Dark Corners READY FOR PRC (24 page)

“Nice chat?”

“It was fine. He should leave you alone now.”

“Were you mean and threatening?”

“No . . . firm.”

“Ah, cop charm,” I smirked.

“Something like that. Let’s get the hell out of this mausoleum.”

“Aren’t we doing the attic?”

“Nah, forget it. We'll deal with it another day. We need to run the jar and shirt to the station then we'll grab food. Sound good?”

“Practically perfect.”

“I’ll grab the stuff.”

As I watched him walk away, I wondered what exactly I was doing—but I quickly dismissed any uncomfortable notions, deciding to check my messages rather than entertain hopeful ideas that would only lead to future disappointment. My machine told me I had 32 new messages just as Gabriel re-entered the room with a puzzled look on his face.

“I guess I haven’t checked them in a while.”

“Do you know where the jar is, Ella?”

“With the shirt?”

“No, I have the shirt.” He held it up as evidence. “I brought it down and sat it with the jar while we were upstairs. Now the jar is gone and just the shirt is here.”

“It’s missing?”

“Apparently. Help me look.” We looked all over the foyer but found nothing. We widened the scope of our search and discovered something that made neither of us very happy: a jar sitting on the drainer next to my sink. It was empty it looked as if it had been watched and dried.

“This. Isn’t. Possible,” Gabriel said. “We've been here the entire time.”

“Maybe someone else was down here,” I offered lamely.

“We looked everywhere.”

Gabriel held the jar with a napkin searching it for evidence that any blood had ever been in it. He found nothing, which only frustrated him more. He put the lid back on the jar and took it with us as he ushered me out of the kitchen and towards the front door.

I stopped at my answering machine. I needed to listen to the messages because I wasn’t sure how many more could fit on it. Gabriel agreed to give me a couple minutes to check. I had several hang up calls, two messages from my editor about when they could expect another book from me, and about twenty messages from Gabriel the morning he couldn’t find me. He seemed embarrassed by the panic in his own voice. I took pity on him and deleted them rather than making him listen. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

 Gabriel watched me lock the house behind us. He put the shirt and the empty jar in the back seat of his car, then opened the door for me.

“Did you see or hear anything while I was talking to your neighbor?”

“I tried, but you were speaking too quietly.  Why? Do you have something to hide?”

“No, I meant in the house, someone taking the jar. Why are you so paranoid?”

“You live in that house and let me know how paranoid you become.”

We drove to the police station and I waited while Gabriel ran in the shirt. My mind wandered to the first time Gabriel and I met and how much things had changed.

I opened my eyes hoping it was all a dream, but I knew it wasn’t. The room was spinning around me with strangers walking back and forth, some shooting suspicious looks in my direction while others appeared sympathetic. I sat alone on the couch. A man sat in front of me, on a kitchen chair that had been brought into the living room, watching me with curious, penetrating eyes.

The man, detective someone or another, was trying to question me, but I kept hyperventilating. My hand was still stained from the blood. Nothing seemed real. Everything around me was in fast forward while I was paused. My mind couldn’t wrap around what had happened. He couldn’t be dead. I just spoke with him last night. He couldn’t be dead.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” the detective said patiently again, “I know this is difficult, but I do need you to answer some questions. It may help us catch the killer. Please tell me everything that happened from the time your plane landed this morning.” Between my mind shutting down completely, hyperventilating, and general hysteria it had been slow going up to this point. The only part of my story I’d been able to tell him thus far was that I was on a book tour and took a red eye.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” he said again when he saw my eyes glaze over. I blinked and looked at him until another person walked past me catching my attention.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s walk outside.” He caught the attention of a young police officer. “Mach, what’s it look like out front?”

“A circus, sir. Media swarming all over the place, a crowd starting to form.”

“How do they know already?” he growled.

She gave him a dubious look. “It’s a small town, she’s famous and most of them have scanners. Frankly, I'm surprised it took them this long, sir.”

He looked back at me and my blank stare. His jaw tightened as he offered me a hand to help me up. I ignored his hand and stood up on my own. The detective was not deterred; he took hold of my arm and led me back towards the kitchen. I tried to pull my arm free, but his grip was like iron. Under no circumstances would I willingly go back in that room. I stopped moving my feet.

“We're going out back. It'll be quieter there, easier for you to focus.” He  left no room for argument as he pulled me towards the kitchen, where he acted as a wall between me and the crime scene, keeping me from seeing it again, propelling me forward with a firm grip on the back of my neck. Once outside he took me to the small bistro table and chairs that were set up in the formal garden behind the house. He didn’t say anything, giving me a moment to collect myself.

He was right, out of the house was already less distracting. I could hear the commotion in the front, but if I blocked that out, it was tranquil back here, almost normal.

“After I got off the plane,” I started unprompted, my voice raspy, “I got my luggage then a cab.”

“Why didn’t your husband pick you up?” he interrupted.

“It was too early. I didn’t want him to have to come and get me when I could just as easily take a cab.”

The detective nodded. “How long do you think it took? About what time did you get home?”

“Uh, I’m not sure. It took me about 30 minutes to an hour in the airport then the cab ride home took me about an hour. I got here around 10 a.m. . . .  I think.”

“Then what happened?”

“I called for Danny when I was inside. He didn’t answer, so I checked upstairs. I thought he might still be asleep or in the shower or something. I couldn’t find him, I came downstairs and . . .” I took a few deep breaths, trying to control my breathing. “I came into the kitchen. First I noticed the smell. Then I saw him,” my voice choked up and I had trouble continuing, “like that.”

“Like what?” The detective prompted.

“Pinned to the wall.”

“Did you take his pulse?”

“No. No one could survive that . . .  could they. Oh my God, could I have helped him?” I started hyperventilating again.

“No,” the detective said quickly. “You couldn’t have helped him. I’m sorry. I just needed to know if you touched the body.” His answer didn’t help. I put my head between my knees and tried not to pass out.

“Please continue when you’re ready,” the detective said with patience so practiced it almost sounded bored.

When I had once again composed myself, I sat back up. “Then the room started spinning and I couldn’t breathe. I think I passed out.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly look at my watch. I woke up and the blood had reached me. My hand was in it—I'm going to be sick—” I ran towards the trees, just making it before I threw up. This couldn’t be real. I had to wake up. I went back to the table staggering a little.

“Then what happened?” the detective asked after I took my seat, as if nothing had happened at all.

“I called 911.”

“Nothing happened between you waking up and calling 911.”

“No.”

“Did you see anything in the house? Anything that would indicate that the killer was still there? Anything at all?”His eyes flickered back to the house.

I tried to think back. I couldn’t picture anything besides Danny hanging lifelessly on the wall. I shook my head no, wishing I could be more helpful.

“Was the front door locked or unlocked when you arrived home?”

“Locked, I think.”

“The back door?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t check.”

“Does your husband have any enemies?”

“No.”I shook my head emphatically.

“Do you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How was your relationship with your husband?”

“Good. I mean we have arguments, but only small ones. It was a lot of stress remodeling and moving.”

“Did you argue recently?”

“We argued before I left on this trip. I wanted him to come with me and he wanted to stay and work on the house.”

“Can you think of any reason someone would want your husband dead?”

“No. He’s a likable man—was, was likeable, I mean.” I shuddered and felt sick to my stomach again. “I don’t know anyone that didn’t like him. He wasn’t working on anything besides for the house. I don’t know why this happened to us.”

I couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down my face. Sobs choked me. I covered my face with my hands. Detective Troy’s impartial, cop exterior cracked briefly as he put his hand on my shoulder.

“It'll be okay,” he said gently. “Is there someone you can call?”

I nodded. He handed me his cell phone. I dialed Susan; she answered on the third ring.

“Hello,” she said, slightly out of breath.

“Susan . . .”I didn’t know how to say it. How could I?

“Ella? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Danny.” I swallowed hard. I couldn’t force the words past my lips. It made it all too real.

“What happened?”

“He’s dead,” I squeaked.

“What? What did you do, Ella?” her voice suddenly hard and accusing.

I couldn’t believe she thought that of me. My mind couldn’t wrap around what she was saying. I hung up the phone and looked back at the detective. I had no one to call.

The blare of a horn startled me back to attention. I looked over my shoulder as the traffic started moving through the stop light. Even then Gabriel was considerate. He was truly a nice man. A nice man with an immaculately clean car. Curiosity got the better of me. He’d been looking through my things all day, so I felt somewhat entitled. I looked in the center console but found absolutely nothing. The glove compartment was locked—