Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  Mickie rang several times, but got no response. She walked over to the garage and looked through a side window. Empty. She checked her watch and saw that it was nearly twelve.

  * * *

  Mickie sat alone in the office, looking absently across at Harry's desk, or rather, what she could see of it. The surface was nearly covered with paper. Besides the office, they also shared a hatred of paperwork. Mickie dealt with it by getting through it as quickly as possible, whereas Harry apparently worked on the theory that if you ignored it long enough, it would evaporate. "If you keep doing it on time,” he had said, "they'll just come to expect it." She had often wondered how such a cluttered desk could be the product of such an organized mind. His car he kept spotless. His desk was a disaster.

  Her own desktop held nothing but a cup of pens, a picture of Paul, another of her parents, and a telephone. She checked her watch, saw it was late enough, and dialed Paul's number. She knew he'd have finished teaching his morning classes by now.

  "Hello."

  "Hello yourself. I got your message."

  “Good. I'm never sure Beverly really hears what I'm saying."

  "That's because she has a crush on you."

  "I'll bet."

  "You're a man, aren't you?"

  "You're in doubt?"

  "Yeah, well, that's about all it takes. So why did you want me to call?"

  "Do I need a reason? Maybe I just wanted to brighten my day by hearing your voice. Also, I thought that, since it's Saturday, you might like to go out tonight and celebrate."

  Ah, now that's more like it. "Sure, I'd love to. Are we celebrating its being Saturday, or do you have something special?"

  "A little of both. I'll tell you tonight. How about that place at the beach? The one on the pier."

  "Sailors. Fine."

  "I'll pick you up about seven."

  * * *

  Mickie stopped at Lucy's for lunch. It was a favorite restaurant, with walls that were mostly window, and a greenhouse at one end. Even on a day as gray as this one, it had a feeling of openness and light. Large pots of hanging plants and ferns, real ones, hung from the ceiling. Harry hated it.

  She had a soup and salad lunch, while she thought about several things, Paul primarily. She had met him during her two years at UNC Wilmington, before she had decided she wasn't learning what she wanted to know, and had dropped out to join the police. He had been a graduate art student then, a potter really, but so different from how she pictured an artist. Admittedly, she never knew what he'd do next, but he was also quiet, he was strong, and he had good sense. Aside from a well-trimmed beard and a complete disregard for clothes, he didn't even look like what she supposed an artist should. He had a square face and strong, square hands. But he made her laugh and he excited her. And loved her.

  At this point, the thought of Kurt Brodbeck and Tina Siegert intruded. She stirred a little sugar into her coffee, deciding that she'd find Kathryn Meadows and check Tina's alibi. She didn't think it would prove anything either way.

  She sipped the coffee and went back to thinking of Paul, wondering what he wanted to celebrate tonight. With him, you could never tell.

  * * *

  Mickie's interview with Kathryn Meadows didn't go at all the way she had expected. When she parked on the street, the weathered shingle house looked the same as before, except that now there was an ancient green station wagon in the drive. One back door was open and, coming up to it, she saw bags of groceries on the seat.

  The house door opened, and Kathryn Meadows came out, hesitating as she saw Mickie, then coming forward warily. She wore designer jeans, and an emerald sweatshirt that matched her eyes, the sleeves pushed up nearly to her elbows. Mickie guessed her at first to be in her early thirties. Dark hair cut in bangs, angled slightly across her forehead. As she drew nearer, the estimate rose from early to late thirties. The hair was probably unnaturally dark, judging by the lines around the eyes. Still, an attractive woman. Sensible, probably intelligent. Not Mickie's idea of an astrologer, just as Paul refused to fit into her artist's mold.

  Mickie stood by the car, flashed her ID, and introduced herself. "I'm Detective Wilder. I'm doing some checking on testimony from a case we're working on, and I think you could help."

  Kathryn Meadows' green eyes were wary. She reached into the back seat and brought out two bags, holding them in front of her, like shields.

  "I understand you had breakfast this morning with a Mrs. Siegert."

  The other woman's eyes widened as her expression changed from cautious to angry. "May I see your identification again, please?"

  Mickie brought it out and held it while Kathryn scanned it closely.

  "No, I did not have breakfast with Tina Siegert." Her voice grew sharper. "Not this morning or any other morning. I haven't seen her for weeks, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lie for her."

  Mickie tried to keep her own expression neutral. She had expected to hear this woman corroborate the story, truthfully or not. So what was this? A falling out of collaborators? But collaborators in what? Questions came to her, but looking at the closed, angry face under the bangs, she didn't think she'd get any easy answers. Besides, she had the information she needed. At least, for now.

  * * *

  When Kathryn came back into the house, the man was standing just back from the window, peering out through the half-closed blinds. Without looking around, he asked, "Who was that?"

  Kathryn went through to the kitchen, saying, "A detective. She was asking about Tina." She put the bags on the table, turned to go back.

  The man, stocky, slightly gray, was standing in the doorway. "Why?"

  "I was about to ask you. What's she been up to?"

  "How should I know? What did she want to know?"

  "If I’d had breakfast with Tina this morning."

  “What?”

  "Apparently, Tina said I had. Why would she do that?"

  The man looked worried. Kathryn moved past him, saying, "Give me a hand with the groceries, will you?"

  As they went out, the man looked out to and along the street, making sure Mickie had gone. Kathryn took bags from the back of the station wagon, handing them to him. She took the last two for herself, then asked, "Where's your car?"

  "I parked down the street. I thought discretion might be in order."

  She looked at him closely. "Why now? Have you made up your mind?"

  "Yes. That's what I came by to tell you, Kath. I'll tell Tina tonight."

  "Tell her what?"

  "That I want a divorce. What did you think?"

  "I thought you might mean you'd tell her about us."

  "Oh, God no. That's all I'd need. This is going to be nasty enough."

  As they started back toward the house, she asked, "Frank, do you think she knows?"

  "About us? No, I'm sure she doesn't."

  "Are you? It seems strange, that story she told the detective. What's it all about?"

  He set the bags on the table. "I don't know," he said, "but I think I'd better go find out."

  CHAPTER 5

  A NAKED DEATH

  Standing on the porch of the yellow house, Mickie could hear the door chimes inside. She waited, but heard no footsteps. After the third ring, she moved to a window, frankly looking for movement beyond the drapes. Seeing none, she went back to the sidewalk and around to the side where the driveway went in through the fence.

  The backyard was concrete. No grass, no trees, no flowers—just one large, maintenance-free expanse of gray. There was a double garage, separate from the house. Both garage doors were down, but had small, grimy windows in the centers. The first was empty but, looking through the second window, she made out the shadowy form of the blue convertible.

  Then where was the driver? She hadn't struck Mickie as being little Polly Housewife who runs next door for coffee and chitchat. Besides, most of the houses here were closed for the winter. Maybe she had crossed the road and gone through the row of townhouses to the b
each, but it was still overcast and chilly—a lousy day for the beach. Probably she was inside, afraid of seeing Mickie, waiting for her to go away. Damn, and just as things were getting interesting.

  While she was standing there wondering what to do, a car pulled into the driveway, stopping before the empty garage. It was a black BMW, three years old, but with a good wax job. Very clean. A man got out, looking at her inquiringly. Medium height, stocky. Hair gray at the sides.

  "Mr. Siegert?"

  “That’s right.” Suspicious. Waiting.

  “I’m Detective Wilder. Conner Beach Police.”

  "Are you looking for my wife?"

  "Yes, I am. I rang, but no one answered."

  "Well, she's out a lot in the afternoon."

  He reached into the back seat, removing a soft-sided suitcase and a matching garment bag.

  Mickie said, "Her car's still here."

  His brows raised in surprise, and he went to the garage window to see for himself. He was frowning when he turned back. "That's strange. She takes that car everywhere." Resigned, he said, "Come on in. Maybe she left a note. She might have gone off with someone else."

  He went to the kitchen door and opened it without using a key. "Well," he said, "she didn't lock up—again." It clearly annoyed him.

  Leaving his luggage by the door, he led the way through the kitchen in the dining room. It was decorated much as the living room had been. In the center was a table big enough, even without leaves, to seat a dozen without crowding. A simple design, very tasteful, very expensive. Most of it was hidden by a bright orange and red serape—with fringes. What really caught Mickie's attention was the cardboard box sitting on a large piece of wrapping paper in the middle of the table. Beside it were a pair of scissors, a roll of cellophane tape and a ball of string. Just the right size to hold Kurt Brodbeck's clothes. She wanted badly to stop and look inside, but knew that would defeat her purpose. If the stuff was going to be sent back, she might get this cleaned up with a minimum of mess.

  Beyond the dining room was the schizophrenic living room she had seen earlier. Siegert called his wife's name, aiming it up the stairs. When there was no answer, he asked, "Was she expecting you?"

  Mickie smiled at that. "Yes, I think she was. Would you mind checking upstairs?"

  His eyes narrowed as he looked at her more closely. "Just what business do you have with my wife?"

  "I'm checking a complaint. I talked with Mrs. Siegert about it earlier this morning."

  "What kind of complaint?"

  "Mr. Siegert, if we're going to discuss this, don't you think your wife should be present?"

  His expression said he wasn't at all certain of that. "But she's obviously not here."

  "I'd like to be sure. Would you check upstairs, please?"

  "Do you have a search warrant?"

  "No, I haven't. Do you really think that's necessary?"

  He hesitated, then turned and went up the stairs. She could easily follow his path from his tread along the hardwood floors of the hall, the sound of opening doors, his soft call of “Tina?” as he entered each room.

  While she waited, she wondered again at the person responsible for the decorating. She decided it was probably done professionally, then 'livened up' by Tina. As she glanced around, she had the feeling that something was missing, but couldn't place what it was.

  Frank Siegert came rather disgustedly back down the stairs. "I told you—she's not here."

  "Is there anywhere you haven't looked?"

  "No. Well, there's a room off the kitchen, a spare bedroom, but it's never used."

  "Would you mind if we looked there?"

  Mickie had a mental picture of Tina Siegert crouching in an adjoining bathroom with the door locked. Frank hesitated as if he had the same picture. He shrugged, then led the way to the back of the house.

  On the far side of the kitchen was a door that Mickie had thought would be the pantry. He went to it, shaking his head as if commenting on how silly the whole thing was, and opened it. He didn't go in, but stood in the doorway, blocking Mickie's view. He didn't move, but his body began to jerk in little spasms, as though he was trying to do something, and couldn't. He seemed to be saying something. She tried to make out what it was, then realized it wasn't words, just sound.

  She grabbed his arm and pulled, and he turned toward her, not looking at her but beyond her, at nothing, his mouth still making the sounds. She moved into the doorway and stopped, just as he had.

  It was a small room, nearly empty except for a narrow bed with a white coverlet, white with tiny flowers in blue and pink. On the field of flowers was Tina Siegert. She was face up, nude, lying with ankles together, hands crossed beneath her breasts. Bracelets still circled her arms. There was blood on her chest, and there seemed to be more on her belly and forehead. Just below her left breast, in the center of the blood, something protruded.

  Without thinking, Mickie moved toward her. As she came nearer, she saw several things. First were the marks on the stomach. Three numbers, 666, red and greasy. At the same time, she saw that the thing sticking from the chest wasn't the handle of a knife. It was round and wooden, and the visible end was domed. It looked like the end of a broom handle. It was painted red, redder than the blood around it. And why wasn't there more blood? It just seemed to have leaked out. Beside the wound, just between the breasts, were two smears of blood in the form of a cross.

  She let her eyes move to the face, and saw that she had been wrong about seeing blood on the forehead. A five-pointed star in a circle had been painted in the same greasy stuff as the numbers on the stomach. Lipstick, she thought. A five-pointed star inside a circle, 666, and a cross. What the hell had gone on here?

  She forced herself to put her hand on the throat, forced herself to concentrate. She felt a little warmth, but could find no pulse. Standing very still, she looked around.

  In one corner, she saw the sandals this woman had been wearing. Beside them were her clothes, blue jeans and the UNC sweatshirt, panties and bra on top, everything neatly folded as if ready to be put away. Something stood beside them. It was smooth and dark, and she recognized the rounded belly and face of Hotai, still grinning at her. Only now the smile seemed somehow malignant. She told herself to settle down, get a grip, then walked numbly to the door and closed it behind her.

  Frank Siegert was looking a little better. He seemed to be in shock, but his eyes were focused, and he was speaking in complete sentences. He wanted to go in to his wife, but didn't argue much when Mickie said no.

  "But we've got to do something."

  "Yes, we will. I have a cell phone in the car. I'll report it. Let's go now."

  "Go?"

  "Yes, to the station."

  "You can use the phone here."

  "No. We won't touch anything else here."

  "But I can't just leave her like that."

  "I'm sorry. We have to."

  He stood there as if willing, but unable to move.

  "Come on, Mr. Siegert. I'll drive you to the station. You can come back if you want, when they're finished."

  "They?"

  "The medical examiner, the forensics team."

  He started for the door, then stopped and looked back. "Could we...?"

  "What?"

  "Couldn't we at least cover her?"

  She didn't want to see the hurt in his face. "I'm sorry. No. I'm sorry, Mr. Siegert."

  * * *

  At the station, Mickie called Ross, the Connor Beach Chief of Police, while Beverly got on to the State Bureau of Investigation to request a team of crime scene technicians. When she had finished with Ross, Mickie tried to call Harry Chervenic. There was no answer, so she dialed the number of his pager.

  * * *

  "Mr. Siegert?"

  He sat on the edge of the hard, wooden chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. He didn't move, but stared at some picture in his head. His deep tan seemed a little paler.

&nbs
p; "Mr. Siegert? I'm sorry, but I have to ask you some questions. I'll need your help."

  He closed his eyes and nodded, glanced up at her, then back to the coffee.

  "Could you tell me where you were today? Before you went home."

  He sat up a little straighter, took a sip of the coffee. "I was out of town. Yesterday, I mean. Some business in South Carolina. I was working on a deal with a chain of boat shops. I went down Wednesday night, then drove back this morning."

  "Where in South Carolina?"

  "Charleston."

  "What time did you get back?"

  He hesitated. "About ten, I guess."

  "Did you go home?"

  "No." He took another sip of the coffee, his eyes and attention focused somewhere else.

  "Where did you go?"

  "What? Oh, to the office. I was there for a while, then I went to lunch. Then I went home."

  "Where did you have lunch?"

  His eyes came directly to hers for the first time as he asked, "Why? What difference does it make?"

  "We need to know where people were. It's just part of the routine. We'll be asking a lot of people."

  "Yes, I see. There's a fast food place just down the street from the office. Tina kept saying I shouldn't eat that stuff, but I've always liked it. She says I'm a junk food junkie. I guess so. She was always particular about what she ate." He shrugged. "I guess I never really cared."

  "What time was that?"

  He hesitated, then said, "I'm not sure. Late."

  "Then you went home?"

  "Yes."

  "And where did you stay in Charleston?"

  "The Ramada Inn."

  "All right, just one thing more. Have you any idea who might have done this? Any enemies? Anyone with a grudge? Anything at all?"

  He didn't speak, just shook his head and went back to studying the coffee mug.

  "Is there anyone we should notify? Parents, brothers, sisters?"

  "No. Her mother raised her. She's dead now. There's a father somewhere, but she hadn't seen him in years."

  "We'll need to get your fingerprints." He looked up sharply and she went on, "So we can eliminate them from those found in the house. We'll be looking for the prints of someone who wasn't supposed to be there."