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

by Matty Dalrymple

  “Seems like a big risk even just meeting us there,” said Mike. “I do recall Ann saying that he asked about whether she investigated crimes. Maybe he got some information during that visit that helped him find where she lives.”

  “Yes, I need to dig into that a little more,” said Joe. He rubbed his face with his hands and wished he had some coffee. “Is the stuff still in your trunk?”

  Mike nodded again.

  Joe sat forward in his chair. “How did you get it?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” asked Mike.

  “I don’t want to know any of it,” said Joe irritably, “but I think I’d better.”

  Mike shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe I should have a lawyer …”

  “Mike, I’m trying to help you out here,” said Joe, his voice raised enough to attract the attention of a passing nurse. In a lower voice he continued, “Consider this off the record.”

  “I didn’t know police did ‘off the record,’” said Mike.

  “We don’t,” said Joe in a voice that suggested to Mike that he should stop screwing around.

  Mike sighed. “I just need to call Scott and tell him what I’m doing,” said Mike. “You can even listen to the call.”

  Joe hesitated, then nodded.

  Mike speed dialed Scott who picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, I’m here with Joe Booth.”

  “What’s up? How’s Ann?”

  “She’s doing fine. A little out of it but OK. Listen, I need to tell Joe what we did.”

  “Are you sure?” said Scott.

  Mike glanced over at Joe. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Well, OK. But remind him that Ann could have bled to death if you hadn’t realized the danger and called him.”

  Mike thought it likely that Ann would never have been shot if he and Scott hadn’t stolen the jewelry from Firth’s house but decided now wasn’t the time to bring this up.

  “You’re a trouper,” said Mike.

  “That’s me,” said Scott and hung up.

  Mike told Joe the story—how Scott had toured the house with Firth’s realtor to check for a burglar alarm, dropped the St. Christopher’s medal in the gym room, and unlocked the garage door and how he, Mike, had removed the blue items from the cabinet and they had found the jewelry in the paint can. How he had been taking the jewelry to show to Ann, and about the call Scott got from Bob Daniel and how the number had turned out to be a fake.

  “That must have been Firth too,” said Joe. He drummed his fingers on his leg. “So the St. Christopher’s medal in the gym room was to get the housekeeper upstairs, away from the garage?” asked Joe.

  “Yup.”

  Joe stared at Mike for a few seconds. “That was pretty slick,” he said with grudging admiration.

  Mike grinned despite himself, then sobered up. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  Joe rubbed his face vigorously with his hands then dropped his hands to his knees. “I don’t know. I sure as hell am going to have to give some explanation for why I called the Tupper Lake police and had them go out to Ann’s place.” He turned to Mike. “And we need an explanation not just for the police but for Ann, too. She can’t know what you did.”

  Mike was beginning to feel hopeful with the turn the conversation was taking. “Absolutely not.”

  Joe stared at him for a few more seconds. “Is Scott reliable? Could he keep quiet?”

  “Yes, he could keep quiet,” said Mike earnestly.

  “Because if we don’t tell the police what happened—note that I’m saying if—and it got out, we would all go to jail.”

  Mike nodded vigorously.

  “And jail would be no fun for a cop but I can tell you it would be even less fun for a couple of gay guys.”

  Mike nodded more vigorously.

  Joe shook his head. “What the hell …” then took a deep breath and sat staring at the linoleum floor in front of his chair for a minute, Mike watching him anxiously. Finally Joe said, “Scott’s visit to the Firth house was just a lark. He had heard you talking about it and wanted to see it for himself. You had no idea he had done it until afterwards.” Joe paused. “He had lost the medal and asked you to drive him back to check for it. That will cover us if someone saw you there. Or if the police talk with the housekeeper.”

  “Sounds good so far,” said Mike.

  “You decided to drive up to see Ann, just a normal visit.”

  “Yes, that’s what she thinks it was. I told her Scott was out of town but I can figure out a way to explain that.”

  “Don’t make it too elaborate,” said Joe. “Let’s say you just wanted to get away and have some quality time with her one-on-one. She might not even remember that you said Scott was out of town. Don't bring it up if she doesn’t. Let’s take a page from Firth’s playbook and keep it as simple as possible.”

  “OK,” said Mike.

  “Just in case they check phone records, we should have a reason that your call to me resulted in me calling the Tupper Lake police.”

  They both sat back in their chairs and stared into space.

  Presently Mike said, “Maybe I saw him driving up there. We must have taken about the same route at about the same time.”

  “Too much of a coincidence,” said Joe. “Plus, you would have thought you were seeing Bob Dormand, your client from Harvey Cedars, not Biden Firth.”

  “True, but I might well be alarmed if I saw a client who had no business in the area heading toward Ann’s house. Some people do develop an unhealthy fixation.”

  “Still too much of a coincidence that you would have seen him on the way. Plus, it would take too long to figure out what route Firth really did take, and too much trouble to match it up to yours. But the Bob Dormand angle does sound promising.”

  “Hey,” said Mike. “I just realized I never got the rest of the payment from him.”

  “That’s the least of your problems,” said Joe irritably.

  “I know that. But we could say that I called you to find out my legal options for getting paid.”

  “You called a Philadelphia detective because one of your clients stiffed you?” said Joe skeptically.

  “At this point you’re not just a Philadelphia detective, you’re a friend of the family,” said Mike sweetly.

  “Jesus, on top of all this I’m going to have to explain how I got involved with you guys in the first place,” muttered Joe. “But that angle is at least less awful than some of the other options.” He pondered for a moment. “Why would you pick that moment to call me?”

  “I was drinking and getting morose and wanted to hear a friendly voice,” said Mike.

  “That’s great, then they can arrest you for DUI.”

  Mike brightened. “I picked that moment because Scott had just told me about the Bob Daniel call and hearing the name Bob Daniel reminded me of Bob Dormand,” suggested Mike.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” said Joe. “So you tell me about Bob Dormand stiffing you and I know that Bob Dormand is Elizabeth Firth’s father and about the last guy in the world who would hire a psychic to check out his house.”

  “And you put two and two together and figure that it might be Biden Firth going after Ann.”

  “Wouldn’t I have called Ann to see if she was OK before I called the Tupper Lake police?”

  “I had just called her a couple of times before I called you so you didn’t need to try again.”

  They both sat staring at the floor for a few minutes; a young woman visiting her mother passed the sitting area and thought that the patient the two men were visiting must be very ill because they looked so woebegone.

  Eventually Joe said, “It’s pretty thin. But I can’t think of anything better.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s get the stuff.”

  They went to the hospital parking lot where Mike’s Audi was parked and Mike popped open the trunk. Joe picked up the Ziploc bag from the shoebox using a handkerchief. The paint remaining on the
bag was beginning to harden but Joe could pick out the muted sparkle of gems. He replaced it in the shoebox.

  “What are you going to do with it?” asked Mike.

  “I’m going to put it back,” said Joe.

  *****

  They tried the story out on Ann who didn’t question it, although they realized that she was probably not the most discerning audience at the moment.

  “So you weren’t at the house when Dormand … I mean Firth … was there?” she said to Mike.

  “No, sweetie, I was still on the road,” replied Mike.

  “So Walt was there?” she said, sounding more confused. “Why was Walt there?”

  “Where?”

  “At the house.”

  “When was Walt at the house?”

  “When Firth showed up.”

  “He wasn’t at the house.”

  “He must have been,” said Ann. “He gave Beau the signal.”

  “He wasn’t at the house,” said Joe, looking at her quizzically.

  Ann pulled herself a little higher in the bed, wincing. “Someone gave Beau the attack signal. I heard it. Nobody knows that except me and Mike and Walt. And I heard the signal when I was in the basement.”

  “There wasn’t anyone else in the house,” said Joe. I understand it was pretty windy …”

  “No, it wasn’t wind!” said Ann angrily. “It was the attack signal.” She gave a wheezy rendition—the fast ascending whistle followed by five quick high whistles. “Maybe …” Then she stopped, looking at Joe and Mike but not seeing them, then turned to look out the window. Finally she said, rather plaintively, “I want to go home now.”

  Chapter 48

  Walt flew Joe back to Brandywine later that day, and to keep Walt from having to make two round trips on the same day, Joe sprang for a rental car and a night at the Microtel for Walt. The return trip was evidently still “on the house” but Joe gave Walt $100 to help defray the fuel costs.

  Joe drove to Mike and Scott’s townhouse to get the other articles that Mike had removed from the cabinet and to give Scott the lecture about the consequences of not keeping quiet. Scott seemed a little more excited about the illicit nature of the situation than Joe would have liked.

  “You realize what would happen if the real story got out,” said Joe.

  “I know. Mum’s the word,” said Scott, making a zipping motion across his mouth.

  “You wouldn’t be tempted to tell the story to someone?” asked Joe.

  “Oh, I won’t deny it’s exciting to talk about,” said Scott, “but as long as I can talk about it with Mike, that’s enough.”

  “How long have you two been together?” asked Joe.

  “Oh, God, forever,” said Scott with a smile.

  “Do you mind doing one more, um, illegal thing to wrap this up?”

  “What would that illegal thing be?” asked Scott, looking interested.

  “I need an accomplice ...” began Joe.

  *****

  Joan and Sophia were staying with the Dormands and the police had descended once again on the Firth house. The search effort was cursory, though, since not even Morgan Firth was debating the fact that Biden had killed Elizabeth.

  When Joe stopped by on the Monday after Biden’s death, the only person in the house was Harry Deng, sitting at Biden’s desk going through a pile of credit card statements.

  “I don’t know what they’re hoping to find,” Harry said, clearly bored. “I doubt he put the sleeping bag on his AmEx card.”

  “Finish up that pile,” said Joe, estimating it would take Harry at least half an hour to go through the rest of the statements on the desk, “and then we’ll call it a day. I wouldn’t mind getting some lunch.”

  “There’s a good pizza place a couple of blocks away,” said Harry, turning over another page.

  Joe left Harry in the library and turned left toward the back of the house, to the garage. He unlocked and opened the door to the alley and in a minute Scott, in Mike’s Audi, pulled up and, not getting out, popped the trunk open. Joe removed a bulky black plastic garbage bag, closed the trunk, and gave it a tap, at which Scott rolled away, never having given Joe a glance during the exchange. Joe grinned—Scott really was enjoying this and, Joe suspected, the cloak of secrecy surrounding it was all part of the fun. Joe decided that Scott was probably the least likely of the three of them to let word slip of their conspiracy.

  Joe took the bag into the garage and shut and locked the door. He crossed to the cabinet and opened it up. The dust was beginning to cover the spaces the paint cans had previously occupied but he could still faintly discern where they had stood. Using his handkerchief, he replaced them in the cabinet, the heavier one having had the Ziploc bag of jewelry returned to it. He put the grease gun in the most likely seeming place. All had been wiped clean of fingerprints. He pulled a lock out of his coat pocket and latched the cabinet door, balled up the garbage bag and slipped it into the inside pocket of his windbreaker, then went upstairs to get pizza with Harry.

  Chapter 49

  The Philadelphia Chronicle

  “Firth Investments Scion Implicated in Death of Wife and Attack on Psychic”

  By Lincoln Abbott

  Biden Firth, son of Firth Investments founder Morgan Firth and Main Line socialite Scottie Firth, was found dead in a remote cabin in the Adirondacks on Friday by Tupper Lake police, apparently killed in self-defense by Ann Kinnear, a woman whose claim to be able to “sense spirits” was the subject of an investigation by the History Channel. Firth had engaged Kinnear in early May on the pretext of checking a house—actually the shore house owned by his father-in-law, Robert Dormand, founder of Dormand Fixtures plumbing fixtures—for spirits. That engagement enabled Firth to track the reclusive Kinnear to her Adirondack Park home and led to the altercation that resulted in the death of Firth and the wounding of Kinnear, as well as the shooting of Kinnear’s guard dog.

  Firth, who was evidently under some pressures due to financial commitments made to the now-popular new restaurant, Waterman’s (see Greg Malone’s review on page E-1), is suspected in the murder of his wife, Elizabeth Firth, who disappeared in February and whose body was found in Tinicum Marsh in April ...

  Chapter 50

  When Mike stopped by the hospital the next day, Ann was more alert and also more agitated.

  “I have to get out of here,” she said, bunching the thin hospital blanket into an accordion in her hand and then smoothing it out across her lap.

  “I know you want to go home, A.—” he began, but Ann shook her head.

  “I want to go home but I mainly want to get out of here.”

  “Are they not treating you good—?”

  “Mike, think about it,” said Ann angrily, twisting the edge of the blanket, “what do you think it’s like for someone who can sense spirits to be in a hospital? They’re everywhere.”

  It was a constant low rumble, like someone continuously running a vacuum a room or two away—sometimes almost but not quite resolving itself into language. Especially at night she could sense them passing in the hallway—she could differentiate at least four or five individual spirits. None of them was hostile toward her but their presence was both irritating and draining. It brought to Ann’s mind old photos of people in apartments with elevated train tracks right outside their windows. Those people probably weren’t concerned that the train was going to jump the tracks and crash into their home but it must have been stressful—anticipating when the next train would rumble past, steeling oneself against the sensory onslaught when it did. Thank heavens spirits were at least not as loud as trains.

  In a way she was surprised to encounter so many spirits at the hospital. Although of course occurrences of death were concentrated in a hospital, and spirits normally appeared where they had died, they also usually stayed only if the place they had died was somewhere meaningful to them—a place that, for whatever reason, they wanted or needed to stay. But as Ann let the sense of the spirits wash ove
r her, she came to believe that these were all people who had died fairly recently—perhaps within the last year—and that none of them had expected to die. It was as if they were hanging around, waiting to wake up from a dream—in which they had dreamed they died—and, Ann suspected, they would drift away as they accepted that this was not a dream.

  *****

  As it turned out, Ann was not able to leave the hospital for several more days, and when she left she was not headed home—her discharge was contingent on her having help for the next week and Mike had talked her into staying with him and Scott while she recuperated. The doctors had advised against a possibly bumpy plane ride to West Chester so Mike drove up to the Adirondacks the day before, picked up some of Ann’s clothes at the cabin, spent the night there, and then drove to the hospital the next day.

  Mike parked the Audi in the No Parking zone in front of the hospital doors, turned on the flashers, and trotted up to Ann’s room to retrieve her. After some delays—a seemingly unavoidable part of any hospital-related activity—an aide loaded Ann into a wheelchair (“That’s the rule, Miss”) and trundled her into elevators and down hallways to the entrance, Mike following with Ann’s belongings.

  As they approached the glass entrance, Mike saw a painfully thin young black man wearing a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a loosened tie, and khaki pants peering anxiously into the hospital lobby. An SLR camera hung around his neck. He perked up noticeably when he saw Ann. He snapped the cover off the camera and aimed it at the still closed lobby doors.

  “Shit,” said Mike, drawing a disapproving glance from the aide. “Sorry. Is there another entrance?”

  “Mike, the car’s right there, I don’t want to hang around here anymore.” The aide also seemed displeased with this sentiment.

  “Hey, I know that guy—Lincoln Abbott, he’s with the Chronicle. What’s he doing up here?”

  “Who cares, let’s go.” Ann kicked up the foot rests of the wheelchair and pushed herself up with a wince.