Death of a Domestic Diva (11 page)

So I sat down and cried.

I'd like to say I cried because of Lewis—especially Lewis—and Tyra and Elroy. But the truth is I was crying because I felt really sorry for myself.

Now, I know that sounds terrible. But I've noticed that the maw of self-pity tends to open up and slurp you down at the worst of times—like when you're out with three bodies and poison mushrooms in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. It whispers, “of course you don't know what to do, you idiot! And if you hadn't gotten all high and mighty, thinking you could get Paradise back on the map just because you know a thing or two about stains, this wouldn't have happened. You think you're so smart because you're a stain expert? Why, a truly smart person would only need a paperclip and, say, a ketchup packet and maybe some dryer lint to rig up a radio device to fetch help . . .”

And so on, like that. But fortunately, my self-pitying despair lasted only a minute or so. It just felt like forever, as these terrible moments do. Then it struck me that someone like Tyra probably had a cell phone in her purse.

I trotted over to Tyra's big black purse and began emptying its contents into a pile on the ground. There was the usual stuff, like what I carry in my purse—a wallet, only leather; a comb, only sterling silver; pen, only the fancy gold kind you have to twist so the tip comes up through a hole. And a used, wadded up tissue. Nothing fancy about that. I guess some things you can't dress up. And a cell phone.

I held the flashlight with one hand, shining it on the cell phone, figured out I had to press the “Power” button first, then tapped in 9-1-1. Then I began talking to someone—well, I kind of shouted into the phone to explain the situation, since the mouthpiece seemed so far away from my mouth. I was reassured that help would soon be here, and I should just stay put.

So I turned off the cell phone and started to put everything back into Tyra's purse. I saw something I hadn't noticed before, a silver compact. It had popped open and revealed two pictures—on one side, a faded, old, black and white picture of a young, wistful looking girl between what I guessed were parents—a sour-looking man and a sad-looking woman. The other picture was of two young girls—but it wasn't really a picture. It was a magazine clipping, no words to identify who the girls were. I closed the compact and put it back in Tyra's purse, wondering about those pictures. They didn't seem to fit with Tyra at all.

A retching sound—half gasp, half cough—snagged my attention. Elroy. He sounded like he was choking.

I don't know what I thought I would do, but I wanted to get over to him, try to help somehow, so I quickly dropped the cell phone into Tyra's purse and started to stand up. But suddenly Tyra grabbed my arm, and I went back down on my knees.

I twisted around with the flashlight and pointed it at her. Tyra was sitting upright, looking scared and confused.

“What,” she rasped, “are you doing in my purse?”

“I used your cell phone to call for help . . . I was putting everything back in your purse . . .” I stammered to a stop, feeling guilty, somehow, for the peek I'd had at her pictures. Then I shook my head. This was ridiculous. This woman had just come to, in the middle of the woods in Ohio, between a dead man and a retching man, and her first question was about what I was doing with her purse. “Look,” I said, wrenching my arm free of her grasp, “just what are you doing out here? And with Lewis Rothchild and Elroy Magruder, of all people? I thought you were back at my place, at your party?”

She stared past me, lost in her own world. Then she pressed her eyes shut for a second, opened them again, and looked around like she was just now opening her eyes.

“Where—where am I?”

“You're okay,” I said, although I wasn't sure I believed that. “Do you know what happened?”

“I was at the party at your apartment, having a lovely time, and it ended, so I—I decided to take a walk, and . . . and . . .”

Elroy let out with another long, retching gasp. Tyra grabbed my arm again, only this time she was shrieking, “That man! That man! He attacked us!!”

She shook me and pointed at Elroy. “Him! That man there! He attacked us—oh, it's coming back to me now—he knocked me down, started arguing with poor Lewis, and the last thing I heard as I was passing out was a shot, and Lewis moaning, and that terrible, evil man laughing! Josie, keep him from me. . .”

I stared at poor Elroy, who—gagging and writhing about in his bright yellow windbreaker—looked like a ridiculously large goldfish out of its bowl. I said, “What? Elroy? Evil?”

That's when it started to drizzle. The three good weeks of spring weather—for which Paradise was named by its settlers—had come to an end.

“Oh, it was just awful. I was just taking a walk after the party at Josie Toadfern's humble abode, because I was so overwhelmed by the simple, homey sweetness of the good people of Paradise who had come to meet me and learn from the stores of my knowledge of elegant living—really, their adoration was touching, and I do so wish you could have been there, John—I may call you John, mayn't I?”

Tyra stared up at Chief John Worthy, her eyes big and wide. Chief Worthy nodded solemnly. I was hopping up and down, trying to get Chief Worthy's attention.

We—that is, Chief Worthy, Tyra, and myself, although Chief Worthy and Tyra didn't seem to realize I was right there—were all on the edge of the clearing, just yards away from where the county coroner and other officials were taking stock of Lewis and the area around him. Big lights were set up, so we could see each other, in a shadowy kind of way. Elroy had already been taken away by ambulance, the gun he carried bagged as evidence. I wished I could go over and watch the investigation—I'd never seen a murder investigation before, except on TV—but I figured that'd get me thrown out, and I needed to talk to Chief Worthy.

But all his attention was on Tyra. I swear, he was so entranced, he was practically purring.

Tyra went on. “I was taking a nice evening walk when Lewis Rothchild stopped to check on me—he was such a nice man, so kind to stop and check on me, and I was grateful, since I'd gotten lost and wandered far from the town. Then out of nowhere came that—that evil man—” Tyra shuddered and pointed toward where poor Elroy had been just ten minutes before, moaning and groaning, while the paramedics hoisted him up on a stretcher to take him up to Mason County General Hospital.

At least they'd listened to me—and taken me seriously—when I explained that Elroy had most likely eaten quite a few of the mushrooms in the clearing. One of the paramedics had even bagged a few mushroom samples to take up to the hospital. Elroy, she'd told me, would most likely be okay after getting his stomach pumped—but he was lucky I'd come along when I had, or he'd probably have died from mushroom poisoning.

It seemed that that was where his luck was going to end, because now Chief Worthy was saying, “Don't worry, Ms. Grimes—”

“Oh, John, please just call me Tyra, won't you?”

I swear, the man blushed. “Uh, well, Tyra, I was just going to say you shouldn't worry—we'll keep an eye on him at the hospital and as soon as he's released, question him down at HQ.” His chest puffed out a bit when he said “HQ.”

“Oh, you're so brave,” Tyra gasped. “I mean, that man just came charging at us, knocked me in the head, and as I was going down, I saw him. . . saw him start to hit poor, dear Lewis—who put up a brave fight, but that man was just like a raging bull. He pulled out a gun from somewhere and shot poor old Lewis, right in the chest. I—I wanted to help—” Tyra paused long enough to hiccup out another sob—“but I just passed right on out.”

Just then, another ambulance pulled up. “Here's the ambulance—let's get you up to the hospital, just to make sure you didn't get a concussion.” John guided Tyra around the crime scene and toward the ambulance. I walked right behind them.

“Oh dear, do you think I'll have to stay the night?”

“That's up to the doctors, but it's likely. I assure you, Ms. Grimes—uh, Tyra—you'll get the finest medical care.”

“I'd better call Paige and let her know what's happened.” Tyra whipped out her cell phone and started punching numbers as the paramedics helped her into the ambulance.

“Thank you for your statement,” Chief Worthy called, with a little wave, as a paramedic shut the doors. Our last view that night of Tyra was of her kicking off her high-heeled pumps.

Statement? Chief Worthy had written nary a note of Tyra's comments—and he certainly hadn't questioned a single thing.

But I had a lot of questions.

First of all, who wears high-heeled pumps to take a walk at night on a country road?

And second of all, even if Tyra had been taking a walk, why would Lewis stop to help her? He'd made it clear he hated her.

Third, how could anyone believe Elroy would shoot anyone?

I thought these questions needed asking, so I tapped Chief Worthy on the shoulder.

He turned, looked at me, and sighed. “What do you want?”

“To give you my statement, just like Tyra Grimes.”

He stepped away from me, at the same time shaking his head dismissively. “You gave your statement to Officer Niehaus.”

I'd barely gotten to tell Joe Niehaus how I'd seen both Lewis's and Elroy's vehicles by the road, got out to investigate, and what had happened next, before Chief Worthy had told him to go see if anyone needed extra flashlights or coffee or something. Then he'd told me to go home, but I'd stayed around, even though he kept ignoring me.

But I wasn't going to be ignored now.

I jumped right in front of him. “Look, there's a lot that Tyra's leaving out. Like, how could Elroy just sneak up on Lewis and Tyra with a tow truck, for pity's sake? And if Lewis was just checking on Tyra, how'd they end up back here? I mean, why would they take a walk in the woods together? And if Elroy's this mad killer, why didn't he kill Tyra too, since she allegedly,” I paused, licked my lips, repeated the word since it seemed so powerful, with all its lawyerly innuendo,
“Allegedly
witnessed him killing Lewis?”

Chief Worthy stepped around. “Probably because Elroy was confused by the opiate effect of the mushrooms he'd eaten.”

I trotted after him. “C'mon, now, you know Elroy couldn't have killed Lewis—Elroy's a big old softy.”

“Lewis was always making fun of Elroy for those tuna sandwiches. Murders have been committed over lesser motives than that. Maybe Elroy'd had enough. And Elroy had a gun. Look, Josie, just leave the investigation to the professionals, okay?”

I had to admit, it certainly looked like Elroy had killed Lewis. And he did have years of resentment built up against him. Maybe the effect of the mushrooms had pushed him over the edge? Still, I felt I ought to stick up for Elroy.

So I said, “Well, what about what Elroy has to say?”

“He'll be questioned after he's better and ready to talk.”

“And he'll have a lawyer present?”

“No one will abuse his rights.”

Poor Elroy, I thought. Even with a lawyer present, he'd stutter and stammer and cry the minute he was questioned.

“Elroy said, ‘They weren't here before' when we found Lewis and Tyra, before he passed out,” I said, even though Chief Worthy had moved past me—again. I followed him—again. “That must mean he was out here first, and then Lewis and Tyra came here.”

Chief Worthy picked up his pace. He didn't say anything. I trotted after him, hollering so he'd be sure to hear. “And I know Lewis didn't like Tyra—although I don't know why. So it's hard to believe that he'd stop to check on her, so I think you ought to ask Tyra about that, and—”

Chief Worthy whirled to face me. That made me stop short—but not before running right into him, and scratching my nose on his jacket zipper. “Josie—thanks for your help. You've done enough, really—far above and beyond the call of a citizen.” He put an awful lot of emphasis on that last word.

“But, I really think you ought to consider—”

“Go home, Josie. Stay out of this and go home now—or I'll arrest you for tampering with the scene of a crime. I don't want to—but I will if I have to.”

He stared down at me, waiting for me to go. I didn't want to go. But I knew I couldn't do any of the investigating I was thinking I was going to have to do from the confines of the town jail. And it had started to rain again, hard this time. So I bit my lip, turned, and dashed back to my car.

By the time I got home, it was nearly 11
P.M.
, and I was pooped. But I could see my wish for a simple end to a very weird day wasn't going to come true, at least not right away.

Paige Morrissey was in my living room, sitting on the edge of my couch, sipping from a mug. She must have worked hard cleaning up, because everything was back as it had been before the party—still in the post-Tyra-redecorating-frenzy style, not the way I liked it, but clean and neat. You couldn't tell a party had been held here.

She put the mug down on my coffee table, then leaned forward so far that the room was filled with a certain tension—would she or would she not end up thudding her butt to the floor?

Now, Ms. Morrissey didn't exactly strike me as someone prone to watching late-night television, so I admit I crept forward a little more quietly than strictly necessary to see what boob-tube fare she was taking in . . . Leno? A movie classic?

Neither. It took me a minute to sort out what the men in suits were debating around a cherry table that, frankly, looked fake and needed dusting. It was a cable news chat show that was focusing on cheap labor as a practice for making clothing that's then sold at high designer prices here in the United States.

One of the pundits said, “All right, Paul, you make a good case for how this helps commerce here, but what about the appalling labor practices some allege go on—use of children, low pay, long hours? We all know about the allegations against sports shoe giant Achilles—”