The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1)

by Matty Dalrymple

  Amelia stepped around Biden, tripping on the book that still lay on the floor. “Yes, thank you, Joan, everything is fine. I think that Sophia is just about done with her nap.” She nodded in Biden’s direction without looking at him. “Biden.” And she hurried out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door with her heart hammering against her rib cage. “Oh, honey,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “What did he do?”

  *****

  When Amelia got to her car she pulled out her cell phone and pressed the speed dial for her husband but before it even rang she disconnected. She sat staring out the windshield with her phone in her lap until she jumped at the honk of a car horn right outside her window. She looked over to see that a man in a battered sedan had pulled up beside her and had leaned over to roll down the passenger window.

  “Hey, lady, are you leaving?” he yelled.

  “No, I’m waiting for someone,” she said loudly, through her closed window.

  The man sighed disconsolately and pulled away. Amelia realized she had been pressing the brake pedal and she removed her foot so at least her brake lights weren’t on.

  She put her cell phone aside, got her wallet out of her purse, and rifled through insurance cards and dry cleaning receipts until she found what she was looking for. She dialed the number on the business card, her heart still beating hard.

  “Sergeant Little.”

  “Yes, I’m calling for Detective Booth. This is Amelia Dormand.”

  “Detective Booth isn’t available right now, can I take a message?”

  “Do you know when he’ll be available?”

  “No, sorry. Want me to have him give you a call?”

  Another car honked its horn outside her window and she waved it away.

  “No, thank you, I’ll call back,” she said, and disconnected. She started the car and backed up, bumping hard into the car in back of her which resulted in the wail of a car alarm. Her hands white-knuckled on the wheel, she pulled out of the space and headed for home.

  Chapter 26

  When Joe walked into the precinct building the next morning, sipping his Wawa coffee, The Mouse waved a pink slip of paper at him.

  “Hey, Joe, that Dormand lady called you yesterday.”

  Joe took the slip which read dormand lady called for joe with the date and time.

  “Did she leave a message?”

  “Nope, said she’d call back.”

  “OK, thanks, Mouse.”

  “Don’t call me that,” said The Mouse peevishly.

  Joe went to his desk, looked up the Dormands’ number, and placed the call.

  “Dormand residence.” He recognized their housekeeper, Ruby.

  “Hello, Ruby, this is Joe Booth. I was wondering if Mrs. Dormand was available.”

  “Let me check, Mr. Booth, hold on.” He could hear the click of Ruby’s steps on marble—she must have been walking through the foyer of the Dormands’ home—then heard her voice, muffled by a hand over the receiver, “It’s Mr. Booth.”

  There was a brief pause and then Joe heard Amelia’s voice. “Detective Booth?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Dormand. I understand you called yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. You?”

  “Just fine.” There was a long pause.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” said Joe.

  “Um,” said Amelia, followed by another long pause. Then she said, in an unnaturally loud voice, “I think that’s in my office, let me get it.”

  Joe could hear more footsteps through the phone, then what sounded like a door clicking shut. He imagined her in the room in her home she used as an office, large windows opening out onto a view of the horse pastures.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Mrs. Dormand, are you OK?” asked Joe.

  She laughed shakily. “Yes, I’m fine. I wouldn’t make a very good spy, would I?” There was another pause. “I’m sorry to bother you, Detective, I’m sure it’s nothing, but I had a very strange conversation with Biden yesterday.”

  “Yes?” said Joe, pulling his notepad and a pen out of his pocket.

  “I was at Elizabeth’s, watching Sophia while Joan was out, and I was listening for ...” She paused again. “For Elizabeth. Like I mentioned when we talked.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I did hear her, and I said that I would take care of Sophia and then I said, ‘Can you hear me?’ and then I realized Biden was in the room. He thought I was talking to Sophia. I told him I had to go and he got angry, he said I didn’t like him anymore and wanted to know why.” She laughed bitterly. “He had been drinking—it was still the afternoon—and I told him I wasn’t going to talk to him in that condition and he said, ‘That’s what she said the night she died.’” Amelia stopped.

  Joe sat forward. “Did you ask him what he meant by that?”

  “I asked him how he knew when she died and he said we better hope she had died the night she disappeared, otherwise who knows what the person who killed her might have done to her.” Amelia’s voice cracked.

  “Then what happened?”

  “He came up close to me, he was very angry. I tried to get away from him but he blocked me but then Joan showed up. I don’t think he knew she was there.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No, not explicitly, otherwise I definitely would have gotten in touch with you right away. It was just his whole demeanor. And the comment about when Elizabeth died.”

  Joe tapped his pen on the notepad. “He never says or does anything that’s quite enough to bring him in ...” he said with frustration.

  “I’m probably being foolish, I’m imagining things—”

  “No, you were right to call,” said Joe.

  “It’s just that ...” and now Joe could tell she was crying, “... I told my daughter I’d take care of Sophia and my son-in-law is drunk and rude to me and what do I do? I run away and leave him there with Sophia and Joan.”

  “I’ll go check on them,” said Joe. “I’m going to be near there anyway.” Joe was mentally reviewing his to do list for the day, trying to figure out how he could juggle things so that he could fit in a visit to Rittenhouse Square.

  “Please don’t let him know that I talked with you,” she said, suddenly worried.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Well, it would make me feel better. I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll call you back after I’ve been to the house.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Dormand.”

  *****

  Joe knocked on the door of Biden Firth’s house later that day, a thin drizzle soaking into his light jacket. In a moment the door was opened by Joan, Sophia on her hip.

  “Detective Booth, I wasn’t expecting you. Come in.” She stepped aside. “Mr. Firth just stepped out but he should be back in a few minutes. I was just going to have some tea, would you like some?”

  Joe hated tea. “Yes, thanks, that would be great.” His initial irritation at finding Firth not at home was moderating—he might actually have better luck accomplishing his mission talking with Joan.

  “If you’d like to have a seat in the parlor I’ll bring it.”

  “Actually I’d rather have it in the kitchen with you if you don’t mind,” he said. “All these antiques, I’m always afraid I’m going to break something.”

  “Certainly,” said Joan with a smile. “Right this way.” She led him to the back of the house to the comfortable, somewhat old-fashioned, kitchen, and gestured for him to sit at the table. Joe draped his damp jacket over the back of his chair. Joan put Sophia on the floor while she got out mugs and tea bags. Sophia made a bee-line for Joe.

  “Don’t bother Detective Booth, Sophie,” said Joan.

  Sophia hung onto Joe’s pant leg and said what sounded like “Tango.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows toward Joan for a translation. Joan sighed. “I have no idea w
hat she means by that,” she said as Joe swung Sophia up on his lap. “I can hold her if you like— ”

  “No, we’re doing fine, aren’t we, Sophie?”

  “Tango!” exclaimed Sophia, investigating Joe’s shirt pocket and removing his pen.

  Joe removed the pen from her grip which threatened momentarily to bring on tears but then she discovered the notepad. Joe figured she couldn’t do too much harm to herself with the notepad. Sophia experimentally put the corner of the notepad in her mouth, found that not to be satisfying, then discovered that the pages were rip-able. Joe retrieved the few that had notes on them and surrendered the rest to Sophia.

  “Oh, dear, Detective, let me—” said Joan, coming toward them just as the tea kettle whistled.

  “It’s OK,” he said, “plenty more where that came from, right Soph?”

  “Do you have children of your own, Detective?” asked Joan, watching Sophia disassemble the notepad.

  “None of my own, but a lot of nieces and nephews,” he said. “She seems like a nice little girl.”

  “Oh, she is, a very good girl,” said Joan with a smile, then assumed a more stern expression. “But very destructive.” She put a tea cup and small plate for the used tea bag down in front of Joe. “Milk or sugar?”

  “Both, please,” said Joe, hoping some dosing would mask the bitter taste he disliked. He poured and spooned from a delicate creamer and sugar bowl Joan provided and took a sip, suppressing a shudder. “Are you pretty much full time here now?”

  “Yes, I have two days a week off—Esme, the nanny, takes those days—but I’m here the rest of the time.”

  “How is that working out for you?”

  “Oh, very well. I was able to give up my apartment and I stay at my sister’s house on my days off so I’ve been able to save a lot of money.”

  “But it must be hard to work in a house where a tragedy has occurred.”

  “Yes, but I feel I can help Mr. Firth by making sure he knows Sophia is well taken care of. This has been very hard on him.”

  “How is he dealing with his wife’s death?”

  “It certainly hasn’t been easy for him, as you can imagine,” said Joan.

  “Does he get out much? It’s important for people who have had a loss to get out and about, not lock themselves away.”

  “Oh, he gets out and about,” said Joan, a bit stiffly, Joe thought.

  “I understand Mrs. Dormand comes by to visit with Sophia.”

  Suddenly Joan seemed less enthusiastic about the discussion. “Yes, Mrs. Dormand does like visiting with Sophia.”

  “Does she spend time with Mr. Firth when she’s here?”

  “No, she usually comes when I’m here by myself. That way she can watch Sophia while I take care of the housekeeping.”

  “Maybe it’s a little awkward for Mrs. Dormand to be coming here when her daughter isn’t here anymore—”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Joan. “Mrs. Dormand loves spending time with Sophia, and I think it’s so good that Sophia can form a special relationship with her mother’s mother.” She looked down at her hands. “I think the world of Mrs. Dormand.”

  “What does Mr. Firth think of Mrs. Dormand’s visits?”

  There was a long pause, then Joan said wanly, “He’s usually not here when she visits.”

  “But when he is here, there’s some tension?”

  Joan paused again. “I think they had an argument.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t hear any of it but the other day I was walking by the nursery with some laundry and I heard them talking—they weren’t yelling but it sounded ... strained. When I looked in, it looked like Mrs. Dormand wanted to leave but Mr. Firth was blocking her way. But she did leave then,” said Joan hastily. “That’s the only time I saw them in what might have been a disagreement.”

  Joe leaned forward. “Joan, sometimes when someone has experienced a terrible loss, like Mr. Firth has, it can make them kind of crazy, make them do things they would never do in normal circumstances. Did you feel he was threatening Mrs. Dormand?”

  “I really didn’t see anything,” said Joan. “I can’t imagine ...” and her voice trailed off.

  “Have you ever felt threatened by Mr. Firth?”

  “Oh, no,” said Joan, her eyes wide.

  “Have you ever felt that Mr. Firth could be a danger to Sophia?”

  “Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Joan, obviously shocked at the thought.

  Joe sat back. “That’s good. I have no reason to think you have anything to worry about, but it’s standard operating procedure to check on these things.”

  “Yes, well ...” said Joan, and took a distracted sip of her tea.

  “But I know this is a very hard time for Mr. Firth and I think it would be best if you didn’t share our conversation with him.”

  “Yes, I think that would be best,” said Joan, putting the cup down with a rattle.

  Joe glanced at his watch. “You know, I should probably get going, I was just going to let Mr. Firth know we’re still working the case but really haven’t uncovered anything new. If we do I’ll certainly let him know right away.” He stood up and stood Sophia up on the floor. “Thanks so much for the tea, Joan.”

  “You hardly drank any of it,” said Joan, peering into his mug. “There’s probably a travel mug I could put it into— ”

  “Oh, no need,” said Joe hastily. “Let me just get this,” he said, gathering remnants of his notepad off the table.

  “Oh, heavens, I can get that,” said Joan. “Really, Sophia,” she tutted.

  Joan saw Joe to the door then, returning to the kitchen poured his virtually untouched tea down the drain with a shake of her head.

  *****

  When Joe got to his car, he called Amelia Dormand’s home number; she answered it herself after only two rings.

  “Mrs. Dormand, it’s Detective Booth. I just stopped by the house—Biden wasn’t there but I talked with Joan.”

  “How does she seem?” asked Amelia. “Does she seem all right?”

  “Yes, she seems fine. I told her it was just a standard visit to see how everyone was doing—”

  “Yes, Joan would believe that a Philadelphia detective would have time to play social worker,” said Amelia with a smile in her voice.

  “I asked her if there was any tension between you and Mr. Firth and she brought up the argument herself, she was obviously troubled by it. I asked if she felt Mr. Firth posed any danger to her and she seemed surprised I would ask that, and when I asked if Mr. Firth posed any danger to Sophia she seemed positively shocked. I don’t think she was hiding anything, I think those ideas really hadn’t occurred to her.” Joe paused. “And I get the impression Mr. Firth might not be spending a lot of time at home anyway.”

  “Yes, we hear Biden has been sowing some wild oats,” said Amelia tightly.

  “Still, I wonder if it might be best if you could look into having Sophia—and Joan as well—spend some time with you and Mr. Dormand. It might be more ... well, a more stable environment for Sophia.”

  “Do you think they are in danger?”

  Joe sighed and contemplated the wavering images beyond his drizzle-misted windshield. “I honestly don’t know, Mrs. Dormand. At a minimum, Biden Firth seems like a man under a great deal of stress—he might welcome having some time to himself.” Joe didn’t believe this for a minute, but he knew he'd feel better knowing Sophia and Joan were not living in the same house as the man he believed had killed Sophia’s mother.

  “Yes, I believe you’re right, Detective, I’ll speak with my husband about it right away.” Joe heard a note of relief in Amelia Dormand’s voice—he suspected she was glad to have a course of action to pursue. “I very much appreciate your help with this.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Dormand. Good luck.”

  Chapter 27

  On Monday morning Mike drove from West Chester to the Atlantic City Airport to pick
up Ann and Walt, then dropped Walt off at the AC boardwalk before driving with Ann up to Harvey Cedars for their 1:00 appointment with Bob Dormand.

  After crossing the bridge over Manahawkin Bay and turning north up Long Beach Island, they made a left off Long Beach Boulevard, toward the bay. The short street was lined with expansive, expensive houses on lots noticeably larger than was usually the case at the shore, where the most common view was often of the neighbor’s house a dozen feet away.

  “This should be it,” said Mike, checking the address on his cell phone.

  They pulled in behind a black Mercedes parked in the driveway. The street was quiet, the May weather not being quite warm enough to lure the owners to their vacation homes. They mounted the steps to the front door and Mike tapped a brass door knocker in the shape of a starfish.

  Mike’s internet search had shown that Dormand had owned the house for almost 30 years so Mike was surprised when a relatively young man, in his mid-thirties, opened the door. He was tall and athletically built, with longish dark, wavy hair and rather pale skin beneath several days’ worth of dark stubble. He was wearing khakis, a white polo shirt, a navy blue windbreaker, and boat shoes.

  “Mr. Dormand?” asked Mike.

  “Yes.” The man stood aside to admit them.

  The house was dark, the only light coming from chinks in the storm shutters, the open front door, and a light coming from what Mike surmised was the kitchen. They were standing in an entrance area floored in cream-colored tile which gave way to light hardwood in the large combination living and dining room. The decor was done in various shades of cream, sand, beige, and white, with pops of tropical color provided by throw pillows, a bright rug, and a large abstract oil painting hanging over a gas fireplace.

  Mike put out his hand. “Mike Kinnear. And this is Ann Kinnear.”

  Dormand shook their hands wordlessly then swung the front door shut behind them, leaving them in near darkness. Mike reached out and flipped on the entrance hall light. “Little murky in here with the shutters closed,” he said pleasantly.