Death Knell

by Karin Kaufman

  At the sound of voices and the metallic churn of wheels on concrete, Sophie’s head jerked. “What’s that noise?”

  “It’s the coroner,” I said as tenderly as possible. The gurney was on the patio now. Thank goodness no one had opened the drapes across from the table. By the sound of it, the patio onto which Lauren had fallen was just a few feet away, hidden by the blessedly thick fabric of the drapes. I heard muffled voices talking over one another, Gilroy’s too, and I knew he’d work hard to clear the scene, but not before he had examined every inch of it. “They’ll be gone soon.”

  “This wasn’t an accident,” Tyra said.

  Mariette rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and mumbled something under her breath.

  “You always dismiss what I say,” Tyra said. “Why do you do that?”

  “Now, Tyra, let’s not make things worse,” Mariette said. “Please try to relax.” She smiled. Was she trying to comfort her friend? I didn’t know, but she came off as condescending. Brandishing her large, straight, and brilliantly white teeth, calling attention to her adorable pixie haircut by toying with a short strand of dark hair at her temple. And condescending is how Tyra took it.

  “Make it worse!” she shouted, clutching her blue robe. “Are you awake? Maybe you should go back to bed. Lauren is dead!”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Underhill edge from the living room toward the kitchen.

  “Even in your world it doesn’t get worse than that,” Tyra went on. “And quit messing with your hair all the time. It’s a ridiculous habit.”

  Sophie held up her hands, palms outward. “Guys, please.”

  But Tyra wasn’t finished. “Have you looked at the book cover, Mariette? Did you even read the book?”

  “I told you I read it,” Mariette said, pronouncing each word as if it were its own emphatic sentence.

  The doorbell jangled and Sophie grimaced.

  “I’ll get it,” Underhill said. “It’s a police officer.”

  “Another one?”

  “Yes, Officer Turner.”

  “You’re quiet, Alison,” Tyra said, turning her attention to Sophie’s third guest. “Don’t you think it’s weird Lauren would fall out of a bedroom window? I didn’t fall out of mine.”

  Alison pursed her thin lips.

  “Well?” Tyra said.

  “I’m thinking,” Alison said in a gravelly voice. “I’m deliberating, which is what all of us should be doing, rather than flying off the handle. We’re too close to this right now, too emotional.”

  “Of course we’re emotional,” Sophie said.

  “Yes, I know, but we shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that someone or something . . .”

  “Go on,” Tyra said. “Finish your thought, Alison. It’s only logical.”

  Alison fixed her dark eyes on Tyra. “We all had a lot to drink last night. I stubbed my toes twice, just getting up around two and using the bathroom. And Lauren and Sophie fell up the stairs when they went to bed.” She glanced apologetically at Sophie. “Sorry, but you did. We all did.”

  Sophie nodded in agreement.

  “And so to finish my thought, Tyra, I think we should wait to hear what the police say.”

  “And if they say—” Tyra began.

  “Then we talk about what might have happened,” Alison said, cutting her off. “There’s no point doing it now. Anything might have happened. Let’s wait and see.” She arched her neck like a swan, as if to say, That’s my final and perfect judgment on the matter.

  “I’m just using common sense,” Tyra said. “There were five of us in the house and one is dead.”

  “Honestly, Tyra,” Alison said. “Cut it out right now. Take a mug and drink your coffee.”

  Oddly, Tyra stopped talking and did just that.

  Alison was, I guessed, in her early thirties, like Sophie, but she was sterner than Sophie and clearly the leader of the group. Even more so than Mariette. Alison had even taken the chair at the far head of the table, the seat of power from which she could preside over our gathering. Her voice, her narrow nose, and her blonde bangs cut short and straight across her broad forehead gave her a harsh quality. When she stared, as she was doing now at Tyra, she might have been made of marble.

  I grabbed two mugs from the tray and handed one to Holly. “Can I ask what time you all went to bed?”

  Sophie glanced around the table. “About half past midnight?” she asked.

  “Twelve forty, exactly,” Alison said.

  I eyed the kitchen wall clock, then looked back at Sophie. “So you heard Lauren scream at about four-fifty this morning?”

  Sophie considered my question and then readily agreed. “That’s about right. Ladies?”

  “That sounds right,” Mariette said. “I heard her scream too, but Sophie got there first. I was in a bedroom downstairs.”

  Alison regarded me with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Lauren drank the last of her wine at least four hours before she fell,” I said.

  Tyra leaned in. “More like five hours. We quit drinking about midnight. I see what you’re saying. How could she be fall-down drunk five whole hours later?”

  “She had a lot of wine,” Sophie said.

  “The same amount as me,” Tyra said, “and Lauren’s taller. I feel a little sick to my stomach, but I’m not drunk.”

  “It wasn’t even good wine,” Alison said. “It was adequate at best.”

  “Who else was on the first floor?” I asked.

  “Me,” Alison said. “It was me and Mariette in the first-floor bedrooms, everyone else upstairs.”

  “Did you make it up the stairs all right?” I asked.

  “Fine,” Alison said. “I was kind of groggy, but anyone would be, waking up before five.”

  Mariette’s expression was thoughtful. “When I heard the scream, I got out of bed pretty fast. But I sat for a little, wondering if it really was a scream I heard, and then I went up the stairs, ’cause that’s where it seemed to come from. I didn’t fall, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “So you all ran to Lauren’s bedroom first?” I asked.

  Sophie shivered involuntarily. “And then we looked out the window and went outside.”

  Alison reached for the tray, taking hold of a mug. She dropped a spoon into the coffee and then seized the half-pint carton of cream. “I didn’t go outside, since one look from the window told me she was dead,” she said, pouring a liberal dose of cream into her coffee. She stirred it with vigor, clanging the spoon on the stoneware mug. “I wasn’t about to go outside and take a closer look. And I still say it’s wise not to have this conversation until the police tell us what happened. This will get us nothing but arguments, and I’ve had enough of that.”

  “I want to talk,” Sophie said. “I need to.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Alison said. “There’s no point, and it’s foolish when we know nothing. What are we going to do, make wild guesses?”

  The room fell silent. I reached for a spoon, then stood, walked to Alison’s place at the table, and grabbed the carton of cream. I didn’t care for the woman’s pronouncements. If Sophie wanted to talk, we would talk.

  “How old was Lauren?” I asked of no one in particular.

  “How old are you?” Alison snapped.

  Obviously my carton-of-cream domination move had offended her. “I’m forty-three,” I replied without missing a beat. I almost added, “And twenty-five pounds overweight, so there.”

  “Then you’re the oldest one at the table by far,” Alison said.

  I smiled. Sweetly.

  “Lauren was twenty-eight,” Tyra said. “Same as me. Our birthdays are three weeks apart.”

  “Was she married?” I asked.

  “No, thank goodness,” Sophie said. “What a terrible thing for a husband to hear.”

  “I know she was a substitute teacher, but did she do anything else for a living?”

  Alison emitted a tiny, petulant groan. “The polic
e are going to be questioning us soon enough, and their questions will be pertinent.”

  “She worked for St. John’s,” Sophie said. “It’s strange the bells would ring right after she died. It’s like the church knew.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Sophie’s bell comment brought our conversation to a screeching halt, something Alison’s dictatorial decree hadn’t been able to accomplish. Holly gave me a hesitant, sidelong glance. The bells. They were the reason we were sitting at Sophie’s table.

  “The church doors were locked when Holly and I arrived,” I began, “so I’m guessing the bells are operated electronically, not by a human bell ringer. Do any of you know how they work?”

  “You’re right, they’re not rung in the traditional way,” Sophie said.

  “Three stationary bells, no bell ringer,” Alison said. “Most modern churches don’t have actual bell ringers. They have automated strikers.”

  So Alison would talk, just not about Lauren Hughes.

  “It sounds like you’re familiar with St. John’s,” I said.

  “I am,” Alison said. “Sophie and I go there. That’s where we met, at a pancake breakfast two Easters back. Soon after that, we founded our little book club.”

  Sophie looked at me over the rim of her mug—rather sheepishly, I thought. “We discovered we have the same taste in books.”

  Was she trying to excuse her friendship with Alison? We wouldn’t be friends if we didn’t have the same taste in books.

  “Have the bells ever rung this early?” I asked.

  “Never,” Sophie said. “And they’ve never chimed this long, either.”

  Hearing footsteps overheard, I glanced at the ceiling.

  “What are they doing now?” Sophie asked me.

  “Just going over Lauren’s room and the upstairs in general. Taking photos, swabs.”

  “Swabs?” Mariette sat straight, her alert posture demanding an explanation.

  “It’s just a guess. I don’t know for sure what they’re doing.”

  Alison sniffed and tried to suppress a smug smile. “But you would have a good idea. You and Chief Gilroy have been dating since, what, Christmas?”

  “Thanksgiving,” I said, again not missing a beat. Juniper Grove was a small town, but how would a woman I’d never met know that James Gilroy and I were dating? Granted, he was the police chief, but we cherished our privacy, and Gilroy, being an old-fashioned man—how I loved that—didn’t make grand public shows of his affection, even when he wasn’t on the job. We held hands walking downtown, kissed now and then, hugged. Sometimes he wrapped his arm about my waist when we walked, and I felt like the luckiest woman at the table, old though I might have seemed to Alison.

  “They were already up there,” Sophie said. “Why go up twice?”

  “They’re being thorough,” Mariette said.

  “How exactly do automated church bells work?” Holly asked.

  All eyes turned my friend’s way. It was the first she’d spoken since telling Mariette she owned the downtown bakery.

  “They’re programmed, like anything electronic,” Tyra replied. “The strikers are mechanical, but they’re operated by an electric box—a controller.”

  “Do you go to St. John’s too?” I asked her.

  “No, but my parents have been members for almost thirty years, and I’ve been up in the bell tower with them.”

  “I’ve been up there too,” Alison said. “It’s fascinating.”

  “Is the controller in the bell tower?” I asked.

  “Unless they moved it, it’s in the church office,” Tyra answered. “It’s a black box, literally. About the size of a shoe box.”

  “Three bells,” Alison said, repeating herself. “They’re stationary. Only the strikers move—with absolute precision. The controller is programmed to strike the bells at set times and for a set amount of time, so someone did something radical to the system for it to go haywire like that.”

  “Then no one has to be at the church for the bells to ring?” I asked.

  “But they always are,” Sophie said. “The bells are for services.” She added quietly, “Or funerals. They don’t ring the hours like some bells do.”

  I heard a faucet crank somewhere near the patio, then the sound of water spraying concrete. It was Officer Travis Turner, probably. Jobs like that fell to him, the junior officer. He was no doubt trying to make the best of what must have been an ugly scene. I caught Sophie’s eyes, and although I knew she understood what was happening outside, neither of us said a word.

  “I like the old way of ringing bells,” Mariette said. “Pulling on ropes, making beautiful melodies.”

  Sophie looked toward the living room, watching for Gilroy or Underhill to appear, I thought. I wasn’t even sure if they were both on the second floor.

  “Sophie,” I said. I waited for her to look back at me. “Chief Gilroy is the best there is. He’s doing what needs to be done, and as soon as he can, he and the officers will be out of here.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “Poor Lauren.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Caleb about her,” Holly said. “She was wonderful. So encouraging and kind. Just their few interactions made a difference in his life.”

  In my peripheral vision I saw Mariette and Tyra exchange skeptical looks. I was about to ask them what part of Holly’s assessment of Lauren they found dubious when Gilroy and Underhill walked into the dining area.

  “Ladies, thank you for waiting,” Gilroy said.

  “Is it quite all right if we go home now?” Alison said.

  “I need to ask you all some questions first.”

  “Would you answer a question first?” Alison said. “Was Lauren hurt deliberately or was it an accident? We have a right to know, and if it was an accident, we have a right to leave.”

  To my surprise, Gilroy didn’t waver. “We’re treating her death as a homicide.”

  Tyra tensed, and Sophie stared numbly at Gilroy.

  “How do you know?” Mariette said.

  “The fall wasn’t her only injury,” Gilroy said. “That’s all I can say right now.”

  Alison snorted. Her lips were pressed in a thin, agitated line, and when she spoke, her voice was laced with scorn. “So we’re not going to find out what happened to our friend? In spite of the obvious fact that if she was murdered, one of us did it? I’d like to know what this injury was. We’re all staying here again tonight. My fiancé is on a hiking trip with Sophie’s husband and won’t be back until Monday night. That’s why we chose this weekend for our book club get-together.”

  “And my husband is on a business trip to Italy,” Mariette said, nervously plucking and twisting the inch-long hair at her temple. “I don’t want to be alone in my house with a killer on the loose.”

  “It’s no better to be here,” Alison said. “What are we going to do? For heaven’s sake, one of us killed Lauren. I’m not saying she didn’t have it coming, but—”

  “Alison,” Sophie groaned.

  “I’m being frank,” Alison said.

  “If one of us killed her, three of us didn’t kill her,” Tyra said. “If we don’t separate, we’ll be okay. Besides, she was probably the only target.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Alison said.

  “How did someone push Lauren?” Mariette said, her gaze wandering to the patio drapes. “She was a strong woman.”

  “She was a drunk woman,” Alison said. “She drank more than any of us.”

  Though Gilroy must have been anxious to start questioning the women, he let them talk. He stood quietly by, rocking slightly on his cowboy boots. I knew he was learning as much from their banter as he would from a formal interview.

  “What about you, Tyra?” Mariette said. “You don’t mind going home, do you? You’re single, so you’re used to being by yourself.”

  “Thanks, Mariette,” Tyra said.

  “I don’t mean it like it sounds.”

  “Yeah, you do.�
�

  “All I mean is you would feel more comfortable alone in your apartment than I would alone in my big house.”

  Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, though the morning sun was still shining through the huge window over the kitchen sink. Only Sophie seemed aware of the shifting weather.

  “Stay here or go home,” Alison said. “Neither appeals to me. I’m sorry to say that, Sophie.”

  Ignoring Alison, Tyra gave Mariette a long, icy look. “Now I know you didn’t read the book. The next victim is a single woman who lives alone in an apartment.”

  I rose and wordlessly handed Gilroy one of the paperbacks.

  “We meet once a month to discuss a book we’ve read,” Sophie explained. “This is a book club, but we’re also friends, so we make a two- or three-day weekend of it, especially when husbands and Alison’s fiancé are out of town. Penelope Falls is our May book.”

  Gilroy impassively inspected the cover, flipped the book over, and nodded noncommittally at Sophie’s words.

  Tyra, having expected more of a reaction, was appalled. “You seriously don’t think that’s weird?” she said. “How can you not think it’s weird? It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “I’d like to take this with me, Mrs. Crawford,” Gilroy said.

  Tyra folded her arms and lifted her chin, pleased with her small victory. Gilroy would take another look at the book.

  “Of course,” Sophie said.

  Gilroy handed the book to Underhill. “I’d like to use the small room off the living room for questioning. The one with the desk.”

  “My office,” Sophie said. “That’s fine.”

  Next Gilroy told Sophie and her guests that he and Underhill would talk to them one at a time while the others waited at the table with Officer Turner.

  The young officer stepped forward. I hadn’t even noticed his return from the patio.

  “You’re separating us to unnerve us?” Alison said.

  “No, I’m not. Miss . . . ?

  “Miss Alison Francis. That’s exactly how the police operate. Divide and conquer, get people to say things they don’t mean.”

  “So you’ve been questioned by the police before?”

  “Absolutely not. But I understand how things work.”