A Drunkard's Path

by Clare O'Donohue

  I nodded. But how could I not speculate? The murder that had started with a stranger in the river was now getting closer and closer to home.

  CHAPTER 17

  After Oliver left to paint and Kennette went to open the shop, Eleanor and I sat in the kitchen. We were both too shocked to carry on a decent conversation. We kept starting sentences: “How could . . . ?” “Who would want . . . ?” But then we would stop. Whatever our questions were, we knew that for the moment there were no answers.

  I would have been happy to crawl back into bed and get the sleep I hadn’t gotten the night before, but I knew my mind wouldn’t allow me to rest, so I sat there.

  “That will be the girls,” my grandmother said as the doorbell rang.

  “Who called them?”

  She ignored me and went toward the front door. I could hear Maggie, Bernie, Susanne, and Natalie talking in hushed and serious tones as they walked toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, my dear, how are you doing?” Bernie leaned over to hug me, nearly dropping a plate of cookies in my lap.

  “I’m okay. I’m worried about Grandma.”

  “I’m fine.” Eleanor sniffed. “Honestly, I don’t know what the world is coming to. It’s so much worse than when we were young.”

  “Don’t be an old woman,” said Maggie, who sat next to me at the table. “The world has always been in trouble. We just didn’t pay much attention when we were young.”

  “It wasn’t at my back door.” Eleanor shook her head. She looked for a moment as if she were about to cry, an unheard of event in my experience of her. Then she took a deep breath and said, “We need to set up in the dining room, so I’ll need some help getting the machines downstairs.”

  Bernie and Natalie followed her out of the room, leaving Susanne, Maggie, and myself to stare out the window at the police team gathered around the porch.

  “What are we setting up?” I asked. I’d been left completely out of the loop on this.

  “Carrie’s quilt,” Susanne said. “We’re cutting and sewing the top together today.”

  “No one told me.”

  “It will be a nice distraction,” Susanne said. Then she sighed. “It’s a shame the evening got spoiled.”

  “Never mind that,” Maggie cut in. “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

  “None,” I admitted. “But I do wonder why Sandra was here.”

  “You think she came to see someone?” Susanne sat up.

  I didn’t know if I should say anything. After all, it was little more than idle gossip at this point. But finally I said, “She spent a lot of time with Oliver.”

  Maggie gasped. “Please don’t tell me you think he did anything?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Susanne waved me off. “He was with you the entire night. Eleanor told me.”

  “He went outside to have a cigarette. He was standing on the porch where . . .” I stopped.

  “What do we really know about him?” Maggie asked quietly.

  Susanne was having none of it. “He’s a famous artist. One Google search and you would find a thousand things about him.”

  “There are a lot of things about a person that don’t show up on the Internet,” Maggie said. She leaned toward me. “When I was the town librarian, I got pretty good at doing research, even without the technology we have today.”

  “You think you could find out something about him?” I asked.

  Maggie looked around. “I could try.”

  Susanne stood up. “Eleanor’s happy. And you might dig up something that would upset her. Something that’s no one’s business.”

  “At this point I’m more worried about my grandmother’s safety than her happiness. If Oliver is involved, then we have to know about it,” I said.

  Susanne stared at me for a long, hard moment. “If he’s involved in this, then you think he’s involved in the other one as well, don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer but I didn’t have to. Maggie and Susanne already knew what I was thinking. And I could tell that they were thinking the same thing.

  After a few minutes of silence we headed into the dining room where a cutting mat, two sewing machines, and an ironing board were already set up. There were yards of batik fabrics on the table, all in bright colors and patterns.

  Susanne took a large folder out of her tote bag and placed it on the table. “By unanimous decision we’re doing the second design. Since it’s something I created myself, I decided to make plastic templates.” She opened the envelope and pulled out the templates—circles and half circles in various sizes. “First we have to make the strip pieces for the backgrounds,” she said. “We need one person to cut, two to sew, and one to press. I’ll pin the finished ones together.”

  Eleanor looked at each of us. “Bernie and I will sew the strips. Maggie, you should press, and, Nell, you cut the circles.” She had a way of speaking that dared anyone to question her.

  I quietly took my place at the cutting area. Susanne showed me which template should be used with which fabric, and I did as I was told for about half an hour. The police investigation was going on right outside the back door, but I couldn’t see anything from the dining room. When I had gotten far enough ahead of the rest of the group, I decided to make my getaway.

  “Who wants some coffee and cookies?” I said to a room full of approving smiles.

  I headed into the kitchen to put on the coffee. Through the window, I could see Jesse laughing with a large, friendly looking man. It seemed like they were taking a break from hard investigative work, giving me a perfect opportunity to interrupt.

  As soon as I opened the back door to walk outside, Jesse shook his head. “Watch her, Jim,” he teased. “She’s the resident Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I’m Nell,” I said. “I live here.”

  “Glad for the help, actually.” Jim smiled and held out his latex-gloved hand. “I’m the resident blood-spatter expert.”

  “Did you find anything?” I asked.

  “I told you,” Jesse laughed. “Go ahead, Jim. It can’t hurt.”

  “You’re not a suspect are you?” Jim leaned in, his large round face barely containing a grin.

  “I’m not the one to ask.”

  Jim winked toward Jesse. “She’s probably strong enough to haul a body, but I’ll tell her anyway,” Jim said.

  “Go ahead,” Jesse said.

  They seemed to be making a game of it, and I guess I would too if I spent my days looking at blood and dead bodies, but I didn’t have time for games. There were quilters in the dining room who would want coffee any minute.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  Jim walked over to the post where I had seen the dark stain.

  “See here.” He pointed to the stain. “That’s blood. It’s likely been caused by someone’s head being hit against this post. Pretty hard too.”

  “So he hit her head against the post, which killed her, then he threw her in the river to hide the body?” I asked.

  “Can’t tell that,” Jim said. “Can’t say it’s a man, for instance. But I can say that if it’s her blood—”

  “And that hasn’t been determined yet,” Jesse interrupted.

  “Right,” Jim agreed. “All we know is that she was hit on the back of the head. We know that from the examination of the body. And we know she was hit more than once. Probably several times.”

  I walked closer to the post, trying to see what Jim saw in the blood. “How can you tell?”

  Jim bent his arms at the elbow and made fists with his hands. Then he began to pantomime a person banging a head against the post. It was eerie to think that something similar had happened only hours before—but for real.

  “First contact breaks the skin,” Jim said as his imaginary victim hit the post. “If it only happened once, there wouldn’t be blood. So we know she was hit against the post twice.” Jim pointed toward what looked like lines of blood over a splotch. “And this shows she was hit a third tim
e because we have a crossing of the blood.”

  “And that tells us it was a pretty emotional situation,” Jesse said. “Like maybe the suspect was angry or desperate. Maybe trying to keep her from going in the house.”

  “Wouldn’t she have screamed?” I asked. “We would have heard that.”

  “We were in the dining room,” Jesse said. “We were listening to music. And there was a storm outside. We all commented on the wind.”

  Jim turned to me. “And that’s assuming she was killed while your dinner party was going on. I can’t tell by the blood. I know it’s more than twelve hours old, but I can’t say it wasn’t yesterday morning or even a few days ago.”

  “It wasn’t a few days ago,” I said. “It rained two days ago. Freezing rain. The whole porch got soaked, including this post.”

  “We’ll get a better time of death from the autopsy,” Jesse said.

  “If he killed her by banging her head, why throw her in the river?” I asked.

  The whole thing was just too unbelievable and no matter what they said, I couldn’t make sense of it.

  Jesse put his hand on my back. “We don’t know if he killed her on the porch or if she died in the river. Maybe she was just unconscious and he put her in the river to finish the job.

  Jim stepped in. “He, or she, also could have taken her to the river to dispose of the body. That’s another thing the autopsy will tell us.”

  “He or she? Wouldn’t it have to be a man to have been that strong?” I looked from Jesse to Jim.

  Jim answered first. “Can’t say. The victim was a small woman and so a stronger woman or a really angry one could have done it. But in dragging the body there would have been blood transfer.”

  Jesse looked at me and sighed. “Do you remember seeing blood on Oliver or Kennette last night? I don’t.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t see Oliver’s coat and I didn’t really look at Kennette’s.” I turned back to Jim. “Where would the blood have been?”

  Jim nodded and pointed to his own body. “Hands. Sleeves. Maybe around the face or chest, depending on the killer’s height and how he, or she, moved the body. And of course on the shoes.”

  “I didn’t look at anyone’s shoes,” I admitted.

  “Why would you?” Jim offered. His face broke into a sympathetic smile. “It wouldn’t have been a lot of blood anyway. Maybe just droplets.”

  “Kennette was gone for a long time before she returned to the house and she could have cleaned herself up. It’s not like we were looking for blood,” Jesse said.

  I didn’t like even the idea that Jesse was considering Kennette.

  “Oliver went to the bathroom after his cigarette,” I said. “He could have washed up in there.”

  “And it could have been someone who followed your victim here, killed her, and left,” Jim suggested.

  I hadn’t thought of that, but if it were true, it still didn’t answer the question of what Sandra was doing at the house.

  Jesse grabbed my hand and walked me a few yards from Jim, who went back to work. Jesse’s hand felt cold but protective and I was glad to feel his skin against mine. I leaned on his shoulder but he pulled away a little.

  “You are really smart and I know you have a good mind for things like this,” Jesse said. I could tell there was a but coming. “But I want you to understand that we really have no idea who did this. Or why,” he said. “I know I keep saying this, but you could get in real trouble if you stick your nose in.”

  “I’m not sticking my nose in,” I said defensively, but I knew he wouldn’t buy it. “Okay, but it happened here. On my grandmother’s porch.”

  “All the more reason to stay out if it.”

  “Unless it’s Oliver.”

  “Especially if it’s Oliver,” he said. Jesse leaned toward me, brushing his cheek against mine. He whispered, “I just want you to be safe.”

  I nodded slowly and had just turned my face to kiss him when I heard a booming voice behind us.

  “Is this how you conduct an investigation, Dewalt?” Powell was walking toward us, his boots plodding through the snow.

  Jesse looked over. “Nice of you to join us.”

  Both men smiled but I knew it was the end of my trying to get information. However stern Jesse might be, I figured I could get around him, but not Powell. He seemed like a guy who didn’t like people who broke the rules.

  “I should go back inside,” I said.

  “Good,” Jesse said. “Stay there and I’ll come in later.”

  I walked toward the house. I knew Jesse was only trying to keep me safe, but I wasn’t going to sit idly by while a killer came closer to me and the people I loved.

  CHAPTER 18

  I spent another hour working on the quilt and thought it was shaping up to be an amazing combination of color and movement. It started with a background of squares that were made from strips of fabric that had been pieced together, but Susanne’s design called for a series of appliquéd circles and semicircles that swept across several of the background squares. The quilt had such a tremendous amount of energy that I named it The Effects of Caffeine.

  While the group debated whether the circles should be added with invisible thread or a contrasting blanket stitch, I began to get restless. I went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee, but once there, I peered out the window. Watching Jesse and Chief Powell standing on the porch, deep in conversation, was too much to take. Was Jesse telling him that Kennette had time to commit the murder? Was he telling him about Oliver’s strange relationship with Sandra? I knew that if I walked outside the conversation would stop. But I couldn’t sew any longer. I was going crazy not knowing.

  “I’m going to the shop,” I announced.

  “That’s a good idea, dear,” Eleanor said. “I’m sure Kennette could use a break.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Maggie said, then shot a glance at Eleanor, who appeared not to notice.

  I nodded, and as I did, I caught a strange look from Bernie. Before she could say anything, I headed into the hallway and out the door. I knew I had ducked a conversation for the moment. But only for the moment.

  Despite the cold, wind, and snow, I decided to walk to town. On a nice day it would take less than ten minutes, but by the time I arrived on Main Street more than twice that time had passed and I was freezing. Instead of going straight to the store, I went to Carrie’s soon-to-be coffee shop.

  “Hey,” she said as she unbolted the door. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Cold,” I said.

  “Natalie called me about the girl at your grandmother’s. I would have gone over but I had so much work to do.”

  “There’s really nothing to do there. They’re all sitting around eating cookies and—” I stopped myself. I had almost spilled the beans about her quilt.

  “I’ll get you coffee. I just made some.” Carrie poured me a large mug. I took off my coat and dropped onto her couch. Even though it would be the fourth or fifth cup I’d have, I still felt like I needed the caffeine.

  “I knew her,” I said. “She took art classes with me.”

  “So Kennette and Oliver knew her as well.”

  I nodded. “Better than me. At least Oliver did.”

  “So you think it has something to do with Oliver?”

  “I think it has to.”

  Carrie studied me for a long time. “You think she came to see him and he killed her to stop her from talking to your grandmother.”

  I sighed, relieved to be with a kindred spirit. “Finally someone who sees this the way I do,” I said excitedly. “I think he was having an affair with her and he didn’t want Eleanor to know. So when Sandra showed up at the house they had a fight and he killed her.”

  “How did he know she was going to be there?” Carrie asked.

  “He got a text. It said: ‘Too soon to talk. Needs more time.’ ”

  “ ‘Needs more time,’ ” Carrie repeated, “Needs. Third person?”

  I sat
up. “Right. Third person. I need more time, but he needs more time.”

  “Or she,” Carrie added.

  “The person texting him was talking about someone or something else.”

  “And the text was from Sandra?”

  “Don’t know that. Maybe it was about Sandra.”

  “Then why would she go over to Eleanor’s house, if she needed more time?” Carrie sipped her coffee. “If the text had said needs to talk . . .”

  I knew where Carrie was going with this. “But it didn’t,” I said excitedly. “So Sandra would have been coming over to see him. Confront him.”

  “Or Eleanor. Maybe tell her something devastating about Oliver,” Carrie said.

  “What? Is Eleanor the other woman?” I sat up. That was a role I’d never imagined for her. But there was something else. “If she was coming over to confront my grandmother and Oliver didn’t know, isn’t it a stroke of luck that Oliver went out to get a cigarette right when Sandra arrived?” I asked.

  “Unless she was waiting for him.”

  “But if she came over to confront Eleanor, why wait outside in the freezing cold? And why go to the back door?” I asked. “And why would Oliver kill someone because she was going to tell my grandmother a secret? This was their second date. If you can even call it that, considering Jesse, Kennette, and I were all there.”

  “So maybe she wasn’t coming to see Oliver.”

  There it was. Sandra could only have been coming to see Kennette. And she had the time to commit the murder, drag the body to the river, and clean up.

  “But why would Sandra have come to the house to see Kennette?” I wondered out loud. “What could their connection be? I’ve never even seen them speak.”

  “Well, you’re not around her 24-7. And you did just meet Kennette a few weeks ago.”

  I knew she was right. “But what was so urgent that she had to meet Kennette at the house during a party on a Saturday night?”

  “Maybe she wasn’t coming to see Kennette.” Carrie shrugged. “Maybe she was coming to see you.”