Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  “Alexa?”

  She whirled, coffee flying from the can as she spun. “What was I doing?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!” Officer Jordan Freidan stood before her covered in coffee.

  “I usually prefer my coffee hot, diluted with water, and in a cup.” As if to punctuate his words, he blew a puff of air between his lips to dust the coffee from his mustache.

  Her nerves frayed into fringe that tickled her. She snickered, chortled, laughed, and eventually grabbed her stomach, clutching the counter as tears of laughter poured down her cheeks—and turned to terrified sobs.

  Joe reached for her, tugging her sleeve, but Alexa pushed him away, unwilling to be touched. Only anger superseded the raw terror that sent icy daggers into her soul. She ignored his words—whatever they were—and rushed from the room, pausing in the living room only long enough to grab her favorite shawl from its customary peg before she stepped onto the porch.

  Joe jumped as the door slammed. The noise reverberated through the house. He stepped into the living room and watched as she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Such a strange, incongruous picture—a woman in a shawl just as the streetlights flickered and glowed.

  The sooner he began his search, the sooner he could try to convince her to come back inside. He knelt to examine the latch and remembered the coffee strewn all over the kitchen. The back door would be a good enough place to start, and then he could make that pot of coffee. She’d be cold when she returned. A glance at the wall clock told him he only had five minutes left on his shift.

  He stepped onto the back porch, examining the locks as he went, and called Varney. “Hey, chief. Look, have Judith clock me out. I’ll finish the inspection on my own time.”

  “How is Miss Hartfield?”

  “She’s a bit overwrought. She just tried to make coffee and forgot what she was doing when she found the can.”

  “And right now?”

  “She’s walking it off. She fell apart when she figured out she’s a suspect. She’ll be back soon. She only took a shawl and it’s cold outside.”

  “If she’s not back in ten minutes, you call. I can’t blind myself to the possibility that she is guilty.”

  Annoyed, Joe excused himself and shoved his phone in his pocket. Gut feelings might not be sound police practice, but ignoring them could also get him killed. Joe’s gut told him that not only was Alexa not guilty, she was likely to be a future target.

  The scent of brewing coffee soothed his cold, dry nostrils as he reentered the kitchen. The house felt warmer—cozier. He glanced around the kitchen, truly seeing it for the first time. He dashed out to the cruiser and retrieved a pair of latex gloves—just in case. Less than a minute later, he returned to the kitchen.

  Such a tiny kitchen—just one wall and a peninsula—not quite a galley. To one side, a door revealed a pantry. Hanging from the back of the door, a crisp gingham apron with embroidered cherries fluttered as it swung open. She would wear aprons. Someone like Alexa would most definitely wear aprons.

  Two windows, separated by a narrow row of shelves, looked out over the side yard. On those shelves, pasta, beans, and other things he couldn’t identify sat in mason jars. The lack of cupboard space astounded him. If she ever wanted to sell, the kitchen would have to be gutted. That thought bothered him. The original simple oak cupboards and butcher-block counters shouldn’t be changed.

  Nothing looked out of place as far as he could tell. Joe stepped into the dining room and glanced around him. A bay window looked out over the back yard, and the latches were untouched. If the few scratches on one end of the round dining table indicated anything, Alexa liked to sit there, looking out the window. His hand ran along the top of the Windsor-backed chair, something about it feeling off, but he couldn’t identify it.

  The house boasted all the charming details common in older homes. Built-in bookshelves, small nooks, and carved moldings—they had sold her the house; he was sure of it. A china cupboard, custom built into one end of the room showcased a tea service—one he suspected she used often—a few larger serving dishes, and drawers that no doubt held silver flatware.

  As he continued his inspection of Alexa’s home, Joe was struck by the realization that he had made the pass once before. However, this time he saw more than window locks, doorjambs, and dust. The living room—did she call it a parlor?—opened from the dining room. The blue and green of the dining room blended into a softer sage and pale grayed blue in the living room. Lavender accents created a soothing and beautiful picture. To his surprise, as feminine as it was, he did not feel out of place.

  Searching the living room was harder than the other rooms. Books, antiques, a vase—one without flowers—and a plaster bust of some old-fashioned man gave the room visual interest. That thought made him snicker. His mother would love to hear him now.

  Joe eyed the antique-looking sofa, wondering if it was comfortable. It looked like it was more for show than use, but he could envision Alexa Hartfield curled in one corner with her laptop, writing. He eased himself into it, shifting slightly. It was surprisingly comfortable.

  He jumped up, embarrassed. “Just do your job,” he muttered to himself. The first door on the right of the hall revealed the same retro bathroom that he’d seen on his last trip. The black and white tiles—those he remembered. The enormous claw foot tub that took up most of the room—he remembered that too. The shower curtain, suspended by a ring above, was pushed back revealing the shiny chrome fixtures. They gleamed in the light as though recently polished. It made no sense. He glanced around the rest of the room, looking for dust. There was none.

  As he pushed in the door to the first bedroom, Joe paused instinctively. In a house full of shut doors, this one was ajar. The sight of the four-poster bed with sheer fabric draped through rings at the top of each pole amused him. One thin, sheer layer of fabric stretched over the top of the bed as a canopy, but Joe didn’t like it. Someone like Alexa might like the soft, romantic effect, but it hid the plasterwork that fanned out around the light fixture.

  By the time he entered her office, Joe had grown nervous. Something felt terribly off. A glance around him gave him no more information than any other room. He opened the closet door, unsure why he thought he’d see anything of use in there.

  The sight of yet another closet stuffed with clothing amused him. “Now if it was a crime to be a clothes horse...” he murmured as he closed the door and turned to examine the rest of the room.

  Research books with ominous titles regarding crime, weaponry, and mental illnesses filled the bookcase next to an overstuffed recliner. The chair seemed incongruous with the room. He sat, his body sinking into it as the chair molded itself to him—a perfect chair for relaxing in while watching football. Maybe it was time to do something about his beat-up furniture.

  The last door squeaked as he opened it. The largest of all rooms, it was clearly a guest room. Curious, he pulled open a drawer of a bedside table and found it empty. Was it always empty?

  Once again, the closet held rows of blouses, dresses, shoes, hats. His hand slid across the sleeves, fascinated by the different fabrics and textures. Why he was surprised at the volume, he couldn’t imagine. People often said she never wore anything twice.

  A sound in the kitchen send him jogging down the hall. Alexa’s shawl lay draped across the couch, and it slowed his pace. In the kitchen, a rosy-cheeked and shivering Alexa stood next to the sink, sipping coffee, staring at the mess he’d forgotten to sweep up for her.

  “Have a nice walk?”

  She smiled sheepishly, the tearstains still visible on her cheeks. “I feel foolish.”

  “You’ve been through a lot.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been on a lovely business trip, stayed at a lovely hotel, and made what I believe will be lovely friends.” She wiped at the corners of her eyes. “The woman who was killed... she had a rough time.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, that reminds me. Do you know if they’re usi
ng Fairbury Mortuary? Can I get the correct spelling of her name? I’d like to send flowers.”

  Joe knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Alexa Hartfield had a reputation for thoughtfulness and generosity. Two Christmases past, she’d bought gifts for all the officers at the station. He still watched his Colombo DVDs after a long day’s work.

  “You had your hand sliced because someone trespassed. At the least, he tried to rattle you. Someone gained access to your manuscript without permission and tried to use it to commit a crime, which I believe was meant to implicate you.” She began to protest, but Joe continued before she could interrupt. “An old friend whom you trusted now suspects you of being a killer, and after all that, you return home to your spotless house and baptize it in coffee grounds.”

  “I guess I should be glad I’m not an immersionist.”

  Joe attempted to stifle his fits of laughter as he opened the pantry door to retrieve the mini-vac he’d seen in there. As he turned, her eyes grew wide. “Joe? How—”

  “While you were out, I did an inspection—two things seemed odd. Oh, and I didn’t notice the last time, but this time I really took a good look at your home. It’s a great house.”

  “Thanks.” She grabbed the coffee pot and a mug from the cupboard. “What seemed odd?”

  As she passed him a cup, Joe took a sip and a deep breath. If only someone at the station could learn to brew a decent pot of coffee. He kept telling the chief it was the coffee, not the makers, and this cup proved it. “First thing I noticed is that the bathroom is shiny clean. Actually, the whole house is. There isn’t a speck of dust anywhere.”

  Alexa carried her cup into the dining room and ran one finger along the windowsill. She found it dustless. An unreadable expression crossed her face as she strode into the living room and examined the bust by the woodstove. “This thing is always dusty. I can’t keep it dust free.”

  In the bathroom, she pointed to the window—cracked open to allow ventilation. “There should be a good-sized coat of dust everywhere in here. There always is.”

  She stepped across the hall into her room and backed out again, her hand over her mouth. Joe’s hand moved instinctively to his gun. “What?”

  “I always cover the hats on that wall in plastic when I leave.”

  She shuffled back into the living room and dropped into the same corner of the couch Joe had imagined her in, shivering. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders. A glance around the room assured her that nothing was out of place. Not a book on the shelf was out of order or even a pillow disturbed. The window warmers still hung exactly as she had left them.

  “Everything is exactly right, but it’s too clean for two weeks without dusting—and that plastic. It’s gone.”

  “Are you sure you covered it?”

  Alexa closed her eyes and stood. She glanced at him and then left the room, walking into the kitchen. By the back door, she took a key from a rack and went outside, strolling across the grass to the garage. Joe, though irritated at her lack of forethought for her safety, couldn’t help but be impressed at her apparent fearlessness. “You shouldn’t charge into dark garages alone.”

  “Sorry. Habit.” From a cupboard on the back wall, Alexa pulled out a piece of plastic drop cloth. “I buy them, cut them into the right size, and drape them over the hats before I go anywhere.”

  “What do you do to protect them when you’re home?”

  She laughed at his confusion. “I use canned air. I should keep them in boxes or covered in plastic, but I like how they look. They make me smile.”

  “You’re sure you covered the hats.”

  He saw the confidence in her eyes before she spoke. “Definitely. I keep three in here—ready to go at all times. I tore one when I was rushing out the door, so I had to grab a second one. There’s only one left.”

  ALEXA OBSERVED THROUGH the open door as every officer on the Fairbury force dusted her house for fingerprints. Partially numb from cold and shock, she saw confusion in their faces and it made her wonder. The researcher in her took copious mental notes for future books. Joe seemed to be supervising the effort.

  Chief Varney blustered through the rooms, making everyone nervous. He wanted answers. He demanded that they find the intruder and “bring the slime ball in.” It looked as if Joe’s patience was shot, gone, kaput.

  He caught Alexa’s eye through the door before turning and arguing again with Chief Varney. Seconds later, he stepped outside, beckoning her closer. “Let’s get you out of here. I’ll take you somewhere to get you some dinner and then we’ll move you over to Brunswick. My Great Aunt Charity runs a boarding house there.”

  “But why—”

  “We need you out of Fairbury.”

  Her eyes widened at the implications of those words. “Can I still take my trip tomorrow?”

  “You should be able to go without any trouble. We just don’t understand what’s going on with your house, and we can’t guarantee your safety in it right now.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Not to mention, it’s going to be a filthy mess.”

  Alexa shook her head, trying to clear it. “Huh? Why don’t you understand my house? Why a filthy mess?”

  “Dusting for prints—gray residue everywhere. You’ll want to hire someone to come in and clean it while you’re gone or you’ll come home to all that work.”

  “You’re dusting for prints because the plastic thing is gone.”

  “Well, and because your house is dust free.” He added a little more quietly, “So far, it looks like my hunch is correct.”

  Alexa waited for him to elaborate before asking the obvious question. “So, have you found any fingerprints? Well, other than yours and mine—oh, and Sarah and Zach down the street come over sometimes, and—”

  “I seriously doubt we’ll find anything.”

  That idea intrigued her. “Ok, so are you saying that fingerprints have a life span—that after so much time they disappear?”

  “Well, not disappear so much as they get smudged, washed away, and things like that. But they get replaced by new ones.”

  “Right. You take a glass out of the cupboard. It has prints on it already from putting it away. So, if someone else put it away, there’d be two sets on there, right?”

  “Exactly. You could put it on the table and someone else—or many other people could touch it. Or, even when you take it out the cupboard, it could have more than one set of prints on it from someone reaching for a glass, touching it, getting distracted, coming back and taking another one.”

  “Ok...” Alexa followed the logic but not the point of the discussion.

  “Well, the next time you pull that glass out of the cupboard, it has your fingerprints on it from when you put it away last.

  “And...” She now felt positively obtuse.

  “Sticking with our example, your dishes, silverware, glasses, and almost every other item in your kitchen have no fingerprints at all when realistically, they should at least have yours on them.”

  As the full import of the words struck her, Alexa shivered. “You mean everything? What about my cookbooks?”

  “Outsides and inside covers are clean, but we’ve found a few discernible prints inside.”

  Anger welled in her. As the magnitude of the situation hit her, she seethed. “You are telling me that someone came into my house and touched my things? Everything? Just the kitchen or—?”

  “Every room. Every single thing in every room.”

  “Everything? What kind of sick—”

  “I don’t know,” Joe admitted. “I’ve never heard of anything like it. I’ve heard of murder scenes being wiped-down and cleaned, but not entire empty houses without crimes committed in them. This is bizarre.”

  Alexa jabbed her finger into Joe’s chest. “You catch this guy. Do you understand me? Catch him. And then I want ten—even just five minutes alone with him.”

  Joe led her away from the house, assuring her that they would do everything possible to catch her intr
uder. He opened the passenger door of her car and hurried to the driver’s side, eager to turn on the car’s heat. As he sat down, Alexa shook her head. “I don’t have the keys. They’re in my purse on the shelf above the front door.”

  She watched through the windows as Joe argued with the chief—presumably about letting her leave with her purse. As he jogged down her steps, her purse in his hands, she smiled. An officer in uniform carrying a purse—amusing.

  It took longer to open her purse than it did for her to retrieve her keys and pass them to him. “I should insist on directions and driving myself, but I really don’t want to.” She buckled herself in as she asked, “But how will you get back?”

  “Someone can come get me or maybe Aunt Charity can bring me home. I’m not worried about it.”

  Alexa, desperate to avoid silence, whispered, “Tell me about your aunt.” Even as he started to speak, she realized that Joe probably knew and understood how violated and vulnerable she felt. Interrupting his answer, she whispered, “I can’t believe I’m going to Fairbury’s version of a ‘safe house.’”

  “It’ll be ok. Aunt Charity is a little unique, but I think you’ll like her. As I said, she runs a boarding house. Who does that anymore?”

  “Apparently, your Aunt Charity.”

  “I have no doubt that within minutes of your arrival, she’ll try to introduce you to one of her ‘friends’ and—”

  “Oh, no, Joe. I don’t want to meet people. Maybe we should get a hotel room—” Alexa groaned at Joe’s chuckles. “That came out all wrong.”

  “I can’t wait to tell the guys at the station that Alexa Hartfield—”

  “Varney would murder you.”

  “Exactly why I won’t do it.” Joe laughed before adding, “Aunt Charity’s friends are probably old friends of yours.”

  “Even still—”

  “Trust me. I’m thinking you’re going to remind her of her ‘friend,’ Daniel—or maybe Moses. I don’t know if she has any female friends accused of something she didn’t do and who ran for her life—maybe she’ll introduce you to Joseph instead.”