Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (19 page)

Harper touched T. J.’s arm and nodded toward the door. “We’ll give you a few minutes alone with her.”

Anna had tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”

T. J. held the door open for Harper and closed it behind them, taking a long look through the glass before walking a few feet away from the door. “That’s a first,” he said. “What a loon.”

Harper found it touching. How a medical examiner said good-bye to a loved one. The thing that kept running through her head was the way Anna kept referring to “he.” Like she knew exactly who he was, how he thought, how he planned the murder.

Was it the result of working in a big city? Maybe Anna had seen enough murders that she understood how criminal minds worked.

The other option was that somehow Anna Schwartzman knew exactly who had killed her aunt and Frances Pinckney.

29

Charleston, South Carolina

Schwartzman stepped into the shade of Ava’s front porch. The smell of gardenias lingered in the air as though Ava herself had just brushed past her. Chilled, Schwartzman zipped her jacket up to her neck despite the hot, stagnant air. From her pocket she pulled out Ava’s house key, hanging from a thin silver heart engraved with her initials. A gift to Ava from her father. How many times had she watched Ava slide that key into the door, the little heart dangling? Their arms filled with grocery bags or sacks from the shops, ice cream from the parlor three blocks away. Laughing, talking excitedly as they returned home from their latest adventure.

This house was never empty. Ava never left her alone here. Even when the two of them were home and Ava was in another room—in the kitchen cooking, or in her bedroom—there was always the soft sound of her whistling or singing, the shuffling of her feet on the hardwood, the little noises she made when she tasted something that wasn’t quite right or that was exactly as it should be. Even living as a single person in such a big house, Ava had filled the space.

Schwartzman pressed her palm flat to the door and waited, listening. Eyes closed, she searched for an image of her aunt in this house, of her standing on this porch. Instead she saw Ava on the mortuary table. The images were too vivid. The ligature marks on her arms, the perimortem bruising where he knelt on her chest. The house was silent.

She opened her eyes and pounded her fist into the wood door. Cried out. Then pounded again and again until the pain in her hand forced her to stop. She stepped away from the door and swiped angrily at the tears.
Go on, then. There’s no use putting it off.
She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The bolt slid smoothly. She twisted the knob. With a sigh, the door was open. The entryway before her. The soft ticking of the grandfather clock, the flowers that Ava had bought freshly cut before she died, their scent musty as they wilted. Ava’s smells. Toast and pine-scented hardwood cleaner and flowers. The smells of home.

The police had released the scene. It was hers now. The house and all its contents. Her aunt’s life. Her grandparents’ lives. All that was left of them were these things that now belonged to her.

She would be the third generation of Schwartzmans to own the home. Her family home. She loved this house. When she and her father came to visit Ava, it was obvious he loved it, too. With all its quirks. The one corner of the living room where the old hardwood floorboards had separated. Ava and her father had chosen that specific corner to play jacks because the uneven surface meant the ball bounced unpredictably, making the game more challenging.

The old china cabinet in the dining room where their grandfather, Schwartzman’s great-grandfather, had used some sort of powerful adhesive to permanently attach his wife’s teacup collection to the shelves so that they would not be destroyed if there was another earthquake like the one he’d lived through as a young boy in 1886.

The library was her favorite room. Books that had been her father’s and his father’s and his father’s father’s before him. One of her greatest regrets was how few books she was able to keep, moving as much as she did. But here, in this house, books were stacked two deep in the library, where shelves stretched ceiling to floor.

Her father loved the house the way you love a person, patting the banister at the base of the stairs like an old friend or carrying his tools around the house to tighten this or adjust that. Its location on Meeting Street in the historic district of Charleston meant it would command a high price if she were to sell it. But the thought was unbearable. Her family roots were here—everything that was left of her father’s family. This was home. More home than the one where she’d grown up.

Schwartzman hadn’t had a real home since her father died. Now she owned the one he grew up in. His bedroom was a den with a Murphy bed. She could sleep there, surrounded by his childhood books. It was the same room she’d slept in when she visited Ava all those years as a child.

Her father gone. Ava gone. Only she was left.

Alone to deal with Spencer, with cancer.

And all she’d left undone in San Francisco.

Schwartzman took one step across the threshold and set down her purse on the sideboard table. But she couldn’t go farther. Being in the house was too much, too daunting. How could she possibly manage everything that was inside? The estate attorney had called to talk about making arrangements. She didn’t want to make arrangements.

What she wanted was to sit in front of the fire with Ava and a cup of hot chocolate. She wanted to confide in her aunt, open up about her fears, her guilt. She had let Spencer get to Ava. Spencer would say that Schwartzman had forced his hand. That was exactly how he would say it. “You forced my hand, Bella. What choice did I have?”

Breathless, she stepped out of the house and yanked the front door closed. She had not forced his hand. She had not made him kill Ava or Frances Pinckney or Sarah Feld. She had saved herself, had stood up against his cruelty and walked away. Now she was back. Because he would slip up. Because this time she
would
force his hand. Force him to take a risk and make a mistake. She glanced through the glass panel beside the door. He could be inside.

She clutched the phone in her pocket. He would confess to her. Not even confess. He would brag about what he had done, be proud of it. If she could get him on tape, the confession would be enough. Hal would help her. The local police would launch a full investigation. There would be evidence somewhere. No one could cover every trace. Not even Spencer.

But first she had to confront him. She had to let him get to her. She had to see him and let him touch her, let him close. Her stomach tightened; a deep shudder curved along her spine. She rubbed her arms and stepped away from the door.

Now could be that moment. But she couldn’t. Not in Ava’s house. Not where he took her aunt’s life. She needed to find a way to control the sharp pain of that loss, the debilitating rawness. To face him, she had to be strong, resilient. She needed to be every bit as calculating as he was. With a deep breath, she turned the key. The bolt shot closed.

She crossed the porch to the stairs. She’d take a walk. Give herself time to prepare for him. It was smart not to rush it. For tonight she could stay at the hotel with her mother. Leave for the hotel so she and her mother could share a meal, mostly in silence. They would make polite conversation. Maybe about Ava. Her mother would know so much more about Ava than she did, but she couldn’t imagine her sharing that. Sharing anything.

Even if her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—share, she could. She’d start by telling her mother that she had cancer. That she was alone and terrified. She had played that conversation out in her mind a dozen times. In every version, no matter how she put it, the answer always came back to Spencer. “Call Spencer,” her mother would say. “Let Spencer help you. Spencer still loves you.”

He loves me so much, he killed for me. He killed Ava to bring me down here. That’s how much he loves me. No.
She could not say that. She had shown her mother the bruises to prove how she’d lost her baby. An accident, her mother had said. To her, Spencer was perfect. The perfect gentleman, the perfect husband.

Would Spencer kill her mother, too? Or did he leave her alone because she was his best ally? And how could she possibly keep her mother safe if she wouldn’t believe the threat was real?

Schwartzman sank onto the top stair of the porch, the place where so often she’d sat and begged to stay with Ava—just one more night, one more hour—each time her father announced it was time to go back to Greenville. She dropped her forehead to her knees. From down the street came the sound of a crying baby. Schwartzman stood, not wanting to be seen by a passing mother. Ava always greeted everyone by name when they walked down these streets.

Schwartzman wasn’t prepared for the condolences, the questions. She retreated against the wall, sheltered by the porch columns. The sound of a second child. She listened, waiting for the reassuring whispers of mothers, but none came. Only wailing.

She moved to the edge of the porch and peered down the alley behind the house. One of Ava’s carriage-style garage doors stood ajar. More screeching. Then a hiss.
Cats.
It was just cats. Ava probably left milk for them in the alley. Quiet, then metal clanked and glass shattered on concrete.

Anxiety brewing, Schwartzman walked down the stairs and rounded the corner of the house. How long had the cats been in there? She hoped it wasn’t a total mess. As her feet hit the gravel drive, she froze.
Spencer.
It could be Spencer. Cats. A ruckus. A perfect way to lure her. Her pulse drilled in her neck. This could be her chance.

She inhaled deeply and pulled the phone from her pocket, opened the camera to video, and pressed “Record” before sliding the camera into her back pocket with the microphone facing up.
You can do this.

Charged with adrenaline, she scanned the side of the house for a weapon. A shovel or a rake would be ideal, but Ava didn’t do her own gardening. Along the side of the garage was a metal fence stake, maybe two and a half feet long, the point dug into the dirt. A little heavy but it would do. Schwartzman pulled out the stake and held it point first with both hands as she walked.

At the entrance to the garage, she stopped. The cats were quiet. She imagined Spencer using a recording, standing just inside with a device, waiting for her to step across the threshold. She licked her lips and tightened her grip on the post.
Come on, Schwartzman.
She could turn and run.
No.
She would wait. If Spencer was inside, he’d play the screaming cats recording again. She took a step forward. Nothing.

“Here, kitty,” she said. Did that even work on cats? Was that too obvious?

Did Spencer know she was suspicious? Could he hear it in her voice?

The seconds stretched out in silence. She was imagining things. Not every unusual thing that happened was caused by Spencer. Perhaps the cats were real. Like her cancer. Oh, if only Spencer had made that up.

She took a step forward and gave the garage door a little nudge with her foot. A small gray cat sprinted out from behind the door. Schwartzman jumped back. The cat ran partway down the alley and stopped to stare back at her. It was hardly bigger than a kitten. An actual cat. Not a recording.

She exhaled and pushed the garage door, cautious. The sunlight cut a bright pathway across the floor, and in the center was a small tabby cat, sitting on its haunches.

Schwartzman had never owned a cat. Only a series of fish and, for about ten months, a single turtle named Humphrey. Her mother didn’t want cats in the house. But Ava had cats over the years—occasionally hers but more often just ones she fed. There was always a bowl of milk out. Schwartzman propped the garage door open with a rock and lifted the metal stake over her shoulder. Ears perked, she took a single step inside. Halted and scanned the corners of the room as she moved slowly toward the tabby. The garage space was open: no large boxes, no equipment, nothing big enough to hide behind. Spencer was not here. The side door was fashioned with a cat door. She lowered the stake onto the floor and reached out her hand.

“Here, kitty kitty,” she said in her most soothing voice. “Come on.” The cat rose onto all fours, arching its back high in the air as she got close. Schwartzman lowered into a squat, offering a hand. “It’s okay. Come here, kitty.”

While she waited for the cat to make the first move, she glanced at the damage. Across the garage, a paint can was turned on its side. The top had popped off, and white paint puddled on the cement floor. Beside it, an old lamp lay broken, porcelain shards sitting in the wet paint—she remembered that lamp from the table beside Ava’s favorite chair. The crimson silk shade lay just at the edge of the white paint. She eyed the cat, who appeared in no rush at all. When she tried to scoop it up, the cat sprinted past her and out the door.

If they were Ava’s cats, surely there was food for them somewhere, even if they were wild. Schwartzman didn’t see any litter box or food, only the spilled paint and broken lamp. She stooped down and righted the paint can. The smell emanating from the can was acrid, far more intense than paint.

She used the inside of her elbow to cover her mouth and reached to save the lamp shade. As she came up, she struck something solid behind her. Something human. “No,” she cried and launched herself forward. Her palms skimmed the concrete. He yanked her backward, her knees coming off the ground.

She flailed against him and landed on her backside. The impact vibrated in her spine, knocked her wind out. Before she could catch her breath, he had hold of her again. She swung her elbows, struggling to connect with his head. “Let go of me.”

He wrenched her closer, pulling her into his lap. Gucci cologne. Spencer’s cologne. He pressed a cloth over her face. Another smell. From the paint can.
No. Not paint. Chloroform.
She tried to pull his hands free, but he was too strong.

Then it was gone, leaving her dizzy and nauseous as his arms closed around her throat. She latched on, tried to pry away his arm. He said nothing. The hold tightened.

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

The pressure grew painful. She blinked against the blind spots in her vision. His shirtsleeves and elbows were visible in front of her. He wore some sort of blue denim like a car mechanic. “Spencer,” she choked out in a raspy voice.

“You still know me, Bella.” The voice in her ear.

Nausea rose in her gut. Fear swelled to fill her ribs.

Think calm thoughts—get him to talk.
But the hold was too tight. White spots grew until her vision was blank. She thrashed, trying to connect her elbows to her chest, but she was pinned too tight. She clawed at his arms with every bit of energy she had. Something hard beneath his shirtsleeves protected the skin from her nails. She fought to pitch herself forward, to reach her hands to the floor. His weight was too much.