Authors: Shirley Kennett
Time of Death (16 page)
She gets out. The carroty car’s door opens
…
Fuck. Detective Schultz. They walk inside together. Nothing for a minute or two, then a scream. She’s laid eyes on her freshly killed beloved.
Damn. Damn. Damn. May’s got a perfect alibi. The new widow was with a fucking cop at the time of death.
It’s a swing and a miss, folks.
S
CHULTZ WAS STILL AT
the scene of Frank Simmons’s murder when he got the call. PJ had been in a car accident, and was in the hospital. Leaving Dave and Anita on site, he bullied his way through rush hour traffic to St. Louis University Hospital. The accident had practically happened on the hospital’s doorstep.
He stopped in the first floor gift shop and bought a small stuffed kitten with an insipid, furry smile. Stopping outside the door to her room, he composed his face and cleared the anxiety from his throat.
She was in the bed closer to the door. The curtain divider was pulled back and the other bed was neatly made, waiting for the next occupant. Thomas sat on the edge of her bed, worried but brave. It was hard enough for Schultz.
“Hey, Doc,” he said, “lying down on the job again?”
She turned at the sound of his voice, but winced slightly while doing it. The blanket pulled up nearly to her chin no doubt covered a multitude of aching spots. She patted Thomas’s hand and asked him if it wasn’t time for him to go.
“Mick’s mom is waiting,” she said. “We’re imposing, so let’s not push it.”
“Okay, if you’re that eager to get rid of me,” Thomas said, smiling. “Get a lot of rest, Mom, and do everything the doctors tell you to for a change.”
“I will, Sweetie.”
“I guess rough sex is out for awhile,” Schultz said, when he was certain Thomas was out of earshot.
She started to laugh, and then thought better of it.
“Bruises,” she said. “Really, it’s not that bad. I’m a poster child for seat belt use, though.” She pulled down the sheet and lifted her pajama top. He raised his eyebrows and was about to make a smart crack when he saw her injuries. His hand traced the contusions on her neck, between her breasts, and across her abdomen.
“No deep injuries, internal bleeding, anything like that. If the truck had hit the driver’s door, I wouldn’t be here talking to you, or so I was told. I changed from the brakes to the gas just in time, and almost made it out of the way,” she said. “My car’s a goner. It was so old I only had liability insurance on it.”
“Wall said you’d be out tomorrow. You’re letting me stay with you.”
She started to speak but he interrupted.
“No arguments, damn it,” he said. “You don’t have to be so fucking stubborn about your independence or whatever line of crap you’re about to give me. You gotta let me do this.”
Her face reddened. “I was about to say that might be a good idea until I can buy another car.”
“Oh.” He kissed her on the forehead, and gave her the stuffed kitten. She fussed over it, named it Marble for its tri-colored fur, and then asked for an update on the two murders.
“Three murders,” Schultz said.
“Oh, no. Did someone get to the real June after killing Shower Woman?”
“Nope. Frank Simmons, out on bail. I hate it when my main suspect gets whacked. It makes it harder to prove he did it.”
“Or to put him on trial,” PJ said. “May’s got a motive there. It doesn’t look good in her circles to have a family member in prison for murder. No Frank, no trial.”
“You never know, notoriety like that could be a plus. Gives her some street cred. But May didn’t kill him, at least not with her own hands. I was with her at the time of his death. I wanted to press her about that crooked warehouse deal in Chicago. When I called the house, the maid told me May was shopping at Plaza Frontenac. I found her car with a little help from the center’s security guards and waited for her to come out. She was pissed. She didn’t want to be seen there talking to the police, so I followed her home. Frank had just been killed. She found him in his study.”
PJ’s eyelids began to drift closed.
“Hey, you need some sleep,” he said.
She pushed herself to stay awake and told him about Frank being June’s fiancé first and then May’s husband.
“Makes you wonder what else those sisters share,” he said. “Motives are springing up like weeds in the family garden.”
“Or the family burial plot. I’m tired now,” PJ said. “You never know what they spike your drinks with around here.”
He lowered the bed to its sleeping position. By the time he puttered around tucking in the blanket and fluffing her pillow, she was already asleep, with Marble’s small ears peeking through her closed hand.
She had the same grasp on his heart.
WELCOME TO GEMSWORDCHAT, VYZER_
lok!
Now talking in the Mage’s Secret Chamber. Enjoy your stay.
gronz_eye has entered the room
its on dood
u owe me 10 bucks
friday
whats the matter past ur bedtime
u take bus there cab home
real tunnels creepy dim lights lots of forks and branches
washington university brookings hall basement
u been in the tunnels!!
thought u in 8 grade shit u cop or something
ok then
authorized only but im fckn authorized got a key
first test is u have to find which bldg & tunnel doors unlocked
inside will be the quest guide from gemswordmaster
all players have different quests but will cross paths
look 4 gems potions coins wands use them 2 battle others
u bring ur brain dood & my 10 bucks
u up 4 it
gronz_eye has left the room
T
HE PACER MADE ITS
way out St. Charles Rock Road toward the suburb of St. Ann. PJ hugged her bruised ribs, unobtrusively, she hoped.
“You take that pain medicine?” Schultz said. Her movement probably hadn’t escaped his attention, even though he was driving.
“Yes,” PJ said, not bothering to mention she’d only taken half of it. She didn’t want her mind fuzzy, and was willing to put up with the resulting discomfort. At least, in theory. In practice, she was hurting far more than she anticipated. Just folding her body enough to get into Schultz’s car had caused her to bite her lip. “How far is it?”
“Geez, you sound like a kid asking if we’re there yet. Interesting thing came up while you were in the hospital,” Schultz said.
“One of many, it seems,” PJ said.
“Anita went through June’s neighborhood, interviewing the neighbors again. There were a couple of people she hadn’t been able to get in touch with. One of them swears he saw June getting the newspaper on a morning she was supposedly in Kansas City. This man also saw her twice more during that weekend.”
“Do you think he was seeing the look-alike, living in the house and pretending to be June?”
“Personally I think he saw June, being herself. Can I prove it? No.”
“So tell me about all these people who had reason to shoot Frank.” She’d missed that discussion while in the hospital.
“First of all, there’s Arlan. You know about that one.”
“Yes, he was pressuring Frank to get involved in some real estate deal. I doubt if Arlan reached out from the grave and pulled the trigger, though.”
“Not Arlan himself, but maybe his representative on Earth. June or Fredericka or a hired assassin. You’re gonna love the next one.” He concentrated on his driving for a moment, as the Pacer seemed to have it in for some pedestrians on the sidewalk. He corrected the car’s pull with one hand and shifted gears with the other. He was good at it. It was almost like the Pacer had become an extension of him. A really odd extension.
“May Simmons hired an interior designer named Thul Volmann,” he continued, “and Frank didn’t like the results. Frank spread his opinion around to his society friends. Volmann claimed that Frank cost him future business from the most profitable sector. There was a slander suit filed, but the Simmonses’ high-powered attorney got the case dismissed.”
“The famous Jack,” PJ said.
“Yeah, him.”
“Leaving a murderously-inclined designer,” PJ said. “You know, the maid was interested in becoming an interior designer. I wonder if there’s any link there.”
“And I haven’t even gotten to the good one yet,” Schultz said. “Frank owned an apartment building he wanted to tear down for a commercial development.”
“Let me guess. The tenants didn’t like the idea.”
“She’s quick, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “The occupants formed a tenants’ association dedicated to making Frank’s life a developer’s hell. They’re a quirky bunch, too, and hot-headed, some of them.”
“Are we sure that Arlan didn’t have a hand in that tenants’ association? Part of the pressure he was exerting on Frank for the Chicago warehouse investment?”
“Hey, I didn’t think of that. This is one fucked-up bunch of people. It seems like they’re all connected, and they’re probably all guilty of murder. Well, capable of it and thinking about it, anyway. Anita and Dave are running down the designer and the tenants. They’re having all the fun, while we’re heading for some suburban farmer’s place.”
“Leo, I think we’re dealing with people with different motivations for these killings, but a common interest in having the victims out of the way. Two people who pair up to kill, then go their separate ways. It’s interesting what you said about they’re all thinking about murder. Suppose we have a whole nest of killers.”
“Personally I’m not even convinced about a team. I think we’ve got a loner here and we don’t know enough to connect the victims.”
They argued over that point for some time, the words becoming more heated as they went along, and the discussion straying into personal matters. Finally, PJ called a halt to it. She wanted to go over in detail what the Simmonses’ maid had said about Arlan delivering eggs to the Simmons home on the day he disappeared. Eggs from Old Hank’s farm, where they were headed.
“It was one of those weird family traditions, and they still go there for eggs today. Old Hank may not be able to keep the place much longer, though,” PJ said.
“The land’s probably worth a bundle. He should sell it and retire someplace without chickens. Give it a rest.”
PJ shook her head. “If he has a choice about it, he’ll probably be running that place until he keels over. There, that must be it.”
She was pointing at a dilapidated sign that said
Hank’s Chicken Ranch.
A blacktop driveway wound back from the street, passing through a heavily-wooded tract of land.
“Must drive the city fathers crazy,” Schultz said, “having that undeveloped acreage just sitting there, not paying much in the way of taxes into the coffers. By the way, I gave the St. Ann PD a heads-up that we’ll be on the property to talk to Hank and look around. I don’t think they’ll meet us there, but don’t be surprised if a cruiser shows up. If we find anything, Lieutenant Wall will pick up the coordination.”
PJ nodded. Turning into the driveway, they discovered that it turned to gravel as soon as they passed the first bend, out of sight of the street. They came to a fork, one side labeled
Eggs 4 Sale
and the other
Private
—
Trespissers Shot.
“I like this guy already,” Schultz said, yanking the Pacer’s steering wheel toward the
Private
drive. He pulled up in front of a two-story frame house that showed the burden of its years. Window and door frames and porch supports all sagged. Different layers of paint showed through on areas of the house, like painting had been started and given up as too much work, several times. The porch steps were cupped upwards so that the nails at the ends of the boards were pulled halfway out. The faded blue shingles reminded PJ of blue hair on an elderly woman. In fact, the house seemed like a tired, old woman counting the years until she could rest.
Schultz got out of the car. “Stay here,” he said, “in case the old geezer remembers where he put his shotgun.”
She was about to object to being left behind, and decided it wasn’t worth provoking Schultz.
This time.
She watched him move toward the porch, noticing that he was limping a little. His body had hard wear on it, like a car run too many miles with too little maintenance. Once, propped up on her elbow in bed next to him, she’d traced the record of his law enforcement service on his skin: smooth scars and rippled areas where muscle had been lost. Anita, indoctrinated in The Job from an early age by her father, had told PJ that career law enforcement officers accumulated injuries, some large, some small, like other people collect stamps or old movie posters. Walk into any cops’ bar, she’d said, and ask for a show of old wounds. The veteran cops would all have a few, and stories to go with them.
PJ was no exception, although she was on the outside of Blue culture looking in. She bore the scar of a psychopath’s knife and she had a scar on her soul, too, from killing a man.
Through the leafless trees, she could see a couple of buildings not far away. A conspicuous path headed through the woods in that direction. PJ rummaged in Schultz’s car, not a pleasant task, until she found a fast food receipt and a pen. When she was out of the office, she carried a credit-card-sized wallet in her pockets along with her car keys and cellphone. A purse could get in the way, or, as Schultz had pointed out, could have its strap grabbed and wrapped around her throat. She was used to the arrangement, but sometimes it was a nuisance not having the resources of a large purse handy.