Don't Cry Now (2 page)

Bonnie looked around, helping herself to one of the many fact sheets that Joan had left stacked on a small bench in the front foyer next to an open guest register. According to the information on the sheet, the house was three thousand square feet over two floors, with four bedrooms and a finished basement. A wide center staircase divided the house into two equal halves, the living room to one side, the dining room to the other. The kitchen and
family room were at the back. A powder room was somewhere in between.

Bonnie cleared her throat softly, then again, more loudly. The voices continued. Bonnie checked her watch, wandered into the beige and cream-colored living room. She'd have to leave soon. As it was, she'd be late getting back, miss the first part of the lecture on how today's schools had to adapt to today's teens. She checked her watch again, tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. This was ridiculous. While she hated to interrupt Joan while she was trying to make a sale, the fact was that the woman had insisted she be here before one o'clock, and it was almost that now. “Joan,” she called out, returning to the hall, walking down the corridor toward the kitchen.

The voices continued as if she hadn't spoken. She heard snatches—“Well, if this health plan is implemented…” “That's a pretty lamebrained assessment.”—and wondered what was going on. Why would people—Joan, of all people—be involved in such a discussion at such a time? “I'm going to have to cut you off, caller,” the man's voice suddenly announced. “You don't know what you're talking about and I feel like listening to some music. How about the always classic sound of Nirvana?”

It was the radio. “Jesus Christ,” Bonnie muttered. She'd been wasting her time discreetly coughing so that a rude radio host could finish hurling invectives at some hapless caller! Who's the crazy lady here? she wondered, losing her patience, raising her voice over the sudden onslaught of sound that was Nirvana. “Joan,” she called, stepping into the yellow and white kitchen, seeing Joan at the long pine kitchen table, her large sable eyes clouded over with booze, her mouth slightly open, about to speak.

Except that she didn't speak. And she didn't move. Not even as Bonnie approached, waving her hand in front of the woman's face, not even as she reached out to shake her shoulder. “Joan, for God's sake…”

She wasn't sure at what precise moment she realized that Joan was dead. It might have been when she saw the
bright patch of crimson that was splattered across the front of Joan's white silk blouse like an abstract work of art. Or perhaps it was when she saw the gaping dark hole between her breasts, and felt blood on her hands, warm and sticky, like syrup. Maybe it was the awful combination of smells, real or imagined, that was suddenly pushing its way toward her nose that convinced her. Or maybe it was the screams shooting from her mouth like stray bullets, the ungodly sound creating a strangely appropriate harmony with Nirvana.

Or maybe it was the woman in the doorway screaming with her, the woman with her arms full of groceries who stood paralyzed against the far wall, the bags of groceries glued to her sides, as if they were all that were keeping her upright.

Bonnie walked over to her, the woman recoiling in horror as Bonnie pried the groceries from her arms. “Don't hurt me,” the woman pleaded. “Please don't hurt me.”

“Nobody's going to hurt you,” Bonnie assured her calmly, laying the bags on the counter and wrapping one arm around the shaking woman. The other arm reached toward the wall phone and quickly pressed in 911. In a clear voice she gave the operator the address and told her that a woman appeared to have been shot. Then she led the still-trembling owner of the house into the living room where she sat down beside her on the textured tan sofa. Then she put her head between her knees to keep from fainting and waited for the police to arrive.

T
hey burst through the front door like a violent thunderclap in the middle of a storm, expected but terrifying nonetheless. Their voices filled the front hall; their bodies swarmed into the living room, like bees to a hive. The woman beside her on the sofa jumped up to greet them. “Thank God you're here,” she was saying, her voice a wail.

“Are you the one who called the police?”

Bonnie felt the woman's accusatory finger pointing toward her, was aware of all eyes turning in her direction as the room filled up around her. Reluctantly, she forced her eyes to theirs, although initially all she could see was Joan, fiery titian tresses falling in frenzied ripples around her ashen face, her wide mouth slightly agape and outlined by her trademark fluorescent orange lipstick, sable eyes milky with death.

“Who's been shot?” someone asked.

Again the woman pointed, this time toward the kitchen. “My real estate agent. From Ellen Marx Realty.”

Several faceless young men, wearing the white coats of medical personnel, rushed toward the back of the house. Ambulance attendants, no doubt, Bonnie concluded, strangely detached from the proceedings, this sudden detachment allowing her to absorb the details of what was happening. There were at least six new people in the house: the two paramedics; two uniformed police officers;
a woman whose posture identified her as a police officer but who looked barely out of her teens; and a big man of about forty with bad skin and a gut that protruded over his belt who was obviously in charge and had followed the paramedics to the kitchen.

“She's dead,” he announced upon returning. He was wearing a black-and-white-checkered sports jacket and a plain red tie. Bonnie noticed a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt. “I've notified forensics. The medical examiner will be here soon.”

Forensics, Bonnie repeated in her mind, wondering where such strange-sounding words came from.

“I'm Captain Mahoney and this is Detective Kritzic.” He nodded toward the woman on his right. “Do you want to tell us what happened here?”

“I came home…” Bonnie heard the owner of the house begin.

“This is your house?” Detective Kritzic asked.

“Yes. I've had it up for sale….”

“Name, please.”

“What? Oh, Margaret Palmay.”

Bonnie watched the woman police officer jot this information down in her notepad.

“And you are…?”

It took Bonnie an instant to realize Detective Kritzic was addressing her. “Bonnie Wheeler,” she stammered. “I'd like to call my husband.” Why had she said that? She hadn't even realized she'd been thinking it.

“You can call your husband in a few minutes, Mrs. Wheeler,” Captain Mahoney told her. “We need to ask you a few questions first.”

Bonnie nodded, understanding it was important to maintain a sense of order. Soon, people would be arriving with strange instruments and powders for measuring and testing, carrying video cameras and green body bags and yards of yellow tape with which to cordon off the area.
Crime Scene. Do Not Cross
. She knew the routine. She'd witnessed it often enough on television.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Palmay,” Detective Kritzic directed gently. “You were saying you've had your house up for sale….”

“Since the end of March. This was our first open house. She said she'd be out by one.”

“So, you have no way of knowing how many people went through the house this morning,” Captain Mahoney stated more than asked.

“There's a guest book in the hall,” Bonnie offered, remembering the book beside the stack of fact sheets in the front foyer.

The officers nodded toward each other, and Detective Kritzic, whom Bonnie now noticed had red hair almost the same shade as Joan's, disappeared for several seconds, returning with the book in hand. A silent signal passed between the officers.

“And when you came home…?”

“I knew she was still here,” Margaret Palmay told them, “because her car was in the driveway, and I knew someone was with her because of the other car right behind hers. I had to park on the street. I would have waited until they left, but I had all these groceries, and some things that had to be put in the freezer before they melted.” She stopped, as if her mind had gone suddenly blank, and perhaps it had.

She was a pretty woman, Bonnie thought, a little on the short side and nicely rounded, with soft blond hair that curled toward the bottoms of her ears, and a nose that was narrow and pointed between pale blue eyes. Her mouth was small, but her voice was clear and steady.

“What happened when you came inside the house, Mrs. Palmay?”

“I walked straight to the kitchen, and that's when I saw her.” Again an accusatory finger extended itself beyond the camel-colored sleeve of her coat, pointing at Bonnie. “She was standing over Joan. Her hands were covered with blood.”

Bonnie's eyes shot to her hands, a gasp escaping her
throat when she saw the dark red blood that encrusted her fingers, like a child's fingerpaint. A flush of heat washed through her body, moving quickly from her head to her toes, like liquid through a straw, robbing her of energy. She felt dizzy, faint. “Do you mind if I take my coat off?” she interrupted, not waiting for anyone to respond before pulling her hands through her coat sleeves, trying to keep the blood on her fingers from touching the coat's smooth silk lining.

“Who's Joan?” Captain Mahoney asked, eyebrows crinkling toward his nose.

“The victim,” Margaret Palmay answered, the word sounding out of place on her tongue.

Who did he think they were talking about? Bonnie wondered.

Captain Mahoney checked his notes. “I thought you said her name was Ellen Marx.”

“No,” Margaret Palmay explained, “Ellen Marx is the name of the real estate agency she worked for. The victim's name is—
was
—Joan Wheeler.”

“Wheeler?”

Dark eyes grew darker still; all eyes turned toward Bonnie.

“Wheeler,” Captain Mahoney repeated, eyes narrowing, as if fitting Bonnie into the sights of a gun. “A relative of yours?”

Was she? Bonnie wondered. Was there such a thing as an ex-wife-in-law? “She was my husband's ex-wife,” she answered.

No one spoke. It was almost as if they'd been asked to observe a moment's silence, Bonnie thought, knowing something had changed, some current in the room had been subtly altered.

“All right, let's back up here for a moment,” Captain Mahoney said, clearing his throat and directing his attention back to Margaret Palmay. “You said you saw Mrs. Wheeler standing over the body of the victim, and that there was blood on her hands. Did you see a weapon?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I started screaming. I think she was screaming too, I'm not sure. She saw me and walked toward me. At first I was afraid, but she just took the groceries out of my arms and called the police.”

“Do you agree with Mrs. Palmay's statement?” Captain Mahoney inquired, turning to Bonnie, who said nothing. “Mrs. Wheeler, do you disagree with anything that Mrs. Palmay has said?”

Bonnie shook her head. Margaret Palmay's version of the facts sounded straightforward enough.

“Why don't you tell us what you were doing here?”

This would be more difficult, she thought. She wondered if this was how her brother had felt the first time he'd been questioned by the police, if he'd been this nervous, this unsettled. Although, no doubt he'd gotten used to it, she decided, shaking her head free of such troubling thoughts. Her brother was the last person she needed to be thinking about now. “Joan called me first thing this morning,” she began. “She asked me to meet her here.”

“I take it we can assume you weren't house hunting.”

Bonnie took another deep breath. “Joan said there was something she had to tell me that she couldn't discuss over the phone. I know,” she continued without prompting, “it sounds like something you'd hear in the movies.”

“Yes, it does,” he agreed flatly. “Were you and your husband's ex-wife friends, Mrs. Wheeler?”

“No,” Bonnie replied simply.

“Did you find it unusual that she called and said she had to speak to you?”

“Yes and no,” Bonnie answered, continuing only when the look on his face demanded further explanation. “Joan had a drinking problem. She would phone the house from time to time.”

“I'm sure you couldn't have been too happy about that,” Captain Mahoney said, with what Bonnie supposed was an attempt at an understanding smile.

Bonnie shrugged, not sure how to respond. “Could I call my husband now?” she asked again.

“How did your husband feel about you meeting with his ex-wife?” Captain Mahoney asked, using her question as a stepping-stone for one of his own.

Bonnie paused. “He didn't know.”

“He didn't know?”

“Joan asked me not to tell him,” Bonnie explained.

“Did she say why?”

“No.”

“Did you always do what your husband's ex-wife told you?”

“Of course not.”

“Why today?”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean?”

“Why did you agree to meet with her today? Why didn't you tell your husband?”

Bonnie brought her fist to her open lips, quickly returned it to her lap when she tasted blood. Joan's blood, she realized, swallowing the urge to gag. “She said something strange to me over the phone.”

“What was that?” Captain Mahoney took a few steps toward her, his pen poised to record her response.

“She said I was in danger.”

“She said
you
were in danger?”

“Me and my daughter.”

“Did she say why?” Captain Mahoney was asking.

“She said it was too complicated to discuss over the phone.”

“And you had no idea what she was talking about?”

“None.”

“So you agreed to meet with her.”

Bonnie nodded.

“When did you get here?”

“Twelve thirty-eight,” Bonnie answered.

Captain Mahoney looked surprised by the preciseness of her response.

“The clock in my car is digital,” Bonnie told him, her
words suddenly striking her as hopelessly inane. She giggled, watching as shock replaced curiosity on the faces of everyone else in the room. A woman was dead, for God's sake. Murdered. And not just any woman—her husband's ex-wife. And she had been discovered standing over the body with blood on her hands. This was definitely not a funny situation. Bonnie laughed again, this time more loudly.

“Do you find something amusing here, Mrs. Wheeler?” Captain Mahoney was asking.

“No,” she told him, strangling a fresh burst of laughter in her throat, so that her voice sounded gnarled, like an old piece of driftwood. “Of course not. I guess I'm just a little nervous. I'm sorry.”

“Do you have anything to be nervous about?”

“I don't understand.”

Detective Kritzic stepped forward, sat down beside her. “Is there anything you'd like to tell us, Mrs. Wheeler?” Her voice assumed maternal overtones that conflicted with her girlish face.

“I'd like to call my husband,” Bonnie told them again.

“Let's just finish this first, can we, Mrs. Wheeler?” Detective Kritzic's voice resumed its earlier timbre, all traces of the indulgent mother suddenly gone.

Bonnie shrugged. Did she have a choice?

“You arrived at twelve thirty-eight,” Captain Mahoney reiterated, waiting for her to continue.

“The door was open, so I came inside,” Bonnie explained, replaying the events in her mind. “I heard voices from the back of the house and I didn't want to interrupt, so I waited in here a few minutes, then I went into the kitchen.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“Only Joan. There was no one else here. The voices I'd heard were on the radio.”

“And then what?”

“And then…” Bonnie hesitated. “At first, I thought she was just passed out. She was sitting at the table and
she had this blank look in her eyes, and so I walked over to her and I think I touched her.” Bonnie stared at her bloodied fingers. “I must have touched her.” She swallowed. It hurt her throat. “That's when I realized she was dead. Then there was all this screaming—mine, hers.” She looked toward Margaret Palmay. “I called the police.”

“How did you know the victim had been shot?”

“Pardon?”

“You told the dispatcher that a woman had been shot.”

“Did I?”

“It's on tape, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“I don't know how I knew,” Bonnie replied honestly. “There was a hole in the middle of her blouse. I guess I just assumed.”

“Did anyone see you arrive, Mrs. Wheeler?”

“Not that I know of,” she answered. Why was he asking that?

“What do you do, Mrs. Wheeler?”

“Do?”

“Your occupation?”

“I'm a teacher,” Bonnie answered, wondering how what she did for a living was relevant.

“In Newton?”

“Weston.”

“Which school is that?”

“Weston Heights Secondary School. I teach English.”

“So, you left the school at what time?”

“Actually, I wasn't teaching today. It was a P.D. day (P.E. day, Joan had called it). Professional development day,” Bonnie explained. “And I was attending a symposium in Boston. I left a little before twelve.”

“And it took you over forty minutes to drive from Boston to Newton?” he asked skeptically.

“There was an accident on the turnpike,” Bonnie told him, “and I was held up.”

“Anyone see you leave?”

“See me leave? I don't know. I tried to be pretty quiet
about it. Why?” she asked suddenly. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“You're saying your husband's ex-wife was dead when you got here,” he stated.