Cold Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  Above the clothes rod, a white wire shelf held a rectangular rosewood box, roughly the dimensions of a ream of paper. She reached it easily but had to grip it with her fingers for fear of dropping it. She made a note to wipe her prints from the surface before she left.

  She carried the box to Davina’s queen bed and perched on the edge of the bed, balancing the treasure box across her knees. She raised the hinged lid carefully to reveal a deep blue velvet tray with at least a dozen individual compartments. Earrings and rings were nestled in the various tiny compartments. With two fingers, she lifted the velvet tray out of the box and placed it on the bed. A second tray lay beneath the first, divided into two long, skinny compartments. One held bracelets. The other, necklaces.

  Bingo.

  There it was. Between a small string of pearls and a chunky turquoise choker. The same filigree pattern as the brooch Bodhi had shown her. The same garnet stone. The only difference to her eye was that this piece was strung on a delicate chain rather than set with a pin closure. Her hands shook with anticipation as she plucked it from the tray. She rubbed a finger over the polished metal.

  Davina had taken good care of the necklace. It was hard to believe it was the same age as the tarnished brooch that she’d removed from Cassie’s blouse.

  A floorboard creaked in the hall.

  Eliza froze. She listened hard for another sound from the hallway, which was a challenge because her heart was drumming against her ribs. The floor did not creak, but she thought she heard breathing.

  With fingers that now trembled not from excitement, but from fear, she fastened the necklace around her neck and placed the pendant against her skin, under her shirt. Then she returned the top tray to the box and glided across the room, ninja-like, to place the box in the closet.

  She winced and pulled the closet doors shut, worried that they would squeal in their tracks. But they closed soundlessly, and she exhaled, relieved.

  With the box back in place and the necklace hidden beneath her shirt and jacket, she cleared her throat and called, “Clive? Is that you? It’s me—Eliza Rollins.”

  She walked toward the door and glanced up the hallway but saw no one. Frowning, she stepped out into the hall. As she strode toward the kitchen, she sensed movement on her periphery. She turned and saw the flat side of a trowel slicing through the air, headed directly toward her temple.

  No.

  It was part instinct, part instantaneous appraisal of her best-case scenario that made her turn toward the blow rather than twist away. As the heavy metal struck her solidly in the forehead, her last cogent thought was ‘good.’ Better to be smacked in the brow than to absorb a blow at the base of her skull—or even worse, her temple.

  She swayed on her feet for a woozy moment, then crumpled to the floor. She’d have a monstrous headache when she woke up. But at least she had a chance of waking up rather than dying of a brain hemorrhage. Her hand fluttered toward her neck, then fell limply by her side. The trowel clattered to the wood beside her.

  29

  Bodhi and Bette lazed in bed, reading the newspaper on their phones, drinking tea and coffee, and watching through the floor-to-ceiling window as the sun came up over the mountains. It was quiet and cozy and it was good.

  Bodhi turned his full attention to this moment. The song of the birds chirping outside. The warmth of Bette’s long leg stretched out over his. The gingery tang of his tea and the rich scent of her coffee. There was nothing but the moment.

  In a few hours, she’d be sitting in a conference room listening to some speaker talk about bulletproof glass or community policing or diversity in hiring, and her absence would be a tangible thing. Until then, he pushed aside all thoughts of Davina, Cassie, Dexter, the Rutherford Family—all of it. Until then, he would be here. Present and mindful.

  Bodhi assumed the Sullivans would assert possession of both the casket and its occupant despite—or, maybe, because of—their desire to conceal the discovery of both. But he had the entire afternoon to make other arrangements. As soon as Bette’s conference programming resumed, he’d call the Smithsonian.

  Focus on the now, he reminded himself. Neither the past nor the future was real. This moment was the only moment.

  He propped himself up on his elbow and traced a faint smile line on Bette’s cheek with his finger. In response to his touch, she smiled, and the line deepened. She lifted her head from her pillow, arching her back to meet him, and—

  Bang, bang, bang.

  An insistent knock on the door intruded.

  They jumped out of bed.

  “Who is it?” Bette called.

  “It’s Fred. Sorry to bother you, but it’s urgent.” His frantic voice cracked.

  Bodhi hurried over and unlatched the brass chain lock, letting the lock swing down and sway against the door while he pulled the door open.

  Fred stood in the doorway, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, and blinked as he scanned the room. “Have you seen Eliza?”

  “No, we’ve been in the room all morning.”

  Bette came around the side of the bed, tightening her robe over the light pajamas she wore. That’s when Bodhi realized he was shirtless, clad only in a pair of sweatpants. He scanned the room and found his shirt draped over a chair. He pulled it on over his head and smoothed down his unruly hair.

  Fred dropped his face into his big hands, and his shoulders shook. “She’s gone—Eliza’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Pretty much what it sounds like. I woke up and she wasn’t there.”

  “Maybe she got up early and decided to take a walk?” Bette suggested.

  “Or she went for a hike, or made an appointment at the spa,” Bodhi chimed in.

  “I checked everywhere. She did tell the valet that she was taking a hike—before the sun had even come up. I tracked her as far as the gazebo at the entrance to the loop trail. She never set foot on the trail. Her shoe prints cut through the front lawn and out to the road. Someone picked her up.”

  Bodhi shook his head slowly. “I’m as mystified as you are. I haven’t talked to Eliza since we were all at the restaurant meeting with Micah Birch. So I’m sorry, but I couldn’t begin to tell you where she might be.”

  Even as he said the words, he realized where Eliza was. If Eliza hadn’t asked Jason to drive her wherever she was going, it was because she didn’t want to make him complicit in something untoward. And, with that understanding, he knew what unsavory errand would propel Eliza out of bed under cover of darkness.

  “What?” Bette studied his expression with a bright-eyed, penetrative look.

  Incongruously, it reminded him of Eliza Doolittle, the macaw, when she tilted her head and stared at him sharp-eyed as if she were reading his soul.

  He considered his options. If Eliza was where he thought she was, doing what he thought she was doing, Bette and Fred would push to tell Dexter. And he didn’t want to do that.

  But Fred’s worry was so alive it was a separate entity, a frenzied mass of nerves. Bodhi had the ability to soothe Fred’s beast. Did he have a duty to?

  “Bodhi.”

  He waited, but that was all Bette said. Just his name. Somehow, it was a full sentence. A short story. A three-act play.

  “She didn’t tell me where she was going, or what her plans were. I need you to hear that first, Fred. That’s the truth.”

  Fred ground his teeth and nodded.

  “If I were Eliza, and I left the property without telling anyone, it would be so that I could go back to Davina’s apartment and poke around to see if I could find the necklace Micah told us about last night.”

  Fred gaped at him. “You’re telling me she went back to an active crime scene—a crime scene she’s been barred from, mind you—with the intent of breaking and entering and stealing evidence?”

  While that wasn’t the gloss he’d put on it, Bodhi didn’t see the benefit of arguing the finer points with a distraught man. “I think she thinks it’s an
important piece to the puzzle of Davina’s death, and possibly Cassie’s identity. And I think she’s right.”

  Fred shook his head, dismissing the idea—or maybe dismissing Bodhi himself. It was hard to tell. He turned to Bette.

  “I can’t call Lewis Dexter about this. On the off-chance she’s not out breaking the law, I don’t want to get him all stirred up needlessly. Will you come with me to check out the apartment?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Give me a minute to put some clothes on.”

  She grabbed her handgun from the bedside table and stuffed it into the pocket of her robe. Then she scooped up her weekend bag and hurried into the bathroom. Bodhi watched Fred try to wrestle his incandescent worry into submission.

  “She’s going to be okay. You know, she’s tougher than she looks.”

  “I know her better than you do. And, you’re right, she’s tougher than she looks. She’s all but conquered her panic attacks. She’s strong and smart . . . And entirely human. Someone murdered Davina Jones less than twenty-four hours ago, and I’ll bet she was strong and smart, too.”

  He didn’t have an answer for that. Luckily, Bette emerged from the bathroom, dressed and ready to roll, so he didn’t have to come up with one.

  “You should stay here,” Bette told him. “I’m sure you’re worried about Eliza, too. But if we need to involve Lewis Dexter, it’ll be a lot cleaner if you aren’t in the picture. No offense.”

  “None taken. Jason drove us there yesterday; he’ll know the address. Go, get Eliza, and bring her back safe and sound.”

  Bette kissed his cheek absently before making a ‘let’s go’ gesture with her hand to Fred and yanking open the door.

  He listened until their footsteps faded in the hallway. Then he grabbed his cell phone to make a call.

  He had a little breaking and entering of his own to do while they were busy at Davina’s apartment.

  30

  Eliza regained consciousness in the dark and smelled blood. But not just blood. The familiar coppery scent intermingled with another smell. Tangy earth and rust and . . . this would be a whole lot easier if she could see.

  She raised herself onto her elbows and promptly smacked her already-pounding forehead against something hard and unyielding. The sensation stole her breath, and she collapsed onto her back. After a long, nauseous moment, she touched her brow gingerly. The brush of her fingertips sent a fresh jolt of agony careening through her central nervous system, radiating out from her brain to her body. She sucked in a breath and pulled back her hand. It was sticky—confirmation that the blood she smelled was her own.

  Groggily, from the center of a miasma of pain and misery, she pulled the memory of the trowel swinging through the air. She saw the trajectory, on a course with her vulnerable temple, and remembered turning toward it to protect her brain.

  She rewound further. Returning Davina’s jewelry box to the closet shelf. Fastening the necklace around her neck. She patted her breastbone and felt the reassuring bump of metal and gemstone under her shirt.

  Even further. A creaking floorboard. She’d thought one of the police officers or crime scene technicians had returned to the apartment. Given her current situation, she’d thought wrong.

  What was her current situation?

  The cramped space was dark. But the darkness was neither uniform nor total, as she had first thought. She could make out a less dense square of darkness directly above her head. She reached for it. Her fingers bumped up against something smooth and cool. Glass-like.

  Like a window through which some meager light was filtered.

  A window in a box.

  Because she was in a box. A metal box. If she stretched out her feet, her toes hit metal. If she extended her arms, her palms hit metal. A metal box with a window.

  Oh, God, no.

  She pressed her hands against the sides of the container and pushed as hard as she could, but she couldn’t get leverage.

  Her heart pounded.

  She shoved her fingernails under the seam and pried. Her fingernails bent, split, and broke, but the lid didn’t budge.

  Cold sweat slicked her face as a wave of uncontrollable shaking wracked her limbs.

  She was in a metal box with a window and a lid. She was in the iron coffin. Cassie’s coffin.

  Please, please don’t let me be in here with Cassie.

  She felt around in the gloom. No bones or peeling flesh. No rotting hair or clothing. No corpse.

  Just her. Trapped in a coffin. Her heart galloped, and her breath came quick and shallow.

  You have to hang on, she told herself.

  If you have a panic attack, you will die in here.

  Do the work.

  First, she slowed her breathing. Deep breath in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

  In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

  In and out, until her breath was regular and slow.

  Now relax your muscles, one by one. Start with your toes. Work all the way up, muscle by muscle. You control your body. Your body doesn’t control you.

  By the time she unclenched her jaw and relaxed her face, she was through it. She sagged against the coffin, wrung out from the effort. After a minute of rest, she made two fists with her hands.

  “Help,” she croaked.

  She cried for help until her throat was dry, and she pounded on the lid until her hands were raw.

  Nobody answered, nobody came.

  31

  Bodhi called the telephone number that Marvin Washington had scrawled on his business card. While he waited for the call to go through, he visualized the result he sought.

  “Morning?” A groggy voice sounded in his ear.

  “Marvin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is Bodhi King. I apologize for the indecently early hour, but you did offer your assistance. Anytime. And I need it. Badly. Now.”

  “What can I do?” Marvin’s voice was alert, ready. All traces of sleep erased. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

  “The museum is closed today, right?”

  “Yes, sir. We don’t open on Sundays. Folks around here take church seriously. And Sunday dinner afterward even more seriously.”

  “Perfect. I need to get into the museum.”

  He listened to Marvin’s steady breathing while the security officer considered this request.

  “Into Professor Jones’ lab?”

  He paused. Then, “No. Into Mrs. Sullivan’s office.”

  Marvin let out a great whoosh of air but didn’t respond.

  “I can tell you why, but I think you’d rather not know.”

  “Is this related to Davina’s murder?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  Bodhi’s throat went dry. His pulse ticked up. He needed Marvin’s help if his idea had any chance of success.

  Finally, in a mournful tone, Marvin said, “Ah . . . I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you. And Marvin, I have one more favor. Would you mind picking me up at the lodge on your way to the preserve?” If he could avoid involving Jason, he’d like to.

  “Sure. Anything else? Maybe I should stop and pick you up coffee and a donut first?”

  “Let’s not be ridiculous. I’m a pathologist, not a cop.”

  The well-worn cops and donuts joke earned a small chuckle from Marvin. “See you in fifteen.”

  “I’ll be waiting outside the gate.”

  Eliza was smart to meet her ride, whoever it had been, out of sight of the lodge. He could see no reason why he shouldn’t also be smart.

  He was leaning against one of the stacked stone pillars outside the gate when his phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the number of the incoming call on his display. Not Bette. Not Marvin. Not Eliza. Not Micah.

  “This is Bodhi King.”

  “Dr. King, this is Detective Valtri. I’m calling at Chief Dexter’s request. He asked me to let you know that Verna Martin is in custody for t
he murder of Davina Jones.”

  “Her cousin did it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did she say why?”

  Valtri’s clipped tone didn’t change. “Ms. Martin has not given a statement. And she’s asserted her Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination, so I don’t expect an explanation any time soon, if ever.”

  “Then how—?”

  “A neighbor of Davina’s picked her out of a photo array. She told her husband that she had to stop at her cousin’s house after work. And we’ve swabbed her cheek. Clive, our forensics guy, is pretty confident it’ll be a match for evidence collected at the scene.”

  “Huh. Oh, did she happen to have a brooch on her when you picked her up?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A fancy gold pin with a red stone?”

  Valtri hesitated. “No. But—”

  “Yes?”

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but according to her husband’s statement, the reason she went to see Davina had something to do with jewelry. He said they were arguing over a necklace and maybe a pin, too.”

  “Huh. Thanks for the call.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Wait—did the chief also ask you to call Bette Clark and Fred Bolton?”

  “No, sir. I expect he’ll tell them in person at the conference this morning.”

  “Right. Of course. Thanks again.”

  He clicked to end the call as a gray Volvo wagon pulled up. Marvin waved at him and popped the locks.

  Bodhi settled into the passenger seat and warmed his hands in front of the hot air vent as Marvin headed down the road. He considered calling Bette with the news about Verna, but he didn’t want to have to answer any questions about where he was or what he was doing. He’d text her after he took care of his business at the museum.

  “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Sure. You want to warm your rear end? This thing has heated seats.”