Having spent the better part of his adult life in the Harbor Tuck knew the plumbers, electricians, carpenters, painters and various other service oriented people. One room in his weathered shingled beach house served as J and T’s office. Thad Potter, Tuck’s father had been left the house by a maiden aunt. Since the elder Potter refused to leave the Fall River home where Tuck and his brothers had grown up, when Tuck had approached him about starting the business, he had been only too happy to deed it over. Juls’ house was ten miles away in Tiverton, R.I. just outside the Fall River city limits.
The partners took excellent care of their clients, running errands, searching for missing pets, investigating petty thefts—trash barrels and mail boxes were the most frequent targets—arranging for cleaning services, planning parties—or hiring caterers—and helping to arrange for clients’ memberships in the area’s yacht, golf and beach clubs and Windy Harbor’s Ladies Literary Society, the most exclusive and selective of the all the ‘clubs.’ While not always successful in wheedling memberships for the newcomers into the Harbor’s closed societies, the partners endeavored, if unsuccessful, to sooth bruised egos by suggesting alternative activities for their wealthy clients, many of whom had never heard the word “no” until they moved to Windy Harbor.
Business had grown so much that J and T now had a waiting list and while there were two rival companies proffering the same type of service, J and T was still the “agency of choice” for those lucky enough to “get on the list”. Not a bad way to make a living if you liked people and both partners did. Marcia had not and it showed.
As he turned onto Rosie’s street, Tuck spied the Impala and pulled up, parking behind it. Brushing thoughts of Marcia and Karen aside, he wondered what had been important enough to keep Rosie from the game. She lived and died for softball. Slamming the door, he cursed under his breath, angry at himself for missing Juls at the field, “Damn the Willises and their fucked-up lawn sprinkler!”
His heart, already in his throat after taking the front steps two at a time, nearly stopped as the first of Juls’ screams pierced the stillness of the night.
Chapter 3
Racing up the stairs, Bobby puffing along in her wake, Juls reached the third floor in seconds. Rosie’s unit was at the end of the hall, number sixteen.
The building was over eighty years old, but Gladys Kenney, the owner kept it in immaculate condition. The plaster walls had recently been white-washed and at the far end of each hallway, window seats had been built in, green and white awning striped cushions inviting passersby to linger. Despite its pristine appearance, the building was still in the heart of the roughest part of the city. In an effort to thwart thieves who continually absconded with her framed prints, Gladys had decoupaged fine arts posters along the corridor’s walls. Wall scones bolted to the walls bathed the passageway in soft light, the overall effect one of peaceful serenity.
After several minutes with her finger pressed to the buzzer, Juls went to the window seat, rummaging under the seat cushion to find the key Rosie kept hidden there. “Shit! Why won’t this work?” she cried, jabbing the key in, turning to the left and right. The lock refused to budge.
Hand on her shoulder, Bobby reached from behind. “Here, let me try babe.”
“I’ll get it,” she said, shrugging his hand off. “It just... takes a minute to... there, finally!”
She flipped the light switch by the door as they stepped into the living room, into the warm inviting space where they had spent so many evenings drinking, watching movies, playing cards, talking and laughing together. Tonight the room smelled musty, the air close and still and she wondered why all the windows were closed on such a warm summer night.
Rosie collected Native American and Mexican textiles and favored the stark lines of the mission style in her furnishings. All of her pieces were reproductions of Gustaf Stickley designs, well-made, handsome and sturdy like the woman herself. Hanging from the cream-colored walls were three Navaho rugs in bold patterns of red, gray and black. The floor was covered in gray wall to wall carpeting, clean and new like the rest of the building, another large Navaho rug lay across its center the same reds and grays slashed through it in a chevron pattern.
The large, comfortable sofa was flanked by two matching armchairs, all three pieces covered in off-white cotton duck; a number bright woven throw pillows echoing the colors of the rugs. Rosie’s pride and joy stood in front of the sofa—a massive oak coffee table, also in the mission style, built by Rosie herself in a woodworking class at the local community college.
The morning papers were scattered across the table’s polished surface and Rosie’s body lay at its far end. She was dead, no question about that. The body sprawled half in the living room, half in the bedroom, legs twisted back at unnatural angles, naked except for gray athletic socks which Juls recognized as her own, loaned to her friend several weeks earlier. Black curls obscured the face and aside from a few scratches here and there, her body appeared untouched, white and smooth in its deathly pallor.
Her good arm lay at her side; the scarred left arm—burned in a childhood accident—tucked beneath her. There was quite a lot of blood pooled beside the body that appeared to have come from her underside and pieces of a jigsaw puzzle were scattered around the floor, some floating in the blood like tiny amoebae.
Juls screamed, rushing to her friend’s side. As she began to claw at the smooth white rope still wrapped around Rosie’s neck, Bobby roused himself and leapt forward to yank her back. “Juls, stop it. We can’t touch her!”
As he pulled her away, Juls let go and the movement caused the body to roll towards them leaving the severed left arm on the floor behind her. Her arm had been amputated at the shoulder.
“Jesus,” he whispered as Juls screamed again and began to shake.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she mumbled over and over as he dragged her towards the kitchen phone.
As she struggled, lunging towards her friend, he tightened his grip. “Cut it out, Juls, come on now for God’s sake, we can’t touch her. We’ve gotta call the police, they need to see her just as she is. You can’t help her, babe, she’s gone, now come on.”
He reached the phone just as Tuck burst through the door. Juls crumpled into her partner’s arms and Bobby turned away as the police dispatcher answered at the other end of the line.
The next few hours were a blur. The three sat huddled on the sofa as the police went over the apartment, occasionally pausing to ask questions. Cameras flashing, their voices hushed and somber, a small army of men collected samples, searched through drawers and closets going over every inch of the three rooms. Occasionally neighbors peeked their heads in and were led to the window seat in the hall where an officer waited to take their statements.
“Make them stop,” Juls moaned, almost incoherent as the hour approached midnight. “Rosie hated having her picture taken. Please, Tuck, please make them stop.” In her Flames uniform covered with grass stains, blood and dirt, she looked like a small child inconsolable after falling off of her bike and skinning her knee.
Tuck drew her to him. “Hush now, Rosie’s past caring. How much longer officer?” he called to Jack Mederois, the homicide detective in charge.
“They’ll be taking her out in about five minutes. I have just a couple of questions for Ms. Whitman, then you folks can take off.”
True to his word, not five minutes later the photographers packed up their gear and Rosie’s draped body was carried out on a stretcher. As his officers began sealing the crime scene, Mederois came to sit beside them.
“Where will they take her?” Juls asked.
“City morgue first. We’ll have to keep her a few days, then we’ll contact the family and see about the funeral home and all.”
“There is no family, just me.”
“Well then Ms. Whitman, we’ll let you know when you can have her collected and—”
“Oh God, who would do this?”
“We were kinda a hopin’ yo
u might give us a hint. Someone with a grudge? Ex-boyfriends, disgruntled co-workers, whatever? Or someone new, that she just recently met?”
“There’s no one like that. Everyone loved Rosie. No one who knew her would hurt her.”
“How ‘bout someone she might’ve met recently? A new boyfriend maybe?”
“None that I know of.”
“Do you guys know what Ms. Mikawski was doing today, someone she might’ve been seeing? Mr. Gagnon says you unlocked the door and there are no signs of forced entry. No broken windows, jimmied locks, what have you. Seems like she must’ve known the guy. Had to have let him in.”
“I don’t know what she was doing today except for the game. Softball. We play on a team and we had a game tonight.”
“So I see. What time was that?”
“Five.”
“She was long gone by then, I’m ‘fraid. Preliminary exam puts time of death around one, two somethin’ like that.”
“Oh, God, the whole time we were playing, Rosie was lying here.” Juls crumpled against Tuck, fresh sobs wracking her slender frame.
“Okay, baby,” Tuck whispered, holding her tighter as if his grip might somehow stop the trembling
“I know this is tough, Ms. Whitman. Just a couple more questions, please. What can you tell me about her arm? Was she able to use it, the scarred one I mean?”
“Yes,” she sniffled, regarding him. “Sometimes it stiffened up in the cold, got tingly at unexpected times, things like that, but it was only a scar. It happened when she was four. A kettle of hot water spilled on her. Her family always called it an accident, but her father was a drunk. Rosie had no memory of it, why?”
“Just curious. She’s a big woman, strong, I mean. Seems like the type who’d put up a fight, but there’s no sign of a struggle and I just wondered if maybe one arm was weaker than—”
“How did she die? I mean, was she—”
“Strangled. That white rope around her neck, guy brought it with him.”
“And her arm?” Tuck asked.
“Happened after she was dead. Thank God for that at least.” Mederois studied Juls, aware that she was fading fast, withdrawing into herself, unaware of her surroundings. He turned to Tuck. “How ‘bout the apartment? Was your friend in the habit of leaving the door unlocked?”
“Never,” Juls answered for him. “I’m sorry, but I have to know. Was she? I mean she was naked so was she—”
“Raped? Doesn’t look like it, but we won’t know for certain until forensics gets through with her.”
Juls moaned.
Tuck gripped her tighter. “Look Detective, we’re gonna split, okay? She needs to get outta here.”
“Sure thing, I’m sorry Ms. Whitman, about your friend and all, and about keepin’ you so late. Let’s leave it for now and we’ll talk in the morning.”
He rose, joining his men a few of whom were still collecting their gear. “Oh,” he called back over his shoulder. “One more thing—did Ms. Mikawski like jigsaw puzzles? I mean, would she have been working on one do you ‘spose?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I didn’t even know she owned any jigsaw puzzles,” Juls said, looking to Tuck for confirmation. He nodded at Mederois.
“I thought not.”
“How’s that?” Tuck asked.
“Can’t be sure till we check a little further, but, well, we’ve seen this type of thing before.”
“Jesus, a serial killer!” Bobby cried, instantly regretting his words.
Juls’ face, red and blotchy from crying, froze in horror.
“We don’t know that Mr. Gagnon. There are similarities to other cases, but we’ll have to look further. Let’s not go spreadin stuff like that around, okay?”
“Oh God,” Juls moaned, as the two men half-carried, half-dragged her from of the apartment, driving her home.
Several shots of brandy and two sleeping pills borrowed from a neighbor and Juls settled down on tear-soaked pillow, a drugged, fretful sleep finally overtaking her. Tuck slept beside her bed in the chaise, Bobby on the living room sofa.
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