Grave Doubts (A Paranormal Mystery Novel) (6 page)

Lee leaned back
against the car.

“Then, she went
through a bitter divorce and her husband walked away with almost everything. By
the time she came to work for me, she was barely holding on. And somehow, over
the course of four years, we kind of rescued each other. What most people
didn’t know was that Diane had a wicked sense of humor. She could make me laugh
until my sides hurt. When we hung out together, it was like going to therapy. I
forgot about myself and was able to just…be. It was liberating; I began to feel
like that box I’d shut myself in had begun to open. And then suddenly…she was
gone.”

Lee shifted her
weight and crossed her arms as she leveled a serious look at Robin.

“Diane didn’t
kill herself, Robin. I’m as certain of that as I am of my own name. And I owe
it to her to find the truth. Listen,” Lee continued, “I’m not mad at Alan. I
might not even be mad at Sergeant Davis. It just feels like Diane is talking to
me, pleading with me to clear her name,” she stopped and sighed. “My God,
Robin!  Would a woman who keeps her shoes in individual plastic containers be
likely to kill herself?”

At that, Robin finally
broke a smile. “Okay,” she said, squeezing Lee’s hand. “But be careful. You’re
not a detective. And you need to get some sleep first. You look a little like
the walking dead yourself.”

Lee laughed. “Thanks.
Only a friend could get away with that.” She gave Robin a quick hug. “I’ll see
you tomorrow.”

They said
goodbye, and Lee got into the car and pulled onto Marcola Road, overwhelmed by
having confessed so many of her inner truths. The sky had cleared, and she
cracked the window, hoping the fresh air would relieve the leaden feeling in
her stomach.

Now that she’d
given voice to her suspicions about Diane’s death and why she felt so compelled
to look into it, she realized the seriousness of what she was doing and the
potential danger. She had no intention of trying to solve a murder, but felt
driven to find one piece of information that would take this out of the realm
of speculation and place it squarely into the center of an investigation. Her
resources were few, and she didn’t know the first thing about sleuthing. So,
what
could
she do?

As she watched
the night shadows pass her window, she decided that somehow, Diane would have
to point the way.

CHAPTER SIX

Lee left the
open country and pulled onto Highway 126, feeling the need to get home to
consider her options. The Kingsford briquette plant whizzed past on the north
side of the highway, its mountain of cedar chips blotting out a portion of the
night sky. The strip malls flashed past in a blaze of neon light, and a moment
later she was crossing over the interstate into Eugene. As she neared the
turnoff for home, Diane’s condo came to mind and she made an abrupt decision. With
a quick turn of the wheel, she was heading north.

Diane had lived
in a large complex built on the Willamette River. Lee had a key, and it was the
only place she knew to look for answers. It was nine-thirty when she pulled into
Willamette Oaks and parked in an empty space next to Diane’s lonely Ford Escort.
Diane’s was the last of four townhouses facing a large, sloping lawn that
fronted the river.

The parking lot
was at the back of the townhouse. Although the parking lot was lit, the condo’s
windows were dark and this end of the complex was encased in deep shadows. A
nervous chill prompted her to climb out of the car and quickly skirt the
building before she could change her mind.

She came around
to the condo entrance from the south side, noticing for the first time how
isolated the front door was from the adjoining units. Even the small front
porch was encircled by a waist-high wall topped with wooden planters. No one would
have a clear view of the front door. Diane liked her privacy, and Lee
remembered her mentioning how she had chosen the unit partly for this very
reason. Unfortunately, that decision may have contributed to her death. The
thought made Lee look anxiously behind her as she approached the door.

Lee opened the door
and gingerly stepped inside, locking it behind her. She was immediately struck
with how crisp the air felt. The condo was silent except for the ticking of the
grandfather clock in the corner. Lee flicked on the overhead light and then
stood in the entryway, wondering if she might somehow smell the scent of death.
But all she detected was the faint aroma of the rose potpourri that sat on a
small antique table by the front door.

Lee ignored her
impulse to turn around and leave and moved into the living room. She turned on
the brass lamp that flanked Diane’s dark green Queen Anne sofa and threw her
purse onto a wing-back chair. She stood back to survey the room.

Carey had been
there. A few boxes filled with books and loose paper sat next to Diane’s
fourteenth-century writing table. Another empty box sat next to the bookcase on
the far wall. An antique trunk stood open in the corner, revealing Diane’s
neatly folded quilts. Lee couldn’t help but stare at the middle of the floor,
just in front of the fireplace. There was no indication of the body. The police
hadn’t drawn a chalk outline like they do in the movies, and of course there
was no blood. There was just the oval braided carpet Diane had purchased at a
discount warehouse, surrounded by the newly finished hardwood floor.

Lee forced
herself to shift her gaze to the fireplace mantel where Diane’s old 35mm
Olympus camera sat tucked in amongst some family photos. Since Carey had
offered it to her, Lee stepped over to pick it up, thinking about the many
times she’d teased Diane about not moving up to a digital camera. When she
lifted up the camera, the back dropped open exposing an empty interior. This
made Lee pause. Diane had taken a picture of Lee the night she died. So where
was the film?  Lee stared at the inside of the camera until she had to rub her
eyes. She was tired. Too tired. And she wasn’t here to worry about the camera. She
was here to find the Italian vase.

She set the
camera on the chair next to her purse, and then turned to the coffee table where
a cut glass bowl sat right where the urn used to be, looking quite small and
anemic in comparison. A quick look around the living room confirmed the urn was
nowhere in sight. For the next fifteen minutes, Lee conducted an intense
search, opening cupboards and drawers. She even looked behind furniture, but
everything was in perfect order, not a dust mote or a single spec of dirt in
sight. And no urn.

She climbed the
stairs to the second floor, but Diane’s bedroom and closet were studies in
perfection. Hanging clothes were organized by color and season. Plastic shoe
bins, labeled by type and color of the shoes inside, were stacked on the floor
in strict alignment. Large plastic bins were stacked on the upper shelf, each
labeled by their contents. The closet alone was enough to indicate that an
obsessive-compulsive person lived here.

The bathroom didn’t
offer any clues, either. The counter was bare except for a small porcelain cup.
Her toothbrush, hairbrush, and hair gel were all put away. In fact, the only indications
that a living, breathing person had once lived there was a full trash basket
and a small piece of paper sticking out of a hastily closed drawer. Lee pulled
out the sheet of paper and read the heading. It was from the hospital. Some
kind of lab report. Feeling intrusive, she carefully replaced it and headed
back downstairs.

She stopped in
frustration when she got to the kitchen. “C’mon, Diane, help me,” she mumbled
to herself. “Where’s the vase?”

Diane’s kitchen
floor was cleaner than most of the dishes in Lee’s cupboards, and the counters
looked downright lonely for company. Lee had never realized how sparse the
condo was before. It made Lee think of her own home where she had trouble
understanding the need for empty space. Every counter and wall was filled to
capacity.

“
I don’t
believe in clutter,”
Diane had once said. Lee couldn’t help smiling,
remembering her response.
“You can’t believe or disbelieve in clutter, Diane.
Clutter isn’t a religion!”

Diane had
merely raised an eyebrow before putting a pair of scissors in a drawer where
they belonged.

Lee sighed,
feeling a heavy ball settle into the middle of her chest again. She knew that time
would eventually lift the weight she felt at Diane’s loss. But that time
couldn’t come soon enough.

She took a deep
breath and surveyed the rest of the kitchen, trying to focus on the task at
hand. Her gaze came to rest on the tall plastic trashcan that stood next to the
kitchen sink. On impulse, she stepped over and lifted the lid, thinking Diane
might have broken the vase and thrown it away. But she was surprised to find
the container lined with a clean trash bag. When Lee had stopped by the night
Diane died, she’d arrived just as Diane was putting in a new trash bag. As they
talked though, Diane had tossed in an empty cat food can and chicken broth box.
Even those were missing now. So where were they?  According to the coroner,
Diane had died between nine o’clock and midnight. So, she wouldn’t have emptied
the trash can a second time. Unless…

Lee ran outside
to the Pathfinder and grabbed the flashlight from her glove compartment. A
minute later, she was standing by the shed that camouflaged the condo’s two
large trash containers. This was a long shot if there ever was one, and yet, if
she didn’t check now, she might regret it later. According to the sticker on
the side of the dumpster, the trash would be picked up the next day.

Lee held her
breath and lifted both steel lids. She pushed them back with a bang, giving her
an unencumbered view of the inside. Both bins were filled to the top. Crumpled
brown shopping bags, white plastic garbage bags, and shiny black leaf bags were
scattered across the surface of the first bin, along with old shipping boxes,
and an empty stereo box. Tucked in the corner was a broken lawn chair.

Lee knew Diane
used only white plastic trash bags with yellow ties, purchased at the same
store. God, that woman was compulsive! Lee figured the bag she was looking for
would be at, or near, the top. It was difficult to sort through everything
while holding the flashlight, so Lee placed the light on the ledge and pushed
up her sleeves. She balanced herself on the wheel and leaned in, carefully
pulling bags and boxes out. Occasionally, she paused to point her flashlight
into the depths of a bag. Several times, she pulled out a false lead. Once it
was a yellow ribbon, another time it was a yellow envelope addressed to someone
in number seventeen. One bag with a yellow tie string surfaced, and she turned
it over. Empty cat food cans and cigarette butts dropped out. She almost gagged
at the smell of rotting tuna, but the cigarette butts confirmed that it wasn’t
Diane’s. Feeling foolish, she threw everything back in and closed the lid. She
turned to the second dumpster. This time, she was a little overwhelmed to find
six or seven bags with yellow ties right near the top.

She pulled each
bag to the front and searched through the contents as best she could. Coffee
grounds and sour milk spilled over her hands. At one point, she lost her
balance and lurched forward, shoving her left hand deep into the center of a
bag. Her hand encountered something gushy, which oozed through her fingers
making her stomach turn. When she yanked her hand out, there was a sucking
sound followed by the sound of ceramic hitting ceramic.

Lee forgot her
queasiness and snapped up the bag. She stepped back off the wheel, reaching for
the pavement with her left foot. Instead of pavement however, her foot landed
on something that moved, and suddenly a cat shot into the parking lot with a
high-pitched scream. Lee’s foot flew out from under her as she twisted in mid-air
and fell to the ground.

With a groan,
she sat up and stretched out her back. She was breathing hard, the bag of
garbage forgotten beside her. When a cool breeze wafted across the trash
containers, bringing the smell of something awful with it, Lee leaned forward
and rested her head on both knees, careful not to touch anything with her hands.
This was crazy, she thought. What in the world did she think she was doing?

The sound of an
engine caught her attention just as a brown pickup truck pulled slowly through
the parking lot. The headlights swept across her as the pickup passed by, and
she quickly got up. She brushed old lettuce from the front of her sweater and
flicked chunks of something gooey off her sleeve. Too stubborn to leave, she
ripped open the bag in her hand. Pieces of porcelain tumbled onto the asphalt,
along with empty tomato sauce cans. Lee squatted in the dark, shining the
flashlight onto the white, glazed pieces at her feet feeling cheated. It wasn’t
the urn. Maybe Diane hadn’t broken it after all. Carey would probably find it
when she emptied the condo over the weekend.

Lee returned
the pieces of porcelain to the bag and angrily threw it back with the rest of
the trash. After wiping her left arm on a paper bag to get rid of the muck, she
closed the lid and marched back to the condo, heading straight for the kitchen
sink where she grabbed the liquid soap and began to scrub. Her hands were
covered with slime, and something green filled the underside of her fingernails.
Through tears of frustration, she scrubbed them clean, dried them, and then
leaned on the sink as she’d done that morning with Amy.

“I can’t do
this alone, Diane,” she cried. “Please!  Show me something. Anything!”

That’s when she
heard a thud in the other room.

Lee turned with
a jerk. Her heart pounded so hard, she thought it might escape her chest. But
she waited – waited and listened. Her ears strained for the slightest sound. There
was nothing. After a long pause, she pushed her right hand along the counter,
looking for a drawer handle. She never took her eyes off the kitchen doorway. With
trembling fingers, she pulled open the nearest drawer and blindly searched for
something she could use as a weapon. When something sharp poked her thumb, she
risked a glance. The drawer was filled with cooking accessories. She grabbed a
meat skewer and moved slowly forward, holding the long spindle before her like
a dagger.

She inched her
way across the kitchen into the small dining room, where the light from the
kitchen splashed shadows across the oak table and chairs, but left the corners
in complete darkness. Stopping at the end of the table, her senses reached out,
searching for foreign sounds. Only the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock
greeted her. She crossed to the front door and then turned and faced the living
room, fully expecting to confront an intruder.

Instead, she froze,
her eyes wide, her veins pulsing.

Her purse lay
on the floor in front of the wing back chair, its contents regurgitated across
the carpet. Along with her wallet and car keys, the small onyx bird sat upright,
facing her. Lee gaped as one bird eye seemed to glint in the low light. The
saliva in her mouth tasted sour, and the buzzing was back in her ears.

She had left
the figurine on her vanity table at home. She hadn’t brought it with her. And
her purse had been thrown back into the corner of the chair. So how in the hell…?

She swallowed a
lump the size of a golf ball. What was going on?  Was someone else in the condo? 
She turned towards the front door, but it was closed and locked.

Lee moved
slowly into the living room and did a quick three-sixty next to the sofa, meat
skewer at the ready. As she did so, the toe of her shoe lifted the braided rug
and something scraped against the floor. The noise caught her off guard, and a
chill rippled down her spine. For a moment she forgot the possible intruder and
reached down cautiously to lift back the rug. A thick chunk of smoky yellow
porcelain, about a quarter of an inch in diameter, fell to the floor.

Lee’s knees
almost buckled as thoughts of imminent danger evaporated; it was a piece of the
missing vase. She dropped the meat skewer on the coffee table and leaned over to
pick up the piece of ceramic. Her eyes danced back and forth from the bird on
the carpet, to the chipped piece in her hand. Was there a connection?  As she
studied the broken piece of urn, something else caught her attention.