by Debra Webb
But this was far too obvious to ignore.
Billy accepted her call, made a comment to whoever was with him and then asked, “Hey, Ro, what’s up?”
“Anything on the bones yet?” It was too early, she knew, but the need to ask would not be ignored. How had the remains lain in those woods all these years only yards from where Raven had been found? Rowan had gone to that particular spot numerous times before leaving for college. Certainly it was possible the remains had been there long before Raven’s death. Determining the age of the bones was well outside Rowan’s expertise.
“Nothing yet. Burt’s sending the remains to the lab in Nashville. We most likely won’t hear anything for a while.”
She really hadn’t expected any other answer. Pushing the troubling thoughts aside, she asked the more pressing question. “Do you have a minute to meet me at the house where Geneva Phillips lived? Her older daughter is staying there while she’s in town for the funeral, but I don’t want to show up at her door without you.”
“Sure. I can break away for a few minutes. You mind telling me why we’re going to her house?”
A reasonable question, yet not so easy to answer. “I’m not entirely sure. I just need to look at her bathtub.”
There was a distinct pause. “Well, all righty then. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Rowan appreciated her friend’s trust. He hadn’t pressed for an answer on her reasoning. She hoped she wasn’t wasting his time or her own.
The trip from First Avenue to Woodlawn took only a few minutes. A quick detour around the courthouse square, a short drive along Dinah Shore Boulevard and a left at the drugstore onto Woodlawn.
Billy was there already. He climbed out of his truck and met her on the sidewalk. “Looks like Jennifer’s home.”
The car with the Kentucky plates sat in the driveway. Mrs. Phillips’s older daughter had driven from Louisville to Winchester early last evening. “We should tell her that you need another look at the bathroom to finish up your final report. I really don’t want to upset her if I’m wrong about this.”
Billy’s brow furrowed. “I don’t usually do reports on this sort of thing. That would fall under Burt’s purview.”
Rowan grimaced. “I know. I’m hoping Jennifer isn’t familiar with the standard operating procedures related to the chief of police responding to a 911 call.”
He cocked his head and studied her. “Care to let me in on why we need to do this at all?”
“I’d rather wait until I’ve had a look at the tub.” Her face pinched into another of those grimaces. She should just tell him. But then if she was wrong... Since learning the shocking truth about Julian, she didn’t trust her instincts the way she once had. “If that’s okay with you.”
He shrugged. Glanced at the house. “Sure. I trust that whatever you’ve got on your mind is important. So how about we knock on the door and get to it?”
“Thanks, Billy. I really appreciate you indulging me this way.”
As they moved up the sidewalk, he said, “Burt mentioned you were right about the remains being female. He thinks maybe they’ve been in those woods at least two decades, maybe three. He and a couple of his coroner buddies from surrounding counties went to a seminar at the Body Farm last summer.”
The Body Farm was actually a research facility for studying the decomposition of human remains. Rowan had visited once, many years ago.
Rowan nodded. Burt’s estimation was slightly longer than hers, but the way the vegetation had wrapped around the remains, it would have been difficult to make an accurate conclusion without a closer examination, even for someone trained in the field. She pushed the doorbell. “Any unresolved disappearances from that time frame?”
Rowan didn’t recall any missing person cases in the Winchester area from when she was a kid. But unless it was someone she knew or the circumstances were particularly gruesome or shocking, she might not, especially if it was around the same time as Raven’s death. The final six months of that year had been especially devastating for her and her father.
Billy shook his head. “I can’t recall any, but I’ve got one of my detectives looking back over the case logs beginning thirty years ago. Hopefully he’ll have something for me before the day is done.”
It was always possible the location where the remains were found was nothing more than a dump site. The actual murder might not have happened in Winchester or even in Franklin County, for that matter. Before she could stop her mind from taking that path, the images from all those souvenirs Julian had curated from his many, many victims streamed through her brain.
Jennifer Brinkley opened the door, banishing the images from Rowan’s thoughts. The grieving woman’s eyes were red and puffy from crying. Understandable. Her daughter, Kelley, who had done the driving from Louisville, stood beside her. Kelley was a senior in college. Her father was the one who was traveling back from London today. It suddenly occurred to Rowan that Jennifer and Patty’s father had died around the same time as Rowan’s. Which made their mother’s death all the more painful.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Billy said, “but I was hoping to have one last look in the bathroom in order to finish up my final report. I failed to take a few measurements.”
Sounded like a reasonable excuse to Rowan. Unless the other woman had recently experienced the death of a family member that required the involvement of the police, the average person wouldn’t have a clue what sorts of reports needed to be submitted. Particularly a death considered anything other than natural causes.
Jennifer looked confused for a moment, but then she apparently dismissed her questions and nodded. “Of course, Chief. Whatever you need to do.”
When she looked to Rowan, Rowan said, “We met last night and went over the final arrangements for your mother.”
The other woman nodded. “Of course. You’re the undertaker’s daughter—I mean the undertaker.” A weary smile tugged at her lips. “I remember you from high school. I was a senior when you were a freshman, so you probably don’t remember me. But everyone knew you.”
Rowan mustered up a smile. Folks in Winchester had called her the undertaker’s daughter her whole life. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered if that would change now that she was the undertaker. “I don’t remember you, but I remember your mother. She was extra kind to me after my mother died.”
Jennifer nodded as more tears welled in her eyes. “She always tried to be kind to anyone having a difficult time.”
“She did,” Rowan agreed. “Chief Brannigan thought you might feel more comfortable if I came along with him.”
“Please come in.” Jennifer and her daughter stepped back, opened the door wider. “You know the way,” she said to the chief. “We’ve been using the downstairs bathroom. We really don’t want to go in...that one.”
“I understand,” Billy assured her. “We’ll only be a minute.”
Billy nodded toward the stairs, and Rowan headed in that direction. The house was the only historic home left on the street. Most of the others were traditional ranch-style homes built after the former century-old homes either burned or were torn down for one reason or another. This one still had the original heart-of-pine wood floors and the charm and character of late-nineteenth-century architecture.
The bedrooms were upstairs, as was the bathroom the owner had used. A typical layout with the added luxury of an upstairs bath, probably a former bedroom or part of one. Extra bedrooms were often cannibalized for the sake of an added bath or a larger closet.
“Last door on the left,” Billy said as Rowan reached the second-story landing.
She followed the narrow hall and opened the door. For a long moment she stood in the doorway and took in the small room. On her way home from the old high school that had been torn down a few years back, Rowan had driven along this street many times as a teenager
. The bathroom looked exactly how she had imagined one in this old house would. No more than six feet wide with a vintage pedestal sink to her immediate left, a toilet—a newer model—and then an original-to-the-era claw-foot tub. Above the tub was a window.
Rowan reached into the pocket of her jeans and retrieved the small tape measure she’d brought with her. She extended the measuring tape along the length of the tub to confirm what she suspected.
“I must be getting better at this mind-reading thing,” Billy noted. “You never mentioned measuring anything, and I told Jennifer I needed a few more measurements.”
Focused on the task, Rowan recognized he was speaking to her, so she hummed an mmm-hmm, but her mind was fixed on playing out the sequence of events that ended in the elderly woman’s death. Any way she played it, the numbers didn’t add up.
“Did Mrs. Phillips fall out of the tub?”
Even as she asked the question, Rowan didn’t see how Mrs. Phillips could have landed in a way that would have allowed her to stretch out fully on her back. There was about seven feet of tiled floor between the tub and the door. Chances were she would have fallen onto her side or in a crumpled position. The toilet was in the way of any other scenario.
“She was right there in the tub.” Billy moved closer, his body against Rowan’s so that he could direct her attention as he spoke. He pointed to the end of the tub away from the spout. “Her head was lying against that rim and her feet were down at this end.” He gestured to the drain.
“Her knees were bent?” She had no doubt, but Rowan asked the question anyway.
“That’s right.”
He eyed her a moment, his face close enough for her to smell the aftershave he wore. It was the same one he’d worn back in high school. Classic. Male. Subtle. She breathed it in now, grateful for the familiarity. With her life so upside down of late, she couldn’t help clinging to any semblance of normalcy.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Ro?”
“Something is off with the way she died. The lividity of the body tells us that Mrs. Phillips died lying flat on her back, legs straight. She remained in that position long enough for the lividity to become fixed. At least six or more hours.” Rowan looked back at the tub. “If she had fallen in the tub and stayed in the position in which she was found, the lividity would have been in her buttocks, ankles and feet. Not along her back, thighs and calves.”
“Are you suggesting—” he glanced over his shoulder at the open door, then lowered his voice before continuing “—that someone placed her in the tub after she died?”
Rowan moved her head from side to side. “I’m not suggesting anything, Billy.”
He stared at her, waiting for the rest.
“I am telling you that she couldn’t possibly have died in that position and remained so until she was found yesterday. You said Burt put time of death approximately ten hours before she was found, right?”
Billy nodded, his gaze narrowed in concentration. “So, you believe someone came back—after at least six hours—and moved her into the tub.”
“It’s the only conceivable explanation.” Rowan exhaled a big breath. “It wouldn’t have been an easy task, either, considering her state of rigor by that point.”
He stared at the tub, then stepped back to survey the room as a whole. “Well, damn. If that’s the case, we’re trampling all over a homicide scene.”
Rowan glanced at the door to ensure they were still alone. “You should talk to the younger daughter, Patricia, and find out if her mother had any enemies or if there’s anything missing from the house.”
He nodded his agreement with her suggestion. Rowan bit her tongue at the idea that she’d just told the chief of police how to do his job. She had no right to doubt his skill as an investigator and certainly no authority to order him around. “Sorry,” she offered. “Old habits die hard.”
“No problem. I was thinking the same thing.” He stared at the tub and blew out a breath. “I’ll have Burt come by the funeral home for a second look at the body—Mrs. Phillips.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how he missed this.”
“He had no reason to suspect foul play,” Rowan reminded Billy. The last thing she wanted to do was make the man who had served as county coroner for forty-some-odd years look bad. “The situation appeared straightforward. We humans have a habit of seeing what we expect to see.”
Billy frowned. “But you noticed.”
“Not until I had her on the table.” She gestured to the small room around them. “The lighting in here is poor and her body was folded into that tub. I had the luxury of good lighting and plenty of time without a distraught family member hovering nearby. I’m certain he did the best he could under the circumstances.”
Billy acknowledged her litany of excuses with a nod. “I’m just glad you noticed something was off.”
“Looks like I’m the bearer of bad news a second time today.” So much for keeping a low profile until the gossip about her personal tragedy in Nashville died down.
He nodded, a weary smile on his lips. “I’m just glad you’re home, Ro.”
Sometimes she had a hard time being glad about that, but at the moment she was reasonably happy to be here. Billy made the concept of fitting back into the community considerably easier. Not that she expected easy when it came to her life in this small town. Winchester was a charming, genteel place. But there had never been anything charming and genteel about her life. Her face and name were and always would be associated with death.
Being connected to a now infamous serial killer wasn’t helping.
“We should keep this quiet until we see what Burt has to say,” Billy cautioned.
The warning was the right call, not a suggestion of his doubt regarding her deductions about Mrs. Phillips. Until there was some concrete conclusion about manner of death, there was no reason to upset the family. “I won’t say anything to anyone until you give me the go-ahead.”
Rowan’s gaze landed on the pink bar of soap and the folded pink towel on the closed toilet lid. From all appearances, Mrs. Phillips had been preparing for a bath or shower. Since she hadn’t shown up for church, whoever had entered her home and killed her had caught her readying for Sunday services.
“I’ll call Burt, and we’ll meet you at the funeral home as quickly as I can get him moving.”
Anticipation trickled into Rowan’s veins. She hadn’t expected to ever be involved—even remotely—in another potential homicide investigation. Now suddenly she was in the middle of not one but two.
Rowan nodded. “I’ll be there.”
* * *
By the time Billy and the coroner arrived, Rowan had moved Mrs. Phillips back into the embalming room. She’d positioned the lights on the areas of fixed lividity. The better lighting would help Burt tremendously. He was, after all, well into his seventies. Rowan was extremely thankful for the contacts she wore. Dealing with a face shield was so much easier with contacts than with glasses. Frankly, she doubted Burt’s vision was any worse than her own. She’d worn glasses since she was ten years old. The need for corrective lenses had been another of the few differences between Rowan and her twin sister. With her sister’s ever-burgeoning social life, Rowan couldn’t help wondering what other differences would have developed between them. Would Raven have been married and have had children by now? Would she have stayed and worked with their father? Or would she have left as Rowan did?
Maybe if Raven and their mother had lived, Rowan would have stayed, too.
Just more of those things Rowan would never know.
Billy sat on a stool next to the whiteboard Rowan used to keep track of the steps completed for each new client, the chemicals used and requests from family members related to preparation. There was a high, narrow desk—an old plantation desk—as well. Her father had kept peppermint candy in the top right-hand drawer. He alway
s said nothing went better with the smell of the dead than peppermint.
“You didn’t notice any other marks on her body when you bathed her and did that massage thing you do?” Billy asked.
Rowan stood beside him, too anxious to sit. They had been watching Burt for approximately fifteen minutes now. Though to her knowledge, Billy had never been present during the steps of preparing the recently deceased for internment, he’d insisted she talk him through it back in high school. He’d wanted to tour the embalming room and to know every step of the process. She had been seventeen and he’d been eighteen. He’d just broken up with his latest girlfriend, and she was pretty sure he’d sneaked a couple of his dad’s beers before coming over. He’d wanted to talk, to distract himself from his misery. She’d ended up making him spend the night. He was the only other person who had ever slept in her dead sister’s room.
Her mind had played that night numerous times over the years. Him collapsing onto the twin-size bed. Her tugging at first one boot and then the other. She’d carefully placed his trademark hat on the nightstand and the boots next to that. He’d gone to sleep almost immediately. Looking back, she decided he had passed out. In fact, she was reasonably confident he was more inebriated by that point than he had been when he first arrived. Maybe he’d stashed several beers in his truck. She distinctly recalled him running back out to his truck more than once.
“I didn’t notice any other injuries or abnormalities,” she explained, “and I looked closely once I noticed the contradicting lividity.”
Since Burt began his examination, it had occurred to Rowan that it was not a good thing she had washed the body, shampooed the hair, rinsed away the dried blood...as well as any potential evidence. Particularly since there would need to be a vaginal swab to ensure no sexual assault had occurred and a check for tissue beneath the deceased’s fingernails in the event she fought her attacker during the final moments of her life. Although there was no visible indication such as bruising on her thighs, at this point they couldn’t risk overlooking any evidence. Thankfully, Rowan had not reached the step in her preparations where she cleansed and filled the body cavities.