by Lawton Paul
“She was murdered.”
Escape
Angela wakes up the next morning to the sound of the dog scratching and whining at the door. One thought breaks through the fog: coffee. There’s a little white cup under the end table, under the black carton of Merlot. She rolls off the couch, crawls for it. Her right hand reaching out like it’s dark, but she’s just unfocused. Her fingers brush against the cup and it tips over and a little of last night’s red spills onto the wood floor. She’s usually not a morning drinker, but checks the black carton anyway. It’s empty and it falls on the floor next to the spill.
So she sits in the rocker near the window, a few minutes of quiet before going to Bo’s kitchen, one finger wrapped tightly around the smooth cup handle, holding her in place. If she lets go she might fall down, or float away. She looks out toward the blue-gray river, light blue sky above, closes her eyes for a few moments.
More barking. It’s brighter in the room now. To hell with that dog. I don’t want to be awake. Sleep is easier, safer. The images don’t come as often. She has pills in the bathroom, some to help get to sleep. Some to keep the anxiety at bay. Ambien, zoloft, a box of red and the cup. Too much fear and she can’t move. She never knew what anxiety was until recently: a fear with no tangible reason for being.
Barking again.
She opens the door and he lets himself in, tail wagging, nudging his nose into her hand. Love me. Love me. “What!” she yells. And the dog, unfazed, sniffs at the wine spill, starts licking it. About then Bo shows up with a zip-lock full of dog food and two plastic mixing bowls.
“Here. Water in one. This stuff in the other,” Bo says. Post-coffee Angela would have argued, she would have said, you take the dog. But it was early and Bo had the advantage. Bo takes Angela’s hand, leads her the ten steps or so to the back door of the big house, sits her down at her seat in the kitchen, washes the cup, red stains that won’t come out, and fills it with coffee. Then she gives the dog water and he starts drinking in that sloshy, sloppy way dogs do.
“So what’s the plan?” says Bo, after feeding Angela a thick piece of fried flounder that Johnny filleted yesterday, some grits and steamed broccoli.
“Think I’m going out,” says Angela, eyeing Bo over the edge of her coffee cup. She’ll try to talk me out of it. Say I’m not ready.
“You mean out to the dock? Out to the garage?”
“No. I’m thinking of taking the truck into town.”
“Our town?” Meaning Chickasaw. “Or town town?” Meaning Jacksonville.
“Jax. I wanna check with the medical examiner. See if he’ll talk to me about Mrs. Kaufman. Will the truck start?” The truck is a 1960-something International Harvester, Scout. It came with the boat last year when Walt decided he was going to quit the university and be a shrimper.
“You gonna drive?” She says it like I’ve decided to launch off in the space shuttle.
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s been awhile ain’t it. Why don’t you drive into our town, then work your way up. There’s plenty of time.”
“Time. I got time like an inmate, Bo. Too much of it. Locked in that shithole cottage. Afraid of going into the big house. Afraid if I leave here I’ll forget. And I don’t want to forget.”
“Why you wanna get all tangled up that?” says Bo, waving her hand in the direction of the tiny brick house next door.
“I gotta feeling something’s going on and for the first time since—in a long time, I wanna get out and do something. It almost feels like focus.”
“Okay then. You go out and feel the sun on your face. But please take 17, not the highway.” It was Bo’s blessing. And for some reason Angela wanted it. Someone had to say she was okay to be out.
Later, in the gravel driveway next to the big house, Bo brings Angela a sandwich in a paper bag, hands it through the passenger window of the old green truck. “When you gonna get a car?”
“Don’t want a car. The truck is fine.”
“You got dried up shrimp in the back, no a/c and vice grips for a window crank.”
We get a truck with the boat, said Walt. It’s got a V-8 and a hitch on the back. It was all exciting and new. Two academics researching of the ways of normal folk.
“How am I gonna milk the insurance money if I start buying stuff. Especially if I gotta keep your little enterprise afloat.” It was a jab. She’s playing mom and I get the good part: bad kid. Bo got a little huffy at that.
“I’ve been in the black for three weeks running,” she says. Angela smiles. “You wanna take the dog?” says Bo.
“No, that’s a little too much responsibility.”
“Way I see it the dog’ll be takin’ care of you. Keep you out of trouble.”
“Yeah, if I get tired he could drive home. You wanna put a quarter and a note in an envelope and pin it to my chest? I got my phone. Look at my eyes. I’m good.” Bo can tell if I’m fogged or not by just looking at me. I can’t fake her out.
So with the dog sitting on the passenger side, dangerously close to her sandwich, Angela let’s out the clutch hoping the truck doesn’t start shaking. The truck’s a stick. Walt took her out to the beach and taught her how to drive. He said it was the safest place to learn because there was nothing to run into. Walt was a patient teacher as time after time she’d let the clutch out a little too quick, the truck bucking and shaking, and 50 years of dashboard junk: old ballpoint pens, candy wrappers, dried up french fries and even a few crab claws flew around the cabin.
She’s better now, eases the truck forward, then stops in front of Mrs. Kaufman’s house. The dumb, yellow POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS tape across the front door. As if that would actually deter someone. Then Johnny comes up in his little red VW and Bo is on him instantly. “Johnny Boy, you late! Got some peelin’ to do!” He parks the car and runs over to Angela with a smile on his face.
“Wow. Look at you. Driving again!”
“Yeah, I’m a pretty amazing invalid.” Bo is still yelling Come on! in the background.
“You know,” he says in a whisper. Now he’s supposed to say, No, Angela, you’re not an invalid. Or at least give me a what-are-you-talking-about look. “I actually run this entire operation. I just let her think she’s in charge.”
“You’re doing a great job.”
……
“Manner of death: accidental. Cause of death: drowning. That’s it in a nutshell,” says the medical examiner on the steps of the District Five Medical Examiner’s Office in downtown Jacksonville.
“What about her hands? They were at her sides like she was held down,” says Angela. He’s looking at his phone, swiping at it with his finger.
“Sorry. Multi-tasking.” Then he holds the phone near his mouth: “Pick up Spanky at 5:15.”
“Would you like me to repeat the question?”
“Gotta set an alarm or I’ll forget.” He pockets the phone. “Okay. You ever seen someone get knocked out? They rag doll. Go limp. Her arms just fell down at her sides to their natural position.”
“Well, what about the fact that all the lights were on at 4:00am, the back door was open, it looked like she was cooking and then just stopped.”
“Those are fine details that I’m sure the Chickasaw sheriff will consider. And quite frankly, Mrs., uh…”
“Fleetwood.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. You are the neighbor and this is a conversation for next-of-kin only.”
“I got the only next of kin in the truck,” she says, pointing at the dog. The dog perks his head up when Angela looks over thinking she’s coming to let him out.
“Listen. Drowning is difficult to prove beyond the accidental death stage. Proving some unknown assailant forced her under is a tall order. There was no bruising. No defensive wounds. No eye witness. I have a deceased lady with a contusion to the back of the head consistent with a fall. Done deal.”
Angela just stands there. Two big palm trees swaying in sync on either side of the big, glass double-doors tha
t lead to the ME’s office. “Thanks,” she says. For nothing.
And then he curve-balls her: “You drove out all this way from Chickasaw. Would you like to get something to eat later?”
“I don’t even know you and you’re telling me I need to eat, too?” She shakes her head and stares off at the truck. The dog still looking happy right at her.
“Uh, I mean us having dinner. That’s all.”
Oh, shit, he actually wants to go out. He thinks I’m normal.
“Oh. Sorry. Everyone tells me I need to eat.”
“You look fine. But don’t take my word on that. I look at dead people all day.” He does the polite, people-with-money chuckle. I’m supposed to laugh. I can’t.
“What about Spanky’s mom?”
“Spanky’s my cat.”
“Does the medical examiner always hit on women on the steps?”
“I don’t know. I’m assistant to the ME. Dr. Charles is Chief ME. He’s an old fart. I do all the work.” He smiles at her and she knows she’s supposed to feel something. To her he is cute like a cute car, or a cute dress, none of which actually pull her. Oh, he rates a cuteness factor of 8, just a bit of data to be entered into a spreadsheet.
He stands there for a moment like he’s waiting for a tip.
“No. I mean, uh. Very sorry, I can’t, but thank you. Really, very—thanks for talking with me.” And then she shuffles backwards all guilty and nervous like she was seventeen again and just stole a candy bar from the Mini-Stop.
She drives to a park to let the dog out. Pours him some water into one of Bo’s mixing bowls. Sits down under a big oak, stares off at a little pond with a water fountain in the middle. She closes her eyes and feels the sun on her face, feels a tingly hint of a smile start to form inside her then sort of peter out.
That’s progress.
Her phone rings. Bo checking up on me.
“What!” Troubled child answers.
“Uh, this is Greg Pendleton.” Oops. Not Bo.
“Oh, sorry. Who?”
“Uh, we just spoke. Greg from the ME’s office.”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Only one Fleetwood in Chickasaw.”
“Well, thanks again, but I honestly don’t want to go out and I’m gonna head home.”
“Okay, but I’m not calling about dinner. Right after we spoke I took another look at the Kaufman file. Everything points to accident, just as we discussed, but there are two things out of place. If you want, meet me at the Crab Shack in the Northside and we can talk about it. It’s 5 minutes down Main St. from the MEs office.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I mean, I could tell you on the phone but I’d rather explain it in person. They’ve got picnic tables outside, very safe. It’s not a date. Really.”
Thirty minutes later she’s sitting at a wooden table with a basket of fried shrimp and a big glass of iced tea. “Here’s the thing,” says Greg, working on his third shrimp. “I found something odd. Two things, really.” He takes a long sip of tea, adds another packet of sugar, fishes out the lemon slice, squeezes it, and drops it back in.
“So everything looked okay. No marks on the hands, no skin under her nails like she’d been struggling with someone. But one thing did stand out.” He pauses for effect, wipes his mouth on a paper napkin, and leans in like it’s a big secret that no one can hear. “She had bruising on her left ankle.” He smiles, shovels a big plastic spoonful of cole slaw into his mouth.
“Bruising on her ankle?” she says, lets out a long sigh. He sees her disappointment but can’t say anything to put out the fire because he’s got a mouthful of food, starts chewing faster, but Angela keeps going. “That’s it? You coulda said that on the phone.”
He does a few more quick chews and swallows hard. “No. I mean, uh, I probably coulda told you this over the phone, but I wanted to see you again. I’m just a doctor who doesn’t get out much. I’m not a stalker. And it is something. I’m going to put it in my report and email it to the sheriff in Chickasaw.”
“Great. Sheriff’ll say she accidentally kicked the chair on the way to committing suicide.”
“No. That’s just it. The bruising was all around the ankle. Some bruising was older, some new. Some recent abrasions, even. This wasn’t trauma, it looked like she’d been tied up or was in some kind of restraint.”
Angela perks up.
“There’s something else,” Greg says. “Now this isn’t really measurable so it may not hold water, but there was something odd about her appearance.”
“She was pretty,” says Angela.
“Yeah. Too pretty. Her birth certificate has her pegged at 64, but she looks more like 46. The intern that rolled her body in thought she’d gotten the wrong one.”
“Did you notice this?”
“Well, actually, we never really got a good look at her. I’ve seen her through the window a handful of times. And she used to wave from the back door, but she was pretty far away so I never saw her up close. Walt used to have long conversations with her: him on our side of the fence and her sitting at her window. She was an old recluse as far as we knew.”
“Hmmm. Okay, well I may try to include that on my report but will have to word it so I don’t come off sounding like an idiot. Decedent appears younger than age on birth certificate. Not very scientific, but sometimes noting empirical data is warranted on the official report.”
“Is this enough to convince the sheriff it wasn’t an accident?”
“No. But it might convince him to investigate. To ask questions. I’ll make the changes to the report now on the laptop and have it to the Chickasaw Sheriffs Department within an hour.”
……
Downtown Chickasaw is pretty much a two lane street with several old red brick buildings on either side. The sheriff’s office is right between a real estate office and a nail salon. Angela walks in and there’s an old lady at a computer who ignores her so she heads to the sheriff, sitting behind a huge wooden desk, covered in manila folders, piles of documents with State of Florida seals, one particularly large stack with a pair of shiny handcuffs on top. He’s reading something and doesn’t bother to look up when she walks in.
“Didn’t take you long to get here. I just got it,” he says, still eyeing the paper, his lips moving as he reads. “…circumferential purpuric rash proximal to lower left limb likely secondary to constriction.” He looks over the top of his reading glasses at her. “You know, that assistant ME is an ass. He oughta just say bruise like the rest of us but he's gotta show off.”
“The bruising is something, right?”
“Listen, Mrs. Fleetwood, one: the ME should not be talking to you, and two: the old woman fell. And that’s that,” says the sheriff.
“Something’s not quite right. The bruises on her leg, the door wide open, the lights on,” says Angela.
“Any number of things could have caused the bruising. The doors were open because she was airing the house out. Sure the lights were on. She liked to keep the lights on during the day and she couldn’t very well turn them off because she drowned in the tub!”
“Yeah, but…” The air was slowly leaking out of her like a balloon. It was a mistake coming here.
“The last few months have been bad, I know,” he says, soft and fatherly. “I lost my wife to cancer in ‘07. It’ll get better. But trying to find a murderer when there isn’t one ain’t gonna help. Go home. Relax. And for God’s sake eat.”
“I’m tired of relaxing. And this is not about Walt. Something ain’t right!”
“You don’t want to go there. That’ll just cause a whole lotta problems. The poor old woman fell in the tub.”
“She wasn’t that old. The ME even has reservations about her age. He said she looked mid-40s.”
“The ME shouldn’t’a been talkin’ to you anyhow. The head ME needs to know about that. Pendleton knows better.” He starts flipping through a big Rolodex. Then stops. “Oh, I get it.” He eyes her f
rom head to toe, the father figure now the principal. She has on tight jeans and a UF sweater. “You used your feminine wiles on that little nappy-headed assistant. Didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” says Angela.
“That’s why he talked to you. All that ‘circumferential purpuric rash’ nonsense is just Pendleton strutting his stuff. Are you impressed?” he says. “Listen, Kaufman had a good death. Better than being holed up at some hospital for years slowly withering away. God took her clean and quick.”
“God didn’t take her.”
“Well then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s the thing about murder,” he says, standing suddenly. “There’s the sticky little bit about who did it!” He sits down again, grabs a folder from the top of the pile, puts his reading glasses back on, and starts reading. The meeting is over.
Angela steps out of the sheriff’s office wanting to run, or scream or break something. She stops at the truck, looks back at the big glass window, Chickasaw Sheriff’s Department, to Serve and Protect, Sheriff Andrew S. Jackson right in the middle, and considers tossing a brick through it. To Serve and Protect: he’s done neither, she thinks.
Meanwhile the dog is whimpering and wagging again so she lets him out of the truck, realizes too late she’s got no leash and reaches down to grab his collar before he runs away. But he jumps out of the truck and just looks up at her, calm soft eyes, nuzzles her hand until she pets him.
Angela used to come downtown with Walt and they’d go to a little cafe, so instinctively she heads in that direction. Wonders if she can walk past it. If she can go in. Down Main St. to the courthouse then left on Wilmont and suddenly she is there, but it’s full of books and magazines, Jojo’s Books and Things on the glass. She goes in and the dog tries to follow but she tells him to stay and he stops cold, moves away from the door, lays down in a shady spot.