One Grave Less

by Beverly Connor

  Maria and Rosetta wandered over to the women preparing food. Their offer to help was met with laughter. An older woman was roasting wild boar on a skewer over a fire, another was frying grubs in a well-worn, dinted metal pan. Two young girls, Maria guessed they were about twelve, were peeling and cutting up fruit and an assortment of plants. It looked like a feast after the little food they had been eating.

  Some of the younger children tried to get Rosetta to play with them, but she clung to Maria. Maria knew she was probably just pretending to be shy. Neither of them wanted to become separated. Their lives felt precarious, like they would have to flee at anytime and needed to stay prepared, stay together.

  It didn’t take long for the women to finish preparing the meal. The boar had already been roasting before she and Rosetta had arrived. They had only to cook the other food. The tribe was small, not more than twenty people. They all fit in the largest hut, sitting in a circle on the floor. The planks in the floor were rough-hewn and spaced an inch or more apart. They had been coated with something that made them smooth.

  The food was piled on wooden platterlike planks in the middle of the circle. A couple of young women passed servings around on wooden or metal plates. The housewares were a mixture of local handmade utensils and items that came from the outside, from the modern world. A woman gave Maria food on a wooden plate for her and Rosetta. Maria watched her host, Ric/Kyle, to see when to eat. He nodded at her and took a bite of the roasted meat with his hands. Maria and Rosetta followed. It wasn’t too bad. The meat was a little tough but tasted good. The grubs were crisp and the fruit succulent. The two of them ate slowly.

  A bowl of hot drink was handed to them. It had a strong fruit and herb aroma. Maria saw Rosetta snake a finger into the liquid and put it in her mouth. Maria lifted the bowl to her own mouth and started to drink. Ric turned from saying something to the woman sitting by him and watched the two of them. Rosetta was holding Maria’s arm and she suddenly squeezed, digging her fingernails into Maria’s skin. Maria pretended to take a drink and set the bowl down. She put an arm around Rosetta, pulled her close, kissed the top of her head, and squeezed her arm gently.

  Maria ate more food and periodically picked up the bowl and pretended to drink, as did Rosetta. She looked around at the members of the tribe as they ate. None had a bowl of the same drink. They laughed and talked to one another. The children tended to run around, eating from anyone’s plate. The young men who had ridden in her truck were apparently telling the story. She couldn’t understand the language, but the hand gestures were pretty clear. It looked like a more exciting adventure than it was.

  Maria picked a time when Ric wasn’t looking at the two of them and deftly and quickly poured the drink through the cracks in the floor. She finished her meal and sat watching the others. It was getting dark and they would be going to bed.

  “Rosetta and I are going to sleep in the truck,” said Maria to Ric. “We’ve had a hard time and she feels comfortable in the truck. But I appreciate the offer of the hammock.”

  “You must be tired of sleeping in the cramped truck. You’re pretty tall,” he said.

  Maria grinned. “You’d be surprised how comfortable it is,” she said. She put her hand to her mouth and yawned. “I think, on this great meal, we are going to turn in. Tell the cooks that their food was great and we appreciate them and you sharing with us.”

  Ric smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said.

  Maria carried Rosetta to the truck, mainly so they could talk without being overheard.

  “What was in the drink?” asked Maria.

  “Sorri, I think she called it,” said Rosetta.

  The “she,” Maria guessed, being the woman who taught Rosetta about plants and herbs.

  “Something like that. Maybe Saaro. It puts you to sleep. It can kill you.”

  Maria took a breath and held it. So they weren’t safe. Ric or the others would be expecting them to drop into a deep sleep. That’s why he had wanted them in the hammock and vulnerable.

  They reached the truck, climbed in, and locked the doors. Maria didn’t lean against the doors or the window. Rosetta slept with her head on her lap. Maria put the gun where she could reach it in a hurry. She tried to stay awake.

  Maria dreamed of West Side Story. She awoke to the sound of someone singing “Maria.”

  “Did you say something?” she asked Rosetta.

  Rosetta sat wide-eyed and pointed to the driver’s-side window. Ric was there with a rifle pointed at them.

  Chapter 35

  Diane studied her own navy leather sandals, thinking about what Lynn Webber had said about Madge Stewart and her shoes. She looked up at the group.

  “What do you think?” she asked anyone who might want to answer.

  Izzy was the first. He had slimmed down considerably since she first met him—not from becoming health conscious, but from losing a child. Food just hadn’t been important anymore. Diane understood. Like her, he had been slowly climbing out of depression after he lost his almost grown son in a meth lab explosion. A lab that none of the more than thirty partying students from Bartram University who died there knew was in the basement. It was one of Rosewood’s biggest tragedies, touching in one way or another everyone who lived there.

  Izzy credited his recovery with the change from being a policeman to being a crime scene specialist, focusing on collecting the evidence that convicted criminals. Diane thought it probably had a lot to do with the friendships among the lab team. She had put together a good group and she was proud of them.

  If she wasn’t able to solve her problems in a timely manner, the museum directorship wouldn’t be the only job she would be in danger of losing. She would also lose her job as head of the crime lab. The lab couldn’t afford to have a director with damaged credibility.

  “I’m having a problem with the shoes thing,” said Izzy.

  “Dr. Webber told a good story . . . but really? The Stewart woman could have just hiked up her skirt and stepped over the chain and walked down the embankment. It wasn’t steep and her heels weren’t that high. Are you gals really that obsessed with shoes? Maybe Webber is. I can see that, but what about you, Neva?”

  “Hey,” she said, “you saying I’m not in her league?”

  Izzy turned to David. “Is that what I said?”

  David nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I meant . . . look, the woman dresses up for a crime scene.”

  Neva smiled at him. “When I was nine I got these white shoes for Easter. Mama told me not to get them dirty. After church I went outside and completely forgot about my shoes—and my dress. I got them both filthy,” said Neva. “Kids forget things like not getting their shoes dirty.”

  “Madge Stewart wasn’t a kid,” said Izzy.

  “Sometimes she was,” said Neva. “Look, I’m giving you ammunition for your argument.”

  Diane knew Neva was right. Diane’s big complaint about Madge Stewart was the way her friends—like Vanessa and Laura—had babied her. Hiding in the closet eavesdropping, for heaven’s sake, then running to Vanessa like she was tattling. How childish was that?

  “But she was an adult,” said David, “and whenever I saw her she was always well dressed.”

  “The woman was, well, I mean, she was on the museum board. Was she, what’s the word?” said Izzy. “Was she mentally challenged? You’re talking like she was.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” said Diane. “But her personality never got out of the stage where she believed everyone would always think she was cute, no matter what she did.”

  “She was an artist,” said Neva. “We talked a few times. She liked my work.”

  “An artist? Really?” said Izzy. “Do I know her work?”

  Diane and Neva smiled. “Maybe,” said Neva. “She illustrated children’s books. Her preferred style was pointillism and she used bright colors. I liked her work.”

  “Pointillism?” said Izzy.

  “Dots of pai
nt,” said David. “Seurat.”

  “Not ringing a bell,” said Izzy. “I’ll Google it.”

  Diane had the feeling that none of them wanted to talk about Madge Stewart’s death. She didn’t either. And it wasn’t up to them to solve it. It was up to Garnett. She was satisfied to leave it to him—sort of. However, Lynn’s story, as Izzy called it, did leave her wondering. Why did Madge go down to the edge of the lake?

  “Do you have a tox report?” Diane asked.

  “Not yet,” said Neva. “Lynn hasn’t sent any samples over. She may send them to the GBI or another lab because of our closeness to Madge.”

  “How about her clothes?” said Diane.

  “Same,” said David. “The only thing we did was work the scene. As Lynn said, the scene was pretty well trampled. I found where her heels went into the edge of the bank before she fell in, but I haven’t found any trace evidence whatsoever. I practically vacuumed the boulder. I looked for prints, but it was weathered sandstone. But that was just being thorough. It’s not a surface to hold prints. I also looked at the metal posts the chain was threaded through. I didn’t find anything.”

  “He brought the chain back here,” said Izzy.

  “Just being thorough,” said David. “I’ll check each link. There might be a partial. I’m not optimistic. The lake was deep where she went in—about seven feet. Jin dived and did a grid search of the bottom. He found her other shoe and a few beer cans.”

  Diane nodded. “Do you feel like it was an accident?” she asked David.

  He hesitated. “As bad as I hate to say it, I’m like Lynn. Yes, I think it was an accident. But it nags at me. I don’t know if it’s because it was someone I knew, or because of my basic suspicion of all deaths that occur when you are under ninety and not asleep in bed.”

  Diane looked at the other two.

  “Accident,” said Izzy. “Neva said she couldn’t swim.”

  Diane looked over at Neva.

  “She said she never liked the idea of getting her hair wet or water up her nose. But she liked boating. She wasn’t afraid of the water,” said Neva. “She was illustrating a book about two kids learning to sail. We were talking at lunch one day outside on the patio. When she found out I was an artist, she liked talking to me.”

  Diane realized that she had never had a good conversation with Madge, really. Just party conversation at the museum events, or mildly unpleasant conversations at board meetings. The thought increased her feelings of guilt. She had never really tried to get to know Madge. She was a more interesting person than some of her annoying habits had led Diane to believe.

  “What about you, Neva? What do you think?” asked Diane.

  “Accident. Isn’t the simplest explanation the most likely? For it to be homicide, the story gets too complex. And nothing whatsoever indicates she jumped into the lake to drown herself.” She paused. “What about you?”

  “I don’t know. The shoes do bother me a little. But why would anyone do anything to Madge? She was the most unlikely person to be murdered. Unless it was some maniac wandering the nature trails behind the museum. We’ll leave it to Garnett.”

  “He’d like us to do more of that anyway,” said Izzy.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Diane. “I’m just a criminalist busybody.”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Izzy. He turned to David. “Did I?”

  David’s chuckle was interrupted by a knock at the door on the museum side of the lab.

  Diane raised her eyebrows and got up and looked at the tiny built-in monitor beside the door. It was Gerda Sorenson from the mailroom. The tiny blond woman looked nervous, casting glances to her right where the crime lab guard for the museum entrance was posted. He sat in an office with a glass front and was dressed like the Rosewood policeman he was. Gerda probably thought he could come out and pull a gun on her at any minute. Many of the museum personnel were leery of the third floor west wing of the building. If they only knew about the equipment David kept in the basement, Diane thought as she opened the door.

  Chapter 36

  “Hello, Gerda,” said Diane. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to talk with you. I think. It’s about Madge. I should have said something yesterday.”

  Diane thought that was an interesting thing to say. Madge wasn’t dead yesterday. But Gerda saw something—she had Diane’s attention.

  “Please come in.” Diane showed her to the seat left vacant by Lynn Webber when she departed.

  Gerda Sorenson was in her forties, petite, tanned, with a slightly lined face that went along with being a sun worshipper. Her hair was pale blond and her eyes, light blue. She wore a sand-colored cotton jumper with lots of pockets, and a pastel yellow shirt.

  “You know David Goldstein, Neva Hurley, and Izzy Wallace?”

  Gerda nodded. The crime lab staff spent many of their breaks in the museum break room, frequently ate at the restaurant, and often visited the exhibits. Since not one of them was shy, they were well known to most of the museum staff.

  Gerda sat quietly for a moment. No one said anything but simply waited for her story to unfold in its own time.

  “A mailroom is like the post office,” she said simply. It came out like a Zen koan.

  Gerda paused and Diane half wondered if she wanted them to meditate on it. Instead, Diane nodded encouragement.

  “Only I or people who work for me can put up or deliver the mail. No one can just come in and go through it,” she said.

  Diane cocked an eyebrow. Ah.

  “Yesterday morning I came in and found Ms. Stewart in the mailroom going through bags of mail waiting to be put up. She had spilled part of a bag on the floor,” continued Gerda.

  She twisted the gold band on her ring finger as she spoke. “I was stunned. I asked her what she was doing. I used a little harsh language, I’m sorry to say. But this was serious. She said she had ordered a catalog and was looking for it. The board members have mailboxes if they want to receive mail here, and some, like her, do. I told her that she can’t go rummaging through the mail, that it was against the law. She . . .” Gerda stopped a moment. “I don’t like speaking ill of the dead. She’s not here to defend herself.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Diane, “we need to hear your story.” Diane pitched her voice so that she hoped she was both comforting and reassuring to Gerda that she was doing the right thing.

  Gerda nodded, still twisting her ring. “Ms. Stewart got all huffy. She stuck her chin out and said she was going to tell Vanessa Van Ross on me. Just like that—those words. She said she was going to tell on me. I told her it was illegal even for Mrs. Van Ross to go through the mail like that. I suggested to her that we both go speak with you. She got huffy again and said, ‘Well, we’ll just forget this, then.’ And she stormed out of the room.”

  “That was all she said she was looking for?” asked Diane. “A catalog?”

  “That’s what she said. I couldn’t imagine the . . . well, the arrogance of tossing people’s mail on the floor to look for a catalog. I told her that anything that came in for her was put in her box. When she left I looked at the boxes that had been filled the previous day. I swear, it looked like she had been rummaging through them as well. Just for a catalog.”

  Gerda paused again. She had stopped twisting her ring and had her hands neatly folded in front of her. “I wasn’t going to mention anything, even though I know I should have. She shouldn’t have been going through people’s mail like that. But I thought it would be better to just let it pass. Then she died. Drowned. I heard about it when I came in this morning. I didn’t know if it was important, but I thought I ought to tell someone.”

  “You did the right thing,” said Diane. “Was there anyone in the hallway or nearby who might have been with her?”

  Gerda thought for a moment. “I don’t recall anyone.”

  “How did she get in?” asked Diane.

  “With a key,” said Gerda. “I just assumed that all the board members have masters
.”

  Hardly. Diane would never give masters or submasters to the board members. Only she, Vanessa, and Security had that level of keys.

  “How many people in the mailroom have a key to it?” asked Diane. She knew that only Gerda and Andie were supposed to have mailroom keys.

  “Just me and your assistant. And mine hasn’t gone missing. I don’t give it to anyone. When I’m off, Andie opens the door for my assistant.”

  “What was Madge wearing?” asked Diane.

  “Wearing?” said Gerda, as if she didn’t understand the question, or perhaps thought it to be strange.

  “Was she dressed casually, or dressed up?” said Diane.

  “Oh, she was fairly dressy in a casual kind of way. She wore black slacks, a rust-colored blouse, and a black shirt jacket,” she said.

  “What about her shoes?” asked Izzy.

  Diane and Neva suppressed smiles.

  “She had on a pair of Naughty Monkeys,” she said.

  Izzy sat very still with an expression on his face that said from now on he would leave all fashion questions to Diane and Neva.

  Gerda didn’t notice Izzy’s blank stare and went on speaking. “I noticed because my daughter wears them and I thought they were kind of young for Ms. Stewart. They were very pretty, though. Open toed, multiple animal prints in yellow, red, and orange. Low sling heel. Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I thought she was dressed young. She was not vulgar, mind you—she was tasteful and she looked nice—her clothes just, well, looked young.”

  “What about her makeup?” asked Diane.

  If Gerda thought the questions odd, she didn’t show it.

  “Nice. Professionally done. It was really the best I’ve seen Ms. Stewart look. We take some of the quilting classes together at the museum and I see her regularly,” she said.

  “Would you say she was dressing better, dressier, younger than usual?” asked Diane.

  “Yes. She was that day. But the change was fairly recent. I was in class with her last week and she looked like she usually did. That’s not to say she looked bad. She was a good dresser. Just different. Not dressing to be noticed. That’s what my daughter would have said about her.”