The Homicide Report: A Nell Matthews Mystery (InterMix)

by JoAnna Carl

  “Of course. I was eight the last time I saw him.”

  “Was he abusive?”

  “No. He never even spanked me. In fact, I remember at least one time that he should have, and he didn’t. And he and my mom yelled a lot, but if they ever hit each other, I didn’t know about it. He was . . .” I paused. “Mike, he was just Daddy. What does an eight-year-old know? I used to run out to meet him when he came home from work. He took me to the school carnival. He taught me to play Old Maid and Dirty Eight and how to ride a bicycle. He mowed the lawn. Turned football games on TV, then fell asleep on the couch.”

  “Is that what he and your mother quarreled about?”

  “No.” I thought about it. “I don’t know what they fought about. They kept quiet in front of me—of course, I could tell something was wrong. It was kind of polite tension. The arguments began after I was in bed.”

  “And you have no idea what the problem was?”

  “I doubt there was only one problem. I can remember my mother pleading, ‘Please, please, I’ve got to get out of here,’ and my dad yelling, ‘No! I’m not giving up this chance.’ But surely my mother wasn’t upset by the move we’d made.”

  “Move?”

  “Yes. We’d lived in Amity, which was my mom’s hometown, until around six months before the big break-up. Then we moved to Michigan. Maybe my mom was homesick? But that’s hard to believe. She’d first said she was looking forward to getting away from her family. But, Mike, what is the point of this? Why are you bringing it up?”

  “Because it’s something you need to settle.”

  “It seems pretty well settled to me. I don’t know where my dad is, and I don’t much care.”

  “Then why did you lie awake all night after hearing someone say his name? Why did you tell me, ‘I sent him away. I send everybody I love away’?”

  I laid down my spoon. Goldman’s peel-your-lips-hot chili had become completely tasteless.

  Mike reached across the table and took my hand. “Listen, Nell. I took Psych 101. So did you. Something like this has to be resolved. You can’t let it hang around in your subconscious, making you afraid you’ll do something to blow up any serious relationships. If you don’t get this settled, the time will come when it affects us!”

  I pulled my hand out of his. “I see that it already has.”

  Our table had become a war camp, and we stared at each other through barbed wire.

  Mike broke the silence. “I love you, Nell. I don’t want you to send me away.”

  “You said you wouldn’t go.”

  “I won’t go willingly. But you’re pretty ingenious. You could push me out of your thoughts. Starve me out of your emotional life.” He grinned suddenly. “Cut me out of your hopes, plans, and dreams.”

  I laughed, but I could hear the tremble in the tee-hee. “What are you saying? I don’t get sex until I go to a shrink? I’ve already had counseling.”

  “Before you need counseling, maybe you need facts.”

  “Facts? The reporter’s litany? Who, what, where, when, and sometimes why? Sometimes how?”

  “Yeah. Those little boogers.”

  “Okay. I’ll repeat one of them. Why?”

  “Because Martina wanted to tell you something, and she was murdered before she could.”

  Talk about stopping the conversation. Mike’s answer stunned me. It opened up possibilities that were truly frightening. I stared at him while they tumbled around in my imagination.

  “Mike, you can’t possibly mean what you’re saying. Anybody—anybody—might have had a reason to kill Martina. She was the most disliked person on the Gazette staff.”

  “True. And why was she disliked?”

  “Because she was obnoxious!”

  “What was obnoxious about her?”

  “She was so nosy—”

  I quit talking and stared at my chili bowl. The crackers were soggy. I forced myself to eat a bite. If I dug to the bottom of the bowl, it was still hot with fire. It was hot with pepper clear through. I shoved it away.

  “Okay,” I said. “You’ve made your point. Martina was nosy. She didn’t seem to have any life of her own. No friends, no family that I ever heard of. No hobbies, pets, or interests outside the office. She just sucked up vitality from other people, poking around in their lives.”

  Mike nodded. “And, yes, if she poked too deep, if she found out something that wasn’t healthy to know—”

  “You think that’s the reason she was killed.”

  “What else could there be, Nell? Hammond had me in as soon as I got off duty this morning. Wanted to know all about the relationships down there. Of course, I didn’t know much to tell him.”

  “Did you tell him I was going to ask her about my father?”

  “No, I thought I’d let you tell him that.”

  “So you’re warning me.”

  Another long silence.

  “Is Jim Hammond handling this case?” I asked.

  “Yes. I think the publisher called the chief, and the chief decided it required a senior detective named Jim.”

  I guess I frowned, because Mike went on. “Look, Nell, Jim would have to mother-hen it. He might as well be up front. It’s bound to be a high-profile case.”

  “That’s true.”

  If a news-media figure gets in trouble—at least in a city the size of Grantham—the case is going to get lots of attention. We’re all afraid the public will think the accused person is getting special attention, so we bend over backward to show that he’s not.”

  Look at the Collins case. Joe Collins was an Oklahoma City newsman who shot his wife five years ago. Probably thirty-five Oklahoma men shot their wives that year. They mostly pled out—made plea bargains—for varying degrees of manslaughter. In a town the size of Oklahoma City, this would be worthy of two or three stories on inside pages. It would get very little attention elsewhere in the state. But Joe Collins was splashed all over the front pages of Oklahoma’s newspapers for months. The legislature even passed a domestic-abuse bill called the “Marsha Collins” law.

  Joe was a rotten guy, true, and I’m glad they locked him up. But he got a lot more attention than the other thirty-four wife killers that year combined. Because he was in the news business, and we all wanted to make sure no one thought we were sweeping anything under the press.

  I poked at my chili bowl with my spoon. “You’ve ruined my appetite,” I said.

  “Sorry, but there’s no ducking it.”

  “I know. And I’ll certainly answer anything Jim or his detectives ask me.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to be over there at one o’clock. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave. Then I can go by the office and sign the release so they can search my desk while I’m giving my statement.”

  “Okay.” Mike’s plate was nearly empty. His appetite hadn’t been affected.

  I stood up, and he reached out and took my hand. “Think about what I said about your dad, Nell.”

  “I’m sure a psychologist would say you’re right, Mike. But you suggested getting facts. Where would I start?”

  “Family?”

  “My dad didn’t really have any family. His parents died rather young. I vaguely remember going to my grandmother’s funeral. I guess I was about three. And he didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “How about your mother’s family? How about this aunt?”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t know where he is!”

  “Maybe not. But she may know where he went when he left.”

  “Mike, Aunt Billie and I don’t get along. I can’t face talking to her.”

  He squeezed my hand. “She may be your best lead.”

  “Forget it! I’m happy as an orphan. I’m not asking Aunt Billie any kind of a favor!”

  I yanked my hand away. Mike set his jaw. We glared at each other.

  Then I turned my back on Mike and left. I walked the two blocks to the Gazette office with a knot in my stomach.

  My Aunt Billie and I
kept our relations on a superficial level. How’ve you been, Aunt Billie? Just fine, Nell. And you?

  The thought of asking her anything important was terrifying. I stuffed the thought back below the surface of my mind and thought about the next few minutes. The first thing I had to do was see if I could sign my release and let the detectives search my desk while I was gone to the P.D.

  The newsroom was not crowded—it was still lunchtime. I saw Arnie’s bald head sticking up over the partition that marked off the territory of the violence reporters. As I walked by the entrance to their pod, I saw that Arnie was standing behind a young detective, Boone Thompson, who was sitting in Arnie’s desk chair. Boone had just pulled the top left-hand drawer open.

  “Hi, Boone,” I said. “Are you the guy with the releases?”

  Boone looked up. He’d be no good for undercover work—too odd-looking. He had cotton white hair and light lashes and a bright red complexion—skin darker than his hair.

  “Yeah. I’m the guy,” he said. “I’ll get you one as soon as I get through with Mr. Ashe’s desk.”

  “It’s close to empty,” Arnie said. “I haven’t been here long enough to rat-pack it.”

  Boone looked in the drawer he’d pulled out, then shoved it closed.

  “Aren’t you going to count the pencils?” Arnie said.

  “Nope. Since we’re looking for a pair of men’s work shoes, we can’t look at anything smaller,” Boone said.

  He pulled out the bottom left-hand drawer. It was full of books, hardbacks marked GRANTHAM PUBLIC LIBRARY. Boone picked them up. “A science fiction fan,” he said. “Do you like C.J. Cherryh?”

  “One of my favorites,” Arnie said.

  Boone looked through the titles. Was he going to read them all?

  I checked my watch. Twelve fifty-five. “Boone, I don’t like to hurry you,” I said, “but Peaches has a slot for me to make a statement at one o’clock sharp.”

  “Okay! Okay!” Boone gave a cursory look at the back of the drawer—which was empty—and turned to open the right-hand drawer, the double-deep one under the computer terminal. Arnie had an old desk. Most of the desks don’t have a drawer there anymore. It’s too hard to get to. Nobody uses them. I expected the drawer to be empty.

  But it had file folders in it.

  “Old stuff,” Arnie said. “I’ve barely looked at it.”

  Boone riffled through the folders, and the drawer started to fall shut of its own weight. But Boone grabbed it and pulled it all the way open. He ducked his head until it was nearly between his knees, and he peered into the deep recesses of the drawer.

  He gave a soft whistle. Then he pulled a pair of plastic gloves out of his pocket and slowly put them on, holding the drawer open with his knee.

  Then he reached into the drawer, into the pocket behind the file folders, and he pulled out a black work shoe. He put it down on Arnie’s desk, and he reached in again and pulled out another.

  “My God!” I said. “Arnie! How did those get there?”

  But when I turned around for Arnie’s reply, he was gone.

  He had disappeared from the newsroom.

  Chapter 9

  With Arnie’s disappearance stated that baldly, it would seem that Grantham Police Department would have issued an all-points bulletin for him immediately. That didn’t happen.

  I merely said, “Gee, where’d Arnie go?” and Boone said, “He sure disappeared fast, didn’t he? I’ll look in the men’s room.” Then I said, “Do you still need to search my desk?” And Boone said, “Maybe not. Go on over to the P.D. and make your statement, and we’ll catch you later.”

  Many of life’s significant moments seem undramatic at the moment they’re happening, I guess. Anyway, I went to the P.D., made my statement, came back to the office, and copyedited three of the dullest stories on record. Then Arnie called in.

  He called the city desk number, and Ruth Borah wasn’t at her phone. So I answered. “City desk,” I said.

  There was a long silence before Arnie spoke. “Nell?” His voice sounded angry, but I recognized it.

  “Hey, Arnie. Where’d you go?”

  Again I got a long silence. So I spoke. “Arnie? Are you there?”

  “Listen, I’ve had an emergency come up,” he said. “Somebody will have to cover the cop beat for me tonight. Maybe for a couple of days.”

  “What! Arnie, where are you?”

  “I’m on my way out of town.”

  “Wait a minute! Have you talked to the cops about those shoes?”

  “I don’t know how those shoes got there.”

  “I didn’t think you did, Arnie. But you need to tell the cops that.”

  He didn’t reply to that remark. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I just wanted Ruth to know I’m not coming in.”

  “Arnie!” I started to argue, but he’d already hung up.

  I sat there with the phone in my hand. Ruth Borah came back to her desk, and she said, “You look puzzled, Nell.”

  “Ruth,” I said. “I think maybe Arnie is going to fly the coop.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “He’s doing fine. So why would he leave this job? He called in a lot of favors to get it, or so I hear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ruth leaned close to me. “I hear that Arnie had done Jake some good turn years ago, and Arnie used it as an in to get the job.”

  I frowned. “Jake? As in our managing editor? The guy who does the hiring and firing around here?”

  “Right.”

  “What could Arnie have on Jake?”

  “Oh, I don’t think it was blackmail! I think he and Arnie met at some regional press meeting, and Arnie kept him from getting into some sort of difficulties—professional difficulties. Slipped him the word on a false news tip. Something like that.

  “Anyway, Jake said Arnie was a smart reporter, and we were lucky to get him. And so far he’s been great. So I’m surprised if he just doesn’t show up.”

  “At least he called in.”

  That was the first hint we had that Arnie was on the lam. It wasn’t yet a topic for office gossip. Mike and I were to claim that distinction before the evening was over.

  I had reported for work at two o’clock. At six-thirty, Mike got off the elevator that serves as an after-hours entrance to the Gazette newsroom. He still wore his khakis and the sweater that matched his hair and eyes. I waved, but Kimmie, the night switchboard operator and receptionist, rang my phone anyway.

  “Mike’s here and says he needs to talk to you,” Kimmie said.

  “Send him in.”

  “He says he’ll wait out here until you can come over,” Kimmie said.

  I kept an eye on the newsroom reception area while I finished the story I was working on. Mike sat on the plain and uncomfortable plastic-covered couch that’s out there, and I could see Kimmie giving him the full treatment. She’s a junior at Grantham State, and she’s a sort of live Barbie doll, blond and curvy. The night switchboard and receptionist job is perfect for students, because it gives them some time to study. But Kimmie put her books away as soon as Mike sat down.

  I laughed to myself, maybe to hide a pang of jealousy. But I didn’t seriously think that Mike would be enticed by Kimmie/Barbie. If I were going to be jealous, my feelings would focus on Mike’s former girlfriend, Annie. They’d lived together in Chicago for two years. Annie hurt Mike badly when she broke up with him. Something about the way he never mentioned her name tended to make me uneasy.

  No, I wasn’t worried about Kimmie. I was a little worried about what Mike was going to say when he found out I had left something out of my statement for the Grantham P.D. I hadn’t mentioned the reason why I’d gone down the stairs to the Gazette paper-storage warehouse, the reason I had been on the spot to find Martina’s body.

  I hadn’t told them Martina wanted to tell me something.

  And I was a little worried about the way Mike and I had parted company at lunch. It hadn’t been friendly.


  He’d been urging me to call my aunt. But Mike had never met Aunt Billie, I reminded myself. He hadn’t known what he was asking. I made a determined effort not to hold his request against him. I made sure I was wearing a pleasant expression as I went to the front and leaned over the narrow railing.

  “Hi.” Maybe I said it a little too brightly. “Are the detectives looking for Arnie?”

  “I’m not here about Arnie.” Mike’s words came out with surprising force. “I wanted to tell you a couple of things.”

  He beckoned me out into the waiting area. That was odd. But I went through the swinging gate and sat beside him on the couch. He spoke very quietly.

  “I’ve got to go out of town,” he said.

  I was completely amazed. “Out of town!” I probably gaped. Mike glanced at Kimmie, who wasn’t even pretending not to listen. When I spoke again, I followed his lead and dropped my voice. “This is sudden. Where are you going?”

  “A little personal business.”

  “Well, that’s a noncommittal reply.”

  Mike propped his left tennis shoe on his right knee, then frowned at the arrangement of feet and legs. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”

  “Is there any point in my asking you where you’re going?”

  He was still staring at his tennis shoe. “I was able to get some emergency leave.”

  “That answer wasn’t responsive to my question,” I said.

  “I know.” He looked at me. “Listen, Nell, before I go I need to know something. Did you tell Hammond that you’d talked to Martina about your dad?”

  I steeled myself for a fight. “No, Mike, I didn’t. I can’t believe that has anything to do with anything. She said she hadn’t worked with him. Whatever she wanted to see me about—well, there’s very little chance it had anything to do with my father.”

  I was surprised to see a relieved look cross Mike’s face. “It’s probably just as well,” he said. “But I’m still worried about you. You’ve got a killer loose in this building.”

  “Maybe. But we’ve also got a couple of hundred people who are not killers. I’ll try to hang around with the right crowd.”

  “Try more than that. Try to act real dumb, okay?”