by Cassie Page
“Something’s in there,” she said. “I wonder if they used it for temporary storage and forgot to empty it out. Let’s open it up.”
The armoire was tightly bound with heavy ropes secured with nautical knots. Cody scowled at the setup. “This rig would tie down a battleship. Why the overkill?”
The knots were so tight that Cody had to cut them off with hedge clippers Olivia dug up in the garage. Cody cleared the rope away, then tugged and pulled on the door, but with no luck. He threw up his hands.
“What are we going to do, O? I can’t use a crowbar or it will damage the doors. How we are going to open it?”
Olivia tried the door herself with the same result. “Are you sure it isn’t locked? Did you pick up the key?”
Cody pulled an ornate iron key from his jacket pocket and dangled it by its rose-colored tassel, then worked it into the lock. “Nope. I can get the lock to turn, but this old wood is all swoll up. This door won’t budge.”
Olivia had a light bulb moment. “Let’s tip it forward and see if whatever is inside pushes the door open. I’ll stand in front. Do you think you can tip it, Cody?”
“Worth a try. I’ll go easy so it doesn’t fall on you.”
Cody pressed his massive shoulder against the back of the armoire. It started to get away from him, so he grabbed the sides to guide it. Olivia held onto the front. Suddenly, she heard a loud thunk and something inside shift. The door flew open, smacking Olivia in the forehead. She jumped back and the door widened. It gained momentum on creaking hinges as the object inside pushed itself free.
A scream erupted from Olivia’s throat. “Oh my god, Cody! There’s someone in there.”
Cody resettled the armoire and ran around to the front. He stared openmouthed at a man in an expensive sport coat and slacks slumped half in and half out of the armoire. Cody reached over to catch him as he started to slide toward the floor of the truck. He touched him, then jumped back.
“Olivia, it’s Mr. Blackman! Holy shit. I think he’s dead!”
Chapter Three : Just The Facts, Ma’am
A few minutes later, Olivia and Cody watched Detective Richards park his unmarked car in the driveway and walk back to Cody’s truck without acknowledging them, scanning the front porch, side yard, and hedges like a bloodhound sniffing for clues. Cody had parked the truck at the end of the driveway in plain view of passersby on the street and any neighbors poking their heads out their windows to see what the new vendor was up to now. That was the dismissive title Xavier told her had been unofficially assigned behind her back. She’d said, TMI, Xavier. Did I need to know that? Seriously? I’m just a vendor?
Richards took out a handkerchief and blew his nose before he finally flashed his badge at Cody. “You call this in, son?”
Cody nodded.
“You the owner of this place?”
Olivia did not know which insult to react to first. The condescending son he levied at Cody, or his assumption that this twenty-one year old owned Olivia’s business.
Olivia walked in front of Cody so the detective would have to look at her directly. “I’m the proprietor. And you are?”
She matched the snarky tone Richards had used with Cody. The detective trained his velvety coal-black eyes at Olivia for a moment, then sneezed again.
“Roses. I’m allergic to roses.” He gestured to the bank of fragrant pink and yellow heirlooms that lined the rock garden along the hedge separating Olivia’s property from the house next door.
“Detective Gurmeet Richards.” He flashed his badge at Olivia this time, stuffed his handkerchief back into his flannel woodsman jacket and gave her an appraising look that she couldn’t interpret. Personal or professional? Olivia knew that all interactions between men and women carried an element of sex, if only speculations about what might be under different circumstances. Before she could decide, he turned his back on her and without further word, walked over to the truck.
Gurmeet. Punjabi-American. That explained his gorgeous looks. But where did the attitude come from, mother, father, or was it an occupational hazard? Except for the rare traffic ticket, Olivia was a virgin when it came to dealing with law enforcement personality traits.
Another man walked up behind Richards and gave Olivia a frigid smile. She took the offensive and asked, “Are you the assistant detective?”
He sneered, “I don’t assist anyone. Ma’am. Detective Johnson. Detective Richards’ partner.”
Olivia was not in a conciliatory mood. She was fighting nausea from the shock of seeing the dead man and fighting the guilt of worrying about what this tragedy would do to her weekend sale. But she couldn’t separate the two in her mind and took out her mixed emotions on Johnson in his Target-chic sport coat and shiny slacks that had been ironed once too often.
“Do I have to take you at your word, Mr. Johnson, or do you have identification?”
Johnson put his hands on his hips, which pulled his coat open to reveal a sizeable spare tire tumbling over his belt. “Look, ma’am, we have a nasty job to do here. Let’s cut the attitude and show a little cooperation. Here’s my ID and it’s DETECTIVE Johnson if you don’t mind. And your name, please?”
He fished an electronic device from his pocket and keyed in her name, Olivia Mariah Granville.
“OMG,” he said, smirking. “That’s easy to remember.”
“I’ve heard every variation of that joke, detective. Can we get on with this and remove the . . . the . . . .” She didn’t know what to call the man still half in and half out of her armoire. She just knew she couldn’t look at the inside of the truck again.
“I am a very busy woman.” She put on her authoritative voice, if only to give herself a sense of control. This was all too shocking. She wasn’t going to lose it in front of these two arrogant men. Cody didn’t count. She could be herself with him.
Johnson said, “We have a lot to do before we can transport the body to the ME’s lab over in San Rafael. And we’ll have to work according to her schedule. She may have a few cases stacked up so it could be a while to arrange the transfer.”
“Why San Rafael,” Olivia asked, puzzled. It was twenty corkscrewed miles away.
“Darling Valley’s a pretty small town. Not much call for murder investigations. San Rafael takes care of autopsies for us.”
“Murder?” Olivia said, her voice rising as shock pasted itself on her face in an owl-eyed mask. “How do you know it’s a murder?”
Johnson poked at his device, which evidently had jammed. Then he shook it, tried to enter something again, gave up and stuck it in his pocket with a scowl.
By now, Detective Richards had made a cursory examination of the body and came over to ask some questions of his own. He pulled out a small spiral bound note pad and yellow Bic. No electronics for him, Olivia noticed.
“Can you think of a reason this man might have locked himself in your chest there?”
Olivia avoided his eyes so could concentrate on her answers. She guessed him to be her age, early thirties and younger than Johnson by about a decade.
First, she corrected him. “It’s an armoire, Detective. Early 17th century. French.”
Richards looked puzzled. “A what? Never mind. Locked himself up, tied the straps around the, what did you call it, armory?”
“ArmOIRE,” Olivia repeated. “A wardrobe if you like. For back when houses were built without closets.”
Richards stopped her, apparently he knew about living without amenities. He continued. “And loaded himself onto your truck for a special delivery? And then died on the way? That would be a neat trick if he didn’t have help. And help means . . . “
“Yes, of course.” Olivia said, her cheeks reddening. She was used to being a step ahead of everybody else, but this morning had left her dazed as well as out of sorts. She absolutely hated to look stupid.
“I’m an idiot not to have put two and two together. It’s just that I’ve never seen a dead body before, much less a murdered one.”
> That wasn’t exactly true. There was the guy that time in the West Hollywood Japanese restaurant. The detective seemed to sense her embarrassment and softened his tone.
“I understand, Miss . . . I need your name.”
Johnson interrupted. “Miss Granville. Olivia Granville.”
He omitted giving Richards her middle initial. Olivia assumed he probably figured there was plenty of time to have a laugh at her expense back at the station.
“So what have we got, Matt?” He used Richards’ nickname. “Any ID on the guy?”
“Nothing.” Richards’s head bobbed around as he answered, a curious cat taking everything in. “Stripped clean of wallet, credit cards. Do you recognize him Miss Granville?”
“Me?” Olivia was curt, wanting this over. “How would I know him? I’ve never seen him before in my life. But Cody recognized him. Didn’t he tell you? It’s Mr. Blackman, the owner of the restoration shop I use.”
“Yeah,” Richards said. “That matches up.”
Her back stiffened as she answered, indignant. “Who didn’t you believe, me or Cody?” This detective certainly knew how to get under her skin.
“We have procedures, ma’am. Any idea why someone would send his body to you? Pretty gruesome practical joke, don’t you think?”
Suddenly, Olivia was overwhelmed with it all. The murder, her money worries, the sale, the dislocation from friends and family in LA. Her longing for Brooks. Her voice cracked and blinked back tears. “His family,” she said. “His poor wife.”
Johnson stepped in, keeping the interrogation on track. “Cause of death, Matt?” He pulled out his device and punched in some notes. This time it worked.
Richards turned contemplative as he tried to make sense of the scene. “Hard to say. No obvious cause of trauma. No blood, no weapons, no marks of violence that I could see, though I haven’t moved the body to have a good look.”
Johnson speculated suffocation but Olivia jumped in with, “Not likely. The inside isn’t a tight seal. There are openings between the back slats that would let in plenty of air.” The practicalities of solving the puzzle diverted her from dwelling on the widow’s grief. From past experience she knew that was an opening through which her own grief could emerge.
Richards shook his head. “Well, whoever did this wasn’t going for the perfect crime. We’ll have to let the ME figure it out. Has anybody called her office? Johnson, I’ll take care of notifying the next of kin when we finish up here.”
By now, the entire police force of Darling Valley had converged on Olivia’s property. It consisted of a lone squad car and a second unmarked car that was used for drug busts. Exclusive as Darling Valley was, it could not avoid the encroachment of drugs by kids with too much money and time on their hands. Olivia tried to keep up with Darling Valley news, and she had read the three-part exposé in the Marin IJ about the dealers setting up shop near the yacht harbor, and Darling Valley’s small police force completing a crash course on drug abatement procedures. Darling Valley or DV, as the locals called it, liked to think the problem was, therefore, under control. Coming from Los Angeles, Olivia knew that was pie in the sky. Murder, however, was just beginning to raise its ugly head.
Johnson and Richards took statements from Olivia and Cody as the police draped yellow crime scene tape all over Olivia’s driveway, back yard, and Cody’s truck.
Horrified, Olivia spluttered, “Is that necessary? Everybody in town will see that. Can’t you just remove the, the,” she forced herself to use the ugly word, “body . . . ,” just saying it made her stomach churn, “and let us get back to normal?”
Richards folded his arms, Colombo-like and stared away as if to gather his thoughts. Then he turned to Olivia. She felt an unexpected lurch in her throat, and she had to tear her gaze away.
“Miss Granville.”
“You can call me Olivia.”
He gave her an odd look. “Miss Granville. We only have your word and Mr., I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
Cody said, “White. Cody White.”
Before Richards could continue, a car pulled into the driveway behind the police vehicles. The passenger jumped out wielding a huge shoulder cam and the driver started questioning the nearest police officer.
Olivia blurted out, “Reporters? Really? You’ve been here, like two seconds. Did you call them, Detective? This is all I need, to be on the 6 o’clock news.”
Richards’ expression showed that he shared her disgust. “The Marin IJ, among others, has police scanners. Prepare yourself for the press, bloggers, amateur paparazzi and anybody too bored by their own lives to stay out of yours.”
The quartet, Richards, Johnson, Olivia and Cody, watched the officers push the press back behind the crime tape and then ignore the questions being hurled at them, the agitated pleas for information and photo ops.
Richards gestured for Olivia and the others to move deeper into the yard out of sight of the cameras. “Let’s get on with this. What was I saying? Oh, yes. Our procedures. We only have your story and Mr. White’s account of what happened here.”
Olivia’s mouth dropped. “Surely you believe us. You don’t think we had anything to do with this horrible crime?”
Richards turned a page on his pad. “Miss Granville, we are a long way from putting all the pieces together. We arrive and see a dead man in very suspicious circumstances in your truck. On your property. You two have been with him for an undetermined amount of time during which you could have committed any number of acts on the body.”
This time Cody exploded. “Acts on the body! What do you think we look like? Monsters? We did nothing to that man.”
“Sir, we have to corroborate your stories. If you could provide witnesses for your whereabouts this morning.”
Before Cody could answer, a stranger came around the truck, peered inside and walked toward them, a kid about Cody’s age dressed like a b-boy and carrying a skateboard.
“Yo. Any you guys know what happened to that dude?”
He started filming with his phone.
Incredulous, Olivia yelled, “Did you jump over my fence? This is private property.”
The kid sneered, “Freedom of the press, lady. I’m checkin’ out the story I heard on the scanner. I figure a murder or somethin’. For my blog. Freedomaintfree.com. You follow it?”
Richards interrupted him. “You are impeding a police investigation and if you don’t get off this property you will write your blog in a jail cell.”
“DV’s got a jail?” He seemed truly impressed.
One of the police officers reached him and hustled him behind the crime tape. “Go join the other members of the fourth estate back there,” Richards snapped.
“What you sayin' dude?” He looked around at Olivia’s house and yard. “This don’t look like no estate to me. No offense, lady.”
Olivia got back to proving their innocence. “Cody, someone at Blackman’s must have seen you. That handyman guy. Didn’t he help you? And that hottie barista at Coffee and Chatter saw you on the way back. Tell him.”
Cody shook his head. “Olivia, the furniture was on the back porch when I got there with a note to sign for it and just take it. They had left the screen door open.”
Olivia said, “The armoire has been sitting out in the damp air? That’s why the wood swelled up.”
Cody gave her a thumbs up in agreement, then turned to Richards. “This is a small town and we work on the honor system.”
Johnson cocked his eye toward the body in the truck and said, “Well, not everybody does.” He laughed at his own joke and three rolls of chin jiggled for a moment.
Cody continued. “And Jeralyn, the barista, wasn’t working today and the line was too long to wait for coffee so I drove to that new coffee drive in and it was closed. I chewed up so much time that I just came straight here without looking anyplace else for coffee. I don’t think anybody’s seen me this morning except you.”
Richards said, “Well, that’s som
ething at least. I’ll need that note for evidence.” He sneezed again and backed further away from the rose bushes.
Cody said, “What? What note? I threw it away. Why would I keep a pizza flyer with some scribbles on the back? That’s all it was.”
Richards gave a disgusted shake of his head and turned to Olivia. “And you Miss Granville? Who can verify your whereabouts for the last, let’s say, twelve hours?”
Olivia saw a look of appraisal in his eyes and immediately assumed he was judging the hook in her nose and the abysmally small breasts. She swallowed a momentary embarrassment and said, “Only Cody. He’s the only person I’ve spoken with since I closed up shop last night, and that just on the phone.”
Cody said, “What about Mrs. Harmon, O? Didn’t you tell me she was going to fix supper last night?”
Olivia explained to Richards that Mrs. Harmon was her tenant. For a moment, she panicked. Irritating as he was, this Richards was the law in DV. Would he check into the zoning code on the unit?
Ignoring that worry in favor of more serious ones, she said, “Mrs. Harmon cancelled. Said her nephew was in town from Boston and was taking her out to dinner.”
Oh, dear. She had forgotten all about Mrs. Harmon. What would she do when she woke up to the vision of a murder victim out her back window?
Mrs. Harmon was an unobtrusive tenant who paid her rent and utilities on time, unlike some of Olivia’s more affluent clients who sat on her invoices. This town had money, all right. But it didn’t like giving it to strangers. Olivia was quite surprised that her tenant had invited her for dinner in the first place. And then not surprised when no nephew showed up. When Olivia had emptied some trash at 10 pm, as she expected, she saw that her tenant’s TV was still on. Nice try, Olivia thought as she realized that the timid woman had simply chickened out on opening herself up to more than a business relationship.
Richards’ continued. “Maybe this Mrs. Harmon saw you or heard you moving about last night and can verify that you were here the whole time.”
Olivia paused thoughtfully. “I doubt it. Her place is pretty well soundproofed, but I’ll ask her.” She shivered, wishing she had put on a jacket. The sun, competing with the morning fog that always hugged the coast in early summer, had yet to warm the shadows behind the house.