Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (18 page)

28

Charleston, South Carolina

Harper recognized Ava Schwartzman’s niece as soon as she entered Woodward’s funeral parlor. Like her aunt, she was thin and tall. Her shoulders held back, wavy, dark hair just barely grazing them. She wore a pair of yoga pants and a zippered hoodie under her trench coat. Travel clothes. Harper guessed she’d come straight from the airport.

Harper stood back while she and an older woman talked over a white casket. When she turned, Harper saw Annabelle Schwartzman also had her aunt’s nose but her full mouth and wide, light eyes matched the woman with her. Her mother. She had been told that the niece was an only child.

T. J. Woodward approached. “Ava Schwartzman’s sister-in-law and niece. They’ve made a selection, so feel free to go on over.”

Harper hesitated. Although there was plenty she wanted to ask Ava’s family, coming to the funeral home was an uncouth way to track them down. Her mother would be appalled. She decided she would simply introduce herself and ask them to call her at their convenience. And then she would hope that it would be convenient soon.

The younger Schwartzman leaned toward her mother. The mother, on the other hand, only stared at the casket while she spoke. The two women didn’t touch, but in parts of the South, that was the culture. Not to mention that grief did strange things to people.

T. J. stood next to her, watching them, too. As an undertaker, he’d probably seen it all. A few years older than Harper, T. J. had been a troublemaker in high school. The locker chatter among her peers was filled with stories about T. J. and his friends. Drinking, smoking pot, and occasionally wreaking havoc in his father’s mortuary.

There was little about T. J.’s person that was consistent with his profession as a mortician. He was tall and skinny with a mop of wavy blond hair that was just starting to gray. He wore a beard and mustache in an attempt to give himself an older and more mature appearance, which was, at best, only partly successful. When not dealing with a deceased’s family, he rarely kept a straight face. He had never settled down and tended to date women who were increasingly younger than he. Harper suspected there was still a good bit of weed involved.

“You want an introduction, Harper? Not like you to be shy,” T. J. razzed.

“Just giving them a little time,” she told him.

“Suit yourself,” T. J. said, heading for his office.

Harper followed as far as the main viewing room and took a seat in the front row. There were no services today, and it was as good a place as any to wait for the right time to approach Ava’s family.

In two days, they would fill a room like this for Frances’s service. Her parents and Jed. Harper would take a seat toward the back. Her mother would sit on the aisle so she could leave if her crying got to be too much. She was a noisy crier. Harper would wear her funeral clothes, a black skirt and blazer, and Jed would wear the dark-gray suit he wore to court appearances and funerals. The other suit he owned, navy pinstripe, was saved for weddings. There were fewer of those. More and more, Jed and Harper attended funerals.

The room was smaller without a body. At the front hung heavy velvet curtains in a deep purple. Thick ropes in forest green held them to the walls. Tassels hung at their ends. The carpet had the same deep-purple and green hues. T. J. had remodeled the room after his father passed a few years back. His choices suggested a sophistication she wouldn’t have expected from him. The curtains were his addition, for what he called a mixed viewing—when some guests wanted to view the deceased while others preferred not to.

A large black cart with gold accents sat in the place where the casket went. The coffin caddy, T. J. called it when he wasn’t speaking with a family. Harper listened. She no longer heard voices. She returned to the showroom. The two women were gone.

She hurried out the front door, where a taxicab stopped at the curb.

“Dr. Schwartzman,” she called out.

Ava’s niece shut the door of the cab and stood back as it pulled away. Only as she turned back toward the building did she notice Harper, who quickly closed the distance between them.

“Dr. Schwartzman,” Harper said again as she reached her. “I am Detective Harper Leighton.” Harper offered her hand, and Annabelle Schwartzman shook it. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Dr. Schwartzman.”

“Call me Anna, please,” she said with a glance back toward the street, as if she had remembered something she’d meant to tell her mother.

“That was your mother?” Harper asked.

“I’m afraid she’s not well,” Dr. Schwartzman said, her hand tight on the strap of her purse.

“I imagine this is very difficult. And you’ve just come from San Francisco, I understand—”

“I know. I should have told him I was leaving,” she said, her gaze sweeping from Harper to the street and back again.

A note of panic in her voice. Something was wrong. Harper waited an extra beat before speaking. “Told him?”

“I’m going to call Inspector Harris right now. I just haven’t had a chance.”

Inspector Harris. Inspector?
There weren’t many departments that still called their detectives by the older term.

Anna’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you want to talk to me?” She shook her head as the realization came. “Of course. My aunt,” she said, answering her own question.

Harper wanted to ask about Inspector Harris, but she couldn’t see a way to do it. “Yes. Your aunt. I was hoping to ask you some questions.”

“I’m afraid it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.” Regret was evident in her face. The expression was one Harper saw more often than she cared to consider.

Anna’s mother had told her how little they saw Ava. “I understand. I’d still like to ask a few questions. There’s always a chance that something you say might provide some clue to help catch their killer.”

“
Their
killer?” she repeated.

“Yes. Your aunt’s friend Frances Pinckney was killed, as well.”

Anna’s hand swept out, searching for a chair that wasn’t there.

Harper grabbed her arm, but Anna Schwartzman had already gotten her legs back under her. She extracted her arm from Harper’s hold. “Her friend? She was at the house also?”

Harper motioned to the bench. “Perhaps we should sit?”

“I’m fine. I just didn’t know there were two victims.”

Harper explained their theory about Frances Pinckney’s death and the key to Ava’s home, the fact that there was no sign of a break-in there. She offered enough detail to convince Anna of the urgency in the Pinckney case.

The doctor stared at the ground as she listened. Her face gave nothing away. Her shoulders were set back, her spine straight, and yet it was as if she were holding her posture under some tremendous weight. When Harper finished talking, Anna stepped away. She leaned down, pressing her hands into her thighs before standing and arching her back.

When she faced Harper again, her cheeks were damp, but she was composed. “I’ll answer all your questions, Detective.”

“Thank you.”

She hitched her shoulders back again. “But first I’d like to see her.”

Harper followed. “Of course. There are some injuries that might be disturbing.”

Anna looked back at her, brows raised.

“I know your position, Dr. Schwartzman,” she said. “It’s different when it’s family.”

“I appreciate the concern, Detective.” Anna paused. “I have to do it.”

“Of course,” Harper said.

Harper called out to T. J., who emerged from the storeroom. “Dr. Schwartzman would like to see her aunt.”

“Of course,” he said, the mischievous smile carefully tucked away. “Your aunt is in our prep room. We have a very talented hair and makeup artist who will work on her later today. So I want to warn you, she won’t look like herself just yet.”

“I understand.”

“Most of our families prefer to wait until their loved one has been dressed to see them.”

“T. J., Dr. Schwartzman is a medical examiner. In San Francisco.”

T. J. pulled open the door to the stairs and let Anna pass. “In that case, follow me.”

Harper followed behind Anna as T. J. led them down to the prep room. She’d done this before, many times, with the families of victims. People tended to be nervous before viewing the body. Weepy, hesitant.

Anna Schwartzman followed as though they were heading to a kitchen rather than a morgue. But why wouldn’t she? This was her business.

T. J. paused at the door and peered through the small window into the room. Checking to see that other bodies weren’t out, no doubt. He pushed the door open, and Anna stepped inside.

T. J. moved to the body and held the top of the sheet, checking with Ava’s niece for a nod before lowering the sheet down to her neck and exposing her face. Ava’s eyes were closed, and the tightness in her jaw had softened with the passage of rigor mortis.

Likely, T. J. had altered the dead woman’s expression. He once told Harper that rearranging the deceased’s face was the first thing he did when they arrived. A peaceful expression made it easier to be with them. It worked. Lying on the table, Ava Schwartzman looked at peace. Harper appreciated seeing her this way.

“Annabelle,” T. J. said.

“Please. Call me Anna.”

Harper wondered why she chose Anna. Perhaps Annabelle Schwartzman was too much of a mouthful or maybe Annabelle sounded too Southern for someone living in San Francisco. Either way, Harper would remember.

Not Annabelle but Anna.

“Right,” T. J. said. “Anna, your mother brought over some undergarments, but we don’t yet have an outfit selected for the services. Did your mother mention that?”

Anna shook her head.

“Perhaps she was going to do it herself,” T. J. suggested.

“I’ll select something tonight and bring it to you tomorrow. Will that work?”

“Yes. That would be fine.” He moved to the body. “You may want to choose something long-sleeved. It requires less makeup and . . .”

Anna crossed directly to her aunt. People dealt differently with death. Harper waited to see if Ava’s niece would take her aunt’s hand or lean in to kiss her. Instead she leaned over and studied her face without touching it. Then she rounded the side of the body and folded back the sheet to reveal her aunt’s arm.

T. J. glanced at Harper.

Anna lifted the arm and studied the ligature marks on the wrist.

T. J. cleared his throat. “Obviously, long sleeves would cover those, as well.”

Anna made no reply as she turned the arm over and studied the underside. With a stoic professionalism, she checked the fingernails and palms, between the fingers, then made her way up the arm. When she was done, she placed the arm back on the table and brought the sheet down. Acting as if she were alone in the room, Anna walked around the gurney and repeated the process on the other side. Harper wondered if she would find something Burl had missed.

“We will also need to discuss the style of her hair and makeup,” T. J. said. Harper sensed that watching her was unnerving to him.

“It is easiest,” he went on, “if you bring in a photograph of your aunt as you would like her hair and makeup to appear. Or send us one if you’ve got a digital image.”

Anna said nothing.

“I did mention it to your mother, as well, so perhaps she—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Anna told him, moving down the body and lifting the sheet to examine her aunt’s legs.

Harper watched as she studied the body, waiting for her to say something. Make some comment on what she saw.

When she finally raised her head, she said, “Do you have a magnification lamp?”

“A magnification lamp?” T. J. repeated.

“Like a light with a magnifying glass.” Anna glanced around the room. “Maybe for doing makeup?”

“I’m afraid not,” T. J. said.

Anna finished her exam of the legs and returned to the head of the body. Beside Harper, T. J. seemed to let out a breath. But rather than being finished, Anna Schwartzman drew the sheet down until her aunt’s entire upper torso was exposed.

A strangled sound came from T. J.

Anna regarded him momentarily before returning to her work. The bruises on Ava’s torso were slightly yellowed at the edges. Anna moved to her aunt’s face and lifted her eyelids one at a time before opening her mouth and inspecting her gums.

“Uh,” T. J. said.

Anna finished by opening Ava’s jaw and staring into her mouth before closing it again and pulling the sheet back up around her aunt’s neck. She pulled a single hair off the sheet and let it fall, watching as the hair floated to the floor.

T. J. stared at Anna’s hands as she went across to the sink and washed them.

She pulled several paper towels from the dispenser and walked back across the room as she was drying her hands. “He sat on her chest and held her nose and mouth so she couldn’t inhale. She would have suffocated quickly.” Anna was focused on the body.

“Those bruises were from his knees?” T. J. asked.

“With some sort of knee pad,” Anna said.

T. J. stared at her. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen a lot of imprints left on skin,” Anna told him, her demeanor calm, professional.

Harper was impressed.

“It’s an educated guess, of course,” Anna continued, “but the placement and symmetry on both sides of her torso, the pattern left in the bruises—some sort of diamond shape—it all indicates some kind of knee pads worn by the killer.”

“Our coroner said the same,” Harper confirmed. “We took some measurements and images, and we’re trying to match the marks to a set of knee pads, maybe track them back to the store.”

“He won’t have kept those.” Anna tossed the paper towels in the trash and returned to her aunt’s side. “He wore gloves to hold her mouth and nose,” she said, running the back of her hand on her aunt’s cheek.

“How do you know that?” T. J. asked.

“If he had used his bare hand, we’d see more defined, smaller perimortem bruising. I’ve seen documented cases where they’ve pulled whorls off flesh.”

“Whorls?” T. J. asked.

“From fingerprints,” Harper explained.

“He probably knew that, too.” She lowered her forehead and rested it on her aunt’s.