The Little Grave

by Carolyn Arnold

  They were headed to Lorraine Nash’s home in Dumfries, Trent at the wheel, but Amanda requested a brief detour to Denver’s Motel first.

  The Forensics van was still in the lot, but Rideout’s vehicle was gone. She booted up and stepped into the room. Palmer’s body was gone and there was a different feel to the space, but she could still feel his presence. But there always was that tingling, tangible feeling where a person had died that stuck to a person’s skin.

  “Detectives? You’re back,” Donnelly said pleasantly.

  “We’re just finishing up here,” CSI Blair said.

  “Just on our way past and thought we’d drop in,” Amanda said, trying to lighten the mood in the room. “Anything you feel like sharing?”

  “I found a lipstick under the bed,” Donnelly volunteered.

  “May I see it?” Amanda asked.

  Donnelly rummaged in her collection case, pulled out a sealed evidence bag, and passed it to Amanda.

  She read the label on the bottom of the tube. The brand could be purchased at any beauty counter in any department store, and the shade was Ruby Red. She gave the bag to Trent for him to do his own inspection.

  “I wouldn’t get too excited about it.” Blair pointed at the bag. “It could have gone under the bed at any time. Doesn’t mean it was during Palmer’s stay.”

  “A fact we’ll squirrel away,” Amanda said drily. She’d wanted to say an obvious fact…

  Donnelly returned the lipstick to her kit and Amanda noticed a sealed bag with Palmer’s wallet enclosed. The photographs.

  “Actually, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she started and cringed, because she could feel Blair’s hostile energy from across the room. Apparently, anything Amanda requested was too much trouble as far as that CSI was concerned. “The wallet… it had a couple of photos. It might prove useful to get a copy of those.”

  “Sure.” Donnelly smiled at Amanda and took the necessary steps of removing the wallet and the photos and redocumenting and sealing after Amanda took pictures of the photos with her phone.

  “Thank you,” Amanda told her and let her gaze drift over to Blair. The two investigators weren’t just physical opposites; their personalities were polar to each other too. Donnelly was kind and accommodating, Blair a bit of a grouch, with the bedside manner of a bad doctor.

  “Just one more question and we’ll be out of your hair,” Amanda began. “Before Rideout left, did he happen to say any more about where he was leaning for manner of death?”

  “No,” Blair said curtly.

  Donnelly chuckled. “He mumbled to himself a lot.”

  “That’s never good,” Amanda said. Rideout only mumbled when he was puzzled. “And you got the garbage outside the motel office?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll work through it back at the lab.”

  “Thanks.”

  Blair shot Amanda a cold look that said they didn’t need to be micromanaged. What the heck was her problem?

  Amanda and Trent saw themselves out, and Becky came toward them. Amanda gestured for Trent to carry on and get into the car, which he did. Amanda shook her head.

  “What?” Becky smiled and glanced at Trent, then back to Amanda.

  “He’s like a puppy.”

  “Could be worse. Puppies are cute and—”

  “They can get underfoot.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Becky countered.

  Amanda couldn’t argue, but she wasn’t about to defend Trent either. Their relationship was far too new for that.

  “So, how are you doing?” Becky asked.

  “Peachy.”

  Becky burst out a laugh. “Okay, now I know I need to worry.”

  Amanda smiled. “I’ve had easier cases, and Rideout’s not even sure Palmer was murdered.”

  “But you think he was?”

  “There are unanswered questions. Like Palmer’s former business partner was murdered.”

  Becky’s mouth formed an O.

  “And his murder, the partner’s that is, was linked to one in Georgia.” She gave Becky the brief overview of the Webb and Ritter cases.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Thrilling. But regardless of how that part shakes out, I need to secure my alibi. Part of the terms of working this case.”

  “That going to be a problem?”

  “Might be.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  Amanda opened her mouth; shut it. She shouldn’t have brought it up. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Becky narrowed her eyes and tilted her head.

  Amanda touched Becky’s upper arm. “Everything will be fine. I promise.”

  Ten

  Lorraine Nash lived in a small two-story house. The place was well maintained from the outside, despite forgotten unlit strings of Christmas lights that still clung to the eaves. It was just after six in the morning when they pulled up front and there was a light on inside. Amanda took that to mean someone was awake. She knocked loud enough for it to be heard but not so loud that the Nashes would think their house was on fire. It would be jarring enough to have someone at your front door this early.

  The outside light came alive and then the deadbolt was being unlocked. At least they secured their house, unlike so many in rural towns who didn’t bother. Honestly, it was a miracle there weren’t more murders and home invasions in the country.

  The door was cracked opened and a thirty-something man, presumably Lorraine’s husband, poked his head out. “Yeah?”

  “Prince William County PD,” Amanda said and pulled her badge. “Are you Mr. Nash?”

  “Yes,” he said, wary. “Ben.”

  “Hi, Ben, we’re Detectives Steele and Stenson with Homicide.”

  Ben opened the door all the way. He was dressed in blue jeans and a sweater.

  She added, “We’re sorry for the early hour, but we need to speak with your wife, Lorraine.”

  “Lorraine? Why?”

  “We’d like to discuss that with your wife.”

  Ben let his gaze dance over them and eventually gestured for them to come inside. “I’ll get her.”

  Amanda and Trent stayed in the entry, and Amanda soaked in her surroundings. Modest, plain, but well-loved and well-lived-in. There was a family portrait of a man, woman, baby, and a child of about six on the wall next to a coatrack and a pair of children’s shoes on a mat. A pang of heartbreak gripped her as she was reminded yet again of all she’d lost.

  A woman in blue plaid pajamas walked toward them, her slippered feet scuffing along the floor. She squinted at the entry light. “You want to speak with me?”

  “We do,” Amanda answered. She introduced herself and Trent to Lorraine. “Do you have someplace we could sit?” She glanced at the living room off to her and Trent’s right.

  Ben flicked a light switch on the wall inside the doorway, as if reading Amanda’s mind. The Nashes sat on a couch while Amanda and Trent took up in a couple of chairs.

  Amanda leaned forward just slightly, establishing a conversational but not overbearing posture. “A man was found dead in one of the rooms at Denver’s Motel last night… well, close to midnight.”

  Ben took Lorraine’s hand and squeezed. Beyond that, neither spouse showed any obvious emotion, not even shock. Then again, Denver’s didn’t exactly cater to high-caliber customers.

  Amanda went on. “His name was Chad Palmer and he was in room ten. Perhaps you remember him?”

  Amanda turned to Trent, hoping that he was prepared with a photograph of Palmer, because she’d dropped the ball. “Do you have a picture of him, Detective?” she prompted Trent.

  “I can get one.” Trent pulled a small tablet from the breast pocket of his jacket. She saw the screen and could tell he was going to the DMV database. Palmer’s license had been revoked, but his picture would still be on record.

  “Here,” Trent said and swung the tablet for Lorraine Nash to see.

  “Do you recognize him?” Amanda asked her.

  L
orraine paled and nodded.

  “Do you remember anything about him?” Amanda said. “If he had any visitors at the motel.”

  Lorraine tapped her husband’s hand and mouthed, I’m fine, to him. She withdrew her hand from his, crossed her legs, and bobbed the top one quickly up and down. She was clearly uncomfortable, and while the topic of suspicious death could make even the brave timid, Amanda wondered if there wasn’t something more substantive that was upsetting Mrs. Nash.

  “That man was there alone, far as I know. Not like I really had much chitchat with the guy, but yesterday afternoon, he called the front desk—me—and reported a problem with his TV. I sent Bill to check it out.”

  “And who is Bill?” Trent chimed in.

  Lorraine looked at Trent and answered, “The maintenance guy for the motel.”

  “Last name?” Trent had his pen posed over his notepad.

  “Hannigan.”

  Bill Hannigan must have fixed the problem then, because the TV had been working fine when they’d arrived on scene. “What time was this on Sunday?”

  “Say early afternoon.”

  Amanda nodded. “What shifts does Bill normally work?”

  “Think most days starting at seven in the morning.”

  “Did Mr. Palmer have any visitors?” Amanda asked.

  Lorraine rubbed her arms like she was fending off a chill. “Not that I saw.”

  Amanda got this feeling that Mrs. Nash was afraid of something or someone she’d seen, but if she felt the risk could touch her home, Amanda could hardly fault her for keeping quiet. And maybe if Palmer was anyone else, she would have pushed Lorraine harder, but she said, “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “And no girlfriends stopping by?” Amanda was thinking of Ms. Ruby Red Lipstick.

  “Not that I saw,” Lorraine affirmed.

  “Huh. I would have sworn you might be able to tell us something.” She sighed. “A man’s dead and we’re just trying to figure out what happened to him.” Often an appeal for empathy could work wonders. Lorraine’s face hardened.

  “I wish I could help.” Her tone of voice belied the claim.

  “Okay, fair enough.” Amanda held up a hand. “Did you happen to see if Mr. Palmer left his room on Sunday?”

  Lorraine’s eyes darted to her husband, then flicked to Amanda. She nodded slowly, hesitantly.

  Amanda wasn’t sure why Lorraine seemed concerned with her husband, and asked, “What time was that?”

  “Not long before my shift ended. Say five thirty or five forty-five.”

  “Do you know where he went?” Trent intercepted.

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Which direction did he go—east or west of the motel?” Amanda asked, retaking the interview’s reins.

  Again, Lorraine’s gaze went to Ben.

  “I was going to let this go,” Amanda started, “but why do you keep looking at your husband?” She allowed time for Lorraine to answer, but she didn’t seem inclined. “We’re just trying to find out what took place and fill in the final hours of this man’s life. You could be one of the last to have seen him alive.”

  Lorraine rubbed her neck. When she removed her hand, her neck was all blotchy.

  “I’m not sure entirely what’s going on here, but if you’re afraid of someone I can help.” As Amanda heard herself fighting to gleam nuggets of insight, hypocrisy burrowed into her marrow. After all, did she truly care if Palmer had been murdered and whether his killer was brought to justice, or was her motive more selfish and all about closing a horrid chapter in her life, fulfilling her word, and moving on?

  Ben popped up from the couch. “I think my wife’s told you all she knows.”

  “They went west,” Lorraine said, and her husband dropped beside her again.

  “They? He was with someone?” If this person was the basis for Lorraine’s fear, that would imply she also knew who Palmer had been with.

  Lorraine nodded. “A guy. I’m sorry but I really can’t say any more.” She stopped bouncing her leg.

  “If this man scares you and poses some sort of a threat to you, your family, we can—”

  “Please just leave it alone,” Lorraine ground out.

  “Will you describe him for us?” She tried to pry just a little more.

  Lorraine chewed her bottom lip and shook her head.

  “All right; that’s fine.” Amanda might not be able to whittle a physical description of the mystery guy but there was another tact she could try that might eventually get them where they needed to be.

  “Could you describe the vehicle? I assume they left in one?” Amanda held her next breath, curious if Lorraine would answer.

  Lorraine nodded. “A four-door sedan, powder-blue.”

  Not a common color these days. “An older car?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her next question would certainly be a reach, but she had to ask. “Did you catch the plate number?”

  “No.”

  “Just one more thing and we’ll be on our way,” Amanda began. “Did you happen to notice if Mr. Palmer had a duffel bag with him at any time?”

  Lorraine bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “Not that I remember.”

  “Okay, thank—”

  A baby’s cry arrested Amanda’s words, injecting anguish through her system. She clutched her abdomen and could hear her doctor’s words replay in her head: “I’m truly sorry to inform you, but due to the injuries you sustained, you won’t be able to have any more children. Please know we did all we could.”

  “I should—” Lorraine pointed toward the doorway, the implication being she had to check on the baby.

  Amanda gestured for her to go ahead, and Lorraine jumped up and left the room.

  Ben stood, as did Amanda and Trent. She pulled her card and handed it to Ben. “Please let your wife know that we appreciated her cooperation today and to please call should she think of anything else that she wants to share with us. My cell number’s on there.”

  Ben grunted something incoherent and tossed the card onto the coffee table. “I’ll show you out.”

  And he did just that. The second both Amanda and Trent cleared the front door, it was closed heavily behind them. They loaded into the department car, Trent claiming the driver’s seat again. Amanda was more than fine with that. He was actually a good driver and hadn’t made her reach for the dash yet.

  She did up her belt, her mind a million miles away. She hadn’t anticipated hearing the baby cry and it had picked an emotional scab. She’d never told anyone that the accident had also stolen her unborn baby. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Now, she’d never know whether her baby was going to be a boy or another girl. She’d never hear their laugh or tend to their cries; she’d never hear him or her call her “Mommy” or be able to watch them grow up.

  “Amanda?” Trent’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

  She looked over at him.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She stiffened and refocused on the case. “I want to know who this guy is with a powder-blue sedan that has Lorraine Nash terrified into silence.”

  “It has to be someone with street creds,” Trent replied. “I’m guessing our next stop is David Morgan’s?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said coolly. “We talked about our stops before leaving Central.”

  Trent put his gaze out the windshield. “Yeah, sorry.” He set the car in the direction of Morgan’s residence.

  She faced out the passenger window, not in any mood to talk. Really, why the hell did she care about Palmer at all? Damn the investigation. But as she was ready to shut her involvement down, she thought of the little coffin, the little grave, her sweetheart Lindsey’s little face. Her daughter might not be here anymore but, if she were, Amanda would want to set an example, be a role model, show Lindsey that keeping one’s word in easy situations was not as strong a testament to character as it was when adhered to during
the tough times.

  Trent brought the car to a standstill for a stop sign, and she caught him looking at her.

  “What?” she spat.

  “Nothing.” He quickly looked away.

  “Do you have any idea all that I’ve lost?” The question was out before she could reel it back. After all, it wasn’t like she wanted to talk about her husband, daughter, and unborn child. And she certainly didn’t want special treatment from Trent, so what was her aim?

  He turned to her and kept them sitting at the sign.

  “You can go.” She flailed a hand at the road.

  He pressed the gas.

  She shut her eyes; opened them. She could feel the bitterness inside of her taking on a life of its own, and it sought an audience, to be seen, heard, and acknowledged—as if by receiving such her feelings would be validated.

  “My guess is you know Palmer wiped out my family because he was a selfish bastard who drank and got behind the wheel. Yet you haven’t offered any condolences or expressed any sympathy. You haven’t touched on it—at all.”

  “I didn’t think that—”

  “No, you know what? It’s fine. I shouldn’t have…” The bite had completely left her tone, but she couldn’t bring herself to continue. She felt ashamed for crossing the line. She had no right to expect anything from Trent, and she didn’t need a new friend. He was her partner—temporary partner, if she had her way. It would be best to remain detached. Do the job, call it a day, start over.