Dead Over Heels (2 page)
Authors: Charlaine Harris
My gut recognized disaster seconds before my civilized self (which was pretty much just saying “Huh?”) and propelled me off the patio and across the yard to knock Angel, all five feet eleven of her, away from the handle of the mower and under shelter of an oak tree.
A sickening thud followed immediately.
In the ensuing silence, I could hear the plane buzzing away.
“What the
hell
was that?” Angel gasped. Her headphones had been knocked off, so she’d heard the impact. I was half on top of her; it must have looked as if a Chihuahua was frolicking with a Great Dane. I turned my head to look, dreading what I would see.
hell
was that?” Angel gasped. Her headphones had been knocked off, so she’d heard the impact. I was half on top of her; it must have looked as if a Chihuahua was frolicking with a Great Dane. I turned my head to look, dreading what I would see.
Luckily, he’d landed face down.
Even so, I was nearly sick on our newly mown grass, and Angel quite definitely was.
“I don’t know why you had to knock me down,” Angel said in a voice distinctly different from her flat south Florida drawl. “He probably missed me by, oh, thirteen inches.”
We were pushing ourselves to our feet, moving carefully.
“I didn’t want to have to buy a new lawn mower,” I said through clenched teeth. A side chamber in my mind was feeling grateful that our lawn mower was one of those that stop moving when the handle is released.
Angel was right about it being a man, judging from the clothes and the haircut. He was wearing a purple-and-white check shirt and brown pants, but the fashion police were not going to be bothering him anymore. A very little blood stained the shirt as I looked. He’d landed spread-eagled; one leg stuck out at a very un-alive angle. And then there was the way his neck was turned . . . I looked away hastily and took some long, deep breaths.
“He must be three inches into the ground,” Angel observed, still in that shaky voice.
She seemed preoccupied with measurements today.
Paralyzed by the suddenness and totality of the disaster, we stood together in the shade of the oak, looking at the body lying in the sun. Neither of us approached it. There was a stain spreading through the grass and dirt in the head area.
“And of course, the guys aren’t here today,” I said bitterly, apropos of nothing. “They’re never home when you need them.” Angel looked at me, her jaw dropping. Then she began hooting with laughter.
I was unaware I’d said anything amusing, and I was at my most librarian-ish when I added, “Really, Angel, we’ve got to stop standing around talking, and do something about this.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Angel said. “Let’s put some tulip bulbs in potting soil on top of him. They’ll come up great next year.”
“It’s way too late to put in tulips,” I told her. Then, catching myself, feeling the day had already spun out of hand, I said, “We’ve got to call the sheriff.”
“Oh, all right.” Angel stuck out her lip at me like a six-year-old whose fun had been spoiled, and laughed all the way into the house.
I hadn’t seen Angel Youngblood laugh that much in the two years she’d been my bodyguard.
She was serious enough an hour later, when Padgett Lanier was sitting on my patio with a glass of iced coffee. Lanier was perhaps the most powerful man in our county. He’d been in office in one capacity or another for twenty years. If anyone knew where all the bodies were buried in Lawrenceton, Georgia, it was this man. With a heavy body, scanty blond hair, and invisible eyelashes, Lanier wasn’t the most attractive man in my backyard, but he had a strong presence.
The “most attractive man” prize had to go to my husband of two years, Martin Bartell, vice president of manufacturing at Pan-Am Agra, Lawrenceton’s largest employer. Martin is a Vietnam vet, and at forty-seven he’s fifteen years older than I. He pumps iron and plays various one-on-one competitive sports regularly, so his physique is impressive, and Martin has that devastating combination of white hair and black eyebrows. His eyes are light, light brown.
Angel’s husband Shelby, who was lounging against the kitchen door, is swarthy and graying, with a Fu Manchu mustache and pockmarked cheeks. He is soft-spoken, polite, and an expert in the martial arts, as is Angel. Shelby and Martin are longtime friends.
Right now, Angel and I were the only women in sight. There were three deputies, the coroner, a local doctor, the sheriff, and our husbands. There were two men in the ambulance crew waiting to take “the deceased” to—wherever they took things like that.
Lanier gave me a thorough head-to-toes evaluation, and I realized I was wearing shorts, a halter top, and dried sweat, and that my long and wayward hair was sloppily gathered into a band on top of my head. “You musta been enjoying the sun, Miss Roe,” he said genially. “A little early in the spring for it, ain’t it?”
Now my friends call me Roe, but I’d never counted Lanier among them. I realized it was Lanier’s way of handling a problem. I’d kept my own name when I’d married Martin, a decision on my part that I don’t yet understand, since my laughable name had been the bane of my life. When you introduce yourself as “Aurora Teagarden” you’re going to get a snigger, if not a guffaw.
Padgett didn’t know whether to call me Miss Teagarden, Mrs. Teagarden, or Mrs. Bartell, or Ms. Teagarden-Bartell, and “Miss Roe” was his compromise gesture.
My husband was watching the activity by the mower, standing with the relaxed attitude of a guy who comes home every day to find a man embedded in his lawn. That is to say, Martin was trying to look relaxed, but his gaze was following every move the lawmen made, and he was very busy thinking. I could tell because his mouth was an absolutely straight line, and his arms were crossed across his chest, the fingers twiddling: his Thinking Stance. The slightly taller Shelby lounged over to stand beside Martin, his hands stuck in his jeans pockets to show how relaxed
he
was. With the synchronicity born of long association, the two men turned and looked at each other, some silent comment about the fallen dead man passing between them.
he
was. With the synchronicity born of long association, the two men turned and looked at each other, some silent comment about the fallen dead man passing between them.
I hadn’t responded to Lanier, and he was waiting for me to say something.
“Well, we were taking turns mowing the lawn,” I answered. “And that’s always hot work. I did the front, so Angel took the back.” If I mow the front, I count it as my exercise for the day, and I don’t have to pop in that stupid videotape and dance in front of the TV. We live a mile out of town, in the middle of fields, and we have a very large front yard, and a big back one.
Martin, listening, shook his head absently, as he always did when my distaste for (most) strenuous physical activity crossed his mind. But he was still looking at the man embedded in our backyard.
“Do you think he’ll be recognizable when he’s turned over?” he asked the sheriff suddenly.
“No telling,” Lanier said. “We’ve never had one dropped from a plane before. Now I wonder, do you suppose that body landed here on purpose?”
He had our full attention now, and he knew it. I felt a jolt of dismay.
“Would you like some more ice coffee?” I asked. (I know it’s “iced,” but that’s not what we say.)
He glanced at his glass. “No, ma’am, I reckon I’m fine right now. Did that plane circle around before the man fell?”
I nodded. Lanier’s gaze moved to Angel, where it dwelled wonderingly. She was something to see.
“Mrs. Youngblood, you said you didn’t see it?”
“No, Sheriff. I had the lawn mower running and I was listening to a tape.” Angel, who’d pulled a white T-shirt on over her bikini, was getting plenty of surreptitious attention from the deputies and the ambulance men. It ran off her like water off a duck’s back. Angel is not pretty, but she is tall, very muscular and lean, and golden as a cheetah. Her legs are maybe a mile long.
“Miss Roe, you actually saw him fall?”
“Yes. But I didn’t see him come out of the plane. When I looked up, he was already in the air.”
“You reckon he was already dead?”
I hadn’t considered that. “Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes, I think he was. Because he was . . .” I had to take a deep breath. “He was all floppy.”
Martin moved behind me and put his hands on my shoulders.
Padgett Lanier shook his glass a little to hear the ice cubes tinkle against the sides. “I wonder, when we turn the deceased over, if you all would mind taking a look at him.” He held up a placatory hand before we could respond. “I know, I know, it’s an awful thing to ask anyone, especially these ladies, but we do need to know if you have seen this man anytime or anywhere, before today.”
I had never wanted to do anything less. My husband’s hands gripped my shoulders bracingly.
“Sheriff! We’re ready when you are!” called the taller of the deputies, as he pulled on an extra pair of plastic gloves. Lanier heaved himself out of his chair and strode over to the body.
This was a process I did not want to watch, and I covered my face with my hands. I heard some sounds I definitely didn’t want to match to an image.
“You needn’t bother, ladies,” called Lanier. His voice was very unsteady. I wondered if I ought to tell him where the bathroom was. “You needn’t bother,” he said again, in a lower voice. But the people in our yard were so quiet, it was easy to hear. “I recognize him myself . . . I think.”
I dropped my hands in amazement, caught a glimpse of what was being lifted from the lawn, and put them back up hurriedly.
“Who is it?” Martin called, close to my ear.
“Detective Sergeant Jack Burns, City of Lawrenceton Police Department.”
Padgett Lanier, no doubt about it, had a certain sense of ceremony.
After some dreadful minutes, the envelope of broken bones and jellied organs that was Jack Burns’s body was maneuvered into a bag and then into the ambulance. Lanier, obviously shaken but still maintaining his official face, ambled over to the patio. I was feeling very shaky, and Angel was an interesting shade of green. I thought she might be sick again. Martin and Shelby looked even grimmer than they had before.
“How long has it been since you saw Jack Burns?” Lanier asked me. “Seems to me as though you and he never got along too well, am I right?”
“I never had any quarrel with Mr. Burns,” I said steadily. That was the truth. Jack Burns’s dislike of me had not had its basis in any one incident, but in cumulative distrust. “And I haven’t seen him in—maybe years.” Which had been fine with me; I’d feared Jack, with his blind zeal for his own brand of justice. It’s bad to have a policeman as an enemy.
“And you, Mrs. Youngblood?”
“We did have a run-in a couple of weeks ago,” Angel said calmly, though her color betrayed her. I tried not to show any surprise.
“And just what was that about—?”
“He ticketed my car downtown, for some completely bullshit city ordinance he’d looked up in the books.”
“Now why would he do that?”
Angel put her hands on her hips, and her arm muscles rippled. “I came out of the bank and found him putting a ticket on my car and we had a little talk, kind of sharp.”
“Anyone around during this little talk?”
“Sure,” Angel said wearily. “It was downtown on a Friday morning. I saw that man that works at the library with Roe—Perry Allison—and I saw that pretty round woman who works at Marcus Hatfield, the one with the dark hair who has the little girl.”
“Carey Osland,” Lanier decided.
“Right, if you say so.” Angel seemed indifferent to the question of the woman’s name.
Martin looked at me, his eyebrows arched: Did you know about this? I shook my head almost imperceptibly.
“Why do you think, Mrs. Youngblood, that a detective sergeant would give a parking ticket?”
“Because he thought it was Roe’s car,” Angel said bluntly. “We both have blue Chevettes. Mine’s the same age, I got it used. Though mine’s a slightly different shade of blue, we basically have the same car.”
“Did you have a conversation with Jack Burns?”
“Not what you would call a conversation,” Angel said dryly. “He looked kind of taken aback when he saw it was my car, but then it was like he figured if I lived out here in Roe’s garage apartment, giving me a ticket was almost as good as giving her one. And he was right, I probably
was
seven inches from the curb instead of six. But I wasn’t in a good mood.”
was
seven inches from the curb instead of six. But I wasn’t in a good mood.”
This had been a real speech for Angel, who did not tend to be chatty. But Padgett Lanier wanted more.
“So you had words?” he prodded her.
Angel sighed. “I asked him why he was giving me a ticket and he told me I was parked too far from the curb, and he asked me how Roe was doing, had she found any more bodies lately, and I told him he was giving me a bullshit ticket, and he said he was sure there was some ordinance still on the books about public bad language, and did I want to see if I could karate-chop my way out of a jail cell.”
Lanier stared at her, fascinated. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t respond?”
“No point to it. He’d decided he was going to give me the ticket.”
Lanier seemed nonplused. He eyed Angel a moment or two longer, then asked Martin if he’d seen Jack Burns lately.
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