In Harm's Way

by E J Kindred

  “And Nichole Fleming? When did you meet her?”

  A leaden feeling spread in my chest. I pushed my coffee cup aside. “I met Nicky at Oregon State my junior year. She was a year behind me. She came home with me for a visit when her sophomore year ended. Her family is from Bend. About a year after she graduated, she moved to Portland for a job. We’d stayed in touch off and on, and we started dating after she moved here.”

  Grandma Natalie and my dad had both liked Nicky from the start, so when we moved in together after dating for almost a year, they were supportive.

  “Is that when she started spending time at the shop?”

  “She’d come by once or twice a week to hang out with me and Dad, eat with us, have a beer or two.” I reflected at the memory for a few seconds. “One day, he asked her to help us in the store, stock shelves, put things into the shed out back, stuff like that. He joked that he was tired of her freeloading so he decided to put her to work, but I know he liked having her around.”

  “Did you have any idea that she’d set up a meth lab in the shed?”

  “None. No clue at all. I never would have suspected her of having anything to do with drugs.” I paused for a moment. Even now, with the proof that we’d found, I still couldn’t reconcile the thought of Nicky making or selling meth with anything I thought I knew about her. “If I had, I’d have confronted her. If Dad had known, I’m sure he would have called the police. I know he’d have banned her from the shop and our home. He didn’t let anyone or anything endanger his family.”

  “And you didn’t notice any strange odors, chemical smells, stuff like that?”

  “Have you been to the shop yet?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I’m hoping to get over there this week. Why?”

  “It was on a corner with a gas station next door. An auto body shop was behind us, but it closed, too, damaged by the fire. Dad had solvents and cleaners and sometimes paint in the store. There were enough chemical odors around that I don’t think anyone noticed anything unusual coming from the shed. I know I didn’t.”

  “What about strangers hanging around where they shouldn’t have been? Any break-ins or vandalism?”

  “No,” I said. “The shed was visible from the street, so anyone could have gone back there, especially at night. Dad was too trusting to put up security cameras or a fence. He didn’t even bother to put a padlock on the door. That old shed was stuffed to the rafters with junk Dad collected over the years. Nothing worth saving, really, but he tended to be a packrat. Nicky told us she’d organized it all. We only found out later—” I stopped, my throat suddenly constricting.

  “After the fire,” Beth prompted.

  Patrick handed me a bottle of water and I took a long drink, grateful for the cold liquid.

  “After the fire, we found that she’d gotten rid of most of the stuff in the shed to make room for her meth lab.”

  “Okay, let’s shift gears a little.”

  I took a deep breath, relieved to talk about anything except my father’s death but knowing what was next.

  Beth consulted one of the files. “The fire was on April third. When did you last see Nicky?”

  “That morning. She had an early meeting, so she left around seven. I had a temp job at a veterinary clinic. I didn’t have to be there until ten, but I left the house a little after eight. The shop was on my way, so I liked to stop in and say hi to Dad on my way to work. When I got there, the shop was on fire.”

  All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. I stared down at the table, only vaguely aware of Patrick’s soothing hand on my back. After a long moment, I cleared my throat and took another sip of water. “I called 9-1-1.” Tears were running freely down my face. “Dad’s car was in the lot”—I choked on the words—“but the fire—I couldn’t get inside.” Patrick gave me another tissue and I wiped my tears away.

  Beth didn’t speak for a few minutes. I fought to get my emotions under control and focused on trying to breathe. I’d never forget standing outside the shop, screaming for my dad, forced back by the flames, hoping against hope that he wasn’t inside. Cursing myself for not getting there sooner.

  “When did you see Nicky next?” Beth’s tone was soft, gently bringing me out of my painful reverie.

  I took a deep breath. “I didn’t. I called her cell phone several times that day to tell her what happened, but she didn’t answer. I figured she was busy. When she didn’t come home, I left more voicemails over the next few days, but she never called me back. The fire investigators told us about the meth lab in the shed. They figured that some of the chemicals had exploded and started the fire.”

  She sorted through the files for a moment and extracted one, opened it, and handed me a sheet of paper. “When did you receive this?”

  I didn’t have to read it. The words Nicky had written still haunted me.

  Annie, I know you can never forgive me, but I had no choice. I never would have hurt Dad. I hope you know that. I’m so sorry. I love you. Nicky.

  I handed the note back to the detective, tears welling in my eyes. “I got it in the mail a few days after the fire. I figured she learned about Dad from the news.”

  “Did you hear from her after that?”

  “No.”

  “What about her family?”

  “They’d always been nice to me, and I talked with them a few times after Nicky disappeared. They hadn’t heard from her, either. After she was found, they stopped returning my calls and answering my emails. They told me to stay away from her funeral.” Grief at the memory formed a lump in my throat. A drink of cold water helped only slightly.

  “And when did you learn she was dead?”

  I dabbed at my eyes with the tissue that Patrick provided. “The detective we worked with before—” I fumbled for his name.

  “Aikawa?”

  “Yes, Detective Aikawa called me on May tenth.” I took a deep breath and blew it out. “He said that her—he told us she’d been found somewhere in downtown Portland.”

  “What details did he give you?”

  “Not much. He only said she’d been found in Old Town, in the alley behind one of the bars, and she’d been shot.” I looked directly into her eyes and stated with emphasis, “And I’ve been the focus of the investigation ever since.”

  She put her pen down and closed the files.

  “I know you have, but you’re not the only person of interest. From an investigator’s perspective, you appear to have the strongest motive. I hope you understand that we have to examine every possible explanation.”

  I started to protest, but she waved me into silence.

  “We’re also interviewing all of her friends and family and searching for her drug connections. If she was making meth, or involved in distribution or selling, she must have had contacts. So yes, we have to consider you a person of interest, perhaps a suspect, but trust me, you’re not the only one.”

  After a few more questions, the detective collected her files, gave me her card, and left. I stood and turned on Patrick, towering over him for a moment until he pushed his chair back and stood.

  “You bastard. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He attempted an innocent expression but failed.

  “You could have let me know this oh-so-wonderful detective could pass for a super model on her worst day. You’re my damn lawyer, and you let me trip all over myself like an adolescent school girl. Did you get your law license out of a Cracker Jack box?”

  “It gets better.” He was practically dancing with glee.

  “Oh?”

  “She’s family. Your family, that is. Didn’t you notice she didn’t hesitate at all to talk about Nicky as your partner?”

  “Fuck you, Patrick,” I said, but my words were less insult than reflex.

  “As you’ve reminded me many times, I’m not your type. She is, though.”

  I leaned against the table, too weary to continue arguing. “I don’t hav
e a type anymore. Do you really think she believes me? That I didn’t kill Nicky?”

  “I do.” He was finally being serious. “Having her working this case is the best thing that could happen. She’s an excellent detective. She used to work on narcotics cases, so she might have helpful connections. Give her a chance.” He stepped a few paces away from me and from a safe distance said, “And hey, maybe an invitation for coffee, once this is all done.”

  Over the next two weeks, I immersed myself in work. Ada Brownlee was still in her wheelchair, at least when Hal was home, so I went by their home every few days to dust and vacuum and do the laundry. The Brownlees referred me to a couple of their friends, so my client list grew. All of them asked for additional cleanings in preparation for holiday visitors. The Wentworths’ party schedule was also full. I didn’t mind the long days. Working kept my mind off my visit to Patrick’s office and the Portland detective who might arrest me for murdering Nicky.

  When I wasn’t working, I was out on my bike. Nothing cleared my mind quite like a hard ride in the cold and rain. My favorite route was a twenty-mile loop through Oregon’s wine country and up into the steep hills to the west.

  I arrived home from a ride feeling that kind of satisfying weariness that comes from hard physical exertion. I was also soaked to the skin from the winter rain, but that was no matter because I felt calmer than I had in weeks. I’d just parked my bike inside the apartment when my phone buzzed.

  “Hey, chickie,” Sharon said. “Got time for lunch?”

  An hour later, freshly showered and dressed, I met her at the diner.

  “You look like something the cat wouldn’t drag in,” she said in greeting.

  “It’s nice to know I can always count on your support. I’ve been having insomnia lately, so I went out for a ride.”

  “In this weather? Now I know you’re nuts.”

  We settled into a corner booth and took menus from the metal bracket at the end of the table. I turned my coffee cup right side up in the time-honored signal for “coffee, please.” I’d had a good ride, but the hot shower afterwards hadn’t quite banished the December chill from my bones.

  “I don’t know why I’m reading the menu,” I said. “I always get the same thing.”

  Sharon agreed, and we continued to examine the menus as if we hadn’t seen them before.

  All of a sudden, I felt a presence near my shoulder and in my ear, someone said, “Okay, spill it.”

  Startled, I looked up to find Freddy staring me in the eyes from four inches away. I leaned back to get her into focus. “Spill what?” Of course, I knew what she wanted.

  She filled my coffee cup, plunked the pot down on the table, and slid onto the booth bench next to me.

  “Who baked that cake?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Sharon’s amused expression. I’d told her what I’d done, sharing Mo’s cake with Freddy, but even Sharon didn’t know the identity of the master baker who’d created it.

  “I’ll trade you information for your pastrami recipe,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers. It was true; I’d have no idea how to make pastrami from scratch, but it was worth a shot.

  She called my bluff. “Not a chance. I have a reputation to protect. How about you come across with a name, and I won’t ban you from my diner.”

  My answer must have shown on my face because she grinned in triumph.

  “Fine. Her name is Maureen.” I slid the menu into the metal bracket at the head of the table. “I’ll have the pastrami.”

  Five days before Christmas, I parked my car at the Wentworths’ home and sat for several minutes in the morning gloom, mentally preparing for another long day. I didn’t want to be there. In the three weeks since the Wentworth family gathering, Elise had been on a worse tear than usual, preparing for the last holiday party of the season, and she’d asked me to come in extra early to make sure the house was ready. I fully expected to mop spotless floors, dust shining furniture, and vacuum carpet that hadn’t seen a footprint since the last cleaning.

  As much as I needed the work, I’d developed an intense dislike for Number Four. Always before, I’d tried to keep the peace. If I couldn’t agree with her, at least I could keep my head down and do my work. She was my employer, not my friend. But her treatment of Eric and her hostility toward gay people had put an end to any attempts I might have made toward understanding. Unfortunately, my tight budget didn’t give me the freedom to ditch my most financially rewarding client.

  Sighing, I pulled the hood up on my jacket and got out of my car. The morning was dark with heavy clouds that had been pouring rain nonstop for hours. I locked the car and, head down to protect against the rain, went into the house through the side door as I always did. The house seemed cold, so I kept my jacket on while I checked the white board for my assignments. I shivered as I read the list, not from the length of it, but from the chill in the air. I hadn’t been to the Wentworths’ home so early before, and I wondered if they turned the heat down at night.

  Lights from the kitchen shone through to where I stood. Perhaps Mo was working early, too, prepping food for the big bash.

  “Mo, you up already?”

  All of the kitchen lights were on, but Mo wasn’t in sight. Two pots sat on the stove, and the kitchen reeked of hot metal. One of the pots sat a little crooked on a lit gas burner, but when I straightened it, it felt light. I lifted the lid and saw that it was empty and discolored from the heat. Starting to worry, I turned the burner off. Mo would never have been that careless.

  Concerned, I looked around more carefully. Vegetables were piled near the butcher block cutting board. An onion and several carrots littered the floor. A chicken with one leg and a thigh piece cut away lay on the board, the skin drying at the edges.

  “Mo, are you back there?”

  I checked the pantry at the far side of the kitchen to no avail. One of the tall stools she kept near the cupboards lay on its side. The wood knife block was pushed out of its usual spot on the counter, and several of the knife handles were askew.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  I called her name again but got no response.

  I scanned the utility room near the kitchen. No luck. When I went back out into the hallway, a cold draft made me shiver and pull my jacket tighter around me. The air currents seemed to come from the back of house, so I walked down the passageway, flipping on the light as I went.

  The back door was halfway open.

  “Well, no wonder,” I muttered, and started to push it closed.

  The light from the hall illuminated a narrow strip of the back porch and the lawn beyond. An odd brown shape on the grass caught my eye, so I pulled the door open. Elise would never stand for litter in the yard when she was having a party. I pulled the hood of my jacket up and went down the steps to collect the offending object.

  I found a sodden leather slipper.

  “What on earth?” How did a slipper get out into the yard?

  I turned back toward the door when, through the pouring rain and in the dim December light, I saw a dark shape on the grass to the left of the porch. Reaching back through the door into the house, I switched on the outside light.

  Doctor Wentworth lay motionless on the cold ground.

  “Doc?” I knelt down beside him, called his name. His body was cold and wet from the rain. His open eyes were cloudy. Only then did I see that blood had made a gruesome trail down his neck and shoulder from beneath his dark robe.

  “Oh, no, Doc.” Illogically, I put my hand on his shoulder and called his name again, despite knowing at some level that he couldn’t respond. I rushed back into the kitchen.

  “Help! Mo! Is anyone here? Anyone? Mo?” I grabbed the kitchen phone and called 9-1-1.

  “Please help,” I said when the operator answered. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Calm down, ma’am,” the operator said, which made me realize I was sobbing. “I can’t understand you.”
r />   I wiped tears from my face and tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t stop crying.

  “He’s dead, the doc is dead. Please,” I said through my sobs, “send everybody to Doctor Wentworth’s house on Old Pine Road.”

  I dropped the phone onto the counter, ignoring the clatter it made when it slid off the slick surface and onto the floor. I made my way down the hall and stood in the open doorway, frozen with my hands on both sides of the doorjamb, unable to move further. The light above the back porch made the doc’s body seem surreal. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, even though I was shivering from both shock and the chill in the air.

  Somewhere between seconds and eternity, the police and an ambulance crew arrived, lights flashing, sirens blaring. My cries had awakened the gardener, whose room was close by, and he alerted Elise. She rushed to the door, and when she saw the still form of her husband on the ground, she fainted. Orlando caught her as she fell. For a split second, I wondered if she were faking, but I chastised myself for thinking so. Even someone as selfish as Elise Wentworth was capable of honest reactions to a shocking sight.

  Mo still hadn’t appeared. Even in the chaos, I worried. Something wasn’t right.

  The police officers I’d met when Elise’s necklace went missing arrived first, and after they made a quick examination of the doctor’s body, they asked me how I’d found him and what I might have touched or moved. They told me to stick around, then left me alone. They had time to take photographs of the scene before the paramedics arrived, followed by the county medical examiner.

  About the time the paramedics were putting the doctor’s body onto a gurney, a tall, dark-haired man dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt arrived. Though dressed casually, he had an air of authority about him. He consulted with the police officers, who asked everyone to meet in the living room. He waited until we were all seated.

  “I’m Dean Jarrett. I’m a detective on the Charbonneau police force. Is everyone here?”

  I scanned the room. Elise was pale and trembling, tears wetting her face. She was wrapped in a blanket clearly failing to provide warmth or comfort. Orlando, the gardener, perched on the edge of the sofa, his face revealing nothing. I sat to one side, near the massive Christmas tree with its multi-colored decorations, sparkling lights, and cascading tinsel that now seemed obscenely cheerful.