Was this man a moron? “I don’t want you going through my things!”
“Tell me about your green shoes.”
Huh? “What about them?”
“When’s the last time you wore them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Today? Yesterday?”
“I told you I didn’t wear them today.”
“Then when?”
“I don’t know.”
Detective Standish planted his arms on the table and leaned forward. His eyes lasered right through her. “Laura. We found blood on those shoes.”
She stilled. “What?”
“You have any idea why that would be?”
“There’s no blood on those shoes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re mine. I’d know if I got blood on them. Besides, how would I do that?”
“You tell me.”
“I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”
The detective surveyed her. “So you have no idea how the blood got there?”
“No.”
He nodded. Gazed away for a moment. “You know we’re going to test that blood.”
“Test it for what?”
“To see if it matches your mother.”
The words hit her deep in the gut. “What are you talking about?”
“You tell me, Laura. Do you think it will?”
What was happening here? “Why would it?”
“We’ll have the results in a few days. You might want to go ahead and tell us now.”
“Tell you what?”
“How the blood got on your shoes.”
“I don’t know!” She glared at him. “And I don’t believe you anyway.”
“Okay.” He looked downward for a moment, as if processing. “I’ll need those shoes now.” He pointed to her feet.
“Right now?”
He nodded.
“What if I said you can’t have ’em? You already took my other pair.”
“I’m sorry, but I need them. Please take them off.”
Laura felt her jaw go rock hard. She pushed back from the table and flung her upper body over to yank at her shoes. She sat up and slapped them down on the table. “There. Happy now?”
The detective’s expression never changed. Just that same placid face, like she wasn’t yelling at him, like she wasn’t about to strangle his neck. He picked up one of the shoes and turned it over.
It had blood on the sole.
Laura jerked back. Her eyes filled with tears. Her mother’s dried blood, on the bottom of her shoes. She brought a hand to her mouth, pressed her lips hard. The detective watched her cry, saying nothing.
She hiccupped inside, pulled herself together. “I … didn’t know that was there. I guess I walked in it when …”
The picture came roaring back for the millionth time. The footprints. The blood. Her mother’s body …
Laura gulped the rest of her water.
The detective leaned forward, gazing at the tops of her shoes. What was he looking at? He sat back. “So you say you got blood on the bottom of these shoes when you came inside the house today and found your mom.”
She nodded. Her throat got all cloggy again. She didn’t want to cry anymore.
Detective Standish rubbed his temple. “Here’s the thing, Laura. You see the tops of these shoes? There’s no tiny blood spots—at least that I can see right now—on the top of them. We call those tiny spots blood spatter. They happen when someone is hit with a heavy object. The blood sprays out in all directions—”
“I know what blood spatter is.” Laura couldn’t decide if her voice sounded hard … or dead. “I watch cop shows too.”
He ignored the cutting remark. “Okay. Those other shoes we took from your closet—the green ones? They had blood on the soles, like these. They also had blood spatter across the tops.”
Laura listed her head to one side. It felt so heavy. “So …”
“It tells us those shoes were present at the time your mother was attacked.”
She frowned at him. “Somebody wore my shoes?”
“Looks like it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Would you like to tell me why?”
“I have no idea!”
He lifted his chin in a slow nod. “Another thing about those shoes. The pattern on the sole is a little different than these.” He picked up one of the shoes from the table and turned it over. “See this, the way these spokes go out from the middle? Your other pair has more of a zigzag geometric pattern. That pattern matches the footprints on the carpet in your house. The prints leading away from your parents’ bedroom into your room.”
Laura could only stare at him. Her brain refused to put it all together.
“Why do you think the pattern on that pair of shoes matches the prints on the carpet, Laura?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have an idea.”
Some pathway in her soggy brain cleared. “Are you telling me that someone came into our house, put on my shoes, attacked my mom, then took off my shoes and put them back in the closet? That’s insane. Why would anybody do that?”
Why would anybody kill her mom at all?
Detective Standish gave her a long, hard look. “No. I’m not saying that.” He kept looking at her, until her skin felt all crawly. Until she wanted to slide right under the table, away from those eyes.
“There’s something else we found in your closet, hidden underneath that pile of dirty clothes.”
Laura stilled. She couldn’t imagine what he was talking about, but the tone of his voice said it was bad.
“We found a hammer. Looks like it belongs to a set of tools from your garage.”
Laura screwed up her face. A hammer? Underneath her clothes?
“Laura. That hammer has blood on it.”
Slowly she leaned forward, her eyes never leaving his face. “Blood?” She could only whisper the word.
He nodded.
“My … mom’s?” Her whole body started to tingle.
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. Why would it be?”
Why wouldn’t it be? It wasn’t her own.
“We’ll test it. Like the blood on your shoes.”
Laura swallowed, struggling to understand. She got it, really. Deep down. But it just didn’t make any sense.
“Do you think somebody used that hammer to kill my mom?”
“Looks that way. She has marks on her face and skull fractures that match indentations that hammer would make.”
Skull fractures. “You mean someone hit her in the head with it?”
The detective gave that slow nod of his. “Many times.”
All the blood. That’s where it had come from—her head? She’d been hit so hard her skull broke. Nausea rippled through Laura. “You have to find out who did this.”
“I agree. I think it’s time you told me about it, Laura.”
Her mind wouldn’t compute. Didn’t want to compute. “Tell you what?”
“What really happened.”
“I already told you what happened. Twice.”
“I don’t think you’ve been telling me the truth.”
She stared at him, heart fluttering. “Why do you think that?”
He shifted in his chair. “You remember when your dad first got to the house? You were out on the lawn. You hugged him. Remember what you said over and over?”
She shook her head.
“You said, ‘I didn’t mean it.’”
Oh. Yeah.
“What were you talking about?”
Laura dropped her chin. “I was fighting with my mom the day before—I told you that. And after I … saw her, I felt so bad about it.”
“So when you said ‘I didn’t mean it’—what did it refer to exactly?”
“Everything I’d said when I was mad at her. The whole fight.”
; “I see.” The detective scratched his cheek. “Why would you think of fighting with her after you’d just found her dead?”
Laura’s heart wouldn’t stop fluttering. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“You don’t want to tell me what happened?”
“I’ve already told you what happened! What are you, stupid?”
He shot her a long look. “Laura, you haven’t. I know you haven’t. Because nothing you’ve told me lines up with the evidence.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“There are fingerprints on that hammer.”
“Good. Maybe that’ll tell you who did this.”
“We’re going to test them against your fingerprints.”
She raised a shoulder.
“Have you touched that hammer?”
“No.”
“You’ve never touched that hammer. So we won’t find your prints on it.”
A memory flashed. “Oh, wait. Last week I used a hammer. I put up a picture in my bedroom.”
“What picture?”
“Of me and Kylie. She took it with her camera, and it turned out really cool. She printed it out on a big piece of paper and gave it to me. I nailed it on my wall. Then I think I just left the hammer on my dresser. I didn’t put it back in the garage.”
“And this was what day?”
Who cared? “I don’t remember.”
“Would your dad know?”
“My dad never goes in my room.”
Detective Standish sat back and sighed. “You know what, I’m getting tired of this. It’s time you told me the truth.”
Of all the— “You’re getting tired of it? How about me?”
“Then tell me what really happened.”
“I have told you!”
He pulled in a long breath, his voice softening. “Sometimes people make mistakes. I think you made a mistake. I don’t think you walked in the door of your house planning on killing your mom. But things got out of control. And, Laura, now you need to do the right thing. You need to tell me the truth. It will go much better for you if you do. So please, help me help you.”
Laura stared at him. This guy was out of his mind.
A long minute ticked by. Detective Standish spread both hands, as if to say come on. Laura shook her head.
The detective sighed again. “Okay, then. Let me tell you how it went.”
Fine. Since he knew so much.
“You got off the bus at 3:20. Went into your house two to three minutes later. Your mom was there. You got into an argument somewhere upstairs. Maybe you stormed into your room. Your mom followed. Like you just said, the hammer was still there from when you used it to hang the picture. You picked it up, threatened your mom—”
“Are you crazy?”
“She ran into her room. You followed. You started hitting her. And you just lost it. You hit her again. And again. Soon she went down by the side of her bed. And you kept on hitting.”
Laura’s breaths came hard, her chest rising and falling. This guy was out of his mind.
“Suddenly—it was over. Your mom wasn’t moving. And you panicked. You hadn’t meant to do this. Now you had to figure out what to do. You ran into your room, still holding the hammer. Looked down at your shoes and saw they had blood on them. You stopped and took them off. Hid them in your closet under a pile of clothes, along with the hammer. But you had to replace your shoes, so you put on the blue pair. Then you called 9-1-1.”
Was the room moving? Or was it just her head? Laura tried to talk, but nothing came out.
“Isn’t that what happened, Laura?”
She shook her head. Shook it and shook it until her teeth rattled. Who was this man to say such things? To even think them? She wanted to strangle him right here. Wanted to punch his teeth in. Her hands trembled. Her body felt like Jello. Somehow she got her legs under her, pushed back her chair. She stood, swaying. Planted her hands on the table. Laura leaned forward, looking the detective in the eye. “Don’t. You. Ever. Say those things again. Don’t. You. Ever. Talk to me again. Because I can promise you—I will never talk to you!”
She flung her chair aside and stomped to the door. Yanked it open, barged out, and slammed it behind her.
She couldn’t breathe.
Laura threw wild looks up and down the hall. Which way? Where was her dad? She needed him now. Wait until she told him what the detective had said—
“Laura.” Detective Standish appeared beside her. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere.”
“Get away from me.” She veered down the hall.
“Laura, stop. Now.”
She kept going. He caught her arm and whirled her around.
That’s when she saw the cuffs in his hand.
April 2013
Chapter 7
The day after Clara Crenshaw’s murder went from bad to worse.
I’d returned home after talking to Jack and Beth Grayson, and seeing Billy King, intent on pulling myself together so I could head back out. I had to visit Clara’s parents. Tell them how sorry I was. It would be a difficult visit, seeing their grief up close, feeling mine mingle with theirs. Was Dora Crenshaw fighting guilt of her own over her daughter’s death? She’d left the wedding shower about fifteen minutes before Clara, too stricken by one of her headaches to help clean up.
Once inside my house I felt all energy slip away.
Nicole and Colleen were gone, Nicole to her college classes and Colleen to her job at Grangers Gift Store. Pete was in the kitchen, washing up his breakfast dishes. Nobody could get a kitchen messier cooking eggs and bacon than Pete Baler. He stopped his work when he saw me, a dripping cast iron pan in his hands. “Del-Belle.” His blue eyes shone with concern. “How are ya?”
The comforting sight of him made me want to cry. All I could do was shake my head.
“You had any breakfast?”
I lifted a shoulder. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
“I … can’t. Not now.”
Pete put down the heavy pan and dried his hands on his battered jeans. “Come on over here, let’s sit down.” He beckoned me across the kitchen and into our gathering room. Pointed at the couch. I sat, and he settled beside me. “Where ya been?” His voice was gentle.
I looked at my lap. “Chief Melcher wanted to see me again. More questions.” I told Pete about Billy King. Measuring the bush in the Graysons’ yard. Seeing Billy at the site where Clara died. Pete leaned away from me as I talked, elbow on his thigh, watching my face. He had this way of hearing what I said—and what I didn’t. He’d set himself as my protector long ago, as soon as he moved into the house. He loved me like a granddaughter and sometimes bossed me like one, too.
“Aw.” Pete waved a hand when I fell silent. “Melcher’ll come around. He can’t hold it against you for long that you forgot to tell him somethin’ last night. Just after you’d found your good friend dead? What’s he expect of a gal?”
I wanted to believe that. But there were so many nuances of the encounter between the chief and me that I couldn’t explain to Pete. The vibes that had quivered in the air. My hostility at his questions of Billy, and the chief’s reaction.
“What if he doesn’t ‘come around,’ Pete? I got the feeling my description of the man’s height wouldn’t be enough to turn the police from looking at Billy. He was seen in the area. Recognized. That means a lot.”
Pete grunted. “Billy couldn’t a killed Clara.”
“I know.”
“They’ll see that soon enough.”
“You don’t know that, Pete!” A dust storm kicked up inside me. Whirled old dirt around. “People can be accused of crimes they didn’t do, and their lives are never the same. Especially if the lead detective is under a lot of pressure to solve the case—like Melcher is. Or maybe the detective’s just got an ego too big to fail. Melcher again.”
Pete sat back, one finge
r pressed against his bearded chin. “Well, we just can’t let that happen.”
But how to stop it? I’d crossed a line with Melcher. He would not listen to me anymore. “Melcher is bound to question Billy soon. And I’m afraid Billy will lie, like he did to me.”
“Maybe he’s not lyin’. Maybe he wasn’t on Brewer Street at all.”
I pictured Billy’s body language as he’d made his denial. Heard the defensive tone in his words. “He lied, Pete. It was obvious to me. And it’ll be more than obvious to Melcher.”
Pete ruminated on that a moment. Then shook his head. “What’s happenin’ is, the chief’s gettin’ sidetracked. And I’m here to tell ya, sidetrackin’ a train’s tricky business. Can cause some crazy accidents. Reminds me …” He focused across the room, his eyes taking on that faraway look he got when gazing into his cherished past. I so envied him that.
“Back in ’89, on a record cold day, one of our freight trains picked up three pusher locomotives in Helena, Montana for help gettin’ over the Mullan Pass. Then the lead engine got some electrical problem. The crew parked the train at the Austin siding, east of the Pass. They uncoupled the engines from the cars—I think there were forty-eight of ’em—and set the air brakes, but not the hand brakes. ’Bout 5:30 in the mornin’ the crazy cold temperature—I’m talkin’ thirty-two degrees below zero—caused the air brakes to fail on those cars. They started rollin’ backwards. Rollin’ and rollin’, pickin’ up speed, headed back into Helena. Nobody was awake to see ’em comin’, but even if they had … There’s just no stoppin’ that kind of thing. The cars crashed into a parked work train at a crossin’ in town, right near a college. Whole train caught fire and exploded. Amazin’ no one was killed. But it did a lot of damage and knocked out power. That’s pretty cold to be goin’ without heat for days. People got real scared. That kinda freak accident happens to you once, and you suddenly realize life’s full of random events that can rock you at anytime. Took the whole town years to come back from all the damage—physical and emotional.”
For a moment we both sat in silence, picturing the scene.
Pete sighed. “It’s too hard a thing, stoppin’ a tragedy like that once it’s done started. You got to keep it from ever gettin’ goin’. Put on those hand brakes as a precaution, know what I mean?”
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