Grave Doubts (A Paranormal Mystery Novel) (12 page)

“Did you talk
with anyone, Ms. Vanderhaven?” he repeated.

“No. No, I
didn’t see anyone.”

Lee thought of
the brown truck and other neighbors who must have seen her, though. Her car
would have been easy to identify.

“What time did
you leave the condo?”

“I got there a
little after nine, nine-thirty I think. I was there about thirty minutes, but I
didn’t ransack anything. I mean everything looked normal when I left.”

“And you didn’t
see anyone else?”

“No. I…” She
thought about her sojourn to the dumpsters again, but decided not to mention
it. “I let myself in, looked around for the vase and then left.”

A chill rippled
down her back when she remembered her purse and the feather. Had someone been in
the house the entire time she was there?

“Do you think
this has anything to do with Diane’s death?” she inquired.

The officer
flipped the cover closed on his notepad and tucked it back into his shirt. “I
doubt it. It was probably just someone who knew the condo was empty. Thanks for
your time. If you remember anything, give us a call.”

Lee was sure
she should respond, but all she could muster was a mute nod. Officer Wright
walked to his cruiser parked at the curb. Lee waited until he pulled away and
then climbed into her own car. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she passed
a brown truck parked across the street.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

By the time Lee
arrived home, she was exhausted. The strain over Diane’s death, the bird, and
now her foray into the world of covert investigations had evaporated a desire to
do anything that involved thought or movement of any kind. She plopped down on her
bed fully clothed, thinking she’d just close her eyes for a few minutes. Almost
three hours later, she awoke from a deep sleep, feeling drugged and disoriented.
A quick shower helped revive her before she searched for a black pencil skirt
and a blue sequined top for the party she’d promised to go to with Patrick.

As she stepped
into her undergarments, she turned to stare at herself in the mirror. The image
that stared back was completely unfamiliar. Her skin was sallow and the corners
of her mouth sagged, making her full lips look like deflated balloons. Deep
shadows rimmed her eyes, so that with a little extra eye makeup, she thought
she could go to the party as a raccoon. She twisted to survey her figure,
thinking that at least her body was in relatively good shape. Her stomach was
flat, and she’d avoided the cellulite that plagued her mother. But as she
raised an arm and watched an inch of flab respond to the force of gravity, she
resolved to start working out again.

She’d always
kept fit as a college gymnast. Back then, nothing felt better than tight
muscles supporting a vault or pinning a perfect landing. She reached down and
touched the deep scar that curved along the inside of her right knee with a
vague pang of regret. A split second at the end of a three-minute routine
− that’s all it took. A break in concentration at the wrong moment, and
everything she’d worked for--including a potential trip to the Nationals--was
gone. Repairing the knee had taken three and a half hours in surgery and more
than six months of painful therapy. The emotional rehabilitation had taken much
longer. Now she lived in fear of ever injuring that knee again. Her fingers
rested on the raised edge of the scar for only a brief moment before the mental
trap door closed shut.

She finished
dressing and grabbed her purse to find the onyx bird. Drawing it out, she
turned it over in her hand, searching for the spot that had nicked her finger
earlier in the day, but the bird was polished smooth. She didn’t know what type
of bird it was, but it looked like a predator, perhaps even a hawk. As she
turned it over, the light from above her mirror made its eyes glow again. A
chill ran the length of her spine as she remembered the real hawk watching her at
the graveyard. Was there a connection?

She slipped the
bird back into her purse and glanced at her watch. She had about twenty minutes
before she had to leave. Lee had already set out a bottle of wine to give to
Mrs. Bates as a gift, along with a signed birthday card. So, she decided to
take a few minutes and flip through the personnel file on Bud Maddox.

Bud’s
employment was uneventful. He’d been certified as a lab technician in Redding,
California over a decade ago and worked for an independent lab before moving to
Medford, Oregon. Currently he lived in a nice neighborhood in West Eugene, and Lee
wondered if he’d bought the home or was renting. The file also listed Emily
Maddox as his wife, living in Jacksonville, just outside of Medford. This piece
of news gave Lee a glimmer of hope. She knew the Foundation Director at Aurora
Medical Center in Medford and made a decision to give him a call the next
morning. If she could get an appointment to see him, she might also be able to
find a way to look up Emily Maddox.

Lee parked
behind Patrick’s Mazda at the University’s theater just before seven o’clock
and entered from the back of the house. A half-completed interior set seemed to
rise from the depths of the stage. It reminded Lee of an M. C. Escher painting,
with stairways going nowhere, and walls and window units sitting at odd angles.
Lee took a seat half way back, pulled out a breakfast bar she’d grabbed before
leaving the house, and settled in to watch her brother finish his rehearsal.

Patrick stood
just in front of the stage with one foot on a small set of stairs. Dressed in
Dockers, a blue denim shirt, and a sweater tied around his shoulders, he
reminded Lee of a young Eugene O’Neill, sans mustache. There were two male
actors on stage, one in his mid-thirties with a receding hairline, and a young
man with thick, dark hair who looked like he’d just stepped out of a GQ
magazine. Patrick read a few lines for GQ, imitating the inflection and
movement he wanted. He did this off and on for another fifteen minutes, even
getting up on stage at one point to demonstrate the blocking he wanted. Then,
he called it quits and packed up his script. He turned and saw Lee.

“Hey, when did
you get here?” he asked, jumping off the stage.

“Just a few
minutes ago,” she said, throwing the empty wrapper in her purse and standing up.
“I didn’t want to disturb you. You’re really good, you know. Why didn’t you go
into acting yourself?”

He leaned over
and hoisted the canvas bag full of scripts and papers that sat on the floor
onto his shoulder.

“I don’t act because
I like to eat,” he finally responded, sauntering up the aisle. “C’mon, my car
is out front.”

Lee grabbed her
coat and purse off the chair, and they pushed their way through the doors that
led to the darkened lobby.

“Let’s get this
over with,” she said in a churlish manner.

“That’s what I
like! A positive attitude.” He smiled as he held open the outside door.

“Shall we? 
Don’t want to miss singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the ice queen herself.”

“Let’s hope
we’re long gone before that happens.”

She swung her
coat around her shoulders and followed Patrick outside. He dumped his things
into the back of the Mazda, while she climbed into the passenger’s seat. Once
behind the wheel, he fired up the engine and took off with a jolt.

“Slow down,”
she ordered. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”

“Boy, you’re on
edge. You’re not still mad about this afternoon, are you?  I’m really sorry
about what I said at the restaurant.”

“No. It’s just
been a shitty day all around.”

She slumped
back in the seat as Patrick guided the car past a couple of big university
buildings, then turned right to circle around campus. Within minutes, Lee was
watching houses pass by her window as they drove toward the hills of South
Eugene.

“So, I wasn’t the
only scoundrel of the day?” he tried to coax her out.

“Hardly,” she
half laughed, gazing out the window.

“Want to talk?”

She stole a
glance in his direction and felt six years old again. Even when they were
young, she and Patrick were like night and day. If Lee wanted to go left,
Patrick wanted to go right. If Lee wanted ice cream, Patrick wanted cotton
candy. But he’d always been there when she needed him. The thought brought a
familiar pang of regret, and she turned back to watch the rain spatter the
windshield.

“Martha Jackson
put me on administrative leave today,” she said quietly. “I’m supposed to take
a few days off to grieve properly.” Sarcasm dripped from her lips.

“Did it have
something to do with Diane?”

“It had
everything to do with Diane,” she reflected. “It happened just before I saw you
for lunch.”

The light
changed and they drove on in silence for a moment.

“I guess I
wasn’t in a very good place when I arrived for lunch today,” she mumbled
apologetically.

“I’m sorry,
Lee,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “Not that you couldn’t use the
vacation, but that’s a hell of a way to get it.”

“Well, I blew
it.” She leaned her head back against her seat and turned to look at her
brother. “I told the whole administrative team today that I thought Diane had
been murdered.”

Patrick’s green
eyes flashed in her direction, accompanied by a short whistle.

“I know. I know,”
she deflected his reaction. “Of course the first question Martha asked was
whether the police were investigating.” Lee laughed cynically. “No chance there.
So, I guess Martha decided that I was probably nuts and needed a vacation
before I hurt myself.”

“Consider it
from her point of view,” he said, his hands resting next to each other at the
top of the steering wheel. “The police have ruled it a suicide and so far
nothing points to anything else.”

“Except the answering
machine message,” Lee reminded him.

“Yes, but does
anyone know about that?”

“No,” she said
with resignation. “Well, no one except Robin and you. Then there’s the fact
that Diane’s condo was broken into last night.”

“What?” Patrick
shot another glance her way.

“I was
approached by the police today. Apparently someone broke into her condo and
ransacked the place. They think it was just a burglary.”

“Really?”  He
turned back and concentrated on his driving. “Was anything stolen?”

“I don’t know. I
tried calling Carey before I left the house, but didn’t get her.”

“Maybe if you
gave them your answering machine, they’d start to connect the dots. Obviously,
Bud
had
talked to Diane just before she died and apparently he invited
her to Portland.”

She shook her
head. “I still think it’d be too easy to explain away. Besides, I don’t want to
raise alarms before I have to.” She shifted her body so that she faced her
brother. “Patrick, I need something irrefutable. Something the police can’t
ignore.”

They were in
the South Eugene hills now and Patrick turned onto a side street lined with
tall pines and large homes that overlooked the city. A few blocks further, and they
turned into a private lane that wound up the hill, ending in a circular drive. Half
a dozen cars were wedged into the space just in front of the house. Another
dozen cars lined the driveway. As they arrived, a black Mercedes was just
pulling out, and they slipped into the open parking spot. Patrick turned off
the engine and reached for the door handle.

“You know,” Lee
stopped him. “What you said today. It’s true. I didn’t do anything to find out
what really happened to Brad. I was a coward then. I admit it.” She looked at
him, her eyes glistening with tears. “Maybe I can make up for that now.”

He reached for
her hand. “Okay, but be careful. I know I encouraged you to do this, but murder
isn’t a game. And there’s no curtain call at the end.”

Lee nodded, and
they got out of the car. They were protected from the light rainfall by the
canopy of trees. Lee produced a bottle of wine and a card from her large
handbag as Patrick joined her. Flagstone steps flanked by wrought iron lamps
led up to the huge Tudor-style house where a large arched door looked like the
entrance to a gingerbread castle.

Eloise Bates
was an extremely homely woman and devoid of any personality, but her family had
earned millions in the timber industry, making her a good catch. Roland Bates
had even less personality, but held a prominent position at the university. Together,
they enjoyed a reputation as the most boring couple to invite to a campus party.
Patrick and his buddy professors took great pleasure in scoring university soirees.
When Roland and Eloise attended a party together, the party was automatically awarded
a zero. Lee’s eyes swept across the massive exterior thinking that while money
can’t buy love, apparently it could substitute for a lack of charm.

“Well, here we
are at the Bates Motel,” Patrick quipped as he looked up the hill.

Patrick often
tossed off obscure theatrical references, but Lee wondered if Patrick knew how
close he had come to the truth by referring to one of his favorite movies,
Psycho
.

“You probably
don’t know,” she said, climbing the stairs, “but Mrs. Bates' mother disappeared
about eighteen years ago.  No trace of her was ever found. Speculation has it
that her father murdered her and buried her in the backyard.”

Patrick's eyes
grew wide. “Gaw!  You're kidding. Wouldn't that be the story?” he said in a
fake Irish brogue. “I'll have to take a stroll in the garden,” he winked, rubbing
his hands together and sounding a bit like an Irish Boris Karloff.

Lee laughed. “You'd
better be careful. If you haven't met their daughter, Pauline, I wouldn't go
anywhere alone tonight. The rumors about her are even worse.”

Patrick suddenly
changed his posture to stand up straight, puffing his chest out. “Oh well,” he murmured
in a clipped, Cary Grant accent. “Not to worry. We'll take a look in the cellar
and see if her mother has a few companions lying around.”

Lee slapped him
and smirked. “Pretty soon, you’ll be pretending you’re Teddy Roosevelt.”

He smiled and held
out his fist in front of him. Suddenly, he yelled, “Chaaaarge!” and pulled her
up the final few stairs. When they got to the landing, he was just Patrick
again, saying, “C’mon. As you said, let’s get this gig over.”

Lee shook her
head, thinking that he changed character as easily as most people breathe.

“Jeez, are you
even aware that you do that?” she said in awe. “You pop in and out of
characters so fast, it’s spooky.”

He stopped to
flash a wicked smile in her direction and gestured to the front door. “Please,
Madame,” he said, the nasal quality of his voice imitating one of his favorite
actors, the late Peter Lorre. “You have only to turn the knob to discover what
lies in wait. Avoid the basement, avoid rocking chairs, and by all means, avoid
taking a shower.”

He followed
this with another evil laugh and received a second slap for his effort. Just
then, a young woman answered the door and ushered them through a wide foyer to
a small room behind the staircase. Lee hung up her coat and hooked her purse
strap over the hanger. Then, they were led into the living room, where an
imposing white marble fireplace was dwarfed by a large painting of Mrs. Bates
sitting in a blue velvet chair, her hair curled into a tight cap about her
head. Lee thought she looked like an older version of Lady Bird Johnson and
wondered at the arrogance of having your very large portrait placed so
prominently.