“Have you found Zach Andrews?” she asked. “He’s been missing all weekend, and he was in a lot of trouble back in high school. He may have hired these men.”
“We haven’t found him yet,” Office Williams admitted, “but we’re looking. The Ivories want us to find him, too. Now, ma’am, I suggest you let us give you a ride back to your sister’s. You’d better plan to stay a while.”
“Sister-in-law’s,” Katharine corrected him automatically. “And I am fine. I can drive. But what if you have questions? We haven’t listed everything that is missing.”
“You’ll go over all that with the insurance adjuster,” he told her, “after we are done.”
As she headed for her car, she heard him tell Officer Howard, “Remarkably calm. A strong woman.”
As she climbed back into her SUV, the clock on her dashboard read eleven-ten. When she reached for her purse, she discovered that she held the remains of a clay duck Susan had made in fourth grade for Mother’s Day and she used in her bathroom as a soap dish. She must have picked it up from her bathroom floor, but had no memory of doing so. Poor little duck, his head had been ground to dust and his tail chipped off. When she looked at what remained, she found herself wracked by great gasping sobs.
She cried for what seemed like an hour, but was only a few minutes. Finally, cried out and exhausted, she considered what to do next. She needed to call Dutch and tell him not to come. Had it been a century ago when she had invited him?
He didn’t answer. She didn’t want him driving all the way to her house for nothing and she still had Autumn Village on auto-dial, so she called the front desk. Leona, of the nasal twang, was on duty. “Dutch Landrum was coming to my house for dinner,” Katharine said crisply, proud that her voice didn’t tremble, “but I need to talk to him before he leaves and he’s not answering. Could you go out and check to see if his car is still in the lot?”
“I’m sorry, Miz Murray, but we’re real short-staffed today, on account of a bug that’s goin’ around, so Mr. Billingslea said I was not to leave this desk for any reason whatsoever. If there’s anythang I kin do fer you from here—”
The organized part of Katharine’s brain went into hyper-drive. She remembered that Posey’s aerobics class on Monday was followed by a massage, so she never got home before one. “Never mind,” she told Leona. “I might as well drive over there. I’ve had some trouble at my house, so we’ll need to go somewhere else to eat, anyway.”
She hung up and considered the groceries that she had flung in the passenger seat when she was fleeing. She and Dutch could eat the watermelon in his room. She would leave him the tomatoes, and take the corn and potatoes over to Posey. But the chicken would spoil in the heat before she had eaten with Dutch and gotten back to Posey’s, and she could not bear to lose one more thing.
Saving that chicken became the most urgent item on her agenda.
She climbed back down from the SUV and ran with the bag toward the house. “Excuse me,” she told two technicians in the hall, “but I need to put this in the freezer in the garage.”
They stared at her like she had wandered in from another planet. She explained in a shaking voice, “I don’t think the robbers went into the garage, and this chicken will spoil if I have to carry it around all day. It needs to go in my freezer!”
They exchanged looks. One finally said softly to the other. “Shock.” He put out his hand. “We’ll do that for you, ma’am.” He carried it toward the kitchen.
“Would you like somebody to drive you somewhere?” the other asked.
“No, I’m fine.” She turned and strode back to her car.
The door had barely slammed, however, when her hands started to shake so hard she couldn’t grasp her keys. Her legs were trembling too much to trust her foot on the gas pedal. Her entire body turned to jelly. Tears again clogged her throat as one by one she pictured irreplaceable treasures that had been destroyed or stolen. It was not just the things themselves that broke her heart, but the memories that went with them.
“Grandmama always used that silver ser vice when she entertained,” she said between deep, ragged sobs, “and we’ll never find more of the china we got in France on our honeymoon. And how could they walk all over my underwear? And take the pendant Tom bought for our anniversary? How could they? How could they?” She pounded the wheel with her fists. When she remembered the slashed portraits of her children, she laid her head on the steering wheel and bawled.
She finally felt calm enough to drive, but tears came again when she drove into Autumn Village. Driving up the tree-lined drive reminded her of her mother, Lucy, and even Sara Claire, and how much she missed them. She wished she could fling herself into their arms to cry out her loss.
She pulled into a shady parking space and noted that Dutch’s Cadillac sat across the lot. Good. He hadn’t left yet. She could sit a few minutes and recover.
Autumn Village was one of the best retirement communities in Atlanta. Only three stories high, it featured lovely paintings on the walls, fresh floral arrangements in the lobby, and level concrete paths outside that led to comfortable chairs in conversation groups under shady trees. Dinner was at noon, and supper at a civilized six-thirty, with snacks set out at nine in the lobby for any who wanted them. Live plants grew on wide, sunny windowsills. Bright tropical fish darted in tanks on each floor, and three parakeets entertained those who walked through the lobby. Residents popped in and out of each other’s apartments, played cards, made crafts to sell in a shop that benefited a local literacy program, attended lectures and Bible studies, and volunteered in the lending library or a small store that sold basic foodstuffs and toiletries. Those who needed assistance with bathing, dressing, or medications could employ a helper or pay extra for discreet help from staff who came to their units. Only when residents needed total nursing care were they asked to move to another wing, where it was still convenient for their old friends to visit. Aunt Lucy used to joke, “Autumn Village is like a Vassar dorm without the hassle of exams.”
Katharine sat in the parking lot until she felt composed. Then she entered the lobby, greeted Leona, and asked her not to let Dutch sneak past while she made a quick trip to the ladies’ room to fix her face. “You got a cold?” Leona asked. “Your nose is mighty red.”
“Just a little one.” That was easier than explaining.
The elevator crept upward like it carried porcelain that needed to be lifted a centimeter at a time. When it finally reached the third floor, her sandals made a soft slap-slap as she padded down the long carpeted hall to Dutch’s apartment. She knocked. He didn’t answer.
“Dutch?” she called softly, knocking again.
He still didn’t answer.
She checked a small wooden stoplight hanging beside his door. At night, the staff went around and pulled levers to turn all the lights red. Each morning, residents pulled levers to turn the lights green, to indicate they were up and about. If a light was still red by nine o’clock, somebody from the staff investigated.
Dutch’s light was green, of course. He was always up by nine. So where was he? Probably playing poker with his cronies. He hadn’t left yet, unless he had crossed the lobby while she was in the ladies’ room. And surely even the phlegmatic Leona would have remembered to inform him Katharine was there.
She tried his door, but it was locked. She padded to the far end of the hall, to a sunny solarium where groups worked puzzles or played cards. It was empty.
If she had known who Dutch’s friends were, she could have knocked on doors, but she didn’t like to disturb strangers. With a huff of disgust, she headed back to the elevator.
“I’m too wobbly for all this walking,” she muttered.
At the desk, Leona popped her gum and rang his apartment again, but nobody answered.
“Has he had any guests today?” Katharine asked, scanning down the visitor register she had already signed.
“Just the laundry branging shirts.” Leona slung the gum from one si
de of her mouth to the other and pointed a sharp red nail at an illegible scrawl. The laundry man had signed in at 10:35 and out at 10:50.
Katharine sighed. “You don’t know who he plays cards with, do you? We were supposed to have lunch together, and he may have forgotten.”
Leona made a face. “Forgettin’ is a fav’rite pastime around here.” She chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know ’bout poker, but he eats with Jack Johnson. I could ring Jack.”
Jack said, “I haven’t seen Dutch all day. He called this morning and said he wasn’t coming to our little game, he was going out to lunch and wanted to get a haircut first.”
Katharine asked Leona to call the barber, who worked in the basement. He said Dutch got a haircut at nine-thirty and he hadn’t seen him since.
Maybe it was what had happened at her house, but Katharine was beginning to feel anxious. She told herself it was silly to worry. But still—“Could you all open his door for me, just to be sure he’s all right?” she asked.
“I cain’t leave the desk,” Leona reminded her, “so I cain’t do a thang to help you myself. Mr. Billingslea is out at a meetin’ in town, so he cain’t help you, neither. But why don’t I call Norman? He’s fixin’ a clogged toilet right now, but he’ll get up there as soon as he kin. You wanna wait down here?”
“No, I’ll wait in the hall up there.” Katharine didn’t want Leona lifting the weight of her mascara high enough to notice how red her eyes still were.
While the elevator crept back up to the third floor, she wished she had asked Jack who Dutch’s other friends were. She was going to feel real silly if he came back from visiting somebody—or out of the bathroom—and found her and Norman, who doubled as handyman and daytime security, breaking into his apartment.
One nice feature of Autumn Village was a couple of comfortable chairs halfway down each hall. They were there for residents who found the long halls too much of a walk at one stretch, but Katharine availed herself of one and kept an eye on Dutch’s door. Ten minutes passed before a lanky man in a brown uniform came upstairs jingling a big ring of keys.
“Hey, Norman,” she greeted him. Norman and she had had a few run-ins in the past over the speed with which he didn’t repair leaking toilets and faulty phones, but he seemed to hold no grudges.
“Hey, Miz Murray. What’s the problem?” He played a tune on a fat ring of keys.
She stood. “I am supposed to be having lunch with Mr. Landrum but I can’t find him. He’s probably visiting somebody else, but since we had a date for lunch—”
“Probably just forgot,” Norman said cheerfully. “Leona said you want me to let you in.” When Katharine nodded, he pulled a wrinkled form from his pocket. “You’ll have to sign here.”
After she had made it official that she had requested permission to enter Mr. Landrum’s unit uninvited, Norman found the right key and opened the door. “We can’t let just anybody in, you know,” he told her as he stood back to let her precede him. “We don’t want our residents complaining.” He raised his voice a pitch. “Mr. Landrum? You got company.”
Dutch didn’t answer. He sprawled facedown on the couch. And as soon as Katharine touched his hand, she knew he would never eat fried chicken again.
Chapter 21
Katharine started to turn him over, but Norman held her back. “I’m sorry, Miz Murray, but you’ll need to wait in the hall. I believe Mr. Landrum has expired.”
Katharine didn’t know whether to burst into hysterical laughter or throw back her head and scream at Norman’s asinine stupidity. Obviously Dutch had “expired.” Nobody but a small infant can successfully mimic the stillness of death. Besides, when she bent over him, she could see that his face was purple and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. Had he had some kind of fit?
Poor dear, he must have been putting on his tie. It lay in a heap on the arm of the couch. She picked it up, rolled it idly, and stuffed it in her pocket as she left the room with tears streaming down her cheeks.
She slumped into the nearest chair in the hall, moving through a thick fog of grief. The morning’s earlier events receded in importance before this blow. Losing Dutch was like losing her parents all over again. Dutch was the last remaining adult who had held her on his knee, attended her graduations and her wedding, and knew her family’s private stories and jokes. When they buried Dutch, they would bury her entire childhood except what she carried with her.
In the next hour, she sat in a sodden lump while Autumn Village dealt with violent death in its own discreet way. She considered calling Posey or Tom, but what could they do? She watched without seeing as a procession of people came and went. Mr. Billingslea himself appeared and stood guard, waving away curious residents with the bland, professional assurance, “Everything is under control.”
Under control? In spite of a cup of strong, sweet tea brought to her by a woman with an equally strong, sweet face, Katharine wanted to laugh hysterically at the hackneyed phrase. Nothing in her life was under control at the moment, and Dutch had gone beyond control.
At some point Mr. Billingslea came to her chair and said, “Wait here, please, Mrs. Murray. They want to interview you in a little while.” So she sat, threading Dutch’s tie through her fingers, waiting. Once the initial tide of grief receded, she felt a curious sense of detachment. It was hard to believe she wasn’t waiting to take Dutch to lunch. Or Aunt Lucy. Or her mother. She wished she had taken Dutch out more often—that he hadn’t died so inconveniently before they’d had dinner.
She had cried out all her tears by the time they carried the heavy stretcher toward the freight elevator at the back.
When a policeman bent over her and asked, “You were the one to find him, ma’am?” she looked up at his uniform in surprise. She hadn’t noticed who had been going in and out of the room. She had expected a doctor.
Before she could say more than, “Yes,” she realized the interviewing officer wasn’t listening. He was looking at what she was doing with her hands. “What is that, ma’am?”
She held it up. “Dutch’s tie. He must have been putting it on when he had his fit. It was lying on the arm of his couch.”
“Hey, Steve, come here!” he called to an officer down the hall. When Steve arrived, the first officer pointed. “I think we’ve found your weapon.”
Katharine dropped it in shock. “Dutch was killed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Can’t choke yourself without a noose and something to stand on.”
The man named Steve bent to retrieve the tie. “You been holding it?” he demanded.
“Running her hands all over it,” the other officer answered for her.
“There went any fingerprints.” Steve dropped it in a plastic bag. “Ma’am, haven’t you watched enough television to know not to touch anything at a crime scene?”
“I didn’t know it was a crime scene.” She swayed and would have fainted if he hadn’t caught her. Her ears roared.
Somebody pressed her head gently to her knees. “Stay like that for a minute, ma’am. Hey! Can I get a cup of something hot and sweet down here?”
In another minute, somebody thrust another cup of tea into her hands and held her shoulder while she drank it. As she obediently swallowed, Katharine decided to call Tom after all. She didn’t care if he was in a meeting with the president. She needed him.
As soon as the world stopped spinning, she reached for her phone and called Tom’s cell. After four rings it picked up automatically, and Tom’s pleasant business voice came on the line. “This is Thomas Murray. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll get right back to you as soon as I possibly can.”
“Tom? Katharine. Call me as soon as you get this, please? I have to talk to you at once.”
Fiercely, she punched in his office number. “Louise, I need to talk to Tom as soon as possible. I’ve got an emergency down here. Two, in fact. I urgently need to speak to him.”
“He’s at a meeting right now, Mrs. Murray, b
ut I’ll be sure and give him the message. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. Try to get to him and tell him to call me. Then make him a plane reservation for this afternoon and clear his calendar for the rest of the week. I need him down here, real bad.” She didn’t even mind that her voice trembled on the last sentence.
After she hung up, though, she regretted the call. She didn’t want Louise thinking she was a hysterical wimp. And what could Tom do that she couldn’t besides hold her while she cried? The rest she could cope with. She always had.
Mr. Billingslea finally unbent enough to wander down the hall in her direction. “I wonder, Mrs. Murray, if you would call Mr. Landrum’s son. You know the family so well.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve known them all my life.” She didn’t add that Chapman Landrum was a prig who never approved of his father and had chosen to live in Schenectady rather than Atlanta, or that she had regularly knocked him down each time the families got together for holidays or summers up at Cashiers, when they were children.
When she agreed to make the call, Mr. Billingslea gave a small smile of relief. “You’re practically part of our family here,” he told her, patting her shoulder. Apparently he meant it for a compliment.
Katharine got Chap in his office and told him what had happened to his father. She listened to his rants about suing Autumn Village for negligence and countered by pointing out that Dutch must have let in whoever killed him, because the dead bolt on his door was open, but the night latch was on. She didn’t know why she remembered that detail, but she did.
When Chap calmed down a bit, she gave him the name of the funeral home that had handled so many ser vices for her in recent years. She even agreed to draft an obituary for him to edit when he arrived in town, but she refused to plan the ser vice. “You can do that after you get here. Besides, there will have to be an autopsy, since it was a violent death.” When Chap started to splutter, she said, “Just get here as fast as you can. We’ll deal with the rest later.”
Death on the Family Tree Page 23