Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (7 page)

“Ducky had no intention of
idling
around the house with her husband. She planned to spend time enjoying her grandkids, Melissa and Barney. And she and Quentin were going to learn ballroom dancing together,” I said. “Well, let me take that back.
She
was going to take ballroom dancing lessons and I assumed Quentin would be her partner.”

“She must have had a change of heart,” Wyatt said. “When push came to shove, those desires may not have been intriguing enough to ward off her sudden despair. Severe, overwhelming despair can come on in an instant, causing the affected person to react without giving their decision much thought. Having been in the department for many years, I’ve been involved with quite a few suicides, and this incident seems very reminiscent of many of the cases I’ve seen in the past.”

“But she had a lot of plans and dreams for her retirement that she told me about, with great enthusiasm I might add. I certainly didn’t sense any ‘overwhelming despair’ from her. She could hardly wait for her retirement to commence.”

With a little chuckle, Stone said, “She told Lexie she wanted to go sky-diving and get a Harley Davidson tattoo.”

Turning to me, Wyatt asked, “And you believed that?”

“Well, yes. She already had a tattoo on her bum, and you know how eccentric she was. I felt like, with Ducky’s personality, anything on her bucket list was apt to be odd and unusual.”

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” Wyatt said. “She once told me she kept a pet iguana named Pookie in her bathtub, and was looking for a mate for her. I have to admit, I know very few senior citizens who breed iguanas in their tub. Like, exactly no one other than Ducky.”

“I can picture that,” I said. “But didn’t her husband have a say about her desire to house an entire family of iguanas in their bathroom?”

“You would think so. One has to wonder what kind of character Quentin is, being married to Ducky, and all. He and Ducky had only been married a couple years though. I do know Ducky and her first husband went through a very nasty divorce about five or six years ago. There were several domestic dispute calls involving the two of them during that time. If I remember right, her ex-husband’s name is Bo Reliford. I’m not positive about the first name, it could be Bob, but I know Bertha’s last name was Reliford for many years.”

“Have you ever met her ex?” I asked.

“Yeah, I went out on a couple of those calls, and he was a real hot head and very abusive and belligerent when he’d been drinking, which was the majority of the time. He was arrested one time after a serious bender for assaulting a police officer, who just happened to be my partner at the time. Bo went after Clayton with a broken beer bottle, but in his drunken stupor, he stumbled to the ground and cut his own leg with it. He was a real schmuck, but I think he moved to Lee’s Summit not long after that incident.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting,” I said. “I can’t imagine why Ducky stayed with him as long as she did. She didn’t seem the type to put up with that kind of behavior, and tiny as she was, I can’t see her being so afraid of anyone that she would be reluctant to leave an abusive husband in fear of retribution. Have you met her current husband?”

“No, but that’s about to change. Quentin’s coming in to the station for questioning in about twenty minutes. Even in the event of a suicide, it’s not uncommon for family members to be interviewed. In a case like this, it’s almost mandatory. That reminds me, I need to get going or I’ll be late, and I don’t need the Chief on my case. I really just stopped by to check on your welfare, Lexie.”

“Thanks, Wyatt, I appreciate your concern. Would you like a cup of coffee and a doughnut to go?” I asked. I’d never seen this goliath of a man turn down food, and this time was no different.

“I think I’ll pass on the coffee, but I might take a long john with me. It might be a while before I can grab some lunch.”

* * *

The house phone rang a few minutes after Wyatt left to return to the police station. As I suspected, it was my daughter calling. She was also just checking in to inquire about how I was doing. I told her I was coping as best I could, considering what had happened earlier in the day.

“The body’s in the cooler at the moment, but the autopsy is scheduled to begin in an hour or so,” Wendy told me. Sadness overtook me as I marveled at how one could be a lively, complex, and vibrant human being known as Bertha “Ducky” Duckworthy, one day, and referred to as simply “the body” the next.

“Do me a favor and look for signs of defensive wounds on
the body
during the autopsy. I have very strong doubts about Ducky killing herself, and I know she would not have gone down without a fight.”

“Why are you so certain she wouldn’t have committed suicide, as the detectives concluded in their initial investigation this morning?” Wendy asked me.

I went on to tell her what I’d just told Wyatt and Stone. I listed off all the things Ducky had told me she wanted to do after she retired, repeating some of what I’d told everyone, including her, at the supper table the previous night. I described the excitement Ducky displayed while uncharacteristically chattering on about her plans. I described the tattoo she’d so proudly shown me. By the time I was through, I could tell Wendy was harboring some doubt about the validity of the librarian’s death being ruled as a suicide.

“That is awfully strange,” Wendy said. “I suppose she could have been trying to throw you off with all her bucket list talk, but what would she have stood to gain by that? I will run it by Nate so he will also be on the lookout for any signs of a struggle on the body during the autopsy.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it. And please don’t call her ‘the body.’ I find it unnerving, and somewhat offensive.”

“Sorry, Mom. It’s a force of habit from working in the coroner’s lab every day. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.”

“I know, honey. I’m just stressed out right now.”

“As well you should be.”

“Call me this evening with the results of the autopsy, okay? I’m very anxious to see what you discover,” I said.

“Of course. Now go sit on your back porch with your ever-present cup of coffee, and try to relax and unwind a bit. I’ll give you a ring this evening.”

After the call ended, I decided Wendy’s suggestion was a good one. I put on a sweatshirt and retreated to the back porch with a cup of steaming fresh-brewed java. Stone soon joined me with his own cup, and we sat quietly, saying very little as we were both engrossed in our own thoughts. I found myself unwinding somewhat, but knew I would never relax while the cause of Ducky’s demise was still up in the air. I considered scrounging up a load of laundry, just to keep myself occupied, until Wendy called with the autopsy results, but soon realized I was too bone-weary to remove myself from the lounge chair. Before long Stone was snoring in the other chair and, eventually, I too drifted off into a fitful slumber.

Somewhere between dreaming that all my teeth were falling out one by one, while unsuccessfully trying to get a huge wad of bubble gum out of my mouth, and Stone giving me the Heimlich maneuver while I was participating in a hot dog eating contest against Pee Wee Hermann and Mean Joe Green, I dreamt I was being chased down a dark alley by a scary, wild-eyed man with a broken beer bottle in his hand. Even after the man morphed into a childhood friend of mine, and then finally into my late former mother-in-law, I kept running in sheer panic. I then stopped briefly at a café to purchase a cup of coffee before continuing my terrifying sprint down a dark, deserted highway. Apparently, even during my darkest hour, I had a caffeine addiction that couldn’t be denied.

When Stone shook my shoulder an hour later, I was still damp with sweat and my heart was beating as if I’d just sprinted up the stairs to the top of the Empire State building. According to Stone, I’d been murmuring in my sleep, and tossing and turning in the lounge chair. Despite the nonsensical quality of my dreams, I was disturbed by the fear factor embedded in them. It was time to get up and go search through the inn for items I could justify washing, just to keep me busy while I tried to clear my mind.

* * *

I was deep in thought, while rinsing off the dishes after serving supper to the Spurleys from Nebraska, who had checked in about three o’clock. I was aware the tuna casserole I’d made tasted more like saturated sofa stuffing, with just a hint of lemon pepper, than anything a person would actually want to eat, but fortunately, our guests didn’t complain. I wondered for a moment if turmeric would have enhanced the flavor, had we had any on hand. The Senator and his wife seemed like a kind, laid-back couple, and knew from our dinner conversation that I’d had a traumatic morning. They were very sympathetic about my emotional distress.

And Stone was too much of a gentleman to ever criticize my cooking, no matter how God-awful the new recipes I attempted turned out. He never failed to kiss me after every meal and thank me for preparing it. The closest he’d ever come to objecting to a dish I’d served, was when he referred to my seven-layer lasagna as a “valiant effort.” Even I couldn’t choke down that culinary catastrophe, and from years of eating my own cooking, I could force down some really offensive vittles.

When the phone rang, it startled me. I dropped a wine glass into the porcelain sink, shattering it. I didn’t even hesitate to consider the mess. Instead, I dried my hands quickly with a dishtowel and rushed to answer the phone. As I’d hoped, it was Wendy calling in regard to the results of the autopsy.

“Hi Mom,” she greeted me. “I told Nate about our conversation earlier, and he agreed that from your conversation with Ducky yesterday, she didn’t sound like someone on the verge of ending their life. And we did find multiple hematomas on her arms.”

“Hematomas?”

“Bruises, basically. But as you surely know, when a person ages their skin gets considerably thinner. Sometimes an insignificant bump against a doorframe can cause major discoloration in the skin of a person Ducky’s age or even yours. Because of the nature of these hematomas, they might be considered suspicious, but can’t be definitively considered defensive wounds. And other than that, there was really nothing of any significance to be found, other than the telltale ligature marks around her neck that had the characteristic inverted ‘V’ shape, which indicates suicide rather than homicide.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“When a body is already deceased, as in the event of having been murdered before the hanging, the ligature mark is nearly always a straight-line bruise. However, in the event of a suicide, where the person is still alive when the hanging occurs, the bruise is typically in the shape of an inverted ‘V,’ as was the case with Ducky. The bruising in the entire neck region was fairly extensive, but not inconsistent with the type of bruising associated with thin skin, like we saw on her arms.”

“Well, I don’t know what to think now,” I admitted. “Because she had on long sleeves yesterday, I didn’t see if there were already any hematomas on her arms before I left, but I’m still not one-hundred-percent convinced Ducky’s responsible for her own death, despite what the evidence suggests.”

“You might have to just accept it and let it be. We are waiting for the results of a tox screen, however, looking for signs of things like chloroform, or perhaps Rohypnol, Ketamine or GHB.”

“What are those?”

“Date rape drugs.”

“Oh, good Lord. Wendy, please tell me Ducky wasn’t raped too,” I said.

“No, she was not sexually assaulted. These drugs could render her unconscious, or unable to defend herself. But there are a lot of drugs out there that could knock a person out. We don’t suspect this was the case, however, because we found no visible injection sites. The tox screen results are due back tomorrow morning though, and I’ll call you when we get them.”

“Good. Thanks honey!”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Mom. It’s not likely anything will show up that will point to anything but a suicide. Had we found definitive signs of her being dead prior to the hanging, we’d surely have a case for murder. But, Mom, do you realize how hard it would be for an individual to physically carry another person, no doubt kicking and screaming for all they were worth, up a ladder and then carry out the actual hanging? Ms. Duckworthy was for certain still alive prior to her neck being broken as a result of the hanging.”

“Yes, I’ve considered the logistics involved, and do find it difficult to imagine. I don’t recall what the noose was constructed of, do you? I was in shock at the time.”

“It was crudely made out of a rope. There were quite a few particles of vectran found on her clothing and in her hair, as well as a few equine hairs. The rope was probably around a horse’s neck before it was around Ducky’s neck. Did she mention owning horses to you? Do you know if she lived on a farm?”

“No, but we never discussed where she lived. I assumed it was right here in town and never inquired.”

“Ducky would most likely have brought it to work with her, since it isn’t something you’d typically find in a library,” Wendy continued. “That points to a pre-medicated, well-thought-out plan, and not a spur of the moment decision to kill oneself.”

“I didn’t see any rope in the library, but Ducky got very irritated when I messed with the stuff on her desk. I guess it’s possible she didn’t want me discovering the rope in one of the drawers, probably already tied into a noose. Had I stumbled across it, I would have naturally questioned her, and if not satisfied with her response, I might have called Wyatt to come check it out. And Ducky probably would have guessed that’d be my reaction.”