by Risner, Fay
I don't much believe the deputy will ever be as imperturbable as me, but I tend to be prejudiced in my favor. I caught myself chuckling at my private joke and glanced around the parking lot. It was a good thing I was still in the car. The few customers just parking weren't paying attention to me. It wouldn't be good for my job if the good citizens of Wedgewood passed the word that their Police Detective had a screw loose. Small town people are funny that way.
Okay, I picked it up a notch and rushed into the cafe. I lucked out and was able to sit in my usual booth with my back to the wall so I could size up the other customers.
The gum smacking waitress, Joni moved fast between the tables, situated in the middle of the room, bouncing her pony tail from one shoulder to the other as she rushed over to take my order. She pulled her pencil from behind her ear and held the order pad at the ready. “What's it going to be this morning?”
“Scrambled eggs, toast with strawberry rhubarb jam and coffee black,” I recited.
“I swear I might as well just bring your breakfast without wasting my time and a sheet in my order pad. You always order the same thing. Doesn't eating the same meal all the time get tiresome?”
“Not when the food is what I like. Besides if you had been paying attention, I varied the order this morning with the jam and toast. Now will you make it snappy? I'm on call and have a case I'm supposed to be at right now,” I complained, waving the back of my hand at the waitress to shoo her on her way.
Joni shoved her pencil back in place behind her ear. “Oh yeah! Why are you in here then?”
“I hated to start my morning without seeing your goofy face,” I quipped.
“I'll pretend you're joking. You always get in on all the action.” Joni leaned over and whispered, “What's happened this time?” She looked around to make sure no one was listening.
I hissed in her face, “Never mind. It's police business and not yours to know just yet. Read the newspaper in the morning to find out if you're so curious.” I pointed toward the kitchen, wiggling my finger. “Go! Now! I'm getting hungrier by the minute and impatient to get out of here. You don't want to know how bad my attitude gets when I'm really starving.”
Once I ate my breakfast and drained the coffee cup, I crook my finger toward Joni to indicate I needed assistance. When the waitress was close enough to hear me, I ordered, “Bring me a cup of coffee to go. This time double the cup with another one so I don't get burnt. Yesterday morning, my fingerprints almost burned off by the time the coffee cooled.”
When Joni brought the coffee cup back to the table, I paid the bill, slid out of the booth and rushed for my car. I knew by now Briceson was getting impatient. One of these days, he'd complain to the chief about me.
I slid behind the steering wheel and hunted in my purse for lipstick. I applied that and picked up the mic. “Sallie, are you there? Over.”
“Where else would I be?” Sallie cracked.
“I’m ten forty one. On my way to the call that came in a few minutes ago from a DOA report on Hummingbird Road.”
“Finally! I'm glad to hear it. Briceson is getting nervous. He's already checked in to find out what your hold up was. I told him to call you and find out for himself. He said he'd rather not.” Before I could snap at her, Sallie quickly said, “Over and out.”
Chapter 2
Headed out of town with the sun in my eyes, I mentally kicked myself for not putting a pair of sunglasses in the car. I made due with squinting to see the road until I reached the intersection and turned north. As I cruised past the tree lined fence rows, I hoped I was headed the right direction. Farm houses were in this area are far apart. The reason I'm nervous is country driving isn't my thing. I usually get lost, because I haven't any sense of direction.
That's why I hardly ever come this far out into the country. Thank goodness I don't have a reason most of the time. I've never been much for scenic drives in peaceful, pastoral settings, lakes and forests if I had to do the driving. That's a big waste of my time.
I like the town scene. Where more people congregated was usually where the crime action happened. Since I work in the police department that's convenient for my job security.
I slowed down to read the gold numbers tacked to the green emergency posts by driveways of each farm until I found 1728. If the farm had been much farther away, I swore I'd turn around and go back to town.
A shower went through the night before. It left just enough mud to make a mess of my clean car. I'd have to wash the car first time I had a chance.
I pulled into a neatly kept farm driveway. Straight and tightly woven wire fences surrounded well cared for white farm buildings. The straight walled, two story house was at least one hundred years old. Homes like this one was becoming a rarity these days. Fancy new homes were replacing the old structures. In fact when I drove closer, the sign in the front yard told me exactly how old the house was– Hutson Family Century Farm.
I parked in the lineup of three vehicles behind Briceson's squad car and the county coroner’s blue sedan.
I tipped the Styrofoam cup up and emptied the last of the now tepid coffee. I tossed the cup on the passenger side floor while I checked out the area. I can tell a lot about a person by their surroundings.
At the head of the parked cars was a white Ford with this county’s plate. The two car garage door was open. A late model, red Toyota was in the left stall. The other stall was empty, but clearly someone had parked there last night during the rain. Tread tracks on the driveway headed in and backed out again. Someone didn't want to be seen from the road.
The DOA woman had to be a flower lover. A rainbow colored line of geraniums brightened the front flower bed with a shrub on each end. A string of gourds were strung between two large, ash shade trees by the house. Likely homes for the birds.
On a lower limb in one tree was a bleach jug with a small hole and a dowel stick perch. A wren flew down and perched to chortle a tune for the Mrs. inside. I lowered my car window so I could listen. It was a wondrous fact of nature that such a small bird could sing in such a loud voice. Reminded me of Marceil Pestkey, my mother's best friend, when she sat by me in church during hymn singing. I often wished I had the nerve to wear ear plugs, but I knew I'd look silly to the rest of congregation.
The lady of the house was a saver. How did I know? The makeshift bird houses were something people who lived through the depression make. That generation and their offspring learned to make due and never forgot the hardship lessons.
The woman was also a cat lover. Two black and white sleek cats patrolled the back door, waiting for their meal which was late. Soon they grew impatient and paced under the row of gourds. They stared up wistfully, trying to figure out how to supply their own food.
You know you're in the country when you hear in the bean field mourning doves cooing to each other in lower than higher notes. A rooster pheasant crowed and clucked in the cornfield, trying to gather his flock. This farm seemed so tranquil it belied the violence that had taken place in the house last night.
My reverie broke when Officer Jeff Briceson rushed out of the house, slamming the door as if the building was on fire as he hurried to meet me.
I didn't have a clue how he could look so professional in his uniform and turn into a basket case so quickly. Ever since I met Briceson, I kept thinking he reminded me of someone. The answer came to me one night when I watched an old Andy Griffin rerun. At times, Briceson could pass for a good imitation of Barney Fife.
“I begin to think you weren't going to make it this morning at all.” He pretended to tease, taking off his hat long enough to swipe his dark brown hair back in place.
I ignored his criticism as Briceson paced back and forth, waiting for me to get out of my car. When I opened the door, I had to try hard not to hit him.
“You get lost or something?” Briceson backed up as he flashed his silly grin that meant he was kidding. I knew down deep he wasn't, because I didn't find the man one bit humorous.
Officer Briceson pulled out his note pad to refer to the information he'd written down. He used his pen to press the bill of his cap up off his forehead and checked each note off the list to make sure he didn't forget a detail as he paced. “On my arrival, I found the resident dead in bed. A widow named Alice Hutson that owns this farm. Death due to a gun shot wound in the heart.”
As I listened, I concentrated on a man, dressed in a suit, staring forlornly at us from an upstairs window. I grunted. “That must be a messy sight. Who found the victim?”
Briceson frowned as he made a check mark down in the list. The man hated it when I caused him skip around in his lists. “Her son, Bill found her and called it in.”
I nodded toward the house. “That wouldn't happen to be the son watching us from the upstairs window, would it?”
Briceson paused and glanced up. “That's him. The window is in the woman's bedroom.” He glanced at his note pad for the next note in the order he wrote them and added, “Gun’s under the dead woman's hand.”
“So you're thinking suicide?” I asked.
“Looks like it to me.” Officer Briceson said with enough confidence to make me think he was probably wrong. I'd found that was the way the law of averages always went with Briceson. “I should warn you, her son got feisty when I suggested it. He strongly disagrees. He said his mother would never do herself in. I decided not to pursue the issue with him until you arrived.” The officer's eyes wavered back and forth on something off to his side.
It wasn't hard to figure out where Briceson was going with that statement. “In other words, you made the man mad and uncooperative.”
He shrugged. “That's about the size of it. You might have better luck dealing with him. Best take a look at the scene. See what you think and make up your own mind.”
“That sounds like a plan. Let’s go.” With my hand, I shooed him ahead of me. “I'll deal with the son.”
I stopped at the edge of the sidewalk to the house. Have you checked around the exterior of the house yet?”
“No, ma'am. I haven't had time.”
I pointed to the empty garage stall. “Someone parked in there while it was raining last night. Probably to hide the car from the road. Before we leave, I want tread mark pictures.”
Briceson jotted that order at the end of his list and stuck his note pad and pen in his shirt pocket before he opened the back door.
The kitchen glistened with a white tile floor full of blue specks, pale yellow walls and white cabinets. Wedged in beside the refrigerator was a folded shopping cart.
We skirted around the round oak table surrounded with four chairs. In the middle of the table was a silk arrangement of yellow black eyed susans and white baby breaths in a white and yellow marbled pot.
The woman had to be a neat homemaker from the look of her kitchen. A place for everything and everything in its place except for the Mr. Coffee maker. It was pulled away from the wall and on with a couple cups of coffee in it.
In the living room, my feet sank into the expensive, soft beige carpet. The room was full of modern, white furniture with dark wood trim, fancy china lamps with fringe trim, and a large coffee table with women's magazines stacked on one end. The austere, white couch and overstuffed chairs told me the woman didn't have any young grandchildren.
I stopped to peruse the family pictures in the entertainment center and on the lamp tables. Some were oldies in black and white a generation before the deceased. Others in color were of a seemly happy Hutson couple from their newlywed era to enlarging group pictures with their extended family.
The polished walnut staircase wound out of sight to the upstairs bedrooms. Once we reached the second floor, Briceson and I passed two guest bedrooms. Both with the doors open to show off the decor. The bathroom was at the end of the hall with the master bedroom across from it.
Briceson entered the master bedroom doorway and discretely stepped off to the side.
“Morning, Doc.” I nodded at the county coroner.
Salt and pepper haired, Ross Klink glanced at me with intently sharp, blue eyes that x-rayed a person. He acted like it hurt him to make an effort to returned my nod and kept working.
He was a no nonsense man in his mid forties with plenty of experience, but most folks didn't think he had a pleasing personality. I liked the guy's dedication when we worked the same cases. His work ethic was a lot like mine. No screwing around. Get the job done and move on.
I conceded for as long as he'd been doing the job of county coroner, Klink’s personality and sense of humor had been bleached out of him when he was on the job.
After I compared myself to Klink, I decided doing police work wasn’t much different. I took a hard look at myself in the mirror sometimes after a difficult case and knew how Klink got the terse way he was. Something in us had to harden in order to see the violence we witnessed. If we stayed soft, our jobs would drive us crazy.
For a moment, I sized up the dark haired, slim man, pushing fifty, holding up the wall. He stood quietly on the sidelines with his back to the bed and me. As I formulated an assessment of him, he seemed to sense it. He slowly turned and leaned his other shoulder against the wall so he could look at me. I could tell the wheels in his head were wondering who I was and what business I had in the bedroom at this awful time in his life. He was nice enough looking and dressed in higher end clothing. He must have a successful job.
It was easy to see the man was visibly shaken. His blanched face glistening with clamminess. He gripped his hands tightly in front of him to keep it from being so noticeable that he had the shakes. This was a grieving son, or a man trying to put on a good front that he was in mourning.
I was willing to give him some leeway. Violent death always leaves a repelling aura at the scene even after the body was removed.
When I glanced over at Briceson, he looked a little peaked, too. As he watched Doc stick the liver probe in the victim's chest, he winched like he was the one Doc probed. I had forgotten this was his first murder scene.
One thing I'd not want Briceson to get wind of was at my first murder scene I didn't feel much different than he was feeling right now. When I was new to law enforcement, I had to visit several crime scenes before I didn't feel my stomach flip flop, and my insides do a quick spiral toward up chucking. Trouble was, death scenes were so rare in our neck of the woods, I didn't have much of a chance to remain toughened in.
Officer Briceson spotted the face off between me and the victim's son. Finally, he had the good sense to introduce us. “Wedgewood Police Detective Renee Brown, this is William Hutson. He's the one who found his mother this morning and called the sheriff's office. Mr. Hutson, Detective Brown will be in charge of the investigation. I'm just assisting.”
Briceson, in his piddly way, thought that might make Mr. Hutson feel a little less riled at him.
“Sorry for your loss, Mr. Hutson.” I made the effort to walk across the room to shake hands with him, figuring he wasn't ready to give up the wall's support just yet. The hand he offered trembled slightly within my grip.
The man's lips quivered. He opened his mouth to say something. Instead, all he managed was a nod and the words, “Most people call me Bill.”
The man kept his back to the bed. Finding his mother in this way was a shock he found hard to handle. It would be for most loved ones.
“In a few minutes, I'll want to ask you a few questions.” I hoped just a little more time might help the son get a grip on himself while I turned my attention to the body.
In her middle sixties I guessed. The elderly woman wore a white, see through, nylon nightgown with lace trim edging the low cut neckline and sleeves. Perhaps, the nightgown was a little too sexy for a middle aged woman who lived alone.
Her silver coiffured hair had a o
nce a week beauty shop appointment look to it. Her cheeks were sunken and skin pallid. That made the beige pancake makeup she'd applied stand out like a weird mask. Red lipstick lined her lips as red as the blood still bubbling from the gaping wound in her chest. Who wears makeup to bed?
I slipped a pair of disposable gloves out of my lavender pantsuit jacket pocket. Once I had securely stuffed my hands in the tight see through gloves, I gave the bedroom a quick over all glance.
Nice blue drapes were pulled to keep out the morning sun. That meant the elderly woman probably wasn't an early riser. A neatly folded blue bedspread, covered with white roses, draped over the back of an overstuffed, light blue chair in the corner. On top of the bedspread, was a neatly arranged sheer nylon robe that match the nightgown the murder woman was wearing.
The deep carpet was royal blue to coordinate with the walls and drapes. If I was to take a wild guess, I'd suggest the woman's favorite color was blue.
A cordless phone answering machine combo was on the bedside table. I don't know much about antiques, but the table looked like a family heirloom. One of those small walnut square kind with bronze claw eagle feet over glass balls.
A full cup of coffee was on the edge of the table by the phone, so it would be easy for Mrs. Hutson to reach. A wadded, flowered handkerchief edged with white tatted lace was within reach on the corner of the table along side a bunched up white hair net.
I didn't want to get in Doc's way so I back up and went to the large closet. With one finger, I slid open the mirrored closet door. A full line of clothes hung from the bar as in most women's closets. From the look of things, most of the outfits were expensive, fashionable clothes. Shoes to match had been rowed neatly on the floor under the outfits. The woman didn't mind spending her money to dress well.
I closed the closet door and walked back to the bed. A lemon yellow top sheet was pulled up to woman's blanched out neck. Her arms were stretched out along her sides on top of the sheet. Under her well manicured right hand, with red polished nails was a pistol.