by Lori L. Lake
Eleanor started to cry, soundlessly, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Ted put an arm around her and drew her into a hug. She leaned against the side of his chest, her head tucked under his chin, feeling so fragile. She could count on one hand how many times he'd held her in his life. Sure, he'd sat on her lap as a child to read a book, and there were times she'd gotten down on the floor with him to build a Lego project or examine some toy he was assembling, but she hadn't ever been a huggy person. Callie was always the warm, affectionate one. Eleanor had never found a way to escape her own reticence—except with Callie. She knew she would have been terminally stiff and brusque if not for Callie's constant intervention. She'd been Eleanor's lifesaver, the one person who sought the good in Eleanor's heart and brought out all the joy and love hiding there.
Ted let out a strangled sob then cleared his throat to cover it. "I'm so sorry, El. Here I am whining about the dumb-ass cops, and you're dealing with all this—all this—"
"I know," she said. "It's awful. A nightmare." She patted him on the chest and pulled away to dig in her jeans pockets for a hanky to wipe her eyes.
"I don't know what would have happened to me if it weren't for you and Mom. Dad was so awful."
"You would have been okay, Ted. You're a strong person."
"Sure didn't feel that way last night. It was clear they thought I was some kind of animal that needed to be broken. I guess cops think they're successful if they can cow you into feeling small."
"Sounds like we both had a terrible time. I thought my night was awful, too. Today has been just as bad."
"I can't even imagine. The police were walking around the grounds when I drove in. Are they done in your rooms yet?"
"I don't know." Eleanor tugged on his sleeve. "We can go to the dining room."
They went through the open double doors and slumped into chairs at the first table they came to, Eleanor facing the common area and Ted sitting to her right.
He said, "The police told me they'd be checking every detail about my life. They actually seem to think I killed Mom."
"Oh, please! That's beyond ridiculous."
His hands shook, which she could tell embarrassed him. Folding his arms over his chest, he kept his voice level. "They think I was the last to see her alive and that I have a motive."
"Ha. What would that be?"
"Mercy killing."
Eleanor blinked back a wash of tears.
"What are we going to do?" he asked.
She squeezed his arm. "There's nothing we can do but get through this. It's the worst nightmare I could ever imagine."
"Exactly. That's exactly it."
The front doorbell rang. An aide came from the far corridor, went through the common area, and disappeared from Eleanor's sight. A moment later, Callie's ex-husband, Howard Trimble, came chugging toward them like a black locomotive, his face red.
"Uh-oh," Ted said.
Any minute she expected steam to billow out of Ted's father's ears. They both sat waiting for the engine to run them over.
Without a single greeting, Howard said, "I've just come from the bank. They won't let me get at Callie's accounts."
"Why do you need access?" Ted asked.
"We've got to make the funeral arrangements."
Eleanor said, "Howard, I've already got that ball rolling."
Howard glared at Eleanor. "I don't need your interference. I'll take care of my own family arrangements, thank you very much."
Eleanor drew a breath and said sharply, "Callie and I prepaid our funerals long ago. I've already stopped by the Episcopal Church to alert them, and whoever has time tomorrow morning can come with me to meet with Father James. I planned to get the word out this afternoon."
"Why—who are you to…" His face flushed redder. "You're probably the reason the bank denied me access! You have no right."
Ted said, "Dad, have a seat."
"I don't want a seat. I want to know the meaning of this. Have you taken over my wife's money?"
Eleanor said, "Other than an account for her pension and social security deposits, Callie had no money to speak of. And she's your ex-wife, Howard. Remember? You have no control here."
"Preposterous! I'm more than happy to inform the authorities about this." He brought his index finger up in the air and began the kind of diatribe Eleanor recognized from past experience. "Callie always had plenty of money." Ignoring Eleanor, he spoke to Ted. "Your mother probably didn't want you to know. That woman she lived with tapped her accounts. I just know it."
"Dad, stop! Nothing illegal or underhanded has gone on."
"And how would you know, Ted?"
"For cripesake, I'm their accountant. I know more about their financial situation than you do. Mom spent her entire savings when Grandma Trimble went into the nursing home."
"That's not possible."
Ted said, "You paid some, Mom paid some. When Mom ran out of savings, Eleanor stepped up and paid the rest."
Howard gaped at Eleanor in disbelief. "I knew nothing about this."
"There was no way Callie and I were going to let your mother be moved from the good treatment she got at the care center to some flea-bag welfare home."
"But it wasn't your place to interfere, Eleanor."
"Of course it was. Until she had to go to the nursing home, your mother lived with Callie and me for three years. Callie nursed her like she was her own parent. She fed her, walked with her, helped her dress. Right up until Mother Trimble had the final heart attack and needed round-the-clock attention, Callie handled the bulk of her care. And when she died and left you the house, which you sold for a boatload of money, you never shared a thing."
Howard sank into a chair and scrubbed at his face with the palms of his hands. "Oh, my God, this is awful. All so awful."
Ted said, "And now Mom's dead and gone, Dad. She's dead."
Ted glanced at Eleanor, wide-eyed. She was sure Ted must feel as surprised as she did. Although Howard had quite a temper, she'd never seen him come so unhinged. She knew well that Ted's experience of Howard Theodore Trimble had run along the lines of loyal subject following the regent's every order. His authority wasn't questioned by his son or Ted's sister, Olivia. Though he never laid a hand on the kids, at times Howard had been downright harsh to the children. Callie and Eleanor served as an oasis in the desert of Howard's unreasonable expectations. But right now, he appeared thoroughly stunned and confused.
He pulled his hands away from his face and stared right through his son. "She's really dead. I can't believe it."
"Jeez, Dad," Ted muttered, "you almost seem human."
Before Howard could respond, the doorbell tones sounded, and they all turned to see who'd be admitted. After a moment, Leona Reese appeared in the doorway.
"Oh, hello," Eleanor said. "You're back."
"Finally." Leona strode toward them, moving with grace. She was dressed in a dark blue pantsuit and a white blouse with a stiff collar and possessed a pair of the most piercing bright blue eyes Eleanor had ever seen. Earlier, when talking to Leona, she had felt like the investigator could see right through to every one of her secrets. No wonder she'd spilled them all. Was the woman trustworthy? She seemed to be. In fact, if Eleanor didn't miss her guess, Leona Reese had her own share of secrets.
She reached the table and extended a hand to Ted. "Leona Reese, Department of Human Services. You must be Callie Trimble's son."
Ted rose. "Yes. Ted Trimble," he said as he shook her hand, "and this is my father, Howard Trimble."
Howard sat with his head in his hands. "You're not with the police?"
Leo hedged her statement. "I don't work with the Minneapolis police." She placed a leather valise on the table, and she and Ted lowered themselves into chairs. "Are there other relatives coming?"
"Just my sister," Ted said. "Our family is small. But she won't arrive for a couple of days. She's—"
Howard interrupted. "Why exactly are you here?"
The animo
sity in his voice didn't seem to register with the investigator. Calmly she said, "I'm here from the State to make sure the facility is safe."
"How safe could it be," Howard half-shouted, "if my wife was murdered last night!"
"Dad."
"Somebody killed Callie. Killed her." He said it as though he couldn't get his head around it, and Eleanor knew exactly how he felt. "Who would do that?"
Eleanor hesitantly reached out, wanting to touch Howard, but she pulled back. He wouldn't take kindly to her comfort, so she said, "The police will figure this out. Let them do their jobs."
As if on cue, the doorbell went off again, and the echo of deep, bass voices came from the foyer.
"Oh, God, I think I recognize those voices," Ted said. "Please tell me it's not those cops again."
Detective Flanagan in his brown suit filled the doorway like a bull moose come in from the wild. "Ladies and gentleman, good afternoon." His tone was falsely cheery.
Howard stood, a banty rooster eager to claim his territory. "Have you determined what happened to my wife?"
"Not yet. I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sir."
"Callie Trimble is my wife. Was, I mean. My ex-wife. I'm Howard Trimble, and I'd like to know right this moment what happened to her."
Eleanor expected Howard to start stomping his feet, maybe throw a small conniption fit. She caught Leona's eye and shrugged.
Flanagan came into the dining area while DeWitt hung back in the doorway. "I'll inform you about that when I have some answers. We're going to inspect the garden now."
They trooped toward the sliding glass door, Howard trailing. Eleanor looked at Ted, then Leona, and they stood and joined the procession. On the cement patio, Flanagan told them to stay put.
A slim Latino man dressed in cut-off jeans and a baggy white t-shirt stood over a pile of weeds he'd raked out from under the maple tree.
Flanagan flashed his badge. "Who're you?"
The man gripped the rake in both hands and leaned on it. "Garden Service."
"Your name?"
"Carlos Guevarra."
"You here yesterday?"
The man shook his head solemnly. "I come on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not been here since last Thursday."
"You find anything unusual out here?"
"Nope."
"You hear there's been a killing here?"
"Mrs. Hoxley say."
"Know anything about it?"
"No, sir. Not a thing."
"All right. You can go." The man leaned down to scoop up the weeds, and the detective raised a hand. "Leave that."
The gardener let go of the lawn-and-leaf bag as if it were on fire. He hotfooted it through a narrow gate in the wall, wrapped a chain around the metal supports, and snapped the lock shut.
Eleanor thought if she were the gardener, she wouldn't want to stick around either. The two detectives prowled the garden while she focused her attention on the thick stone wall that surrounded two sides of the yard. She wondered if someone could have scaled it. The wall was at least seven feet tall and punctuated here and there at the base with lengths of hedge. On one end, where the wall met the corners of the building, there were no gaps. On the south side, the wall ended three feet from the apartment. A narrow chain-link fence less than three feet wide was securely screwed into the stone wall. The door in it was wide enough for the gardener to squeeze in a wheelbarrow or mower, but it was chained shut and secured with the lock the gardener had just used.
Eleanor caught Leona's eye. "Isn't there supposed to be an accessible exit from here, you know, in case of fire or emergency?"
"I'm not up to speed on those sorts of codes. I imagine it's safer in some ways if there's no unlocked egress, except through the facility, though I imagine any spry person could get over that wall."
Before Eleanor could answer, Flanagan came toward them.
Dragging along like a limping pup, DeWitt trailed behind, bent at the waist to examine where the edge of the wall met the dirt. "Nope," DeWitt said. "I don't see any signs of disturbance."
Leona muttered, "But the gardener just tidied up all the evidence."
Over his shoulder to his partner, Flanagan said, "I doubt if anyone came over the wall."
Leona Reese surprised Eleanor by stepping off the patio onto the grass and saying, "I disagree."
Flanagan's giant head swung her direction, a smirk on his face. "So you think you know better, huh?"
"Check out the grass. We haven't had rain for days. It's pretty dry and wouldn't show many footprints." She took two fast steps off the patio, hopped in the air, and came down hard with her heels. "Look, not much indentation even when I'm trying."
DeWitt blurted out, "This is a crime scene, lady!"
"Then treat it like one," she snapped. "Besides, you've got bad timing. Looks like the gardener cleared out all the beds. Any evidence you might have had is probably lost."
Eleanor watched the big man's face flush pink, turn red, then glow a sickly shade of dark purple. She was glad Leona had brought up the fact before she had to mention it. Flanagan stood, his hands in tight fists as if he wanted to belt someone.
DeWitt waddled over to the edge of the patio and glared. "We think it's an inside job anyway."
This DeWitt fellow was scarier than Ted's father, and Eleanor was amazed to see how Ted shrank back toward the sliding glass door. He gulped down a breath, obviously trying not to let his alarm show. She moved next to him and tucked her arm through his.
"It may be an inside job," Leona said, "but it could also have been an outsider. Was anything taken?"
Flanagan had recovered his bluster. "We'll have that information soon enough."
Eleanor said, "I can't say if anything's missing. The room's been cordoned off, and I've not been in there since last night."
Leona's bright blue eyes met Eleanor's. "I think someone could definitely have come over the wall."
Flanagan moved fast and came to loom over her, his face mocking. "There's not a bit of evidence that anyone entered or exited. Besides, the sun was down, and if someone came out here, they'd have bumbled around in the dark."
"Not really," Eleanor called. "It was well after dusk, but not full dark." She pointed to where the two stretches of wall met at the corner. "The street lamp overhead sheds a surprising amount of light. I've been out here after dark lots of times. If the mosquitoes aren't on the attack, it's quite pleasant."
"Still," Flanagan said, "it's not likely anyone escaped over the wall. There's no evidence of it. They'd practically need a ladder."
A blur of blue shot past Eleanor. Leona reached the wall, brought her knee up and stuck out her lower leg. With a toe dug into the wall, she changed her forward momentum to launch herself upwards. Her shoulders cleared the wall. Before gravity pulled her back down, she got her hands on top and pulled herself up. She twisted in midair, and with a poof of dust landed in a sitting position on top of the wall.
"Whoa," Ted said. "Pretty neat trick."
"And if I can do it," Leona shot back, "then anyone could have." She pointed down at the grass. "Can you see any marks?"
In a fury, Flanagan marched over. "Enough with the shenanigans. Get down."
Leona peered over her shoulder, leaning precariously to see the other side of the wall. "Before the gardener gets to the outside flower beds, you guys ought to check it out. What if there're footprints or evidence over there?"
"You're interfering with a—with a police investigation," DeWitt sputtered.
Leona hopped off the wall with no difficulty and brushed off the seat of her pants.
For the first time since the previous night, Eleanor smiled.
Chapter Six
LEO CHECKED HER appearance in the mirror of the ladies' room and washed her hands. She wanted to kick herself for being a smart aleck to the two cops, but she hadn't been able to stop herself. They were both so arrogant—no, worse. Condescending. Not so much in what they said as in how they said it. As if she were some s
ort of dingbat with no brains whatsoever.
She was accustomed to a moderate level of male superiority in her work life, but as a sergeant in charge of patrol cops, most of the ribbing was good-natured. She wasn't used to outright disrespect or being dismissed out of hand. Flanagan and DeWitt were detectives, that was true, but she outranked both of them.
Out here in the civilian world, outside her city of jurisdiction, she possessed no rank. The cops had bona fide badges unlocking every door for them, while she was loaned out to an overworked, understaffed department that was apparently not respected.
She suppressed her fury, picked up her valise, and went to the common area. A man she'd learned was named Franklin Callaghan sat on one end of the center couch under a reading lamp that cast a nice glow. A newspaper sat folded on the coffee table in front of him. He held a book and pencil in his hands.
"Sir? Mr. Callaghan?"
He tore his eyes away from the book, which, as she moved closer, she saw was a thick collection of crossword puzzles. He gazed up at her, his eyes shy.
She introduced herself and asked if he would allow her to interview him.
"You could pay me a double nugget, and I still wouldn't have a thing to tell yer, lass." His voice, a charming Scottish brogue, was deep and resonant and reminded her of the voice of Grandpa Wallace, her foster father's dad.
Franklin Callaghan sounded so earnest that she lowered herself to the cushion next to his, set her valise on the other side, and sat back against the comfortable couch. He shifted slightly and half-turned his broad shoulders toward her.
"You spend a lot of time out here in the common area, Mr. Callaghan?"
"Aye. My flat is small, and I enjoy the people coming and going."
"You seem engrossed in your reading and puzzles."
"True."
"But I'll bet you observe things, and maybe you've seen something you don't realize is important."
"P'raps." He tucked the pencil in between pages and closed the puzzle book. A pained expression flitted across his face. She wondered what it meant.