listening. ‘Rose, thank you so much. If you remember anything else, anything at all, it could be important.'

‘What's happened,' Lil asked.

Mattie looked at Lil, who finally met her gaze.
What's going on here?
Feeling as though she were the one being interviewed. ‘What time did the two of you get to Nillewaug?' she asked.

‘A little after four,' Lil said. ‘What's happened?'

‘Looks like it might not have been an accident,' Mattie said, getting up, her thoughts back at the scene. ‘I'll need a statement from both of you, you might have seen something . . . or someone.'

‘Was that call about Delia?' Lil asked.

‘I have to go,' the detective said.

‘Just tell me this.' Lil persisted. ‘Was Delia Preston murdered?'

And then Mattie understood. The last time she'd been in Grenville Lil and Ada had been valuable resources. Lil especially, with her vast insider's knowledge of the town and its residents. Since then, the two women had kept up a friendly email correspondence, Mattie had even read some of Lil's local columns about antiques. They were good – informative, conversational, even funny – and that's why her antennae were up. ‘Are you planning to do a story about this?' she asked point blank.

‘Yes,' she said.

Mattie nodded and thought,
what's the harm? In fact . . . if the fire had been deliberate . . . an attempt to conceal a homicide, what would the perp do if he or she knew it hadn't worked?
‘OK,' Mattie said, knowing these things can work for or against an investigation, but it would only be a matter of time before the results of Arvin's findings were known. ‘I'll give you a scoop. Delia Preston was dead before she went out that window. She'd been murdered.'

Lil didn't blink. ‘How much before?'

‘Wow!' Mattie said. ‘You've changed.'

Lil nodded, her dark eyes eager.

Like a pair of cops grilling a perp, Ada didn't miss a beat coming at Mattie from the other side. ‘Was it hours . . . minutes? And why did you ask if she'd been raped?' she asked, having clearly overheard Mattie's half of the conversation.

‘Maybe later,' Mattie said. ‘Got to go. Ladies,' she said, nodding to Rose and Alice. And to Lil and Ada: ‘I'll call.'

L
il cracked her right eye open, and then shut it fast.
Lil, what did you do?
Her tongue scraped the back of her front teeth, a layer of mucus clung there and to the roof of her mouth. A vein twitched on her forehead and with it the first dull thud behind her eyes.
Not good,
she thought as snippets from last night flooded in.
How much did you drink?
She pictured one . . . no two bottles of top-shelf single malt on Ada's dining room table.
It's Monday!
Hangover or no, her brain went from zero to a thousand with that realization.

Trying to ignore her head, which felt like it had been squeezed into a hat two sizes too small, she swung her legs out of bed, and caught sight of Ada. Like oil on rough seas, she stopped. She was still asleep, her lips gently parted, a look of peace on her lovely pixie face. Just the sight of her sent a flutter. Glancing down, she spotted her fleece lined slip-ons, and reached over for yesterday's sweatshirt that lay crumpled on the oak rocker next to the bed. It was five a.m., and she had work to do – her column should have been finished and emailed to her editor by seven last night; she hadn't started it. Which is different from saying she hadn't gotten something in to the paper. She most certainly had, and as her slipper-clad feet landed on the bedroom Tabriz that was foremost in her thoughts.
Did they run it?

Trying not to wake Ada she headed to the kitchen, but, ever a creature of habit, flicked on both the coffee maker and the electric kettle. This was an unspoken rule of their still-young relationship: whoever gets up first makes coffee, black and strong, for Lil, and tea, for Ada, with two teaspoons of sugar and a dollop of milk. With the coffee making its first rhythmic chug and the kettle humming to life, she checked the screen door for the morning paper – not yet there. Frustrated, but not defeated, she went to the computer on the dining-room table. Since she'd started the weekly columns this had turned into an accessory office. Wary of being hacked, or of getting a virus, she reserved the HP in the dining room for editing photos, email and the Internet and the Dell in the tiny third bedroom was where she wrote.

She clicked the link for
The Brattlebury Register
, one of the three largest dailies in Connecticut, and the paper that owns the weekly
Grenville Sentinel
that runs her
Cash or Trash
column. She didn't even have to enter her password for full-text access. Her article was on the front page.

Five Dead, dozens missing as Blaze Ravages

Grenville's Nillewaug Village Assisted-Care Facility:

Murder and Arson suspected

– Lil Campbell, correspondent

The call to 911 came in from paper delivery man Avery Osborn at 4:08 a.m. By the time first responders were on site less than ten minutes later, flames and clouds of dense black smoke were visible for miles. Fire companies from as far off as Hartford, Danbury and New Haven responded to the five-alarm blaze, which swept through the central four-story residential complex of the Nillewaug Village assisted residential facility. As of this morning there are five known dead, including Nillewaug's Administrative Director, Delia Preston, age 42.

It has been determined by the state medical examiner that Preston, who it was initially thought had jumped to her death, was in fact the victim of homicide, the details of which have not yet been released.

In addition to Preston, retired area physician and orthopedic surgeon Norman Trask, MD (82) was found dead on the scene, as were long-time Grenville residents: Elizabeth Grasso (85), and Hillary Flanders (90). Margery Rayburn (94), who had moved to Nillewaug Village from Salisbury CT, was pronounced dead of smoke inhalation at Brattlebury Hospital.

The article stopped there, with a prompt for subscribers to enter their user ID and password, which she did. Her heart raced as she read the rest of the one thousand words she'd agonized over yesterday afternoon. To say she was conflicted over submitting this would be an understatement. The fact that the editor and chief, Edward Fleming, had actually run it was a tribute to the importance of the story, and the fact that she'd managed to scoop it. Her phone conversation with him had been strained to say the least. ‘I already have a reporter covering it,' he'd said.

‘But I was there from the beginning.'

‘He was too.'

With her heart in her throat, she'd laid it all out. Her words had tumbled fast, she'd been on the good side of the barricades, had pictures . . . ‘I know that Delia Preston's death is a homicide.'

That had gotten him. ‘What? How do you know that?'

‘I heard it from the lead detective.'

‘Will he go on record with it?'

‘She, Detective Mattie Perez, and I think so, and even if she doesn't I promise that it's true. I heard her talking to the state M.E.'

‘She a friend of yours?'

‘Yes,' she'd said, matching his no-nonsense tone with simple answers. ‘And I have photos of Preston's body – close-ups. And if Preston's death was a murder, is the fire a coincidence or . . .'

She could almost hear his thoughts, as he'd paused. ‘Arson,' he said, completing her sentence. ‘I doubt we'll use the pictures of the dead woman, much as I want to. Maybe post one on the website if it's not too gory.' And then Edward Fleming, known for being stingy with compliments had said, ‘Well, looks like you want to be a real reporter. Get me one thousand words by four p.m. and be damn sure of your facts . . . I'll have someone check them, but if you're wrong about the homicide angle, you'll not get this chance again. And Lil . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Make it good.'

Apparently, it was good enough. Other than changing the headline, the text had been edited with a light hand. While yesterday's horror was still fresh in her mind – the cries, the smells, seeing poor Betty Grasso – she couldn't stop this other feeling.
What's wrong with you?
Wondering at what point she'd turned into a ghoul, but no denying –
you got a front page byline.

The tea kettle clicked off, and she went back to the kitchen. Her emotions mixed as she poured Ada's tea and deposited it on her bedside table. Her eyelids fluttered at the sound, and she muttered ‘Thanks', without waking.

Lil kissed her forehead and returned to the kitchen. She poured a generous mug of coffee and superheated it for sixty seconds in the microwave, and took it back to her office.

‘Just write,' she said, staring at the lit screen. Knowing that the subject on her mind was the fire and not some puff piece on the local antiques industry. Then again, she was thrilled to be doing these columns, and, lead story or no, she was behind on the deadline. ‘Just write.' Her headache eased as her fingers rested on the keyboard –
nothing's coming
. But then –
he won't want it
– thinking of frightened little Corey Bingham, the editor for the Grenville Sentinel. Corey, in his early thirties with a lovely wife and two sweet babies, was convinced his tenure at the small local paper was contingent on keeping everyone happy, most notably Edward Fleming at the parent paper. ‘It's all about the advertisers,' Corey had explained when he'd offered Lil the chance to do the column after the prior antique expert had decided it was too small potatoes for him. ‘Keep it light, keep it local and keep it positive, Lil,' had been his words of advice. Followed by his attempt at a stern tone: ‘And whatever else, get it in on time . . . please.' Having already missed her Sunday deadline, but thinking if she could get it done before he made it to the office, she'd probably be OK. She started to type. For Lil, writing was a passion, even though this was the first time she'd been paid for it. She'd always journalled, but rarely shared the contents. Occasionally, she'd pull one out to look at her thoughts at age twenty or thirty. Like going through old photos. But now, as her words flowed about the opening of the Brantsville flea market on Saturday, she was simultaneously looking at the turns her life had taken in the past and now.
Your first lead story, Lil.
Feeling an urge to get up and check to see if the morning paper was here yet. From there her thoughts zipped to the local newsstand, and wondering how many copies of the paper she'd buy – a dozen, two. And then back to the task at hand.
Keep it light, keep it local, keep it positive . . .