On the Run (7 page)
We both jumped when the phone rang under my hand, then stared as if it were a snake rattling, ready to strike. I hesitated, uncertain what to do. Had I any right to take a phone call for people who were sitting here
dead
?
But my inability to let any ringing phone simply keep ringing won out.
I picked up the receiver and cautiously said, “Hello?”
Moment of silence, and then a male voice, obviously surprised by my voice instead of one he was expecting, said, “I must have dialed the wrong number.”
“Are you trying to call the Northcutts?”
“Yes, I am. Who is this?”
“Who are you?” I shot back. I had no intention of blurting the news about the dead Northcutts to the local Hummer repairman or emu salesman. For a moment I thought he was going to demand that I tell him who I was first, and we’d be ping-ponging back and forth in some argument totally inappropriate to the grisly situation.
Instead he said in a dignified tone, “This is Frank Northcutt. And I repeat, who are you and what are you doing in my parents’ house?”
“Your parents,” I echoed. “Oh dear . . .” Their son. And I had to break the news to him.
“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
“My name is Ivy Malone. I heard there might be a job opening here—”
“Ute quit?” the man broke in. “Or did they fire him?”
“I’m not sure . . .”
“Whatever, good riddance. I told them he was bad news. The guy should have had ‘psycho’ tattooed behind his ear, instead of whatever it was he had there. But they wouldn’t listen, of course.” He sounded exasperated.
“I came out from Dulcy yesterday. I rang the doorbell and knocked, and no one answered. Then I heard the phone ringing inside the house, and no one answered that, either, so I decided no one was home . . .”
Wrong, I realized now. I’m no expert on determining time of death, but it now looked as if the Northcutts had indeed been “home” then. Right where they were now. On the sofa. Holding hands. Dead.
A puzzling thought: if they were dead then, what was that noise I’d heard here inside the house?
“Maybe it was me you heard when the phone was ringing. I tried to call at about 5:30.”
No, I’d come to the house considerably earlier than that, so the ringing I’d heard must have been someone else calling. But I didn’t bother to explain. I was stalling, dreading breaking this news. But I had to get on with it. “Anyway, a friend and I came back today, and we still couldn’t rouse anyone. The emus acted hungry, as if they hadn’t been fed—”
“Those stupid birds,” he muttered.
“We became concerned, so we . . . let ourselves into the house.” I didn’t give him time to ask how we accomplished that. “And we found . . . Oh, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Northcutt, but we found your parents here, and they’re . . . dead.”
“Dead
?
” He said the word in a perplexed way, as if the fact didn’t really register with him. He repeated it a moment later when it did register, his voice jumping an octave in shock.
“Dead?”
“I was just going to dial 911 when the phone rang.”
“You’re telling me my mother and father . . . both of them . . . are
dead
?” He sounded incredulous, and I couldn’t blame him. To make an ordinary phone call to parents and then have
this
come down on you. “I don’t understand. Are you sure? How . . . ?”
“They’re here on the sofa, and they appear to have been . . . shot.”
“Shot? You mean someone broke in and
murdered
them?”
I gave the bodies and gun a sideways glance, uncertain what to say. Murder? Maybe. But with the gun right there by the man’s hand . . . “I’m sorry. I’m not handling this very well. I-I think I should get hold of the authorities and let them figure out what happened here. There is a 911 system in this part of Oklahoma, I hope?”
“I think so. I remember Jock saying something about calling it a couple of times. Look, I’m coming, of course, and I’ll get there as soon as possible. But it’s a long drive, and I have to make arrangements about the kids and work. I’m the postmaster here, and Mikki is in Austin at a cosmetologist convention. I’ll have to get hold of her. This is just so hard to believe. You’re sure they’re dead?”
He still sounded shocked and distressed and distraught as he rambled, but at the same time oddly fretful and fussy. As if all this might be an annoying mistake, and he didn’t want to make the trip unless he was positive there was no uncertainty about his parents being dead.
“I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. They’re dead.” An unexpected possibility surfaced. “Unless, of course, these two people
aren’t
your parents.”
“I can’t imagine who else would be in their house. My folks don’t often have guests. They aren’t the hospitable type.”
“It was just a thought.”
“But maybe . . . I mean, they had a couple of new deals going, so it’s possible someone else was there . . .” I heard a glimmer of hope in his voice. “Okay, Jessie—”
“Jessie?”
“Jessie, my mother. I always called my parents by their first names.”
“Oh.”
Movie people
, I found myself thinking, then chastised myself for being judgmental just because this was something I couldn’t imagine ever doing with my own parents long ago.
“Jessie is 61. She’s 5’8”, about 135 pounds. Short gray hair, blue eyes. She always wears a pair of gold earrings shaped like the Oscar awards. Jock had them made for her after they won their Oscar.”
I would’ve liked to know more about that, but this was hardly the time to ask.
“Jock is 64, maybe 160 pounds . . . he’s lost weight recently. He’s also gray-haired, what’s left of it anyway, and blue eyes.”
I forced myself to study the bodies more closely. For a moment I thought,
Hey, maybe this isn’t them!
These people both looked heavier than the weights the son had just given. Then, with sick realization, I saw that the excess weight was an illusion. The bodies, after being closed up for some unknown amount of time in a house in warm weather, had started to bloat as well as smell.
It was also difficult to tell ages, but sixties looked about right. I couldn’t distinguish eye color, but both the man and woman had gray hair. And small gold earrings hung at the woman’s ears.
“The descriptions fit.” I swallowed. “They’re both wearing blue jeans and jogging-type shoes.”
“Yeah, that’s what they usually wear.” The hope fizzled out of his voice. He sounded baffled but resigned now.
“I’m so sorry . . .”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea how long they’ve been dead?”
“No, I’m afraid not. It’s . . . quite warm in here.”
“So they were probably already dead when I tried to call yesterday?”
He sounded unnerved by that, and I understood. I felt unnerved too, knowing two people had been dead on the sofa when I was so impatiently ringing the doorbell and banging the horseshoe knocker. Was it possible, if I’d barged in then, I could have called for help and saved them?
I reluctantly studied the bodies more closely. Her wound was definitely in the throat, gaping and messy, probably a direct hit to an artery, from the way the wound had bled. A dark shadow surrounded the bullet wound in his temple. I remembered from various mysteries I’d read that this probably meant a powder burn, the result of the gun held close to the skin when fired. He’d undoubtedly died instantly when the bullet hit his brain.
“I-I’m fairly certain they were already dead when you tried to call.”
He pulled himself together. “You’ll contact the authorities, then?”
“Yes, and we’ll stay here at the house until they arrive. If you want us to, that is. I realize you don’t know us—”
“I’d appreciate your staying. A deputy or someone will probably need to talk to you anyway. Although if there’s a chance the murderer is still hanging around . . .”
“We’ll be careful, but we haven’t seen any sign of anyone else around. I almost forgot. The gate is chained and padlocked. Do you know anything about a key? We had to park out there by the gate, and I think the police will need to drive up to the house.”
“Look in the kitchen, in one of those drawers to the left of the stove. If you don’t find it there, try a nightstand in the bedroom. Theirs is the downstairs one. My folks were real fanatics about keeping that gate locked all the time. I always thought it was a big waste-of-time nuisance.” Again that twinge of exasperation, but after a moment’s pause he added somberly, “But, considering what’s happened, I guess they had a right to be concerned.”
“I don’t know that they were killed by an outsider . . .” I was afraid the son might be getting a wrong impression about the deaths, but neither was I comfortable jumping in with speculations about the situation. It certainly looked as if the man had killed the woman, then took his own life. But there was also the thought that things were not always as they seemed on the surface. Not my place to speculate, I decided firmly.
“We’ll try to have the gate unlocked by the time the authorities get here, then,” I said.
“Thank you. I just can’t believe this. I knew they had some problems, maybe even some enemies, but I always thought . . . Well, never mind. It was probably a burglary gone bad. I don’t suppose you can tell if anything is missing?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“How about the Hummer?”
“It’s here.”
“The first person the police better check on is Ute. Though it won’t surprise me if he’s a hard man to find. I heard him telling once about how he went out in the mountains in Idaho with nothing but a pocketknife and some matches and lived off the land for six weeks.” Another pause, as if he were pulling himself together again. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. This is just so unbelievable . . . What was your name again?”
“Ivy Malone. The friend here with me is Abilene Tyler. She fed the emus,” I added.
“Those stupid birds,” he repeated and abruptly hung up without saying good-bye.
I told Abilene what he’d said about a key, and she went to look for it while I dialed 911. I told the woman who answered that the Northcutts had been shot, and the gun was here. “But it isn’t an emergency situation requiring an ambulance. They’re definitely dead. And have been dead for some time, I think.”
“No pulse? No vital signs?”
“No. Bloating has started, I think, and there’s . . . considerable scent.”
She asked for the address, the 911 system in this area apparently not outfitted with the equipment that automatically shows address information when a call comes in. I couldn’t give her an address, of course, beyond Dead Mule Road. But when I added the information I’d acquired from Margaret Rau, that the Northcutts were the movie people who’d bought the old Morris hunting lodge, she immediately said, “Oh, okay, sure, I know where that is. The movie people. I just didn’t recognize the name. Things have been so hectic around here.”
I had the impression, not that she didn’t
care
that the Northcutts were dead by gunshots, but that she wasn’t terribly surprised. Outsiders, you know.
Movie people
.
She asked a few more questions, warned us not to touch anything, and then said she’d get someone out here as soon as possible.
“Have you any idea how long it will be? It’s a little . . . unnerving being here alone with the bodies.”
“I can’t say for sure. A report about an off-road accident with a body just came in, and two officers are headed out there now. And what with people calling in with all kinds of tips and information about the murder that have to be checked out . . .” She sounded distracted, even a little rattled.
“Murder?” I repeated, though I thought I knew what she was talking about, from what Margaret had said.
“The sheriff’s nephew, Eddie Howell. Someone killed him out by the lake. But an officer will be out to see you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” I put the phone down and turned to find Abilene holding a key but staring at a sheet of paper leaning against a book on the coffee table.
I hadn’t noticed it before. Perhaps because a sheet of plain white paper, even a blood-spattered one, does not tend to catch your attention when you’re confronted with two gunshot bodies and an army of flies.
I had to step closer to the bodies so I could read the lines of typing, and closer was not where I wanted to be. What I
wanted
was a can of Raid so I could blast those buzzing flies, but even without the 911 woman’s warning I knew that wasn’t proper procedure. Bug and larval evidence can help fix time of death, so blasting any of the local fauna was surely a no-no. We’d just have to keep swatting. And trying not to breathe too deeply.
The typed message had no salutation, not even a to-whom-it-may-concern.
We believe the world is beyond hope or help. We no longer want to live in or be a part of it, and we choose to leave it in loving togetherness.
At the bottom were the typed names, Jock and Jessie Northcutt, with the signature of each above a printed line. His was one of those illegible scrawls, but hers was blocky and precise, the dot over the
i
in her name in the shape of an angular triangle.
I irrelevantly noted that the book the paper had been leaning against was titled
Emus: The Bird for Survival
.
Unfortunately, the emus obviously hadn’t helped the Northcutts survive.
Abilene’s gaze skittered from note to bodies to gun. “They . . . they’re saying they committed suicide together?”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
That’s what it had looked like even before I’d seen the note, and the note seemed to leave no doubt. I suspected a comparison would show that it had been written on that old typewriter in the living room. The type was irregular, the
e
a little off kilter.
The sequence of events appeared obvious now. They’d composed and signed the note together. He’d then shot her from several feet away as she calmly awaited the bullet. Then, while she was bleeding to death, he’d sat down beside her on the sofa, taken her hand in his, lifted the gun with his other hand, and put a bullet through his own temple.
A death pact between them. Leaving this world “in loving togetherness.” I shuddered.