by Tyan Wyss
“The entire plot must cover at least an acre,” stated Lea. “I wonder if all the houses on the block have such huge yards? What’s on the other side of this back wall?”
Nick leaned out of the hut and shaded his eyes against the sun. “Just the fields of the Agrit-Empire. I believe someone mentioned lettuce, potato, and spinach plots. Would you and Officer Phelps like to check out the other side?”
“I would,” said Lea. “Ashley Peebles was supposedly killed by two farm workers, isn’t that correct?”
“It is, indeed,” returned Nick.
“If this is the furthermost edge of the suburbs with nothing in between except for vacant land and the fields where farm workers toil, who knows what sort of characters may have traipsed over to the cul-de-sac. The fence around the vacant lot isn’t very high, at least compared to this: perhaps three feet max. Any child could scale over it. Shall we enter the house?”
Randy had returned and rapidly shot several photos of the huge yard before screwing up his face as he picked up some of the dung. Nick stifled a grin. The trio headed to the back door.
Nick rapped. “Is anyone home? We’re the Monroe City Police Department. Please open up. We have a search warrant for the facilities.”
Though they waited several minutes before heading around the huge house again and lifting the heavy brass knocker of the front door, he rapped several times before turning to Randy Phelps, “I believe that covers our civic duty to knock. The keypad is located on the left wall of the foyer. You’ll only have around twenty seconds until all hell breaks loose. It’s all yours, Randy. Have fun.”
It took him less than thirty seconds to pry open the door. Lea gasped and gazed into the mischievous eyes of the rookie.
“If you’re free sometime, Randy, I’d like you to come and check the locks on my house. What you just did makes me extremely nervous.”
Randy punched in the code before leading them into the lovely portico. Beautifully tiled in the softest cream, it opened into an elegant foyer. A towering staircase fronted them, separating an expansive library on one side and a formal living room on the other. Nick moved directly into the living room, shouting out their identity once again.
Randy whistled appreciatively at the impressive design. The sunken room eventually opened into a Chinese-partitioned formal dining room with an octagonal trace ceiling. Sprawling, hand-knotted wool and silk rugs were strewn across the floor as if they cost no more than a K-Mart blue-light special. The dark and expensive built-in wood was polished to a dull luster. Nick pointed to some of the artwork.
“There’s a bunch of Gothic-American stuff. That painting alone is probably worth a police officer’s entire month’s salary, and the furniture is all heavy mahogany. This setup must have cost a mint.”
An incredibly beautiful wall unit with recessed lighting illuminating adjustable glass cells had been filled with tiny brass and glass figurines. A huge mahogany table decorated with a creamy, knotted table covering dominated the dining room, and upon it sat a vase bursting with roses from the garden. Lea moved close and sniffed. They’d been cut recently.
The living room delighted with a mass of two-toned leather couches, large Persian rugs, and bronze light fixtures. The massive brick fireplace had been laid with logs, though the season was still too hot for such luxuries. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in ample light and revealed the large backyard.
The trio wandered into the stainless steel kitchen, noting the granite countertops and gigantic stainless steel refrigerator, the dual oven, and large dishwasher; all were spotless and incredibly expensive, but barely made a dent in the kitchen’s spaciousness.
“No one’s used this kitchen for a while,” said Lea.
“Maybe. But look at that.”
Thayne pointed to a small pile of dirt near the pantry.
Lea knelt down painfully. “Possible the maid tracked in some dirt on her shoes. She’d get fired in Trish Fisher’s house for this kind of negligence. Officer Phelps, bag some of the soil please.”
That proved the only blemish upon the entire house, yet the elegant structure just didn’t feel right. The long countertops were too vacant, the appliances too new. The center island, while containing a food processor, blender, and an incredible array of kitchen knives, had been designed for looks, not convenience. Nick and Lea visited the library with its full bookshelves surrounded by comfortable leather couches and reading chairs. Dainty Victorian lights strategically illuminated the room, but once again, this room appeared unused, the impressive collection unread.
Nick made his way upstairs and observed the spacious rooms. The masculine master bedroom on the right came equipped with its own fireplace and spacious en-suite bathroom. The vaulted ceilings towered twelve feet high, and the room was supplied with a luxurious gray-tiled bathing area, which included a separate tub and shower as well as a Jacuzzi.
The next two rooms were also equipped with en-suite bathrooms, and while lighter in color, had obviously been decorated by the same hand. Pale silk flowers broke up the monotony of the house’s white walls, and fresh yellow throw pillows livened up the beige bedspreads.
Officer Phelps had trotted up the stairs and now peeked into the second of the two guest bedrooms.
“What are your perceptions about this home, Officer?” asked Nick, once again avoiding Lea’s gaze.
“I don’t like it,” said Randy shortly. “Not only does it stink outside but this house seems sterile; like some expensive hotel nobody but the snooty can afford. It may be nicely decorated with all these high ceilings and expensive furniture and stuff, but it’s the kind of house you’d be afraid to sit down on the couch and have a coke or something because you might spill it. It’s just like my grandma’s house—she’s got plastic on the couches and only removes it on Sundays when we come to dinner. Me, I like houses where you can go put your feet on the furniture and spill some popcorn on the floor knowing your dog will clean it up.”
Nick smiled. “My perceptions exactly. Seems like there’s only a couple more rooms.”
The next room served as the office. It housed a miniature library full of engineering and bio-tech books, an elaborate computer station including an adding machine and fax and what appeared to be a drafting table. Still, the well-equipped desk seemed little utilized.
The final room proved a different story altogether. Nick stopped short, his heart in his throat. Bathed in light with pale blue walls, its creamy curtains were dotted with rising red, blue, and yellow balloons. A bright wallpaper border hugged the ceiling, and made the chamber appear merry and cheerful. On one side, an enormous crib was situated below an enormous hot air balloon headed for a distant snow-capped mountain. A low table, with a caddy crammed full of crayons and markers centered on it red surface, was scratched and marked with mindless doodles. Lea flung startled eyes at Nick as he let out his breath slowly. Randy opened the empty closet. Like the other three bedrooms, it held only the memory of occupation. Lea covertly took out her own small camera and snapped a shot.
A sharp pain just behind his Nick’s eyes momentarily blinded him. This was not the right place.
Lea crossed her arms and thought hard. “I would say that this house is kept in waiting, unused until the owner decides to visit.”
“Makes sense,” said Nick awkwardly. “That would explain the sterile feel. They probably employ a maid and gardener to keep the place in readiness.”
“Think this house could have a basement?” asked Lea abruptly.
“Maybe,” said Officer Phelps, “but most houses in this region don’t bother. It’s not like we get tornadoes or anything, and from the size of this place, they’re sure not lacking for space.”
“I know,” said Lea, “but it would be interesting to see if we could find a cellar where the owners store their personal belongings.”
The trio spent the next twenty minutes searching the downstairs, but every door they opened led either into a pantry, closet, or ample storage space, but l
ittle in regards to personal items.
“There’s just something about this place that strikes me all wrong, Fox. If little Katie’s correct and there was a big party here last week, there must have been some mighty fine cleanup. I suggest we let Randy and the team loose to scour this place with a fine-toothed comb. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Perhaps,” said Lea. “Let’s check out Steven’s report and find out what Chief Rollins was so merry about.”
Chapter 12
Nick watched the other officers headed by the energetic Randy Phelps scurry through the Collins’ house with photographic and dusting equipment. He felt tired, and the fare at the diner ordered nearly four hours ago had long ceased to stave off his hunger pangs. He could sure use a long, cold drink, preferably one that frothed and boasted a magnificent head.
“Let’s return to my office,” offered Lea generously. If the truth were to be known, her crippled leg was killing her as it always did whenever she’d stood on it for too long. She could use a break as well, and her stomach was beginning to rumble.
Nick remembered her too-neat office and shook his dark head. “No, I need a beer and distance from this block.” Fox followed his eyes to the Mustang’s trunk.
“Drop me off at my office, then,” she said suddenly.
“Why? Need to do some research?” he asked tersely.
“That, and I need to speak with someone.”
“And who would that be? Thought you worked alone?” he said sarcastically. He knew damn well what she was up too.
“I have a boyfriend, you know.”
“You do?” his eyes widened in shock.
“And some people say I’m rude, Thayne.” A flicker of hurt briefly clouded her violet eyes.
“Guess that was insensitive,” he said non-contritely. “What I meant to say was I’m surprised he’d let you wander around on a Saturday, since that’s usually everyone’s day off. He’d probably want to go . . . bowling or something.”
Lea stared long and hard at his unrepentant face, and Nick wished irrelevantly he could give her some helpful tips on how to maximize her appearance. Fox wouldn’t look half bad if she just worked on it. Not half good, either, but anything could be improved; even her.
“Bernard understands my life’s demands and gives me space.”
“Oh, really? And just what does this Bernard do for a living?”
“None of your business.”
“Ooh,” scoffed Nick as he opened the door of his cherry-red Mustang. “A bit sensitive, aren’t we?”
“Not at all. It is just that my personal life is to remain my personal life, no matter how curious my partner might be about it.”
“So, we’re partners now. And I can totally understand feeling a violation of privacy.
Fox lifted her head. “I just reckon you have more to offer this partnership than I previously suspected.” Lea fiddled in her purse for sunglasses and finally hooked clip-ons over the atrocious black wire-rimmed spectacles. She sank down beside him and straightened the awful skirt over her bony knees. She now looked worse, if that was possible. He’d always thought only little old ladies who drove Thunderbirds and muscled their way through supermarket parking lots leaving nicks on other people’s cars wore those kinds of shades.
“You’re a good artist,” she said abruptly. “How do you pick your subjects?”
Lea thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally he uttered, “They pick me.”
After a long poignant silence she said shakily. “I see. One shouldn’t scoff at one’s gifts. You willing to let me look at more?”
“Maybe,” he said and started the car. They’d driven for a full five minutes before he added, “If they seem relevant.” And then, many minutes later, as if what had been said didn’t matter, he said, “So, what happened to your leg?”
She glanced over at him, her small hands clenched as if dealing with some strong emotion. “I mentioned my brother drank?”
“You did.”
“At the start of my ninth grade year, he had to pick me up after school. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, but didn’t have the guts to get out of the car and walk. It’s quite foggy here in autumn. Anyway, we ended up wrapped around a tree near the onion fields. My brother walked away with nary a scratch—I’ve heard that drunks often do because they’re so relaxed—and I spent the next five weeks in the hospital as they pieced together the bones in my left leg and hip. My dad and brother blamed the foggy conditions, of course. Dad could never see any sort of fault in Lane.”
“You’re bitter?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you be? Because of everything, I don’t drink and I don’t lie, particularly to myself. I am what I am, and if someone doesn’t like it, they can stuff it.”
“Indeed,” he said. “I like your attitude. Here’s your office. I’ll pick up some food. Give me an hour, and then we’ll see what Dr. Koh’s come up with.”
Ninety minutes later, Thayne showed up. He carried two aluminum cans of soda in one hand and three fast food bags in the other with his sketchbook tucked under his arm. He’d clearly stopped by the boarding house to don worn blue jeans and a red-checked, short-sleeved cotton shirt. He politely offered her a vegetarian sub, and Fox hesitantly took the foot-long sandwich and diet soda, watching him wade through Steven’s report as they ate.
“The paint shards found inside Thad Fisher’s intestinal track are the kind found in cheap furniture bought across the border or in items that predates our current stiff regulations regarding lead content,” she said, squinting at her F & H.
“That’s right,” said Nick wolfing down three fries at a time and licking his fingers.
“We can assume one is still able to purchase items in Mexico, where the regulations are not as stringent.”
“You can get anything down in Mexico.”
“So therefore, Thad Fisher,” she continued, “ingested paint flakes from something purchased down south or made a trip to Mexico in recent weeks.”
“He hadn’t traveled,” said Nick taking a hefty bite of his meatball sub. “Maybe he consumed the paint particles without knowing it. I’ve heard pots imported from Mexico and used for cooking leak out lead and toxins into food without the victim even knowing it.”
“But it wasn’t leaked into his system,” said Lea picking up the report and pointing to one interesting sentence. “He had particles in his teeth, almost as if he’d been gnawing at something. And what about the two good-sized rose thorns embedded in his feet?”
“Interesting, but unfortunately there are lots of roses in Monroe County,” said Thayne. “The town hall alone must have fifty or more. And, of the yards I checked on Chester Street, 60 percent of them, including the Simms and Collins’ houses had roses.”
“True.”
“Are you going to finish that?” Nick pointed to her half-eaten sub. She ate like a bird.
“Go ahead. So Thad was seen last alive at Chester Street.” She gazed at the F & H and read from the possible scenario section she’d punched up. “Visualize this. Thad Fisher tried to escape and plunged through rose bushes in his haste. If you combine that with the fact that Thad lost his finger by the probable use of garden clippers, it would make sense to suspect he was killed at Chester Street. Every house should have their gardening equipment checked. I’d bet your Mustang one of them has the tool that was used to sever the mayor’s finger. Plus, the word on the tree—Phile.” She pressed a button on the F & H and cocked an unplucked eyebrow at him.
“You know who you’re implicating with this logic?”
“Yes,” said Lea squinting across at him through her too prominent glasses. She held up the tiny screen for him to see the name illuminated there.
“Philemon Jenkins,” read Nick.
“I personally believe Mr. Jenkins didn’t murder Thad Fisher. The fact that he led the police to the body plus the simplicity of his story reeks of the truth.”
“I’d have to agree,” said Nick. “But even a challen
ged individual like the chief will put two and two together. Unless we find something concrete to lead us away from a garden scenario for the murder, I have a feeling that our Mr. Jenkins is in for some real trouble.”
“May I see the sketch again?” asked Lea politely.
Nick sighed and wiped his mouth. “Here you go.”
The drawing pad was thin. Nick had obviously removed what he considered irrelevant. He tapped a well-manicured finger on the first. “I drew this on Wednesday morning—around 3 a.m. I’d been drinking—booze seems to ‘increase’ my artistic abilities.”
The magnolia tree trunk hung heavy with foliage under a full moon. A small, red ball, exactly like the one Lea had discovered earlier that day, lay on the unsettled ground near grossly upturned fingers. Fox squinted at him. “You ‘saw’ it just like this?”
“Exactly. It’s an image I can’t hold onto unless I draw it. You can see there’s nothing place descriptive. No identifier or street sign anywhere. I have to ‘hope’ the crime will find its way to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Nick leaned forward. “I have these ‘visions’ or whatever—usually propelled by the use of alcohol. I have no idea where they come from and what they relate to. I do know that, usually, there is some connection to my life or someone I know. I believe that my friendship with Roger was my connection—though I had no way to know he’d succumb to appendicitis and I’d be called in. But, that’s how it works. There’s a connection, but damned if I know what the connection is. Sometimes I can figure it out. Other times, I never do.”