Before Another Dies (7 page)

His eyes softened, and he pressed his lips. “She was a good woman. Gave me a love for the printed word.”

“Was she a reporter, too?”

“No, a simple housewife and mother in the days when that was considered a noble career. I guess that's changed. We buried her last Thursday.”

“I would have sent flowers had I known.” I was feeling guilty.

“No need. I wanted to keep things simple. Death happens to one hundred out of every one hundred people. Her time came, and someday my turn will come.”

“‘It is appointed for men to die once, and after this comes judgment,'” I mumbled to myself.

“That sounds familiar,” he said. “Shakespeare?”

I looked up, surprised that I had spoken loud enough to be heard. “It's from the Bible. Book of Hebrews, I think. I heard it in church the other day.”

“Reading the Bible these days? I didn't know you were a religious person.”

“Neither did I.”

The conversation fell silent for a few moments. “When did you get back?”

“This morning. I went into the office late and heard about . . . your find.”

I looked at Floyd. “Thanks for staying, Floyd, but you can get back to work now. I think I can handle Mr. Turner.” I smiled. Floyd left and I turned my attention to Turner. “I don't have anything to add. I really don't know much.”

“I was talking to Detective West. He gave me what he could. He also told me Harper had been by and made a nuisance of himself. I hustled over here.”

“I appreciate it. He was getting on my nerves.”

“I could tell.” He pulled a notebook from his shirt pocket. I didn't ask if he had a tape recorder. He usually did but didn't always use it. “I just need to verify a few things, if you don't mind, and then see if you have a statement to make.” He recited what West told him and I acknowledged its accuracy, then I gave a line or two about the city's confidence in the police department and its highly trained professionals to bring the matter to a speedy resolution. It wasn't poetry but it was succinct. The more succinct a statement, the less chance of it being misquoted or edited.

He wrote everything down, then closed the notebook. “How's the campaign going?”

“Great. We're on target, the organization is working like clockwork, the polls are good.”

“Wish it was over?”

“Off the record?”

“Of course.”

“Yes. I've always enjoyed campaigning, but this is far more laborious than I anticipated.” I was more open with Turner than I would be with other reporters. In some ways, I owed my campaign to him—or at least my decision to run. Months ago he had asked me if I was considering a run for congress. I had become evasive. Finally, Turner said, “Why is it that every time a politician is thinking of running for higher office they deny it? It's like they're ashamed of wanting to do more for the community.” I didn't let him know it at the time, but his words stuck with me, haunted me.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, then stood. “Again, I apologize for Harper. With his attitude, he'll never make it in the business. Watch out for him. I don't think he has both oars in the water, if you know what I mean.”

I did know.

chapter 6

T
here are only a handful of people I allow to have my phone number. Home is sacrosanct; a place removed from every other place. While I often work from my home, it is not a place of business, and I work hard to make sure it never becomes one. Someone once said that he refused to have a phone in his home because he never “saw the sense in having a bell in the house that any idiot could ring at any hour of the day.” There are times when I agree with that. So the number of people who can dial me direct is as limited as I can make it. My parents, my brother and sister, a few friends like Dr. Jerry Thomas, each member of the council—that was a needed concession—the city attorney, the city manager, the chief of police, and that's about it. Detective West also has the number, something he needed last year when he was investigating a painful event in my life. Those people also have my cell number.

One other person can ring me at home: Fritzy.

When my husband was killed, the call came at 10:12 in the evening. I've always hated late-night calls, but now I was paranoid. This call came at 2:23 a.m. No call at that hour could be good. The ring was shrill and sharp as if it had edges. It coursed through me like an electrical shock. I bolted upright in bed, still too groggy to know if I heard right or dreamed the disruption.

It rang again, and my heart thumped in double time. I began to hope it was a wrong number. At that hour, I'd be happy if it were a drunk too bleary-eyed to punch the keys of his cell phone in the right order.

I tossed back the covers and swung my bare legs over the edge of the bed. The phone rested on a nightstand just to my right. All the emotions of the night Peter died flooded my mind. That was many years ago; that was just yesterday. I blinked hard several times, reached for the light on the stand, and pulled the chain. I didn't need the light, and upon retrospect, I was stalling. The third ring had started when I snapped up the receiver.

“Yes,” I croaked. It was impossible to sound professional and ladylike when yanked out of a deep sleep. There was no answer. In the background I heard someone sniff. “Who is it?”

“Mayor?” A soft, tiny, bruised voice.

“Who is this?”

A few feet from my bed stands a French-style oak vanity with a full-length mirror. It was a wedding gift from Peter's parents. The mirror bounced my image back. Lit by only the forty-watt bulb in my bedside lamp, I struck a ghostly reflection. My face seemed pale as if patted with pancake batter and the individual hairs on my head had decided to chart their own courses.

“Mayor . . . I'm sorry . . . I . . . it's Judith.”

Judith? My memory tumbled in my brain like rocks in a dryer. “Judith who—Fritzy?” Yes, it had to be her, but I couldn't recall the last time she referred to herself by her given name. She had always been Fritzy.

“Yes, Mayor. It's me. It's . . . horrible. I don't know who to call . . . what to do . . . I shouldn't have bothered you . . . not at this hour . . .” She trailed off in tears. I have known Fritzy for over a decade, and I had never seen her cry or ever heard her complain. Her optimism made Pollyanna seem mired in a PMS funk. She brightened a room when she entered. Not even chronic malcontents like Jon Adler and Tess Lawrence could rock her boat.

The room chilled. “What is it, Fritzy? What's happened?”

“I . . . It's . . .” Sobbing swallowed her words.

“Is Jim there? Let me talk to Jim.” Fritzy had been married to the same man for nearly forty years. They had tied the knot right after high school and right before he went into the navy.

“He . . . he . . .”

An arctic wind swept through my soul, and I clenched the phone so hard I feared it or my fingers would break. My stomach turned, roiling with bitter acid. “Oh, Fritzy. I don't . . . Where are you? Are you at home?”

“Yes, but—”

“I'm on my way.”

“You don't have to . . . I didn't mean to be a bother, I just . . .”

“Make some coffee, Fritzy, I'll be there in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

I hung up. The coffee was a stupid thing to say, but I know where it came from. The night I learned of Peter's murder, I walked into the kitchen, made coffee, then dissolved into tears. I spent the rest of the night sitting at the dining room table sipping coffee I didn't want and couldn't taste. Sometimes a woman just needs something to do, even if it doesn't need to be done.

I dressed in the closest thing at hand—a blue jogging suit. I don't jog; I walk on a treadmill and most days I hate it, but I do it anyway. Usually, I work out in a pair of shorts and a cotton T, but it was the wee hours of the morning and although our temperatures are mild, it would still be cool at this hour. I was already cold, but that had nothing to do with the weather.

Less than five minutes after I hung up, I was backing my SUV out of the garage onto the street at the front of my house. The night was still. Even the typical sea breeze was missing, as if it had stopped to bow its head. The moon hovered high, reflecting an ivory glow. I had left my window down when I pulled into the garage, and the sound of gentle surf stroking the shore just a few yards from my back door wafted in on salt air. I rolled up the window, shutting out nature's lullaby, and crammed my emotions into the mental lockbox where I keep things too disturbing to face.

I gunned the engine.

Fritzy lives “on the hill” as we say around here. Santa Rita begins with the beach on the west, a wide expanse of sandy shore, a wide strip of land that runs from the south and through our city limits in the north. Large, expensive houses occupy most of that property. There, people live what most assume is the ideal California life: sun, sea, and sunburn. Thanks to great financial planning on Peter's part and his ability to sell ice to Eskimos, I lived in one of those homes. It was far too big for a single woman to occupy, but I refuse to give it up. It was Peter's place, and I plan to live my days out there.

The rest of Santa Rita is on and around the low coastal hills. US Highway 101 bifurcates the city. The expensive homes dot the coastline; the affordable homes are in subdivisions on the slopes overlooking the ocean or tucked away in one of many narrow valleys. Fritzy's home was nestled in one of the valleys, one of 120 or so homes built in the 1970s. The subdivision was called Equine Park. It was a dumb name, because the lots were too tiny to stable anything larger than a beagle. Fritzy's home was on the south side of the street. In the moonlight I could see blue-gray trim, the white shutters, and the beige walls. Rosebushes lined the driveway. A single light shone from the living room window.

I pulled up the drive, flashed my bright lights in the window, and hopped from the car as if I were eager to do the job before me. I wasn't. By the time I stepped up to the front stoop, Fritzy had already opened the door. She was draped in a flower print robe, and fuzzy, pink slippers adorned her feet. Protruding from the bottom of the robe was a pair of thin legs that looked like twigs ready to snap. A pair of yellow pajama bottoms covered the legs to the middle of her calf. She held her robe closed with her left hand, an act that had less to do with modesty than with needing something to hang on to. With her other hand she covered her mouth. That hand was shaking. I felt ill.

I moved quickly, as if haste could lessen the pain or change the circumstances. Words formed in my mind but I wasted them, letting them dissolve back into nothing. I took Fritzy in my arms and pulled her to my chest. I laid my head on her mat of gray hair and determined to be strong for my friend.

Judith “Fritzy” Fritz convulsed into waves of weeping. She was a geyser belching out shock and sorrow. I still didn't know what happened, and at the moment it didn't matter. I had to be there for her. I had to be strong, sturdy, and resolute. I had to be the rock she could depend on.

A second later I dissolved into tears.

chapter 7

W
e sat at a round oak dining table, each ignoring the coffee cups before us. There was enough bitterness in our bellies. It had taken a full five minutes before we could move from the doorway and into the house. The weeping had stopped, not because the situation had changed but because the tank was empty—at least for now. Once inside the small home, I closed and locked the door behind us, poured the coffee that Fritzy had dutifully made, and then led us to the dining room table.

The house had that wonderful lived-in look, the look that can only be achieved by a family who had spent years within the walls. I had been to Fritzy's house on several occasions, usually to celebrate a birthday. She liked to celebrate her birthdays at home. The furnishings were nice but well worn. Inexpensive paintings gathered from decades of marriage and flea market sales hung on the walls. An old china hutch held its place in the dining room, proudly displaying teacups, antique plates, and knickknacks.

“He called first, then came by.” Fritzy wiped her nose with a tissue.

“Who?” I sipped my coffee. It had been made in a percolator, which I assumed had followed the family for decades. Do they still make percolators?

“That nice detective,” she said. “The one who is so interested in you.”

Fritzy had been trying to play matchmaker for me for years. It had become second nature to her. I doubt she realized what she said. “Detective West?”

“Yes. He was very kind. Very supportive. Very . . .” I reached across the table and touched her hand. It was the only thing I could think of to do. “I called you as soon as he left.”

I waited, mustering the courage to ask. “Can you tell me what happened? If not, I understand and—”

“It's okay. I called you, remember?” She smiled. There was no joy or humor in it. “Jim was working late. He does that sometimes when people need their airplanes in the morning. You know how some of the big business types are.”

I nodded. Jim Fritz was an aircraft mechanic. Fritzy had told me he had enlisted in the navy a few weeks before they had wed. It was a rough way to begin a marriage, but he hadn't wanted to go off to basic training without first committing to her. He was one of those men who understood nobility. The navy trained him to fix airplanes and jets. Twenty-two years later, he retired and started his own company. It was a small company, just him and one other mechanic, but that was the way Jim wanted it. He had his retirement pay, his home was paid for, and he just wanted to keep his skills up. He set up shop at Willis Jackson airport, the private airport at the south end of the city. It was named after a local fighter pilot killed in Korea.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “They want their planes, and they want them right away.”