In Plain Sight (5 page)

George pointed to a boulder lying in the middle of the road as we went up on the side of the path. I hit my head on the roof as we jounced up and down over God knows what. A moment later we were back on the path.

“Fun, hunh?” George asked, grinning.

The grin was infectious, and I couldn't help smiling with him as I rubbed the top of my head. A minute later the trail widened.

“This must be it,” George said as a chain link fence festooned with crime scene tape came into view.

He stopped the car and we both jumped out. The tape fluttered fitfully in the wind. Another storm was moving in. I could feel the rain in the air. The open gate groaned as it swung slightly. I shivered even though the wind was warm. Mud sucked at my shoes as I walked over to the metal chain hanging from the latch. I picked it up and felt the sharp edge of the broken link.

“It's been cut,” I said.

“Probably by a kid,” George said. “It wouldn't take much.”

“Just a bolt cutter,” I agreed as we ducked under the tape and went inside the enclosure.

Budweiser cans, paper cups, and fast food take-out bags dotted the ground. This place was perfect for keg parties, I thought as I kicked at a potato chip bag, but try as I might I couldn't imagine someone like Marsha coming up here. Just the drive up that narrow road would be enough to deter her. But if she hadn't come on her own, that meant that someone had brought her here. I stepped over the downed part of a second fence as I thought about who it could be, but nobody, except maybe Merlin, came to mind. Then there was the timing, I thought as I examined the fence. Constructed of wooden slats and bailing wire, it looked as if it couldn't have kept a chicken out. Marsha had come to see me on Friday, we'd made an appointment to talk on Monday, but she'd disappeared before we could meet, and now she was dead. The timing was a little too coincidental for my taste, I decided as I walked down to the water's edge.

“Be careful,” George warned as I stepped over a log. “I don't want to have to go and fish you out of here.”

I peered down. “Somehow I don't think you'd have much trouble.”

George joined me. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he surveyed the scene. “You're right,” he allowed. “I wouldn't.”

The water was deep, but it wasn't very wide. Reservoir was an optimistic name. Pond was better. As I watched a few pieces of wood, dark shapes on a darker surface, floating by, it occurred to me that unless you were an infant or a cripple it would be extremely difficult to drown in a place like this. Even if you couldn't swim, most people could manage to doggie paddle to a side and pull themselves up onto land. What would it take? Five, six strokes at the most? So why hadn't Marsha been able to do it? What had prevented her?

The more I thought about it the more I became convinced of one thing.

Marsha's death wasn't an accident. You didn't come to a place like this accidentally. Even if she had though, even if she'd tripped and fallen in, she could still have reached the other side. So why hadn't she?

Because she wanted to kill herself? The problem was people don't usually drown themselves. It's too painful a way to go. When your lungs start craving air you can't help but put your head back up. And Marsha could. It wasn't as if she'd swum out into the ocean and then couldn't get back to land. But she hadn't. Why? Obviously because she couldn't.

I wound a lock of my hair around my finger. All the signs pointed to one thing.

Marsha had been murdered.

T
he autopsy results were announced two days later.

“I don't believe it,” I said when I read them. I threw the paper down on the counter in disgust.

“Believe what?” Tim looked up from the rawhide bones he was sorting through.

“This.” I jabbed at the
Herald Journal.
“It says here the ME is ruling Marsha's death a suicide.”

I picked the newspaper up again and reread the story. According to the reporter, the ME had found water in Marsha's lungs. There'd been no sign of a struggle. Still, that didn't mean that someone couldn't have held her face in the water till she'd drowned. I studied the picture of Merlin the paper had run with the story. He was covering his face with his hands. Someone I didn't know was holding him up. The caption read, “Husband overcome with grief.”

I lit a cigarette and stared at the picture some more. Did the cops know that Marsha and Merlin were involved in a messy divorce? Did they know that Marsha was ready to drop the dime on Merlin? Did they know she'd taken what I'd guess to be important papers from his office? I drummed my fingers against my thigh while I thought about what to do.

Normally I like to steer clear of the police. Ever since I was the chief suspect in a homicide case our relations have been somewhat less than cordial. Which was why I hadn't called them up when I'd read about Marsha's death. But it looked as if I should have. The ME might have brought in a different verdict if the cops had known about my meeting with Marsha. I took a deep breath and phoned the Public Safety Building. I got put on hold. Then I waited. Then I got disconnected. It was nice to know their phone system was as loused up as everything else in that place.

“Aren't you going to try again?” Tim asked as I hung up the receiver. I reached for my keys.

“No. I'm going to run down there.” What the hell. The way things were going it looked as if it would be quicker to drive over than to try and get reconnected.

“Hey, pick me up a Big Mac on your way back,” Tim yelled when I was halfway to the door.

I told him I would and left. I spent ten minutes driving downtown and another five looking for a legal parking spot, but I couldn't find one. You'd think in a city this size there'd be parking spots all over the place, but there never are. What we've got instead are lots of indoor garages with lousy security systems, a fact I can personally attest to since I was mugged in one a couple of years ago. Finally I gave up circling the block, parked in front of a hydrant, and got out. What was another ticket? I never paid them anyway.

I crossed the street and headed toward the PSB. The building's style was institutional bland. The new jail going up next to it would probably be the same. Why shouldn't it be? I thought as I pulled the heavy glass door open and went inside. Most of the new buildings built in this town, with a few exceptions, range from the pedestrian to the downright ugly.

Except for the officer on duty sitting in back of the inquiry desk and a woman trying to make a phone call the lobby was empty. Come to think of it, I've rarely seen it full. It took about five minutes, but I finally got the desk officer to call upstairs and have the detective in charge of the Marsha Pennington case come down and talk to me. If I had known who it was, I would have saved myself the aggravation and gone and gotten myself a cup of coffee.

“Christ,” Connelly snorted when he saw me. “I might have known. “

Great. Just the man I didn't want to talk to. I'd run into Connelly on the last case I'd worked on and we hadn't exactly gotten along. He thought I was arrogant and impetuous while I thought he was fat, lazy, and stupid. To be fair we both had a point—only I had more of one than he did. As I stood there watching him glowering at me I thought of the Pillsbury Dough Boy—the Pillsbury Dough Boy with a bad hair cut and a stained, brown polyester suit.

I threw out my arms in a parody of a greeting. “What? No hello? No ‘how are you doing?' “

Connelly didn't smile. His lips didn't even twitch. That was another thing I admired about the man: his sense of humor. Instead he jerked his head toward the guy sitting behind the desk. “Crew said you had some information for me.” I could tell he was really anxious to hear what I had to say.

“I do. But first tell me, did Marsha Pennington leave a note?” The
Herald
had said she hadn't, but I wanted to make sure.

“You read the local paper?” Connelly asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you got your answer.” He flicked a piece of food off of his front tooth with his thumbnail. “Now say what you came to say because I've got a desk load of work waiting for me upstairs.”

While he acted bored I told him about my conversation with Marsha on Friday.

“So?” Connelly said when I was done. “What's your point?”

“My point, if you'd been listening, is that I don't think Marsha Pennington committed suicide.”

He began scraping the dirt under his right thumbnail out with his left one. “The ME says she did. You telling me you know more than the ME?”

“I'm telling you, you guys should take the time to explore some other possibilities,” I replied, picturing the expression on Marsha's face when she was talking about her Shih Tzus.

Connelly rolled his eyes, and I jammed my hands in my pockets so I wouldn't be tempted to slug him. The man definitely does not bring out the best in me.

“What I'm telling you,” I continued, even though I knew it was useless, “is that she wouldn't have done something that left her dogs in her husband's care and that even if she did want to kill herself, she'd never have gone to a spot like the LeMoyne Reservoir.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“Yes,” I lied, not that it mattered since Connelly was so obviously uninterested in anything I had to say.

“Then put it in writing and send it to the District Attorney. As far as I am concerned the case is closed. The lady killed herself. The ME said it. The death certificate is filled out that way. That's all I have to know. Frankly I don't give a fart about her dogs or her conversation with you or the papers you never saw, but if it makes you feel better, by all means send a letter.”

“So it can go in a file?”

“I don't have time for this,” Connelly said. “I've got too much to do.” He turned and went toward the elevator.

I watched him go. His response didn't surprise me. I'd expected it. Well screw him. I'd write that letter to the DA all right. But first I'd get some more facts to put in it, enough so that the investigation would have to be reopened. Then if that didn't work, I'd take the story to the newspaper.

I stepped outside and stopped to light a cigarette. While I searched around in my bag for my lighter I thought about the grieving widower. I wondered how long he'd be grieving and if he had a little cutie on the side. He probably did. For some reason ugly men always seem to get good-looking girls. No. Whichever way I looked at it Marsha's death was just too damned convenient. She'd come to me wanting to get out of a bad marriage; then two days after that she “kills herself” in a place I'd wager anything she didn't know existed, and surprise, surprise the husband winds up with everything including the dogs, the one thing Marsha hadn't wanted him to have.

I put my hand to my mouth. With everything that was happening I'd forgotten all about my promise to take care of them. I went back in the lobby and used the pay phone on the far wall to call Merlin. He wasn't home. As I left the PSB and crossed the street to my car I decided I'd try again later. From what Marsha had said I was sure Merlin would be glad to have them off his hands. The next question of course was what to do with them? I thought about that while I got in the cab. Then I remembered a customer of mine, Nancy Sharen. Her toy poodle had died a couple of months ago, and she'd been talking about getting another one. Maybe she'd like a couple of Shih Tzus instead. I glanced at my watch. It was a little after four. The beauty salon Nancy worked at wasn't that far away. Maybe I could catch her there and get the matter resolved.

But she wasn't in. She'd stepped out to do an errand and I'd missed her by five minutes. I left a message with the receptionist and got back in my cab. If Nancy wanted the dogs, she could call me, and if not, I'd find someone else. I was running through my list of possible people as I drove toward Wellington. Marsha's papers, the ones she'd wanted me to see, were probably long gone by now, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. Maybe Garriques could tell me. I took a left at the next intersection and headed toward the school.

As I turned into the entrance a sign proclaimed, “Welcome to Wellington.” Except for a couple of cars scattered here and there the parking lot was empty. Eight girls were clustered on the far side of the grassy verge watching what I took to be the boys' track team running sprints. Even from the distance I could hear their coach yelling at them to go faster. Half hidden behind a stunted plane tree four scrubby-looking kids were huddled in a side doorway smoking. The jocks, the cheerleaders, and the punks. I shook my head. Some things never change.

The school building was a rambling one-story affair of yellow brick. I parked right out in front and went inside. The hallway I was standing in had that slightly shabby air that comes from too much use and too little money. Announcements of club meetings and the coming school play were taped over the tile walls. I walked over and read them, wondering as I did what it would feel like to be that young again and if I could be, what I would do differently. Then I followed the arrows over to the main office. The door was closed. No one was inside. It looked as if everyone was gone for the day.

I lit a cigarette and walked back toward the main entrance. On the way out I heard voices rising and falling. I turned and followed them into a large room that turned out to be the cafeteria. Six kids were sitting at one of the tables. They stopped talking when I came in.

“Any of the office staff around?” I asked.

“They went home,” a skinny boy with bad skin and a nose ring answered. “Why? What you want? You got a kid in trouble?”

“No. Actually I wanted to talk to them about Mrs. Pennington.”

“What you want to talk about her for?” his friend asked. “She's dead.”

A real comedian. “I know. I was a friend of hers.”

“Oh.” He seemed momentarily taken back at the news.

“Did any of you know her?” I inquired.

“I was in her study hall,” the one I was talking to said. “She was okay.”

“Yeah,” his friend agreed. “Her classroom is right down the hall.”

“Could you show me where?”

“Sure.” He got up and took me there.

Marsha's classroom wasn't very big. In fact, I'd seen closets that were larger. A window would have helped. So would a ventilation fan, I thought as I sniffed the stale air. The desks were pushed so close together there was barely space to walk between them. From the looks of things ESL students didn't rate real high in the priority scale. Of course to be fair, up until recently there hadn't been a lot of immigrants coming to Syracuse either.

I sighed and walked over to Marsha's desk. The top was bare just as I knew it would be. I sat down at her desk and pulled out the middle drawer. Except for a box of paper clips it was empty. I closed it and was just about to try one of the side drawers when I heard a noise. I looked up expecting to see the kids that had shown me the classroom.

But I didn't.

Instead the doorway was filled by a large, glowering man.