by Loretta Ross
Dozier nodded, concentrating on her pulse. “They kept dying on me.” His voice was nearly a whisper. “You know, people think OCD means cleaning stuff.” He rose and paced the room nervously, stopping beside the window with his back against the wall and peeking out around the blind like he was expecting bullets to greet him. Reassured that they were not under fire, he drifted back over and took his seat at the card table. Death allowed him to take his wrist again.
“Anthony,” he said, “I need you to tell me what happened the night of the funeral.”
The corner of Dozier’s mouth turned up in a wry, bitter smile. “Obviously not what I remember,” he said.
“But what you remember is all we have to go on. Tell me anyway.”
The man shrugged his thin shoulders. “It was dark out. I remember heading for the veterans’ camp outside of East Bledsoe Ferry. I’d wanted to be by myself for a bit, but Kurt was afraid I’d kill myself, so I promised him I’d come to the camp in a couple of hours. And I kind of remember driving around, thinking about things. Remembering. And then … ”
“And then?” Death prompted.
Dozier sighed. “You won’t believe me.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He tugged on the bottom of his T-shirt, worrying the fabric, and bit his lower lip. “And then I saw my wife,” he said finally.
“You … I’m sorry. What?”
“Zahra. My wife. I saw her ghost. She was standing off to the right, among the trees, looking at me.”
“He was hallucinating,” Leopold whispered helpfully.
Death shushed her. “Tell me about that,” he said to Dozier. “Did you stop? Did she say anything or do anything?”
“Of course I stopped. It was my wife. I wanted to see her and hold her and tell her I love her. I wanted to tell her I was sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
Anthony Dozier looked down. Tears ran down his face and dripped on the playing cards.
“I promised her family I’d protect her.”
“So, you stopped. Was she still there? Did she say anything or do anything?”
“No, she didn’t move at all, or speak, or anything. She just looked at me. She was perfectly white, pale like the moonlight, in a long robe and a hijab. I remember her eyes, over her veil. And I got out of the car, but I stumbled in the dark and fell in the ditch and there was a wounded soldier there, bleeding out.”
“Okay, and then what?”
“And then … and then I couldn’t see her anymore, but I had wounded I had to take care of. He’d taken a load of shrapnel and I didn’t have any gear with me. So I bandaged him up as best I could and put him in the jeep, but I couldn’t find my way back to the base hospital. And none of the roads were right. So I drove and I drove for a long, long time. And I kept stopping to check his pulse and his breathing. They got worse and worse and then they stopped and I knew it was too late, but I finally found an MP to ask for directions. But I wasn’t in Afghanistan at all. I was in Kansas City and they told me I’d killed him.”
_____
“Obviously he wasn’t in his right mind,” Leopold said as she unlocked her car in the parking lot. “I’m sure the psychiatrists are going to agree, but the DA is being a hard-ass, so anything at all you can do to help make our case for temporary insanity will help. What do you think?”
“I think you’re all nuts,” Death said. He folded his arms on the roof of her car and met her startled, hostile gaze. “There is no way in hell that man killed anybody.”
“What are you talking about?” she said. “Of course he did. The CAC protested at his wife’s funeral. Anthony confronted Jones and threatened him at the funeral.”
“Anthony confronted Jones Sr. at the funeral, right? But the victim was his son, August Jones. In the heat of the moment, anyone can say anything. Dozier’s not a killer.” Death slapped his hand down on the car roof, opened the door, and got in.
He waited for Leopold to join him before continuing. “Does Dozier have any injuries that Jones might have made trying to defend himself ? August was a big guy and Anthony’s not. Did they find a murder weapon on him or in his car?”
“No, they didn’t. Listen, Anthony Dozier is a likeable man and I understand that you don’t want to see him as a killer, but we need to face facts. He murdered August Jones in a fit of blind rage and grief and the best thing we can do to help him is to prove that he wasn’t in his right mind at the time.”
“What we need to do,” Death countered, “is find the murder scene.”
Leopold started her car and put it in gear. “And there I’m not going to disagree with you,” she said. “If we find a murder scene—apart from the back seat of Dozier’s car—maybe we can get the case moved. Right now it’s being tried in Kansas City. If we can prove that Jones was attacked somewhere else, I’ll have something to argue. A different jurisdiction means a different DA. Maybe we’ll get one who’s more receptive to hearing our side of things.”
“Right,” Death said, leaning back. Susan Leopold drove a little compact and with his seat upright Death’s head brushed the roof liner. “And also, we can figure out who really killed August Jones.”
four
“I’m not saying that I never want to see you again. I’m just saying that we’ve only even known each other for a few months. I think we should slow down a bit. That’s all.”
Madeline Braun, who had been Madeline Bogart before an ill-considered divorce, shifted uncomfortably in the booth at the coffee shop and tried to put a little space between herself and Eric Farrington. It didn’t work. He had his arm around her waist and she was firmly squished against the wall.
It was ridiculous.
Manipulating men was Madeline’s forte. She’d been doing it since she was in middle school. Pick them up, string them along for as long as they were useful, then drop them like a hot rock. But Eric, a small-statured jail guard who was commonly considered the most obnoxious human being in the central United States, clung to her like gum on the bottom of her best stilettos.
She’d only taken up with him because he was handy and she was trying to make her ex-husband jealous.
And—speak of the devil—there he was! Death Bogart himself, sitting across the tiny coffee shop with his new girlfriend, Wren Morgan, of whom Madeline was absolutely, positively not jealous.
Wren was a plain-Jane, girl-next-door type with an average build and a horrible wardrobe. Today she was dressed in an old T-shirt with a faded cartoon on the front. She’d paired it with shorts and sneakers, and her red hair was a wild cloud around her head. Her waist was larger than Madeline’s and her bosom was smaller and she had freckles she didn’t even try to hide.
She hadn’t even bothered to put on lipstick.
She and Death were sitting on opposite sides of their own table, each engrossed in their own electronic device. As Madeline watched, Wren reached out blindly and Death, almost absent-mindedly, slid the sugar into her hand.
Death always had been a gentleman. He was as kind as he was strong and when he was Madeline’s husband he’d treated her like a princess and never taken her for granted.
“So what exactly are you saying here, Sugar Boobies?” Eric asked, only half paying attention to her as he leaned in close and took a selfie of them together.
Madeline gritted her teeth. “I’m saying that I want for us to have a more open relationship. I think we should start seeing other people.”
Eric lit up. “Really?”
Madeline blinked, surprised by his reaction. “Yes. Really.”
“Awesome!” He looked across the coffee shop and called out, “Hey, Wren! You hear that? My Maddy-booby wants to have a threesome! Are you in?”
“Wants to—? What? I never said—!”
Wren pointed at Eric without bothering to look up. “You come within ten feet of me, Farrington, and I’ll stab you to death with my spoon.”
“Aw, baby,” he said, “you know you want to!”
; Madeline growled to herself. Everyone in the shop was watching them now. This was a small town. She was going to be a laughingstock.
Because he’d always been an easy target for her, she turned on Death. “Really, Death? Eric’s hitting on your girlfriend and you’re not going to do anything?”
“Of course I’m going to do something,” Death said. The condiment bar was behind his seat and he reached one long arm back, snagged a plastic-wrapped utensil, and tossed it on the table in front of Wren. “Here, honey. Here’s a clean spoon for when you’ve finished.”
Eric finally released Madeline and slid out of the booth. “Don’t worry, baby,” he said, “she’ll come around. Meantime, I know this chick out at the biker bar who’ll do anything, and I mean anything! I’ll call her and see if she’s busy tonight. It’ll probably depend on whether or not her rash has cleared up.”
He planted a big, wet, sloppy kiss right on Madeline’s mouth and sauntered away. She shuddered and reached for a napkin, certain she couldn’t possibly be any more humiliated.
Eric stopped at the door and shouted out to the early-morning crowd. “You all hear that? I’m getting me double nookie tonight!”
He pushed out of the building, the jangling door chime competing with a wave of laughter, and Madeline dropped her head. When she looked up again, Wren Morgan was regarding her with amusement, but not without sympathy.
“I suppose you think this is funny,” Madeline spat.
“A little, yeah. Okay, a lot. But listen. It’s sweet that you’re trying to let him down gently, but I’ve known Eric Farrington all my life. He doesn’t do subtle. You’re going to have to be a lot more direct if you want to get rid of him.”
Madeline considered, for a moment, whether she should be insulted or amused that Wren thought she would take relationship advice from a woman of her caliber.
“What would you suggest?” she asked finally, a sharp edge to her voice.
“Treat him like a cockroach. Hit him with a shoe and put him out on the curb on trash day.”
“Trash guy isn’t going to pick up Farrington,” Death said. “They’re not licensed for toxic waste.”
“This is a valid point.”
“I don’t necessarily want to get rid of him,” Madeline explained condescendingly.
Wren stared at her, shocked. “What?”
“He’s not a bad person. He can be fun. I mean to say, he has his good points.”
“He takes her places and buys her things,” Death explained, voice dry.
“Okay, fine. He takes me places and buys me things. So? Don’t you take Wren places and buy her things?”
“Well,” Death considered, “we drove Wren’s truck this morning, so technically, she brought me to the coffee shop.”
“But you did buy me a new jar of mustard last night,” Wren reminded him.
“It seemed only fair, since my brother drank yours.”
“Yeah. I really thought you were joking when you dared him to do that.”
“I can get Randy to do anything.”
Wren looked slantwise at Madeline, a speculative look in her eye. “Can you get him to kiss Madeline?”
“Okay, maybe not that.”
Madeline scowled at them. “So it’s true, then? Your brother’s back from the dead?”
Death grinned and it was like the old Death, the boy she’d fallen in love with before he got weighed down by war and grief.
“He is indeed.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t stay in St. Louis to help him recover from his ordeal.” Madeline knew that Wren had a job here in East Bledsoe Ferry. Surely, if they spent a little time apart, Death would realize Wren was just a fling.
“Oh,” Death beamed, even larger, “haven’t you heard? Randy closed up his house in the city and moved down here. He’s staying at my apartment right now, but eventually we’re going to find him a house. He’s got a job with the medevac helicopters and he’s joined the volunteer fire department.”
“He’s out on a call now,” Wren added. “Brush fire out by Racket, somewhere. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him around though.”
“Oh.” Madeline forced a smile that she knew didn’t reach her eyes. “Lovely.”
“I know, right?” Wren grinned a big, full grin. “Must be karma!”
_____
When Madeline had huffed and stomped her way out of the coffee shop, Wren looked up. Death glanced up at the same time and their eyes met, both amused.
“That’s the thing about a small town,” Wren said. “You never know who you’re going to run into.”
“I know, right? It’s like dinner theater, only at breakfast. It’s breakfast theater.”
“I wonder how she’ll get out of Eric’s threesome.”
Death snorted. “I wonder if she really wants to.” He caught Wren’s raised eyebrow. “What? It’s not like she was choosy about who she slept with when we were married. Hey! Maybe I can get her to let me babysit tonight. I haven’t introduced Benji to his Uncle Randy yet.”
Benji was Madeline’s son, a charming little boy hugging the line between infant and toddler. He had been conceived while Death was serving in Afghanistan. Even though he wasn’t Death’s child, Death adored him. Benji returned the affection and had even upset his mother by saying the word “Deese” before “Mama.”
Death leaned over the table and read Wren’s phone upside down. “What are you so lost in this morning?”
“I found a 1930s book about Rives County history at the University of Missouri’s online library, in their Missouriana collection. There’s a list of boys from here who fought in World War One and I’m trying to figure out if one of them lived in the Hadleigh House.”
“Why’s that?”
“I found an artist’s sketchbook full of what looks like studies for a larger work. There’s no name on it, but the men in the picture are in World War One uniforms. Here, I took some pictures.”
She pulled up the photos and handed him the phone. He scrolled through them slowly.
“Someone was seriously talented,” he agreed.
He stopped at one particular drawing, a close-up of a woman’s head and shoulders. Her long hair was blowing across her face and she had her left hand up, trying to hold it out of her eyes. She was not a classical beauty, but her face had character. The unknown artist had captured, with his pencil, a depth of sorrow and compassion in her eyes and a kind of gentle strength.
Death frowned. “I know I’ve seen this woman somewhere before.”
“What? Where?”
“I don’t know.” He thought about it. “It wasn’t this angle, exactly, but it was this pose, with her hand up by her face. She was holding something in her other hand, I think.”
“Yes! A ladle. Look at some of the other sketches. She had a bucket of water at her feet and she was offering the soldiers drinks from a ladle.”
“How do you know it’s water?” Death joked, scrolling back through the photos. “If the soldiers are drinking it, it’s more likely to be booze.”
One corner of Wren’s mouth turned down. “They’re grouped around a well,” she said drily.
“Okay. Point.” He handed her phone back. “Sorry. I know I’ve seen her, but I can’t place where.”
“This looks to me like a study for a painting. Could you have seen that painting somewhere? Did you go into any parts of the Hadleigh House that I haven’t been in yet?”
“I might have seen the painting. I’ve barely been in the house, though, so it would have had to be somewhere else. Hey! Maybe it’s a famous painting and I saw it in a book or a museum or something. If you found the sketches for a famous painting, that would really be something, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah! That would be amazing! I’ll ask Doris. She’s our art expert. If it’s a well-known painting, she’ll recognize it for sure.”
five
The bedroom window came up with a long, rusty creak, the swollen wooden frame stiff in its sill. Wren had already
raised the window on the north wall. Opening the one on the east gave the room a cross breeze. The east windows opened above the roof of the kitchen ell. Squirrels played in the oak trees that loomed over the old slate shingles and a loose section of guttering squeaked rhythmically in the breeze.
Looking out across the back of the property, she could see the camp for wounded veterans off to her left. The abandoned church was out of sight behind a grove of trees, only its steeple showing, but the graveyard spread across the opposite hillside, tombstones and monuments shining in the sun.
Most of the trees were still a dark, summer green, but a few of the maples had begun to blaze into orange and russet. There were stands of scarlet sumac along the fence rows and autumn lay gold on the long grass. It occurred to Wren that the scene she was seeing would have changed very little, autumn to autumn, in the last hundred years.
She was in the room across from where she’d found the drawing pad two days earlier. There was no closet—old houses rarely had them because in the 1800s closets were taxed—and the antique wardrobe that served the same purpose would bring a good price at auction. The clothing she’d cleared out of it had been unremarkable: men’s dark work pants and white cotton button-down shirts, a black suit that was probably from the ’30s or ’40s, and two pairs of shoes. One pair was dress shoes, barely worn, with rounded toes and a polish that remained under the layer of dust. The other pair was sturdy and serviceable, well-worn but also well cared for. They would sell the clothing as a lot, and it would bring very little. It was possible that no one would bid on it at all. If they didn’t, Wren would buy it for a dollar or two and donate it to the local thrift shops.
A small dresser stood next to the window, another nice antique. The drawers were filled with undergarments and she put them aside to be disposed of. It reminded her of the afternoon earlier in the summer when she’d been doing this same thing with Randy’s belongings. At the time, when they’d thought he was dead, she had taken on the heartbreaking task of getting rid of his clothes to spare Death having to do it.
Fortunately, they’d found him before she’d taken the majority of his things to Goodwill. She remembered, with wry amusement, the embarrassment of admitting to Randy that she’d thrown away all his underwear.