Your Chariot Awaits

by Lorena McCourtney

  The woman officer departed, leaving the two of us alone in the dismal room. He politely reiterated that I wasn’t under arrest and was free to leave at any time. I didn’t hear a yet when he said I wasn’t under arrest, but I figured it was there.

  Before he could start asking questions, I jumped in and told him about spotting Jerry’s Trans Am in that vacant lot parking area. I wanted him to know I was eager to cooperate and find Jerry’s killer.

  “You’re certain it’s his car?”

  “I could see the dent in the door, although I’d have recognized it anyway.”

  He consulted some notes in front of him. “The dent you put there.”

  “Well . . . uh . . . yes. But it was an accident.” Then I realized that was not necessarily a point I should emphasize. It reminded the detective that I’d really been trying to bash Jerry and got the car by mistake.

  “Did Mr. Norton often park there?”

  “Never, that I know of. I can’t imagine why he’d park out there and then walk all the way to my place. There’s plenty of parking space right on the street by my house.”

  “We’ll check it out.” He made a note on the lined tablet in front of him.

  “One more thing—”

  He looked up. “Yes?”

  “Jerry had a Rolex watch. I . . . I was pretty shaken up when I saw him there in the trunk of the limousine and didn’t think about it at the time, but I’m almost certain now that the watch wasn’t on his wrist. I’m wondering if it may have been stolen.”

  “You mean you think someone killed him for the watch?”

  In fact, what I was thinking was that whoever killed Jerry had seen the watch and simply decided to grab it, but maybe he had been killed for the watch. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Murder has been done for less,” Detective Molino agreed, although he sounded skeptical. “We can check the pawnshops. He usually wore the watch?”

  “Always.”

  I remembered when he first showed it to me, a month or so after we’d started seeing each other. I was impressed, but also a bit appalled. Sixteen thousand dollars, for a watch? I’d wondered how he could afford it. He made a lot more than I did at F&N, and he had the Web site–design business too. But still, sixteen thousand? I’d decided the Web site business must be more lucrative than I realized. Although several times he’d also hinted that his family came from “old money,” so perhaps he had income I didn’t know about.

  “You’re being very helpful, Mrs. McConnell. We appreciate that.” Detective Molino again spoke politely as he made more notes, yet I thought I heard an edge of cynicism behind the politeness. Trying to kiss up to us, lady? Don’t bother. We’re gonna nail you.

  But maybe nerves make you hear things that aren’t there.

  The remainder of the interview repeated questions I’d answered earlier, but went into more detail on everything. Questions about what had awakened me, what I’d done out-side, my injury, my relationship with Jerry, did we go out alone or with others, did we work together at F&N. Eventually I realized Detective Sergeant Molino—who was intimidating enough that I couldn’t think of him with anything less than his full title—was approaching the same subjects from a variety of angles, which might indicate he was simply an expert at digging out information. Or was he trying to trap me into a give-away contradiction about something I’d said earlier?

  “Have you seen a doctor about this injury to your head?”

  “My neighbor cleaned it up and put salve on it, and it seems okay. Though there’s still a bump. When one of the deputies was photographing everything, he took a picture of it.” I wondered if they were buying into neighbor Tom’s accusation that I’d somehow deliberately whacked myself on the head. “Would you like to see it?”

  He looked mildly alarmed, the first time I’d seen him a bit off center. Not a man who liked personal contact, I suspected.

  “I’d prefer a medical report, if one is available.”

  I watched him write something, but his handwriting rivaled Uncle Ned’s hieroglyphics.

  “And this breakup you mentioned,” he went on briskly when he’d stopped writing. “Was this at Mr. Norton’s instigation or yours?”

  “His.” I swallowed, trying to keep it from being an audible gulp. Now it was out. The woman scorned. One of the oldest motives in the world for revenge. “But it was mostly because he’d be moving to San Diego soon. He was offered a transfer rather than being let go, as most of the employees at F&N were.”

  We went into more details about the relationship, how long we’d been seeing each other, etc.

  Finally he said, “Thank you. I know this must be difficult for you. Do you know if Mr. Norton had other personal relationships?”

  I was startled. Another woman? I’d thought all along that our relationship was exclusive, but had I been incredibly naive? Was Jerry in fact working on his Web site business all those evenings he wasn’t with me, as he’d said? Maybe there was another woman, one who’d just found out Jerry was also see-ing me. One who felt betrayed and angry enough to commit murder?

  “I wasn’t aware of any other current relationships, but it’s possible one . . . or more . . . could have existed that I didn’t know about.”

  What I did know right now was that from Detective Sergeant Molino’s viewpoint, jealousy about another woman was another potential motive to tie me to the murder.

  “What about previous relationships?”

  “There was his ex-wife, of course, but I don’t know that he had any contact with her. And once he got a phone call when we were barbecuing on the balcony at his condo. The call annoyed him, and he said something about ‘ex-girlfriends who won’t give up,’ but I don’t know any details.” I’d heard that Jerry had dated a couple of other women at F&N before we met, but he hadn’t volunteered any information, and I hadn’t had the nerve to quiz him.

  Detective Sergeant Molino moved on to ask about Jerry’s family.

  “He has a brother, Ryan, I think his name is, but I don’t know where he lives. And there’s the ex-wife and two children and the rest of his family back east.”

  “Back east where?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  More notes. I wondered if he didn’t trust the tape recorder, or if he was one of those obsessive-compulsive types who double-do everything. Like save files on the computer but then print it all out too. Or maybe he liked to make comments in the notes that went beyond what would show up on the tape. Subject exhibiting excessive nervousness during questioning. Crossing and uncrossing legs. Twisting fingers. Excessive blinking. There was an intensity about him that I found disconcerting.

  I gritted my teeth and willed my legs to stop crossing and my fingers to stop twisting, but my eyelids had a blinky life of their own. Then I couldn’t help but wonder what other give-away movements I was making that I wasn’t even aware of. So I tried to hold myself rigidly motionless, not a muscle twitching.

  Detective Molino added something to his notes. Subject now exhibiting unusual body rigidity indicative of extreme anxiety, my nervous imagination supplied.

  “You don’t seem to know a great deal about Mr. Norton, considering that you’d had a four months’ relationship with him,” he observed.

  True, as was becoming more obvious all the time. Murdersized gaps in what I knew about Jerry. There didn’t seem any right response to this last observation, so I remained silent.

  Detective Sergeant Molino gave me a minute, no doubt hoping I’d blurt something incriminating into the silence. When I didn’t, he went on to ask about possible enemies. I dutifully mentioned the run-ins I knew about, although I felt squeamish doing so, as if I were maligning Jerry when he had no chance to defend himself.

  More as an afterthought, I also mentioned Jerry’s Web site business, and I was surprised by an unexpected uptick in the detective’s interest. He leaned forward, his ballpoint pen poised over the notepad. If he’d had antennae, they’d have been quivering.<
br />
  “Did you help him with this business?

  “No, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Were you familiar with any of his clients?”

  “Not by name, no. Though I’m sure there must be a complete record of them on his computer.”

  “Did he ever meet with any of the clients personally?”

  “I was under the impression all his dealings were done over the Internet. But I don’t know that for certain.”

  He went on to ask numerous other questions about the business, most of which I couldn’t answer—no doubt emphasizing again that I seemed to know suspiciously little about Jerry. Or wasn’t telling all I knew.

  The interview ended when Detective Molino thanked me and we shook hands again. I tried to make my shake firm and confident, but it’s hard to feel confident with nervous sweat rivering down your ribs and your mouth feeling as if it’s stuffed full of old socks.

  “We’ll be in touch if we need any further information,” he said. “You may notice deputies in the area, interviewing your neighbors during the next few days. And if you think of any-thing else, give me a call.”

  He handed me a business card. Detective Sergeant Anton Molino. I wondered if kids ever called him Ant when he was a kid. Probably not without risk to life and limb.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Then, thinking maybe that had too much of a kiss-up sound, I took a deep breath and asked bluntly, “Am I a suspect?”

  “At this point we’re looking at the circumstances of Mr. Norton’s death as suspicious,” he said. “The medical examiner will determine cause and manner of death after the autopsy.”

  “When will the autopsy be done?”

  “Monday morning, I believe.”

  “Should I locate a lawyer . . . just in case?”

  He gave me a calculated look that to me said, Yes! Get a lawyer. You’re going to need a good one. Although what he said out loud was, “That’s up to you, of course.” Followed by a smooth segue into, “You aren’t anticipating leaving town anytime in the near future, are you?”

  “Are you saying I can’t leave?”

  “I’d think it advisable if you stay here in town. We may want to talk to you again. Or we may need you to come in for fingerprinting.” He paused. “Although, come to think of it, if you don’t mind, we could just take care of that now. We’ll need your prints for elimination purposes because they’ll be in the limousine.”

  I couldn’t tell if this truly was an afterthought on his part, or if he was just trying to make me think that. Not an after-thought, I decided as we went down a hallway to a room where the equipment was kept. Detective Sergeant Molino was a man who planned ahead.

  I expected a messy process, with my fingers rolled in ink, because I remembered that from an old detective show I used to like, but the county had recently upgraded to electronic equipment. I just had to fill out a form, scrub my hands with antibacterial soap, and roll my fingertips across a scanner surface.

  I think I’d have preferred the ink. There’s something extra-scary about feeling as if an all-knowing computer is probing your deepest, darkest secrets.

  I had to wait around a few more minutes until my statement was typed up and I could sign it. When I finally staggered out to the car, where Joella was patiently waiting, I felt drained, sucked dry as an old shell on the beach.

  “Everything go okay?”

  “I’m not under arrest, so I guess that’s about as okay as it gets at the moment. But they took my fingerprints.”

  It wasn’t until we were driving away that another thought hit me. The other woman.

  If she’d killed Jerry, she must also have hit me over the head. Had she done it because I’d interrupted the murder? Or had she been angry enough to kill both of us? Had she perhaps thought she had killed me with the blow?

  Would she try again?

  11

  A few days ago the big looming crisis in life was my sixtieth birthday. I should have realized when I was well off. Even dumped and downsized had paled. Now I could worry about whether I was soon to be accused of murder . . . or soon to become the next murder victim.

  I half turned in the seat. “Jo, do you think Jerry was seeing another woman?”

  She didn’t seem surprised by the question. Sounding as if she were choosing her words carefully, she said, “Neil at the bakery sent me over to Olympia one time to pick up some special decorations for a wedding cake, and I saw Jerry coming out of a restaurant with someone. But I don’t know that he was seeing her.”

  “An attractive someone?”

  “Yes, quite attractive.” She sounded reluctant.

  “Attractive how?”

  “Oh, you know. Tall and slender and graceful.”

  “How old?”

  “Maybe twenty-eight or thirty. Long, dark hair. Not messy, but . . .”

  “One of those styles that looks like you just got out of bed?”

  “Just kind of . . . tousled.”

  “And you never told me?”

  “Andi, it was lunchtime. They seemed engrossed in each other, but they weren’t pawing or climbing all over each other. I heard him call her Elena, but she could have been a business associate. His stockbroker. His guru.”

  “That’s really what you thought?”

  Joella hesitated. “I thought it looked . . . suspicious. You know how you just kind of get vibes sometimes? But I also thought it wouldn’t be fair for me to jump to conclusions and tattle about something that could be perfectly innocent. You hadn’t been seeing him very long then. He could have been breaking up with her.”

  “Did she look as if she could clobber me with a shovel?” I muttered, but I didn’t repeat the question when Joella said, “What?”

  Back at the house, she told me to come over about six for dinner. “We won’t celebrate, considering the circumstances. But a birthday is a birthday. Neil gave me a recipe for a special frosting with pecans and coconut, and the cake’s all ready.”

  I called Sarah before I went over to Joella’s, and she was appropriately horrified by my news.

  “Mom, I think you should get out of there now. Who knows what kind of psycho nut is running around and might come after you again? Come down here. Just get on a plane and come.”

  “I’m not sure I can leave.”

  “If they need you as a witness, they can fly you back.”

  “Actually, I think they may be looking at me as something other than a witness.”

  “What?”

  “A suspect.”

  When I told her why, she scoffed, but I’d heard her gasp and knew she was worried.

  By six o’clock, when I slipped through the garage to Joella’s side of the duplex, the patrol car and crime-scene van were gone, leaving only the yellow tape around the driveway. Inside, Joella had pulled the drapes across the windows to shut out the grim reminder of what had taken place out there. She had the radio tuned to Garth Brooks singing cheerfully about his friends in low places.

  She offered a prayer, and we ate her great dinner of lasagna and broccoli and salad, determinedly keeping the conversation small-talky upbeat. Neil’s new berry strudels that were selling great at the coffee shop, a rummage sale at the church, the odd inheritances Uncle Ned had left Sarah and Rachel, and how Rachel was upset about Sarah going back to college. At the end of the meal, Joella brought out the cake, three tall layers with a rich, brown-sugar frosting jumbled with pecans and coconut.

  “Jo, it’s gorgeous!”

  There was no blaze of sixty flames, just one oversized candle. Joella lit it and sang a sweet “Happy Birthday” to me.

  “One candle because you were afraid the right number would bring the fire department?”

  “One candle because this is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  We both contemplated that statement until she gave a sheepish smile and said, “I guess that’s kind of corny, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t know your generation even knew w
hat corny was.”

  “Corny is intergenerational. Probably nondenominational too.” She giggled, that infectious laugh that so often got me going too. “But the first day of the rest of your life is true even if it is corny.”

  “And I love it!” I really did. The first day of the rest of my life. For a few moments the awfulness of the past twenty-four hours faded, and I felt a burst of jubilation. I could do any-thing, be anything, no matter what my age! I leaned over and gave her a big hug. “Thanks, Jo.”

  Then I blew out my candle and dug in and ate enough cake with nutty frosting to add a half dozen new jiggles to my thighs.

  JOELLA CAME OVER the next morning to ask if I wanted to go to church with her. I’d gone a couple of times, but this was the first time I felt as if I really needed to go. Though when I examined my reasons, I was embarrassed.

  What did I think, that going would earn me enough brownie points with God to keep the police from deciding they had evidence enough to arrest me? I didn’t figure I had enough standing to ask for anything during prayer time, but I found myself more caught up in the sermon than I’d expected. All about Job and his problems, which did something toward put-ting my own in perspective.

  Afterward Joella dragged me over to introduce me to the man she’d been wanting me to meet, but he turned out to have an attractive older woman tethered to his elbow. Even eager Joella could see her matchmaking plan was down the drain. I was relieved.

  MONDAY MORNING I waved to Joella when she left for work, then tried to get a résumé started. I was on chatting terms with people at several insurance offices around town, and I could contact them. Maybe the school system or county government?

  But it was no use. I couldn’t keep my mind on this. All I could think about was what was happening to Jerry right now. An autopsy.

  Joella had said reports of the death in a limousine had been on the TV news both Saturday and Sunday, but I’d deliberately avoided watching. I’d had numerous phone calls from reporters, and I’d tried to be polite and explain to the first one why I didn’t want to be interviewed, but I’d finally just had to hang up on him. After that I’d opted for the handy “No comment” and hung up right away.