Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) (26 page)

I sent a text to Danielle apologizing for oversleeping. She sent back
DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT.
Then she sent a reminder about the errands I’d promised to take part in this week. Then she sent
WE NEED TABLE FAVORS. NOW.

Damn. I’d forgotten about the favors. Between solving favor problems, visiting the florist and caterer, decorating the hall, and going to the rehearsal dinner on Wednesday, let alone grocery shopping and cooking for Thanksgiving, there wasn’t going to be much time left in my schedule for investigating. I had to get a jump on it now.

My aching body protested as I hopped out of bed, grabbed my purse, and tiptoed down the hall to the extra bedroom I used as a home office. I longed for coffee and a bagel as the computer booted up, but I stayed put. If Jasmine knew I was awake, she’d want to help. My friend had lots of fabulous qualities, but being sneaky was not one of them.

TV cops were always talking about motive, means, and opportunity when investigating murders. Since they managed to capture their perps in less than sixty minutes, I decided to take my cue from them and did a search on the murder weapon to see how hard it was to obtain insulin without a prescription.

Yikes. Not hard. Though many types of insulin were obtained by prescription, several older versions were available over the counter. So much for narrowing my search.

And so much for focusing on means. Maybe I’d get further on motive. As far as I could tell, the only hint of motive lay in the numbers and letters Ginny had recorded on the teapot note. Flipping to that page in my notebook, I studied them and hoped for an epiphany.

Nothing. So much for wishing the medication affected not only pain but also my extrasensory abilities. Since I wasn’t qualified to answer phones for the Psychic Friends network, I flipped back through my notes and read from start to finish. By the time I got to the end, I was just as baffled and more than a little disheartened. When I walked into Ginny’s wake tonight, her family was going to ask if I was any closer to catching the killer. I was going to have to tell them no. Maybe it was time to admit I wasn’t a real investigator and give up.

I threw my notebook on the desk and swore as it knocked over a picture frame. After setting the picture upright, I studied the photograph. It was a picture of my mother and me. The photograph was taken when I was sixteen, after my last meet as a solo artistic skater. I’d taken second, which wasn’t bad considering how frustrated I’d been during my practice session. A double toe loop combination that I’d typically done with ease had given me fits. Bad landings, falls, and aborted jumps plagued me as I practiced the maneuver again and again. To no avail. I was about to throw in the towel when my mother told me to start the routine over. To go back to the beginning and figure out where I’d gone wrong.

Wait a minute. I grabbed my notebook and headed for the door. I knew what I had to do. I needed to go back to the beginning and determine what Ginny had been doing and who she had seen in the minutes leading up to her death. It was time to pay a visit to the scene of the crime.

Nineteen

Senior center activities were kept
to a minimum on Sunday afternoons in deference to the population’s need for after-church eggs, bacon, and hand-dipped milkshakes at the diner. I guess they believed attending services gave them special dispensation for cholesterol and calories. The few who hadn’t attended church or didn’t believe in the miracle of divine diet intervention were watching football in the same television room where Ginny had taken her last breath.

Jasmine started to go inside, but I shook my head. “Not yet. We have a reenactment to perform.”

Taking slow steps, I walked down the hallway to the recreation room where Danielle’s shower had been held. It took a minute and a half at most to cover that ground and just over that time to walk from the crime scene to the covered walkway or the front door. Those were the three most-used entrances to the building and the ones most likely utilized by the killer.

“I bet the murderer used this door.” Jasmine pointed to an exit on the opposite side of the building from the parking lot. “Then he could get in and out without being seen.”

“It’s for emergency exit only.” I pointed to a sign warning an alarm would sound if used.

“Those signs are all phony,” Jasmine said. “People in the city use them all the time to make people think twice about—”

Before I could stop her, Jasmine pushed open the door. A loud siren whooped and wailed. “Huh.” Jasmine plugged her ears and yelled, “I guess that’s another difference between this place and Chicago. The signs mean what they say.”

It took fifteen minutes before someone shut off the alarm. In the meantime, people who couldn’t turn off their hearing aids went next door to watch the game, which gave Jasmine and me free rein to look around the room where Ginny had died. The game was still on the television. Jasmine cheered for a field goal while I walked to the chair where Ginny had been seated.

The heavy blue chair was designed with a high back and stuffed armrests and was angled toward the television. A person seated in the chair should spot, in her peripheral vision, anyone coming into the room through the lone door. I could test that theory, but I wasn’t keen about sitting in a chair where someone had died. Things were dangerous enough in my life. There was no need to tempt fate.

I positioned myself next to the chair, squatted so I was at the same level as someone sitting, and asked Jasmine to tear herself from the game long enough to walk through the door. Yep. Even with my eyes glued to the television set, I saw Jasmine sashay into the room. Unless Ginny had been sleeping, she saw her killer approach. Since there weren’t any signs of a struggle, I had to believe Ginny assumed she had nothing to worry about when the other person pulled out a syringe.

My research said a person could fall into a coma within ten to thirty minutes of the overdose and potentially slip into death sometime after that if nothing was done to counteract the drop in blood sugar. Sometimes death was known to take even longer. Not exactly the most efficient way to kill someone. So why use it? And how? Even if Ginny was friends with her attacker, she wasn’t going to sit still while they jabbed her with a sharp, pointy object. Friends just don’t let friends do that.

Maybe Ginny was like Pop and took catnaps during the day. A sleeping Ginny wouldn’t have noticed her attacker or the syringe. However, even in his deepest sleep, Pop would notice if someone stuck him with a needle. Once he clocked the perpetrator, he’d call Doc Truman for help. Since Ginny did neither, I had to assume she’d been oblivious to the problem. Why?

To get that answer, I pulled out my phone. Sean picked up right away. “Did Ginny have any medication other than the insulin in her system?”

“The autopsy listed traces of zolpidem in her blood,” Sean answered. “Doc said that was to be expected since Ginny had problems with insomnia.”

I thought back to the prescription bottle of Ambien CR in Ginny’s medicine cabinet and signaled for Jasmine to follow me.

“Where are you now?” Sean asked as Jasmine shouted one last string of insults at the refs.

“I’m just leaving the center, and don’t worry—I’m not alone.”

“I can hear that. Why the drug question?”

“Just trying to decide why Ginny would let someone nick her with a needle. I think you answered that. Thanks.”

I was about to disconnect when Sean said, “Wait a minute.” His tone turned softer. Deeper. Sexier. Yikes. “You’re being careful, right?”

“Sure thing. Talk to you later.” Click.

Phew.

Doing my best to ignore the spike in my pulse, I led Jasmine through the covered walkway to Ginny’s condo. Nothing looked like it had been moved since my last visit. I told Jasmine to stay in the kitchen and made a beeline for the bathroom. Sure enough, there was the prescription bottle I remembered. The prescription was for twenty pills, filled two weeks ago, and instructed the user to take as needed. I popped the top and found seven pills inside. Unless Ginny had chosen to hibernate her way through the last week of her life, I was guessing someone had helped himself or herself to some of Ginny’s pills and slipped them into her food or drink. Once she was asleep, giving her a shot would have been easy, albeit rude.

I returned to the kitchen and examined Ginny’s front door. There weren’t any signs of tampering or forced entry. Either the killer got top marks in lock-picking or Ginny opened the door and let him in. I’d bet the bank it was option B. Ginny wasn’t killed by a stranger. She was killed by a friend she trusted. Now I had to figure out who.

I steered Jasmine out of the condo before she could start rummaging through the fridge. As I locked the door, the diminutive Ethel Jacabowski stepped into view.

“Oh, Rebecca. It’s so good to see you. We’ve all been so worried since the accident. Pastor Rich even added you to the prayer list during this morning’s service. I know some people don’t believe prayer can help, but it certainly doesn’t hurt, does it?” Ethel shifted a foam container stamped with the diner’s logo in her hand. “What are you doing here today? People are saying you’re helping the sheriff find the person who killed Ginny. If so, I’d like to do whatever I can to help. Ginny was one of my very best friends.”

The sheen of tears in Ethel’s eyes made my throat tighten. Swallowing hard, I asked, “Could you tell me who Ginny’s other friends are?”

“Oh, goodness.” Ethel dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a frilly pink handkerchief. “Everyone loved Ginny. I guess her best friends are me, Joan and Marty McGoran, and Alice Peppinger. Joan and Marty are talking about canceling their trip to Florida this year. They can’t imagine being there without Ginny. Ginny loved our annual trip south. It’s just not going to be the same without her.”

“You still plan on going?” I asked.

Ethel sighed. “It’s what Ginny would want. She was a founding member of our group. The Winter Migration Club, we called ourselves. Over the years we’ve had members pass or move away, like my Paul, but we never considered not going. The club has always felt the best way to celebrate those we love is to live life to the fullest. So I’m going to put away my leftovers and get some packing done before the wake. Ginny would approve.”

The simple dignity in Ethel’s voice made me want to cry. Before I did, I asked, “Did you see anyone in the hallway last Sunday before you found Ginny?”

“Not that I remember.” Ethel frowned but then brightened. “Wait. I do remember Jimmy Bakersfield sneaking into the kitchen. He’d been around before the shower, making eyes at the petit fours. I figured he was going to swipe a few. Doc Truman keeps warning Jimmy that diabetics have to watch their sweets intake, but you know men. They never listen.”

Ethel gave me a small smile and shuffled down the hall with her takeout. As we headed to the exit, Jasmine said, “This investigating thing is exciting. Timing how long it takes to get from the exits to the crime scene. Looking through the victim’s apartment. Questioning witnesses. I feel like I’m in one of those old black-and-white movies. So, what do we do next? Rough up a witness? Run down a suspect? What?”

I looked at Jasmine’s four-inch-heeled boots and tried to picture her outrunning a suspect. An image of her five-foot three-inch frame sprawled on the sidewalk sprang to mind. I made a mental note to take her shopping for Reeboks and headed for my car. Meeting Ethel had been a stroke of luck. Without meaning to, she had given me a suspect who was near the crime scene and, since he was diabetic, had access to the murder weapon. It was time to pay a visit to Pop’s friend and my first investigative client, Jimmy Bakersfield.

Jimmy wasn’t home. He also wasn’t at the center or the diner, which was bad for the murder investigation but good for my stomach. After inhaling the aroma of Ethel’s takeout, I was ravenously hungry. Since the after-church lunch crowd had thinned, Jasmine and I were able to snag a booth in the back.

While we filled our stomachs with fried chicken and mashed potatoes, several of the diner faithful stopped by to say hello and meet Jasmine. Outsiders were always of interest, but outsiders with dark skin, gold-tipped magenta nails, and a laugh loud enough to rival Farmer Richardson’s donkey made jaws drop and people stare. Reginald hated the attention being different garnered. Jasmine thrived on it. She smiled, cracked jokes, and asked dozens of questions about the town, the people, and me. By the time our plates were cleared, Jasmine had a good shot at running for mayor and winning.

Since everyone in town would be at Ginny’s wake, I decided to forgo another stop at Jimmy’s house. Instead, I steered toward home and changed into a long-sleeved, navy blue, knit dress and my most track-worthy black boots. When Jimmy paid his respects tonight, I’d be ready.

Jasmine met me in the living room. “What?” she asked as I stared at her fitted neon orange top and even tighter brown-and-gold pants. “Do these pants make me look fat?”

Truth? The shape of the pants wasn’t slimming, but I wasn’t about to tell Jasmine. I’d taken a kickboxing class with her. What she lacked in control, she more than made up for in power. I’d had my ass kicked enough this week, which was why I took another tack. “You look great, but you might attract too much attention in that outfit. Investigators need to blend in.”

Jasmine laughed. “Rebecca, I’m a black woman in the middle of a lily-white town. There ain’t nothing going to make me blend in.”

Fair point.

*

The Restful Repose Funeral Home was located on the east side of town in a two-story colonial building. The first floor consisted of two viewing parlors located on either side of a large foyer; both were decked out for the holidays. Straight ahead was a hall that led to a roomy eat-in kitchen perpetually stocked with sandwiches, water, and cookies. The scent of lilies and Pine-Sol filled the air just as it did during Mom’s wake. The memory of that day hit me square in the chest. Taking several deep breaths, I signed my name in the register, hung up my coat, and walked into the viewing room.