by Sara Rosett
The jacket had been large and had probably covered up his heftiness when he was alive, but with him sprawled on the floor, the jacket had fallen open and showed the man’s pudgy stomach straining against the fabric of the brown plaid shirt. There had been a second glove, a match to the one on the stairs, hanging halfway out of his coat pocket. My mind flashed back to the man’s face. I didn’t want to dwell on that image, but I took a steadying breath and made myself think about his features. His face—the side that had been turned up toward me—had been plump and rounded. His sparse hair was brownish gray. And there had been some facial hair—not a beard, but a goatee. I’d only been able to see a small bit of it because his head had been turned away, but I remembered the goatee. It was brown going gray.
I’d met someone recently who had a goatee. Had he been at the funeral? I didn’t think so. Earlier? Had I met him at the visitation? That was it! I sat up straighter—the Weebles guy. What was his name? Sam? No—Stan. Stan . . . Anderson. Stan Anderson. I’d only talked to him briefly at the visitation, but he’d said he’d never met Grandpa Franklin. I flipped my phone around and around in my hands, trying to figure out why he’d be in the house in the first place.
Officer Taggart came out the door. His gun was in his holster and the other officer moved behind him at a regular pace. So the inside of the house must be empty except for Stan Anderson. The second officer moved off around the back of the house and Officer Taggart came over to my window. I rolled it down.
“Describe to me what happened when you arrived here.”
I took him through each thing I’d done and when I finished, the second officer had come back and drew Officer Taggart aside. They were only a few feet away and I could hear the second officer reporting, “No sign of footprints. There’s a thick ground cover under the window and with all these leaves, there won’t be anything in the woods.”
“Check anyway,” Officer Taggart said, and the other officer nodded and left to search the woods behind the house.
A flash of reflected light in the mirror shined in my eyes and I turned to watch an F-150 pickup roar into the gravel beside me. It was followed by another car, this one a dark blue four-door sedan with tinted windows. Uncle Bud swung down from the pickup’s driver’s seat and Mitch climbed out of the other side. Detective Rickets emerged from the unmarked car. He braced his hands on his hips and stretched his shoulders back, then went to greet Uncle Bud with a hearty handshake.
Mitch trotted over to the van and I unlocked the doors. “Ellie, you’re so pale. Are you okay? I came as soon as I got your message.”
“Yes. A little shaken up, but okay. It’s Stan Anderson in there,” I said, tilting my head toward the house. “He was at the visitation. I met him.”
“Why are you even here? Mom said something about you taking Aunt Christine home.”
I explained what had happened as I pulled the bills out of my coat pocket and set them in the console between us. “I ran out here and called the police,” I said as I wound up my story.
“You’re sure he was dead? Not just passed out?”
“Oh, he was dead all right,” I said, catching sight of my face in the rearview mirror. Mitch was right. My skin looked chalky. “His neck’s broken.”
Mitch took my hand and squeezed. “You’re okay now. Everything’s going to be okay now.”
I smiled at him halfheartedly. “I don’t think so.”
“Why?” Mitch asked.
“Don’t you see? This is going to reopen the investigation into Grandpa Franklin’s death. Even though he’s already buried, they’ll have to try and figure out why Stan broke into his house.”
Mitch frowned as Detective Rickets ambled down the steps from the kitchen door and rounded the corner toward the back of the house. There was a tap on Mitch’s window and we both jumped. Uncle Bud loomed beside the window. Mitch rolled the window down and a frigid breeze coursed through the two open windows. “So, Ellie, what’s the story here?” Uncle Bud asked. He might have been asking me if I thought it was going to rain later today.
“A man’s dead,” I said flatly.
My abrupt answer didn’t seem to bother him. “Know who it is?” he asked conversationally.
“His name was Stan Anderson.”
“Stan Anderson? Who the hell is Stan Anderson?”
Before anyone could answer him, Detective Rickets came around the corner of the house and walked up to Uncle Bud. “It’s the new guy, Stan Anderson. Was going to open up some sort of restaurant.”
“A pizzeria,” I said, and everyone turned to look at me. “I met him at the visitation. He said he was opening a pizzeria in downtown Smarr. He didn’t know Grandpa Franklin, but his father did. That’s why he came to the visitation.”
Detective Rickets studied me for a moment, then turned back to Uncle Bud, a deliberate dismissal of me. “It’ll take us awhile to get the body out. Coroner’s on his way.”
“What happened?” Uncle Bud asked.
Detective Rickets shrugged a shoulder. “Funeral was today, right? Announced in the paper?” When Uncle Bud confirmed both things, Detective Rickets said, “Anderson probably saw the notice and figured it was the best time to break into the house. Pick up a few valuables before the relatives take everything away.”
“But it didn’t look like he’d taken anything,” I said, and Detective Rickets leaned down so he could see me inside the van. “Was there anything in his pockets?” I asked, thinking of the large pockets on the barn coat.
“No, well, nothing you wouldn’t expect. Wallet, keys, that sort of thing.”
“Then how could it be a robbery?” I asked.
“He didn’t have a chance to take anything before he died.”
“But he was at the foot of the stairs. The rug at the top of the stairs was rumpled and one of his gloves was on a step. He’d been upstairs. If he was looking for valuables, wouldn’t he have taken something from there and have it with him on the way back down?”
Mitch pressed my hand and I shot him a look. Detective Rickets said, “Probably doing a quick run through to get the layout of the house. He takes the stairs too quickly, trips, and, well . . . that’s it. Down he goes, pockets empty.”
I supposed it could have happened that way, but it wouldn’t have been my first assumption. “Why would Stan break into Grandpa Franklin’s house, anyway? It’s not like he was extremely wealthy or had lots of valuables lying around.”
“You’d be surprised what some people consider valuable, Mrs. Avery,” Detective Rickets said. “A jacket, a pair of shoes. Even one of those fancy digital music players all the kids have now. Heck, Mr. Avery had a TV and that’s probably all it took.”
“But the TV is still there. He didn’t take it. He hadn’t taken anything. ”
Mitch gripped my hand tighter and I glared at him. Detective Rickets stepped back from the window and turned so that his back was to us, and he spoke to Uncle Bud. Mitch powered up his window, then twisted around to face me. “Ellie, what are you doing? Are you trying to irritate him?”
“No! I’m trying to get him to do his job—investigate—but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.” Detective Rickets shook hands with Uncle Bud, who looked satisfied. “Uncle Bud wouldn’t look like that unless Detective Rickets was doing exactly what he wanted.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Uncle Bud pressured the sheriff’s department to close your grandfather’s case. And he’s doing the same thing here.”
“How could you even know that? Did Uncle Bud tell you himself?”
“No. Someone in the sheriff’s department told me.” Mitch opened his mouth and I quickly said, “And that’s all I can say right now, but this person is someone who would know.”
Mitch ran his fingers through his hair, a sure sign of frustration. Under his breath, he said, “Contacts. She has contacts in my hometown. How is that possible?” He took a deep breath and turned to me. “Okay. Let’s leave that for now. L
et’s stay focused on what’s really important here. Why? Why would Uncle Bud do that?”
“I don’t know—that’s what my . . . my . . . source is trying to figure out. Look at it this way, Uncle Bud is pretty powerful around here, right? How many times have you told me how he influenced zoning changes and county decisions? He’s got connections and he’s not shy about using them to get what he wants.”
“But why would he want the case closed?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s got something to hide. Maybe someone in the family has something to hide.”
“Are you serious?” Mitch’s gaze was cold. “You really think a relative is involved in this? That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. I thought you were letting go of the Avery family as prime suspects.”
“No, I’m not saying an Avery is involved. I don’t know what happened. But Uncle Bud got the investigation of Grandpa Franklin’s death shut down. Now there’s a dead man in Grandpa Franklin’s house on the day of the funeral. And that’s not even taking into account the whole missing casket fiasco. Yes, I’m serious about this. What I don’t understand is how anyone wouldn’t be seriously looking into what’s going on.”
My cell phone rang and I snatched it up. I listened, then said, “Okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I turned to Mitch and said, “That was Caroline. Livvy’s not feeling good. We need to get back.”
“Why don’t you go ahead,” Mitch said stiffly as he opened the door and stepped out. “I’ll catch a ride back with Uncle Bud.”
“Fine,” I said shortly, and put the van in reverse.
“Fine.” He shoved the door hard.
“Fine!” I managed to get out before the door slammed. He turned and walked to Uncle Bud’s truck without a backward look.
Ellie Avery’s Tips for Preserving Family Treasures
Organizing Photographs
If you have hard copies of your photos, thin your photographs before placing them in albums or photo boxes. You don’t want to regret throwing away photos later, so err on the side of caution. There are many ways to organize photos:
• Chronologically by date—this is the most popular.
• By individual—a photo album or collection focused on a single person. Some families like to keep both chronological albums as well as a running album for each child. A photo collection that focuses on a child is a wonderful graduation or wedding gift.
• By location/event—since we tend to take more photos on special occasions, you could organize photos around holiday celebrations or family reunions.
• Scrapbooking—this hobby takes photo albums to the next level and allows you to showcase the most interesting and unique photographs by combining them with decorative papers, text, and embellishments that reveal the story behind the photographs.
Chapter Twelve
“Aunt Nanette, why do you think Stan Anderson was in Grandpa Franklin’s house?” I asked. A furry head loomed beside me and I reached up to rub Queen’s ears. I was riding in the front passenger seat of Aunt Nanette’s Mini Cooper, Queen’s usual seat, and she wasn’t pleased with the situation. She ducked her head under my arm and tried to wiggle into my lap.
“Queen, back,” Aunt Nanette commanded, and Queen retreated to the backseat where she paced from window to window while whining softly. Aunt Nanette came to a complete stop at the corner of the residential street, then drove slowly across the intersection. At this rate, Aunt Christine would be completely finished cleaning out the refrigerator before we even got halfway to Grandpa Franklin’s house.
Aunt Nanette sneezed, a tiny feminine sneeze that was completely at odds with her brusque personality and appearance. There was nothing girly about Aunt Nanette’s black trench coat, gray sweater, tan corduroy pants, and clumpy boots. “I hope you’re not getting sick, too,” I said. I’d returned to Bill and Caroline’s house late on Friday to find Livvy sitting limply on the couch. Her eyes were watery and she was sneezing. She had a cold and had spent most of Saturday and Sunday sleeping in our bedroom. On Sunday evening, she’d perked up and said she felt like eating and watching TV, which I knew meant that she was on the road to recovery. Not wanting to spread her cold to the rest of the family, I’d stayed home with Livvy while Mitch and Nathan attended church with Bill and Caroline on Sunday. Nathan had been sick a week ago with the same symptoms, so I figured he was in the clear and could interact with people.
It amazed me that the presence of so many people actually made it easier for Mitch and me not to talk. He spent a lot of time with his dad, which was a good thing. Bill had looked pretty devastated at the funeral service and I hoped that having Mitch around helped him a little as he grieved. They’d spent quite a bit of time in the sunroom at the back of the house. They’d alternated between watching basketball and playing checkers. Mitch also met Dan at the neighborhood park for a game of one-on-one basketball yesterday.
Mitch had stayed at Grandpa Franklin’s house on Friday until Stan’s body was removed. Except for a few brief conversations about going to the store to pick up medicine for Livvy and whether or not Nathan had to eat his sausage links at breakfast, Mitch and I had hardly spoken to each other. I knew he was upset with me for insisting that something odd was going on around Grandpa Franklin’s death. I’d called Detective Kalra and left her a message about Stan’s death. She’d called me back Sunday, but I’d missed her call and her message had only said she would do what she could to look into the situation and she’d be back Monday.
Apparently, any inquires Detective Kalra had made hadn’t changed the situation around Stan’s death. Uncle Bud had come by for coffee early this morning and informed Bill and Caroline that Stan’s next of kin had been notified and that the sheriff’s department told him the case was wrapped up. Aunt Nanette had also dropped in on Sunday to check on Livvy, which surprised me, because I hadn’t noticed her paying much attention to the kids during the last few days. In fact, I’d have thought she’d find it a challenge to match all the names to faces. Nothing against Aunt Nanette—I still have trouble keeping all the Avery relations straight. But she arrived with a stack of word puzzle books, a picture book about English castles, and a carton of orange juice, which she told Livvy would fix her right up. She dropped in again this morning, Monday, with another book—this one was a kid’s graphic novel about King Arthur. “The kids love these—comic books with a newfangled name,” she’d said to me, pointing to the graphic novel. She didn’t stay long since she was on her way to prepare for Smarr’s book festival, and she’d offered to give me a ride when she realized I was going to Grandpa Franklin’s house to help Aunt Christine.
Mitch and I had a brief conversation—well, more an exchange of one-line sentences—that morning about me going to help Aunt Christine. He’d told me he was okay with keeping an eye on Livvy until the reading of the will. The same babysitter was returning to watch the kids and since Livvy didn’t have a fever and she kept bouncing out of the bed instead of lying there listlessly, I knew she’d be fine, but I was worried that she’d already passed her cold onto the rest of the family.
Aunt Nanette wiped her nose with a tissue and said, “I’m not sick. I haven’t had a cold in fifteen years. Allergies, nothing else.” She sounded like she would take it as a personal affront if she came down with a cold. “Now what were you asking about? That unfortunate man who died?”
“Yes, did you know him?”
“No. Never heard of him,” she said dismissively. “Apparently, he was a thief.”
“You don’t think it’s a little strange that he died in Grandpa Franklin’s house on the day of his funeral?”
Aunt Nanette sighed as she turned into the driveway to Grandpa Franklin’s house. “Honey, I think almost everything that goes on nowadays is strange.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m old—out of touch, I suppose you’d say, but so many people are just plain loony. Like Felicity suddenly deciding she can’t eat eggs and milk. A vega
n, she called it,” she said with a snort as she pulled the car to a stop at the foot of the kitchen steps beside Aunt Christine’s car. “Sounds like something out of a science fiction movie. Eating an egg isn’t going to hurt anyone. And all this caterwauling about polar bears and the ice caps. Seems to me that a polar bear is one animal that can take care of itself as long as people aren’t hunting it. It’s not like they’re marooned on ice floes. They can swim, can’t they? And these people who dress their dogs up in clothes like dolls. I’ll be the first to admit that I spoil Queen, but I never forget that she’s a dog. I draw the line at frilled dresses for dogs.” Aunt Nanette broke off abruptly, then smiled at me. “See, you’ve got me up on my soapbox. Forget about my rants—those things are neither here nor there. The man was a thief or he was just plain loony. Either way, being able to understand or even guess why he was there—well, I don’t think I’m the person to ask.”
I glanced back at Queen as I climbed out of the car. She’d already hopped into the front seat, obviously glad to see me go. “I don’t think Queen would look good in ruffles, either. Not dignified enough,” I said. “Thanks for the ride. Do you have time to come inside?”
She glanced at the house and her face softened slightly. “No. I can’t. If I go in there . . . ,” she broke off, and shook her head before saying, “all I’ll be able to think about is that he’s gone.” She cleared her throat and said, “So I’m off. Lots of work to do today.”
I nodded and climbed the steps. I’d assumed Aunt Nanette was using her volunteer work to get out of helping Aunt Christine, but from the vulnerable expression that had flitted across her face when I mentioned coming inside, it looked like staying busy was her way of coping with grief. I rapped on the kitchen door and Aunt Christine opened it. “Ellie! You remembered!” she said as I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, making sure to lock it. Not that I thought we had anything to worry about . . . but it didn’t hurt to be cautious.