Body of Evidence

by Stella Cameron

  Emma snapped her fingers. “I know what I wanted to ask you about. John. When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Why?”

  “Billy thinks he may have left town, because he lost his job some time back and now he’s embarrassed in case we find out. I think that’s more or less what Billy was suggestin’.”

  Muttering under her breath, Angela got up and paced. She tossed the skirts of her robe behind her and confronted Emma.

  “John wouldn’t do a thing like that,” she said. “It’s not that I see much of him, but he’s a gentleman, and he’s honest. In all the years I’ve rented this place from him, there’s never been a thing he’s said I couldn’t do. How many landlords would let a person add on to a house and put in a pool—an indoor pool? He’s caring.”

  “You’ve added a lot of value to this place,” Emma said. “You paid for those things, not John, and he still owns this house.”

  Angela pinched her mouth shut and breathed loudly through her nose. “I thought you were different—not judgmental. I thought you could see when people were something other folks didn’t understand.”

  Taken aback, Emma crossed her arms over her bare middle. She felt chilly and uncomfortable.

  Angela walked to the other side of the coffee table. She bent and took matches out of a drawer. She lit candles on a table behind a couch and in an ornate floor-standing branch. “I’m worried,” she said, shaking out a match before it would have burned her fingers. “What if John’s sick over there and not answering his phone? What if he’s dead?”

  “Don’t say that.” Emma put a hand over her mouth. “Please, don’t say things like that, not with what we’ve been through.”

  Angela threw down the box of matches. “I haven’t seen him. When did I see him?” She turned one way, then the other, the skirts of her robe flying. “Emma, I don’t remember.”

  “He was at Orville’s party,” Emma said. She thought about it. “He was there all that horrible evening. He was great, just like he always is.”

  Angela stopped twisting. “I wasn’t there, of course.”

  “You wouldn’t have liked it,” Emma said, not thinking. “I mean, you wouldn’t have enjoyed all the noise and fuss.”

  “You think a lot of John, don’t you?” Angela said. “I’ve seen how well the two of you get along.”

  “We do,” Emma agreed. She looked at the door. “The others are really late. Are you sure you told us all the same time?”

  “Lynnette said she and Frances would be late because they’ve got late appointments. Suky-Jo’s one of the appointments. You told Sandy, didn’t you? I couldn’t reach her.”

  Emma set her teeth. “Sandy’s indisposed.”

  Angela frowned. “But you did talk to Eileen?”

  “No,” Emma said. “I just assumed… I didn’t think about it. She might not have wanted to come tonight, though, and maybe that’s a good thing. She doesn’t share the memories we do, or the long relationships. This should probably be a night for the old crew.”

  “What’s left of it,” Angela said.

  Emma stood up. “This is starting to feel bad, Angela. I…it feels as if you’re trying to hurt me. We shouldn’t be doing that to each other.”

  “You were always too touchy,” Angela said. “You spend too much time thinking about yourself.”

  “I see.” Emma closed her eyes and exhaled. “You’re making this too hard. I’m going to leave now. We’ll meet when we’ve both done some healing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Angela said. “Really sorry. I can’t get it together, Emma. I’m brokenhearted.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Angela smoothed her pink gloves repeatedly, then pulled at her hair. “Do you forgive me?”

  Emma sighed. “Forgive and forget. It’s over.”

  “You must be looking forward to your divorce so you can get on with your new life.”

  Emma twisted her wedding ring. “Yes. It’s almost a shock how quickly a marriage can be over.”

  “But that’s what you want. You’ve said you do, and I know you do. You don’t have to pretend you’re sorry with me. I’ll still think you’re a good girl.”

  “I’m not sorry,” Emma said. “Let’s drop it.” The ring needed to come off her finger. She would see to it when she left Angela’s.

  “Will you come with me and check on John?”

  “I told you he’s not here,” Emma said.

  “Billy doesn’t know that for sure, and neither do you. I’ve got his key in case he needs something checked in there while he’s away.”

  “We can’t… No, I’m not going into John’s house without being invited.”

  Angela nodded. “Of course not. You’re right not to get involved. I’m the one to do it. You go on. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re funny,” Emma said, without meaning to voice her thoughts. “I mean, you’re a bit like a mom tryin’ to guilt a kid into doin’ what they don’t want to do.”

  “I—”

  “Hush,” Emma said, grinning. “If you think it’s right to make sure John’s not lyin’ in there with two broken legs, that’s good enough for me. I wish some of the others were here by now, though. I like the idea of safety in numbers.”

  Angela opened the drawer in the coffee table again and got on her knees to peer inside. She located a key and held it up. “Thank you, Emma, dear. We’ll take a look around, that’s all. And I’ll leave a note for John to say we did it.” She shrugged. “If he gets mad, he gets mad. He should be grateful we care.”

  “And we do,” Emma said. “Let’s get it over with. This is bad for my nerves. I’d never make it as a cat burglar.”

  He must be hard up, Finn thought, to take a crusty cop up on an offer of company because there was nowhere else to go. Or nowhere he wanted to go that was available.

  “This is good scotch,” he said. “Thanks.” He’d forgotten to bring anything with him, but Billy had produced an unopened bottle of single malt.

  “Now and again a man should have the best—if he can,” Billy said. “My dad said that to me a long time ago, even though he rarely got mediocre anything, let alone the best.”

  Finn appreciated the pale gold fire slowly. “Glad I dropped by. I was expectin’ that mud you call coffee.”

  Billy smacked his lips. “Damn good coffee, boy. You don’t know quality when you get it. But this is somethin’ else.” He settled back in his chair behind the old metal desk and rested his glass on his solid but flat belly. “Tried John Sims again. No luck. I had a car stop by, no response.”

  “If you’re really worried, get a search warrant,” Finn said.

  “I would if I could get Sandy Viator to tell me he was givin’ her drugs. She denies it. Way she tells it, she never did O.D. She’s just been upset about the murders, accordin’ to her, and oversensitive to whatever she eats.”

  “And the samples?”

  “Someone must have dropped them in her purse. Either by accident or because they don’t like her. I didn’t realize before, but the woman’s pathetic in a way. Appearances are everything to her. I got in touch with Carl, and he said she’s doin’ fine, as far as he knows—whatever that means.”

  Finn figured he owed it to Billy to come clean about something. “I appreciate the way you gave me Dad’s uniform. It’s being looked at for DNA. If they find what I hope they will, they’ll check it against mine. I think it’ll prove what I want it to.”

  Billy pulled his lips into a straight line, and his mustache bristled. “Wish you hadn’t done that to yourself,” he said. “Or to me. I want to put it behind me, and so should you.”

  “I’ll be the only one who knows the results,” Finn said. “And you, if you want to. There won’t be any talk about it, but I had to give Dad a chance to tell his side.”

  “You’ve got a strange way of puttin’ things.”

  “You know what I mean. What if whatever you found on the seat of the car was there before he got in? There are ways
it could happen.”

  “You’re graspin’, but I guess I don’t blame you.”

  “Billy—” Finn shifted to the front of his chair “—I believe you want the truth as much as I do.”

  “Why not?” Billy’s expression suggested he wasn’t a happy man. “Your mother can’t be hurt now. The FBI will be in my pockets by mornin’ anyway. I’ll have to get used to havin’ my decisions questioned.”

  Finn turned up a palm. “Are you goin’ to be okay with that?”

  “As okay as a local cop ever is. A word to the wise—just in case you happen to know where he is. If Rusty Barnes doesn’t get his butt back into this town, he’ll be on more suspect lists than mine. Ah, shit, now what?” He answered the intercom.

  “Can we give out an address?” came a voice from reception. “There’s a man here looking for a local address. He’s got the name of the person.”

  Billy, who looked more tired than could be healthy, scrunched up his face. “Does this guy have ID—and a reason for wanting the address? And is he prepared for us to check him out before we give it to him?”

  A short cough, and the female officer said, “He says he is.” Then, with emphasis, she said, “He’s looking for Finn Duhon. This guy’s name is Jackson.”

  “Give me a minute,” Billy said before turning off the speaker. He turned to Finn. “Know anyone called Jackson?”

  “Mmm, nope.” There could have been someone in the service. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, no address for Jackson, whoever he is.”

  Finn got up. “Let me take a stroll-by, just to make sure.”

  Billy shrugged and returned his attention to the papers in front of him and to his scotch.

  The man at reception wore a light-colored fedora with a line of sweat around the band and suspenders to hold up his jeans. He grinned when he saw Finn. “Bingo,” he said. “And I didn’t even know you were a jailbird.”

  “Good to see you, Jackson,” Finn said, remembering the photographer from Wells immediately. “Come and meet a friend of mine.”

  Back inside Billy’s office, Finn introduced the two men and said that Jackson had known Belinda Page.

  “I didn’t really know her,” Jackson said, flushing. “I just took pictures on the set for the paper.”

  Hundreds of pictures, Finn thought. Jackson had been taken by the lovely Belinda Page.

  “That’s why I came,” Jackson said. “I’m goin’ to Toussaint, but I thought I’d stop in on the way. Emma enjoyed the photos. When I got them back, I took a look through to see if she’d marked any she wanted. Wouldn’t you know, there were several I hadn’t replaced from the last time they were looked at—by Denise.”

  Billy’s welcoming smile slipped. “Denise Steen?”

  “Yes.” Jackson shook his head. “I know what happened. Terrible. Just like Belinda. Anyway, I thought I’d drop these off for Emma, since she said she liked lookin’ so much.”

  Finn took the envelope of pictures. He wondered if Jackson really had to go to Toussaint at this time of night, but he wasn’t about to question the man.

  “I’ll make sure she gets them,” he said. “Mind if I look, too?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “They are so great,” Finn said. “I looked at some Emma picked out for me. I like the one of someone blowing bubbles at Belinda Page.”

  “So do I,” Jackson said. “I’d better get on.” He walked out, and Finn was left feeling there was something else he should have said to the man, but he didn’t know what.

  “These were taken on the set of the movie up by Wells,” he told Billy. “I expect you’ve seen plenty of photos of Belinda Page.”

  “Not really. I had almost nothing to do with the case.”

  Finn gave Billy the photographs and went behind him to look at them. “That’s the main street of Wells. I didn’t know they’d filmed there. Looks different. They put other names on the businesses.”

  Billy grunted and came to a photo of Belinda clowning in front of a makeup mirror. She’d blown up her cheeks and made her eyes huge.

  “Looks like she didn’t take herself too seriously,” Billy said. “I appreciate that in a person.”

  “Me, too.” Finn looked at the woman, and at the makeup artist reflected in the mirror from behind her. “She made other people laugh, too.”

  The next shot was similar.

  Finn reached over Billy’s shoulder to stop him from turning it over. “Let me see that.” He took it, and the one before, the one after, and looked from one to the other. His skin shrank, tightened. Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Shit, look at that.”

  “What?” Billy studied the photos, but not for long. He pushed to his feet, pointing at the people in the picture. “That woman, there, the small one. You couldn’t miss the red waves. It’s that Mrs. Merryfield who works for Angela. Looks like she was working with hair.”

  Finn hadn’t even noticed her. “Yes,” he confirmed. “And the guy doing the makeup, the one with the beard, is John Sims.”

  John’s house and the one Angela rented were closer together than Emma had realized. Bamboo many feet high separated the two, but the pathway through the canes took only moments to cover.

  “The houses are really close,” Emma said, while Angela bent over to unlock a door at John’s. “I’m surprised they got planning permission to do this.”

  Angela said, “Spoken like the mayor’s wife,” and tiptoed into a kitchen that didn’t look as if it was ever used.

  “A neat freak,” Emma said, closing the door behind her.

  “Just neat,” Angela said. “He’s like that with everything. Careful.”

  “John, you here?” Emma shouted. She wanted to leave the moment she could.

  “Don’t shout like that,” Angela said, spinning toward Emma. She put a hand to her chest. “You frightened me.”

  “Why?” Emma said. “We’re lookin’ for John. I don’t want to poke around his house if I don’t have to.”

  Angela pulled on her hair repeatedly. She turned away. “I’m pushing you too far. You’ll stop loving me. This is why I never tried to make friends before—I was afraid my troubles would get in the way.”

  She needs professional help. Emma spoke softly. “You’re reacting to leaving your house again. Relax. We’ll do this and get you home. I really don’t think John is here.”

  “I’m not sick,” Angela said. “Don’t think I am. You do, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

  Emma glanced toward the door to the outside. John wasn’t here. “Let’s go back,” she said. “You’re getting upset.”

  “I’m not getting upset. I’m not.” Angela breathed slowly. “Yes, I am, and I’m useless when I panic. You’re right. We’ll be quick here. You go first, if you don’t mind.”

  “Surely.” Emma did mind, but whatever she had to do to deal with the situation successfully, she would do.

  Throughout the ground floor of the house, each room contained old-fashioned furniture, clean and tidy, but dated. What looked like black-and-white family pictures stood on tables. Crocheted cloths draped the backs of originally inexpensive, old but well-cared-for chairs and a couch.

  Angela shook her head. “He’s never changed the furniture,” she said, her voice very low. “All of this was here when he inherited the place. He said he wants to keep it the way it is so he’ll remember.”

  “Remember what?” Emma whispered.

  “I don’t know. There’s the upstairs, and a storeroom off the back. Which should we try first?”

  Neither. “I’m sure John’s away.”

  “So am I, but I’d never forgive myself if I went this far and just missed him. People have strokes.”

  “People have a lot of things,” Emma said, injecting a sensible note into her voice.

  “Stay here,” Angela said. “I expect I’ll be right back.”

  She took off upstairs, and Emma heard her footsteps overhead and the banging of doors as she searched.r />
  Angela returned, smiling.

  “Everything’s okay?” Emma said. “You look better.”

  “I went up there alone,” Angela said. “I am better. I have been for a long time. I don’t know what came over me just now. I’ve never been in the storage room, but it’s probably filled with tools and suitcases and all that stuff.”

  Just inside the kitchen, Angela paused again. “The storeroom’s off here,” she said, indicating one of two side-by-side doors. She shuddered. “There are probably mice in there. I don’t think John uses it.”

  Emma thought, but didn’t say, that if he didn’t use it, there was no need to go in there.

  Angela turned the handle. She pushed and pulled but it didn’t open. “Locked.”

  “Good.” Emma breathed again. “He wouldn’t lock himself in there.”

  Angela smiled faintly. “No.” But she looked thoughtful and took the door key from her robe pocket. It fitted the lock in the handle, and the door opened. “I thought I remembered him saying the key fitted both doors,” she said, and reached inside to switch on a light.

  “Okay now?” Emma said.

  “I guess.” Angela walked into a short entry and turned left.

  She would not be coming back to Secrets alone, Emma decided. Angela had done so much in bringing them together as a group, but they’d been good for her, too. Experiences like this, however, were not fun or supportive.

  A scream reached Emma as if it came through thick folds of cloth. As if it were muffled. As if someone had grabbed Angela and covered her mouth.

  Emma’s heart bumped. She remembered the gun in her purse. At least she’d picked it up before coming to John’s. “Angela?” she said, slipping a hand inside the bag she carried over her shoulder and feeling the gun at once. She drew it out and entered the space beyond the door.

  At the corner, she hung back against the wall, watching for movement in the shadows on the walls. The light Angela had turned on was immediately overhead. It was impossible to tell if there was another one to the left.

  Emma edged forward until she could lean out a little to see.

  A bag was slammed over her head and yanked tight around her neck. The attacker jerked her.