A Bodyguard to Remember (2 page)

Circulation returned to my fingers as Boone relaxed his grip. Parrino gave me a hint of a smile. This man was a husband and father. A quick glance at his ring finger confirmed the husband part. My momentary fantasy of romance with a detective was shot down—like the guy in my living room.

I swallowed a couple of times. I didn’t want to throw up in front of my kids.

Parrino left us, pausing at the front walk to sign in with Kallas. I guessed she had the job of keeping track of everyone. Next, he stopped to put on gloves, shoe covers, and a cap.

“That’s to make sure he doesn’t contaminate the scene,” Hope told us, just in case we couldn’t figure it out. “They forget that part on most of the TV shows. Oh, look! There’s the medical examiner. Can we at least wait until the body comes out?
Please
?”

Seth and I exchanged glances. This could take all night.

Parrino returned, maybe fifteen minutes later, surprised to see Seth and the kids still there.

“Time to go,” Seth said, taking the hint.

I kissed Boone and Hope good night, promising to call as soon as I knew anything. As soon as they left, as soon as I didn’t have to be brave for the kids, I collapsed. Fortunately, I was still leaning against my car. It stopped me from falling back, but I slid down as my knees gave way.

Parrino caught my elbow before I hit the ground.

“Would you like to sit in one of the cars?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I’d rather have fresh air.”

He led me to an unmarked car and opened the rear door.

“Sit on the edge, facing out.”

I did as directed and felt better. He crouched in front of me, just like the paramedic had done for the children.

“Do you know the deceased, Mrs. Hartley?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I didn’t get a good look. He was face down with a gaping hole in the back of his head.” I gave an involuntary shudder. “I just wanted to get out of there before my kids came in and saw him.”

“Understandable. Did you touch anything?”

“No . . . yes, the light switch on the inside wall and the door knob.”

“Did you notice that anything was missing or out of place?”

“Uh . . .” I tried to think. I came. I saw. I backed out quickly. Pretty lame. I should have looked around, took notes, or memorized details. Hope would be so disappointed in me. “I didn’t notice,” I admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hartley. You did a good job not panicking and by calling 9-1-1 immediately.”

Almost immediately, I thought.

“I want you to stay here,” he continued. “Constable Kallas will stay with you while I take another look at the scene.”

In other words, Constable Kallas will guard me because I am a suspect. The first person on the scene is always a suspect unless proven otherwise. Kallas was a woman. Maybe she was there in case I had to be searched.

Oh, joy. I pulled the blanket around me.

I looked around, taking in the details so I could tell Hope later. Crime scene tape stretched across my front yard, down my side alley, and presumably enclosed my backyard too. Since I lived in a semi-detached house with a shared front yard framed by our respective driveways, my neighbour’s walkway and front door was part of the crime scene too. Good thing I didn’t live in a townhouse.

The patrol cars formed a wider perimeter. Outside, about a dozen or so people had congregated. It was hard to see because the immediate area was brightly lit, but I could identify a few of my neighbours and at least one reporter. The flash in my direction gave him away.

Kallas moved so she was standing between me and the reporter.

“Do you want to get in the car?” she asked.

“No. But I’d trade that reporter an exclusive interview for a cup of coffee.”

She smiled. “I’ll see what I can do about the coffee. What do you take in it?”

“If it comes from Tim’s, I’d really like an English Toffee Cappuccino. If not, black coffee is fine.”

She turned her head and talked into the radio attached to her bulletproof jacket, just below her shoulder. The coffee order was embedded in a stream of police technobabble. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. I was getting very tired and a little spacy.

More time passed. A man in uniform brought me a
grande
low-fat vanilla latte, saying it was courtesy of a neighbour. It had to be Walter. He owned the other half of the duplex and was the only neighbour who would know what I ordered at the local Starbucks.

Fortified, I took the notebook I always carried out of my bag and started writing everything that had happened since I arrived home. Then I worked backwards. The latte was gone and I was halfway through an extra-large English Toffee Cappuccino—ET Capp to the cognoscenti —before the ME finally brought the body out the door.

Parrino signalled Kallas and Kallas nodded to me. I put my notebook away and allowed myself to be escorted to the coroner’s van.

“We’d like to see if you recognize the deceased,” Parrino explained. “Sorry, but this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

No kidding. That was like the dentist saying that I might feel a little pinch when he pried my mouth open and stuck a needle in my gums. I pulled my blanket tightly around me, trying to offset the sudden chill.

The cadaver was now in a body bag. The ME unzipped it so only the face was showing. The smell hit me first—a pungent mix of blood, gunpowder, and other stuff I didn’t want to think about. I forced myself to gaze at his face. It was almost as bad as the back of his head. The worst part was that I did recognize him.

I swallowed convulsively, wishing I’d stuck to black coffee.

“I saw him at the Starbucks in the mall, Friday morning. I met a friend for coffee, stayed to write. He,” I pointed at the dead man, “came in at about ten-thirty— according to my laptop—just before I went to get a refill.”

I took a deep breath and another few swallows. Hope was going to ask me about everything I saw and did. I didn’t want to have to tell her I threw up.

“He asked me if there was WiFi. I pointed out the Hot Spot sign and explained how it worked. After that, I ordered my coffee, went to the washroom, and took a short walk to stretch my legs. When I got back to my table, he was gone.”

“But you’re sure this is the man you saw Friday morning?” Parrino asked.

“Pretty sure. I noticed him because he had an interesting accent—one I couldn’t quite place—and because of the dyed blond tips.” I pointed. “It’s the kind of fashion choice you expect in a younger man. I won’t say I’m a hundred percent sure because this guy isn’t quite himself right now.”

“Did you give him your name or address?”

Give my address to a stranger? I don’t think so. Then another wave of nausea threatened to overcome me. All the warmth in my body seemed to drain away, leaving me feeling shivery.

“No, but . . .” I hesitated, it was a longshot. “There’s a small address label on my laptop. I don’t know why he would look at it, but he might have.”

Parrino gave me an odd look.

“An address label on your laptop?”

I gave a shaky laugh.

“A World Wildlife address label and several matching envelope stickers, six Spiderman decals and a Fantastic Four logo. Leftovers from my kids’ sticker phase.”

“Ah.”

The ME cleared his throat. Parrino nodded and the body bag was zipped up. I let out a sigh of relief. The ME gave me a sympathetic smile and then loaded the body into his wagon.

Parrino looked up from his clipboard. “You state that you’ve been out of town all afternoon.”

My head nodded like one of those bobble-head dogs people used to keep in the back window of their cars.

“You don’t seem to have an alarm system, is that correct Mrs. Hartley?”

“That’s correct. And it’s not missus.”

“Did you lock up when you left?”

“The front door is always locked with a deadbolt, but the back door lock doesn’t work.” Not since I broke it five years ago when my darling son locked himself in the house so he wouldn’t have to go to the dentist.

“You should get that repaired, Mrs. Hartley,” he said without looking up from his notes.

I was starting to get irritated. “It’s Miss or Ms., Detective. I’ve never been married.”

Parrino kept writing. “Go on, Ms. Hartley.”

“I took my mother out for lunch and a drive in the country. After I dropped her off, I came back to town and picked my kids up before coming home. That’s when I found the body and called 9-1-1.”

“According to the ME, time of death was between two and four o’clock this afternoon.”

I let out a shuddering sigh of relief. “When the kids are at their father’s for the weekend, I sleep in Sundays then visit my mother. I picked her up at eleven and took her for a drive. We stopped on the road for lunch. Mom paid cash, but I’ll bet they’d remember us. My mother is rather memorable.”

This was an understatement. Mom had a long list of food rules ranging from only being able to eat cooked cabbage and raw onions—cooked onions and raw cabbage made her ill—to refusing to eat meat unless it was produced locally, and sharing her etho-political reasons for this stance.

“At about three,” I continued, “we picked up a coffee in Kincardine. I don’t know if anyone will remember us there, but I filled up with gas before leaving town and I have the receipt in the car. At four forty, I dropped Mom off at her complex—she’s in an assisted living apartment. The concierge should remember me. I know it was four forty because I had to sign her in. I took her to her door but couldn’t stay because I had to get across town to pick up the kids by five.”

“Let’s take a look at your car.”

Parrino checked the exterior of the car with a flashlight before looking inside. He marked down the mileage and started the engine so he could get the gas tank level, then he asked me to produce the gas receipt. Next, he went over my statement line by line. By the end, I was getting a little incoherent.

“You understand,” he said, sounding like the sympathetic undertaker again, “I have to ask these questions.”

I gave him a tired smile. “‘S’okay. I figure after tonight I’ll be ready to turn my hand to mystery stories. You’re helping me branch out into a new market.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“It’s the only way of looking at it that will keep me from screaming.”

Under police escort, I was allowed to pack a bag and go. Constable Kallas followed me right to the scarlet door of the Neo-Victorian house that Seth and his wife had traded up to. She asked Seth for confirmation on when I picked up the kids, then wished me a safe and peaceful night. The moment she left, Seth dropped his cool, collected veneer.

“What the hell happened?”

I held up a hand. Hope and Boone were out of bed and halfway down the stairs. I beckoned them to me, enveloping them in a tight embrace. Hope broke free first, asking what they missed.

“Tomorrow, honey. Right now, you need to sleep. You’ve got school in the morning.”

Reluctantly, after assuring me they weren’t tired, then realizing that I was, they gave me more hugs and went back to bed. I wanted to follow them.

Seth’s wife Sarah made tea, and I gave them the short version of the situation.

“You look beat,” Seth remarked when I was done. “I’ll make up the couch for you.”

I shook my head.

“Just let me use the shower, if that’s okay. I can bunk in with Hope. She still sleeps on the upper bed, doesn’t she?”

“You don’t mind?”

I shook my head. My children grounded me. They were my reason for being. “I’d prefer it.”

*    *    *

In the light of day, the events of the night before seemed rather like they happened to someone else. I took Hope and Boone for breakfast at Tim’s and I gave them the expurgated version of events. We speculated about what would happen next and the possible—and impossible— reasons the dead man ended up in our living room. The kids went to school with Tim’s sandwiches packed for lunch, anxious to tell their friends everything. I returned to the house with a large ET Capp to find the door sealed.

“Now what?” I asked aloud.

In TV shows, they don’t give any indication of how long a crime scene investigation takes. I realized that I should have called Detective Parrino first and saved myself some time. Of course, if I was here anyway, I could take some photos of the crime scene tape and the other evidence of last night’s activities for Hope. The detritus of a dozen cops and who knows how many sightseers littered the area. Most of the litter washed up on my front lawn, despite last night’s efforts to keep it clear. Prevailing winds didn’t respect police cordons.

“You think this is bad, you should see what they did out back.”

I turned to the source of the comment. My neighbour Walter was looking out from behind his screen door. A retired contractor, Walter was the best neighbour a single mom could have.

“Your backyard too?” I asked.

“They didn’t spend much time in my yard. Yours, on the other hand . . .” He gave an exaggerated shrug.

I took photos, pretending this was my scene to investigate.

Coffee cups, candy wrappers, a stray latex glove, scraps of the tape that defined the outer perimeter of the scene were all systematically photographed while my imagination turned my digital camera into a scanner and I thought about how a tricorder would be able to identify who dropped what cup.

“You gonna sue the city for clean up?” Walter asked, curiosity drawing him out onto his porch.

“Think it would work?”

He shook his head.

“This is just grist for Hope’s mill,” I explained. “Can I check out your yard when I look at mine?”

“Sure, Prudence. Knock yourself out.”

Seth called while I was examining the damage in the back.

“Where are you? Sarah said you left with the kids and didn’t come back. She was waiting around in case you wanted to stay at the house. She said to drop by her office if you wanted to go back.”

Sarah was a real-estate agent. She wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving a backdoor open . . . unlike me.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone back to your house.”