Countdown

by Susan Rogers Cooper

  They were a curious couple, these two women of a certain age. Jean was tall at five feet ten inches, a healthy one hundred and fifty pounds, dark hair – that which hadn’t already turned gray – freckled skin and always accompanied by her crutches and the one brace on her left leg. And then there was Jewel: petite at five feet two inches, weighing in at one-twenty at the most, with blonde hair (helped along lately), blue eyes like her mama’s and a cute little overbite that still made Harmon swoon.

  A hearse from the funeral home came to pick up the remains from the airport, and one of their limos had been assigned by Mrs Carmichael to bring Jean and her guest to her home. Although Jean had already secured two rooms at a nearby hotel, Mrs Carmichael had taken the liberty of canceling them and insisting that the two women stay with the family. Knowing what she intended to do, Jean wasn’t pleased with the arrangement, nor was she pleased with Mrs Carmichael’s controlling nature. Even without the abuse, Jean felt Paula would have had a rough upbringing.

  The limo driver took them to one of the older, statelier sections of the city, on the Kansas side, where the rich derived their wealth from granddaddies who made a killing off Kansas City beef – by the hoof. When the driver finally made a left into a driveway, both women were somewhat taken aback.

  ‘I thought Harmon’s house was big when I first saw it,’ Jewel said, ‘but this is amazing.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Jean said. Paula had never said, implied or acted like she came from serious money, but the house before them was definitely what one would call a mansion, with large and beautifully cultivated grounds.

  The driver took the limo through a break in the tall evergreens that faced the street and then wound through large trees and beautiful gardens until it reached the circle in front of the entry to the home. The house itself looked for all the world like an English country manor house. It appeared to spread over at least a couple of acres, the grounds – in front, anyway – adding another three to four acres.

  The limo driver stopped the car and opened the doors for the two women. Jean and Jewel headed up the steps while the driver brought their bags. When Jean attempted to tip him, he said, ‘No, thank you, ma’am – Mrs Carmichael has been more than generous.’ He tipped his hat as the front door opened and headed down the steps to the waiting car.

  The woman standing at the door was obviously not Mrs Carmichael. She was way too young, and Jean doubted that Mrs Carmichael would be caught dead in a polyester maid’s uniform.

  ‘Doctor McDonnell?’ the young woman asked.

  ‘Yes, and this is Mrs Monk,’ Jean said.

  The young woman smiled and bowed ever so slightly. ‘This way please. I’ll have someone bring your bags.’

  They followed her into an enormous foyer with a mosaic tile floor in a bursting star pattern, at the center of which sat a large brass filigreed table, upon which was an old Asian-style vase filled with freshly cut flowers. Could it be Ming? Jean wondered. Then she wondered what Paula must have thought about Jean’s parents’ home with its Norman Rockwell framed prints, it’s early American furniture and the plain brown carpet that had been in the house when they’d bought it shortly after Jean was born.

  The foyer was lit by a large skylight in the domed ceiling. There were four doors, two on each side of the foyer. At the back was a carved mahogany staircase and there were two sets of stairs on either end of the foyer, meeting halfway up at a convex railing where Jean could easily see someone standing and belting out, ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.’ A wide single staircase went up from there to the higher floor or floors. She wasn’t sure, but from the outside it looked as if the place was at least three stories.

  Two of the four doors in the foyer were open, the first on both sides. The one on the right appeared to be a living room, or lounge, salon, parlor – whatever someone in this tax bracket called such a room – and on the left she could see an enormous room with a dining table that could seat at least fifty comfortably. The young woman dressed in the maid’s uniform passed both these rooms and stopped in front of the second door on the right. She opened it, stepped inside and announced them.

  ‘Ma’am, Doctor McDonnell and her guest, Mrs Monk, are here.’ With that she stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  The room was obviously a library, with a large fireplace burning brightly – although it was already fairly warm in the house. It was two stories with a catwalk around the second floor which could be reached by a spiral staircase. The entire second floor was filled with wall-to-wall bookcases. The fireplace wall was flanked on both sides by tall bookcases. Two other walls of the room were also covered with bookcases, while the outside wall consisted of two sets of French windows that looked out on a veranda separating the library and the room on the other side – whatever that might be. Jean couldn’t help hoping it was the guest room, because as beautiful as the staircase was she wasn’t looking forward to traversing it several times a day.

  There were three occupants in the room. An older man, an older woman and a younger woman, at least Jean’s age if not a little bit older. She was the one who stood up first.

  ‘Doctor McDonnell,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘I’m Constance Carmichael Mills, Paula’s sister.’ She turned, her hand languidly posed toward the older woman. ‘This is my mother, Vivian. I believe you met by phone.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Jean said, stepping closer to the sofa on which the older couple sat and extending her hand. The older woman, Mrs Carmichael, touched Jean’s hand briefly then pulled hers away.

  Jean knew Constance was older than Paula, but didn’t know by how much. Whatever her age, Constance Carmichael Mills was trying desperately to hide it. Slightly overweight, her Laura Ashley-style dress clung a little too tightly, her blonde hair was a little too yellow and her makeup a smidge overdone. Even as bad as Paula had looked when Jean first saw her at the airport, it was still obvious that she had been the ‘pretty’ sister.

  Their mother, on the other hand, was the epitomy of a well-heeled dowager. White hair touched her ears in a smart but mature fashion, her dress had a high neck, reducing the risk of seeing a waddle, and she wore expensive but flat shoes. Her makeup was understated.

  ‘And I’d like all of you to meet my sister-in-law, Jewel Monk,’ Jean said as Jewel simply nodded her head at the two women.

  ‘And this is my father, Walter Carmichael,’ Constance said, indicating the older man who sat hunched over, his eyes never leaving the leaping flames in the fireplace.

  Jean extended her hand, but the old lady said, ‘Don’t bother. He wouldn’t know what to do with it. Alzheimer’s, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Jean said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Vivian Carmichael said. ‘He’s much more pleasant now than he’s ever been. Wouldn’t you agree, Constance?’

  ‘Mother’s kidding,’ Constance said. ‘Please, won’t you both have a seat.’

  Jean and Jewel sat down on the brocade love seat Constance had indicated.

  ‘Penny will be bringing in some refreshments shortly,’ Constance said, taking a seat in a matching brocade armchair.

  ‘Has Nicholas taken their things upstairs?’ Vivian asked her daughter.

  ‘I’m sure he has, Mother,’ Constance said.

  Turning to Jean, Vivian said, ‘Don’t worry. That staircase is just for show. There’s an elevator behind it that we use to get up and down. You look like you’d have as much trouble as me.’

  For the first time Jean noticed that there was a wheelchair next to the sofa. ‘That’s good,’ Jean said and smiled.

  ‘I talked to the person you call a coroner in your little town,’ Vivian said. ‘He told me Paula was shot in the back, so I saw no reason to have a closed casket. We’ll also have a viewing tonight. The funeral director has assured me his people will have her ready in plenty of time.’

  Jean nodded, wondering if all of Paula’s acting out could be laid at the feet of this cold mother of hers.


  ‘Please don’t think harsh thoughts of me,’ Vivian said as if reading Jean’s mind. ‘I just see no reason to pussyfoot around. Paula is dead and it is my duty to see that she is properly sent on her way to the hereafter – whatever the hell that might be—’

  ‘Mother,’ Constance said, giving her a chastising look.

  Vivian Carmichael laughed. ‘Don’t mind her!’ she said, waving a dismissive hand toward her daughter. ‘She used to be married to a preacher man and unfortunately some of that rubbed off on her, right, darling?’

  ‘He was the bishop of the Anglican church of Kansas City, Mother, not a “preacher man,” as you are so fond of calling him!’ Constance said, with just a little heat.

  ‘Where did he go?’ Walter Carmichael broke in.

  Vivian patted his hand. ‘He died, Walter. Remember? And he left poor Constance with that brood of rug rats.’

  ‘Who?’ Walter said, then proceeded to pick his nose.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Constance, call Ingrid!’ Vivian said, shying away from her husband.

  Constance stood up and pulled a bell by the fireplace. There were several there, each labeled. Jean craned her neck as inconspicuously as possible and thought she read ‘nurse’ in big, black, bold handwriting.

  A woman appeared almost immediately, dressed in – ta-da – a nurse’s scrubs.

  ‘Get him out!’ Vivian said, enraged. ‘He’s doing it again! Can’t you get him to stop that? It’s disgusting!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the nurse, Ingrid, said. ‘Please, Mr Walter, you come with me, now. We go upstairs, OK? We watch a show, OK?’

  After the nurse had walked Walter Carmichael out of the library, Vivian said, ‘He may have been hard to live with before but this nose picking of his is purely disgusting! I may have to have him confined!’

  ‘Mother!’ Constance said, still standing by the fireplace.

  ‘Well,’ Vivian said, obviously beginning to back down. ‘Maybe we could put a muzzle on his nose?’

  Constance looked at her mother for a moment, then both women burst out laughing.

  OK, so maybe motive was an issue. Why would a guy who’d just moved to Longbranch less than six months ago kill a guy who lived all the way out in Blantonville? Nobody went to Blantonville if they could help it. Maybe Drew Gleeson just tripped and fell in, or didn’t know where he was going and stumbled in. And Darrell Blanton saw him and didn’t like a stranger intruding in his little township, and beat him up. The killing was payback.

  Yeah, I know. Probably not.

  So why did Drew kill Darrell? Why do people kill? Love or money, the two biggies. Darrell had a double-wide with a mortgage, a ten-year-old pick-up truck and part ownership in his sister Marge’s dead husband’s car repair shop. I figured they’d done an OK business these last couple of years as a lot of high-end cars had gone missing in the county and the Blantonville Car Repair had had its lights burning way into the night. It’s just a theory I hadn’t yet been able to prove. But even if it was true, seven Blanton cousins owned the place so how much money would the newest partner be entitled to? I just wasn’t sure how liquid Darrell’s assets might be at a given moment.

  That left love. OK, I thought. Darrell said Joynell had been messing around on him – that’s why he killed her. Who was she messing with? Drew Gleeson? Could be, I thought. Why not? Drew was a good-looking dude, a hell of a lot more interesting in looks, personality and potential than Darrell Blanton. But how did Darrell find out Joynell was doing the dirty on him? Did he know it was with Drew? So why didn’t he shoot Drew instead of his wife? Because he was a Blanton, and Blantons didn’t hold much stock in their womenfolk. And, I figured, Darrell was apt to figure killing Joynell, a tiny woman who was already kowtowed by her husband, would be a hell of a lot easier than killing a big old guy like Drew.

  Well, that settled it, I thought. Pretty damn obvious: Drew Gleeson and Joynell Blanton were having an affair; Darrell found out and shot his wife. When Drew found out Darrell shot Joynell he went back in the cells and used that digitalis stuff to kill Darrell.

  I called Emmett into my office and explained all this to him in vivid detail. ‘Hum,’ he said.

  ‘Hum hell!’ I said back. ‘That’s what happened!’

  ‘And you’re going to prove this how?’ Emmett asked.

  I blustered for a minute, then said, ‘We’ll check that bag the EMT guys carry and see how much digitalis is gone. Then we’ll canvas Blantonville and the hospital to see if anyone knew they were having an affair.’

  ‘Why the hospital?’ Emmett asked.

  The man is getting stupid in his old age, I swear to God. ‘Because,’ I said, slowly and succinctly like I was talking to Johnny Mac when he was four years old, ‘Drew works for the hospital. He and Joynell had to meet somewhere, right? Why not the hospital? She was visiting a relative, or maybe she was a patient in the ER. God knows I wouldn’t put it past Darrell Blanton to have roughed up his wife.’ I smiled. ‘Hell, maybe he beat her up bad one time and the ambulance had to come out. I can just see it,’ I said, my mind conjuring up the scene. ‘Pretty little Joynell, all beat to hell, lying in a pool of blood. The big, good-looking EMT comes to her rescue.’ I continued to smile. ‘This is good!’ I said.

  ‘If you’re writing a romance novel,’ my second-in-command, soon to be unemployed deputy said.

  The door to the library opened and Penny the maid came in, carrying a tray.

  ‘Oh, goody!’ Vivian said, clapping her hands. ‘Scones!’

  The tray was silver, the tea service on the tray was silver and the silverware was silver, while the teacups and saucers, the serving plate the scones resided on and the small plates for service appeared to Jean to be Wedgwood – as were the two matching little pots that held butter and jam. Penny the maid set the tray on the delicate rosewood table in front of the sofa and backed out of the room.

  Constance poured and handed a cup of tea to her mother first, then to both guests, along with a monogrammed linen napkin, a plate on which she had placed a scone, a small spoonful of butter and another of jam. A silver butter knife rested serenely on the small plate.

  Jean glanced at Jewel but her sister-in-law appeared to be enthralled with the entire ceremony.

  ‘You know,’ Vivian said, after a sip of tea, ‘we normally, under such circumstances, would have the bishop of the Anglican church preside at the funeral, but he died in another woman’s bed several years ago—’

  ‘Mother,’ Constance said for the umpteenth time, having obviously had this bit of family dirty laundry brought up before.

  ‘Oh, Constance, darling, don’t be so childish. Men stray. It’s their nature. God only knows how many women your father bedded over the years. I lost count when I lost interest. I believe that was in the early seventies.’

  ‘I hope the tea is to your liking,’ Constance asked her two guests, swiftly changing the subject.

  ‘Perfect,’ Jewel said. ‘Although I have to disagree with you, Mrs Carmichael—’

  Jean, who was sitting to the left of Jewel, used her good right leg to kick her sister-in-law. Jewel stopped talking.

  ‘About what, my dear?’ Vivian asked, raising the Wedgwood teacup to her lips.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jewel said, then smiled brightly.

  ‘I think she believes you might be wrong in your statement that all men stray,’ Constance said. ‘There are honest, loving men out there, Mother.’

  Vivian made a derisive sound. ‘And they’re not worth the powder to blow them up,’ she said. ‘A real man is insatiable. A real man needs more than one woman to satisfy him.’

  Jean noticed that Jewel’s smile was looking a bit ragged. She put her hand on Jewel’s and squeezed. Jewel squeezed back.

  Jean stood up. ‘Thank you so much for your hospitality and the wonderful scones—’

  ‘Aren’t they divine?’ Vivian said.

  ‘Definitely,’ Jean said, trying on her best smile. ‘But the flight was crowded and we really need
to rest for a bit—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Constance, get these girls upstairs to their rooms! Call Penny!’ Vivian said.

  Constance got up and rang another bell, this time with ‘maid’ written in the same bold, black handwriting.

  Penny arrived, was told to escort the women to their rooms and led them off.

  I had Anthony Dobbins check the hospital records for any indication that Joynell Blanton had ever been a patient there. But he came back empty handed.

  ‘They need a warrant, Milt,’ he told me when he entered my office.

  I sighed. ‘So go get one,’ I told him.

  ‘Well, I tried that, Milt. I went to Judge Schnell with what we’ve got and he said it wasn’t enough.’

  I sighed again. This was gonna be harder than I’d thought. ‘OK,’ I finally said. ‘Just go to the ER and ask around. See if anyone there knew Joynell or if they’d seen Drew Gleeson in the company of a woman of Joynell’s description.’

  Anthony pushed himself up from one of my visitors’ chairs. ‘Will do,’ he said, and headed back out the side door to his squad car.

  Although it wasn’t a productive day as far as catching Darrell Blanton’s killer, it worked out well in other ways. Like, Dalton got to a wreck on Highway Five faster than anybody else and was able to pull a guy out of a car that was on fire only seconds before the gas tank blew. Score one for the good guys. Jasmine, although off-duty, was going into the Stop ’N Shop just as two guys wearing ski masks and carrying a sack of cash came rushing out. She tripped one, kneed the other in the nuts and had her side arm out and the boys under arrest in less than two minutes. Score two for the good guys.

  Then all hell broke loose – yet again. The rescue team of Longbranch volunteer firefighters was still working up in Bishop, trying to recover, if not people, then at least bodies. It appears they were excavating one site when four of the five fell into a hole a story deep. In Oklahoma we don’t do basements much, which is why we have to build storm cellars out in the backyards. But this particular house did have a basement, and that’s what they fell into. I had to call all my guys and gals in to rescue the rescue team, and by the time we got them all to the hospital with another team of EMTs – not Drew Gleeson and his partner this time, thank God – the ER was much too busy for Anthony to interview anybody about whether they’d seen Drew Gleeson with Joynell Blanton.