Death Opens a Window
Page 5
“If you didn’t know her that well, why did the sheriff call you?”
“Apparently, I’m her only living relative.”
Emory nodded toward the door. “When will she be home?”
“Oh, she doesn’t live here.” Luke laughed. “Dude, I’m twenty-five. How am I supposed to get laid with a seventy-eight-year-old woman here? I got her set up at Willow Springs. It’s an assisted-living home in Mechanicsville.”
Emory couldn’t keep a hint of disapproval from blipping across his face.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s a nice place. So what do you want to ask her about him? Is he in trouble or something? She won’t have anything nice to say.”
“He’s actually dead.”
“Dude! Really? What happened?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“Huh,” Luke grunted. “So I’m confused. Why do you want to talk to my aunt… Wait, you think my little old aunt killed him?”
“We’re just checking out everyone who might’ve had any animosity toward Mr. Melton.” Emory nodded toward Luke’s suitcase. “Vacation?”
“What? No, this is some of my aunt’s stuff. She can’t keep everything in that small room they have her in, so I have to store it for her.”
Emory looked over Luke’s shoulder at the gold Hummer parked in front of the building – a car that wasn’t there when he walked up. “Nice Hummer.”
Luke beamed at Emory. “Sweet, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Looks brand new.”
“Yeah, I just bought… Wait a second. You think I spent the money my aunt got for her land on my car.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Just uncross it. I don’t need to steal money. I make enough of my own.” Luke pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to Emory. The card identified him as an investment broker at local firm. “One of the last things my parents did before they died was convince me to stop studying rocks in favor of finance, so I could make some real money after college. My aunt’s money is in an account that I have access to, but it’s only so I can pay for Willow Springs.”
Emory placed the card in his pocket and nodded. “All right. Well, thank you for your time.”
As Emory headed back toward the street, Luke said something that made him spin around. “You know, maybe she did do it.”
“Do what?”
“Kill that guy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t mean like she physically killed him.” Luke’s voice lost its careless tone. “My mom would tell me stories about Aunt Mary Belle. She’s not normal, and she’s not one you want to anger.”
“What are you saying?”
“She has a way of… making things happen. The locals have a name for her. They call her the Crick Witch.”
Chapter 7
Jeff pulled into the parking lot of the Black Bear Motel, an inexpensive local chain that catered to road-weary passersby more than the reservations crowd. He gazed up at the sun, about two hours from dropping behind the mountains, and checked the time on his phone. “Peter, you’re my last one today.”
Before he was close enough to see the number on the door of room 107, he could hear the squeal of children’s voices coming from inside. When he rapped on the door, a scrawny, pimple-faced fourteen-year-old boy answered. Behind him, he could see three other children playing among the rubble of a single room stuffed with enough clothing and boxed belongings to fill four rooms. “Hi. I’m looking for Peter West.”
“That’s my dad. He’s working.”
“Where does he work?”
“Cleeson’s.”
“The one in West Hills?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for the info.” Jeff was about to walk away, but his concern for the children nagged at him. “By the way, where’s your mother?”
“Grocery store.”
“Okay. Listen, don’t open the door again. It’s not safe.”
The boy huffed at him. “You’re not my daddy.” He shut the door before Jeff could say another word.
“What a brat.”
Emory tapped the bell on the counter in the lobby of Willow Springs – senior living spaces converted from a nineteenth century Italianate house. Sounds of a mountain forest from overhead speakers pacified the air, and silk flowers sprung from every available surface. This place doesn’t seem so bad. It’s peaceful.
A scream rippled through the tranquility. Emory leapt over the counter and pounded through the door behind it. His eyes darted about in search of danger, but all he found was a fiftyish woman clutching her chest with a horrified look. Before her was an open drawer. Inside was a chicken-bone doll with a bird’s foot attached as if grabbing at the heart. The woman saw Emory and pointed frantically at the drawer. “Get it out of there! Get it out!”
That’s odd. It looks kind of like the one from Corey’s office. Emory threw the doll into a nearby wastebasket. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The woman’s breathing ticked down from asthmatic. “Okay, I’m fine now. Thank you.” Her chest-clutching hand dropped to her side, revealing a company badge hanging from the collar of her purple polyester blouse. “Can I help you?”
Emory found himself staring at her swept-back, brittle hair – a patchwork of brown shades given a yellow luster from the fluorescent ceiling light. She must color it herself. He pulled his eyes away, glancing at the name on her badge before offering her a smile. “Hi Lucy. I’m here to see Mary Belle Hinter.”
“Ms… Ms. Mary Belle?” Her hand returned to her chest. “Are you a relation?”
“I’m Emory Rome. I’m investigating the death of someone she knew.”
“Oh good heavens. How awful.” Lucy fanned herself with her hand. “She’s on the veranda. The door down the hall to your right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” Emory pointed toward the wastebasket. “By the way, how did that thing get in your drawer?”
The woman placed a hand over her heart. “I can’t rightfully say. I imagine someone confiscated it from… one of our residents. We’re a Christian establishment.” Emory started toward the door when the woman stopped him. “Em’ry, you don’t believe she had something to do with that death, do you?”
“No, I just need to talk to her.”
Lucy pursed her lips. “Are you sure?”
That’s an odd question.
Lucy continued, “I don’t mean to speak ill of the misfortunate, but that woman is a hellion straight from the loins of the devil!”
“Thanks for the warning.” Emory left Lucy to her shudders. That’s twice I’ve been warned about Mary Belle Hinter. Who is she?
When Emory stepped onto the veranda, he was greeted by a stifling warmth, in spite of the weak winter sunlight slavering through the glass roof. I wonder which one is her. Among the tight scattering of more patio heaters than were necessary, he saw about two dozen elderly denizens – some sitting alone and others playing cards or board games. One small woman with wild silver hair, however, was kneeling in front of a tree and digging in the dirt with her hands, just beyond the veranda’s wood-slat flooring. Emory smirked. Lord, don’t let it be the crazy one.
A thin fortyish man in scrubs approached him. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mary Belle Hinter.”
The man scanned the area before the tips of his mustache reached for his chin. “There she is digging at that tree again.”
Emory’s shoulders slumped. Of course, it’s her.
The attendant hurried toward her. “Ms. Mary Belle, what have we said about messing with the foliage?”
Either she didn’t hear him or she ignored him altogether because she broke off a small offshoot of the horse chestnut tree’s root and pulled it from the ground.
“Don’t put that in your mouth!”
Before the attendant could grab it, she sure enough stuffed the piece of root into her mouth and sucked on it as if it were hard candy.
Emory nodded and extended a hand to the old woman. “Ms. Mary Belle, could I help you to your feet?”
She looked up at him and rasped through cracked lips, “If I’d a wanted on m’ feet, I’d be on ’em.”
“Fair enough.” Emory crouched on the ground next to her. “Ms. Mary Belle, I need to talk to you about Corey Melton. Do you know who that is?”
“I know who he was.” She looked at him with jaundiced eyes and pointed an arthritic finger at his face. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Emory Rome.” He handed her a business card. “I’m an investigator. You said you knew who Mr. Melton was. Why did you say that?”
The old woman buried Emory’s card into one of the oversized pockets of her brown tattered cloak. “I ain’t ne’er forgit a name or face.”
“No, why did you use the past tense?”
Ms. Mary Belle’s lips curled toward her withered cheeks. “I know why you’re here.”
“And why’s that?”
“You’re askin’ ’bout a feller I knew but for one reason. The curse musta met its intention.”
Emory clenched his jaw. Here we go. “Curse?”
“The thief stole m’ prop’ty! So I hexed ’im. Hexed ’im good.”
Yep, she’s crazy.
Ms. Mary Belle laughed so hard, the root fell from her mouth. “When God closes a door, Death opens a window.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Ne’er did. Coward wrote me a letter! Sheriff done his dirty work. Cursed ’im too.” Her last statement added a proud glimmer to her eyes. “He still wit’ us?”
“As far as I know.”
“Well, give it time. Give it time. Oh me…” Without warning, a flash flood of tears washed away Ms. Mary Belle’s self-satisfaction.
Emory placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“That prop’ty’s been my family’s for gen’rations. From when I came ta ’wareness as a girl, I knowed I was gonna die there.” She looked over his shoulder as if she could see her erstwhile land from where she sat. “Summer’s always m’ fav’rite. Dancin’ ina black willer seeds that’re floatin’ ina wind. Cooling off ina crick. Course, ’tweren’t deep enough ta swim in, but it’s fun all a same. Ne’er did learn ta swim. And the taste o’ the sassafras trees.” Her tongue poked through her gummy smile to lick her crackled lips. “You e’er had a place like that?”
Emory shrugged. “I can’t say I have.”
Ms. Mary Belle wiped her eyes and focused them on Emory. “So you fixin’ ta ’rest me?”
“What? No, I’m not going to arrest you.”
“Takin’ pity ona ol’ woman.” She patted the back of his hand. “You’re a good young’un.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you he’p me get m’ prop’ty back?”
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Sweet sassafras, you an inves’gator! Inves’gate how ta git back what’s mine.”
“I’m sorry.” Emory shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“I got money. I can pay.”
“It’s not that. It’s just too late to do anything about it now. It’s out of our hands.”
“Our?” The old woman’s pitiable fragility evaporated, leaving behind a desiccated grimace of anger. “You workin’ wit’ ’em! You all in cahoots!”
“No, I meant there’s nothing you or I could do.”
“Stealin’ what’s mine!” Ms. Mary Belle clawed at the back of his hand, drawing blood. As Emory recoiled from her, she sucked the tiny bits of his skin from her fingertips and then spit in his face. “I curse you! No moment’s peace ’til your reckonin’, whena cold handa death’ll come a beckonin’!”
Emory jumped to his feet and backed away, almost tripping. He wiped the spit from his face and glared at her in disbelief.
Ms. Mary Belle screamed, “Git out!” followed by incomprehensible words.
Emory could feel his arm hair shrieking to attention as he retreated to his car.
Chapter 8
Emory stepped onto the curb from the parking lot to Cleeson’s department store. “It’s getting dark. Why did you want to meet here?”
Jeff arose from the brushed steel bench in front of the store and grabbed him by the arm. “We need to debrief, and I have shopping to do. Two birds. What happened to your hand?”
Emory glanced down at the large bandage he had placed over the scratches from the Crick Witch. “Just a scratch.”
Jeff gave his partner a side-glance. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look worried.”
Wide-eyed, Emory opened the door for Jeff. “No, I’m fine.”
Jeff shrugged as he entered the store, followed by Emory. “So how’s your first day as a private investigator been?”
“Challenging, if I’m being honest.”
“Good. I promised you wouldn’t be bored.” While they walked, Jeff scanned the aisles as if he were looking for something specific but had no idea where it would be. “As soon as we get this freebie out of the way, our biggest challenge will be finding time to spend all the money we’ll be making. The TBI angle is going to be our goldmine.”
“On that subject, I need to talk to you about my meeting this morning.”
“It’s fine. Just don’t be late again.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was meeting with a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? What for?”
Emory took a deep breath and muttered, “I’m suing the TBI for wrongful termination.”
Jeff now turned his full attention to his partner. “You can’t do that!”
“I’m glad I can count on your support.”
“I’m sorry, but leaving the TBI for the private sector so you can help more people is a much better story than being fired and taking the first job that came along.”
“Story for who?”
“Anyone who asks. Look, a lawsuit – especially one like that – is bad for business. Just drop it.” Emory went silent, prompting Jeff to change the subject to something happier. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m working on a surprise for you.”
“I think the billboard was all the surprise I can handle for one day.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell you what it is until I’m sure, but it’s big!” Jeff returned to his search.
“What are you shopping for?”
“Clothes, probably.”
“You don’t know?”
“It’ll come to me.”
Emory smirked. “We’re passing some clothes now. Are they ringing any bells?”
Jeff looked around the area before shaking his head. “Not sportswear.”
“You’re not even looking at the clothes.”
“How did your interviews go?”
“I couldn’t reach two of the people on my list.” Emory nodded at the racks they were passing. “You realize we’re in the kids’ section now.”
“I like my gym wear tight. Did you leave your card and a note?”
“Of course. Two others I interviewed weren’t happy with the forced sale, but they seem to have moved on. No pun intended. One had inherited the land and wanted to sell it anyway, so he was happy.”
“Two of mine already had their land up for sale. I had three who weren’t home and two who were unhappy but not murderously so. Wait, I count only five on your end.”
“The sixth one is an elderly woman.” Emory sighed. “I’m not sure about her.”
“Found it!” Jeff made a beeline for the nearest counter, which was in the women’s clothing department.
“You need a dress?”
“Of course not. I need some new work clothes.”
Emory waved in the direction from which they had just come. “Then why aren’t we over there?”
“Do you see any salespeople there? I don
’t like waiting to be helped.” Jeff approached the sales associate at the counter and didn’t even wait for him to finish helping a customer. “Excuse me…” He nodded toward the associate’s nametag. “Peter. Could you help us?”
The thirtyish man’s lips curled toward disengaged eyes. “Sure.” He bagged the customer’s garment and handed it to her before asking Jeff, “Do you know her size?”
“Whose?”
“No ring, so I assume your girlfriend’s. You want to buy her a dress?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. I was hoping you could help us in men’s clothing.”
With a thick, veiny hand, Peter picked up the phone on the counter. “I’ll get someone to assist you.”
“Can’t you do it?”
Emory could feel warm air piping from the rattling vent above the counter. The same air buffeted the sales associate’s hair, which was kempt but uneven, like a former crewcut overgrown from several missed visits to the barbershop.
“That’s not my department. It’s Martin’s.”
“You’re a man, and you wear clothes. Any reason you can’t help us with men’s clothing?”
“As I said—”
“We’ll be fast, and I swear we’ll buy enough to make it worth your while.”
Peter hung up the phone. “All right, but if Martin shows up, I’m going to have to turn you over to him.”
“Understood.” Jeff led them to a section with racks of clothes that could be considered club wear/progressive business wear. “I’m guessing I’m about a seventeen in the neck, and I’d say—”
“We shouldn’t guess.” Peter removed a cloth tape measure from his pocket. “Can I measure you?”
“That would be ideal. Where are you from, Peter?”
“Here.” As the sales associate answered Jeff’s questions, he measured the PI’s neck, chest, arm length, waist and inseam. “Well, a little town east of here, up in the mountains.”
“What did you do there?”
“Farmer. Didn’t make much, but it was enough to provide for me and mine.”