by Kay Jennings
“How did you discover her body?”
“I’ve told all this to the police,” Lydia said, but there was no sharpness in her voice, only resignation.
“I know, honey. But we need to go over it again to make sure you haven’t forgotten something that might be important. OK?”
“Mr. Darcy and I went down our access steps to the beach right after it got light out. We turned south and started walking close to the shoreline in the packed sand.”
“Do you always go south?” Patty asked.
“No, it depends on which way the wind is blowing. I like to start out with it blowing in my face so we have it at our back on the way home when we get tired. Yesterday morning the wind was coming off the ocean from the southwest, so we headed into it first. The tide was out and it wasn’t necessary to use the tunnel to get through, so I started to head around it. But Mr. Darcy pulled on his leash and wanted to go in the tunnel. I let him, and he went straight up to the child, and that’s how we found her.”
Patty reached across the small table between their rockers and took Lydia’s hands in her own. Mr. Darcy, asleep in front of the fireplace in his doggy bed, raised his head at the sound of his name.
“It was so awful,” Lydia said. Her eyes were moist and her nose and cheeks were reddening. “Mr. Darcy sat right down next to her body, and I looked at her, willing her to move. But she didn’t.”
“Officer Finley said you had the presence of mind to not touch her, and that you called 911 on your cell phone. Is that correct?”
“It wasn’t presence of mind,” Lydia said sadly, “I was afraid to touch her. Scared out of my wits. I’m embarrassed to say that I left Mr. Darcy with her, and I turned my back and went outside the tunnel to make the call. It feels like perfectly dreadful behavior on my part. Leaving her alone like that.”
“People respond to violence in different ways, Lydia. Your response was normal.” Patty paused to let her friend compose herself.
“Did you notice anything unusual around her body or in the tunnel?”
“Like a murder weapon? No,” Lydia said shaking her head. “The only thing other than Emily that I noticed was a couple of big bullwhips at the far end of the tunnel—the end closest to the ocean, not the end we entered. I noticed them because they hadn’t been there a couple of days earlier. Likely they washed in with the high tide last night.”
“Did you see any footprints in the sand?”
“No. Only Mr. Darcy’s paw prints. It was low tide, but the sand around the girl was still wet, and there were puddles.”
“Did you notice any writing on the tunnel walls? Or anything clinging to them?”
“I didn’t inspect the rest of the tunnel—thought it better to stay away and let the police do their thing. But, no, I didn’t see anything else out of the ordinary. The tunnel looked like it always does. Only with a dead child in it. Do you think she was killed there?”
“Too soon to know for sure, but it looks that way. Chief Horning told us in our briefing that there didn’t appear to be any sign of a struggle in Emily’s bedroom. It looks like she got up, got dressed, and climbed out her window.”
“Why on earth would she have done that?” Lydia puzzled.
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Patty replied.
Chapter 12
Saturday, 7:00 p.m.
All in one motion, Fern Byrne kicked off her shoes and tossed her purse and keys on the hall table just inside her garage door. She had never felt so wiped out in her life.
Drink? Bubble bath? Jammies? What should come first?
After the crime team meeting ended, Fern had driven back to the Bushnell residence, stopping first to pick up a couple of large pizzas at the local joint. She needed to know that the family was doing OK. Pastor Winston and his wife were there, and planning to stay the night in the guest room. Fern offered her assistance and comfort to all the family members, but there were no takers. She got tepid hugs from Susan and Jack, but no one’s heart was in it. Everyone was drained dry, not surprisingly. It was clear that they were strung out emotionally, and that nothing else would happen tonight. Dropping her business card on their foyer table, Fern urged them to call her if they needed anything, and took her leave.
Although Fern’s psychology education included dealing with death, she had no real-life prior experience in murder interrogations, and sitting in with Jay while he took Marjorie Bushnell’s statement had been eye-opening. Fern hadn’t a clue what she was supposed to be feeling tonight, but her initial sentiment had been confirmed by Jay and the new police chief; she felt some of the family’s response to Emily’s death to be a bit odd.
Most peculiar in Fern’s eyes, Marjorie had turned rude and angry during Jay’s questioning; not at the injustice of her daughter’s death, but seemingly at being put upon by having Jay and Fern present. Like they were ruining her day or something.
It felt off to Fern. Not that she had ever been around parents of dead children, but she was pretty good at human nature, and how normal people reacted in a time of tragedy. And, after the first hour or so of their arrival at the house, Marjorie Bushnell did not act like the mother of a dead child.
Maybe, thought Fern, Marjorie was overwhelmed. Or really tired. Or just a disagreeable woman.
Or maybe she’s a murderer.
Fern went into her bathroom to wash up before heading to the kitchen. She looked paler than usual, and her dripping wet, long red hair made her look bedraggled. Her hair was usually her best feature, long, thick and naturally wavy in a luxurious auburn color. Fern also had nice skin, although dark circles were beginning to form tonight under her green eyes, and her paleness was more pronounced than usual under her scattered freckles.
You need to get your act together, girlfriend, she said to herself in the mirror. She toweled off her wet head, rinsed her face clean, and applied her favorite moisturizer, which was being discontinued according to the lady at the mall counter. Eventually Fern would have to face facts. Moisturizer change. Drowned-rat look. Dark circles.
Dead little girl.
Let’s have a drink. A big, fat drink.
Usually a moderate drinker of mostly Oregon pinot noir—it was practically a state law—Fern headed for her liquor cabinet tonight. She wasn’t sure what she might find there, but it seemed like the right call. Her house felt emptier than usual with a stillness about it, and she felt jumpy. To be expected.
She poured herself a hefty glass of Beefeater Gin and threw in some ice, and a couple of plump green olives; if it was good enough for the Queen Mother, it was good enough for Irish Fern Byrne.
After a couple of sips of the potent gin, Fern’s stomach started growling. She didn’t have much extra fat on her 5’8” lanky body, and not a lot of reserves when it came to missing meals. She’d planned to go to the farmer’s market this morning and get some Petrale sole from her favorite fishermen’s booth, and some veggies from Mikey’s Organic Farm for tonight’s dinner, but that didn’t happen.
Fern grabbed a frozen pizza from her freezer, and said a quick thanks to Paul Newman for his company’s fine product. A fresh tomato sliced on top of Paul’s pepperoni would have to do as her vegetable tonight. Back on the straight and narrow tomorrow, she promised herself. Tonight, gin and pizza seemed like a great idea.
Fern had lived in Port Stirling all of her life, which was strange, because she didn’t seem to fit. She was well-educated, having received a M.A. in Psychology and a B.A. in Art History from Stanford University. Her intention when she left Port Stirling was to stay in San Francisco after college, and get a job in a government agency or a corporate setting. She was practical enough to realize that, even though she loved art and painting, she wasn’t good enough at it to make it her career. While she searched for the right permanent job for her psychology degree, Fern took a temporary job as lead preparator on exhibition pro
jects at the city’s Asian Art Museum.
What Fern hadn’t counted on was a bad relationship with
one Thomas Chesley. She’d met Tom, a member of the Asian Art Commission and a seriously generous donor to the museum, about one month into her new job.
Long story, short: Tom was charming, handsome, rich. He was also very married, which he somehow forgot to mention during their whirlwind six-month courtship.
Fern learned of this fact one Friday evening when she and Tom had gone to his residence at the Ritz-Carlton Club to have dinner and spend the night, which they often did. Tom explained that his “real” home, to which Fern had never been invited, was in Sausalito, and it was too much trouble to get there after late nights in the city.
Tom poured them both a glass of the chilled wine his concierge had left for them, and they studied the room service menu together.
But before they could place their order, a key turned in the door lock, and in came Mrs. Thomas Chesley. Tom jumped up from the sofa and moved quickly away from Fern.
“Darling, I thought you flew to New York this morning?” Tom said.
“Yes. Apparently that’s what you thought,” Deidre Chesley said. She spoke to Tom, but her eyes were on Fern.
And, Fern’s eyes were on Deidre Chesley. It was like looking in the mirror twenty years from now.
Turns out, Thomas Chesley not only collected Asian art, he also collected redheads. Also turns out, Fern was No. 4.
Unfortunately, what happened next was rather cliché. Thomas—and/or Deidre—made Fern’s life at the museum difficult. She went crying home to Rory and Catherine Byrne in Port Stirling. The Byrnes, who exhibited their sense of humor when naming their daughter, welcomed her back with open arms.
That was five years ago, and here she was. Although she was jolted hard by Emily’s death, and felt completely disheveled by the day’s pursuits, today had been the single most exciting thing that had happened to Fern during those intervening years. For the first time, she was a truly valuable member of the crime team. Thank goodness the new police chief was here to lead the investigation, and, why-oh-why had no one bothered to share with her how gorgeous Matt Horning was? That curly hair, those cheekbones.
But Fern couldn’t keep the happy image of Matt Horning in her brain for long; it kept returning to Marjorie Bushnell and her behavior that morning. Fern recalled that Marjorie had mentioned her dining room wallpaper during their interrogation, and while she figured Marjorie’s line of thinking was due to shock, it still jarred both her and Jay at the time. When Fern had followed Marjorie’s gaze, she noted the beautiful dining room with its gorgeous furniture and expensive crystal chandelier. What on earth could make Marjorie think about wallpaper at a time like this?!? It was peculiar behavior for a grief-stricken mother.
Now in her own modest but clean contemporary home, Fern tried not to compare the Bushnell’s elegant dining room with its fancy-pants wallpaper and pricey crystal chandelier to her own. She’d bought a perfectly serviceable oak dining table that sat eight, with its leaf, and added some cool laminated placemats and cloth napkins she’d bought years ago at an outdoor market in France. One coat of light grey paint on the walls. Done.
Maybe she’d start a new cookie-jar fund for a small, but tasteful chandelier to replace her standard bowl fixture that was becoming uglier by the minute as she thought about it and compared it to the Bushnell’s.
As Fern trudged down her hallway to her bedroom, she glanced in the dining room and caught sight of her pedestrian light fixture centered above the table. “Damn you,” she, or, perhaps the gin, said to it.
As Fern drifted off to a dead-to-the-world sleep, she wondered what tomorrow would bring. She thought about Matt’s request to profile the family, and she knew exactly how she would proceed. Fern was not in the least bit intimidated by this role suddenly thrust upon her. She had, after all, watched plenty of crime dramas on TV.
* * *
Saturday, 7:45 p.m.
When his officers dispersed to begin scouring the Ocean Bend Road area, Matt went to his office. He flicked on the light switch inside his door, but only long enough to get his bearings and find his desk chair. Sitting in the dark, facing his big picture window, he watched the lights quivering on the jetty and beyond. The lighthouse, although now officially decommissioned, was still brightly lit, and served as a beacon guarding the shoreline. Matt had always hated the early twilight and darkness that January brought in Texas, but here it seemed appropriate. Maybe it was just the circumstances of the day, but it needed to be dark, and he needed to sit alone in the inky light and think.
Matt’s training had taught him that when it came to the homicide of a child, the murderer always—always—came from one of three groups: the victim’s family, a known “crazy”, or someone trying to cover up something the child had seen or heard. Because the ME determined that Emily hadn’t been sexually assaulted, he didn’t know the primary motivation for her death, sitting here twelve hours after her body was discovered.
Matt would, before the night was out, return to the War Room, and write on the big board the case’s questions that needed answering, just like every homicide detective ever had done before him. But first, he wanted to flesh them out in his own mind here in the darkness.
Who, exactly, was Emily Bushnell?
Why was she killed? Did someone have a grudge against her or her family? Did she see something she shouldn’t have? Know something she shouldn’t know? Were they dealing with a “crazy” or a serial killer?
Is there any previous violence in the Bushnell family? Any other children in the region dead or missing? Didn’t sound like it, according to his officers, but Matt would check the records to be sure.
Where was she killed? And, if it was the tunnel in which her body was found, why was that spot chosen?
What was the murder weapon and where is it now?
Why did no one—that they knew of so far—hear or see anything last night?
Who killed her? Family member, acquaintance, or stranger?
Lots of questions and no real answers, not yet anyway. But proper investigations, often tedious in nature, had a way of unearthing the truth in Matt’s experience. Follow the facts and evidence, and don’t overlook anything or anyone because ‘conventional wisdom’ caused others to look in the other direction.
He would have to be watchful of letting the town’s preconceptions influence the investigation. That became apparent to Matt in his earlier meeting with Fern, Jay, and Ed. Fern was a smart professional, but she’d already made up her mind that Marjorie couldn’t possibly be their killer, even in light of what her own, trained hunches were whispering to her. Even Jay, an intelligent, earnest cop, was letting his personal feelings and relationship with the mayor and his family color his perception. Matt had hoped for a quieter beginning to his new life, but, deep down, he thought perhaps it was a good thing the universe had brought him here now to steer this investigation of that poor little thing’s death.
His personal motto was “Don’t get bogged down in the bullshit.” There might be less bullshit in Port Stirling than in Plano, but Matt knew without a doubt there would still be bullshit. He hoped it wouldn’t get as deep as his last situation with a dead girl.
Eventually, he went down the dark hallway to the War Room, and wrote the unanswered questions, leaving room below each one for the answers that he was confident would come soon. His cell phone buzzed, and he saw that it was a “541” call, his new area code. Picking up, Patty Perkins said, “Chief, do you have a minute?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. I’m writing down all the case questions, and I hope you have an answer or two.”
“No answers yet, but I do have an update for you on my conversation with Lydia Campbell.” Patty recounted the particulars of her talk with Lydia, and told him about her mention of Ted Frolick, her Ocean Bend Road neighbor.
&nbs
p; “Oh?” Matt said. “Why did she think of Frolick when she saw the light?”
“I asked her that very question, and she said he often wanders about, and is known to be on the beach after dark. She was worried that it might have been him down there on a dark night. But when she realized what she was saying, she backtracked in a hurry, and told me that he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he couldn’t possibly be a suspect.”
“That’s what they always say, right?”
“Yes, that’s what they always say, right up until the time we slap cuffs on them. This might be our first lead. I’ll go see him first thing tomorrow morning. Does that meet with your approval?”
Matt, looking at his watch, saw that it was almost 8:30 p.m. “Yeah, that sounds good. It’s getting kinda late to be knocking on doors tonight. What time do you think you’ll visit Mr. Frolick tomorrow?”
“Us old people get up early. I’ll knock on his door about 8:00 a.m.”
Matt had to chuckle in spite of the circumstances. “Ah, an early bird. Love it.”
They rang off, agreeing to talk again tomorrow morning after Patty got a bead on crazy old Ted Frolick.
Jay poked his head in the War Room and said, “There you are. I came to tell you that Abbott has assigned you official wheels.”
He threw a set of car keys to Matt, who caught them easily.
“I was wondering how I was going to get to my new home tonight,” Matt said.
“I’m happy to drive you, but Abbott’s thought of everything. He said to tell you that your squad car is parked out in the far corner of the lot. Also said that Mary Lou and he took your boxes from Texas that arrived two days ago, and put them inside the door to your
cottage—the realtor has the only other key, and she let them in. Mary Lou wanted to unpack them for you, but Abbott put the kibosh on that,” he smiled.
“Not that I have anything remotely interesting in those boxes. Or that I’m going to have any time soon to unpack them.”