Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (30 page)

Chuck stood and slammed down the receiver. She could see that his lips were moving, but she couldn’t make out his words. A moment later he was gone.

The receiver clenched tightly in her hand, she stood frozen, watching the door where Chuck had disappeared. She felt the stares of the other prisoners, the visitors. The woman in the next booth glared at her, whispering into the receiver. Behind the glass, the guard watched her.

How could he just leave?

Her heart felt as though it might burst from behind her lungs. Her pulse drilled into her temples.

It was hard to breathe. Her chest was so tight. She rose to her feet, shaking. After what she’d done for him. He could not just walk out on her. He loved her. He promised he loved her. Her fist gripped the receiver until it was painful.
No. No.
She slammed the receiver against the glass divider. “Chuck!” she shouted, her own spit spraying across the glass. “You get back here, Chuck!”

She slammed the phone again, then let it clatter to the desk as she pressed her fists on the glass. “You asshole. You can’t just ignore me, Chuck. I’m not going away. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. You get out here and face me like a man, Chuck!”

A firm hand latched on to her left arm. She spun, certain it was Chuck. She faced a guard, jerked her arm free as another clamped on the other side. She tried to free herself, thrashing in the arms of the two police officers. “Let’s go, lady.”

“Let go of me. I need to talk to Chuck. I need Charles Bollardi. It’s important.”

“Sure, lady,” the other guard said. “Let’s go find a place to cool off for a while.”

She lifted her legs, made herself deadweight. As she hung between the two officers, they dragged her away. People began to clap. Someone howled. Pounding from behind the glass, muted whistles.

She stood on her feet then, straightened herself up. “You can’t do this to me. You do not want to screw with me,” she warned the police as they led her to a solid white door. A third officer held the door open. Inside was only a table and two chairs. A perfect place for her and Chuck to talk.

Because they had to talk.

41

Charleston, South Carolina

Fisted hands deep in her pockets, Schwartzman was trembling as she walked out of Frances Pinckney’s service. The roll of tape in her pocket, the Ziploc bag, the thin leather gloves of Ava’s, she hadn’t used any of it.

The air felt unnaturally warm, wrong for how cold she was. The sunlight was blinding, and she stood on the concrete steps, blinking into the bright light.

She glanced back at the mortuary, unable to recall anything that was said about the deceased. She could conjure rough images of those people who were seated at the front of the room, standing in front of the closed casket. She could picture their mouths moving. Handkerchiefs clutched in tight fists. Halting, emotional speeches. The ceremony felt dream-like to her, seated in the last row. As far from the body as possible in the room.

She had nothing.

Schwartzman had failed to get within fifteen feet of the coffin, not that it would have mattered with a closed casket. She looked back at the building, imagining the morgue-like room below where Frances Pinckney had been prepped. Where strands of hair and skin cells would have been scattered across the floor like leaves in autumn. Schwartzman stood close but also infinitely far.

She had no way to get to that place. Even if the prep room hadn’t already been cleaned, there was no way to positively identify which hair belonged to Frances. She could hardly plant just any hair. It had to be a match. And evidence of Ava wasn’t enough without Frances. It would be too easy to point the finger at Schwartzman.
The accused was married to a medical examiner who wanted him behind bars. She was even at his home the night he was arrested.
Of course they would say she had planted the evidence. Her aunt’s hair, her skin cells, they would be easy to come by.

It would never work unless she had something from Frances Pinckney.

She could go back inside. Perhaps she could ask about the mortuary prep rooms, as a sort of professional interest. Even if they let her in, they would certainly not leave her unattended. And even unattended, there remained the issue of cleanup, of identifying the right hair, the right skin.

She would have to think of another way.

An image of the cemetery came to mind. Digging up the body. Shudders coursed up her spine and rolled across her shoulders. She was not going to dig up a body.

“Anna.”

She turned into the sun and shielded her eyes as Harper Leighton approached. Dressed in a skirt suit and low heels, she hardly looked like the same person as the woman in her uniform. Behind her was another woman dressed in black. Harper motioned to her. “I wanted you to meet Caroline Pinckney, Frances’s daughter.”

Schwartzman reached out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Yours, as well. Mama talked about Ava all the time. She was a wonderful friend to her after Daddy passed.”

Schwartzman swallowed. Ava might have told her about Frances, too, if they’d talked more often. She might have even met Frances, had she visited. Had she been in touch. Had she been more attentive.

Of course, if she’d done things right, they all might be sitting at lunch, Ava and Frances beside them.

“You should come back to the house,” Caroline said, touching Schwartzman’s arm. “You can meet my brothers. We’re on Jasper Street near Radcliffe.”

Caroline Pinckney excused herself, and Schwartzman watched her go. Only then did she realize what she’d been offered. The house. Frances Pinckney’s house was perfect. Her DNA would be all over that house.

The sun warmed her.

“You doing okay? You look a little flushed.”

Schwartzman felt the heat in her cheeks, the desperation of wanting so badly to collect something to use to frame Spencer. “I’m okay. I think it was just warm in there.”

“A lot of folks,” Harper agreed. “Don’t feel like you need to come to the house if you don’t want to. I know you’ve probably got a lot to do for tomorrow.”

Schwartzman didn’t want to admit that she’d already decided she would go straight to Pinckney’s house. That she would find some way to collect hair. At the very least, she needed hair.

“I’ve got to go find my mom,” Harper said. “I’ll touch base later.”

“Sure.” Schwartzman watched her go. Then, making certain not to appear to be in a rush, she walked down the block to her car to head to Jasper Street.

Hand in her pocket, Schwartzman held on to the roll of tape as she stepped into Pinckney’s house. Frances Pinckney’s house was a traditional Charleston double like Ava’s. As Schwartzman walked in, she saw the stairs straight ahead. The foyer was filled with people, the living room open to the left. It would be difficult to go up the stairs unnoticed.
No. Not difficult. Impossible.

A man approached. “I’m David Pinckney, Frances’s son.”

“Annabelle Schwartzman,” she said.

“Ava’s niece,” he said. “You lost your aunt, as well. I’m so sorry.”

“Yes,” she answered and found her eyes welling.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” He scanned the room. “Let me find a tissue.” He patted his coat pocket. “I gave Caroline my handkerchief.”

She pressed her fingers beneath her eyelids. “I’m fine. Really. It hits me sometimes.”

He touched her shoulder. “Of course.”

She looked around the house. “Did you grow up here?”

“Yes,” he said. “Mom and Dad bought the house when Patrick was two, so I was born here.”

“It’s beautiful. My aunt’s is a similar style, I think. Three bedrooms?”

“Four,” he said.

“In Ava’s, the master is on one side and two children’s rooms on the other.”

“Actually,” he said, “Mom and Dad and Caroline were on that end.” He pointed up the stairs to the south side of the house. “Rob, Patrick, and I were on the south side. It’s two bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bathroom in between.”

Schwartzman made a note of the layout. “Made sense to keep you boys together.”

“I’m sure Caroline was happy to have her own bedroom. Teenage boys aren’t the tidiest.”

“I don’t imagine.” Schwartzman glanced at the door. She had the information she needed. Upstairs, south side. She wanted to go and be done. Particularly before Harper arrived. But she couldn’t see a way to leave the conversation gracefully. “Are you all in the area?”

“None of us are, I’m afraid. Spread out all over. I’m in Chicago. Rob is down in Memphis, and Caroline’s closest. She lives in Durham.”

“I imagine that was tough on your mother.”

“Yes. She would have liked us to be closer, especially after Dad died.”

“Of course,” she said.

“It’s hard to stay here. Jobs are pretty limited.”

“Sure.” Schwartzman began to feel antsy. No sign of Harper. Yet. But she didn’t have much time. Harper was on her way.

“Unless you’re in tech or education,” he continued. “I’m an engineer. Best offer came from Chicago, and I’ve been there ever since.”

Schwartzman forced a smile, stole another look out the front. If Harper arrived, she’d have to slip to the back of the house, hide until she could get upstairs.

Just then someone called his name.

Schwartzman exhaled silently.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “My brother’s calling me.”

“Of course,” she told him, gently squeezing his arm. “I appreciate the time.”

“Okay, Rob,” he called as he started across the room.

Schwartzman looked up the stairs, trying to decide how to get up there. She wanted to walk straight up. But she couldn’t. Someone would surely stop her. Or at the very least follow her up.

She needed time in Frances’s room. To collect hair and skin.

At least three or four minutes. And that was if nothing had been disturbed. If someone hadn’t changed her sheets or cleaned the room.

If, if, if . . .

No.
She could not go up those stairs.

Schwartzman saw Harper Leighton on the street. Before Harper saw her, Schwartzman turned away from the door and walked to the powder room. She ducked her head in. Empty. With a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching, she pulled the door closed and continued to the back of the house. As she was turning the corner, she saw Harper being greeted by David Pinckney. On her arm was an older woman. From their similarities, Schwartzman guessed it was her mother.

Schwartzman turned the corner, expecting to find the kitchen.

Instead there was a second staircase. Back stairs. She started straight up the stairs.

“Excuse me,” a woman called behind her.

Schwartzman turned around, trying to look as though she might cry. Her pulse trumpeted in her throat, and it was hard to believe the throbbing wasn’t visible from even where the caterer stood four feet away. Schwartzman motioned up the stairs and ran her fingers under one eye. “David told me to use the upstairs bathroom because the one down here is occupied.”

The caterer glanced toward the front of the house. “Okay, sure. We’re just supposed to keep guests downstairs.”

“Of course,” Schwartzman agreed. “I won’t be long,” she added and walked up the stairs without looking back. It was all about looking like you belonged. Not hesitating. She reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the south side of the house. Pressed herself against the wall, squeezed her eyes closed.

This was a terrible idea. Sneaking into a dead woman’s room to collect her DNA?

She had to convince the police. They had to believe Spencer was connected to both Ava’s and Pinckney’s deaths.

Schwartzman crept across the hall, staying close to the wall. She could just make out the tops of heads in the foyer below. She chose the first door on the south side of the house and found a small bedroom. Caroline’s room. She pulled the door closed and quickly moved to the next door.

The master bedroom.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, forcing herself to step inside.

The room was large and smelled of the sweet ripeness of the old. The sounds of the guests downstairs filtered through the door. She scanned the room quickly. The four-poster bed. Handmaid quilt, the edges a little frayed. Someone had made the bed. Or perhaps Frances made it the day she died. Schwartzman pictured Ava’s bed and forced the images away.

Hurry.
She pressed the button to lock the door and moved directly to Frances’s bed. She pulled the small roll of packing tape and the Ziploc bag from her pocket, put on the thin leather gloves, and pulled the quilt and sheet back to expose the fitted sheet pillows.

There was a sound at the door. She yanked off the gloves and threw the covers back over the pillows. Froze.

Scratching. She crossed the room quickly, shoving her gloves and the tape into her pocket before turning the knob just enough for the lock to pop from the knob. Listened. A whimper, a high-pitched bark. She cracked the door, and a small white dog ran into the room.

“No,” she told the dog that stood in the center of the room, wagging his tail. The dog let out a playful bark.

“Shh,” she whispered, returning to the bedroom door. She scanned the hall; seeing no one, she closed and locked the door again.

All she needed was Pinckney’s brush to make sure she had sufficient DNA. Hair with follicles. She didn’t have time to check the ones from the sheets.

She would collect extras and check them later.

The dog barked and scratched at her shoes, barked again. Panic filled her limbs until moving felt like shifting sandbags. She reached down and lifted him up.

“Shh,” she said again, reached into her pocket for her gloves.

A creak.

The direction of the front stairs. She rushed back to the door. Popped the lock. Her breath like a windstorm in her ears. The sound like high heels on wood.

Close.

She stepped away from the door, holding the dog close.

The door opened, and Schwartzman stood, facing Caroline Pinckney. “What are you doing in Mom’s room?”

Schwartzman felt the blood rush to her neck as she turned back. “I’m so sorry. I—”

Caroline’s face hardened.

“I came up to use the bathroom,” Schwartzman said. “When I came out, I heard this little guy, scratching.”

“He was in Mom’s room?” Caroline asked.

Schwartzman nodded, her throat too tight to form words.

“Cooper,” Caroline said and reached for the dog, taking him from Schwartzman’s clutches. “What are you doing in here?”

Schwartzman followed Caroline out of the bedroom. Took a last look at Frances Pinckney’s bedroom as she closed the door. She hadn’t retrieved any DNA. Not a single hair. The idea that she was leaving empty-handed left her feeling cold and sick to her stomach.

Caroline stopped at the top of the stairs to allow Schwartzman to join her. “You hear all those nightmare stories about people being robbed during their funerals.”

Schwartzman swallowed the awkward lump in her throat. Was Caroline accusing her? Her original plan was to take a piece of jewelry. What if Caroline had walked in while Schwartzman was looking through her mother’s things?

“That’s awful,” she offered. The idea of stealing from people who were already totally bereft was appalling.
You were almost that person.
How low would she stoop to be rid of Spencer?
You got rid of the gun.

“I can’t be in there.”

“I understand,” Schwartzman agreed. She had stood on the front porch of Ava’s house, dreading the thought of entering the house. How she wished she had more memories of being in Ava’s house, of their time together.

David Pinckney met them on the stairs. “One of the catering staff said someone was upstairs,” he told his sister, glancing at Schwartzman.

“Just us girls,” Caroline said.

David frowned. He seemed about to say more, but Caroline walked past him.

As the two women reached the bottom of the stairs, Schwartzman saw Harper Leighton in the living room. Schwartzman offered a small smile.

She turned to Caroline. “I wanted to say thank you,” Schwartzman said. “For the things you said about Ava and for being so kind. I know this is a hard time.”

Caroline reached out and squeezed Schwartzman’s hand. “You’re welcome.” As she removed her hand, a small white puff of dog hair floated between them. “Oh, Cooper. You make such a mess.”