Your Chariot Awaits (9 page)

“Did you leave the shovel where it is now?”

“I think I put it back there by the broom.” But I wasn't certain. At this point I wasn't certain of anything.

And this could look bad for me, very bad, I realized with an apprehension that made my palms go icy-sweaty. I'd chased Jerry with that shovel. With Tom and half of Secret View Lane as witnesses. To add to it, Jerry's body now lay in my vehicle. And I'd been out here in the middle of the night under what even
I
could see looked like odd and suspicious circumstances.

“But someone hit
me
. That's why I was unconscious. It must have been the same person who killed Jerry.” I touched the back of my head again, wishing now I'd let the paramedics at least look at the bump.

Tom's face lit up as if a lightbulb had just gone on in his head. “Hey, I saw it on TV just last week. This guy shot him-self in the leg to make it look like he'd been attacked, and he was really the killer!”

I planted my fists on my hips, annoyance with Tom finally crashing through my combination of numbness and panic. “Tom, for heaven's sake, I couldn't hit myself on the back of the head.”

Tom looked at me as if sizing up my potential for an anatomical pretzel twist that would enable me to accomplish such a blow.

I pushed the point. “And how do you think I could have gotten him into the trunk? I weigh 130—” I guiltily amended it. “Around 134, and Jerry weighs at least 190.”

“The trunk was open. You whacked him with the shovel, and he fell forward into the trunk. Then all you had to do was lift his feet inside. Which was when his shoes fell off!” Tom added triumphantly. He turned to the officers again. “And then she was going to haul him off to the woods somewhere and dump him.”

“So why would I knock myself in the head instead of just
doing
that? Why would I let you find me and call the police?”

“Well . . . maybe you didn't hit yourself,” Tom conceded. “Maybe you were getting in the limousine to drive away, and you did slip and fall.”

“I was going to drive off in my pajamas?”

“Women wear all kind of strange things these days.”

This was ridiculous! And yet Tom's scenario wasn't totally unbelievable, I realized, appalled. It hadn't happened, but it could have. Were the officers thinking that too? “But—”

Tom turned to the officers with a sage nod. “I always figured those two could be up to something. A flashy sports car and a limousine. They could be dealing in heroin, cocaine, meth, who knows? Or maybe some of those—what d'ya call 'em? Decorator drugs.”

“Designer drugs,” I corrected, then groaned at myself. My kind, good neighbor is trying to railroad me into a drug and/or murder charge, and I'm helping him with vocabulary.

All three men were looking me over.

Sometimes Tom puzzles me. His wife, Emma, had been meddlesome and cranky, always complaining or making trouble about something. Before her death Tom had seemed like a quiet, easygoing sort of guy, sometimes even a little embarrassed by his wife's troublemaking. But after Emma was gone, it was as if he felt obligated to take up where she'd left off, and he'd turned into this grouchy curmudgeon, exactly like her.

I looked sideways at the officers. Surely they weren't buying into Tom's wacko theories . . . were they? I decided to ignore Tom, as I hoped the officers would do also.

“Was he murdered?” I asked.

“That's for the medical examiner to determine, ma'am,” the officer said, as he had earlier. “Now we're going to need more information here.”

He was in the process of asking me Jerry's full name, his address, occupation, what kind of car he drove, and next of kin, when two more sheriff's department cars arrived.

Then everything turned chaotic. Neighbors returning to crane their necks and mill around. A crime-scene van arriving. Yellow crime-scene tape going up. One officer photographing everything. He didn't suggest it, but I pulled my hair aside and asked him to photograph the back of my head. If they were going to document everything, I wanted it documented that I'd been clobbered.

To explain the Texas license, I had to show the officers the papers concerning the limo, one officer going inside with me while I located the envelope Cousin Larry had left. I asked at the same time if I could get dressed, and the officer allowed that.

Outside, I discovered I'd put on mismatched shoes, one a Nike from a pair Sarah and Rachel had given me at Christmas, one a cheapie from a pair I'd bought myself. I hoped the officers wouldn't notice. Maybe mismatched shoes were some secret psychological mark of a killer.

Joella came out, also dressed now, in shorts and a loose maternity blouse. One of the recently arrived officers told her to keep back.

“No!” She rushed over, put her arms around me, and glared at him. “My friend is hurt, and I'm going to take care of her!”

I felt a quick rush of affection for her, grateful that she was concerned about
me—
unlike all the other curious gawkers.

The officer, not one of the original two who'd seen me on the ground, came over too. “You're hurt?”

I skipped the
I'm fine
and turned around to let him see the back of my head. I really was feeling quite shaky by now. He had a discussion with Short Officer, then waved me off.

“But don't leave the premises,” he warned. “We'll need to talk to you again.”

With a protective arm around my waist, Joella led me over to her side of the duplex. Inside, she sat me down at the counter that was a duplicate of my own and made a cup of strong instant coffee in the microwave. Joella didn't even own a coffeemaker, cautious about any possible adverse effects of coffee on the baby.

I knew she had to be curious about what was going on out there, but when I started to tell her, she said firmly, “Let's see what's with your head first.”

She put a hot washcloth on the back of my head and soaked away the messy ooze. Then, using a wide-toothed comb, she carefully worked through the hair until she could pull it away and expose the wound.

“What's back there? Does it look as if I was hit with the shovel?”

“It isn't a slash type wound, but the skin is broken and there's a big bump. I don't think you need stitches, but you were sure hit with something
.
Maybe the flat side of the shovel?”

I was glad to hear she didn't think I needed stitches. I'd been a little afraid resourceful Joella might whip out needle and thread and start sewing. She cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide, then finished up with antibacterial ointment. She settled me on the sofa in the living room with a blanket. I lay on my side to keep from putting pressure on the wound.

“Now do you want to know what happened?” I asked.

“Only if you feel up to telling me. At first I figured Tom was just causing trouble again, calling the police to complain about something, but now—?”

“Jerry is dead. The officers opened the trunk of the limo and found him in there. I . . . I think he was murdered.”

“Oh, no . . .” She touched her fingertips to her lips.

I knew she was thinking not only of the horror of his death, but also her earlier “good riddance” about him. But she hadn't been thinking
dead
then, any more than I was.

She swallowed. “You saw him?”

I told her everything I knew then, from waking up in the night to the almost certainty that I was now a suspect in Jerry's murder, especially with Tom supplying appropriate scenarios.

“How did he die?”

“I couldn't tell, and the deputies aren't saying. But maybe with my shovel.”

“Oh, surely they'll realize you couldn't have done anything like that!”

“If I was them, I guess I'd be suspicious of me too.”

I really expected her to say something soothing.
They won't
listen to Tom's wild ideas. They won't accuse you of something you
didn't do.
But instead she had a strange, worried look on her pale face, and the thought occurred to me that after what had happened to her, perhaps she hadn't a lot of faith in the criminal justice system.

But she did have faith in her God, because she squeezed my arm and said, “God is in control.” She was standing by the window, and now she said in a choked voice, “I think they're taking Jerry's body away now.”

I rose up . . . carefully . . . and looked out. More vehicles had arrived since I'd come inside, one with a TV station's letters on the side and electronic equipment on top, another a van with a county insignia on the side. Two men were carrying a covered figure on a stretcher from the back of the limousine to the van. A professional-looking man in a dark suit walked beside them.

Jerry. Jerry dead on that stretcher.
It was so hard to believe.
Jerry murdered.

“Was he murdered somewhere else and then put in the limousine? Or murdered here?” Joella asked.

“I don't know.” Either thought was horrifying . . . and puzzling. Why would a killer bring Jerry's body here? But if he'd been here when he was killed . . . why? What was he doing here? Was the noise that had wakened me the sound of the trunk slamming on his body?

When the van drove away, Short Officer came around the limo and headed for Joella's door. She opened it before he knocked. My hands did that peculiar icy-sweat thing again. All I could think was that he was here to take me away in handcuffs.

9

I
need to talk to Mrs. McConnell again.”

Joella let him in, but she watched him with wary vigilance.

I started to swing my legs from the sofa to the floor, but he said, “No, that's okay. Don't get up. How's the head?”

“Feeling better. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier?”

I figured I needed to start thinking of him in terms more dignified than simply Short Officer. He had a stocky build, ruddy face, wedding ring, and hands that looked as if he'd done hard physical labor at some time.

“Deputy Cardoff. The medical examiner is removing the body now. If you're up to it, we'd like you to come in to the sta-tion this afternoon. We need further information.”

“But I've already told you all I know.”

“We'd like to have you talk to one of the detectives on the force, Detective Sergeant Molino. He'll be heading up the investigation. He's out there now.”

They still weren't confirming that Jerry's death was murder, but having a detective “heading up the investigation” gave a strong clue to their thinking.

“Okay, I can do that.” I found myself nervously twisting a thread on the blanket. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“At this time we're simply interviewing everyone who may have knowledge or information about the case. You can have a lawyer present if you like, but it isn't necessary. We'll also be talking to Mr. Norton's coworkers and people here in the neighborhood.”

“I was here all night. I didn't hear or see anything,” Joella volunteered.

“Someone will interview you later. And there'll be a tow truck here shortly to pick up the limousine.”

“You're taking my limousine?” I asked, dismayed.

“You'll get it back when the lab is finished with it. I'd guess ten days to two weeks. Unless it turns out we need to hold it as evidence for a trial. In that case the time could be considerably longer.”

I tried not to think about
whose
trial. “Okay. Thank you.”

“We need to move the Corolla so the tow truck can have access to the limousine,” he added.

I started to struggle to my feet, but Joella put a protective hand on my shoulder. “I'll do it.”

“We'll move it ourselves.” His authoritative tone suggested they didn't want either of us meddling around in the crime-scene area. “We just need keys.”

The officer went back outside. Joella cut through our joined garage space to get my car keys. Looking out the window, I saw her hand them to an officer. She came back inside, and together we watched him move the Corolla over onto the grass, out of the way.

Within a few minutes only the original patrol car and the crime-scene van remained. An hour or so later a tow truck showed up, and away went my limousine. Even strung up like a junkyard reject, it still looked sleek and elegant, an aristocrat even in shabby circumstances.

“I guess we won't be going to the park to make limo-dogs for your birthday after all,” Joella said glumly as we watched it go.

My birthday. Yes, that's what today was. I hadn't even thought about it. A birthday seemed trivial and irrelevant now. So I was sixty. Big deal. Jerry was
dead.

I was unexpectedly overcome with memory of all his good points and why I'd been so close to falling in love with him. The fun we had sailing together. The way he told slyly impu-dent knock-knock and lightbulb jokes. The way he made me feel young and lighthearted. His eagerness to try anything new—restaurants, food, movies. His deep, contagious laugh.

I swallowed. “I don't feel much like celebrating anyway.”

“Me neither.”

“We'll do it some other time,” I promised.

“Is what happened going to make the limo feel forever . . .” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn't think of the right word.

“Tainted?” I suggested.

She nodded. “Tainted.”

“I'm not sure.” Would I ever be able to look at it without also seeing Jerry's body in the trunk? Did I really want it back? “We'll see.”

“Do you have any idea who could have killed him?” Joella asked. “Did he ever mention enemies?”

“I think most people at F&N liked him.”

It was true. Jerry was great at hitting it off with almost any-one. When the company had foreign visitors, he was usually chosen to shepherd them around because he was so good at making people feel comfortable and welcome. But I knew he could also be impatient and abrasive.