by Gina Conroy
Marianna, you shouldn’t be so concerned with your appearance; after all it’s inside that counts. My stomach tightened.
Not the words I needed to hear from my mother.
I reapplied my anti-aging foundation, the pang in my gut fermenting, then swelling, reaching hidden transgressions I thought I had buried. I indulged the ache, then pushed it aside. I couldn’t change the past. Focusing on the present, I made a mental note to schedule my next Botox treatment. ASAP. Too bad it wasn’t an instant fix or I’d try and squeeze it in before my 3:00 interview.
After painting on my makeup like an artist restoring a relic, I changed into a comfortable Donna Karan, A-line, black skirt, slipped on my scarlet cardigan, and wrap tied it loosely on the side. The finishing touch . . . my favorite five-inch, black, leather boots with mesh upper. Perfect for class. A little too casual for my interview, but I had time to drive home and change into something more appropriate after my nail appointment. Something that screamed co-hostess of “Rise and Shine, Lyndon.”
Someone knocked. Elizabeth? “Did you forget something?”
Fletcher crept in with his tail between his legs. The morning’s humiliation played through my mind, the room suddenly warm and stuffy. “What are you doing here?” I sat at the vanity. Grabbed the powder brush.
“I came to see if you were okay.”
“Don’t do me any favors.” I jammed the brush into the powder, swirling it around and around.
“I said I was sorry. What more do you want? Blood?”
“You can start with a pint.”
“Come on. How long are you going to punish me?”
“As long as it takes.” I circled the brush over my face in quick motions, trying to avoid gazing at his reflection in the mirror.
“This isn’t just about this morning, is it?”
More powder. More brushing.
“Listen, Mari. I didn’t mean to. It was a stupid thing—”
“Cheating on your Cultural Anthropology final was stupid. Chugging a bottle of Tabasco sauce on a dare was stupid. Driving drunk after a keg party was stupid.” My jaw tensed.
“Just tell me what you want.”
“I want you to go.”
“Fine.” Fletcher turned to leave.
“Old habits die hard,” I mumbled loud enough for him to hear.
Through the mirror I saw him whip around, nostrils flaring.
I faced him, my chest burning. “What you did today was insensitive and cruel. Like when you left—”
“On a dig, Mari. Not the relationship.” He raked his hands through his dark hair and for a moment I remembered the thrill of running my fingers through his thick waves. Winsome memories fought to overpower the anguish, but the pain gnawed at me like rats on a festering wound.
I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t forgive. I couldn’t …“I was sixteen and pregnant. You weren’t there for me.” The fire from my own glare burned my cheeks.
“But Jack was.” Fletcher’s eyes lit with revelation. “Now I get it. You were barely pregnant when I left. I wanted to come home after my summer archaeology internship, but you told me not to. You said continuing on through the fall and spring was an opportunity of a lifetime. I assumed you needed some distance after you lost the baby, but it was because of Jack. I asked my best friend to take care of you while I was gone. I guess he did.”
“None of that matters anymore.”
“Yes, it does.” The veins near Fletcher’s temples pulsated. “We can’t keep dancing around what happened.”
“Then stop playing your worn-out record.”
Fletcher sighed. “Can we put this behind us? Everything. And start over?”
“There’s nothing to start over. We’re over.” Seventeen years over.
“Mari, I know you’ve been through a lot these past two years with the divorce. I didn’t come back to cause trouble for you or stir up bad memories. I want to be here for you if you need me.” A playful grin emerged, his eyes focused, dilated. “Any way you need me.”
The amorous sensation I’d kept at bay for years pulsed through me. I turned toward the mirror. Applied lip gloss. “I don’t have time for this. I have a 9:30 class.”
“I’ll go for now. But we’re not through with this conversation.” He left without another word, and somehow I knew he was never walking out of my life again. I straightened my bangs over my wrinkles. It would have to do for now.
Hurrying from my dressing room, I bumped into Cherilyn again. Papers flew from her hands. A timid “excuse me” escaped her lips. Either her clumsy innocence was an act or she really was as blonde as her hair.
I peeked at my watch and bent to help pick up the papers scattered on the floor. A familiar tickle tap-danced around my nasal passages. I pulled a wadded Kleenex from my bag, catching three sneezes, which erupted in rapid succession. My eyes watered, threatening to smear my mascara again. As soon as I got to my office I needed to type a memo concerning our fragrance-free policy.
Cherilyn gathered the papers, her limbs shaking as if it took every bit of strength in her petite body. She stood, shoulders slumped and hair in disarray, looking wilted. I handed her the papers I had collected. “Are you all right? This is such a shock to everyone.”
She nodded, her eyelids drooping. I found a clean tissue in my bag and gave it to her. “Did you know Professor Henderson well?”
“Yes, um … no.” Tears crowded her shifting eyes. “I spoke with him a few times about switching my major.” She sucked in rapid breaths like my seven year old son after a nightmare. “I’ve never seen a dead person before. Lying there … with his pills all over the floor. Maybe if I had gotten there sooner he’d still be alive.”
I touched her shoulder, knowing her pain. “There was nothing you could’ve done.” My words cut me like a rusty razor. Cherilyn must’ve felt their sting because she turned abruptly, and hurried away.
Trying to shake off Cherilyn’s grief, I approached the green room. Professor Henderson’s imminent funeral fogged my thoughts. Would I be able to make it through without Jack? He’d been the strong tower I leaned on at my mother’s funeral. The one I needed here now, to support and hold me up when everything around me was crumbling.
The knot in my stomach tightened as I stalled outside the door. I dug in my bag, found the Altoids tin, and popped the last chocolate-covered mint in my mouth. Maybe no one would notice if I didn’t show up to the funeral. Hundreds of people would attend. No one would miss me. Would Fletcher attend? Peter Kipling? Would he blame himself for Henderson’s death?
Backing away, I heard soft meows. I halted. “Basti?” The studio’s Egyptian Mau mouse trap. I reached for the knob, hesitating like a tomb raider contemplating the curse. Basti clawed the door, her cries desperate as if her ninth life was about to end.
“Okay, girl. I’m coming.” I eased the door open. When I flipped on the light, Basti leapt, and I caught her. The breed’s classic, worried expression was etched on her face, but in her shimmering emerald eyes, I saw real distress. As I stroked her black spotted coat, her meows settled into labored purrs. I’d never seen her so upset. Maybe like me, she sensed death lingering.
Traces of dirt freckled her paws. “What have you gotten into?” I surveyed the room expecting to see Professor Henderson’s soil samples, but instead I spied his latest book resting on the end table. Silt and Soil: The Making of the Nile. The culmination of his life’s work. As boring as the book sounded, at least his life would be remembered.
An unexpected heaviness shrouded me, growing more burdensome, second by second, as I trudged toward the thick book. Something crunched under my boots. I halted and set Basti down. She stalked back and forth in front of the tan granules, resembling a mini cheetah on the prowl. Then without warning, she scurried past me out the door.
A glance around the room didn’t turn up other piles or metal trays filled with dirt. Henderson treated his soil samples better than his family. He wouldn’t have carelessly left his precious dir
t on the floor. I squatted to inspect the soil, but refused to touch it. Someone else must have made the mess. I shook my head. Only one person came to mind. “Fletcher.”
“Who’s Fletcher?”
The Spanish accent sparked my memory. Either Antonio Banderas stood behind me or my past had returned to torment me. Surely fate wouldn’t pour acid on my open wounds.
“Miss?”
I slowly looked up into the startled eyes of an overweight, middle-aged Latino who appeared well beyond his forty years, a shard of the younger man I had known. My insides ignited. When we first met over twenty years ago, I believed he was Zorro coming to my rescue. To save me from the hell also known as my life. But I was wrong. He didn’t come to bring solace. He came to cut out my heart and feed it to the devil.
Bile rose.
Today, seeing him in his cheap black suit and tie, wearing his overcoat like a trophy, I wanted to spew. Instead, I shot him my best Malocchio, the Italian evil eye that promised misfortune. A similar glare, though now more intense, as the one I gave him ten years ago. And from the look of his weather-battered face in desperate need of re-shingling, I’d say the years were stormy. Good. Life hadn’t been all sunshine for me either.
“Marianna Capolla?” He extended his hand, slow at first, then fully committed.
I let it hang. “It’s Mari Duggins, Officer Lopez.”
Wiping his hands on his slacks, he avoided my eyes. “I made detective years ago and joined Lyndon Precinct.” He flashed his badge as if the worthless piece of tin added value to his words. “It’s good to see you looking so well.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m working a case …” He squirmed.
My eyes narrowed, tightening the chokehold.
“… and you’re standing in the middle of my crime scene. So please don’t touch anything.”
“Crime scene?”
Lopez ushered me into the hall past a younger man with a crew cut who stood in the doorway snapping pictures.
“Theron Henderson’s daughter gave us sufficient evidence to suspect foul play.”
“You’re homicide? And I’m Cleopatra. Aren’t you a little late?”
Lopez peered over his shoulder at the crime scene analyst photographing the room from different angles. Avoiding my eyes, Lopez rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know what else to say that I haven’t said already. I’ve been over it a thousand times. There’s nothing I would have done differently.”
My gut exploded. “Nothing? Nothing you would have done differently?” Sweet vendetta floated to the surface, carrying images of dead fish and old flatfoot fitted with cement shoes. But my thoughts sunk in the undertow of my own guilt.
He pulled out his little pad and pen, averting my eyes. “I know you’re still angry, and I don’t have time to rehash the past. I did what I knew to do at the time. I followed procedure. Now if you can set aside your feelings for a while, I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Why? Am I a suspect in this murder investigation?”
“It’s routine.”
“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
“Do you know who found the body?”
“Cherilyn St. Jean. She’s an intern at the studio. You should talk to her.”
“Do you know where I can find her?” Lopez scribbled in his notepad.
“Probably in class. Check the registrar.”
“Did you touch anything when you arrived?”
“No.”
“How many people had access to this room before you got here?”
“I have no clue.” I crossed my arms. “I honestly don’t know how I can help. I was in the studio when they told me Henderson had a heart attack. Can I go now? I don’t want to be late for my class.”
“A few more questions.”
I shifted my weight.
“When I walked in, you mentioned someone named Fletcher.”
“He was a guest on the show today.”
“You think he brought in the soil?”
“I assume. He tracked dirt all over the studio. Not uncommon for an archaeologist.” Detective Bozo.
Lopez turned to the guy who was bagging the trash contents. “Benson, make sure you collect soil samples from the studio as well.” Lopez’s attention returned to me. “Does this Fletcher have a last name?”
“Yes.”
Lopez’s jaw tightened and released. Tightened and released. “What is it?” Tightened and released.
“Murdock.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
Plenty, but I didn’t think Lopez wanted the unabridged history on me and Fletcher. “He’s a field archaeologist who recently returned from Egypt. He won’t stay in the states long. He never does.”
“Was he the last one to see Henderson?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were they both guests on today’s show?”
“Yes.”
“So they were in the green room at the same time?”
“Possibly. I didn’t see him before the show.”
“Who? Murdock or Henderson?” Lopez tapped his pen on his pad.
“Fletch—Mr. Murdock. I saw Professor Henderson in the hall.”
Lopez raised his eyebrows. “Was he alone?”
“No. He was with a colleague.”
“Name?”
“Peter Kipling.” Should I mention the argument? Messing with Lopez’s head was one thing, but I’d watched enough crime TV to know withholding information could be serious. Yet, what information did I really have? If I mentioned the argument it would look bad for Peter.
I couldn’t trust Lopez. He’d most likely turn this investigation into a circus. I had to speak with Peter face to face. It was the least I could do for an innocent man.
“Here’s my business card.”
I jammed it in my bag.
“If you remember anything pertinent to this investigation, please give me a call. Before you leave, Officer Benson needs to fingerprint you and take photos of the bottom of your shoes.” He pointed to the guy on his hands and knees searching under the sofa.
I hesitated, glancing at my boots that probably cost more than his paycheck.
“You can either remove them yourself, or I can do it for you.”
“Whatever you need. I wouldn’t want to impede this investigation.” I reluctantly pulled off my Dolce & Gabbana’s. “But these weren’t the shoes I was wearing when Henderson died.”
“Then I’ll need those shoes.”
I sighed and crossed my arms. At this rate, there was no way I’d make it to class on time.
He raised his eyebrows. “Do I have to get a search warrant?”
“Of course not, I have nothing to hide. But I hope you don’t spend too much of the taxpayers’ money on this ghost hunt. The man had a heart condition. There wasn’t enough time for him to be murdered.”
Lopez straightened as if he grew a spine. “Mari, things aren’t always as they seem.” His coal eyes bored into my soul. “If Henderson was murdered, and I’m not saying he was, but if he was, I can promise you, someone is going down. Hard.”
I held back emotion, the ache in my head ballooning. As if that could make up for letting my mother’s killer go free.
CHAPTER FIVE
11:10 a.m.
Lyndon University Department of Archaeology
WHEN I WALKED INTO the Archaeology offices after class, I didn’t expect the tidal wave of emptiness to drag me under. The place usually surged with gossip and flirtatious interns. Not today. And I was glad. I was in no shape to paste on my condolences.
I surveyed the empty lounge. Tribal masks, ancient tools, and posters of Egypt, Mesopotamia, Mayan ruins, and other exotic locations adorned the walls. In the corner of the room the white lights on the fake Christmas tree twinkled. Nothing out of place except the bouquet of flowers on the secretary’s desk. But I could feel death in the air, discreet and patient, trying to snare anyone that came close to its web.
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Sneezing, I hurried into my office. The stress of the morning’s events clung to me, and I sank into my chair. My mind swirled with everything I had to do before Christmas break, but I couldn’t focus.
A loud bang drew me from my mental cyclone. I peeked out of my office, searching for the secretary’s day-of-the-week polyester dress. Every day Candy Finch wore the same style only in different colors, accented with a matching scrunchy around her salt-and- pepper up-do. Today was Monday. She’d be wearing mauve with mustard-colored flowers that brought out the yellow in her amber eyes. Though she’d never be a pageant winner, or runner up for that matter, she could charm a rat from the belly of a snake. And in Texas, that was worth more than a satin sash.
“Come on, git going.” Her ample figure jiggled as she gave the copy machine a whack. It whined to life. My middle warmed like I had a stomach full of Nonna’s pasta fagioli. Over the years, I often wondered if I should tutor Candy for her fashion dyslexia and give her pointers in elocution. Yet if I did, I knew she’d lose her appeal. I didn’t know why, but without her around the office I’d feel lost.
Breathing deeply, I walked over and placed my hand on her soft shoulder. “Oh, Mari!” She turned and greeted me with puffy eyes and a mama-bear hug. Her Texas twang, soothing. “He was so young. Fifty-five years old! Land sakes, that’s only eight years older than me. It don’t make no sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I sneezed.
“Oh, my word. The flowers.” Candy snatched a Kleenex from the box next to the copier and handed it to me. “I’m so sorry, I’ve gone and left my head. I’ll get rid of them.”
“No, don’t.” I admired the red and yellow striped marigolds surrounded by crimson roses. White snapdragons accented the bouquet. “They’re beautiful. You didn’t mention you were dating again.”
“Oh, goodness, no. No one could ever take George’s place. They’re condolences for Professor Henderson.” She wiped her nose with the crumpled tissue in her hand.