Marry in Haste

by Susan Van Kirk

  Sometimes she hated Conrad and wished he were dead. At night she often dreamed of him dead, picturing him in his coffin, his eyes closed, and his ability to hurt her gone. Over forever. She didn’t know how she could make it happen. Besides, he would tell her she wasn’t smart enough to get away with killing him. And he was usually right, so she would end up in prison and then who would raise her children? If only I could take the children and leave. But what would I do for money? And what if he found us and forced us to come back? She glanced at the clock again.

  What time did Ms. Simmons say she was coming? She examined the bulletin board. Oh, yes. Noon. Why do I have so much trouble remembering things? And nervous. I’m always so anxious. The only time I’m not anxious is when Conrad goes on a business trip. Where did he go? Cincinnati? No. Chicago. That was it. He used to do that regularly, but lately he hadn’t traveled for several months.

  Emily walked over to the bulletin board and looked at the piece of paper she’d tacked to it. Ten people for dinner and six for poker afterward. The children will be at a sleepover at the Andovers’. That’s good. They won’t do anything to upset Conrad. Then she shuddered. Alcohol and Conrad were never a good combination, and she would be here alone with him for the night. Maybe she could retire early and take a sedative. It might help her forget. Her hands shook and she pushed them together tightly.

  She sat down at the kitchen table. Then she got up again and paced around the table, wringing her hands. So restless today. It must be the party. It makes me nervous to have people in the house. But Will and Darlene will be here. I’ll have someone to talk to. The people from the bank make me anxious. Conrad is always watching, and I’m afraid I might say something wrong.

  She peered at the clock again. When was Ms. Simmons coming? Oh, yes. Noon. What should I wear tonight? Maybe the pearls he gave me for Christmas. That would make him happy. I can’t do anything wrong. I have to have everything ready when he gets home.

  Emily tucked her hands behind her elbows, her arms across her chest, and walked out to the living room. We can set up the table for poker here. I’ll need to find the cards and the chips. I think they’re in the front closet. It was so quiet she could hear the grandfather clock tick over in the corner. She looked out the front window at the snow swirling up around the fence. Then she sidled over and checked the thermometer on the outside of the window, attached to the window frame. Twenty-five degrees. The sky was its usual January gray, and she could hear the wind whip between the garage and the house. I always feel so isolated here in the daytime even though we’re only a few miles out of town. But I mustn’t go out. I need to have everything ready. It all has to be perfect when Conrad gets home.

  She stared at the long expanse of driveway out to the county highway, the gravel buried in snow. The fence posts were enveloped in gray and white snow, the trees swayed in the wind holding more snow aloft, and hardly a car came down the blacktop road. The world was utterly at a standstill.

  Emily turned and walked into the kitchen again. The bottles of alcohol and wine were lined up on the counter under the north windows. She bit the nails on her right hand. Then she stared at the bottles for a moment and shuddered. All must be perfect for when Conrad comes home. Looking at the shiny, round bottles filled with amber and colorless liquors, she thought, but it really might not matter at all—the perfection—as far as the pain that was sure to follow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When TJ fell asleep on Friday night, the temperature was bitterly cold at five above zero, sleet was hitting the picture window in her living room, and the streetlight on Sweetbriar Court sported a halo of sparkly moisture around it. She’d left the faucets dripping, worried about frozen pipes. Dreaming about the drip, drip, drip, she was awakened by the vibration of her phone.

  She realized, through half-opened eyes, it was Saturday morning. Sometime during the night she must have pulled a navy-blue throw over her legs. Her cat, Eliot Ness, was snoozing on her chest, two empty beer bottles were on the floor with a newspaper on top of them opened to the sports page, and her phone was under the newspaper. Gently removing Eliot, she glanced at the phone and realized it was almost nine o’clock. It was also her day off. “Drats!” she muttered, to no one in particular.

  Tapping on her phone, she heard the unemotional words of the police dispatcher.

  “Roger that,” the detective answered, wearily. She rolled off the edge of her sofa where she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, and trudged to the bedroom for her clothes, badge, and gun. By then, the dispatcher’s message had kicked in, and she said out loud, “Unbelievable! What is going on?” Picking up speed, she took the gun from her dresser and grabbed an extra cartridge. Within eight minutes she was ready.

  She glanced at the driveway as the garage door opened, and saw a thin sheet of ice. “Crap!” she said, shaking her head and pulling the earflaps down on her hat. She drove out through Sweetbriar Court and passed Grace’s house where her friend was probably munching a bagel with cream cheese. Last summer, TJ had handled her first big murder cases and figured they would be her last. No such luck. She had relied on Grace to be a sounding board for her theories on those murders. Grace had pushed her hard in high school and earned TJ’s reluctant respect. She had never praised TJ for mediocre work, and after the detective graduated from college they had become close friends. She was even welcomed into Grace’s group with Deb and Jill. She knew she could trust her former teacher to keep quiet about what she told her. As a good listener for TJ’s theories, Grace was a wonderful resource. Looks like I’ll be talking to her again.

  It was eerily silent. Most of the small town’s residents were staying off the slick roads, at least until the salt trucks had been dispatched. The ice shimmered on the black, spidery tree branches, and the sun cast a bleak light through the winter-gray sky. TJ’s breath was steaming on the windshield, but it was no use to turn on the heater. It would only start working by the time she got there. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Geez, one less beer, a night of sleep without a cat on my chest, and I might actually look civil. She turned onto Primrose Street and twisted the steering wheel this way and that for several scary moments as the tail end of her car slid, fishtailing around the corner. Then she drove onto the blacktop leading to the Folgers’ place east of town.

  The residence was a large brick house without neighbors for an acre on either side of it. A colonial design, it had white-framed windows with white shutters. The garage matched the house, with an eagle plaque, also white, mounted above the three doors. A huge American flag flapped in the breeze from a flagpole in the yard. The Folgers had a man-made lake behind their home with a boathouse and expensive sailboat, useless now while the lake was frozen over. As TJ remembered it, Folger had a long driveway ending at the two-lane county road, and a white picket fence enclosed his front yard. At least they could keep traffic away from the house.

  It was 0915 when she pulled in and, seeing a familiar car, she realized her partner, Jake Williams, had arrived ahead of her. Ted Collier, a patrolman, had been the first on the scene, and he was waiting near the back door. That meant Williams was already inside. She knew other officers would follow and set up a perimeter near the end of the driveway so curious residents wouldn’t get onto the property. TJ stopped her car halfway to the house and parked on the edge of the drive, partly in snow, partly on tire tracks.

  She stared up the driveway at Ted Collier and, grabbing her gear and tightening her hat over her ears, she walked up the edge of the drive, noticing multiple tire tracks and footprints in the hardening snow/sleet mixture on the pavement. This isn’t going to make things easy. She stared at the sidewalk curving up to the front door, and saw even more footprints in and out of the house. From the looks of them, they were prints from yesterday. They had sunk into the snow, and the sleet was now molding them into permanent impressions.

  Approaching young Collier, she noticed his usually ruddy complexion was a pasty white, even in the cold. He was visibly
shaken. She asked, “Who’s here so far?”

  “So far, Jake Williams. Crime techs are on their way.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “It’s awful, TJ. Just—” And he swallowed deeply, his face contorting to keep from crying. Then he seemed to get his composure back. He pulled some notes out of his pocket. “Hysterical 9-1-1 call from Mrs. Folger around 0825, and an additional call from the housekeeper ten minutes later. Jake’s up there now with them. It’s—it’s—like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” Sniffing several times, he cleared his throat, and TJ heard his voice deepen. “I checked when I first went in, making sure there weren’t any suspects in the house with weapons. No one else. Just Ms. Folger and Ms. Simmons. Blood everywhere. Don’t worry, TJ. I was careful. Secured the scene and waited for Jake or you. Removed Ms. Folger and the housekeeper to Ms. Folger’s bedroom—imagine that—separate bedrooms. I had to, TJ. The larger bedroom where the—the body is”—he took a deep breath—“is—is just like a scene from hell.” He swallowed again. “So much blood. I couldn’t let those ladies stay there. Jake is checking the crime scene and making necessary calls. Then he’s going to take a statement briefly before sending Ms. Folger to the hospital. She’s in really bad shape.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Not sure. She has blood all over her, and I could see visible cuts on her foot. But mostly her face is bruised and swollen, and so are her arms. She started to calm down after Jake got here. Housekeeper said when she heard the screams she went upstairs and found Ms. Folger hysterical. I called the dispatcher and asked for an ambulance.”

  “Okay. Good work, Collier. Stay right here and keep everyone out except the people who should be on the scene. No need to have anyone else tromping over evidence. We may need you to accompany Ms. Folger to the emergency room.”

  “Yes, TJ. The front door is still locked so no one’s getting in there. I heard Jake say Zach Gray would be down at the end of the drive, and Alex Durdle is on the way. First crime scene like this. What an awful start for newbies. It was bad enough for me. And I thought that shooting scene was horrible last summer.”

  “Hang on a minute,” TJ said. She called the office and asked Myers to get whoever was on duty to obtain a warrant for the Folger house. “Okay, Collier. Keep an eye on Durdle. I think you’re right in saying he probably hasn’t seen anything like this before. Oh, and remind him it’s a crime scene—he needs protective gear.”

  TJ glanced around before going inside. The sidewalk to the back door and another one out to the garage had footsteps similar to those at the front. Lots of people in and out at some point yesterday. She put on gloves and carefully pried open the corner of the door without touching the knob. She looked around at a kitchen full of dirty dishes, pots and pans, and lots of empty wine, beer, and champagne bottles. Must have been some party, she mused. Just inside the door, she pulled out paper protectors for her shoes and put them on.

  Walking carefully through the huge kitchen, checking for blood spatter and finding none, she looked out the first door on her left. It led into a living room with a cathedral ceiling and chandelier. In the middle of the room was a poker table with chairs, cards, chips, and more empty bottles. Through the living room window she noticed Alex Durdle pulling up in a squad car. She turned back to the kitchen, walked over and pushed the door open slightly, and told Collier to have Durdle go back and pick up the warrant at the office. Then, figuring the kitchen was safe, she dropped her snow gear on a chair.

  While she was getting organized, she considered what she knew about Ms. Folger. Emily was two years older than TJ, and she had graduated from high school in 1986, the same year TJ had Grace for her sophomore English class. Emily married Conrad Folger in ’91. TJ could remember that because she was home for the summer from college. It was a huge wedding, but she also recalled people being surprised, and she couldn’t remember why.

  Glancing across the kitchen, she saw a staircase, and she could hear Jake’s voice somewhere above. She started up the stairs, being careful to watch for blood spatter, and seeing none, figured the scene was up on the second floor. She was careful not to touch the railings or walls.

  “On the way up, Jake,” she called.

  “Watch the hallway floor. We’re in the first bedroom; turn left, and then right.”

  The stairs ended at a hallway, which stretched left toward the living room’s cathedral ceiling. She could see spindles that were part of a balcony that surrounded and overlooked the living room below. The hallway took a right turn, and that’s where she saw it. Blood spatter from a doorway up ahead and around a corner. Where does it go? Being careful not to step on the blood, she glanced into the first bedroom, observed the blood trail across the room, and saw Jake with a middle-aged woman and Emily Folger, and Emily was covered in blood. She was sitting on the bed, while Jake quietly talked to her. Jake Williams often worked with TJ on cases, and his calm self-confidence helped her stay centered. She could see him now, leaning toward Emily, speaking quiet and reassuring words. Emily’s eyes had a glazed look. She’s in shock. TJ stuck her head in the door, and Jake nodded his head slightly toward the hallway and blood spatter. This isn’t the crime scene.

  She followed the blood droplets around another corner, which turned out to be a hallway balcony on the south side of the upstairs. Another staircase, evidently the main one, came up from the living room in front of her. All right, she thought, the trail leads into that room at the top of the stairs. She glanced down the staircase and saw no blood going up or down. Then she turned toward the larger bedroom that must be Conrad Folger’s.

  Stopping momentarily, she steeled herself for what was inside the room. She could already smell the familiar iron odor of blood, the first sense that death was nearby. TJ had never handled a homicide until last summer, and the scent brought back dark memories. She had learned to make herself objective when she saw the blood and the victim. A little town like Endurance seldom had violent crimes, and she’d never had to worry much about dealing with homicide scenes. Car accidents on the city streets, yes. Crime scenes from robberies, yes. Last summer was an unforgettable education, and she was afraid this might outdo it. In the distance she heard a siren. The ambulance. No use putting it off. Her face set in a grimace. I can do this.

  Rounding the corner, stepping carefully around blood spatter and not touching the door’s archway, she immediately went into detective mode, sizing up what she saw as a whole. Emotions in check, detective objectivity on her mind.

  Blood spatter on the floor trailed from the far side of the bed, out the door, and into Emily Folger’s bedroom, so much blood it had to have fallen on more than one trip. Broken glass was all over the floor on the far side of Conrad’s room and at the end of the bed. She lifted her eyes ever so slowly and saw, on the bed, the last remains of Conrad Folger IV, his clothes somewhat on, pants pulled halfway down, his shirt off, a ghastly, dark slit across his throat, blood everywhere, including a pool around his head. On the bed next to him, besides his blood, was a large piece of glass with dark stains all over its edges. Most likely the murder weapon. We’ll see what the coroner says.

  TJ felt the gorge rise up in her throat, even though she hadn’t had any breakfast. Probably a good thing, she thought grimly. Folger’s eyes were open and his head flung back where it had deepened into the pillow when his throat was cut. The entire pillow and part of the bed under his head were soaked in blood. Carefully walking across the room, she studied the blood drip from his bed to the floor and the pieces of glass surrounding the red drops. Maybe a vase of some kind or a glass ashtray. Not very big, whatever it was. Despite her concentration, she heard the ambulance people heading up the stairs and knew they would be taking Emily Folger to the emergency room.

  While she was studying the blood spatter, Jake Williams came into the room, walking as carefully as she had.

  “Rough night, TJ?” He smiled as he sauntered in the door and saw her hastily pulled-together condition.

 
“All alone, couple of beers, ESPN, and Eliot Ness,” she answered with a grin. “So, what’s the story on Emily Folger and the housekeeper?”

  He looked at a notebook and shuffled back a few pages. “Housekeeper came in at 0830 this morning, expecting to clean up after a night of carousing by Conrad and the boys. You saw the kitchen. Ms. Simmons—that’s her name—worked here last night, early, helping get food ready with a caterer, and then she left. They had dinner and a poker game, and I’ve got the names of the participants. Anyway, the housekeeper left when it got underway and came back to help clean up this morning. Came in the kitchen door. It was locked, by the way, and the alarm was on.” He glanced up at TJ, proffering a significant look. “So she shut off the alarm, unlocked the door, came in, and started some coffee for Emily and Conrad. Just as she began picking up dirty dishes, she heard screams from upstairs. She rushed up the back stairs, saw the blood on the carpet, and followed it into Emily’s room, thinking she was there. But she wasn’t. She saw blood on the floor of Emily’s room and the bed.

  “So Ms. Simmons followed the blood to Conrad’s room, and saw Emily, in full hysteria, rocking back and forth on the floor behind the bed. She rushed in—probably screwing up our crime scene—and grabbed Emily by the shoulders and hugged her, lifting her up off the floor. When she saw Conrad, she was shocked, but had the fortitude to hang on to Emily, keep their backs to Conrad, and grab the bedside phone to call 9-1-1. Amazing woman. She heard sirens very quickly. Evidently, Emily had already called them, but from a different number than the bedside phone.

  “By the way, Emily is not even close to coherent. Collier was the first one in. At least he didn’t throw up and further screw up our crime scene. Ever the rescuing knight, he moved the two of them out of the room over to Emily’s bedroom. Made the necessary calls, and stayed with them until I got here. I was on my way in to work, so I just turned around.”