Killer Reunion (13 page)

When they entered town and Savannah pulled into the parking area beside Butch's garage, Dirk pulled the cinnamon stick from his mouth and tossed it onto the rear floorboard.

“Your brother-in-law
does
know that I'm pretty much clueless about cars, right?” he asked. “I mean, I don't have the first idea how to help him fix a double clutch.”

Savannah laughed. “That's okay, sugar. He's not working on a double clutch. He's probably got his feet propped up on his desk, sipping sodas and looking at girlie magazines.”

“Really?” Dirk looked impressed. “How do you know?”

“Because there's no such thing as a double clutch.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. It's code.”

“For what?”

“For ‘I don't want to be around my wife's crazy relatives, so I'm pretending I have to work.'”

“All right! See ya later, babe! You're the best!”

Before she could assure him that, yes, she
was
the absolute best, he had given her an enthusiastic kiss on the lips, had bounded out of the car, and was scurrying up to the garage office in search of cold, free soft drinks and PG-rated pornography.

D
uring the drive from Butch's garage to the mortuary, Savannah thought of at least twenty different possible ways to gain access to Jeanette Barnsworth's remains.

In feasibility, they ranged from highly iffy, like just asking Herb Jameson very sweetly and fluttering her eyelashes, to downright silly, like climbing through a window, scrounging around the mortuary and locating the body, then sneaking a peek.

She'd already decided against Plan B. The last time she squeezed through a window, lost her balance, and hit the floor on the other side, she'd cracked a rib and torn her favorite pair of slacks.

Besides, a peek wasn't going to do it, anyway. She'd already had a peek there at the lake. What she needed was the autopsy report, if Jameson had finished it. And even more unlikely, if he would share it with her.

If she was the coroner, and the number one suspect asked for a look at the body, she would have laughed in their face and shown them the door. How could she expect Mr. Jameson to do anything else?

It wasn't going to be easy to get the information she needed. But then, when was a homicide investigation ever simple? She supposed some cases were. But she'd never had any of them.

By the time she arrived at the funeral home, she'd decided upon a fairly straightforward plan. She was going to ask Herb Jameson with all the Southern belle sweetness and gracious female persuasion she could muster.

And if that didn't work, she'd mow over him like a giant John Deere combine harvester.

She wasn't proud. Whatever the job took, she was up to it.

She wasn't going down for a murder she hadn't committed. Especially Jeanette's. Not after all those years of resisting her homicidal fantasies and urges to do exactly that.

The funeral home's colonial façade gave the place an elegant, yet imposing appearance. The stark white walls, the black shutters, and the graceful columns spoke of formal finality. But the colorful flower beds that edged the perfect lawn lent a warm personal touch.

She drove from the circular brick driveway to the less decorative, more utilitarian paved road that led to the side and back of the establishment. A triple-vehicle garage had two doors open. Inside one she could see the long black hearse that had carried many people she knew, and some she loved, to their final resting places. In the other was Herb's new Cadillac.

Apparently, he hadn't returned it, as he had threatened to at the school. At least not immediately.

Savannah was a bit disappointed to see both the hearse and Herb Jameson's personal car. One part of her—the sneaky but more forthright part—had been hoping to find the mortician gone from his business. The more she thought about trying to talk her way into the place, the more an old-fashioned breaking and entering seemed preferable.

She parked the rental car near a side door, which she hoped was less used than the others, and got out. Mentally crossing her fingers, she walked up to the entrance, hoping against hope that the local custom of not bothering to lock one's door extended to the neighborhood mortuary.

She stifled a yelp of glee when the knob turned and the door swung open. It didn't even creak.

So far, so good
, she thought.

Having been to the back area of the mortuary once before, when trying to clear her brother of a murder charge, she knew the way.

Down the narrow hallway, with its drab walnut paneling and dark blue carpet, was the preparation room, which was sometimes used for autopsies. In a small community where homicides were almost nonexistent, there was no need for a full-time coroner. So on the rare occasion when one was needed, the local mortician might be pressed into service. And such was the case with Herb Jameson.

When she had consulted with him before regarding the homicide her brother was accused of committing, she had found Jameson to be surprisingly knowledgeable in the forensic sciences. She hoped he would be as efficient in this case, because the truth would lead Tom Stafford to the real killer and away from her.

Savannah felt a pang of anxiety when she heard a noise that sounded like the clanging of metal instruments being tossed into a tray. After years of watching Dr. Jennifer Liu, San Carmelita's medical examiner, perform autopsies, she was quite familiar with the sound.

But even though she wasn't looking forward to the conversation she was about to have, she was glad that the autopsy was still in progress. She wasn't too late, after all.

Although Granny's teachings about good manners dictated that she knock before opening the closed door, Savannah decided to take a slightly more aggressive approach. She opened it just enough to stick her face through and only then gave it a light triple knock.

Herb Jameson was dressed in disposable paper overalls, complete with matching booties over his street shoes. On his face was a surgical mask. His hair was netted, and his hands were gloved. He stood beside a large stainless-steel table, upon which lay the earthly remains of Jeanette Barnsworth.

“Excuse me, Mr. Jameson,” she said. “It's me, Savannah.” She eased her head and one shoulder inside the room. “I know you're terribly busy, so I won't take up much of your time. I was just wondering if... well, how your autopsy's coming along. And if you need any help. If you do, I'd be happy to lend a hand. You know, clean your instruments or—”

The look he gave her was far less friendly than any she had ever received from him before. “Thank you, Savannah. I appreciate your offer,” he said, with absolutely no gratitude whatsoever in his tone. “But I don't think Sheriff Stafford would approve of me allowing his main suspect to handle the victim's body. Some might call it a conflict of interest, don't you think?”

Savannah fought to keep her sweet face from sliding off and gentled her tone when she said, “I understand perfectly, Mr. Jameson. But surely, no harm would be done as long as I don't touch anything.”

She stepped all the way into the room and gently closed the door behind her. After taking only one step in his direction, she stopped and said, “See? I can stand right here with my hands in my pockets, and that shouldn't cause any problem at all. From here I can just ask my couple of questions, and if you don't want to answer them, you just say so, and I'll be on my way.”

After badgering you half to death
, she silently added,
and only if you chase me out of here with one of those big, sharp scalpels of yours
.

When he didn't answer, she continued to press. “All I want to know is if you've determined a cause and manner of death yet. That's it. That's all.”

He peered at her over the top of the surgical mask in much the same way she studied a suspect she was interrogating. And as she tried to resist squirming inside her jeans, she decided it was a lot more fun to be the interrogator than the one getting squeezed.

“Are you telling me, Savannah,” he said, “that you have no idea how this young woman died?”

She fixed him with her most sincere, determined gaze and replied, “That's
exactly
what I'm telling you, Mr. Jameson. I have no idea whatsoever how she died. If it was an accident—”

“It was
not
an accident,” he said, interrupting her. “She was murdered.”

Savannah winced. Expected or not, the words were hard to hear. “That's tragic,” she told him. “I truly hate to hear it. No one deserves to leave this earth that way.”

“At least we agree on that,” he replied.

“If you've already determined the manner of death, then you must know the cause, too.”

“Yes, I do. It was drowning.”

“Drowning? Wow. Really?”

“You seem surprised.”

“I
am
surprised. There at the lake, Sheriff Stafford, his deputies, my husband, and I all expressed the opinion that she was dead before she went into the water. Probably from that injury to her temple.”

“But none of you are coroners, now are you?”

“No. We aren't. And I'm not questioning you, sir. I'm sure you have good reasons for why you arrived at that ruling.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then would you mind sharing your findings with me? It will all be a matter of public record soon, anyway. Why would it matter if I find out now or later?”

He peeled the surgical gloves from his hands and tossed them into a bright orange trash can with a
BIOLOGICAL WASTE
sign on the side. Then he turned to Savannah, and in a voice that sounded both weary and sad, he said, “Her lungs are waterlogged, and I found the presence of more water in her stomach. She was alive when she went into the lake.”

“But what about the bullet wound to her temple?”

Jameson removed his mask, and Savannah was grateful. It made him look more like the man she had known and liked as a child. Her friends' kind and gentle father. And less like the coroner whose ruling might send her away for murder.

“It isn't a bullet wound,” he said simply.

Forgetting her promise to stand still in one place, Savannah took a couple of steps closer to the body and stared at the neat, round hole on the side of the head.

“You're right,” she said. “When I first saw it there at the lake, I caught only a glimpse of it. But even then, I thought it looked strange. Not like your usual GSW. There's no gunpowder stippling around the wound.”

“Though there wouldn't be if the shooter was standing far enough away,” he replied.

“True. But where's the black edging? I don't think I've ever seen a gunshot wound without those dark edges that a bullet makes when it burns its way into the flesh.”

“Like I said, it isn't from a bullet. It's a puncture wound.”

“How deep?”

“About five centimeters.”

“Could the head injury have occurred when she went off the cliff, like in an accident? Maybe something in the car caused it. A metal rod perhaps?”

“No. Definitely not. The wound occurred antemortem.”

“How long before death?”

He shrugged. “There's no way to tell for sure. A half an hour? Perhaps more. There's definite swelling, bruising, and blood inside the brain, surrounding the wound. And that would have taken some time to occur, unlike the drowning, which would've been much faster.” Pausing, he shuddered. “Though not fast enough. I'm sure she suffered terribly.”

“But if the head wound came first, maybe she wasn't conscious.. . .” She paused. “You know, for the drowning part.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. People assume that every brain injury is instantly fatal. It isn't. She may have been fully aware and suffering through the whole thing.”

Savannah saw an intense pain in his eyes, and she reminded herself that at least until last night, this man had feelings for the woman on his autopsy table. She couldn't imagine autopsying anyone she knew, let alone cared for.

“I feel terrible that someone did this to her, Mr. Jameson,” she told him. “I feel sorry for her and for you. It's awful, losing someone you're close to.”

He turned his back to her and busied himself with placing the remainder of his soiled instruments and tools into a stainless-steel tray.

While he was occupied and was not watching, Savannah took the opportunity to take another step closer and get a better look at the small, round wound.

“What do you suppose the weapon was?” she asked.

When he didn't answer, she thought perhaps he hadn't heard her. So she said, “The shape of the stab wound . . . It doesn't look like a knife was used.”

“It wasn't a knife,” he said, his back still turned to her. “And she wasn't stabbed. She was struck. Very hard. With an object that was flat on the end, not pointed.”

“Like a screwdriver?”

“No.”

Savannah searched her mind but could think of nothing. “Then what?”

He turned around and once again gave her that dark, penetrating look. “My best guess is that the puncture trauma to her head occurred when she was hit with a shoe. Or more specifically, the heel of a shoe.”

Savannah's head started spinning. So did the room. She felt as though she had to sit down before her knees buckled beneath her and she fell.

“A heel?” she asked, hearing the trembling in her own voice.

“Yes.” His voice sounded as cold and dead as the woman on the table before them. “Jeanette was murdered with the heel of a woman's shoe. A high heel. A stiletto.”