“Yes. I think it was a mistake to come.” She turned to her daughter. “I’m afraid I need to get back home, Annabelle.”
“Of course,” Schwartzman said in response to the panic in her mother’s voice. “I’ll push to get her remains released so that we can hold the services on Sunday. That gives us four days to talk to the attorneys and sort out Ava’s affairs.”
Her mother’s lips closed in the thin, narrow line that meant she had made a decision.
“What is it?” Schwartzman asked. “Are you thinking we should hold the services sooner?”
“I’m driving back home first thing in the morning.”
“Tomorrow?”
Her mother waved at the ceiling. “It’s too late in the afternoon now. It’ll be dark in a few hours. I can’t drive in the dark.”
“You can’t leave tomorrow. You have to be here. We need a couple of days to sort everything out.”
“I don’t have a choice, Annabelle,” she said, and Schwartzman noticed the tremor in her hands. “I need to be at home.”
“I want to be home, too. It’s just a few days.”
Her mother walked to the door.
Schwartzman went after her. “Mama.”
Her mother’s movements were unsteady as she crossed the threshold.
“I’ll drive you back home,” Schwartzman told her. “I’ll take you first thing after the services.”
Her mother was shaking her head.
“It’s only a few days, Mama. I need you here. I can’t do this alone.”
“You should know . . . I’m not well, Annabelle.”
Schwartzman took her mother’s hand in both of hers. Was she sick? Cancer was her first thought. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with you? Cancer?”
“Cancer?” she balked. “No. It’s nothing so clean as cancer.”
“Clean?”
Her mother lifted her chin in the air. “I’ve got all sorts of symptoms but no diagnosis. A total mystery.”
“You’ve seen doctors?”
“All I do is see doctors.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her mother waved her hand, dismissing the idea that she would share her medical issues with her daughter.
“What sort of symptoms?” Schwartzman eyed the street and saw a bench. “Come. Sit down.” She led her mother to the bench. As they walked, her mother leaned heavily on Schwartzman’s arm. The biopsy site under her right arm ached as they moved. When they reached the bench, her mother sat slowly, her face in a grimace.
“Tell me about the symptoms.”
“Annabelle, it’s of no use. The doctors can’t sort out what’s wrong.”
“I’m a doctor, Mama.”
“For dead people. I can assure you I haven’t been murdered.” Her mother extricated her hand from Schwartzman’s and gave her daughter a cursory pat on the knee.
Hands in her lap, Schwartzman sat back against the bench. “But you’re sure it’s not cancer.”
“I’m not sure of anything,” she said. “But there is no sign of any cancer.”
“Have you ever had cancer?”
“No, no.”
Nothing as clean as cancer, her mother had said. So Schwartzman had the “clean” disease. The two women sat together on the bench. Her mother had visited Seattle one summer for some big garden show. Was that three years ago? Or four? “Well, humor me, then,” she told her mother. “Tell me what is going on. What do the doctors say?”
“They tell me there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. That it’s all in my head.”
“What’s in your head?”
“It changes all the time. I’ve got vertigo. Some days my vision is blurred. I shake.” Her mother raised her hand, and as soon as it was at eye level, it began to tremble.
“Have you seen the eye doctor?”
“Yes. The doctor adjusted my prescription and said my vision is quite good for someone my age. My age.” She shuddered.
Schwartzman remembered how her father used to tell her mother how young she looked. “Not a day over twenty,” he always said. Her mother reveled in that attention. All these years after his death, who was there to tell her she looked great? And now she was burying Ava.
Were the symptoms just in her mother’s head? A person’s emotional state had a real impact on her physical health. Schwartzman considered the vertigo. “Are you having headaches? Or nausea?”
“Sometimes,” her mother said, nodding, and Schwartzman felt a rush of sympathy. Her mother was young, but she was burying her last contemporary family member. Surely that made her feel uncomfortably mortal, as if she was next in line.
“What are the other symptoms?”
“I’ve got pain in my knees and back . . .”
Schwartzman waited to hear something that suggested a disease. What her mother was describing were the pains of getting older. “Why don’t we go back to Ava’s? We’ll get you settled in, Mama, and we will talk about what’s going on. You can decide in the morning.”
“Oh no. You go on. I’m staying at the Embassy Suites.”
Schwartzman drew a sharp breath. “What? I thought we were staying at Ava’s. Together.”
Her mother began digging through her purse. A minute passed, and she pulled out a set of keys, pressed them into her daughter’s palm. “You stay there, Annabelle. It’s all yours anyway. But I can’t. There are too many memories. I’m just not well enough to go to that house.”
Schwartzman stared at her mother. Her mother had rarely come to Charleston when she was young. In fact, Schwartzman didn’t think she’d come at all after she was in elementary school. Ava had always come up to Greenville for the holidays. It would have been almost thirty years ago. “What memories?”
“Oh, did you know that your grandparents wanted us to have our wedding reception at the house? They wanted the services to be here, at the temple?”
“I thought the service was at our church in Greenville and the reception at Greenville Country Club.”
“Oh, it was. I would never have gotten married in any other church, but that was what Ava and your grandparents wanted.”
“And that upset you.” Schwartzman wondered when her mother had become so frail.
“Of course it upset me. It was awful.”
“Is that the reason you don’t want to stay there?”
Her mother dismissed the idea with another wave of her hand. “Plus the house will be terribly dusty. It was always so dusty and moist. I never felt comfortable there.”
“I don’t want to stay there without you,” Schwartzman admitted. “I could stay with you, at your hotel, if you would prefer.”
“That’s silly, Annabelle. You’ll be just fine. You can handle yourself.”
“Mama, Ava was murdered there.”
“But the police are letting us back in. If they aren’t worried, then why should we worry?”
Schwartzman stared at her mother. More than anything, she wanted to be mothered. A strong, reassuring hug. The one that said, “I will always be here for you. No matter what. You can always come home to me.” But her mother was not that person.
“Oh, Annabelle. I can see you’re disappointed in me.”
“No,” she said quickly, fighting off an uncomfortable rush of emotion and a desire to say yes. “I’m not. I just want to—” Be your daughter. Be with you. Tell you about my cancer. “I just want to spend some time together.” Schwartzman blinked back the tears that stung her eyes.
“I’m afraid I have so little energy. I need to go lay down for a bit.” She patted Schwartzman’s leg. “You understand, dear. Don’t you?”
“Of course,” she said. She had to stop wishing her mother was someone she had never been. Ava had been that person for Schwartzman. Before that, it was her father. Accept what she can offer, she told herself. “What if I come to the hotel a little later? We can have dinner together?”
“All right,” her mother agreed. “That sounds lovely.”
“Six o’clock?”
“That works just fine,” she agreed. “But if you make other plans, don’t worry about me, dear.”
“I won’t have other plans. I’ll meet you at the hotel restaurant at six o’clock.”
“Good, good. That works just fine.” Her mother stood from the bench as a taxi pulled to the curb.
“Did you call a cab?”
“Mr. Woolworth called it for me,” she said as she made her way across the sidewalk.
Woodward. She was getting old. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” Schwartzman said.
“That sounds good, dear. See you later.”
“I love you, Mama.”
“Yes, dear. I know you do, and I love you.” Without a backward glance, her mother wrapped her veiny hand on the door handle and pulled it open to slowly lower herself into the cab.
28
Charleston, South Carolina
Harper recognized Ava Schwartzman’s niece as soon as she entered Woodward’s funeral parlor. Like her aunt, she was thin and tall. Her shoulders held back, wavy, dark hair just barely grazing them. She wore a pair of yoga pants and a zippered hoodie under her trench coat. Travel clothes. Harper guessed she’d come straight from the airport.
Harper stood back while she and an older woman talked over a white casket. When she turned, Harper saw Annabelle Schwartzman also had her aunt’s nose but her full mouth and wide, light eyes matched the woman with her. Her mother. She had been told that the niece was an only child.
T. J. Woodward approached. “Ava Schwartzman’s sister-in-law and niece. They’ve made a selection, so feel free to go on over.”
Harper hesitated. Although there was plenty she wanted to ask Ava’s family, coming to the funeral home was an uncouth way to track them down. Her mother would be appalled. She decided she would simply introduce herself and ask them to call her at their convenience. And then she would hope that it would be convenient soon.
The younger Schwartzman leaned toward her mother. The mother, on the other hand, only stared at the casket while she spoke. The two women didn’t touch, but in parts of the South, that was the culture. Not to mention that grief did strange things to people.
T. J. stood next to her, watching them, too. As an undertaker, he’d probably seen it all. A few years older than Harper, T. J. had been a troublemaker in high school. The locker chatter among her peers was filled with stories about T. J. and his friends. Drinking, smoking pot, and occasionally wreaking havoc in his father’s mortuary.
There was little about T. J.’s person that was consistent with his profession as a mortician. He was tall and skinny with a mop of wavy blond hair that was just starting to gray. He wore a beard and mustache in an attempt to give himself an older and more mature appearance, which was, at best, only partly successful. When not dealing with a deceased’s family, he rarely kept a straight face. He had never settled down and tended to date women who were increasingly younger than he. Harper suspected there was still a good bit of weed involved.
“You want an introduction, Harper? Not like you to be shy,” T. J. razzed.
“Just giving them a little time,” she told him.
“Suit yourself,” T. J. said, heading for his office.
Harper followed as far as the main viewing room and took a seat in the front row. There were no services today, and it was as good a place as any to wait for the right time to approach Ava’s family.
In two days, they would fill a room like this for Frances’s service. Her parents and Jed. Harper would take a seat toward the back. Her mother would sit on the aisle so she could leave if her crying got to be too much. She was a noisy crier. Harper would wear her funeral clothes, a black skirt and blazer, and Jed would wear the dark-gray suit he wore to court appearances and funerals. The other suit he owned, navy pinstripe, was saved for weddings. There were fewer of those. More and more, Jed and Harper attended funerals.
The room was smaller without a body. At the front hung heavy velvet curtains in a deep purple. Thick ropes in forest green held them to the walls. Tassels hung at their ends. The carpet had the same deep-purple and green hues. T. J. had remodeled the room after his father passed a few years back. His choices suggested a sophistication she wouldn’t have expected from him. The curtains were his addition, for what he called a mixed viewing—when some guests wanted to view the deceased while others preferred not to.
A large black cart with gold accents sat in the place where the casket went. The coffin caddy, T. J. called it when he wasn’t speaking with a family. Harper listened. She no longer heard voices. She returned to the showroom. The two women were gone.
She hurried out the front door, where a taxicab stopped at the curb.
“Dr. Schwartzman,” she called out.
Ava’s niece shut the door of the cab and stood back as it pulled away. Only as she turned back toward the building did she notice Harper, who quickly closed the distance between them.
“Dr. Schwartzman,” Harper said again as she reached her. “I am Detective Harper Leighton.” Harper offered her hand, and Annabelle Schwartzman shook it. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Dr. Schwartzman.”
“Call me Anna, please,” she said with a glance back toward the street, as if she had remembered something she’d meant to tell her mother.
“That was your mother?” Harper asked.
“I’m afraid she’s not well,” Dr. Schwartzman said, her hand tight on the strap of her purse.
“I imagine this is very difficult. And you’ve just come from San Francisco, I understand—”
“I know. I should have told him I was leaving,” she said, her gaze sweeping from Harper to the street and back again.
A note of panic in her voice. Something was wrong. Harper waited an extra beat before speaking. “Told him?”
“I’m going to call Inspector Harris right now. I just haven’t had a chance.”
Inspector Harris. Inspector? There weren’t many departments that still called their detectives by the older term.
Anna’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you want to talk to me?” She shook her head as the realization came. “Of course. My aunt,” she said, answering her own question.
Harper wanted to ask about Inspector Harris, but she couldn’t see a way to do it. “Yes. Your aunt. I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
“I’m afraid it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.” Regret was evident in her face. The expression was one Harper saw more often than she cared to consider.
Anna’s mother had told her how little they saw Ava. “I understand. I’d still like to ask a few questions. There’s always a chance that something you say might provide some clue to help catch their killer.”
“Their killer?” she repeated.
“Yes. Your aunt’s friend Frances Pinckney was killed, as well.”
Anna’s hand swept out, searching for a chair that wasn’t there.
Harper grabbed her arm, but Anna Schwartzman had already gotten her legs back under her. She extracted her arm from Harper’s hold. “Her friend? She was at the house also?”
Harper motioned to the bench. “Perhaps we should sit?”
“I’m fine. I just didn’t know there were two victims.”
Harper explained their theory about Frances Pinckney’s death and the key to Ava’s home, the fact that there was no sign of a break-in there. She offered enough detail to convince Anna of the urgency in the Pinckney case.
The doctor stared at the ground as she listened. Her face gave nothing away. Her shoulders were set back, her spine straight, and yet it was as if she were holding her posture under some tremendous weight. When Harper finished talking, Anna stepped away. She leaned down, pressing her hands into her thighs before standing and arching her back.
When she faced Harper again, her cheeks were damp, but she was composed. “I’ll answer all your questions, Detective.”
“Thank you.”
She hitched her shoulders back again. “But first I’d lik
e to see her.”
Harper followed. “Of course. There are some injuries that might be disturbing.”
Anna looked back at her, brows raised.
“I know your position, Dr. Schwartzman,” she said. “It’s different when it’s family.”
“I appreciate the concern, Detective.” Anna paused. “I have to do it.”
“Of course,” Harper said.
Harper called out to T. J., who emerged from the storeroom. “Dr. Schwartzman would like to see her aunt.”
“Of course,” he said, the mischievous smile carefully tucked away. “Your aunt is in our prep room. We have a very talented hair and makeup artist who will work on her later today. So I want to warn you, she won’t look like herself just yet.”
“I understand.”
“Most of our families prefer to wait until their loved one has been dressed to see them.”
“T. J., Dr. Schwartzman is a medical examiner. In San Francisco.”
T. J. pulled open the door to the stairs and let Anna pass. “In that case, follow me.”
Harper followed behind Anna as T. J. led them down to the prep room. She’d done this before, many times, with the families of victims. People tended to be nervous before viewing the body. Weepy, hesitant.
Anna Schwartzman followed as though they were heading to a kitchen rather than a morgue. But why wouldn’t she? This was her business.
T. J. paused at the door and peered through the small window into the room. Checking to see that other bodies weren’t out, no doubt. He pushed the door open, and Anna stepped inside.
T. J. moved to the body and held the top of the sheet, checking with Ava’s niece for a nod before lowering the sheet down to her neck and exposing her face. Ava’s eyes were closed, and the tightness in her jaw had softened with the passage of rigor mortis.
Likely, T. J. had altered the dead woman’s expression. He once told Harper that rearranging the deceased’s face was the first thing he did when they arrived. A peaceful expression made it easier to be with them. It worked. Lying on the table, Ava Schwartzman looked at peace. Harper appreciated seeing her this way.
Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) Page 21