Blood Rubies

by Jane K. Cleland

  Startled, I followed her gaze. Jason lay on the hearth, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His head rested in a puddle of shiny dark red liquid. Spiderweb-shaped rivulets ran along and between the stones and into the cracks and crevices of the old oak-plank floor. Bits of glass and colored metal were strewn on him, over the stones, in the liquid mess, and across the floor.

  I hurried toward him. “Call nine-one-one.”

  “That’s blood,” Ana whispered.

  I dropped to my knees and slid my hands under his head gingerly, seeking out the wound. His skull was dented.

  “He must have fallen and hit his head,” she said, dazed. “The floor was just waxed.”

  I rolled him onto his side to see if he was still bleeding, to see if I could do something to stop the flow. As I turned him over, his right arm flung sideways, landing lifelessly on the wood floor. The indentation in his head was deep. No blood was oozing. I rolled him back and began chest compressions. Maybe I wasn’t too late.

  “Ana. Go. Call nine-one-one.”

  She ran to the kitchen.

  Compress, release. Compress, release. As I worked, dread took hold of me. Compress, release. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ana standing by the kitchen island clutching a portable phone to her chest. Compress, release. His eyes were glassy, unseeing. He was dead. I knew it, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t want it to be true. I winked away an unexpected tear and glanced at Ana. Her eyes were also moist.

  “The ambulance is on the way,” she said. “I know CPR. I can spot you.”

  I heard a faint siren, a double whirr, a distant noise. “Okay.”

  “One of Heather’s aunts is hosting a cocktail party tonight. I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe this is happening.”

  Compress, release. Compress, release. We stayed like that, me trying to bring a dead man back to life, Ana watching, for what seemed like hours. The sirens grew louder.

  “Do you want me to take over?”

  “I’m okay. How long has it been?”

  She looked at her watch. “Four minutes.”

  Compress, release. The sirens exploded into a nearby blare, then help was here, two men moving swiftly, with confidence. I fell aside, stiff from squatting, my wrists throbbing. I crawled to a wall and stayed there, huddled in a ball, tears burning in my eyes for a man I’d tried and failed to save. After a minute, I stood up and rested against a window frame. I watched the paramedics work for a moment longer, then walked outside onto the porch. Leaning heavily on the railing, I stared out toward the horizon. The air was thick and smelled like rain. Waves thundered into shore, raging against the boulders a hundred feet below the precipice that marked the edge of Ana’s property. Branches from the stand of birch that lined the property to the south swayed and rubbed, making a whooshing sound. Ana joined me.

  “They’ve called the police. Routine, he said.”

  “It’s so shocking.”

  “I texted my dad. If he’s in town already, he can drive me to see Heather. I don’t want to go alone.”

  “I can take you.”

  “Thanks.” She gulped back tears. “I put the tulips in water. It’s awful to worry about flowers at a time like this, but I couldn’t just leave them there. I couldn’t let them die.”

  “Of course not.”

  We faced the ocean, waiting, watching, worrying. A gust of wind chilled me and I shivered.

  “It’s cold,” I said.

  “It’s going to rain.”

  The sky to the east was nearly black. “Yes, and soon.”

  We stood silently for a few seconds; then Ana asked, “Did you see the debris? It’s the Spring Egg, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, God, Ana, I hope not.”

  “I can’t think about it right now. Not with Jason just—”

  I looked down at my bloody hands. “Life. It’s so hard.” I took in a breath and rolled my shoulders, willing the tension to ease. “Why was he here?”

  “To drop off a check. For the wedding desserts.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “I keep a key in a make-believe rock in the garden. I told him to use it if I wasn’t home.”

  “Do you know what time he was supposed to arrive?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the mist-shrouded ocean.

  “No. We left it loose. Why?”

  “Because I don’t think he tripped and fell. I think someone killed him.”

  She turned to face me, to look into my eyes. “Oh, God.”

  * * *

  Police Chief Ellis Hunter mounted the porch steps. He was tall, with regular features that came together well. He had brown hair cut shorter than was fashionable and gray eyes that had seen it all. A jagged dark red scar ran from the corner of his right eye to midway down his cheek. I’d never asked him about it.

  Ellis and I were friends, and had been since he’d moved here four years earlier, shortly after his wife, a dancer, had died from lung cancer. He’d retired from the New York City police force to take the police chief job here. He wanted, he said, not joking one bit, to see if Norman Rockwell had it right about small towns. He was dating my landlady, neighbor, and best friend Zoë, and we often hung out as couples.

  Today, he wore a glen plaid sport coat and brown slacks. His tie was honey brown with teeny blue dots. He introduced himself to Ana, confirming that she owned the cottage and that she was the person who’d placed the 911 call.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “More or less.”

  “How about you, Josie? You okay?”

  I shrugged.

  He turned around, taking in the ocean view. His eyes came back to Ana. “Do you know what happened?”

  “No.”

  Detective Claire Brownley rounded the corner. She was a little older than me, with crow-black hair cut short and sapphire blue eyes. Her skin was so fair it was almost translucent. She rarely smiled. She missed nothing. She nodded at me, one up-and-down motion, then wiggled her fingers, beckoning Ellis. She said something I couldn’t hear, opened her notebook, and pointed to something near the bottom of the page. He read for a moment, then said something only she could hear. They climbed the steps to rejoin us.

  Ellis introduced her to Ana and took another look at the detective’s notebook. “The white SUV is registered to a Jason Ferris with a Boston address. Do you know him?”

  “That’s him … the dead man. I thought it was my dad’s rental.” Ana’s eyes filled and she blinked a few times. “Jason was in Rocky Point for his wedding. His fiancée, Heather, is my friend. A good friend. I need to tell her what’s happened. She’s at the Three Crows on Market Street, for a party in their honor. The party was called for six.” She glanced at her bangle watch. “Now.”

  “I offered to drive her,” I said.

  “We’ll take her,” he told me. He glanced at Ana, then at me. When he spoke, his eyes moved back and forth between us. “Obviously, I have several questions for you. First, though, I need to go inside and talk to the paramedics. The medical examiner and crime scene technicians will be here shortly.” He pointed to a cluster of four Adirondack rocking chairs at the end of the porch near a trellis thick with tangled wisteria vines. “Why don’t you get settled there. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Heather must be wondering where he is,” Ana said.

  “We’ll go soon. Just hang tight for a minute.”

  Ellis and Detective Brownley went inside. Neither Ana nor I moved from where we stood. The crashing waves seemed louder, angrier. Evergreen branches swooshed and swished in the now-steady wind. I looked out to sea. The cloud cover was dense. Lines of windswept white-riffled waves rode into shore on the diagonal. Two minutes later, Ellis and Detective Brownley reappeared.

  Ellis spoke to Ana. “Detective Brownley is going to take you to the party.” He turned toward me. “If you’re all right with following me to the station, Josie, we can get going on your statement.”

  “I need to wash my hands.” I raised my blood-sm
eared hands. “I did CPR.”

  Ellis met my eyes, understanding resonating in his. “Sorry, but the house is off-limits for now.”

  I swallowed hard and looked down at the gray wood floor. “I can’t wait.”

  “You two go on ahead,” Ellis said to the detective.

  “There’s an outside faucet around the side,” Ana said, “near the—”

  She broke off as a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and bushy eyebrows came around the corner, walking briskly, a stack of folded-up newspapers and magazines tucked under his arm. He looked about sixty. He wore khakis, a black flannel shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and casual tie-up shoes.

  Ana shouted, “Dad!” and ran to hug him, a big one, filled with love and caring. He hugged her with his left arm, then, after a few seconds, dropped the publications so he could use both. I felt a stab of envy. My dad died a decade ago, but I still missed him every day. Ana stepped back.

  “I was so worried. Where have you been?”

  “Why were you worried, hon? I was at the library catching up on my reading.” He picked up the magazines and newspapers. Jason’s newsletter was on the top, his photo smiling out into the world. I recognized the paper on the bottom, The Wall Street Journal. Stefan noticed me and Ellis and the detective. He looked at Ana. “Why is there an ambulance here? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Dad! It’s awful. Jason is dead.”

  “Mr. Yartsin?” Ellis asked, stepping forward.

  “Yes … I’m Stefan Yartsin, and you are?”

  “Police Chief Ellis Hunter.” He walked down the steps to join the pair on the pathway, extending his hand for a shake. “I’m hoping you can help me.”

  Stefan patted Ana’s shoulder and squeezed her arm. “Of course.”

  “We’re at the very beginning of an investigation into a sudden death, with no time to lose. Anything you can do to help us understand the timeline would be invaluable. Do you live in Rocky Point?”

  “No, no. I’m here to celebrate Ana’s new TV show and attend Heather’s wedding. I live in Detroit.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Today—about three thirty.”

  Detective Brownley was taking notes.

  “What did you do when you got here?”

  “Ana’s car wasn’t here, but I rang the bell anyway, just in case. There was no answer. I got her spare key from the fake rock and came inside.”

  “Were there any cars here?”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone inside?”

  “No.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “Ana sent me photos of the house just after she bought it, so I knew where the guest room was located. I brought my suitcase inside.” He shrugged. “I left for the library. I’m a day trader, so I spend a lot of time keeping up with the news. I’ve been there ever since.”

  “What time did you leave for the library?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look. I couldn’t have been inside more than ten, fifteen minutes, though.”

  Evidently, Jason died sometime between three forty-five, when Stefan left for the library, and five thirty, when Ana and I arrived.

  “What did you do in that ten or fifteen minutes?” Ellis asked.

  Stefan scratched his cheek. “You’re really putting my memory to the test here. I did a lot of nothing stuff, you know, the things you do when you reach a destination. I washed off the travel dust, not a shower, only hands and face. I got Ana’s Spring Egg snow globe out and unpacked it. I placed it in the center of the coffee table where it would be safe and she’d see it first thing. I hung up some clothes, just a few. A pair of slacks. A couple of shirts. I’m a travel-light sort of guy. That’s it.”

  “Where’s the spare key?” Ellis asked.

  “I put it back in the rock when I left.”

  Ellis turned to Ana. “Which rock?”

  She pointed to a small, irregularly shaped gray resin stone tucked under a bush near the porch steps. From any distance, it was indistinguishable from the real rocks nearby.

  Ellis snapped on plastic gloves, picked it up, and used the eraser end of a pencil to slide open the bottom panel. He wiggled his finger in the opening and extracted a gold-toned key. He dropped it into a clear plastic evidence bag he took from his jacket pocket, then slipped the fake rock into another. As he sealed them, a crime scene technician came up the pathway alongside an older police officer I knew named Griff. The technician carried a big square black case, the kind pilots use.

  Ellis stood. “Good timing,” he said, dangling the bag with the key, then the one with the rock. “This key was hidden in this fake rock. With rain coming, I need you to take care of the soil pronto in case there are any footprints or debris.”

  The technician, a slender young woman who looked more like a farm girl than a scientist, said, “Sure.”

  Ellis explained where the rock had been positioned, then rattled off orders to Griff to secure the scene and block the driveway. As he went on about how many officers he wanted on the case and what he wanted them to do, I stopped listening. I turned back toward the water. The ocean surface was darker and wilder now, closer to black than green and covered by roiling ridges of churning white froth.

  The technician started taking photographs of dirt. Griff went to his car for a roll of yellow caution tape. Detective Brownley left with Ana and her dad. Ellis turned to me.

  “You want to run your hands under water from the faucet? Or I have some moist towelettes in my vehicle.”

  “That’s better.” I followed him to his oversized black SUV.

  He raised the rear hatch and dragged a black camera bag forward. “I want some photos of the blood before you clean up. In case it comes up for some reason.”

  I didn’t argue. I didn’t care. I held my hands up, turning them as he instructed while he snapped away. When he was done, he thanked me and pulled a handful of individually wrapped towelettes from a mesh pocket built into the vehicle’s side panel. He ripped one open and handed it to me. I rubbed my hands, but it quickly ran out of juice. He had a plastic trash bag ready, and I tossed it in. He tore open another one. It took six towelettes to get the blood off. Between the harsh alcohol-based cleaner and my strenuous rubbing, my skin ended up chafed and red. It looked as if I had a rash.

  “Are you okay to drive? To follow me to the police station?”

  “Yes.” I started walking to my car, then turned back. “Thanks for letting me clean up.”

  “Sure,” he said, his expression somber.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror as we pulled out of the driveway. Griff was placing orange cones along the sidewalk.

  Once we were on the interstate, I slipped in my earpiece and called Ty. I got his voice mail. I couldn’t think of how to explain all that had occurred, so I only said that I had bad news, that Jason had died, that I’d been with Ana when she found his corpse, and that I was en route to the police station to give a statement. And that I loved him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ellis asked me to wait in the lobby, promising not to be too long. I used the time to sit with my eyes closed, thinking, trying to shake off the deep sadness that had taken hold of me. My phone vibrated, startling me, and I dug it out of my tote bag. It was Wes Smith, the local reporter for the Seacoast Star. I knew he’d call. He always called. I knew I’d talk to him, too, since he always had information I had no other way of getting, but I didn’t want to talk to him now. If there was one thing I could count on, it was that Wes would call back. I hit the IGNORE button and tossed the device back into my bag, leaned back against the unforgiving wood, and closed my eyes again.

  After a while, ten minutes maybe, I stood up and stretched. Cathy, the civilian admin who’d been there since before Ty had the chief’s job, sat at her computer, typing. Two uniformed officers, one named Daryl, the other one new to me, were reading over her shoulder.

  “He’s a finance guy?” Daryl asked rhetorically. “I thought the
y all were in New York.”

  “Nah,” the other officer replied. “There’s mega-money in Boston.”

  “Guys,” Cathy said. “Give me a break, will ya? I don’t need you two yapping in my ear.”

  They stepped away. I walked to the community bulletin board and was scanning a “Call for Volunteers” notice seeking help cleaning up the village green when the front door opened and a stream of people entered. Detective Brownley led the way. Officer F. Meade, a tall ice blonde I’d known for years, was last in line. I’d never heard her first name. In between were Heather, Chuck and Sara, a middle-aged couple, an older single woman, Ana, Peter, and Ana and Peter’s dad, Stefan. No one paid any attention to me. Ana looked poised but worried. Heather looked sick. Her eyes were rimmed in red. Her nose was even redder and mottled.

  Detective Brownley invited everyone to have a seat except Ana and Heather. She led Ana down a long hallway to the right. Officer Meade escorted Heather down a similarly long hallway that branched off to the left. Having been in the station before, I knew that interview rooms opened off both hallways.

  Peter approached the front counter and waited for Cathy to look up from her typewriter. “Where are they taking them?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “Who would?” he said, his voice low and tight, as if he were exerting control.

  “Someone will be out soon, sir.”

  “Let me talk to the police chief,” he demanded.

  Cathy’s eyes widened. “He’s not available.”

  Peter slapped the counter, startling us all. I jumped and scooted forward, braced to flee. The others looked every which way, then moved closer to one another. I was tempted to join them. If Peter, foiled in his efforts to find Heather and Ana, spun around, ready to lash out, I, the only person sitting alone, would be an easy target. He half-turned toward me, considering his next move.

  Stefan, his expression wary, walked to the counter. Daryl and the other officer approached from the other side. Showdown at high noon.

  Stefan placed his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “What’s the problem, Pete?”

  “I want to know where Heather is. And Ana. I have a right to know. And this”—he broke off, staring down at Cathy as if she were dirt—“this woman won’t tell me.” He spoke the word “woman” the way I say “spider.”