I tapped the article. “Could that be true?”
Jesse had just loaded a scoop of cereal with peanut butter into his mouth. He crunched while he concentrated on a different section of the paper. When he finished reading, he chewed a little longer before looking up. “Did you say something?”
“That explosion at the mill. It was huge. We saw it. There must’ve been a fire in those dry old buildings where the soldiers slept. The paper says there were no casualties. Do you believe it?”
Jesse gave a half-hearted shrug and went back to chewing.
“Also, how can they determine the cause so quickly? It just happened the night before last. I thought they had to investigate these things.” I reviewed the short article. “Anyway, I don’t believe it.”
Jesse groaned and slammed the paper down, milk from his cereal bowl sloshing onto the table. “Christine, please. No more sleuthing. I’m way too old for this kind of excitement.”
“But—”
“I mean it, Christine. Nobody asked us to find Baxter’s killer, did they? You took this investigation on yourself. You’re not a professional investigator and now they’ve stolen our dog. The deputies told us to lay off and we ran into crazy people with guns. A lot of guns, mind you, a whole army of guns. And explosive chemicals. This is not a game. It’s dangerous. Do you finally get the message? Whether there were casualties or not, eventually someone’s going to get badly hurt.”
While his scathing tirade slammed me, I slouched lower in my chair. When he finished, he popped the newspaper open between us. All along I thought he was on my side. Maybe this wasn’t the time to discuss our next move. Perhaps he’d feel like taking up the search again if I gave him a day to rest. Racing through the woods in the middle of the night might be asking a bit much of two relatively sedentary retired people.
Question was, could I wait for him to be ready? I frowned at the paper barrier that separated us. Time wasn’t on our side. Even if we never discovered how Baxter died, there was a bottom line here: we must find our dog. And soon.
If Jesse wouldn’t help, what should I do? While I cleaned the kitchen, I considered my options. Maybe I could write an anonymous letter to the newspaper. Or the sheriff’s office. I could get on my knees and beg Detective Rogers to help me find Molly. In truth, there weren’t many options and I quickly rejected all but one. Jesse would not approve, but I had to return to Satori for my dog, and to do that I needed Mary’s help.
No one answered my quick raps at Mary’s house. The unfastened screen door flopped in the breeze, but the front door beyond it didn’t budge when I turned the knob. My eyes swept over the yard. Wind rustled the treetops, but nothing else moved.
I yanked the screen door farther open so I could pound on the door. “Mary!” No answer. Not a sound from inside. The screen door banged shut when I released it to peek in the windows.
Through the narrow open slit between the curtains in the front window I saw the seating area, which appeared just as messy as the last time I sat there. But nothing stirred there.
I followed the side of the house to the kitchen window. Standing on tiptoes, I could just barely see in. I tapped on the glass. “Mary! Are you in there?”
Mary’s large gray cat hurried toward the window, wild eyed and bushy tailed. He jumped onto the kitchen counter, mouthing a big meow. The cat’s empty food dish sat on the kitchen floor. Maybe he wanted me to feed him.
Stacks of unwashed dishes lined the counters while a pile of dirty pots teetered on the stove. An upended Cheerios box scattered cereal loops across the table onto the floor. Probably the cat foraging for food.
But no Mary.
I unlatched the gate to the backyard and picked my way through scratchy weeds. Tall fox tails poked stickers through my pants legs, so I stopped to pull them out before continuing up two concrete steps to the back door. When I grabbed the knob, it turned. A shiver of foreboding crept down my spine. I pushed the door open a few inches.
A puff of hot air surged over me like a summer wind. The house was stifling. Had someone left the heater on?
“Mary! It’s me, Christine Sterling.” I paused in the doorway leading to a mudroom. My voice wobbled a little. “Mary? Are you home?”
The cat rushed against my leg, with a loud screech, as if he’d been starved. In his haste, he knocked over a plastic trashcan. The lid clattered to the floor. I glanced toward the kitchen. Such a loud noise in this muted atmosphere would surely bring Mary running. Where was she?
“Mary?” I said, weakly. Please answer me.
I took a tentative step into the kitchen. From this perspective, the disarray looked more like the path of a struggle. The scattered cereal wasn’t the only mishap. A chair at the kitchen table had been overturned. Underneath the chair, Mary’s little black fringe purse peeked out. Knives cluttered the floor. The cat’s water dish had been overturned and floated in a puddle.
Debris covered the living room floor. I tiptoed through it. A violent struggle had left its mark. Pictures dangled off center on the walls, knick-knacks lay in pieces scattered here and there. An overturned lamp littered the floor, its shade bent out of shape. Someone had put up a fight. I stared down a hallway that must lead to bedrooms, not wanting to see what hid behind those doors.
“Mary?” I whispered.
My feet froze in place. I should call 9-1-1. Scouting the room for a phone, I didn’t see one. The phone might be hidden under the piles of clothing and newspapers. I didn’t move to look for it.
I should get my cell phone out of my purse… that I’d left in the Jeep. Why did I leave my purse?
I suppressed a gag reflex. Blinking away unbidden tears, I forced myself to baby step toward the hall as an unfamiliar sensation of disjointedness overwhelmed me. Some rational
voice deep within me screamed, “Stop! Run away! Now!” I considered the benefits of running to the car, speeding home as fast as the car would go, burying my head in a pillow, pulling the comforter over my head, and never coming out again.
The other part of me, the nosy meddling part, must have been in charge of my feet because, like it or not, they inched down the hall as if propelled by a mind of their own. In slow motion, I crept toward the bedrooms. My head swam in a thick fog, vision slightly blurred.
My feet stopped at the threshold of a closed door.
Didn’t I already learn this lesson about entering a stranger’s house uninvited after I broke into the Payne’s house last year?
Dear God, what am I doing here?
A strong metallic odor assaulted my nostrils. I covered my nose and mouth with one hand and tapped lightly on the door.
“Mary?” I barely whispered.
No answer.
My head dropped forward, thunking wearily against the door. I wanted to stay away, but the force of my head hitting the door inadvertently pushed the door open.
The door moved, squealing like a trapped mouse.
I didn’t want to look inside, but my eyes peeked anyway.
Mary’s little body lay on the bed, unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling. She wore the same black Spandex pants and oversize burgundy sweater she’d been wearing when we dropped her off after our sawmill raid. Ruby red lipstick smeared one cheek. Heavy black eyeliner had trickled from the corner of one opened eye and dried. She rested in a large pool of blood that must have dripped from the deep red gash on the side of her head. Who would have guessed that so much blood could come from such a tiny person?
Staring at the lifeless body paralyzed me. At first I quit breathing. Then survival reflexes kicked in, causing me to gulp a full breath of noxious air. The horrible smell unleashed a coughing spasm. A surge of nausea threatened to expel my breakfast.
It must be a dream. Mary couldn’t be dead. I didn’t know what to do. My legs wouldn’t budge, my arms felt leaden. The disgusting smell overwhelmed me, the kind of smell I knew I’d never forget. No matter how hard I tried. My heart raced with wild abandon. I needed to do something, if I could on
ly move.
On the bed beside Mary’s body lay a bloody object. I couldn’t identify it from where I stood. I bent to see it better. It was some kind of tool, a hammer. Not a garden-variety claw hammer like I used to hang pictures, something specialized. I didn’t want to touch it. My feet wouldn’t move from the doorway and I didn’t want them to. Whatever the tool might be, I knew, even without touching it, it must’ve caused the gaping gash on Mary’s head.
Drops of salty sweat dribbled from my forehead, although the coldness that gripped my soul felt chilly enough that I wondered if I’d also died. I blinked hard several times. The tears stung my eyes. Flies buzzed in the silence, an army of flies on the move.
Buzz. Buzz.
Louder and louder.
I waved wooden arms in front of my face to shoo them away.
The flies lit on the bed and walked into the blood.
I bolted from the house, heart undulating in terror. Such loud and fierce pounding. At any moment, my heart might break loose and explode from my chest.
When I’d almost reached home, I called 9-1-1 from my cell phone. How I made it that far in my semi-conscious condition must be conclusive evidence of God’s grace. By then, my vision had cleared and my hands had stopped shaking enough to punch in three numbers. With those tiny buttons, cell phones were not made for old people with tear-filled eyes.
Waiting for the dispatcher to answer, I watched my hands tremble. When I finally heard her voice, it sounded far away, as if it came through a hollow tube. I struggled to understand. Through a torrent of sobs I gave my name along with Mary’s name and address.
The dispatcher’s flat voice reassured me. “Calm down, Mrs. Sterling. Try to focus. Did you see anyone else in the house while you were there?”
My nose dripped like a faucet in a rundown motel. Hunting for a tissue, I searched through my purse in vain, swerving wildly while I foraged. “I didn’t see anyone. Just a cat.”
“Do you have any idea who did this to Miss Wilson?”
I paused, suddenly certain I knew the responsible party. But how could I tell without also revealing how I’d come to that conclusion? The scene in Mary’s bedroom flashed before my eyes. The sticky red blood… Emotion overwhelmed me.
“Mrs. Sterling?” The emotionless voice continued. “Are you still there?”
With one hand I swiped my nose, gathering the moisture. Now where do I wipe my hand? “I’m here.”
“Do you know who harmed Miss Wilson?”
“I… I’m not sure,” I said. “Sorry. I really don’t know for sure.” Not a total lie. I couldn’t be certain.
At last I made it to my front gate and thrust a finger at the gate opener on my console. “I’m home now. Got to go.”
“Just a moment, Mrs. Sterling.”
More bad news? I paused. “Yes?”
“An officer will come out to take your statement, probably this afternoon. Will you be available?”
Chapter Sixteen
Under any other circumstances I would have curled into the fetal position in my closet and closed the door on the rest of my life. The numbness that took over my emotions dulled all sense of horror. It must have been a gift from God because it propelled me from shock into action.
I didn’t cry much while telling Jesse about Mary’s death, although I did insist on having the conversation with his strong arms wrapped protectively around me. Without speaking, he held me on the green sectional in the living room, his handsome face alternating between expressions of compassion, sadness, and, I’m sure, a strong desire to thump me soundly on the head for my willfulness.
His silence continued after I finished.
It made me uncomfortable. I sniffed. “I guess you’re angry with me.”
He smoothed the hair from my forehead with one finger. “No. Not very.”
“You should be. I need to listen to your wisdom.”
Jesse pressed his lips together. The fact that he didn’t say “I told you so” made me love him more than ever.
“So… what do you think?” I pushed out of his embrace so I could look into his eyes. “What should I do?”
“You did all you could.”
“It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“What’s your fault?”
“That Mary is—”
His eyes told me he thought so too, but he tried to soften the news a little. “She… wanted to help us.”
“We talked her into it.” I dropped my head. Tears flowed again. “I talked her into it. She’d be perfectly fine right now if I’d just left her alone.” I finished my sentence on a wail.
Jesse gathered me into his arms again. “We don’t know how perfectly fine she would be.”
It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Burrowing into his shoulder, I sobbed. I had only wanted to find Molly. Never did I think someone might get hurt, let alone die. How did I botch things so badly?
A couple of hours later, I lay curled on the bed under my comforter, trying without success to nap. Someone buzzed at the gate. I wandered downstairs to see who rang. Jesse looked out the window about the same time.
“It’s a sheriff’s car.” He paused as if struggling with whether to let the detective in or not.
The buzzer blared again.
With a deep sigh, Jesse pressed the button to open the gate.
While he answered the door, I cleaned off signs of grief and gathered fresh tissues in case tears erupted again. A well of tears sloshed around inside me, on the verge of overflowing. They’d probably have to be let out sometime.
When I returned to the entryway, Jesse stood at the door with one of the deputies I remembered from Baxter’s funeral. Seeing me enter, the deputy started toward me. “Mrs. Sterling?”
I nodded.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Mary Wilson.”
“Already?” I shot Jesse a nonverbal plea. Rescue me. But he only stared at the tile floor, so I turned back to face the deputy. “You’re… here so quickly. I only found her a few hours ago.”
Jesse gestured for us to sit in the living room, but the expression on his face wasn’t friendly.
The officer handed Jesse his card as if unsure whether I’d be able to process the information printed on it. “I’m Detective Joe Anderson from the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office.” He settled into the white leather cowboy chair across from us. “Why did you visit Mary Wilson today, Mrs. Sterling?”
I didn’t know what to say. “I… we—”
Jesse draped an arm around my shoulder. “My wife has just endured a most shocking experience. Perhaps we could come to the office in a day or two to talk about this.”
Detective Anderson turned to Jesse. “A woman has been murdered. The first few days after a murder occurs are critical times to gather evidence. Your wife may know something vitally important to this investigation. The sooner I hear her story, the sooner we can apprehend the person or persons responsible.” He pulled a pen from his pocket to signal that I should begin.
Thoughts and images raced through my brain like cars at the Indy 500. “I don’t know where to start.”
He didn’t give a hint of a smile to encourage me. “Start with when you met Miss Wilson.”
After several starts and stops, I told the story of our brief acquaintance from how I first met Mary at the Night Owl all the way through our nocturnal adventure and the explosion at Satori. At the end, I explained how I saw her the last time.
By then, I couldn’t stop the tears. Maybe they would never stop again. Even with Jesse sitting right there, I didn’t skip anything in the telling except the part about finding the black van and Mary’s conversion experience. Although I may have spun the story to make me sound less snoopy and more like I’d been doing my duty as a concerned citizen. I’m not sure why I didn’t share about finding the van. Maybe because I hadn’t yet ascertained where Detective Anderson stood on the good cop/bad cop continuum.
Jesse listened with bowed head and hands clasped toget
her. Detective Anderson remained expressionless throughout my discourse, jotting notes now and then. When I finished, I felt wrung out like a dishrag. I leaned back to rest my aching head on Jesse’s shoulder.
The detective cleared his throat. “Did you touch anything in the bedroom, Mrs. Sterling?”
Panic crept into the pit of my stomach. “I don’t remember. Being at the house is kind of a blur. The shock of finding her… like that.”
He leaned toward me. “Are you sure you don’t remember?”
I searched my memory bank. The painful scene flashed into mind. “I… touched the doorknobs on the front door and the back door.” Mentally I tried to reconstruct my movements through the house. “I may have knocked on the bedroom door. But—” I shook my head slowly. “No. I don’t remember touching anything else.”
Jesse straightened. “Why?”
Detective Anderson snapped his pen closed, shoved his notebook into his pocket, and prepared to leave. “I do need to take a fingerprint impression, if you have no objections.”
I shrugged. Why would I object to that?
Out of his pocket, the detective pulled an ink pad and a paper and made copies of all my fingerprints. “That’s all I need at this time, Mrs. Sterling. We may want to ask additional questions later.”
Jesse followed him to the door. I heard a quiet exchange of words, but I couldn’t understand them.
After the door closed, I joined Jesse in the hall. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know.” Jesse’s eyes, full of questions, searched mine. “Sounds like they found fingerprints on the murder weapon and they want to compare them… with yours.”
“What?”
Blackness engulfed my vision. A deafening roar drowned his answer. I felt myself falling. I reached for Jesse just before I slumped to the floor.
Monday morning Detective Rogers requested my presence at the sheriff’s office.
Within a short time, a patrol car pulled into our driveway and a young deputy got out to escort me. My heart pounded a rhythm in my ears while I descended the steps toward him. Jesse locked the front door behind us and folded his long legs into the back seat of the patrol car next to me. My mouth felt as dry as the Sahara Desert in the summer. Fear paralyzed me so completely I couldn’t even babble small talk.
The Dunn Deal Page 14