Time of Death

by Shirley Kennett

  PJ smiled. She liked this brash, honest woman, and her sense of humor.

  That’s me, decades from now, I hope. Except for the money part.

  She wondered how to begin, and if she was about to spring unpleasant news on her. Jasmine didn’t seem to be much of a factor in her nieces’ lives, so she might not be upset.

  “Mrs. Singer,” PJ began.

  “Call me Jasmine.”

  “I’m PJ. Jasmine, are you aware of the very recent deaths of Frank Simmons and Arlan Merrett?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me say I’m sorry for the losses you’ve experienced.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’d never met either of them, so it wasn’t much of a personal loss.”

  “You didn’t attend your nieces’ weddings?”

  “I was invited. I think the girls had stars in their eyes, figuring they’d get an expensive wedding present out of me. I told them it was too far for a frail old woman to travel,” she winked at PJ, “and sent them each a toaster.”

  “They must have been disappointed about that. Not seeing you, I mean.”

  “It was a four-slice toaster. Top of the line. Same one I use myself.”

  PJ really liked this woman. “May I ask why you were estranged from your nieces?”

  “You may ask.”

  “My questions may be very important, Jasmine. Do you know I’m working with the police on the homicide investigations?”

  “The Metro Mangler. I know who you are, what you do, where you grew up, and the name of your son, your cat, your ex-husband, your CHIP teammates, and even who gronz_eye is. I know that you phoned John Winter in Denver, but not what you talked about. I know that you rented a Ford Focus because your car was totaled in an attempt on your life. I know that you bought gas and looked at eagles in Clarksville on your way up here today.”

  PJ was shocked. “You’re having me followed?”

  “Not until you called and asked to see me. When someone inquires about me, I find out all I can about them. There are plenty of people who are up to no good where the very rich are concerned. Not that you are, PJ. Would you care for some orange juice? I usually have some at this time of day.” She pressed a button on her phone. “Rhonda, would you please bring in some O.J.?”

  The trip was a waste of time. This woman’s lips are sealed tighter than an envelope.

  The orange juice arrived in crystal goblets. PJ took the offered goblet to be courteous and was glad she did. It was the best orange juice she’d ever had.

  “I didn’t come here to talk about May and June,” PJ said. “I came to talk about April. John Winter told me he went to her funeral. What do you know about her death?”

  “For one thing, I know that she wasn’t in the casket that was buried that day.”

  PJ sat back, stunned, goblet halfway to her mouth. “Who was?”

  “A young woman named Elissa Nevers. Elissa was a maid in my sister Virginia’s household. April killed her in a rage, claiming the maid had taken a necklace from her. The necklace was later found behind the dresser, where it had slipped. What she did to that poor maid was horrible. Even now I block it from my mind.”

  “Didn’t the police investigate the maid’s disappearance?”

  “Not seriously. No one even inquired about her for a long time. She had no family. When a high school friend finally tried to get in touch with her, we said that Elissa had quit and left town suddenly, in the company of a young man she’d been dating. Elissa had done that very thing before and stayed missing for two years before surfacing in the Bahamas, working as a hotel maid. It was a stroke of good luck for us. The police lost interest when that fact came to light.”

  An innocent woman killed, possibly tortured and maimed, and there’s something about it that’s a stroke of good luck? PJ kept her face neutral, which was becoming harder to do. Her training as a psychologist came in handy at times like this.

  “So where was April after the funeral? She couldn’t continue living in the same house.”

  “Obviously. April came to live with me, at my summer home in Michigan.”

  “Weren’t you afraid to take her in? Not to mention that you were hiding a killer from the law.”

  “Family secrets, dear. All the wealthy families are hiding something. Ours just happened to be a little bit more serious than some. Virginia and I were close, and I didn’t hesitate when she asked it of me. I did take the precaution of hiring a doctor who lived with April and kept her under control with drugs.”

  Family secrets. Score one for Merlin.

  “I think you should have gone to the police, have her arrested, and then gotten her committed to an institution. What is it, schizophrenia?”

  “You’re good. No wonder you have such a high solve rate on your cases. We did think about April being committed, but it would have shamed the whole family. The newspapers would have loved the story. Also, I liked April. When you know her better, it’s easier to sympathize with her.”

  PJ’s favorable impression of Jasmine was fading fast. The woman was so concerned about image that she’d conceal a murder and let the killer avoid the consequences. And what could there possibly have been about April to trigger sympathy? That she was mentally ill, maybe. She might have led a better life if her parents had sought treatment for her early. No doubt that would have shamed the family, too. Thinking back on her earlier impression that Jasmine was what she wanted to be decades from now, PJ cringed.

  “There’s something else I think you should know about April. Virginia’s husband wasn’t the father. Virginia was pregnant when she married.”

  “The shotgun wedding,” PJ said.

  Jasmine’s eyebrows shot up. “John told you that? May I ask what else he told you?”

  “You may ask.”

  There was silence in the room, except for the ticking of a schoolhouse clock on the wall. PJ watched the short pendulum as it swung back and forth.

  Jasmine shook her head. “John didn’t have anything else to tell. Only a very few of us knew the secret.”

  Secrets known only to a minority—esoterica! Score two for Merlin.

  “Who was the father?” PJ asked. Evidently Jasmine’s lips weren’t as sealed as PJ thought. Information was sailing out of her mouth.

  Jasmine sighed. “I’ll only say that April was the spawn of rape. Virginia’s probably thoroughly shocked in her grave with what I’ve said already.”

  “Where is April now? Is she still in Michigan?”

  “That’s the only reason I agreed to talk with you today, PJ.

  April murdered the doctor and ran away six months ago.

  With all the resources I can call upon, I can’t find her. She’s disappeared from the face of the earth.”

  Chapter 44

  PJ WANTED TO THINK over everything she’d heard and remember every detail. Thomas wanted to chatter about his newly-acquired skill in table tennis.

  She took US-61 home. It was dark and she didn’t need the scenic route along the Mississippi. Her bright headlights tunneled through the night. After she saw a deer on the shoulder, she flicked off the buzzing thoughts in her mind and concentrated on getting home safely.

  It was a tedious drive, punctuated by a stop at a fast-food restaurant to use the bathroom. She felt bad just taking advantage of the restaurant’s restroom, so she and Thomas ate there, too. She managed to buy a salad but added a milkshake to it. Thomas ate two double cheeseburgers and looked around for more. Seeing him staring at her milkshake, she handed it over. All that accomplished was trading guilt over her indulgence for guilt over Thomas eating so poorly that day.

  She resolved to keep better hours and maybe even cook an occasional meal. Using her cellphone from the parking lot, she told Lilly they’d be there in an hour to pick up Megabite and Thomas’s things. Enough of this twenty-four-hour on-call business.

  At home, she fed the cat, then called Schultz. Before he got there, she took a hot bath, swallowed a couple of Tylenol
, and slipped on her flannel pajamas. The pajamas were faded from years of use, and the top was missing one of its buttons. She’d been getting around to replacing it for about three years. Physically comforted, she went downstairs to wait. Thomas passed her on the stairs carrying two apples and a bowl of popcorn up to his room.

  “You couldn’t be hungry again,” she said.

  “Yeah, I am. Aren’t you?”

  She shook her head. At least there was fruit involved. “Remember, you’re still grounded. This would be a perfect time for The Great Gatsby.”

  She put on some coffee and cuddled with Megabite in the living room while it brewed. Either the cat was really happy to be with her, or just enjoyed kneading on flannel. Either way was okay with PJ.

  Schultz arrived. Over cups of coffee at the kitchen table, she told him everything about her visit with Jasmine Singer. He listened with great intensity and didn’t interrupt.

  “So it’s likely April Winter’s the killer,” he said. “At least, of Arlan and Frank.”

  “I don’t know if we can say that for sure, but it looks like she might be lashing out against her sisters in an indirect way, by going after their husbands. Maybe for the life she didn’t get to live. She was confined at Jasmine’s summer home, and probably given drugs whether she was willing to take them or not.”

  “How about Shower Woman and the other five murders?”

  “Seven murders, if you count Elissa Nevers and the Michigan doctor. I don’t know. The killings that used the signature mutilation obviously have deep meaning to her. The others may have just been people who got in the way.”

  “Is it over now?” Schultz said. “She’s done everything she meant to do?”

  “You mean because there hasn’t been a signature death in two whole days? If I were Jasmine,” PJ said, “I’d be more than a little nervous right now.”

  “She’s probably got that Elder Care place built like a fortress. After all, she’s had plenty of time to prepare. She imprisoned April for thirty years.”

  PJ sipped her coffee and thought about that. Jasmine was enormously wealthy, so her “summer home” could well be a mansion, with every luxury and convenience, including connections to the outside world through books, TV, and computers. Without Jasmine concealing her, April would have ended up in an institution or in prison for murder. Did she do April a favor, even though her motive was to protect the family image?

  “Jasmine as much as admitted that April was schizophrenic. Talk to me about that.”

  “The common age of onset is sixteen to twenty-five, which fits April perfectly. The one thing the public seems to know best about schizophrenics is delusions, like getting special messages from the TV or being singled out for persecution. There are also hallucinations, which can be seen, smelled, felt, or heard. Sometimes schizophrenics believe someone or something is giving commands for dangerous or violent behavior. ‘My pillow whispers to me when I put my head on it, and it told me I had to kill Uncle Wally,’ or something like that.”

  “You mean your pillow doesn’t talk to you?”

  “Not funny. Insensitive, too. People don’t choose schizophrenia, Leo. Ten percent of them commit suicide, and for the rest it can be a miserable life. Social withdrawal, erratic behavior, unpredictability, the list goes on. Often they have drug or alcohol problems and can’t keep a job. Antipsychotic drugs can sometimes help, but often there’s a compliance problem.”

  “Jesus. As if young people didn’t have a tough enough time already, some of them have to get saddled with this. Would a person with this problem be organized enough to carry out the planning for these murders? That barn scene was elaborate.”

  PJ hesitated before answering. “If she’s taking her meds consistently to stay focused, probably so. But if she slips up on the meds, the killings will get less elaborate.”

  Schultz nodded. “Like Shower Woman and the teacher in Florissant—just bust in and kill. So what makes one teenager start hearing voices and others don’t?”

  “There’s no single thing we can point to as the cause,” PJ said. “Brain chemistry, genetics, even physical problems with the brain; each seem to play a part.”

  “Genetics. Didn’t you say April was a child of rape?”

  “Yes.”

  “As far as we know, April’s mother didn’t have the problem. So we could be looking for a schizo father.” Schultz waved his hands around. He seemed to be on some track of thinking that hadn’t occurred to PJ.

  “Ten percent chance of inheritance.”

  “Oh. Not so good.” His face fell briefly, then became animated again. “Still, what are the most common family secrets?” Schultz said.

  “You mean besides murdered household maids?”

  “Look who’s being unfunny now.”

  “Hmm. I’d say spousal abuse,” PJ said.

  “And?”

  “Child abuse. I see where you’re going with this,” PJ said. “Virginia would have been about seventeen when she gave birth to April. Maybe sixteen when raped.”

  “She could have gotten screwed by some high school punk or it could have been a family matter. Her father,” Schultz said. He crossed his arms over his belly and leaned back. The chair creaked.

  “There’re a lot of ifs in that reasoning,” PJ said. “Even if it’s true, what good does it do us?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.”

  “It was devious to put the maid in the casket and bury her, claiming it was April,” PJ said. “An uncle I’ve talked to attended the funeral. He was certainly convinced his niece was dead. That made it easier to hide April away with no questions.”

  “I suppose we’re going to have to go for exhumation. The maid’s family deserves that much, at least. What was the name again?”

  “Elissa Nevers,” PJ said.

  “I’ll get to work on an exhumation order in the morning,” Schultz said.

  “Jasmine is a devious woman. We have only her word that April’s alive. It’s convenient that the doctor who was taking care of her is dead.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “That Jasmine is the killer and her whole story is a massive delusion?”

  “Shit,” said Schultz. “I was hoping you weren’t thinking that.”

  PJ changed the subject and talked to him about her latest simulation, Shower Woman’s murder. He thought the rug and slippers that kept the scene free of footprints were good ideas.

  “Fibers from a thick pile rug were found on the bathroom floor,” he said. “There were rugs in the linen closet that matched, so we didn’t think much of it. April’s going to have a bloody rug in her car. Not that it’s still there, but forensics can compare fibers and match the blood.”

  “One thing that really worries me,” said PJ, “is that if Jasmine is telling the truth, she hasn’t found April in six months. How are we going to do any better?”

  Schultz was wide-awake in bed next to PJ, who was asleep with Megabite curled on her stomach. He reviewed everything they’d discussed. Pieces were still floating around, not settling into place. Bringing April into the story made his special sense, cop’s intuition or something else, perk up. The thread that he envisioned connecting him to a killer had uncoiled and was casting about for the link.

  Where was she, this mysterious oldest sister who was wreaking vengeance on what was left of her family? What would be her next step? It could be killing June, May, and Jasmine, and then April might achieve some kind of peace, whatever her tortured mind would allow her.

  Also pressing on his mind was the question of whether she was the person trying to kill PJ. April was a formidable opponent, maybe the most cunning he’d come up against. He wasn’t going to let PJ out of his sight, and she could damn well complain about it all she wanted.

  Chapter 45

  DEAR DIARY,

  These are things that happened to me, cross my heart and hope to die.

  That’s the way I used to start all my diary entries. Juvenile, isn�
�t it? Some of those entries are so rambling and nonsensical it’s hard to believe I was really like that. One thing that was interesting to see was the progression from printed letters in pencil to flowery script with hearts over the “i’s” in pink ink.

  I found this old thing when I was cleaning out Frank’s office. I forgot I had a drawer in one of the file cabinets that contained some of my old things. Fortunately they were under lock and key, or my poor husband would have gotten an eyeful.

  My last entry was when I was sixteen and in lust with my chemistry teacher, Mr. Boner. That was his name, I swear. He was so hot he burned brighter than the Bunsen burner flames in the lab. Late twenties, built like a gymnast, shiny, straight blond hair, pale blue eyes. I used to love to watch him move. I volunteered to be a lab assistant just to spend a little time after school with him, helping set up for the next day. I had him all to myself for a wonderful week, then that dweeb Maurice Serbin volunteered, too. Having Maurice around was like a dozen wet blankets. I could tell Mr. Boner was attracted to me. He was just too professional to do anything about it, and I loved him all the more for that.

  Entries from that time are scorching, hot enough to singe the pages. I had a boyfriend at the time, who of course didn’t know he was number two in my heart. Men are so dumb that way.

  Then I just drifted away from writing in my diary. I’m surprised that I didn’t throw it out, because by that time June was old enough to steal it. If she’d known about this little pink book with the tiny lock, she wouldn’t have rested until she’d gotten her hands on it. That’s the way she was. Nosy and obnoxious. If April hadn’t died, she would have whipped little June’s ass and made her not pry into things that weren’t her business. Ha! That would have been something to see. Instead, I had to deal with the whining twerp. That’s what June still is today, a whining twerp.

  I just might keep writing in this diary. I can say anything about anybody, and not worry about whether it’ll get me ahead or not. It’s such a liberating thing to do, just saying things for their own sakes. Fuck. Cunt. Rim job. Motherfucker. Pussy fart. Look at me, I can use words that are frowned upon by polite society. I wonder what other society women scream out when they have an orgasm. “Thank you oh so much,” or “Join me for tea next Tuesday?” What hypocrites. Whatever else I am, I’m never that.