Crewel Yule (13 page)

He paused a few moments just inside the door to the lobby, perhaps to listen to trombones crooning “White Christmas,” more likely to simply breathe air that was not clogged with snow, and stand secure on a level surface not coated with ice.

Marveen wondered how he had managed to climb the hill—he hadn’t come up in a vehicle, the portico outside the doors was empty. And why had he come alone? Didn’t the police generally travel in pairs? This man was, she knew, a policeman. For one thing he looked like one; for another, no one else would make the effort it must have taken to get here. He came to the desk and, reaching into an inside pocket, said, “I’m Paul Birdsong, Nashville PD. Someone here called about a fatal accident?”

“That would be me,” said Marveen. “I’m Marveen Harrison, acting hotel manager.” She was very good at reading people’s needs, and he needed his questions answered briefly and directly. They both spoke quietly, because the chairs and couches in the lobby held nine women who had been talking and stitching until he came in, when a nosy silence had fallen.

“Have you moved the body?” he asked, replacing the wallet that held his badge and ID card.

“No, we thought we should leave her just as she is.”

“That’s good. Where is she?”

“Out here in the atrium, behind those screens. Do you want to look right away?”

He did. He went heavily down the steps and pulled one screen open like a door. It moved easily, if noisily, on the tile floor. He stood completely still for nearly a minute, just looking.

Marveen wondered what conclusions he was drawing as she struggled against the urge to look, too, to try to see it through his eyes. But what he was looking at was something no longer fresh, something settled into death, a horrible
thing
that used to be a living guest of the hotel, and now something no one wants to look at. Marveen looked instead at the dark-haired woman in a green pantsuit seated on a folding chair on the other side of the screens. Marveen didn’t know who she was; she was younger than the woman in red who had first sat there, and the woman in black who had replaced her. Marveen nodded at her to let her know that the man who had opened the screen had the authority to do so. The woman had already concluded that—Birdsong did not look merely curious—and she just nodded back.

Marveen continued to avoid seeing the body by next checking to see that the two white cockatoos in their cage had been tended to, and noting that the bottom of the little pool of water beside them was strewn with far fewer coins than usual. Possibly the hardheaded shop-owners and wholesalers weren’t the kind to throw money away. Or, more likely, they didn’t want to approach the screens.

“Terrible.” Marveen looked up. Birdsong was shaking his head as he stepped back and slid the screen back into place. “I hate looking at jumpers,” he remarked.

“I understand,” she said.

“You’ve identified her,” he said, and it was not quite a question.

“Yes, she’s Ms. Belle Hammermill, here for the needlework market. She’s from Milwaukee where she owned a store called Belle’s Samplers and More. She had a partner in the business, a woman named Cherry Pye—” Birdsong snorted faintly. “Yes, I know, but that’s her real name. Ms. Pye identified the body.”

Birdsong had pulled a fat little notebook from a pocket. “When did Ms. Hammermill die?” he asked.

“About ten-twenty this morning. I was behind the counter in the lobby and heard her scream as she fell.”

“Do you know what floor she fell from?”

“Yes, the ninth floor directly over us.” Birdsong looked up, and so did Marveen. With their flower boxes and trailing ivy, the railings made a soft, attractive, repeating pattern up to a skylit roof far overhead. There were perhaps a dozen curious faces peering down at them from various floors. Most of them hastily withdrew on seeing their looks returned.

“She went over the top railing?” he asked, squinting a little and moving back a few steps for a better look.

“Yes.”

“Do you know how it happened?”

“Yes, it was an accident. We have an eyewitness.”

Birdsong’s head came down quickly as hope dawned in his eyes. “An actual eyewitness?”

“Yes, she saw Ms. Hammermill standing by the railing and then go over. She says she was all alone up there.”

“What’s her name, this eyewitness?”

“Samantha Wills. She’s also a guest at the hotel, here for the Market.”

“Market?”

“Virtually all our guests here right now are either buying or selling needlework patterns and materials. It’s an annual event, this is its fourteenth year.” She frowned. “Well, actually, it’s still the thirteenth. Usually it’s held in February, but we had to move it back two months. A booking problem.”

“How do I get to talk to Samantha Wills?”

“She has a cell phone and I have the number.”

“Will you call her for me?”

“Certainly. Would you like to wait in the office? It’s quiet and private. And you can sit down.”

“Thank you.”

Marveen started back for the lobby. “It will probably take a few minutes for her to get down here. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Birdsong ran a thick hand over his face, his fingers making a sound on his unshaven jowls.

“Would it be presumptuous of me to offer you something to eat? I think we have sweet rolls left from breakfast. Or I could order a sandwich.”

Another hope-filled smile formed, sweeter even than the response to the news that this was a witnessed accident. “A sandwich, yes. Would you mind?”

“I don’t know what kind it will be; we haven’t had any deliveries since yesterday noon.”

“Whatever you can scrounge up, and I thank you. No onion or lettuce or tomato, okay? And I like my coffee black.”

“I’ll have it brought on a tray to the office.”

“Thank you.”

Marveen showed him the entrance through the counter and into the back office, which was large and decidedly chilly. Snow was again whirling thickly past the two tall windows. There were two desks in the room, and six filing cabinets. The larger desk was clear of everything but a big blotter and a phone. The chair behind it was black leather. Birdsong sank into it with a sound that was more a groan than a sigh.

“Oh, by the way,” said Marveen, and his eyes closed in pain before he looked at her, braced for bad news. “There’s a police officer from Minnesota who had already talked to Ms. Wills. Would you like to talk to her, as well?”

“Oh, yes, by all means.”

Marveen couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not, so she only nodded and withdrew to make her phone calls.

Samantha Wills came trotting into the lobby sixteen minutes later, still in her stretch pants. “Sorry I took so long, I was loaded down with things and thought, egh-hem, I should take them to my room first.” The anxious look was back, and she cleared her throat again as she waited for Marveen to let Lieutenant Birdsong know she was here. Marveen opened the door and noted that the plate on which a roast beef sandwich, a generous fistful of potato chips, and a long pickle slice had rested nine minutes earlier had not even any crumbs left on it as a reminder of the meal. Birdsong was bent over his coffee cup as if drawing warmth from it up his nose. His eyes were closed.

“Uh,” Marveen said, and he started and looked around at her. “Ms. Wills is here.”

“Fine, send her in.” He stood slowly, and Marveen stepped back to wave in the obese woman. She was still clearing her throat and her fingers were touching her neck as she went. Marveen closed the door and went to call Sergeant Larson.

The Minnesota police officer came into the lobby a few minutes later. Marveen invited her to sit behind the counter, out of the way of the stitchers.

While they waited, the big front doors swooped open and two young men in white trousers, knit watch caps, heavy black pea coats, and black rubber boots came in. They carried a wire stretcher with a blue plastic lining between them.

They stood a few moments inside the door, stamping snow off their boots. The stitchers stopped working to stare, their faces showing concern. Marveen raised her hand, and they came to the counter. “There is a police investigator inside the office,” she said, gesturing at the door to it. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Thanks,” said the younger of the two.

Marveen rapped once and opened the door. Ms. Wills was sitting at the side of the bigger desk in the office chair that belonged to the other desk. She no longer looked nervous; in fact, she was smiling just a little. Lieutenant Birdsong rose in Marveen’s opinion from competent to
good.

“Yes?” said Birdsong impatiently.

“Emergency services is here.”

“Wonderful. Excuse me, Ms. Wills.” Birdsong came out and held a brief conversation with the young men and then waved them and their stretcher into the atrium.

With a minimum of noise and fuss, they put the unfortunate Ms. Hammermill into the stretcher—the blue lining turned out to be a body bag—and carried her through the lobby. The stitchers all stood as she went by, and two went to hold the big double doors open.

Jill waited patiently behind the check-in counter for Lieutenant Birdsong to ask for her. She watched the ambulance crew arrive, consult with Birdsong, and take away the body of Belle Hammermill.

It was always a solemn moment, to watch someone being carried away in a body bag. There was no rush to it, as there was when the person’s face was showing. Several of the people sitting on the lobby couches stood as the stretcher went by, and a man and woman hurried to hold the doors open.

Jill stood, too, and took a moment to wish Belle’s soul good fortune in the sudden new place it had found itself. Then she sat down again, thoughtful. So long as a body remained where it had fallen, Jill was able to think of it primarily as a problem and/or a source of information. Once it was gone, she was generally able to stop thinking about it. But during that minute or two of transition, while it was being taken away, it became a human tragedy. And though Jill rarely discussed philosophical questions out loud, her work was the kind that raised them. Was there something after death? Was it golden gates and angels singing? Was there, at least, an explanation for everything? Or was death the final blank, and dying much as described in poet Philip Larkin’s vision of a black ship coming into port for you, towing behind it “a huge and birdless silence”?

Though a Christian, Jill wasn’t absolutely sure it wasn’t the last—but, as she reflected at every death she attended,
the deceased now knew.
And just in case, Jill recited a very old prayer against the darkness, “May perpetual light shine upon her.”

So long as she was in a prayer mode, she wished the two medics and all emergency workers strength and patience. It was going to be a very long shift.

She sat down again to wait.

A few minutes later, Birdsong came to the door to show Samantha Wills out and her in. Samantha looked heartened, no longer the frightened, nervous woman Jill had interviewed that morning.

“Come in, sit down,” Birdsong said to Jill, in a voice roughened by exhaustion.

She obeyed.

“The hotel lady says you’re a cop from Minnesota. That right?” he asked, as he turned away and she followed him. The room was delightfully cool.

“Yes, sir.” She produced identification, and explained how she happened to be at the Consulate instead of the Grand Ole Opry Hotel.

He looked over the badge and ID card, raising his eyes once to compare the photo to her actual face. “You’re missing some good parties over there,” he noted.

“And not having one here,” she replied.

“Yeah, this’s too bad. What do you think?”

“There are at least three people here who were very unhappy with Belle Hammermill. But there’s another eyewitness besides Samantha, someone I know personally as reliable, who says she watched it happen. She says Belle was alone up there. She says it seemed to her that Ms. Hammermill’s hand slipped and she fell forward and over. I have another eyewitness account, this one third hand, that says a Mr. Dave Stott looked up right after she fell and the railing was empty.”

“Yeah. This partner she had—” He consulted his notes. “—Cherry Pye.” He shook his head at the foolishness of some parents in naming their children. “You talk to her?”

“No, but someone else I know did, and he says Ms. Pye said Belle wasn’t suicidal. Ms. Pye, by the way, is one of the people very upset with Belle. I did talk to someone else who frequented Belle and Cherry’s shop and who had an infuriating experience with them just before this event. She didn’t think Belle was suicidal, either.”

“So,” he said, “two who knew her say she wasn’t inclined to jump. And while you got three people mad at her, two, maybe three, saw her all alone up there, and not being pushed. And what you got at this hotel is just these low railings to stand between crowds of people and a big empty space. That adds up to an accident, right?” He wrote that conclusion down in his notebook and stood. Then he noticed she hadn’t risen and said, “What?”

“The railings are three and a half feet high, which isn’t low at all. And where she was, wasn’t crowded. And she wasn’t so tall that leaning out would overbalance her.”

“So?”

“Well,” she persisted, “I’d at least like to find another witness who actually saw her fall over.”

“So would I. If this were an ordinary day, I’d do that. I might even bring a crew in here. But nine times out of ten, what would I find out? Just what I already got—an accident. She was standing up there all alone, she saw someone a couple floors down and tried to get her attention and fell. Or she had a secret sorrow and here was a chance to end her troubles. Or she’s like a couple other cases I’ve heard of where she looked over and saw how high up she was and gave in to that weird impulse to jump.”