Elise Newberry’s body was found at the bottom of the side stairway leading to the second floor of the apartment building. She had been strangled with a strong cord and stabbed. She’d evidently put up a fight. Had been, Burton surmised, in the process of running for her life when she was cornered on the staircase. It was not a tidy, surprise murder. Elise Newberry had seen her killer coming.
“The guy was pretty sloppy.” Kazmaroff’s form filled the kitchen doorjamb. Burton detected a whiff of male cologne. Dave Kazmaroff had the sort of natural, hazy good looks one would expect to find packed into Ralph Lauren summer clothes: tanned-faced, rugged grins, stark-white polo shirts, khaki slacks. Solidly built and lean, he also had a kind of natural grace to his every movement.
His partner didn’t come from money, Burton knew. He just looked as if he did. Maybe that was the initial reason Burton hated the man, but he’d gathered a stream of other logical defenses by now to make himself believe that his animosity was not personal. Kazmaroff was too impulsive, too swayed by the flamboyant, too impatient with the tedium of their jobs. He even spoke in headlines, it seemed to Burton.
“Looks like he killed her in the hallway,” Kazmaroff continued. The way I see it, she lets him in, they talk, he makes his move, she bolts and makes it as far as the stairway. Maybe they even struggled a bit in the living room, you know? Any sign she was raped?”
“Keep your voice down, for Chrissake. The sister’s right in the other room.” Burton straightened his shoulders and shoved past his lieutenant. “Let’s get this over with. I’ll ask the questions.”
Maggie sat quietly in her living room, her hands folded in her lap. The small travel alarm clock she kept perched on a shelf in the living room bookcase blinked out the digitized time: 11:47. Brownie had shown up thirty minutes earlier and the police had immediately tucked him away in the bedroom where they were questioning him. Maggie looked up and watched the two police detectives approach. She thought of Laurent. The one detective was big, like Laurent, a little stoop-shouldered, and she thought he had a kind face. Or did he just look tired?
“Miss Newberry?” Burton hovered in front of her. His companion whipped out a battered notebook and sat down in a tub chair facing them. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
Maggie looked up and felt her eyes must look like two ragged, red holes.
“Miss Newberry?”
“Yes.” Maggie nodded. She could hear the murmur of voices from her bedroom and wondered if Brownie was being considered a suspect.
“You know I need to ask you these questions now while everything’s still fresh, and I know it’s hard.”
Maggie heard the squeaking sound of the gurney as it began its heavy journey across the worn hall carpet to the front door. The coroner had finished his preliminary, on-site inspection. The rest of his invasions of Elise would be done in the privacy of a sterile laboratory. Maggie braced her back at the sound of the stretcher as it passed her open apartment door. She refused to look. She could hear the sounds of her neighbors clustered in the hallway. She wanted to run out and chase them all off. She found herself resenting every one of them out there taking a sensationalist peek at her poor, broken sister.
“....what time, exactly, would that be?”
She shook her head, bringing her fist to her mouth.
“It’s all right, Miss Newberry. I know how hard this is. Take your time.”
“Could you...could you repeat the question?” she managed.
“The first time you called your sister. When was that?”
“Eleven, or so. Maybe a little earlier. I had a late morning meeting,” a million years ago, a late morning meeting where we all sat around laughing and joking...
“And she was home?”
“She answered the phone.” Maggie looked up at the detective. “I assumed she was home the other times I called too. She just didn’t answer the phone. She was...resting. She’d been sick.”
“I see. She’d not been in town very long?”
“Just arrived.”
“And she was staying with you until...?” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Until...” Maggie searched for an answer. “Why does it matter why she was staying with me? She was my sister. Is that so weird? Who is she supposed to stay with?”
“Miss Newberry, the point of my question is to ascertain whether this was going to be a long visit or just a passing-through visit.”
“Well, a long visit. She was back to stay...” How was she going to tell her parents? “But she was just passing through my apartment. I mean, she’d have gotten her own place eventually.”
“Where had she come from?” Again, the kind face, the gentle voice. Maggie noticed a slight tic in his lip as he spoke.
“From France. She’d been living in France for the last several years. She was returning home.”
“And you returned home when, Miss Newberry?”
“Returned home? I live here.” Maggie stared stupidly at the man.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. I meant when tonight did you return home?”
“I...I...” She gestured uselessly at the Macy’s shopping bag at her feet, not trusting her voice to respond. Oh, Elise, how could you be gone? We were going to be a family again.
“That’s all right, just take your time.”
She noticed that the man’s partner, or whatever he was, had stopped writing. She found herself thinking: He’s seen this sort of thing a thousand times before. Seen someone, just like me, feel and act just like this. A thousand times over.
She took a deep breath.
“I got back to the apartment a few minutes before nine.”
“Did you notice anything different or strange at any time? In the parking lot, walking up to your door? Once inside your apartment?”
Maggie shook her head as he spoke.
“I noticed nobody was here,” she said miserably. “I played back my messages first, thinking Elise, thinking she...” She looked away.
“That’s all right, Miss Newberry. Anything else?”
“You’re taking my answering machine?”
“We’ll need to examine it, yes. Anything else?”
“No...not...I mean, what am I going to tell my mother and father?”
Burton grimaced in a gesture of sympathy.
“I’m sorry, Miss Newberry.”
Maggie smoothed her damp palms against the cotton fabric of her skirt.
“The coroner will give his report after the autopsy. There’ll be an inquest, of course. Probably next week. Once all the evidence is in.”
“Is the little charm...is it important?”
“Perhaps.”
“She used to have a charm bracelet. When we were kids.”
“Yes?” Burton said. “Was she wearing it tonight, do you know?”
“Wearing it?” Maggie looked around the room as if she were suddenly disoriented. “I can’t imagine she even still has it. That was a long time ago.” She looked at him, her face flushed with suppressed agony. “Maybe?”
Burton signaled to his partner to check on Brownie in the back room. He turned back to Maggie. “We’ll need to ask you to vacate your apartment, I’m afraid, for the next three or four days while we take fiber and hair samples. Where will we be able to reach you?”
Maggie turned away from him. She needed to cry very hard for a very long time.
2
An hour later, sitting in the police cruiser as it rushed along the immaculate, sycamore-lined road to her parents’ home, Maggie held Brownie’s hand tightly, her lips pressed together in a grim line. She tried to tell herself that for her parents to have seen Elise in the state she had been in would have been tantamount to a revisitation of the horror tale The Monkey’s Paw, where a grief-stricken mother wished her recently dead son back with her again and got her wish only to have something awful and repulsive return to her from the grave. That would have been Elise. With her ruined face and arms, pocked by blunt, used needles, her clothe
s and skin smelling of sweat and urine, her hair a matted mess of gnarly dread locks. This was the thing her mother would’ve swept to her bosom? Would’ve embraced tenderly?... And still kept the look of horror and revulsion from her face throughout?
Maggie’s vision blurred as she watched the passing neighborhoods. Nothing less than two million dollars. Mostly a lot more. La creme de la creme of Atlanta real estate. And her throat closed and ached because she knew that if Elise had been presented to them mad as a hatter, screaming and naked, filthy and profane, both her parents would have wept tears of gratitude to have her back.
She looked at Brownie and tried to take strength from his solid grip on her hand. Tried to tap into his stoic front, his resiliency. And all she could think as the police car brought her closer and closer to Brymsley and her mother and father was: if by some miracle, some fantastic cosmic magic, you got the chance to have five minutes with a departed loved one, just five minutes to say how are you? I love you, I miss you…
And Maggie knew she had cheated them out of that forever.
3
Darla Parker picked up the teapot with its imprint of faded roses and held it over her husband’s tea cup. Her eyes watched him, not her aim, as he sat across from her, face buried in the newspaper. She spilled a little hot tea onto his sleeve.
“Damn it, Darla!” Gerry snatched his soiled cuff away and looked at his wife angrily. “What is your problem this morning? Thanks a lot, okay?”
Darla carefully replaced the teapot and sighed. She folded her hands in her lap, her eyes still on her husband.
“I mean, first you practically kill me with that stupid whatever it is you left on the stairs...”
“Vacuum cleaner.”
“Look, Darla, don’t start with me today, okay? I mean it. I’m serious. I’ve got this one day in the week to relax and forget the office and I don’t mean to spend it at war with you, understand?” Gerry flapped the newspaper out straight and returned to the article he was reading.
Darla reached over and took a small sip from her own cup. She replaced the china gently in its saucer and then cleared her throat.
Gerry threw the newspaper down onto the table and covered his face with his hands.
“God, am I having a nervous breakdown, or what?” His voice sounded tired and strained.
“Quit your job, sweetheart.”
“Oh, thank you so much.” He pushed away from the breakfast table and glared at her. “Thanks a million for that bit of advice, Darl.”
“It’s a bad job,” Darla said, reaching for her cup again.
“I own the job, remember? Who am I gonna quit to? Myself? I’m the boss, remember?”
“It’s making you miserable, Gerry. It’s bad for all of us. I can see it if you can’t.”
“Darla, we’re not speaking the same language, okay? I mean, I’m speaking English but you’re obviously not familiar with my particular dialect or something...”
“Quit the job, Gerry.”
“Stop saying that! Stop saying ‘quit the damn job’, will you?” Gerry stood up, scooped up the newspaper and slapped it back down on the breakfast table. “I can’t quit the damn job! Why not just say move to Alaska? Or get a lobotomy? Or become a priest? I can’t! I can’t do it! Jesus! Am I alone in the world? Is nobody listening to me?” He turned to leave the room when the kitchen wall phone rang. Enjoying the dramatic punctuation of its timing, he snatched it up and barked into it:
“Yes?”
He watched Darla get up slowly from the table and begin to clear the dishes.
“Ger, it’s me.” It was Maggie.
Darla gave Gerry a questioning look which he ignored.
“Hey, ‘me’, what’s up for you? Wanna grab a matinee or something? I could stand to get out of the house for a bit.” He felt angry with himself for trying to hurt Darla, but he also felt angry at Darla. He turned to catch a glimpse of her but she stood at the sink with her back to him, rinsing cereal bowls and listening.
“No, I can’t, Ger. Listen, something’s happened. I....” Gerry could hear Maggie’s voice catch and he instantly stiffened. God, now what? he thought.
“Maggie, what is it? What’s happened?” He could sense, rather than see, Darla turn and face him.
“It’s...I...the police think Elise was murdered,” Maggie continued. “...in my apartment building last night.”
“Good God!”
“Gerry, what is it?” Darla was at his side now, tugging on his sleeve. “What’s happened to Maggie? Is she okay?”
“Her sister was killed last night in Maggie’s apartment.”
“Oh, my God.” Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She watched Gerry’s own shocked face, as if to watch him closely might reveal the whole gruesome story or, perhaps, even belie it.
“Maggie, where are you?” Gerry asked, his voice tense.
“I’m at home, at Brymsley. Brownie’s with me. The cops took us here last night.”
“Jesus, Maggie, what happened?” Gerry slumped back into his seat and Darla stood near him.
“I...she just...I really don’t know. The police think she let the guy in...”
“She let him in?” Gerry’s eyes flicked over to Darla and she shook her head in horror.
“Yeah, well, the cops didn’t see that the door was hurt or anything so they think he knocked and she just let him in. I don’t know. I guess living in France all those years, she just didn’t have the same natural distrust or suspicions that we do over here about letting people in, you know, locking your car doors and stuff—“
“Maggie, it could’ve been you. He could’ve gotten you.”
“The cops think...look, I can’t talk a whole lot now, my mom and dad are right in the next room, you know?”
“God, your poor parents. How are they?”
“Not great. You can imagine. God, Gerry, if only I’d told them when I first found Elise, you know? I keep thinking—“
“Well, don’t. It doesn’t do anybody any good and your first instincts were probably best anyway.”
“Even when I can hear my Mother in there crying all over again for my sister? I mean, like grieving for her twice in six months?”
“It doesn’t do any good beating yourself up for it, Maggie.”
“That’s what Brownie’s been saying.”
“He’s right. Do you want some company? Do you want me and Darla to come by?”
Darla nodded vigorously at him.
“No, thanks. I think we’ll just burrow in here, you know, just the family. But thanks, Ger, I appreciate the offer. I just wanted you to know.”
“I’m glad you did. I’m so sorry, Maggie. So sorry for you and your parents.”
“I know, Ger,” she whispered in an effort to hide the tears in her voice. “Thanks again. Love to Darla.”
“I will. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He returned the receiver to its cradle and stood staring out the breakfast room’s large bay window. From it he could see their eight year old daughter, Haley, playing with some neighbor children.
“Oh, Gerry, how awful. Poor Maggie.”
Gerry tore his gaze away from his daughter and looked at his wife.
“Maybe you were right, Darla. Maybe this job isn’t such a good thing.”
Darla searched his face and tried to smile encouragingly.
4
That night, Maggie lay on the guest bed in her parent’s house and stared up at the white ceiling. Tiny, fluorescent stars blinked back in a faint constellation painted on the ceiling. Maggie had never noticed them before.
She had talked to Gerry that morning, she had talked twice more with Detective Burton, she had looked into her parents’ eyes as they tried to understand when she told them of Elise’s murder earlier that evening. She had held her father’s hand and watched him nod seriously as if she were warning him that the Dow Jones might plummet soon. She had watched her mother weep again, nod understandingly as to why Maggi
e hadn’t called when she’d discovered Elise, and slam down a hard, impenetrable wall between them—pushing aside years of love and kisses and shared secrets.
After all the talking, Maggie had cried. Alone and without hope. She cried for her sister, who had finally come home, for the impetuous artist, the wayward daughter, the recalcitrant single mother. But most of all, for the sister who’d known her so little but who had, in her way, loved her.
Maggie stared up at the ceiling dusted with its map of Pegasus and Orion and cried.
The next day, Maggie sat and observed the child who was perched nonchalantly on a dark velvet hassock with long, looping fringe. The little girl’s feet swayed against the soft hanging cords as if they felt good against her bare skin. Her eyes held Maggie’s unflinchingly. Nicole sat in the middle of the Newberry living room, a light and cheery place which captured the sun’s needles of light and spun them into prisms and rectangles of luminescence. Long patches of sun were placed as carefully around the room as if an interior designer had ordered them. Maggie felt almost at peace in this room. She continued to watch the child on the cushion. Almost.
Nicole’s face, as usual, gave nothing away. Her eyes, large and implacable, met Maggie’s gaze easily.
“And so, how has Nicole been?” Maggie’s voice was light, her eyes pinning the girl in relentless scrutiny. “Everyone’s been sort of upset today.”
The child returned her stare.
“Grandmére is very unhappy right now. Comprenez-vous? Trés triste?”
“And it’s me who’s done it, you see.” Maggie reached over to pat out a wrinkle in Nicole’s cotton corduroy jumper. The child did not move. “Aunt Maggie has made Grandmére and Grandpapa trés triste. I wonder, do you give a shit that Grandmere and Grandpapa are trés triste?” Maggie smiled sadly at the girl who simply continued to swing her small bare feet into the fringe of the ottoman.
Who is this child? Maggie wondered. Will she never come out of the warm little burrow in her mind and join the rest of us? Is where ever she is, so nice and safe that we will never know her? Maggie felt a pressure of added weight settle about her shoulders as she looked into the blank, cold eyes of the girl. She leaned over and touched Nicole’s baby-soft cheek and thought, for an instant, that the eyes flickered in response. Am I angry at you, little one? Maggie was surprised as soon as the thought hit her—was it true? Why?
Little Death by the Sea Page 10