by Mona Marple
She’d read dozens of books where the police used the same tactic. Give the witness time to compose their thoughts. Frances needed no time. She knew exactly how to handle the situation, and planned to be back home with Zoey within the hour. It was after the dog’s bed time already, but she wouldn’t sleep in an empty trailer and late nights made her grouchy.
The door opened and the Sheriff gave her a curt nod. He had to be professional, of course, and Frances saw no reason not to follow his example. She mimicked the tilt of his head and kept her own expression as serious as his.
“You’ll be needing this,” she slid the paper across the table to him. “I need to make a phone call.”
He unfolded the paper. “Is this a relative?”
“Yes,” Frances said. “She won’t answer but if you leave a voicemail, she’ll listen to it. She can’t get to the phone to pick up but I don’t want her to worry.”
“Is this person disabled? Should I be sending someone out to do a welfare check?”
“Absolutely not required,” Frances insisted. “But I thank you for the offer.”
To her surprise, the Sheriff pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number right there in front of her. He had enough bags under his eyes to carry luggage for a long haul flight. The poor man was exhausted. No, Frances chastised herself. That could be part of his interrogation technique, to appear harmless and weak. She stiffened her shoulders and sat up straight while Sheriff Morton left a voicemail for Zoey. She’d wanted to do it herself, of course, but the Sheriff’s message was better than nothing.
“Now, Officer Tumulty will be sitting in with me,” the Sheriff explained as the door opened. A bombshell blonde walked in, lips permanently puffed out in that modern way that made them look like fish. Had she intended to look like aquatic life when’d she booked the procedure? Her glossy lips formed a smile and she greeted Frances with what sounded like a sincere hello, but Frances was no fool. She gave Officer Tumulty the same nod she’d given the Sheriff, even as she did notice that her nails were a nice shade of coral.
Officer Tumulty read Frances her rights, that’s how little she knew about the law.
“You don’t need to do that,” Frances tried to make her voice as far from condescending as she could, but had the Sheriff really got no better options available to him?
“I’m sorry?” Officer Tumulty said.
“That’s fine,” Frances said. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge. “Are you new?”
The two officers looked at each other.
“Start from the top,” the Sheriff advised, and Officer Tumulty began to read the rights again.
“No,” Frances said. Surely the Sheriff knew better? “You don’t need to read that. I’m a witness. You’re behaving as if I’m a suspect.”
Officer Tumulty’s cheeks flushed and Frances felt bad. She didn’t want to get the poor girl in trouble. She knew how it was in these small towns. They were understaffed, certainly not prepared to deal with any real crime. Sheriff Morton had probably grabbed her from dispatch, or worse.
Sheriff Morton cleared his throat. “Ms Hampton, we do need to read you your rights. Officer Tumulty, please continue.”
Frances didn’t hear a word more. A flying hoard of butterflies invaded her stomach and the momentum of them, there, swirling in her gut, made her gag a couple of times. They thought she was a suspect! It made no sense.
Frances considered her options. She could answer questions or plead the Fifth, but her mind had emptied itself of the right words to say. The mystery books she read were suddenly of no help. She couldn’t remember any that included police interview scenes, and her mind remained empty. How could she plead the Fifth if she couldn’t remember how to?
She glanced up at the officers sat across the desk from her. It was a depressing room and Frances suddenly wished she hadn’t been left to wait by Sheriff Morton. There wasn’t a window in sight and everything was bolted down - the chairs and the table! She felt her palms begin to grow damp.
“For the sake of the tape, we will need an audible reply,” Sheriff Morton said. His tone was gentle. He probably wanted to get the interview done as much as she did, so he could get home to bed.
“You look tired, Sheriff,” Frances said. It was hard to break a lifetime’s habit of looking after everyone else.
“Ms Hampton, please, stay focused. Would you like me to repeat the question?” That retort came from Officer Tumulty and was enough to seal the deal as far as Frances was concerned. She had no time for the woman. In fact, she would have to consider writing a strongly-worded letter of complaint when she was released. She was unsure how appropriate it was for a police officer to interview a witness (she would not entertain the charade that she was a suspect) while wearing coral nail varnish.
“Do we need a medic in here? Ms Hampton?” It was the Sheriff, and Frances flashed him a smile. She knew the man could see the humanity of the situation.
“Forgive me, Sheriff,” Frances composed herself. “I’m ready.”
To her horror, Officer Tumulty asked the question. “You were witnessed by Sheriff Morton within the confines of one trailer belonging to a Rufus Wellington this evening. In your hand was a crowbar which has been held as evidence. Can you please account for this behaviour?”
“Well,” Frances felt her cheeks flush and gave a laugh. “I can see how it would look for you Sheriff, arriving at the wrong time as you did. Of course, that’s no fault of yours. You came when you could. I’m simply suggesting that, as a tax paying citizen, the fact that I had to take matters into my own hands is disappointing to me.”
“Matters into your own hands?” Officer Tumulty’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows were raised.
“Would you have done different?” Frances asked. She couldn’t figure the woman out.
“You’ll be the one answering the questions,” Officer Tumulty said. Even Sheriff Morton gave her a harsh look for that comment. There was no need to be snarky. Frances would include that line in her complaint letter.
“I’ve answered the question,” Frances folded her arms. “I really can’t stay much longer. What is the point of this?”
“You accept that you entered Mr Wellington’s trailer?”
“Yes,” Frances said. There was no sense denying it since Sheriff Morton had arrived and seen her standing there.
“You entered how?” Sheriff Morton asked. His voice was silky smooth chocolate compared to the abrasive tone of his colleague. She’d listen to his voicemail a time or two before she deleted it.
“I walked in,” Frances said. What kind of questions were these? How else could she have entered? An image of her attempting to climb in through the tiny windows appeared in her mind and she pursed her lips to hide her amusement.
“Did you force entry?” Officer Tumulty asked.
“Well…” Frances said, and she realised why they thought she was a suspect. She let out a laugh. “I see! It all makes sense now. It’s about the door? I’ll replace it, I’d already thought that I’d have to do that. I can get someone out tomorrow, probably. You might even be able to recommend names? Is there a reliable place locally?”
Sheriff Morton scratched his chin and leaned in towards her. “How did you get in there, Frances? We need you to say it, even if we can probably guess.”
“Oh,” Frances said. “For the tape? Well, sure. I used the crowbar. I did try the handle first, you understand. I don’t make a habit of going around breaking people’s doors.”
“But in this case, you did break the door.”
“Yes.” Frances said. She smiled at Sheriff Morton and even allowed the smile to remain on her face as she looked at Officer Tumulty. Maybe she wouldn’t send in a complaint. It must be a difficult job. Long hours, stressful work. And imagine the kind of people they had to deal with normally! Not caring neighbours like herself, a little heavy handed with entering a property, but real criminals. Burglars, drug dealers, murderers! Yes, maybe she had judged Officer Tumulty
a little harshly. And, really, what did it matter if a fleck of colour on her nails helped her get through the thankless hours? Frances knew enough about thankless hours herself. “I’m glad we have this cleared up. I’ll get the door repaired.”
She made a move to stand up and felt a wave of relief pass through her body. She would get home to Zoey and have time to enjoy a glass of Dr Pepper before calling it a night.
She’d laugh with Rufus the next day about it all. Well, no, that wouldn’t happen.
“You’ll need to sit back down,” Officer Tumulty said, a grimace on her face. “We have some more questions.”
“Fine,” Frances said. Everything took so long with these official organisations. There’d be more questions, of course, and then they’d probably have to type her answers into a statement and get her to sign that before she could leave. “Can I get a drink? Do you have Dr Pepper?”
Sheriff Morton tapped a hand on the table and rose. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He’d spoken only about himself but Officer Tumulty also rose and they left the room together. No wonder the police had taken so long to arrive on the scene if they allocated two officers to the task of fetching a witness a drink.
Frances looked down at her own nails, short and functional, and wondered if the coral colour would suit her. Perhaps she could ask Officer Tumulty what shade it was. Although, really, how many shades of coral could there be?
The door opened and the officers walked in. Sheriff Morton handed her a cold can of Dr Pepper, and a plastic glass. Frances took a long, slow sip.
“Thank you,” she directed her politeness at both officers.
“Now, Ms Hampton,” Sheriff Morton had a brown folder with him which he clutched in his hands. “You’ve accepted breaking and entering the trailer of Rufus Wellington. What did you do while inside?”
Frances scoffed. “I didn’t have chance to do anything! You pulled up the second I’d gone in there.”
“Hmm,” Sheriff Morton murmured. He opened the folder and lay a series of plain pieces of paper on the table between them. Perhaps they would ask Frances to handwrite her own statement. It seemed a little old-fashioned, but she prided herself on her neat hand lettering. Instead of handing her a pen, though, Sheriff Morton sat back in his chair. It was Officer Tumulty who reached for each piece of paper in turn, and flipped them over, giving Frances a view of a well-made bed, Rufus fast asleep, and then seemingly random images. A man’s bare feet, a hint of a bruise on the ankle. A man’s chunky hand, marked with a crescent-shaped indent near the thumb. And then: a face she recognised, the skin marred with pinpoint red spots, the neck ruined by ligature marks.
“I’m going to be sick,” Frances said, and there was no time for a bucket to be organised or even for her to turn her head to the side. Instead, she vomited all over the images, and vomited so much that there was no hint of that awful, final picture visible.
“Frances Hampton, it’s time to be open with us. Did you kill Rufus Wellington?”
8
Violet had no idea why she’d even bought the blasted thing. She guessed it was like the phenomenon that comes over people when there’s an awful car wreck. The whole stream of traffic slows for no reason other than people want to crawl by so they can see the devastation. Hideously addictive.
Yes, that was the reason Violet had purchased the circus ticket. It was like picking at a scab: painful but somehow rewarding.
At least she had had the decency to do it before Rufus had been killed, unlike the line that snaked around the field for the ticket box. She pursed her lips and stomped by, walking on the wooden planks that had been laid out atop the fresh mud.
“Hey, the line’s back there,” someone called out to her.
“Phooey,” she muttered. If those morons wanted to queue in the cold, let them. Violet had her ticket, knew her seat number, and planned on striding right to the front.
“You’ll have to join the line,” said the woman in charge of the gate. Violet assessed the fold out table in front of her. A woman’s handbag was being examined by a burly security man in a hi-vis jacket. That scene - security for a circus! - surprised her so much she almost didn’t realise who was speaking to her.
“It’s you,” Violet said.
“Yes it is,” Glory offered her the kind of tight smile that suggested she was used to dealing with weirdos and drunks and could handle whatever trouble Violet felt like causing. “And you need to get back to the line.”
“I already have my ticket,” Violet pulled the piece of card from her bag and held it up. Glory looked unimpressed.
“That’s wonderful,” Glory said. “So do a lot of these people. But you can see the security we’ve had to add. Nobody’s getting in quick tonight.”
“Security?” Violet scoffed. She glanced at the guard, who blushed and looked away. “I know him! That’s Bert! He works on the produce aisle.”
Glory leaned in, and Violet noticed how bloodshot the woman’s eyes looked. “I’m not in the mood for this tonight, lady, okay. Just get back in line. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Violet blurted. Glory did a double take.
“I know you,” Glory said after searching Violet’s face for a few moments.
“I think we might have been in the coffee shop at the same time the other day,” Violet tried to sound nonchalant. “I remember admiring your hair.”
“No,” Glory said. “I mean I’ve seen your face. You’re a witch. You are, aren’t you?”
Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The crowd around her was becoming unsettled.
“Just let her in or don’t, but don’t let her stand here arguing all night!” A male voice called out from within the line.
“Look,” Violet whispered. “Let me in and I’ll talk to you. I’ll answer your questions.”
Glory’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I have questions for you?”
“You have questions,” Violet gazed deep into her eyes as she spoke. “You just don’t realise that I have the answers.”
Glory glanced across at Bert, who made a show of looking the other way. “Fine, come on. Bag on the table, please. Bert?”
Violet stood to one side while Bert searched through her bag in a more thorough way than she thought was necessary. He even pulled out her library book and flicked through it.
“Don’t lose my page!” Violet exclaimed.
Bert, who had frequently saved her the plumpest peaches, stashed them away in the box below the current one, gave her a wink. How he had ended up parading as a security guard was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he and Sonja had fallen on hard times.
“Done?” Violet asked. He nodded and flashed a boyish grin.
“Nice to see you, Miss Warren,” he could barely keep the giggle out of his voice. Not money problems, Violet decided. He was there for the fun of it. The fun of interrogating people’s bags and pockets. Violet personally would hate such a job. She couldn’t imagine that most people were anywhere near fastidious about the things that lurked inside their bags, or how often they were cleared out.
“And you, Bert. Enjoy the show,” Violet said. She grabbed her bag and took a step towards the Big Top. Tinny music played out from within and, again, Violet wondered why on Earth she was there.
“Hold on,” it was Glory again. “Your ticket?”
“Oh!” Violet laughed. She handed the ticket over. Glory frowned.
“You’ve not paid the extra,” she said.
“Extra?”
“Yeah, the price has gone up,” Glory chewed her gum as she spoke.
“I’ve paid for my ticket in full,” Violet said. She’d walked down to the ticket booth and had been served by a pleasant woman who appeared to be on the phone to her cat. Violet’s presence had interrupted the conversation right in the middle of the woman promising the feline a tin of salmon as soon as she could sneak away. Violet felt as if she’d discovered a clandestine affair.
“Ye
ah,” Glory agreed. “But the price has gone up since.”
“Hogwash! That’s not my concern,” Violet snapped.
Glory shrugged. Violet could barely believe that the woman was related to her. Clearly, Rufus had done no kind of job teaching her manners. Or business sense.
“You can’t charge a person and then increase the price, it’s… well, it’s illegal! And if it isn’t, it should be,” Violet raged.
“Take it up with Mr Windbanger,” Glory’s tone suggested that she couldn’t care less whether Violet took it further or not, and of course she couldn’t. Her father - the man she believed to be her uncle - had just been killed. She had bigger problems on her mind. Violet pulled out her purse.
“How much?”
“An extra ten,” Glory said.
“Ten dollars?” Violet was outraged, but handed the note over. The show would no doubt have been a rip off for the twenty dollars she’d already paid, but an extra ten? “Why the increase, anyway? Is there a new act or something special?”
Glory looked right at her then and Violet felt as if she was gazing right through to her soul. “No, there’s nothing new. Come on, I’ll show you to your seat.”
Violet followed, and the path changed from wooden planks to what had apparently once been a red carpet. It was stiff as a board thanks to the mud that had been trailed over it. Glory walked quick and Violet had to dash to keep up.
Inside the Big Top, a clown juggled four knives and an orange while riding a unicycle. Violet raised an eyebrow. She really had to wonder about the career choices some people made. Glory led her to her seat, right on the aisle about half way back.
“Not even a good seat for such a price,” Violet muttered as she lowered herself into the plastic chair.
“Think yourself lucky,” Glory said. She stood by Violet’s side and watched the clown. A dog had now joined the show and was doing its best to knock the clown off the bike contraption. Did people really consider this to be entertainment, Violet wondered. “At least you’re not likely to get wet this far back.”