Peony Street (7 page)

“Two little birds on the front porch,” he sang, “singing sweet songs, melody four and two, singing, this is my messy to you-hoo-hoo.”

“That’s Bob Marley,” Claire said. “I think.”

“Sing it,” he commanded, and put his pacifier back in his mouth.

He snuggled back down with his head on her shoulder, sucked on his pacifier, and reached a tiny hand up around her neck. Claire wished she had thought to make him wash his hands after he held the owl pellet. As she rocked the chair springs twanged just like they had all those years ago.

Luckily Claire knew all the actual words to “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley, and Sammy was asleep by the end of the second chorus. His body went completely limp and his hand dropped from her neck. Claire smelled the top of his head. His tangled golden curls smelled like baby shampoo and wood smoke.

Claire reflected that there was no way she could exactly duplicate the many colors of his hair, although she liked to think she could come close. The client would have to be dark blonde to begin with; a darker shade and she’d have to bleach it and then use toner, which was harder on the hair. Silently she calculated all the colors she would have to mix to get four different shades, from dark caramel to medium golden blonde to light honey to platinum. She would have to use foils and weave the color in a few strands at a time. It would take hours; she would charge a fortune.

Mackie Pea ran into the living room, jumped up on the other side of Claire’s lap, turned around two times and curled up. The little dog didn’t seem to mind Sammy being there. Claire reflected that Mackie Pea seemed to have a facility for adapting to change; it was a good thing.

Claire considered worrying about being a murder suspect, about how her folks were doing, and about what in the world she was going to do with the rest of her life, but decided instead to just put all that aside and enjoy holding Sammy and Mackie.

“Every little thing is gonna be alright,” she sang quietly.

Instead of putting Sammy on the couch she closed her eyes and continued to rock him until she, too, fell asleep.

Scott had been sparring with Sarah for over an hour, but he knew he was right and was determined not to back down. He’d spent the morning interviewing local people, trying to find someone who saw or heard something, anything that would help Claire.

“She says she lost her cell phone,” Sarah said. “But how do we know she didn’t steal his and hide them both? I say we get a search warrant and turn her parents’ house upside down.”

“With Claire’s permission and her cell phone service provider’s assistance I procured her call and text log from the past week,” Scott said. “There was no record of phone calls or texts to the victim for twenty-four hours before the time she says she lost her phone, or any calls or texts going out after.”

“You expect me to believe that whoever found or stole her phone didn’t use it to make calls?”

“Claire’s phone has a security feature that requires a pin number to unlock it. Her account cannot be used without that number.”

“Can the service provider give us the text content or let us listen to the voicemails?”

“No.”

“I bet they could if we were the feds. If we can get that movie star boss of hers involved we could probably call in the feds.”

Scott took a deep breath.

“The victim landed in DC at around eight p.m.,” he said. “He rented the car at around eight-thirty. It takes at least four hours, in daylight and good weather, to get to Rose Hill from
Ronald Reagan Airport. The earliest he could have arrived was half past midnight. There was thick fog all along the river so Route 1 would’ve been slow going. I figure it was closer to one or two before he got here.”

“Maybe he waited longer to start out. Maybe he was waiting in DC for her to arrive and he followed her.”

“Claire landed at eleven p.m.” Scott said. “The quickest she could get here was four hours, again, if the weather was perfect, which it wasn’t. She had planned to make a connecting flight to Pittsburgh at midnight and drive down, which would have brought her here by three a.m. at the soonest, but there was a storm and her connecting flight was delayed.

“She rented a car at
Reagan Airport at 11:45 p.m. She came to the fire station at four-ten. The quickest she could have driven here, in perfect weather, mind you, was four hours. If she made that good of time, that would have put her here at just before four. By the time Malcolm got to the body it was four-twenty.

“If she killed him at 3:45 a.m., which is the earliest she could have arrived in Rose Hill, and Malcolm saw him at four-twenty, his blood would still have been flowing. Hell, he would have been warm to the touch and possibly still alive. It was 4:30 when I saw him. His skin was cold, his blood was congealed, and the onset of lividity was evident.”

“She killed him somewhere else, brought him here, and dumped him.”

“Sarah,” Scott said. “Patrick saw the victim’s car in front of the Thorn when he left at two a.m.”

“That’s the bartender, right? He’s one of those Fitzpatricks you can’t walk around here without tripping over. I remember him from the Eldridge murder investigation. I seem to remember he lives in the trailer park down on Peony. Why didn’t he see the body? Doesn’t he walk home that way?”

“He didn’t go home,” Scott said.

“Where did he go?”

“To the home of a local woman.”

“Did you question her?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Maybe I should do it.”

“You know folks around here won’t tell you anything.”

“What’s Patrick’s relationship to the suspect?”

“They’re cousins.”

“Isn’t that convenient?” Sarah said. “He might have conspired with the suspect to commit and cover up the crime. He may have both cell phones.”

“What’s the motive?” Scott replied. “The victim and Claire both worked for the same person. Claire fulfilled her contract and was coming home for a short vacation before she goes back to
L.A. The last she heard from the victim he was still working for their employer and planned to stay in the UK for the foreseeable future. They had no personal relationship beyond work. She says they weren’t particularly close, had known each other less than two years, and didn’t socialize together on their own time. She doesn’t know why he came here, and until we recover one or both phones, we won’t know why either.”

“I want to see the log again,” Sarah said.

Scott gave her the printout.

“So these calls and texts came from four numbers other than the victim’s: her former employer, the PR firm, the agent, and a law firm in
New York,” Sarah said. “It looks like she was still receiving calls and texts up to the point when the report was printed.”

“I’ve left messages with all of them but so far no one has returned my calls.”

“Why would he come here without her knowledge?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“It’s too big a coincidence.”

“It’s mysterious, that’s true. I’m sure if we had either phone we could find out what happened.”

“I wish his family would get here. I’m counting on them to get me access to his service provider’s call log.”

“If they have his user name and password,” Scott said. “Otherwise we’ll have to subpoena the service provider. That could take weeks.”

“Claire could have two phones,” Sarah said. “She says she has one; maybe she has two.”

“Then I’m sure his call log will reflect that.”

“I want her to stay put until we get that log.”

“Her alibi checked out,” Scott said. “She wasn’t here when he was killed.”

“You’re not the medical examiner,” Sarah said. “We won’t have that report for at least two weeks, maybe four.”

“It takes four hours to drive from DC to Rose Hill, and that’s in daylight in good weather. Four hours from when she rented her car,” Scott began again.

“She knows more than she’s telling,” Sarah said, “and right now she’s my only suspect. I’d really like to get Sloan Merryweather’s take on this. I’d like to subpoena her.”

“Be careful, Sarah,” Scott said. “Powerful people do not like to be bothered and you can’t afford to piss off your boss in an election year.”

“Solving a high-profile homicide case could make me and my boss look good in an election year,” Sarah said. “If you don’t roll the dice you can never beat the house.”

“Have you spoken to anyone in Mr. Farthington’s family about meeting with us?”

“They’re coming down to identify and retrieve the body. I’ll tackle them after they get to the morgue.”

“With sensitivity, of course.”

“Of course.”

Sarah left and Scott walked down to Claire’s parents’ house. He walked up to the front door just as Sammy was letting himself out.

“Hold it right there, partner,” Scott said.

Sammy froze and then looked right and left, as if planning his escape route.

“I brought you something,” Scott said.

Sammy looked suspicious.

“Shows me it,” Sammy said.

“Is Claire supposed to be watching you?” Scott asked. “Does she know you’re leaving?”

“I going to school at the white church,” Sammy said.

“I seriously doubt it,” Scott said. “Here’s my deal: we go inside and see Claire or I take you to your grandma’s house and let her give you a bath.”

“I no get bath,” Sammy said. “I not dirty.”

“So we go inside and I show you and Claire what I brought to trade you.”

Sammy turned around and opened the door, revealing Claire fast asleep in the upholstered rocking chair. Mackie Pea barked and jumped down from her lap, waking her up.

“Scott,” she said, clearly flustered. “Sammy? Were you leaving?”

Sammy wouldn’t look her in the eye. Scott smiled.

“Sammy’s slick,” he said.

“I didn’t even feel him get off my lap,” Claire said.

“Where’s it?” Sammy asked Scott.

Scott reached into his breast pocket and took out a skinny silver pen.

“I gots lotsa pens,” Sammy said, dismissing Scott’s potential trade.

“This pen is like the one astronauts use in space,” Scott said. “It writes upside down.”

“Do it,” Sammy said.

Scott took out his notepad, lay down on his back on the floor and motioned for Sammy to join him. Then he held the notepad up in the air above them and demonstrated writing upside down.

“I gots a pen do’s that,” Sammy insisted.

“Show me,” Scott said.

While Sammy went down the hall to retrieve his pen Scott looked up at a bemused Claire.

“You can see how we were all just put here to serve him,” he said.

“He’s the most powerful person in this town, apparently,” Claire said.

“It’s charisma,” Scott said. “I think he has real, viable political potential.”

Sammy came back down the hall, lay on his back next to Scott, and tried to write with his pen on the pad Scott suspended above them.

“It not work,” he said. “It broke.”

“No, watch this,” Scott said, and turned over on his stomach, put the pad on the floor and gestured for Sammy to try again. Sammy was surprised to find his pen worked. He looked at Scott’s pen with new appreciation.

“You’s pen’s magic?” he asked him.

Scott solemnly nodded.

Sammy took Scott’s pen, said, “Okay, I trade,” and then got up and ran down the hall with Mackie Pea right behind him.

Scott got up.

“He has a really gross owl pellet he can offer you,” Claire said, “or a one-legged mummified frog.”

“How will I decide?” Scott said. “How are you?”

“Exhausted, I guess. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You’ve been through a lot.”

“Am I still a suspect?”

“Not to any sane person,” Scott said.

“But to Sarah.”

“She thinks it’s just a matter of time before your connection to the Fitzpatrick family murder syndicate is revealed.”

“Do Tuppy’s parents know?”

“They’re on their way.”

“This will devastate them,” she said.

“Did he have any romantic partners?”

“Only casual hookups or strategic favors. Tuppy’s very ambitious … was very ambitious. His sexual relationships were with whomever was the most insanely good-looking or could help him succeed in some way.”

“That sounds incredibly shallow.”

“It’s show business. If you aren’t psychotically devoted to succeeding you may as well stay home.”

“You don’t seem psychotic.”

“Sarah seems to think so.”

“Sammy’s been gone a long time,” Scott said, and went down the hall.

Claire heard him curse. She jumped up and ran down the hall to her parents’ bedroom, where Scott was looking out an open window.