In Harm's Way

by E J Kindred

  “It’s that, or whispering out here, I guess.” She turned back to me. “We don’t have much extra room. The department outgrew this old building a long time ago, but there’s no money for a new one.”

  “Okay,” Harrison said. “The library it is.”

  I followed him down a narrow hallway, wondering what kind of library a police department would have. Law books, maybe, or case files. I’d certainly never heard of a police library before now.

  Harrison stopped in front of a solid-looking metal door and pulled a key ring from his belt. The door had a window about twelve inches square in the upper third with wire mesh embedded in the glass. These cops were certainly protective of their library.

  He unlocked the door. Before he opened it, he said, “Maybe he’ll take you down to his office instead. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable, if you can.”

  He pushed the door open and I went in.

  The Charbonneau Police Department “library” was a small room, maybe ten feet square, windowless except for the one in the door. It was devoid of books. The cell-like space had been painted an institutional color—maybe yellow?—so long ago that any pigment remaining on the scarred walls was mostly dingy gray. The fluorescent ceiling light distorted what little color there was in the room. An ancient tape recorder sat toward one end of the rectangular table alongside a pad of yellow legal paper and a plastic ashtray that didn’t appear to have been used since the state legislature banned smoking in public buildings. Maybe the officers thought its presence gave them an edge when a suspect who was also a smoker was denied its use. Two plastic chairs sat opposite each other at the table.

  I was in an interrogation room.

  I turned to the officer with what must have been a look of incredulity. The expression on his face said “sorry about that,” and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a sigh and a click.

  “Unbelievable.”

  I peered out the window in the door at the empty hall. Resigned, I settled into one of the chairs and pulled my phone from my jacket pocket. I could always play solitaire while I was in solitary. I smiled at my own silly humor.

  After a few minutes, the door whooshed open and Dean Jarrett came in carrying a flat oblong box and two bottles of water. He set one in front of me and took the other chair.

  “The library? You call your interrogation room the library?” I opened the bottle he’d given me and took a drink.

  He looked embarrassed for a moment. “Not my idea. I didn’t intend to meet with you in here anyway. Last minute meeting. Sorry for the wait.”

  “But why is this called the library?”

  He opened his own bottle of water. “The joke is that this is where criminals get the book thrown at them. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  “Yeah, that’s what happens in courtrooms, right?” I was surprised that I was relaxed enough to make light conversation with a police officer.

  “Exactly.” His sat up straighter and his professional persona reappeared. “I thought you might like an update, and then I have a few questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “You probably know that Doctor Wentworth’s funeral is Friday afternoon.”

  “Yes, I’m planning to go.”

  “I thought you might. The investigation is ongoing, of course. We’re talking again with all of the family members, past and present, as well as everyone who was in the house and anyone who worked for him. We’ll probably want to talk with you more about the household, so it’s good you’re back in town.”

  “And Mo? Maureen, I mean. The chef. The last I heard, she was still missing.”

  “And unfortunately, it’s still true. Which leads me to why I asked you to come in, rather than talking on the phone.”

  He picked up the box he’d brought with him, lifted the lid, and removed an object contained in a plastic bag. He set the object on the table in front of me, and when I saw what I was, I had trouble getting my breath.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  “Of course.” I picked the bag up carefully, knowing the edge would be razor sharp. I examined it through the clear plastic. “It’s Mo’s chef’s knife.” I put it down, realization dawning that I might have the murder weapon in my hand. I looked into the detective’s eyes. “Why do you have it?”

  “How can you be certain it’s hers?”

  I picked it up again and held it out toward him. “See right here, right where the blade meets the handle?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s hard to see, but if you get it in the right angle, you’ll see where she had her initials engraved.”

  He took it from me, glanced up at the ceiling light, and tilted the knife until he saw the tiny letters. “How did you know about this? I’m not sure I’d have seen it if you hadn’t shown me.”

  “She received a new set of knives about the time I started working for the Wentworths. She was so proud of them that she got them all engraved. Good knives aren’t cheap, and the doc bought her the best. She wouldn’t let anyone touch them. Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve held one.”

  The thought of Mo zealously guarding the tools of her trade would have ordinarily been amusing, but these weren’t ordinary times. “And you still haven’t said why you have it here.”

  “When you found the body, you said you saw blood.”

  I dreaded what was sure to come next.

  “The autopsy showed Doctor Wentworth was stabbed twice, once in the abdomen and once in the back, and this”—he indicated the knife—“this is the most likely weapon. We’re still waiting for the forensics report, but it fits the wounds.”

  I sat back in my chair, closed my eyes, and mentally surveyed both the kitchen and the area around the doctor’s body. “I don’t remember seeing a knife. Mo’s knife block—the wood knife holder—was out of place, but the kitchen was a mess. Maybe I missed it.”

  “When we searched the kitchen, we found this knife in the dishwasher. Someone had put it in there and turned it on, probably thinking to wash any evidence away.”

  I stared at him in disbelief for a long moment. “That confirms what I’ve been telling you.” I got up, too agitated to sit any longer. I turned to him and, leaning my fists on the table, I spoke at a deliberate pace. “No way in hell would Mo put her knife in the dishwasher. She’s not the killer. No way.” I felt the need to move, to release nervous energy, but the room was too small to let me pace, so I circled the table. Still on my feet, I faced Dean and took another drink of water, my mind racing.

  “How can you be so sure?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  I dropped into my chair. “Mo told me there’s not a decently trained chef in the world who would put a knife like this one in a dishwasher. They’re too important and too expensive. The only thing a good chef would do with a knife such as this”—I picked it up again—“would be to wash it after every single use, and by that I mean, after almost every ingredient, and when she was done, dry it carefully, and put it back in the block. It’s even poor practice to put a knife into the sink for washing later, because of the injury risk. Do you have any idea—” I stopped, realizing what I was about to say and carefully laid the knife back into its box.

  “Any idea about what?”

  I sighed. “I was going to ask if you have any idea how sharp a knife like this can be.” I looked into his eyes. “But if this proves to be the murder weapon, I guess you do.”

  Chapter Five

  Doctor Carlton Wentworth’s funeral was as understated as the man had been. The memorial service was held in the Charbonneau high school gym, which was still not big enough to seat everyone who attended. At least a hundred people were obliged to stand under the basketball hoops at each end of the gymnasium. If the occasion hadn’t been so somber, I’d have found it amusing to see elegantly dressed women in heels and men in expensive suits clambering up and down the bleachers.

  Doc hadn’t been a religious man, so after the funeral director said a
few consoling words, friends and family members came forward to speak. Most of them lauded the doctor’s finer qualities: his compassion for his patients, his charitable work, and his kindness to others. A few lightened the mood, such as Hal Brownlee, who thanked the departed doctor for making Ada stay in her wheelchair long enough for her hip to heal properly.

  A former colleague, who had worked for the doc many years earlier, regaled us with a tale of being fired repeatedly.

  “I’d do something he didn’t like, such as taping a dressing the wrong way. He’d get all wound up and fire me. Of course, I’d go back to work the next day. Most of the time, he’d have forgotten all about it, but now and then, he’d say, ‘Didn’t I fire you?’ I would agree that yes, he had, but I knew he didn’t mean it, and we’d get back to work.” The man paused for a moment, eyes lowered. “He made me a better doctor than I’d ever have been without him.” He paused for a moment and when he spoke next, his voice was constricted. “Bon voyage, Carl.”

  After the service ended, I met Sharon and Lupe at the diner. When I arrived, I found a line of people out to the street. Obviously most had been to the memorial service. Not many of Freddy’s usual customers wore silk suits and designer dresses. I’d almost despaired of finding my friends, but Freddy waved me through the door and pointed to a corner booth where Sharon and Lupe were sipping coffee and getting acquainted.

  “What I don’t understand,” I said as I slid into the booth next to Lupe. “is why they didn’t have the doc’s service somewhere nice in Portland.”

  “Hello to you, too,” Sharon said.

  Lupe said, “I heard Number Four talking about it. He made his funeral arrangements a long time ago and said he wanted everything done here. In a town this size, there’s nowhere bigger than the high school gym.” She sipped her coffee. “Number Four was none too happy about that.”

  That made sense, given what I knew about the doc. He might have come from a well-to-do pioneer family, but he’d always been down to earth.

  “How was it at the house while I was away?”

  Lupe rolled her eyes. “The whole situation was insane and sad, all at once. All of the wives and their families came down, of course, and there were a few friends. The house was packed. We had to put up a couple of people in—” Her gaze dropped to her hands.

  “Up in Mo’s room,” I said.

  She looked back up at me uncertainly. “There wasn’t anywhere else. Elise brought in a couple of temps to clean up, but I’m glad you’re back.”

  “I’m sorry I took off.” I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. “I owe you big time.”

  “Hey, you found the poor man’s body,” Sharon said. “That had to be horrible for you. I’d have gone into hiding forever after that.”

  I gazed down at the table. She didn’t need to know that the doc’s wasn’t the first dead body I’d seen in my life. “Yeah, it was bad.”

  A young woman I didn’t recognize came to the table. She took our orders and poured more coffee, leaving the pot on the table. The crowd in the diner had grown. The connection between death and food seemed a universal constant. After my dad’s death, well-wishers brought casseroles and soups and trays of cookies and fruit baskets until Grandma Natalie asked them to stop. She still had some of the platters and baking dishes since she’d been unable to identify their owners.

  We tried to talk about anything but the doctor’s death, but our conversation was halting. Fortunately, our food arrived, providing a welcome distraction. Unfortunately, Freddy’s excellent pastrami couldn’t erase worries about my missing friend.

  “I wish I knew where Mo went,” I said, finally voicing what was foremost in my mind. “The cops seem to think she killed the doc and took off . I don’t buy it.”

  “Whenever I saw them together, they seemed to get along fine.” Lupe looked despondent. “I wonder what will happen now.”

  Over the next few days, the Wentworth household tried in vain to return to normal. The doc was gone, and his moderating influence on Elise died with him. In some respects, she seemed more calm than usual. Lupe and I speculated that perhaps it was because she was no longer worried about being replaced. She was, after all, the last Mrs. Carlton Wentworth, Jr. In other ways, though, she was more out of control than ever. Her tone with us was sharper. She demanded more work in less time and carped about every little flaw. On the days I worked for her, I went home exhausted. The only good news, if it could be called that, was the cancellation of the New Year’s Eve party. Even Elise couldn’t muster the energy to pretend to celebrate.

  The kitchen was no longer my refuge, the place where I could find a sympathetic word or a snarky joke about servitude under Number Four. Mo was still missing. Her car hadn’t been found, either. Elise hired a new chef, a mousy little woman named Kate. I couldn’t picture her cutting a cake in wedges when she’d been told otherwise or serving anything except the minuscule portions the lady of the house demanded.

  Had my budget permitted, I would have quit. Instead, I asked the Brownlees and my other clients to let me know if they heard about anyone who needed a part-time housekeeper.

  As we all tried to establish a routine despite the changed circumstances, I couldn’t shake the nagging sensation I was forgetting something. I searched my memory, trying to identify it, but without success. After a time, I told myself it must be nothing, but the feeling persisted. I tried to ignore the troubling sense of déjà vu and went about my work.

  Though Ada Brownlee’s hip was no longer keeping her in a wheelchair, she still liked to have me come in twice a week to dust and vacuum. Hal and Ada’s friendly squabbling, the sort that only well-matched couples who’ve been together for decades can do, kept me entertained.

  A week after the doc’s funeral, I was putting the vacuum cleaner away when Hal came in from the garage with grocery bags in each hand. Ada went to help him, but he shooed her away.

  “I’m fine, old woman.” He stopped long enough to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Now get out of my way.”

  He deposited the bags on the counter and refused to let her help with the groceries. “Go visit with Annie,” he said.

  “All righty then.” Ada turned to me. “Coffee?”

  We took our cups to the kitchen table and were getting comfortable when Hal deposited a bakery box in front of us without saying a word. Ada opened it to reveal two enormous cinnamon rolls, one with icing and one without.

  “Hal,” I said. “You’re a man after my own heart.”

  He returned to the table with two plates and utensils. On impulse, I jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. His face turned a deep red, and Ada laughed in delight. I put one roll on each plate and heated both of them in the microwave. I served Ada the iced roll and took the other one for myself. The warm cinnamon roll paired with Ada’s excellent coffee could almost make me forget the ugliness I’d have to confront at some point.

  “How are you doing, dearie?” Ada ate a bit of the icing melting off her cinnamon roll.

  “I’m okay.”

  Hal snorted. “I doubt that very much.”

  Ada shot him a glare, but said to me, “He’s right, isn’t he?”

  “It is what it is, Ada. I was the first one to the house that morning, and I found him. That’s bad enough, but my friend is missing and the cops think she killed him. I haven’t been able to convince them otherwise.”

  “Your friend, she was the chef?”

  “Yes. She and the doc were buddies. It’s not possible that she’d hurt him. Something has happened to her. I can’t sleep, worrying about her.”

  Ada patted my hand and reminded me to drink my coffee before it got cold. I’d long since realized that spending time with Ada and Hal let me miss Grandma Natalie a little less. Maybe I needed to give serious consideration to moving back to Portland after all.

  “Are you going to ask her, or do I have to do it for you?” Hal plopped down in the chair next to Ada, his own coffee cup in hand.

  A
da scowled at him. “Shut up, old man. I don’t need your help.”

  “Ask me what?” I peered suspiciously at each of them in turn. “What are you two up to now?”

  “Nothing, dearie,” Ada said. “I have a doctor’s appointment in Portland next week, and this useless hunk of humanity”—she poked Hal’s shoulder with a finger—“has decided he doesn’t like driving there.”

  “It’s not that at all,” Hal said.

  “Yes, it is. So Annie, would you mind taking me? It’s next Wednesday at ten.”

  “Of course I’ll take you. I usually visit with my grandmother on Wednesdays anyway, so it’s no imposition at all. In fact, it’ll be fun. Maybe we can go to lunch with Grandma Natalie.”

  Ada gave Hal a look as if to say “so there,” and he laughed.

  “Hey, Annie, I’m fine driving. You have a nice new car, and I thought you might like to show it off, that’s all.” He made a show of giving me an exaggerated wink, pretending Ada didn’t see it and laughed again. “Besides, now I’ll get some peace and quiet in the house for a change.”

  On Wednesday morning, I arrived at the Brownlees’ home in time for breakfast. Ada insisted on feeding me in return for driving her to Portland. Since I was never one to turn down a homemade meal, I presented myself at the door at eight o’clock on the dot.

  Breakfast was made all the better by the resident sideshow. Their friendly bickering was endlessly amusing. Even before they met, I knew Ada and Grandma Natalie were going to get along fine.

  When it was time to go, Hal helped Ada into her jacket and reached to button it.

  “Leave me alone, old man.” She patted his hands out of her way. “I can dress myself.”

  “Yes, but when you do, I’m not sure I want to be seen with you in public. The last time you put this jacket on, you buttoned it all wrong. You looked like an escapee from the loony bin.”

  “I was. I escaped from you.” She stepped away from him and fastened the top button.

  “We’d better go,” I said. “Don’t want to be late.”