Maid of Murder (18 page)

The door opened, and Nance peeked out. “He’ll see you.”

She led me through a mauve and walnut waiting room and past sterile, white-blue examination rooms to an inner sanctum. Dr. Blocken’s office was much like his home, expensive, tasteful, with artfully-selected décor: conspicuously manly, dark, and intimidating.

Dr. Blocken hunkered at an expansive mahogany desk. My parents would suspect that the wood was stripped from a virgin African forest. The desktop was clear of files, papers, and all the other usual office trappings. Its only decorations were a green-hooded desk lamp, a telephone, and a broken plaster mold of a painful-looking underbite.

Nance’s eyes boggled when she saw the broken mold.

Dr. Blocken looked apologetic. “I dropped Nella Perkins.”

Nance bustled out of the room and returned a minute later with a dustpan and small dust brush.

“Nance,” Dr. Blocken said. “Schedule an appointment with Mrs. Perkins to create a new mold. Sometime next week. Inform her that the visit will be free of charge.”

“Of all the molds to drop. The old bat. She’s a gagger. The last time I fitted her for a mold she spit the compound into my eye. On purpose too.” Nance brushed the last of the mold dust into her pan and marched out of the room.

With Nance and what was left of Nella Perkins’s underbite gone, he invited me to sit. I chose one of the two armchairs flanking the desk. The buttery leather would give my father heart palpitations. The chair nearly swallowed me.

Dr. Blocken, resembling a bear with a particularly tricky pinecone, fumbled with a pen in his hands with ragged fingernails, and I could imagine how the mold had ended up in pieces.

I placed my bag on my lap, using it as a shield. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Seeing you reminds me of Olivia as a little girl. Back then, it was hard to see one of you without the other,” he said.

I shifted, trying to think how to start. I was facing a broken man who just lost his daughter. My own losses in life were so much smaller by comparison. I didn’t know what to say. How does anyone know what to say at times like these?

I took a deep breath and tried my best. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I want you to know that. Olivia was a good friend, and I’ll miss her.”

“Thank you.” He turned the pen over and over in his hands. His reading glasses slipped further down his nose. He removed them and tossed them onto the desk. They skittered across the glossy surface and came to rest next to the phone. He laughed. “I haven’t cried. Do you think that’s wrong?”

I folded and unfolded my hands in my lap. “We are all still in shock.” After a pause, “Have arrangements been made for the funeral?”

He laughed, hollow and short. “My wife’s taking care of all of that, just like the wedding. I don’t know anything about it. I only know the place and time.”

“And what is that?”

“Tomorrow. Afternoon. At the Lutheran church. It should be quite a production. Regina will get her event of the season after all.” His tone was bitter. “Everything will be picture perfect for the funeral and the wake afterwards. She was nearly hysterical this morning because she couldn’t find the engagement picture that she’d ordered.”

My pulse quickened. “Engagement picture?” My voice sounded impossibly high. I hoped that Dr. Blocken would not notice.

“A framed copy of Olivia and Kirk that she’d planned to put by the guest book at their wedding reception. She wanted to report it missing to the police, even though I said it was nonsense to bother them with things like that. Of course, things will be misplaced at a time like this.”

“The police?” My heart skipped a beat.

“She’s convinced the missing picture has something to do with Olivia’s death. She thinks everything has something to do with . . . the murder.” He clutched the pen tightly in his hands as if brandishing a knife.

“Maybe Kirk has it,” I said, hoping to throw suspicion somewhere else. In my mind, I apologized to Kirk.

“Kirk? Regina already asked him. He denies taking it.”

“When did Mrs. Blocken talk to him about it?”

“Yesterday. Our meeting was not a pleasant experience. Olivia never picked a man worth his salt.”

I ignored the implied slur against my brother, knowing that he hadn’t been thinking about Mark—at least not at that moment.

“Kirk’s successful,” I excused. “He owns a pretty successful business.”

“Don’t defend him. If he was so wonderful, he wouldn’t be causing problems over where Olivia’s buried. She wasn’t married yet; it’s our right to decide what she’d want.”

There was no way to ease into my next question, so I just asked. “What about Olivia’s car?”

He blinked at me. “Why would we bury her car?”

“No, I mean, didn’t she have some type of car to get around Stripling while she was here?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“I’m wondering how she planned to get around town while she was here. I’m sure there were a lot of last-minute errands for the wedding.”

“She and Kirk flew from Virginia, and we picked them up at the airport. She could’ve borrowed one of our cars if she needed one.”

“Do you know where Kirk is staying?”

“The Cookery Inn. I’m sure it’s costing me a fortune.”

I wasn’t surprised that Kirk was staying at the Cookery. It was the best hotel in Stripling and not far from the square and the Lutheran church where the wedding was to have been held. It was also the place where Mrs. Blocken had been planning to hold Olivia’s lavish reception.

Dr. Blocken’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you looking for him?”

“I just wanted to give him my condolences. I’m sure he must be devastated.”

Dr. Blocken snorted. “I hope you didn’t come here to petition on his behalf.”

“I didn’t.”

“Good. In fact, I’m glad you came here. You’re the only one who can convince Mark to turn himself in. You have to do that, and if your friendship with Olivia meant anything to you, you will. You can spare all of us, my family and yours, the grief of a long, drawn-out trial.”

I bit the inside of my lip, thwarting a smart-mouthed retort. “Dr. Blocken, I know that my brother is innocent. He never would have hurt Olivia.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. I was hoping that you’d listen to reason. Your brother was angry, upset. Maybe was an accident, but it happened. We both know how he was about Olivia. The thought of her upcoming marriage made him snap . . .”

I shook my head, unable to speak, hoping that my head shake was enough.

“I see that you are wearing blinders where your brother is concerned. You always have.” He hit the intercom on his phone. “Nance, can you show India out?”

I stood. “I am truly sorry about Olivia, but my brother is innocent.”

Dr. Blocken looked away from me, out the window that gave him a scenic view of the square. A tear slid down from the corner of his eye.

My heart broke for him, and tsking about Nella the Gagger the whole way, Nance led me to the door.

Hurrying to the car, I planned to unlock my trunk. I pushed the carpet back and exposed the tire well.

“India,” someone called.

My head connected with the trunk’s lid.

Ann Barnard, my mother’s long-time secretary, ran toward me from across the square. Her tight brown poodle curls and wide hips bounced in tandem with her awkward stride. “Thank goodness I caught you.”

“What’s wrong?” I slammed the trunk shut.

She doubled over, hands pressed to her knees. She gasped, “The reverend called and said if I heard from you, I should tell you—and, while I’m on the phone, I spotted you, standing right across the street, plain as day.” She took three more gulps of air.

I held her shoulder. “Tell me what?”

“Mark,” she gasped. “He’s been arrested.”

I fished a water bottle out of my car and instructed Ann to drink. She chugged the twenty ounces like a salty seaman. After some coaxing, I convinced Ann to follow me back to the church. I was afraid she would pass out from the heat.

When we entered the church office, Ann moaned when she saw the flashing red light on the answering machine and sank onto a small loveseat in the corner of the room.

The church office was a testament to Ann’s abilities. Or lack thereof. Piles of office paper and old service bulletins indicated the location of her desk. The telephone tipped precariously atop the mound of files and memos; all incoming lines had lit up.

She held the water bottle in a viselike grip; the plastic crackled in her grasp. “I can’t take it anymore. I love your mother, you know that. She saved me and my family, but I can’t take it anymore. Not one more thing. Not one more thing,” she mumbled to herself. “I know she cares, but I can’t work under these conditions. Not without her here to help me.”

I put my hands in the hip pockets of my shorts before the urge to slap her overtook me.

“I’ll resign today.” She sniffled.

I watched without feeling any sympathy. On average, Ann vowed to resign twice a month. I knew the routine. My mother would console her, and Ann would agree to stay a little while longer.

I took three giant steps away from the loveseat, putting myself out of smacking range. I wasn’t in a mood to be gentle. “Tell me what she said about Mark.”

She rocked in her seat and tapped the empty bottle on the side of her head.

“Ann,” I said sharply.

She jumped.

“Tell me,” I said, trying to mimic the voice of God—or at least that of my mother.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Here I am, worrying about myself, and your poor brother’s in trouble. I’m a horrible person. I’ll resign today.”

I knelt down in front of her, shooting for the compassionate deity. “You’re not a bad person. Please, tell me what my mother said.”

She blew her nose. “Mark was arrested at the Reverend’s house about an hour ago. A neighbor saw the arrest and called your father’s cell phone.”

“Where are my parents, do you know?”

“At the Justice Center. Protesting. Reporters have been calling left, right, and front. I’m sure they’ll be mobbing me here any moment.”

“Is that all she said?”

“I should have asked more questions. I’m horrible. I should’ve asked.”

I was losing her again. “Ann, listen to me, I’ll have Saul drive you home. You can have the rest of the day off.”

“But the Reverend!”

“I promise you, my mother won’t mind. You’ve had a rough day. Will your daughter be home?”

“I think so.”

I stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

I found Saul Mellon, janitor, in the sanctuary dusting the pew seats. With headphones on his ears, he jived down the aisle.

Before Ann and Saul left, I called Ann’s daughter to make sure someone was there to monitor Ann and administer the correct dosage of antidepressants.

Running on adrenaline, I double-checked the church’s locks, then ran three blocks in my sandaled feet to the Justice Center, figuring it would take me longer to find a parking place than to get there under my own steam. As I trotted that last half block to the building, I could hear my parents’ faithful troop. “Hark! Hark! Bring back Mark!”

I skidded to a stop when I had the building in sight; the soles of my sandals slapped my heels. A crowd of forty or so townspeople had gathered outside Stripling’s municipal building, grandiosely named the Justice Center. It held the police department and the mayor’s office.

The demonstration blocked the walk and spilled over into the public library’s parking lot next door. Gathering my courage to enter the fray, I elbowed through the spectators, until I had a full view of the scene. Carmen was at the top of the stone steps that led to the large white doors of the police station, getting into Mains’s face. He looked pained. The commotion swallowed her words that she punctuated with sharp finger jabs into the detective’s chest. Having been on the receiving end of one of Carmen’s rants more often than I could count, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the detective.

Below on the crowded sidewalk, my parents and cohorts decried injustice and waved their placards at the bottom of the steps. The placards’ sayings were the same as those I’d seen at Martin that morning. The troops, abuzz with the excitement of the arrest, stood erect in their orthopedic shoes and grasped their signs proudly. A half dozen uniformed officers stood between the protestors and the spectators. A TV van procured a corner of the Justice Center’s lawn, the same crew I had seen that morning at Martin. It appeared they had
carte blanche
to park on the grass all over town. The reporter stood outside the van jotting down some notes.

“Dia!” a tiny voice called in the crowd behind me. My brother-in-law Chip carried Nicholas through the mob to stand beside me.

“Where’s Mark?” I asked without preamble.

“Uncle Mark got arrested like Saint Paul,” Nicholas said.

Chip shook his head, his eyes on Carmen the entire time. “I promised the midwife that I wouldn’t let her get overexcited and look at her.”

“You should know by now you can’t make Carmen do anything,” I said. “Tell me what happened. I want to know everything,”

Chip gnawed on his lower lip. “Carmen and I just got here. Your mom left a message on my voicemail that we were to pick Nicholas up at the Justice Center. No further explanation. We rushed here. I found Nicholas, and Carmen went berserk when she saw that guy she’s talking to now.”

Talking was a euphemism.

“And?” I prompted.

“That’s all I know, I swear.”

Nicholas copied his father. “That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Who is that guy anyway?” Chip asked.

“That’s the detective on the case. Rick Mains.” I didn’t add that he was also Carmen’s ex-boyfriend. Chip didn’t need the extra anxiety that that bit of information would bring. The guy was a saint for voluntarily marrying into our family as it was.

“I’m going to try to talk to Mom and Dad.”

“Good luck,” Chip said. The worried look was still plastered on his face as he watched Carmen rip Mains limb from limb.

During our short conversation, the crowd had grown around us. Again, I elbowed through the crush. At the picket line, I had a clear view of my parents. Both were flushed with chivalry and the cause. I glanced around for any windmills.