Countdown

by Susan Rogers Cooper

  All of which put us back another day. I just wanted to wrap this business up. Get Drew Gleeson behind bars with the mama and brother of the man he killed and see what transpired. Personally, I didn’t think he’d survive anywhere near Eunice Blanton.

  Who, by the way, was being treated like a queen. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were being provided by one of many Blanton women who’d come in, shoot dagger stares at me then sit in the cell with Eunice while she’d eat and shoot the shit. Sometimes they brought knitting or crocheting with them, sometimes a deck of cards, dice or dominoes to keep the old lady busy. The only Blanton women who didn’t show up were Eunice’s daughter, Marge, and her granddaughter, Chandra. Eunice never mentioned their names.

  I wasn’t happy. None of my people seemed all that fired up to find Darrell Blanton’s killer, and I think I knew why. They just didn’t give a shit. Because of Darrell Blanton’s own stupidity, my people and/or their loved ones were held hostage for many hours, and one of the party had been shot in the back. Who cared who killed Darrell Blanton? That was what I was thinking my people were thinking. And I sort of understood that. Hell, even I hadn’t cared much at the time. My wife had been one of those hostages, and her friend had been murdered by Earl Blanton. It had been a horrible ordeal for everyone involved, and it was all Darrell Blanton’s fault. If he hadn’t killed his wife I wouldn’t have had to arrest him, and if I hadn’t arrested him, his mama wouldn’t have thought it wise to invade Holly’s bachelorette party and hold everybody hostage. And if she hadn’t done that, all of our womenfolk wouldn’t be experiencing nightmares and trauma, and Paula would still be alive and at my house, insulting me and my redneck ways.

  But the law was the law and as sheriff of Prophesy County, Oklahoma, it was my duty to find, arrest and deliver to trial the person who took Darrell Blanton’s life, for whatever reason. Now, if a jury of his peers decided that Drew Gleeson did the only responsible thing, then so be it. I’d live with it. But until that time I was responsible for finding enough evidence to at least arrest the sucker.

  It’s my job, like it or not.

  The elevator they took up to the third floor of the mansion was as smooth a ride as any Jean had experienced in high-rise buildings. But the walk was a bit strenuous. The center building of the large home had wings coming off it and each of those wings had a wing. Penny the maid led them to the left, down a long hall, turned right, down a longer hall, then another left.

  ‘The forest room,’ Penny announced as she opened the door of the first room on the right and indicated to Jean that she should enter.

  It was aptly named. There was a mural on the east wall of a beautiful green forest with sunlight pouring through an opening in the treetops. The bed, a gigantic king, was a four-poster with posts carved to look like tree trunks that reached to the ceiling, where leaves and birds had been painted at all four points. The duvet was a brilliant green silk. The five-drawer-tall chest was painted with forest scenes that included pixies and fairies, and the lamps on either side of the bed were made of branches and covered in shades that resembled birch bark. There was a chaise lounge in the same brilliant green silk as the duvet, and a small claw-foot table with two delicate rosewood chairs. This arrangement was set by the French doors that opened to a small balcony that overlooked the estate’s backyard – if one should call such an expanse merely a yard.

  The whole thing was so over the top that Jean had to put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. Penny the maid indicated to Jewel to follow her out of Jean’s room, but Jewel turned for one last look at her sister-in-law and rolled her eyes, which made Jean cough to cover the laugh that escaped her lips.

  When the door closed behind them, Jean noted her bags were on a stand near one of the two doors in the room. She opened it to find a closet as big as her office back at the house, empty except for a fluffy white terry robe – just like one you’d find at certain high-class hotels but without the price tag. She moved to the second door to find an opulent bathroom with a large glass brick enclosed shower, the largest claw-foot tub she’d ever seen and a double sink with bowls above the counter. The forest theme had been carried through to the bathroom. The sink bowls were a coppery green resting on a brown marble counter top. The floor was a mosaic tile depicting both flora and fauna – the fauna being mostly birds. The outside of the claw-foot tub was painted with another mural of forest life, and the walls were covered in a moss-like substance. As large as the room was, Jean felt instantly claustrophobic. Stepping back into the bedroom, she opened her suitcase with the intention of unpacking but her cell phone rang. Picking it up, she saw it was Jewel.

  ‘The bedroom was bad,’ she said, ‘but you’ve got to see the bathroom.’

  ‘After you see my room,’ Jewel said. ‘It looks like a decorator threw up in here.’

  Jean giggled. ‘Open your door and stand outside so I can find you,’ she said. She hung up her phone and stepped out into the hall. She saw Jewel standing about three doors down on the opposite side of the hall, and headed in that direction.

  ‘I’d say shut your eyes then I’d drag you in, but I’m afraid seeing all of it at once might give you a heart attack,’ Jewel said, ‘so just go in. Penny called it the rose room.’

  Jean stepped over the threshold into Jewel’s quarters. The walls were covered in Pepto-Bismol-colored silk, with a pink-on-pink embossed design of small roses. The four-poster bed was painted white and draped with white velvet swatches with rosebuds adorning them. The duvet was a matching white velvet with rosebuds, and the bed-skirt matched the Pepto-Bismol pink of the walls. The bedside lamps were tall and had skinny green ‘stems’ with shades made to look like a bouquet of white roses. There were vases upon vases of roses sitting atop anything that didn’t move. The floor was white-painted hardwood with a large rug adorned with – guess what? – roses. The furniture was basically the same as that in Jean’s room: a five-drawer tall chest painted with leaves and roses, a chaise lounge covered in the same white velvet/rosebud design as the duvet and bed drapes, and a small claw-foot table painted white with two white-painted Louis-the-whatever chairs. The vase of roses on top of the table was the only receptacle with real roses in the room, and there were so many in the large pink vessel that dwarfed the small table that the scent was nearly overpowering. French windows led out to a balcony overlooking the front of the estate.

  ‘I’m afraid you might asphyxiate from the smell of those roses,’ Jean said, backing away from the small table.

  ‘I’d rather have the forest room. You wanna trade?’ Jewel asked.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m beginning to see the merits of my little slice of forest,’ Jean said. ‘How about the bathroom?’

  ‘I haven’t found it yet. Should be one of these two doors,’ she said.

  The bedroom was a mirror image of Jean’s, so Jean pointed to the door that matched the location of her own bathroom entry. ‘There,’ she said.

  Jewel opened the door. Unlike Jean’s bathroom, this one did not carry on the rose theme – as much. It was just blazingly white. Everything – the tiles covering the floor and the walls, the marble counter top, the two white basins, the claw-foot tub, the shower surround, towels, shower mat, everything – was white, including the white vase filled with white roses, their green leaves the only hint of color in the room.

  ‘Now you’ve got to trade with me,’ Jewel said. ‘As pale as I am, I’ll get lost in here!’

  Jean laughed. ‘Take your cell phone with you and call if you need help.’

  Jewel turned quickly to her sister-in-law, a big smile on her face. ‘You think the rest of these rooms are themed? Maybe we should look!’

  Jean grinned back. ‘We’ve got time,’ she said.

  TWELVE

  That night I got my first call from my wife up in Kansas City. ‘So how’s it going?’ I asked, after we exchanged all the ‘I love yous’ and ‘I miss yous’ the moment required.

  ‘Well, little did I kn
ow, but Paula came from serious money. This place is a mansion,’ she said.

  ‘You still at her mama’s house?’ I asked.

  ‘Hum …’ She started, then stopped. ‘Here’s the thing, honey,’ my wife said in that tone of voice she uses to placate me. I’m not fond of that tone of voice. ‘Mrs Carmichael – Vivian – canceled our hotel reservations and insisted that Jewel and I stay here.’

  I felt my heart skip a beat. My wife planned on outing a pedophile while probably staying in the same house as him. Not good. Not good at all. ‘Thank her kindly,’ I said, somewhat stiffly, ‘and go back to your hotel.’

  ‘She canceled the rooms, Milt. And there’s a big festival in town through the weekend – there’s not another hotel room to be had,’ she said.

  ‘Then come home. Now.’

  Jean sighed on the other end of the phone. ‘I’ll tread carefully, honey, I promise. But I can’t leave right now. The viewing is tonight, with a catered buffet afterward, then the funeral is tomorrow. I’m obligated, Milt.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ I said. ‘You’re not obligated to get yourself killed! And my sister, too—’

  ‘You’re the one who insisted I bring her—’

  ‘I wanted you to bring Jasmine – with a loaded gun! Now you’ve got a barely five-foot-tall housewife as back-up!’

  ‘Milton, don’t make me hang up on you!’ Jean said. Not very productive for a debonaire psychiatrist, I thought.

  I sighed, trying to calm down. ‘Honey,’ I finally said, ‘just don’t out this person if you find him. Not there anyway, not now. Come home, then call someone back there and tell them. It can all come out while you’re safely here with me.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

  And that was just about the gist of the conversation. We were at a stand-off, with her probably deciding not to keep me abreast of her situation, and me wanting to run up to KC and drag her ass back home.

  Jean and Jewel rode in the family’s chauffeur-driven limousine to the funeral home with Vivian and Constance. Mr Carmichael remained in his rooms as he could not comprehend the fact that one of his daughters was gone, nor did Vivian require or even want his nose-picking presence. As she said, ‘God only knows what he’d pick in front of a roomful of Kansas City’s elite. Probably his ass.’ Which, of course, made Constance respond with her usual, ‘Mother!’

  Jean was afraid that Paula’s abuser would be the most likely suspect – her father. If that was the case, there would be nothing Jean could do, even if she could find evidence of it. The man was beyond caring and it would be more than cruel to out an Alzheimer’s patient. But she was determined to check out possible suspects at tonight’s viewing – other family members, long-time family friends, business partners … anyone who would have had access to Paula as a child.

  As the first ones to the funeral home – a beautiful turn-of-the-twentieth-century Victorian – the Carmichael women and their guests were allowed access to the viewing chamber for a private few minutes with the deceased. Vivian, being pushed in her wheelchair by the chauffeur, had him park her at the back of the room, far away from her daughter’s current resting place. Jewel sat in a chair near the old woman as Constance and Jean went up to the casket.

  ‘Doesn’t she look natural?’ Constance said, quietly touching the back of her hand to her sister’s cheek.

  No, she didn’t look natural. Jean had never seen a body at a funeral that did. She looked like a wax dummy, ready for Madame Tussaud’s. The clothes were obviously ones her mother had sent to the funeral home as they weren’t the ones Jean had given the coroner in Longbranch to dress her in. She’d found a business suit Paula had obviously brought for her interview in Houston in her suitcase. It still had tags on it and Jean had removed those before sending the clothing on. But now Paula was dressed in a fussy pink Laura Ashley-type dress, complete with buckled white shoes, which made her seem even more dummy-like. Jean thought righteously that Paula wouldn’t be caught dead in such an outfit – then had to amend her thought. She’d been caught. Paula’s short gray hair had been replaced with a longer blonde wig, and the make-up that adorned her face was out of character for the bare-faced woman who had died in suite 214.

  Jean hadn’t noticed much of a resemblance between the two sisters until now. Like the body in the casket, Constance’s hair was a little too blonde, her face a little too made up, and her dress, although the proper black, was a little too feminine and frilly. Jean had to wonder at Constance’s ability to consider that she and her sister both looked ‘natural.’

  Jean simply nodded her head at Constance, unable to verbally agree. She moved to the chair next to Jewel, who took her hand in hers and squeezed it. Jean smiled at her sister-in-law, thankful to have their little adventure with the rest of the third-floor wing to think about, rather than the caricature of Paula now lying in a casket in front of them.

  And it had been fun, their little adventure. Starting with the room next to Jean’s, they’d opened each door and peered inside, giggling like schoolgirls and coming up with an ‘appropriate’ name for each room. For a room sporting fake palm trees and Adirondack chairs, they assigned the name ‘Beach Blanket Bingo.’ For the room that was several different shades of blue with celestial bodies covering the ceiling and walls, they decided on ‘Blue Monday.’ ‘Cabin Fever’ was their vote for a room decorated in early American chic, and ‘Pasta Primavera’ for the room decked out like a Tuscany villa. Some of the rooms were empty, sporting only stepladders and paint cans. These they dubbed ‘Visions of a Horrible Future.’

  They’d clambered to their rooms when they heard the elevator stopping on the third floor. Penny had been sent up to check on them, she’d said, and had brought bottled water and bags of nuts – like you’d get on a plane. Jean had begun to feel like she was in an over-the-top hotel with a really, really bad decorator.

  The four women were alone for about ten minutes before the doors were opened by the funeral director and people began to parade in. Their voices were hushed, which was appropriate, their attire subdued, which was appropriate, and the curiosity and expectancy on their faces, Jean admitted to herself, might be appropriate at the viewing of a murder victim. Only Jewel and Constance stood to welcome the arrivals, but all four were greeted, hands shaken, an occasional hug for Vivian and more for Constance. Jean studied their faces.

  A man was introduced as Walter Carmichael’s business partner for over forty years – Mitchell Sewell and his wife, Lana, a big woman who towered over her husband. The man was much shorter than Jean and had a weak handshake. He had the look of a man who might feel a need to overcompensate for his size. Could that overcompensation include the abuse of someone even smaller and more vulnerable than himself?

  Then there was Uncle Max, Walter Carmichael’s younger brother, with a woman at least thirty years his junior. Although well into his sixties, Uncle Max was strikingly handsome and obviously enjoyed the company of younger women. Could that have included a very young niece? His handshake was firm, and Jean couldn’t help noticing how he lingered over Jewel’s hand, giving every indication he was about to kiss it, before the woman with him yanked him onward.

  ‘That’s his fourth wife – Serene,’ Constance whispered to Jewel and Jean. ‘Looks like he’s eyeing Jewel as a replacement.’

  ‘Humph,’ Jewel said, as more people came down the line.

  Two young women were next and Constance left her station to hug them both. Turning to Jean and Jewel, she said, ‘These are my daughters, Megan and Dru—’

  ‘Stepdaughters,’ the one named Dru said as she shook Jean’s hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Jean said.

  ‘Aunt Paula talked about you,’ Dru said. ‘She said you were the only friend she ever had. She said she was really looking forward to seeing you on her trip to Houston. Too bad you got her killed.’

  ‘Dru!’ Constance said, taking her stepdaughter by the arm. ‘I believe you need to sit down.’

  ‘Co
me on, Dru,’ the other stepdaughter, Megan, joined in. ‘Just hush.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dru said, ‘don’t let Drusilla talk – God only knows what truths might escape!’

  The man behind the two stepdaughters was shaking his head and laughing. ‘I know they aren’t actually blood relations, Constance, but that Dru reminds me so much of Paula!’ He leaned down to hug Vivian and then in turn hug Constance.

  ‘Yes,’ Constance replied, smiling stiffly at the man, ‘sometimes there is quite a resemblance.’ Turning to her house guests, she said, ‘Jewel, Jean, this is our next-door neighbor since forever, Neil Davenport.’

  Jean shook his hand. A firm handshake from a large, beefy man. Probably an athlete in his younger days, age had caught up with him, sagging his jowls, dropping his gut over his belt and thinning his hair. Jean’s thoughts went something like this: right next door. Easy access. Probably good-looking when Paula was a child. Possible abuser?

  ‘This is my wife, Emily,’ he said, indicating a small woman Jean had not noticed until Davenport had pointed her out. And still, she was almost invisible. Pasty skin topped by fading blonde hair, eyes the color of fog, and decked out entirely in beige. Straight away, Jean’s instinct told her that she was surely the type of woman who’d be easy to cheat on, because even if she knew she’d do nothing about it. Not even if it was a child.

  Jean knew she was making snap judgments about these people, but that was all she had time for. She needed to sum these people up quickly and try to see who could be a possible candidate for the abuse Paula had suffered as a child. Because it was no longer just a theory, as far as Jean was concerned. It was fact. The more she thought about it, the more she studied Paula’s family situation then added to that what Jean already knew about Paula’s promiscuity, she was sure that her diagnosis of child sexual abuse was on the nose. Now all she had to do was figure out which one of these assholes had hurt her friend.