Caught Redhanded (3 page)

“Oops.” Officer Natalie Schumann skidded to a halt as she saw me. “Uh, Sergeant Poole, may I see you for a moment, please?”

“If you’ll excuse me, Merry,” William said. “I’m sure you need to leave and get about your reporting business somewhere else. Maybe there’s a fire in West Chester or a drug bust in Downingtown.” He nodded and turned to follow Natalie into the woods.

As soon as William and Natalie disappeared into the trees, I followed as quietly as I could. At times like this I find it wonderful that my work provides me a legitimate excuse for my nosiness. No guilt for a change.

About a football field into the woods I saw a cluster of cops standing around what appeared to be a large thicket of raspberry brambles growing in a patch of sunlight. One of the men was picking ripe berries and popping them in his mouth as he and the others watched someone in the middle of the thicket intently.

That officer was taking pictures of something from all angles. He muttered words that I would never say as thorns tore at his uncovered arms and clung to his uniform pants. His particularly loud snarls seemed reserved for the ripe raspberries that insisted on bleeding all over him.

I snuck up behind Natalie and tried to peer around her. I needed to see what had attracted all this attention. When I couldn’t see as well as I wanted, I stepped forward and trod on a rock hidden under the natural refuse littering the ground. My ankle turned and with a squeak I pitched forward into the raspberries. Normally I love the wild raspberries that grow profusely on fences and stone walls at the edge of fields as well as in clusters like this where sunlight penetrates the canopy of leaves. The early flowers smell spicy with a hint of cinnamon and I enjoy picking the fruit when it ripens. However, falling into a thicket is a different matter.

I threw my hands out as if they would protect me. It raced through my mind that the scratches I was sure to get should clear up before the wedding. Unless they festered.

Just before I went in headfirst, a strong arm grabbed my blouse in the back and pulled me up short. When I got my feet under me, I glanced over my shoulder at William.

“I thought I told you to get lost,” he growled.

Ever astute, I deduced that he was not happy to see me. Ignoring his comment, I smiled at him. “Thank you, William,” I said most sincerely. “The bride wore scratches isn’t the look I want. What are you all looking at?”

It was obvious he didn’t want to tell me, but at that moment the cop emerged from the grasp of the raspberry brambles, still muttering under his breath as he tried to detach one long tendril that insisted on clinging to his pants. His arms were laced with red scratches and berry stains. His light blue shirt would be a total loss if the red polka dots stained as I thought they would.

William forgot me as he stepped close to examine what the cop held balanced on a piece of toweling.

“Paper bag,” William called and Natalie flipped open what looked like a bag from the grocery store. Carefully the officer from the raspberries slid his find into the bag—a jagged rock large enough to be a deadly weapon, a rock stained with blood, a rock that had strands of hair stuck to it.

My stomach churned as I pictured the murderer bringing it down on the head of an unsuspecting Martha.

“Natalie, take it to the crime-scene guys at the Lancaster barracks,” William ordered.

With a brisk nod, she and her paper bag were gone.

“Why a paper bag?” I asked William. On TV they always use plastic bags.

“So moisture doesn’t build up inside and break down the chemical properties of the blood and the other trace elements.”

“I’m assuming that’s the murder weapon?” I indicated Natalie’s retreating form.

“I don’t know.”

“But the blood and hair—”

“We don’t know that they belong to the vic.” He stared at me. “Goodbye, Merry. I have work to do.”

He turned to the officer with the camera and he and the others made a circle that shut me out. And rightly so, I admitted. It was time for me to go.

As I walked to the car, I knew that rock was the murder weapon just as I knew the blood and hair were Martha’s. Otherwise it was a case of one deer walloping another and tossing the rock in the raspberries where he knew it would be hard to find.

Right.

I climbed into my car, lowered the windows to release the heat that had built up and pulled out of my pocket the slip of paper I’d written Martha’s address on. I pushed the air-conditioning button and drove across town to her condo development with the windows open. My father would think I was crazy for having the windows open with the air-conditioning going, but I find the resulting mixed temperature most comfortable. I also love the air blowing my hair, which couldn’t get too messed up with all the mousse in it.

I wandered up and down the twisting streets west of Amhearst near Sadsburyville for a good five minutes looking for the right road and house number. I became totally confused and began to fear I’d never find my way back out, let alone Martha’s place. Why couldn’t developers put in straight streets anymore? Life had been so much easier when the line from point A to point B was a straight one instead of a corkscrew. Mazes might be fun to solve on paper or in an autumn cornfield, but in developments they leave a lot to be desired.

Finally I stumbled across the right road and followed the numbers until I came to the series of five attached units, the second from the left being Martha’s. Her unit had creamy vinyl siding, crimson shutters and a crimson front door behind a white screen door. The neighboring units were taupe, white, blue and brick. I liked the brick unit best; it had character. But architectural detail wasn’t why I was here. I wanted to see if I could find Ken Mackey. Ken MACkey.

I walked to the front door of Martha’s condo, noting that only her name, not Ken’s, was on the mailbox. A white plastic basket filled with deep red petunias and blue lobelia hung from one corner of the small roof overhanging the front door. In a little patch of soil beside the concrete slab front stoop grew pink geraniums backed by blue salvia and fronted by white alyssum. My heart contracted at the signs of the care Martha had taken to turn her rather ordinary residence into her unique home.

I pushed on the doorbell to the right of the jamb but heard no answering ring. I frowned and pushed again. No trill. I pulled the screen door open and knocked.

And took a step backward as the door swung inward at my touch.

FOUR

I
stared at Martha’s front door as it slowly creaked open. Not good.

“Hello?” I called into the shadowed front hall. “Is anyone home? Ken?” I knocked on the doorjamb. “Hello?”

I thought maybe I heard a quiet thud and a soft swish. My heart began beating so hard my ears rang. Someone was here. I swallowed and elbowed the door farther open.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Remembering William’s edict that I never touch anything at a crime scene—and it didn’t take many brains to figure that with the condo’s resident dead and the front door unaccountably open, this was probably a crime scene—I didn’t touch the knob in case the cops needed to check it for prints or something.

I supposed it was possible that Martha had hurried out this morning to go on her run without shutting and locking her door, but I doubted it. Even I, Merry the Forgetful, remembered to lock my front door. Not the car necessarily, but definitely the front door.

If Ken was still home, maybe she wouldn’t have locked up, but she’d have at least closed the door. I became certain of that as air-conditioned air swirled out of the opening to cool my face. No one was foolish enough to leave a door open with the air-conditioning on at this time of year. I pulled out my cell to call William.

“Martha’s not here,” said a voice behind me. “She’s at work down at the supermarket. You’d think people would realize that at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning.”

I spun and found myself facing a stooped woman with the black hair of a bad home dye-job. Her blue eyes were bright in her wrinkled face and I guessed she was eighty if she was a day. As she gestured toward the house with her chin, her wattles swung gently.

“I guess you’ve got a key?” She gestured at the open door. “The others had one, too. They said Martha was going to meet them here, but they didn’t wait for her very long. When they left, they went out by the back door, sort of sneakylike if you ask me.”

They? “Who went out the back? Ken?” Maybe he didn’t want to see anyone in his grief. Or if he was guilty, maybe he was grabbing his stuff and getting out while the getting was good. Maybe he thought I was the police.

She nodded her head vigorously and her hair moved not one millimeter. “Ken was first. Then the new boyfriend.”

“The new boyfriend?” What new boyfriend? I couldn’t believe I was learning something Jolene had missed. “Ken’s no longer Martha’s boyfriend?”

The woman bent and twisted a dying flower from one of Martha’s geraniums. She straightened slowly, vertebra by vertebra. “Not for a couple of months. Good riddance, I say. Hated his motorcycle.” She curled her lip. “Loud, smelly thing.”

I smiled. “Motorcycles can certainly be loud.”

“Not the bike. Him.” She gave a sniff. “He was loud and smelly. Never could figure out why she let him stay with her.”

I decided I liked Martha’s neighbor. “So this is Martha’s condo, not Ken’s?”

“Oh, yes. Before he came, she lived here alone. Then after he moved out, she lived here alone. The new boyfriend doesn’t live with her.”

“Who’s the new boyfriend?”

“Don’t know his name. Tall, but then everyone looks tall to me. Very handsome, at least what I can see of him. He always comes late and I don’t see as well as I used to at night or even at twilight. He always wears a cap with some logo on it. I looked at it through my binoculars once.” She made a face. “Oops. You didn’t hear that, now, did you, dear?”

I laughed. “I didn’t hear a thing. Did you figure out what the logo was?”

“It was a bird.”

“A bird? Like he was wearing an Eagles cap? Was it dark green and white?”

She thought for a minute. “It could have been dark green. It was certainly dark in color. But the bird didn’t look like any eagle I ever saw, but then, what do I know of logos? One thing I will say for the guy, though—he is always very polite. Nods to me whenever he comes. Makes Ken look like a Neanderthal. He never paid any attention to me.” She pointed proudly to the baby-blue unit next door. “I live right there.”

“Very nice,” I said as I looked at the big pot of yellow daisies and blue lobelia on her doorstep. I could see the lace curtains covering her front windows were parted a couple of inches in the center. The better to use those binoculars?

She frowned thoughtfully. “Though come to think of it, I never saw the new one come in the daytime before today. You’d think he’d know Martha’s at work.”

I looked at the woman, who obviously didn’t yet know about Martha’s death. I decided not to tell her. I’d been through enough emotional drama and I had no desire to face more. Besides, she might be more open and spontaneous this way, telling me things I wanted to know. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Merry Kramer.”

“I’m Doris Wilson, dear. Nice to meet you.” She smiled happily as she took my hand. Her gnarled fingers gripped more strongly than I expected.

“Was Martha a good neighbor?” I asked, then kicked myself for using the past tense. I peered at Mrs. Wilson. Maybe she wouldn’t catch it.

“Was? Oh dear. Are you telling me she’s moving? When Ken left, I thought she might move to get away from the memories, you know? Then she didn’t and I thought she was going to stay.” Mrs. Wilson sighed. “The nice ones always leave. Sergeant Major Wilson was in the army for many, many years and the nice ones always got reassigned just when we got to know and enjoy them. Or we got reassigned. Are you a real estate lady come to check over the place?”

“No, no, not at all,” I hastened to assure her. “I was just asking a question.”

Mrs. Wilson absently twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “She’s a very nice person. Smokes like a lot of foolish young people, but she’s nice. She never hesitates to come over if I need help with something like climbing on the step stool to get a special dish off a high shelf. Oh my.” She looked distressed. “If Martha moves, I would be very sad.”

A faint ringing sounded and Mrs. Wilson went on point like a bird dog taking the scent. Her nose actually quivered. “That’s my phone.” She turned eagerly toward her unit. “Nice to meet you, uh—” She gave up trying to recall my name. “I’m sorry Martha’s not home.”

As soon as her white door closed behind her, I elbowed Martha’s door all the way open. In spite of Mrs. Wilson’s assurances that “they” went out the back door, I called, “Hello? Hello? I’m coming in.”

And I did, pushing the door not quite shut behind me so I could make a quick exit if I needed to. I paused in the hall, listening. The house had that empty feel to it and I decided it was quite safe to look around a bit.

I could just imagine Curt’s reaction if he’d been here. “Merry, what are you doing? This isn’t your house. You can’t just walk in.”

Then there was Mac’s way of seeing things. I knew he’d say, “Good initiative, Kramer. I’m proud of you. What’d you find?”

As to William, I didn’t think he’d see my walk-through as breaking and entering. I wouldn’t touch anything and I certainly wouldn’t take anything.

All in all, I felt good to go.

Martha’s living room looked like it came from an IKEA catalogue, all blond wood and bright cushions. Several inexpensive but attractive framed posters of colorful gardens hung on two of the walls; a flat-screen TV hung on a third over a long entertainment center. Two tall windows looked out on the small front lawn and the parking lot, filling the fourth wall.

Cat stuff was everywhere—pillows sporting cats lined the sofa, two stuffed cats sat in one of the chairs, ceramic cats sat on end tables amid framed photos, a calico fabric cat lay beside the magazine basket. And when I glanced at the gardens on the wall again, I saw they all had cats sitting among the blooms.