Zelda’s face jumped for joy. "End of the month."
I frowned. In the two weeks leading up to my wedding, I didn’t relish the idea of being a third wheel in my own house. "Maybe I should move in with Ted early." I shrugged. "I can live without a kitchen for a couple of weeks. I’ll only have to come by to bake."
Zelda shook her head. "No, you shouldn’t have to move before you’re ready."
My stomach roiled, and I pushed the food away. "I just don’t think I can deal with an extra roommate while I’m trying to plan a wedding and work and everything." I sighed. "What about the extra unit at Joe’s place?" Joe owned a three-plex and the back unit he kept for guests. "He’d put Eric up for a couple weeks, right?"
Zelda slumped. "Yeah, probably. Okay, we’ll ask Joe."
I looked around. "Where is Eric?"
"At home packing up his crap." She stuffed the leftovers in the paper bag and tossed it into the trash can. "Where’s Ted?"
I rolled my eyes. "Kitchen remodel." Zelda nodded, like someone had stolen her puppy. I sighed. "Look, if you want Eric to move in sooner, he can. You want him here — I get it." I tugged on her ponytail. "I was hoping to keep you to myself until the wedding, but the times they are a-changing, right?" I patted her hand. "So, you decide, but give me a few days lead time?"
Zelda’s eyes brimmed with tears. "I’m going to miss you."
That’s all it took, and we were both blubbering. We’d been room mates, best friends, sisters in every way but blood since we were kids — the parting would hurt like hell. "I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll get used to it. Right?" I laughed. "Besides, you might like living with a boy. It does have certain benefits."
Zelda rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Miss Hormones. That kid is already running your life."
I patted my tummy. "I know, isn’t it great?"
I blew off studying Atkinson’s file and played with Zelda. We pored over old photos and laughed. Talked about all the crazy shit we’d done together. How we’d terrorized the foster system, one foster parent at a time. We laughed until it hurt and we were out of breath.
Around eleven, Zelda ran out of gas and abandoned me for her bed. Still wide awake, I reached for the Atkinson file.
The file contained, the police report, Atkinson’s interview transcript, the 911 call transcript, a physical evidence list, the autopsy report, witness statements and paper copies of the crime scene photos. I wasn’t ready to look at the photos and placed them face down on the coffee table. Then started reading.
I started with Atkinson’s interview. He admitted to arguing with Devereaux on the night of the murder. A few weeks earlier Devereaux’s doctor had ordered an amnio test because she was diabetic and it put her in the at-risk category. While the test showed no health problems with the baby, it did reveal that Atkinson couldn’t be the father due to blood type. A subsequent DNA test verified that Devereaux’s baby was fathered by another man. Though she insisted it was a mistake, a couple of weeks later she admitted to sleeping with someone else, during a brief break-up. But they’d been together on and off since college, and Atkinson still wanted to marry her. They’d planned to marry shortly after the baby was born. And the argument erupted during a discussion of the guest list for the wedding.
Atkinson claimed he was tense and overworked and Devereaux had suffered terrible mood swings during the pregnancy. His story was that during the argument, Devereaux came at him with a large kitchen knife. He’d shielded himself with his arm from the attack — explaining the wound on his left arm and the tear in his jacket sleeve. When Devereaux saw she’d injured him, she became horrified, dropped the knife and sobbed.
Atkinson picked up the knife — explaining his fingerprints on it — and put it in the kitchen sink. He then left and went to the drugstore to get bandages and antibiotic ointment for his wound.
Because he was keyed up, he wanted to cool off before he returned home. He dressed his wound in his truck and then stopped at a local bar for a drink. When he returned home two hours later, Devereaux lay in a pool of blood on the living room floor with her belly splayed open.
Atkinson said that though he knew Tina was gone, he cradled her in his arms — explaining why his shirt was saturated with her blood. He didn’t know how much time had passed before he called 911, but he thought it was only a few minutes.
I scanned the 911 transcript and saw his call came in at 10:06 p.m. His call was less than a minute long, and he simply repeated that he needed help. According to the police report, a unit was dispatched and arrived at the crime scene at 10:27 p.m. Atkinson was immediately placed under arrest and taken into custody.
I went back to interview transcript. The interrogation went on for four and a half hours, but Atkinson maintained his innocence throughout. He swore he loved Tina and had forgiven her about the baby and would never do anything to hurt her. To him, the baby was his. The paternity of his baby didn’t change the way he felt about Tina or his daughter. He also claimed he didn’t know who the biological father was. Insisting that Devereaux had only said it was a one-night stand with a man named Bill.
Toward the end of the interview, Atkinson realized that despite his pleas to find Tina’s killer, the cops believed the killer sat in the room with them. Atkinson refused to answer any more questions without a lawyer and the interview ended. One other thing I noted with interest was that Joyce Reznick was the lead detective, and I knew her from the Foothill Division. I wondered when she’d transferred to Burbank and why Daniels hadn’t mentioned it.
The autopsy showed the cause of death was strangulation. The baby was removed post mortem. Trace evidence of Atkinson’s DNA was found on Devereaux’s body — most notably a mixture of his and her blood on her hand. Aside from a superficial cut on her palm, there was nothing that classified as a defense wound. Brown cotton fibers were collected from under her fingernails but were not a match to Atkinson’s clothing or any other clothing found at the crime scene or in the home. There were no other notable injuries and Devereaux was an otherwise healthy 32-year-old woman.
I went back to the police report. The first responders arrived at 10:27 p.m. pursuant to the 911 call from Atkinson. Devereaux was dead and didn’t require medical treatment. The bloodied knife was found on the floor near the body. Atkinson was read his rights and taken into custody. The officers secured the crime scene and remained there until CSU and the homicide detectives arrived, at which time they transported Atkinson to the Burbank PD station house for booking.
The witness reports yielded little. One neighbor thought he might’ve heard shouting but couldn’t swear to it. No one had seen Atkinson leaving or returning to the house. Everyone thought they were a nice, quiet couple.
The evidence list included: the bloodied kitchen knife with both the victim’s and suspect’s fingerprints and blood; a wooden button found near the body, a blue silk scarf found on the floor near the body with Devereaux’s blood on it, and presumed to be the murder weapon, Devereaux’s clothing and Atkinson’s clothing; a laptop computer and various computer flash drives. Evidence collected from Atkinson’s car included: an opened box of bandages and antibiotic ointment, small amount blood identified as Atkinson’s and Devereaux’s and another wooden button like that found near Devereaux’s body.
Police interviewed employees and patrons at the bar Atkinson claimed to have visited, but no one recognized or remembered him. And the results of Atkinson’s blood test showed his blood alcohol level at .02, which proved only that he’d had a drink. Employees interviewed at the drugstore also didn’t recognize Atkinson, although store security tapes showed him entering and leaving around the time he claimed to have been there.
Not exactly a slam-dunk case but the circumstantial evidence was compelling enough for Atkinson to be indicted. Especially considering there seemed to be no one else in Devereaux’s life who wished her any harm.
I closed the file and eyed the crime scene photos that lay face down on my coffee table. I knew the basic
facts of the case, though I didn’t have the benefit of any follow up investigation. I flipped over the first photocopied photo — Devereaux’s dead and splayed body in full color and sharp focus. So graphic that it seemed more like a Hollywood production than reality. I scanned through the rest of the photos and nothing jumped out at me. I compared the evidence list with the photos. There was one oddity — the wooden buttons found at the crime scene and Atkinson’s car seemed out of place. They didn’t match Devereaux’s or Atkinson’s clothing. Where had they come from? It was possible they had nothing to do with the crime and had only been collected because they were there. I put the photos away, thinking I might study them later for detail. But I didn’t possess x-ray eyes and this wasn’t a TV crime where an amateur sleuth manages to see something in a crime scene photo that everybody else missed.
I sat on the sofa and let it all sink in. I was less convinced of Atkinson’s guilt than I’d been before I opened the file. Although I didn’t think him innocent, the case wasn’t as cut and dried as the TV talking heads claimed.
Atkinson’s explanations were feasible. He hadn’t been discovered burying a body. In fact, the baby hadn’t been found. Devereaux was only six weeks away from delivery when she died — and it was possible the baby was still alive. If so, that baby would be almost a year old. It could explain why the cops never found the body.
Probably the most compelling thing in Atkinson’s favor was that despite relentless questioning by the cops, he never changed his story, and it wasn’t until he understood that the police liked him and only him for the murder that he shut up. I wanted to see the taped interview and watch his body language though, because words on paper are very different than watching the person say them. If there were any tells, the video would be most likely to expose them.
It was a lot to process, and I wanted to think about the case for a while before discussing it with Joe and Dan. I rubber-banded the file together and locked it in my desk drawer as though that would keep me safe from the evil of the crime. On my way to bed, I checked and re-checked all the locks before I lay down for the night.
Chapter Seven
Friday afternoon, we completed our route and put the food truck away for the weekend. I hadn’t seen Ted since the Monday night family dinner because he was busting his butt to finish the damn kitchen. My hormones wondered if he loved the kitchen more than me. But I told my hormones to shut the hell up.
Usually I loved Friday afternoons because it meant play time with Ted, sleeping in and relaxing. However, this Friday afternoon I was in a car with Zelda and Melinda on Sunset Boulevard. Melinda pointed. "Oh, there’s a parking space."
Zelda gripped the arm rest. "Would you park already? We’ve been circling for hours."
I snapped at her. "Shut up and look for a place where I can get a burger." I narrowed my eyes in the rearview mirror at Melinda. "You can pipe down too."
Three weeks until the big day and we were still looking for a suitable wedding dress. I was dead-set against the traditional bridey thing and wanted something vintage instead. A great idea until I discovered that most of the vintage shops I used to frequent were out of business. There was one last shop on Sunset to check. "It’s up here on the right." I spotted it before Zelda could make another wise crack and scooted into a parking spot. "There, you happy now?"
Though we had a brief break in the weather in September, the heat had returned, and when we stepped out of the car, it was like a blast from a pizza oven. We hurried inside hoping for relief, but it was only slightly cooler than the broil outside.
Two sales girls propped against the counter with their faces stuck in front of fans. "Hi," the tall one said, "sorry, our A/C just went out."
Zelda stared daggers at me but I flipped my hair and went toward the back. I knew Moira, the owner, and she usually let me dig through her private stock.
The smaller sales girl squeaked. "Hey, you’re not supposed to go back there."
I kept moving with Melinda and Zelda closely following. "It’s okay, I know Moira."
I opened the door to the back room and Moira looked up from a box of clothes. "Scotti Fitzgerald?" She slapped her knee and opened her arms to me. "Where have you been girl?"
We shared a quick hug. "Hi Moira. Lots to tell." I winked. "We have to do a girl’s night sometime soon. But here’s the short version." I held up my hand and flashed the ring. "I’m getting married."
Moira pushed back a lock of thick auburn hair and her round lavender eyes popped wide as she examined the ring. "Damn girl, you scored." She snorted. "You got yourself a sugar daddy?"
I swept my arm toward Zelda and Melinda. "You remember Zee."
Moira nodded. "Hey Zee."
"And this lovely lady is my future mother-in-law, Melinda Jordan."
Moira cringed. "Damn, put my foot in it, again."
Melinda smiled. "You have a lovely shop."
Moira nodded a thanks and turned to me. "And you’ve come to my humble abode for your wedding dress? I’m honored."
I nodded. "Yes, please."
Moira’s gaze flitted to Zee and Melinda. "Just the bride? Or are we going for the trifecta?"
Zelda shrugged. "Got anything that’ll go with army boots?"
Melinda smiled and said, "You have such lovely things here, I’d be game too."
Then the parade began. Moira and her two sales ladies brought in and carried out dresses non-stop. Long dresses, short dresses, lace dresses, silk dresses, crocheted dresses, even a couple of suits. Between the three of us we tried on everything in the shop, but with no winners.
I frowned at Zelda. "I can’t do the bridey thing. I just can’t, Zee."
Melinda said, "Are there other vintage shops we can try?" She pulled her cell from her bag and started scrolling. "You know, my friend Meg might know of something on the west side…"
Zelda blew her bangs off her forehead. "Let’s hope so, because I’m not wearing a purple and green ug-oh bridesmaid dress." She turned to me. "You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?"
Flushed and a little out of breath, Moira rushed toward us with three dresses draped over her arms. "Scotti honey, look what I found. A client asked me to hold them three months ago but never came back for them." She exposed her big teeth in a grin. "Lucky you."
I wiggled my fingers. "Gimme."
The first two dresses looked great on the hangers but looked terrible on a human body — at least my human body. But when she handed me the last one, I knew before I put it on, that I’d found my wedding dress. A simple floor-length sheath of blush-colored lace and silk, with a V-neck, a small flounce at the hem and a fishtail ruffle down the back. The empire waist drew attention to the bust and away from the tummy — everything a pregnant bride wants in a wedding dress.
I pulled back the dressing room curtain, stepped out and twirled "Well?"
Zelda’s mouth hung open. "Hell, you look so good I want to marry you."
Moira whistled. "Me too." She snapped her fingers. "Oooh, I have the perfect shoes for that dress. Be right back." She headed for the front of the shop.
Melinda gave me the nod of approval. "I think we have a winner."
I heaved a big sigh. "Thank God! Now I won’t have to get married in my underwear." I stared at my reflection the mirror. "I don’t want to take it off. It’s too pretty."
Then a woman said, "Melinda? Is that you?"
Rousted from my dreamy state, I spun around and barely missed putting my foot through the hem of the dress. I recoiled from the beautiful blond amazon bounding toward us. She smiled at Melinda but her eyes were on me. I cocked my head. "Do I know her?"
Melinda put on the smile she wore for people she didn’t like and stepped into the woman’s path. "Ingrid. What a coincidence." The two women met and exchanged air kisses. "How lovely to see you." Zelda and I swapped a look. "What are you doing here?" Melinda asked.
Ingrid’s amber eyes assessed me from head to foot — definitely not impressed. "Oh, I come here whenever
I’m looking for something special." Ingrid looked over Melinda’s shoulder and smiled at me. "Hi, I’m Ingrid Sorensen."
Melinda turned and fluttered her fingers toward me. "Ingrid this is Scotti Fitzgerald." I nodded. "And her sister Zelda." Zee raised an eyebrow. "Scotti is Ted’s fiancé."
Ingrid’s big yellow eyes went icy. "That’s right. I saw the announcement in the Sunday paper. Congratulations."
I looked at Zelda and whispered, "Announcement?"
Ingrid had to be Ted’s ex — the one who’d dear-johned him while he was in Iraq. But it didn’t take a genius to see why he’d been with her. She was tall, willowy and perfectly tanned. Her face was so symmetrical I wondered if it was nature or a really good plastic surgeon. And the platinum hair that fell to her waist was so shiny you wanted to touch it to see if it was real. Ted had never shown me pictures of her, but I was sure I’d seen her somewhere before.
Death of the Family Recipe (A Scotti Fitzgerald Murder Mystery Book 3) Page 5