Murder in Roseville

by Denise McGee

  Today was my day off but I'd taken an extra job at the airport. Businesses often paid a premium for uniformed officers to work for them. We took care of any issues that might come up and generally just made our presence felt.

  Usually, I didn't take the extra jobs because I knew the regular patrol guys needed the extra cash more than I did. This job had been at the airport, however, and that meant merely patrolling the parking lot. The sign-up sheet had stayed empty since there were more entertaining - and better paying - assignments to be had, so I'd filled in. Even though it meant wearing the uniform.

  I was glad I was in it just then, though. It helped to remind me I was the public face of the department and would hopefully keep me from embarrassing myself more than I already had.

  Still, I wasn't sorry I'd held her as long as I had. It'd felt good to hold her again.

  I cleared my throat, catching my mind's attention before it traveled too far down that path.

  "I'll try and make this quick, Ms. Wentworth. That way you won't miss your flight."

  "Laurel, please. And I'm not catching a flight. I just got off a plane. I'm on my way back home." She bit her lip and looked up at me through her eyelashes. "The man who took the coat was on the plane with me. He'd tried to buy the coat as we were disembarking, and I had refused. He scared me a little when I said no."

  "He then accosted you at the exit?" She was on her way back home? The funeral had only been 2 days ago. She'd barely had time to go anywhere and return. My cop antenna perked up and I forgot all about her perfume.

  Well, most of me did.

  She nodded, rubbing her left funny bone. "I felt a sharp pain in my elbow and I dropped everything. He then grabbed the coat and made a crack about how I should have sold it to him and saved myself some pain."

  "May I?" I asked, motioning towards her arm. At her nod, I gently examined the limb. It was bright red, and a large bruise was already forming but the skin was intact. "I don't think anything is broken. Did you want to get it looked at?"

  She shook her head. "I'm fine. I just wish I knew why he wanted the coat so badly. It was leather but nothing special."

  "Anything in the pockets?"

  "I never checked. It didn't feel like it when I picked it up, though."

  I nodded. "You said he was on the plane with you? Where were you coming from?"

  "North Carolina. I own a cabin on a lake there. I'd gone up for some sun and isolation." Her tone was bitter now, making me wonder what occurred to ruin her vacation. From the circles under her eyes and the stress in her voice, I guessed she'd been having a rough time dealing with her husband's death.

  "Something happened?"

  "You could say that. I found Nathan's jacket in the cabin. MY cabin. Which meant he'd been there in the week before his death because he had the jacket at home before that. I can only assume he was there with Gina. In MY cabin."

  She paused, and I could almost feel the anger radiating from her. I understood - being betrayed by a husband you loved is bad enough without adding in a faithless best friend, too.

  "Anyway, the lake wasn't the haven I'd hoped it would be, so I came home."

  She looked up at me with those strange olive colored eyes and something in them - a bewildered, almost alarmed glint - told me the jacket hadn't been the only reason for her hurried return home. The wariness there also told me she wasn't going to volunteer whatever it was. I'd have to do a little digging.

  "Did you see or hear anyone while you were at the cabin? It stretches coincidence this guy just happened to be on your return flight and wanted the jacket so much."

  "Not really, no." But there was something. My Spidey senses were tingling off the charts.

  "So, nothing unusual happened?"

  "No... not really." And now her tone was wry and mocking but aimed back at herself I sensed.

  "Meaning?" I kept my voice low, soothing. I wanted answers and being impatient with her wasn't going to get me any.

  She took a deep breath, and not looking at me said, "I felt like I was being watched." Another pause, longer this time. I waited, knowing if I spoke she'd never continue. "And the outhouse door kept banging."

  "Outhouse?" I wasn't sure I'd heard her right; her voice had dropped to a whisper as she spoke the final sentence.

  "Outhouse. My grandfather built the cabin and he didn't see the need for indoor plumbing. It's not used now. A proper bathroom was one of the first things I added when I inherited the place."

  "That's a relief." I made a face, hoping to see her smile. She gave a low giggle, which made a passing elderly couple turn their heads and award us nearly identical indulgent smiles.

  I shared a grin with Laurel, glad she found it amusing as well. A dragonfly flirted with the flowers in the planter behind us as the sun streamed down on her light brown hair, bringing out red highlights. I leaned in, unaware of what I was doing until a flicker of change in her eyes and a tiny inhale of breath brought me to my senses.

  I cleared my throat - reminding myself she was still in mourning - and my eyes slid from hers in confusion. It was a shame she'd just suffered such an emotional loss because I felt more and more drawn to her every time I saw her.

  Mentally I kicked myself and tried to shake off my foolish impulses.

  "So, what about the banging upset you?"

  "There wasn't any wind. No animal. Nothing that would cause it to move." Her bewilderment was a palpable thing. I remembered the store that wasn't there and felt my mouth go dry in response to her quiet words.

  I swallowed a couple times. My throat felt dry and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. When I could speak again, my voice was still rough but understandable.

  "That is odd."

  The silence stretched between us, pulled taut like a piano string. Desperate to break the tension, I jumped headlong into a topic I’d sworn I'd never bring up to Laurel, her books.

  "You could have used that for your last story," I heard myself say and winced.

  Her smile seemed to come up from the bottom of her toes. "You read my book?"

  I shrugged, uncomfortable. "I've actually read them all. My mom's a huge fan and her eyesight's failing so..." I allowed my words to trail off.

  "I so didn't expect you to be a fan." She was laughing at me but I didn't care. The shadows had gone from her eyes. "What did you think of this last one?"

  "Well, we haven't finished it yet - just started it on Saturday - but so far it's great. That storyline is hard to pull off without sounding cliché but so far, you've done a great job of it. Plus, it's got a lot of action and I like that."

  "The embezzlement angle, you mean? It's a timeworn subject of romantic thrillers. I had to write at least one book with it in it." She was laughing but at herself now.

  I found I was smiling as well. "How do you come up with so many different things to write about?"

  She shrugged, "When I'm ready to start a new book, I go for a walk downtown. Once I'm out among people it just sort of pops into my head. It's strange really. Usually, crowds give me a headache."

  "But not when you're searching for a story?"

  "Nope. Then I'm fascinated by everyone and everything. It's like I soak up the experience and translate it into prose."

  "So, what triggered this one? Catch some employee with his hand in the till?" Her process amused me and it colored my voice.

  She laughed, "Actually, no. This one came to me while I was talking to Nathan about a painting he bought. Suddenly, the entire conflict for the characters was there."

  "And once you get this idea, you go off and write, write, write?" If she felt any discomfort talking about her husband, she didn't show it. I automatically made a mental note, and then chastised myself. Then I chastised myself for chastising myself. I was still investigating a murder. I couldn't let personal feelings interfere.

  She laughed, "Something like that. Last week I had a story set in Thailand come to me, so I've been doing a lot of research on that lately. I've been
spending my days reading."

  "So, when can I expect to read this one to my mom?"

  "Oh, not for another year at least. I haven't even started writing yet." She grinned at me, her dimples reappearing. "Maybe I'll make the hero a cop. I haven't done that yet. How would you like to be used for research?"

  I laughed, surprised and pleased, "As long as you don't print my name you can use me for anything you want."

  Her eyebrow went up and I replayed what I'd just said in my head. I felt my ears turn pink and my grin grow a little sheepish.

  "Man, that little boy grin is disarming. Alright, since I can use you," she paused and gave me a wink. "Why are you here in uniform? I thought you were a detective."

  As I explained about extra duty, I wondered at her lack of sorrow. In my experience, newly minted widows generally had a hard time getting back in the swing of things. Laurel - on the other hand - was almost sparkling as she absorbed what I was saying.

  "Don't you need to write any of this down?" I asked when I'd finished.

  "I actually have a notepad in my bag - a writer never leaves home without one - but I'm good. If I forget it's a good excuse to call you."

  I smiled, "Do I need to give you another card?"

  "I, uh, actually have the one you gave me in my bag, also."

  Of course. She wanted a status update on her husband. I squelched the little voice that wondered if it was natural curiosity or if she was checking to see how much I knew. "I'm afraid I don't have any more info on your husband's case. I'm still waiting on the medical report."

  She blinked, and I wondered if I'd misread her comment about the card.

  "Oh. Ok, thank you. I guess we'll both be keeping in touch then." Her sparkle dimmed, and she seemed to pull away without actually moving.

  "I, uh, need you to write out a statement before you go." I flipped my clipboard to the proper form and handed it to her with a pen. She nodded and, leaning against the planter, started to write.

  "How's the elbow?"

  She flexed her hand, "The tingling is gone. It's just sore now. Truthfully I'd forgotten about it until you asked."

  "Good." I smiled.

  She finished her short statement, signing it with a flourish. "I guess that's it. Wasn't really that much to tell."

  "Do you need a ride home or someplace?"

  Her lips curved into a small smile, "No, my car is in long-term parking. Thanks, though."

  "Well, you've got my card. Call me if you need anything."

  Her smile widened, "I'm sure I'll have more, uh, procedural questions for you. Probably lots more. You'll probably get tired of hearing from me." She laughed as she left for the parking lot.

  "Oh, I doubt that could happen," I said to myself, watching her walk away.

  I shook myself and headed into the airport to check the passenger list of Laurel’s flight. The thing with the jacket bothered me. There was something more going on that just petty theft, I was sure of it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Trashed

  LAUREL

  I pulled into the driveway of my pretty ranch house, wanting nothing more than a nice long soak in the tub. A headache had formed as I drove home, and I could feel it pulsing at the back of my eyes.

  I went inside - intent on hauling my bags to the bedroom and filling the tub - when the blinking light on my business answering machine caught my attention as I passed my office. I suppressed a groan, starting to feel guilty now I was home that I'd ignored the messages on my cell.

  I hesitated before punching the play button. My head was already pounding and most of the recordings were bound to be condolences from people I didn't know, or only knew from one conference or other. I sighed and pushed the button. Twenty-three such messages later I heard Cheryl's voice. I heaved a sigh of relief when I heard her. My capacity for listening to any more offerings of comfort when I wasn't really grieving had reached its limit.

  Her words drove such thoughts from my mind, however. "Laurel! You have GOT to come by my office. You need to sign the Halcyon paperwork. You are still going, right? I know it's not for another 3 months and you’ve got a LOT going on, but we’ve got to nail things down now."

  Halcyon, I'd forgotten all about the call from Cheryl I'd gotten the day Nathan had died. I checked my cell. All the voicemails were from Cheryl as well, her voice getting more and more harried as I didn't respond or return her calls. I hurriedly rang her number.

  "Laurel! Oh, thank goodness! Where have you been?"

  "I went to the cabin for a bit. I left you a message, didn't you get it?"

  "No, but I've got a temp here. Stephanie's been out sick. This girl's nice enough but scatter-brained. I'm sure Steph will come back and quit when she sees the mess on her desk." I had to smile. Stephanie twitched when I moved her stapler an inch to the left, someone using her desk might well put her into a mental ward.

  "I'm sorry about the paperwork, Cheryl. It slipped my mind."

  "I can't imagine why. Can you come in tomorrow? I've got a client coming in about 20 minutes so I can't do it tonight."

  "I guess. You sure this isn't something you can send me?" I didn't really feel like seeing anyone and I was bound to run into someone I knew at Cheryl's office.

  "Sorry, 'Lo. We're cutting the deadline too close to be couriering it around. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  I sighed, giving in. "Alright. 10 good?"

  "Perfect. See you then."

  The following morning Cheryl and I chitchatted for about an hour - discussing the book set in Thailand and my appearance at Halcyon – before I left with my presenter's packet stuffed into a thick manila envelope.

  Other than listening to Stephanie muttering about incompetent temps and sorting through the piles of papers on her desk I didn’t run into anyone. I was relieved. I didn’t know how much more sympathy I could take.

  After seeing Cheryl, I stopped by Nancy’s diner for something to eat and then headed home. As I pulled into the drive I saw a FedEx delivery truck waiting for me. Grinning, the driver grabbed a large package from the back and hustled over to my car.

  "Are you Laurel Wentworth?" he asked. At my nod, he handed me his delivery confirmation gizmo and I signed the pad. Handing over the package, he gave a cheery smile. "Have a nice day."

  "Thanks," I said to his departing back, staring at the return address. It was from Nathan's office. It must be the personal effects from his desk. I hadn't been able to bring myself to go to his office and clean it out.

  I let myself into the house - juggling the box and envelope while undoing the lock - then paused in the entry with my mouth in an O. My living room was completely trashed. Furniture was overturned, drawers were open and dumped onto the floor, and the stuffing had even been cut from the sofa and chairs. It looked as if a group of hyperactive knife-wielding midgets had whirled through it.

  I carefully backed away from the door and all but ran back to my car, tossing the box and envelope haphazardly into the back seat. I locked the doors and, with trembling hands, called 911 from my cell.

  Ten minutes later I was still shaking when a car pulled into the driveway behind me. I bit my lip to keep from crying out in relief when I recognized the plain-clothed driver. It was Aaron. I caught my heel and nearly tripped on my haste to leave the car.

  "Hello, Ms. Wentworth, what seems to be the problem?"

  I frowned at him, momentarily distracted. "I distinctly remember telling you to call me Laurel."

  His smile crinkled his eyes, "Ok. Laurel, what seems to be the problem?"

  I looked over my shoulder at my open front door. "Someone broke into my home and trashed my living room."

  He lost his smile and his eyes grew cold. "Are they still there?"

  I felt the blood drain from my face. "I don't know. I walked away as soon as I saw the living room."

  "Very wise of you," he said and as he headed for the door another cruiser pulled up behind his car. He turned around and waited for the two
uniformed officers to join him on the porch.

  He radioed dispatch and advised them of the situation and informed them the officers were entering the premises. As he cautiously crossed over the threshold and surveyed the disaster in the living room I could see he was momentarily startled by the carnage. Someone had been looking for something, and they wanted it very bad indeed. One of the uniforms followed him in while the other went around the side of the house to survey the backyard.

  As the officers disappeared I started to feel eyes upon me. The space between my shoulder-blades thrummed with tension. I looked around but didn't see anyone. The sensation intensified. I took a hesitant step toward the house - looking over my shoulder – but decided to lock myself in the car instead.

  I sat there for nearly fifteen minutes – trying to watch out the back windows – and nearly jumped out of my skin when Aaron tapped on the window by my head. He gave me an apologetic smile and motioned for me to join him. The nameless officers were heading for their car, presumably to go on another call.

  "No one there," Aaron told me once I'd climbed back out of my car. "But the rest of the house is just as trashed as the living room. I'm going to call in the crime scene guys and have some photos taken, dust for prints, etc. Once they're done we'll go through the house, so you can see if anything is missing. It doesn't appear to be a run-of-the-mill robbery, though. Your TV, computers and jewelry all appear to be here, if broken."

  He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Laurel, what's going on? First the coat at the airport and now this? If you're in some sort of trouble..." I could taste his worry. He was deeply concerned for me.

  I shook my head, bewildered. "I honestly haven't a clue, Aaron. I write books. I don't have adventures outside my head. And I certainly haven't done anything to warrant something like this."

  He nodded, taking my word for it. "Maybe it was just a robbery, and someone was trying to cover it up with chaos. Do you have anything of value that might have been taken?"

  I shrugged, tasting his doubts about this line of reasoning but going along with it. "Nathan liked artwork. He had a collection in his office."