Whispering Pines Mysteries Box Set 3

by Shawn McGuire

  She was right. Not that I didn’t care, celebrating both was a great compromise, a tradition I’d be interested in hearing more about sometime but not right now. My concern was that she’d go home and talk to her husband about this. The more a person talked about an event, the more opinions they started to form, and the more the facts started to mutate. Since her husband was in Rhinelander, this wasn’t as big a worry. “Will you do something for me?”

  LaVonne perked up again. “Of course. Anything.”

  “Go on home, sit quietly, and write down everything you can think of related to this. Every detail, no matter how small. As you were approaching the house and once you got here, what did you see, what did you hear? If anything seemed unusual, anything at all, write it down. I’ll come over when I’m done here, and we’ll discuss it.”

  “Okay.” She nodded her head. “I can do that.”

  She kept nodding.

  “Are you okay, LaVonne?”

  She took a shaky inhale and gave a final, crisp nod. “Yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll go start writing.” And she was off.

  “Keeping her busy?” Reed asked.

  “That too, but she might come up with something important.” We went to Alan who was still standing on the front porch. “Is your wife here with you?” Then I remembered seeing their minivan in the driveway at Pine Time.

  “No, I should give her a call. She was going to pack her things and come get me around ten.”

  My attention perked at this. Nina paid for four nights in the room at Pine Time and hadn’t mentioned checking out early. I’d verify that later, but I was almost positive their plan was to leave Christmas Eve morning, three days from now. I checked my watch. It was nine forty.

  “Are you planning to leave Whispering Pines already?”

  Alan descended the stairs and joined us on the shoveled sidewalk in front of the cottage. It reminded me a bit of Meeka’s trench. A twenty-four-inch wall of snow lined the outer edge of the walk.

  “I’m not leaving. I’ll stay until I know what happened to my aunt. There’s no reason for Nina to stay here, though. We were supposed to go to her parents’ house after this. We reserved a rental car for me. We’re going to pick it up and then Nina will take the van and go on to her parents’ house in Winnipeg.” He glanced at the garage. “Suzette hadn’t driven in more than a year. Knowing she never would again, she sold her car nine months ago. Otherwise I could use that.”

  Something about that didn’t fit right. Alan implied that he hadn’t spoken with his wife yet, meaning she wouldn’t know that Suzette had died. Except he made it sound like their plan to get a rental car and for her to go see her parents was already in place. I was probably splitting hairs. He was in shock after all. Maybe Nina had spent all the time in the village she cared to, was ready to visit her parents now, and Suzette’s death coincided with that.

  Alan stood before us in a button-down shirt, shivering.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Thibodeaux? Why don’t you go on inside?”

  He yawned dramatically. “I’m having a hard time waking up this morning. Yesterday was draining. Last time I spoke with my aunt, she seemed so much more vibrant. Then I get here and see her like she was . . .”

  “We’ll talk about this when I’m done out here. Is it okay for me to let myself in when I’m ready?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Alan pointed over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen. It’s all right for me to call Nina, isn’t it?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t. People tend to ask a lot of questions about events like this. That could blur the facts in your mind.”

  “Right. Okay.” Alan hesitated before going in the house. “She’s probably about ready to come get me. I’ll send her a text, tell her there’s been a development, and to wait to come over until I call. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “A text like that is fine. But nothing more. No back and forth answering questions.”

  We watched Alan wander back inside the house, and Reed asked, “Anything about that seem strange to you? In particular that his wife is planning to leave him here?”

  “Nina and Suzette didn’t get along. She reserved a room with us for four nights, but plans change. It’s possible she decided she couldn’t handle being around Suzette any longer.”

  “What about him calling his aunt’s death a ‘development.’”

  “Strange word choice, yes, but he seems a little out of it. Could be shock. Could have been too much wassail last night. I did notice him visiting the brandied punch bowl a number of times.”

  We followed the cleared path on the driveway, the width of one pass of a shovel, to the patio at the back of the house. We stopped halfway between the cottage and the detached garage. There, about four yards away, still sitting in her wheelchair, and dressed in only a flannel nightgown with a thin blanket over her legs, was Suzette Thibodeaux.

  “Why is she out here?” Reed asked, dumbfounded.

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering since you called. I pictured her face down in the backyard, like maybe she wandered out here and collapsed, not in her chair.” We took in the scene from a distance so we wouldn’t disturb anything. Meeka, bundled in her booties and doggie parka, sitting at my side. “Tell me what you see.”

  “From here, no visible signs of trauma.” His tone had become methodical, procedural. “As in, no visible bullet wounds. That looks like a really lightweight blanket. Blood from a bullet or stab wound would instantly have soaked through.”

  “She isn’t wearing her wig.” I’d been right about my assumption that she wore one last night. Suzette’s natural hair was all but gone. After what must have been many chemo attempts, only a few stubbly little patches remained.

  “You think she would’ve put on her wig to come outside in the middle of the night?”

  “Possibly. Her nephew was staying with her. Despite her withered body, last night she was ‘put together well,’ as Gran would’ve said. The cancer hadn’t taken her pride yet. Once out here, she wouldn’t have wanted a neighbor to see her like this.”

  Reed considered this briefly and returned to the condition of the scene. “There are footprints in the snow coming from here”—he pointed from where we stood over to the chair—“all around the wheelchair, and to the cottage’s back door.”

  It was a bit of a struggle. But I got her out the door, through the snow on the ramp, and now I’ve got her in place. I’ll make sure the wheels are locked and that she won’t fall out of the chair.

  But why bring her out here in the first place? For her to get some air? To look at the nearly full moon? So she’d freeze to death?

  “What are you seeing?” Reed asked.

  He was used to me letting my inner eye, or whatever, take over and see the scene from the killer’s perspective. Was that what we were dealing with? Was a woman weeks away from dying of cancer murdered via freezing to death?

  “Someone pushed her out here,” I stated.

  “Agreed. There’s only last night’s four inches of snow on the patio. Someone cleared it recently. Still, there’s no way Ms. Thibodeaux pushed herself down the ramp and three feet onto the patio through four inches of snow.”

  I traced the route through the air with my hand. “After pushing her out here, they might have stepped around the chair to lock the wheels maybe or to make sure she was secure in the chair. Or, in the off chance she did push herself out here, the footprints came after they found her.”

  Reed shook his head. “First option. No way she got out here on her own.”

  I thought of Nina kneeling down to talk to her in the lobby last night. Suzette grabbed Nina’s hand hard enough to make her wince. Or so I’d assumed. Maybe she jabbed her with a fingernail. Or the wince came because Nina simply couldn’t stand being touched by the woman she so despised. Either way, Reed was right. Suzette could probably have maneuvered around inside the house but not through snow.

  “I’ll go get the camera,” Reed said. “I’ll take pictures
before we go over to her.”

  I nodded as I stared at the body. She looked like she’d come out and fallen asleep with her head slumped off to the left the way it was. Something about this wasn’t right, though. Other than the victim’s inability to push herself so far in a wheelchair under these conditions.

  I stood back while Reed took dozens of pictures from every possible angle except overhead. I was waiting for the day he put in a request for a drone for that very purpose.

  When he was done, I crunched through the snow over to her side and bent at the waist to see her face.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Remember Matt Jackson?”

  Reed shuddered. “I’ll never forget.”

  “He died from exposure. If Suzette died out here, it would also have been from exposure.”

  “Unless she had a heart attack from the shock of the cold. If that’s possible. Or the cancer took her while she sat here.”

  “Possible, but that would have had to happen within minutes of her coming outside.”

  “What are you getting at? I’m not following.”

  “Remember how Dr. Bundy told us that a person can die from exposure within an hour? And within five or ten minutes if they fell through ice into water?”

  He looked confused. “Ms. Thibodeaux didn’t fall through ice.”

  “No, I know. That’s not where I’m going with this. Remember what Dr. B told us about skin color and hypothermia?”

  “That it will take on a blue or gray cast. Ms. Thibodeaux is as white as the snow.” He looked at me. “We’ve got another murder?”

  “We know that upon dying, gravity takes over and the blood pools in the lowest parts of the body. That could explain why her skin appears so light. The blood had already pooled, meaning she was already dead when she came out here. I think it’s a really good thing that you wrote down the names of all the people around her in the lobby last night.”

  “You think a villager did this?” He looked offended by this option.

  “You think Alan Thibodeaux murdered his aunt?”

  “Him or his wife. You said they didn’t get along. Who else would have had access to her house?”

  Fair question. Then I thought of Hearth & Cauldron. “I overheard LaVonne LeBeau, April O’Connor, and Lorena Maxwell discussing our victim yesterday. LaVonne mentioned the neighbors were taking turns checking on Suzette.”

  “So it’s possible one or more of the neighbors have keys.”

  “We’ll need to verify that.”

  “Right. Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves, though? Shouldn’t we wait until Dr. B gets here?”

  “We are. You’re right. I’ll go inside and talk to Alan.”

  “While I wait out here in the cold?” Reed didn’t look amused.

  I pointed at the van. “You can wait in your vehicle. The heater works, doesn’t it?”

  “Or I can go inside with you where it’s warm.”

  “Someone needs to keep an eye on our victim.”

  A grin played at his mouth. “You could do that.”

  “Could, but I’m the sheriff.”

  He made a face. “I hate it when you pull that one on me.”

  I took Meeka with me to the front door of the Cape Cod cottage, entered the living room, and was immediately hit by the smell.

  Chapter 12

  It wasn’t horribly intense, but the inside of Suzette’s house smelled like a hospital or a nursing facility. I detected the faint smell of unwashed clothing and bed linens, the stronger smell of used adult diapers, and another aroma that could only be described as imminent death. If it was a little intense for me, it had to be completely overwhelming for Meeka and her sensitive nose.

  “There’s no reason for you to be in here, girl. Go find Reed.” I unhooked her leash and let her outside.

  Despite the smell—Gran would say it needed a good airing. “Open the windows and let a little of the outside in.”—the house was relatively neat and clean. There was nothing on the floor, probably because clutter would interfere with Suzette’s wheelchair. The furnace was set to probably eighty degrees, and despite the heat, a pile of blankets towered at one end of the sofa positioned beneath the picture window. She must have been cold all the time. I thought of last night at The Inn and how between the sheer number of bodies and all those candles plus fire in the fireplaces, I had been comfortable even though I’d been wearing gauzy pants and a thin, flowing top. Suzette wore three sweaters, a scarf, had two blankets covering her legs, and still appeared chilly.

  Next to the sofa, a sturdy-looking side table held a four-cup coffee maker, an electric kettle, two jugs of water, coffee grounds, tea bags, and a coffee cake. Alan had commented that his aunt didn’t eat much anymore, so the cake struck me as odd, but he claimed she still drank quite a bit. Hot beverages surely must’ve helped keep her warm.

  I stomped the snow off my boots, removed my jacket, and crossed the living room to a doorway that led to the tiny kitchen. There were a few dishes in the sink but it, too, was quite tidy. I found Alan sitting at the small round table tucked into the far corner, staring at the mug in front of him, his hands clasped around it. He didn’t seem to have heard me stomping my boots or clomping through the living room, so I softly called, “Alan?”

  He jumped and turned to me. “Sheriff. Sorry, lost in thoughts.”

  I touched the back of the chair next to him, silently asking if I could sit.

  “Please.” He noticed the full mug in his hands then. “Coffee’s gone cold. Can I get anything for you?”

  “No, thank you. Go ahead and get yourself a refill. Looks like you could use a caffeine jolt.”

  While he dumped the cold coffee and went to the maker in the living room for more, I took my voice recorder from its pocket on my pants. I turned it on and watched it shut off again a second later. I hadn’t needed it over the last month and hadn’t thought to plug it in to charge. Good thing pen and paper were still a thing.

  Alan returned and sat with the chair angled toward me. “I knew she didn’t have much longer, but it’s still a shock. You know?”

  Which was worse? Death drawn out by illness or a sudden, unexpected passing? People asked me that question a lot, and I never knew how to answer it. Gran’s death had been sudden, a completely unexpected accident. I couldn’t imagine losing her would have been easier if I’d known it was coming. So maybe there was no answer to that question. Whichever way it happened, survivors wished it had been the other.

  Even a few more days together would’ve been a blessing.

  He was in such pain toward the end. Why couldn’t he have gone quickly?

  I waited for Alan to take a few sips, gave him another couple of seconds to settle himself, and then began with my questions. “Do you have any idea how she ended up out there?”

  He shook his head. “Not a clue.”

  “Did she sit out there often?”

  “When it was warmer. She loved being out there in the summer. She had the ramp for the chair installed outside this door for that exact purpose.” He waved a hand at the nearby back door. “She wouldn’t have been able to sit out there for more than a minute this time of year. She couldn’t handle even mildly cool weather let alone subzero.”

  “Could she handle the wheelchair on her own?”

  He nodded while sipping, sloshing a little liquid down his chin. He held the back of his hand to his mouth as he answered. “She did all right around the house. You may have noticed that the furniture is all pushed up to the walls in the living room. She had the carpet removed and hardwood put in to make getting around easier. I don’t know for sure when she did that. About a year ago. Same time as the ramp, I guess. I didn’t come often enough to know—” His voice caught, and he needed a moment to collect himself. “Sorry. She did okay unless she was getting tired. The doorways are just wide enough for the chair, so getting through them was a little tricky.” He paused, his head tilting. “Maybe that’s why she didn’
t get a motorized chair. I always wondered. They’re wider than a non-motorized, I think.” He shrugged. “Anyway, she could handle walking very short distances but spent most of her day in the living room, watching television and taking naps on the couch. She took a lot of naps. She wasn’t eating much, so there was no reason to come into the kitchen.”

  “Why was she still here?” My tone came off a little more harshly than I’d intended. “I mean, if she was struggling with her daily needs, why wasn’t she at a facility where she could get help and care?”

  “Bad memories, I guess.” At my confused look, he explained, “She used to be a nurse. Not sure if you knew that.”

  “I didn’t. Where was she a nurse?”

  “At an elder care clinic somewhere in the Minneapolis area. This was many years ago. She was fired for stealing drugs even though they could never prove she did it.” He blushed, embarrassed for her. “She did it. She’d become addicted to opioids after being in a bicycle accident.” His hand drifted up near his shoulder. “Broke her collar bone. It was pretty bad. Anyway, after being fired, she came here to visit her aunt, clear her head, and sober up. Suzette told her what had happened and that she was about to lose her apartment. Her aunt told her she could stay with her until she got her life back on track. Then her aunt died unexpectedly—peacefully in her sleep, I think—and left this cottage to Suzette.” With a cloud darkening his face and tension growing thick in his voice, Alan continued. “She tried to fit in here. She even dabbled in Wicca for a while, but it never really clicked with her like it did her aunt.”

  “How did the villagers respond to Suzette taking over the cottage?”

  “I’m not sure. You know how the people are here.”

  I did know. They were very loyal to each other. There had to be something really wrong for them to not accept a fellow villager.

  Alan gestured randomly at the neighboring cottages. “They thought she killed her aunt because right up until she died, she’d been healthy and active both in the community and outside in her garden.” His gaze shifted toward the backyard. “You can tell the garden used to be beautiful.”