“Annabelle,” T. J. said.
“Please. Call me Anna.”
Harper wondered why she chose Anna. Perhaps Annabelle Schwartzman was too much of a mouthful or maybe Annabelle sounded too Southern for someone living in San Francisco. Either way, Harper would remember.
Not Annabelle but Anna.
“Right,” T. J. said. “Anna, your mother brought over some undergarments, but we don’t yet have an outfit selected for the services. Did your mother mention that?”
Anna shook her head.
“Perhaps she was going to do it herself,” T. J. suggested.
“I’ll select something tonight and bring it to you tomorrow. Will that work?”
“Yes. That would be fine.” He moved to the body. “You may want to choose something long-sleeved. It requires less makeup and . . .”
Anna crossed directly to her aunt. People dealt differently with death. Harper waited to see if Ava’s niece would take her aunt’s hand or lean in to kiss her. Instead she leaned over and studied her face without touching it. Then she rounded the side of the body and folded back the sheet to reveal her aunt’s arm.
T. J. glanced at Harper.
Anna lifted the arm and studied the ligature marks on the wrist.
T. J. cleared his throat. “Obviously, long sleeves would cover those, as well.”
Anna made no reply as she turned the arm over and studied the underside. With a stoic professionalism, she checked the fingernails and palms, between the fingers, then made her way up the arm. When she was done, she placed the arm back on the table and brought the sheet down. Acting as if she were alone in the room, Anna walked around the gurney and repeated the process on the other side. Harper wondered if she would find something Burl had missed.
“We will also need to discuss the style of her hair and makeup,” T. J. said. Harper sensed that watching her was unnerving to him.
“It is easiest,” he went on, “if you bring in a photograph of your aunt as you would like her hair and makeup to appear. Or send us one if you’ve got a digital image.”
Anna said nothing.
“I did mention it to your mother, as well, so perhaps she—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Anna told him, moving down the body and lifting the sheet to examine her aunt’s legs.
Harper watched as she studied the body, waiting for her to say something. Make some comment on what she saw.
When she finally raised her head, she said, “Do you have a magnification lamp?”
“A magnification lamp?” T. J. repeated.
“Like a light with a magnifying glass.” Anna glanced around the room. “Maybe for doing makeup?”
“I’m afraid not,” T. J. said.
Anna finished her exam of the legs and returned to the head of the body. Beside Harper, T. J. seemed to let out a breath. But rather than being finished, Anna Schwartzman drew the sheet down until her aunt’s entire upper torso was exposed.
A strangled sound came from T. J.
Anna regarded him momentarily before returning to her work. The bruises on Ava’s torso were slightly yellowed at the edges. Anna moved to her aunt’s face and lifted her eyelids one at a time before opening her mouth and inspecting her gums.
“Uh,” T. J. said.
Anna finished by opening Ava’s jaw and staring into her mouth before closing it again and pulling the sheet back up around her aunt’s neck. She pulled a single hair off the sheet and let it fall, watching as the hair floated to the floor.
T. J. stared at Anna’s hands as she went across to the sink and washed them.
She pulled several paper towels from the dispenser and walked back across the room as she was drying her hands. “He sat on her chest and held her nose and mouth so she couldn’t inhale. She would have suffocated quickly.” Anna was focused on the body.
“Those bruises were from his knees?” T. J. asked.
“With some sort of knee pad,” Anna said.
T. J. stared at her. “How do you know?”
“I’ve seen a lot of imprints left on skin,” Anna told him, her demeanor calm, professional.
Harper was impressed.
“It’s an educated guess, of course,” Anna continued, “but the placement and symmetry on both sides of her torso, the pattern left in the bruises—some sort of diamond shape—it all indicates some kind of knee pads worn by the killer.”
“Our coroner said the same,” Harper confirmed. “We took some measurements and images, and we’re trying to match the marks to a set of knee pads, maybe track them back to the store.”
“He won’t have kept those.” Anna tossed the paper towels in the trash and returned to her aunt’s side. “He wore gloves to hold her mouth and nose,” she said, running the back of her hand on her aunt’s cheek.
“How do you know that?” T. J. asked.
“If he had used his bare hand, we’d see more defined, smaller perimortem bruising. I’ve seen documented cases where they’ve pulled whorls off flesh.”
“Whorls?” T. J. asked.
“From fingerprints,” Harper explained.
“He probably knew that, too.” She lowered her forehead and rested it on her aunt’s.
Harper touched T. J.’s arm and nodded toward the door. “We’ll give you a few minutes alone with her.”
Anna had tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”
T. J. held the door open for Harper and closed it behind them, taking a long look through the glass before walking a few feet away from the door. “That’s a first,” he said. “What a loon.”
Harper found it touching. How a medical examiner said good-bye to a loved one. The thing that kept running through her head was the way Anna kept referring to “he.” Like she knew exactly who he was, how he thought, how he planned the murder.
Was it the result of working in a big city? Maybe Anna had seen enough murders that she understood how criminal minds worked.
The other option was that somehow Anna Schwartzman knew exactly who had killed her aunt and Frances Pinckney.
29
Charleston, South Carolina
Schwartzman stepped into the shade of Ava’s front porch. The smell of gardenias lingered in the air as though Ava herself had just brushed past her. Chilled, Schwartzman zipped her jacket up to her neck despite the hot, stagnant air. From her pocket she pulled out Ava’s house key, hanging from a thin silver heart engraved with her initials. A gift to Ava from her father. How many times had she watched Ava slide that key into the door, the little heart dangling? Their arms filled with grocery bags or sacks from the shops, ice cream from the parlor three blocks away. Laughing, talking excitedly as they returned home from their latest adventure.
This house was never empty. Ava never left her alone here. Even when the two of them were home and Ava was in another room—in the kitchen cooking, or in her bedroom—there was always the soft sound of her whistling or singing, the shuffling of her feet on the hardwood, the little noises she made when she tasted something that wasn’t quite right or that was exactly as it should be. Even living as a single person in such a big house, Ava had filled the space.
Schwartzman pressed her palm flat to the door and waited, listening. Eyes closed, she searched for an image of her aunt in this house, of her standing on this porch. Instead she saw Ava on the mortuary table. The images were too vivid. The ligature marks on her arms, the perimortem bruising where he knelt on her chest. The house was silent.
She opened her eyes and pounded her fist into the wood door. Cried out. Then pounded again and again until the pain in her hand forced her to stop. She stepped away from the door and swiped angrily at the tears. Go on, then. There’s no use putting it off. She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The bolt slid smoothly. She twisted the knob. With a sigh, the door was open. The entryway before her. The soft ticking of the grandfather clock, the flowers that Ava had bought freshly cut before she died, their scent musty as they wilted. Ava’s smells. Toast and pine-scented hardwo
od cleaner and flowers. The smells of home.
The police had released the scene. It was hers now. The house and all its contents. Her aunt’s life. Her grandparents’ lives. All that was left of them were these things that now belonged to her.
She would be the third generation of Schwartzmans to own the home. Her family home. She loved this house. When she and her father came to visit Ava, it was obvious he loved it, too. With all its quirks. The one corner of the living room where the old hardwood floorboards had separated. Ava and her father had chosen that specific corner to play jacks because the uneven surface meant the ball bounced unpredictably, making the game more challenging.
The old china cabinet in the dining room where their grandfather, Schwartzman’s great-grandfather, had used some sort of powerful adhesive to permanently attach his wife’s teacup collection to the shelves so that they would not be destroyed if there was another earthquake like the one he’d lived through as a young boy in 1886.
The library was her favorite room. Books that had been her father’s and his father’s and his father’s father’s before him. One of her greatest regrets was how few books she was able to keep, moving as much as she did. But here, in this house, books were stacked two deep in the library, where shelves stretched ceiling to floor.
Her father loved the house the way you love a person, patting the banister at the base of the stairs like an old friend or carrying his tools around the house to tighten this or adjust that. Its location on Meeting Street in the historic district of Charleston meant it would command a high price if she were to sell it. But the thought was unbearable. Her family roots were here—everything that was left of her father’s family. This was home. More home than the one where she’d grown up.
Schwartzman hadn’t had a real home since her father died. Now she owned the one he grew up in. His bedroom was a den with a Murphy bed. She could sleep there, surrounded by his childhood books. It was the same room she’d slept in when she visited Ava all those years as a child.
Her father gone. Ava gone. Only she was left.
Alone to deal with Spencer, with cancer.
And all she’d left undone in San Francisco.
Schwartzman took one step across the threshold and set down her purse on the sideboard table. But she couldn’t go farther. Being in the house was too much, too daunting. How could she possibly manage everything that was inside? The estate attorney had called to talk about making arrangements. She didn’t want to make arrangements.
What she wanted was to sit in front of the fire with Ava and a cup of hot chocolate. She wanted to confide in her aunt, open up about her fears, her guilt. She had let Spencer get to Ava. Spencer would say that Schwartzman had forced his hand. That was exactly how he would say it. “You forced my hand, Bella. What choice did I have?”
Breathless, she stepped out of the house and yanked the front door closed. She had not forced his hand. She had not made him kill Ava or Frances Pinckney or Sarah Feld. She had saved herself, had stood up against his cruelty and walked away. Now she was back. Because he would slip up. Because this time she would force his hand. Force him to take a risk and make a mistake. She glanced through the glass panel beside the door. He could be inside.
She clutched the phone in her pocket. He would confess to her. Not even confess. He would brag about what he had done, be proud of it. If she could get him on tape, the confession would be enough. Hal would help her. The local police would launch a full investigation. There would be evidence somewhere. No one could cover every trace. Not even Spencer.
But first she had to confront him. She had to let him get to her. She had to see him and let him touch her, let him close. Her stomach tightened; a deep shudder curved along her spine. She rubbed her arms and stepped away from the door.
Now could be that moment. But she couldn’t. Not in Ava’s house. Not where he took her aunt’s life. She needed to find a way to control the sharp pain of that loss, the debilitating rawness. To face him, she had to be strong, resilient. She needed to be every bit as calculating as he was. With a deep breath, she turned the key. The bolt shot closed.
She crossed the porch to the stairs. She’d take a walk. Give herself time to prepare for him. It was smart not to rush it. For tonight she could stay at the hotel with her mother. Leave for the hotel so she and her mother could share a meal, mostly in silence. They would make polite conversation. Maybe about Ava. Her mother would know so much more about Ava than she did, but she couldn’t imagine her sharing that. Sharing anything.
Even if her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—share, she could. She’d start by telling her mother that she had cancer. That she was alone and terrified. She had played that conversation out in her mind a dozen times. In every version, no matter how she put it, the answer always came back to Spencer. “Call Spencer,” her mother would say. “Let Spencer help you. Spencer still loves you.”
He loves me so much, he killed for me. He killed Ava to bring me down here. That’s how much he loves me. No. She could not say that. She had shown her mother the bruises to prove how she’d lost her baby. An accident, her mother had said. To her, Spencer was perfect. The perfect gentleman, the perfect husband.
Would Spencer kill her mother, too? Or did he leave her alone because she was his best ally? And how could she possibly keep her mother safe if she wouldn’t believe the threat was real?
Schwartzman sank onto the top stair of the porch, the place where so often she’d sat and begged to stay with Ava—just one more night, one more hour—each time her father announced it was time to go back to Greenville. She dropped her forehead to her knees. From down the street came the sound of a crying baby. Schwartzman stood, not wanting to be seen by a passing mother. Ava always greeted everyone by name when they walked down these streets.
Schwartzman wasn’t prepared for the condolences, the questions. She retreated against the wall, sheltered by the porch columns. The sound of a second child. She listened, waiting for the reassuring whispers of mothers, but none came. Only wailing.
She moved to the edge of the porch and peered down the alley behind the house. One of Ava’s carriage-style garage doors stood ajar. More screeching. Then a hiss. Cats. It was just cats. Ava probably left milk for them in the alley. Quiet, then metal clanked and glass shattered on concrete.
Anxiety brewing, Schwartzman walked down the stairs and rounded the corner of the house. How long had the cats been in there? She hoped it wasn’t a total mess. As her feet hit the gravel drive, she froze. Spencer. It could be Spencer. Cats. A ruckus. A perfect way to lure her. Her pulse drilled in her neck. This could be her chance.
She inhaled deeply and pulled the phone from her pocket, opened the camera to video, and pressed “Record” before sliding the camera into her back pocket with the microphone facing up. You can do this.
Charged with adrenaline, she scanned the side of the house for a weapon. A shovel or a rake would be ideal, but Ava didn’t do her own gardening. Along the side of the garage was a metal fence stake, maybe two and a half feet long, the point dug into the dirt. A little heavy but it would do. Schwartzman pulled out the stake and held it point first with both hands as she walked.
At the entrance to the garage, she stopped. The cats were quiet. She imagined Spencer using a recording, standing just inside with a device, waiting for her to step across the threshold. She licked her lips and tightened her grip on the post. Come on, Schwartzman. She could turn and run. No. She would wait. If Spencer was inside, he’d play the screaming cats recording again. She took a step forward. Nothing.
“Here, kitty,” she said. Did that even work on cats? Was that too obvious?
Did Spencer know she was suspicious? Could he hear it in her voice?
The seconds stretched out in silence. She was imagining things. Not every unusual thing that happened was caused by Spencer. Perhaps the cats were real. Like her cancer. Oh, if only Spencer had made that up.
She took a step forward and gave the garage door a
little nudge with her foot. A small gray cat sprinted out from behind the door. Schwartzman jumped back. The cat ran partway down the alley and stopped to stare back at her. It was hardly bigger than a kitten. An actual cat. Not a recording.
She exhaled and pushed the garage door, cautious. The sunlight cut a bright pathway across the floor, and in the center was a small tabby cat, sitting on its haunches.
Schwartzman had never owned a cat. Only a series of fish and, for about ten months, a single turtle named Humphrey. Her mother didn’t want cats in the house. But Ava had cats over the years—occasionally hers but more often just ones she fed. There was always a bowl of milk out. Schwartzman propped the garage door open with a rock and lifted the metal stake over her shoulder. Ears perked, she took a single step inside. Halted and scanned the corners of the room as she moved slowly toward the tabby. The garage space was open: no large boxes, no equipment, nothing big enough to hide behind. Spencer was not here. The side door was fashioned with a cat door. She lowered the stake onto the floor and reached out her hand.
“Here, kitty kitty,” she said in her most soothing voice. “Come on.” The cat rose onto all fours, arching its back high in the air as she got close. Schwartzman lowered into a squat, offering a hand. “It’s okay. Come here, kitty.”
While she waited for the cat to make the first move, she glanced at the damage. Across the garage, a paint can was turned on its side. The top had popped off, and white paint puddled on the cement floor. Beside it, an old lamp lay broken, porcelain shards sitting in the wet paint—she remembered that lamp from the table beside Ava’s favorite chair. The crimson silk shade lay just at the edge of the white paint. She eyed the cat, who appeared in no rush at all. When she tried to scoop it up, the cat sprinted past her and out the door.
If they were Ava’s cats, surely there was food for them somewhere, even if they were wild. Schwartzman didn’t see any litter box or food, only the spilled paint and broken lamp. She stooped down and righted the paint can. The smell emanating from the can was acrid, far more intense than paint.
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