Manor of Death

by Holly Dey

  PC scanned for a parking spot but saw nothing even remotely close. She didn’t fancy Rose’s chances on the chunky gravel. “Alright, Mama. I’m going to let you out by the door, and I’ll go park.”

  She pulled up as close as she could get to the entrance and helped Rose disembark to go inside. Two, or possibly three, spaces were available around back, near the dumpsters. The service started at 7:00 and they’d arrived fifteen minutes early, but it was dark now. A single light in the visitors’ lot flickered a rusty yellow, only partly reaching PC’s car.

  She tried the closest door, but it was locked. Gravel crunched behind her. She whirled around.

  A box fell out of one of the trash bins, and a flash of white streaked around the corner.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” PC made her voice as gruff as possible.

  She waited in silence for a few heartbeats, but there was no further movement.

  Must have been a ‘possum. Or a cat? Raccoons would have scolded her for interrupting their dinner.

  Her phone lit her way to the main entrance. She wasn’t eager for the show, and less eager for the collection plate that would surely pass around afterwards. Joshua Deen had been a star quarterback in a small pool of small schools, but that hadn’t stopped him from capitalizing on that glory run to the state championships for years after it had happened. Or so Rose had told her. Once PC had put Possumwood behind her after graduation, she’d never looked back. Until now.

  The place smelled more like Pine Sol than pee tonight, so that was an improvement. Rose was seated next to a lady in a wheelchair, but there was a single open chair on her other side. PC took her seat and cynically wondered if there would be popcorn to go with the show.

  “Mama, are there always cameras?”

  “Of course, honey! They show it on their website, for people who can’t make it out to the nursin’ home.”

  A woman in cat-eye glasses on a beaded cord squeezed the first notes of “Old Time Religion” out of a dilapidated piano. Reverend Joshua Deen, dressed in an expensive Italian suit, swept into the center of the room like a rock star. He raised his arms, as if to conduct the nursing home choir.

  A scream ricocheted down the hall, bouncing off tile and wooden doors.

  The music stopped.

  PC leaped to her feet. From the first room in the far semi-ambulatory wing, a woman in a walker appeared in the hall. Why does that woman look familiar?

  “Help!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “She’s dead!”

  PC followed the nurses, who rushed to her side. The woman pointed to an open door. PC stepped into the room, fully expecting to see an elderly denizen who had shuffled off her mortal coil during an afternoon nap.

  Surprise forced a grunt from her slack jaw.

  Heather Micah lay in one of the four beds, eyes open and neck bent at an impossible angle.

  Chapter 5

  Heather was most definitely dead. Of that, there was no doubt. The on-call doctor listened to her heart with his stethoscope but shook his head. The doctor had no trouble straightening her neck, so rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet. She hadn’t been there long.

  But why was she here, of all places?

  “Stay back.” PC shooed curious onlookers out the door. “Don’t contaminate the crime scene. And nobody leaves. Everybody stays here.”

  She pulled out her phone and dialed.

  “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

  “I’d like to report a suspicious death.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What’s your location?”

  “Azalea Manor.”

  PC couldn’t manage crowd control and talk to the 911 operator, so she hung up. Possumwood’s finest would be along soon enough.

  While she waited in the doorway, she carefully scanned the room. Four beds, one in each corner. Individual beds were outfitted with privacy curtains, but all of them were open. The bed closest to her did not appear to be occupied–there were no personal effects to be seen, and no sheets on the mattress. The bed on the same side, against the far wall, had a basket of yarn sitting at its foot. Half of a baby sweater was draped on one side, and a large bamboo knitting needle stuck out of a ball of yarn.

  The bed across from that contained the remains of the late Ms. Micah. Aside from the obvious broken neck, there was no visible trauma. At least not on her face and throat. She was still wearing an expensive watch on the visible wrist. Probably not robbery. From the looks of it, the killer had covered Heather, and then the lady in the walking frame had uncovered her. Several large print editions of Reader’s Digest lay on the nightstand, and one had fallen on the floor.

  A single drop of blood, round and still wet, glistened luridly on the white tile. A narrow red streak lay not far away. Not a smear. Perhaps a contact transfer?

  A stuffed animal afficionado clearly occupied the next bed. Teddy bears crowded the top of the nightstand. A stuffed giraffe stuck out of an open drawer. Plush animals of many species covered the dresser, but a small black cat with white paws lay on its back on the floor.

  Two Possumwood PD officers, one young, and the other even younger, strode down the hall toward PC.

  “Decedent’s in here.” She noticed a lack of evidence collection supplies. “Do you, uh, have a crime scene kit? Is there a photographer coming?”

  The older of the two said, “Now, ma’am. People die at nursing homes all the time. It’s a sad fact of life. Is this a relative of yours?”

  “No, It’s Heather Micah. But most natural deaths don’t break their own necks and tuck themselves into someone else’s bed.”

  The older officer tried to rush past her into the room.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to contaminate the scene. You don’t even have gloves.”

  “Ma’am, this is real-world police work, not CSI.”

  PC rolled her eyes. “Sweetie, I’ve been working crime scenes longer than you’ve been alive. I’m just trying to help you not screw up.”

  The younger officer glanced at PC. “Bourgeois, go get the tape and those bags out of the car.”

  “Why don’t you get it?”

  “You got the keys, bruh.”

  Bourgeois scowled and stumped off.

  The younger officer smirked as he watched his partner go. “I’m Tran. Hiro Tran. I’m guessing you’re Sergeant Donovan.”

  PC cocked her head. “Yes, I am. That’s a pretty lucky guess.” Especially for someone who looks like they should be in high school.

  “Chief’s mentioned you… once or twice.”

  “Has he? Well, don’t believe everything you hear.”

  Tran pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of his back pocket. “I looked you up. 92% clearance rate. Impressive.”

  “Thanks. But I’m retired now. Twenty-five years in homicide is a long time. I’m happy to let you all handle things.”

  Tran slipped on the second glove. “Would you object to, possibly, consulting?”

  PC almost laughed. “Not necessarily, but I expect Chief Wilson would strongly object.”

  “He might. But Heather Micah… local celebrity. There’s going to be so much pressure to get this one right.” Tran shook his head, sucking his teeth. “We don’t get a lot of homicides here.”

  There’s at least one other I can think of. “I’m sure Chief Wilson has the phone number to the Texas Rangers. They have some talented investigators. I’ve worked with them many times over the years.”

  “Oh, I believe that. Yes, ma’am. But they can’t investigate if they aren’t called. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Bourgeois had come back into the building, carrying what looked like a large manila envelope and a roll of yellow crime scene tape.

  “I look forward to reading about you making an arrest. I admit it–I’m curious. But I don’t envy you–the list of people who didn’t hate Heather is probably a lot shorter than the ones who did. But, not my circus, not my monkeys. I’m sure you’ll do just fine. I’m going to go wait with the other witnesses.” PC
couldn’t help herself. She leaned closer to Tran and said, “Don’t forget to bag that stuffed cat to check for a fiber match on any suspect’s clothing and look for latent prints on the magazines by the bed and on the floor.”

  She smiled and left to find her mother.

  “Primrose! Is it true? Is Heather Micah really dead?”

  “Yes, Mama. It’s true.”

  “Well, you’re gonna investigate, aren’t you? Why are you here talkin’ to me?”

  “Mama. I’m retired. I don’t have any jurisdiction here.”

  “That’s exactly right.” A male voice boomed from behind PC, “We don’t need private citizens meddling in police affairs.”

  “Bah!” Rose spat. “You’re just afraid she’ll show you up, Elwood.”

  PC didn’t turn around, just kept facing Rose. “Mama, please don’t antagonize the Chief. He’s got an investigation to supervise. Let him do his job.”

  Rose folded her hands into her lap. “Harrumph.”

  Wilson’s footsteps echoed behind her as he headed for the crime scene.

  PC sat down and reached out to take her mother’s hand. “I got over Elwood Wilson forty years ago. You need to let it go.”

  “He stood you up the night of the Homecoming dance to go play pool with his cousin. And then when you needed him most…”

  “Mama, going to that dance would not have stopped Daddy from getting killed. Woody and I, we’d been fighting the whole week before, don’t you remember? That’s not a shoulder I would have wanted to cry on. Some things… just aren’t meant to be.”

  “He could have had the decency to come to the funeral.”

  “You’re right. He probably should have. But I’m glad he didn’t.”

  PC picked up one of the Thursday night programs from the empty chair next to her and used it as a fan. “I’m roasting.”

  “They do keep it warm in here.”

  PC watched as two officers pulled individuals aside to get their statements. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They aren’t separating their witnesses. Even if they aren’t hiding anything, they’ll feed off each other to make their stories more alike, although they thought they saw something different.”

  “Go tell them that!”

  “No. Not my investigation.”

  “Ha. You just want to see him screw up, don’t you?”

  Perhaps a little. “Of course not, Mama.”

  The officers were now speaking with Reverend Deen. The dim fluorescent lighting glinted off his dove-grey suit. His left hand mostly rested against his belly, while he gestured broadly with his right. Shiny suits. Is that what’s in this year? PC pulled the edge of her collar up and down, trying to get some airflow into her shirt.

  Rose cleared her throat. “I wonder where Victoria is? She usually comes to the Thursday night services.”

  “Victoria?”

  “Used to be Victoria Simon. She’s the Reverend’s wife.”

  The cheerleader who got Heather Micah’s sloppy seconds. “I sort of remember her. Tall blonde?”

  “Well, she’s a redhead now.”

  “Ms. Brazwell? Come on, sweetie. That’s not your room.” PC turned toward the sound of the voice. A nurse was assisting the woman who had found the body. Of course! She was the wanderer from when I came here to scope it out for Mama.

  A clatter, then some shouting and sounds of a struggle came from outside. All eyes focused on the door, and quiet settled on the remaining witnesses. Time stretched.

  The door opened and two officers dragged in a handcuffed man in white scrubs.

  “Hey Chief! We found him hiding outside by the dumpsters.”

  As they got closer, the man looked up, his face a little worse for wear.

  Rose gasped. “Rocky?”

  Chapter 6

  “I didn’t do anything!” Rocky shouted.

  The officers stopped dragging him and stood still.

  Chief Wilson stepped toward the trio. One of the officers showed something small to his boss, then Wilson spoke quietly to him. The officer headed toward the room where Heather had been found.

  Wilson turned his attention back to PC’s brother. “Seems curious, you hiding out behind the dumpster if you didn’t do anything.”

  Rocky dropped his head and looked at the floor. “I work here.”

  PC coughed. What? When did that happen? Daisy had said no one knew where he was.

  “What did you say?” the Chief got closer.

  Rocky raised his head, eyes fierce. “I. Work. Here. I got a job a couple of days ago as a… janitor. I wasn’t expectin’ Mama to come here, so when I saw her getting dropped off, I took out the trash and just stayed outside. Thought I’d have a smoke.”

  That explains it. I saw Rocky when I parked the car. Not a ‘possum.

  The Chief squinted. “Why did you do it?”

  “I was embarrassed. I didn’t want my mama and my sister to see me like this. I needed some time to get my… act together.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Takin’ a cigarette break at work is not illegal.”

  “But murder is.”

  Rocky’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  The officer returned from the death scene and dropped something into Wilson’s hand before whispering in his ear.

  Wilson glanced at PC before he turned his attention back to Rocky. “I’m going to give you a scenario, and you tell me if I’m wrong. You’re broke. Because bums are always broke. You got this job, maybe hoping you could steal drugs to sell. Or use yourself. But then you saw Heather Micah come in.”

  Rocky’s cheeks flushed, and he looked like he could cut Wilson in two with his eyes. His jaw clenched and unclenched, but he stayed silent.

  “Now this lady is known to have money and was wearing expensive jewelry. You thought you’d take a shortcut and rob her. But she fought back, and you killed her. Does that sound about right?”

  “You are fricken crazy. Always have been.” He looked to PC and Rose for help.

  PC stood and came closer. “You got any evidence for this remarkable story?”

  Wilson triumphantly raised an earring. “They found this on him when he was taken into custody. My officer checked, and it matches the one Ms. Micah is still wearing.”

  “I found it! It was on the floor, under one of the nurse’s carts, when I was sweeping up.”

  PC glared at Wilson. “So you’re saying he killed her in a robbery attempt, but failed to take anything but one earring? Do pawn shops pay top dollar for unmatched jewelry around here? Why didn’t he take the Rolex watch off her wrist?”

  Wilson’s face darkened. “I’m taking him back to the station for further questioning.”

  “I’ll be along soon with his attorney.” She turned to her brother. “Rocky, I believe you. But keep your mouth shut. I mean it. See you soon.”

  The two officers marched Rocky out the door.

  PC fumed. “The DA’s going to laugh you out of his office, and you know it. You don’t have a shred of solid evidence to charge my brother. Don’t make this personal. If you have a problem with me, you take it up with me.”

  Wilson’s dark eyes were inscrutable. They bored into PC like angry carpenter bees before he turned and strode down the corridor.

  PC called her Uncle Raymond, who was the only attorney she knew in Possumwood, and asked him to meet her at the police station. She only had to wait five minutes before he arrived. They walked in together and found Rocky sitting in the lobby, drinking a cup of coffee. PC noticed a Band-Aid on the back of his hand and wondered if it had been there earlier.

  “That was a short interrogation.” PC looked around the lobby suspiciously.

  “Yeah. I sat in there for like five minutes, then that young cop, Asian guy, came in and asked me what happened. I told him my day from start to finish. Never saw Heather Micah, didn’t even know she was in tow
n. Then he thanked me for stopping by and told me I was free to go.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Raymond said. “Because I mostly handle family law clients–I’m not a criminal defense attorney. But I can recommend a couple of them for you to call in the morning.”

  Rocky extended his hand, and his uncle took it. “Thanks, Uncle Raymond. I really ‘preciate you comin’ out.”

  “Of course. Of course. I’m going to get back to my dinner now. You know how your Aunt Camelia is about mealtimes.”

  They headed out toward the parking lot.

  PC chuckled. “We can always go to the truck stop, if you don’t think you’ll make it back before the dinner time window closes.”

  “That would be even worse!” He leaned over and kissed PC on the cheek. “I’ll give you a call in the morning.”

  Rocky opened the door of PC’s car and got in. She frowned. Did I forget to lock it? In the driver’s seat was a burgundy three-ring binder.

  She picked it up and opened it. It was a photocopied version of her father’s murder book. Xeroxed police reports. Grainy crime scene photos. A few witness statements. Her fingers turned to ice, and she shivered. She’d seen countless crime scenes. But it was different when it was someone she knew.

  “What’s that?” Rocky asked.

  “Nothing.” PC pitched the book into the back seat. Too many questions, not enough answers. “When did you get back into town, Rocky? And why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I heard Daisy was trying to get a hold of me. Then I found out why. I wanted to help. But I’m not much use to anybody. I thought if I could get a job, I could have a chance to get myself together. But employers aren’t exactly clamoring for fifty-year-old high school dropouts. It took me a couple a weeks to find the gig at the nursing home. Guess I’ll probably get fired from that, now that I’m accused of killin’ Heather.”

  “I’m sorry, Rocky. But you might be wrong. I don’t think Azalea Manor is having to turn away throngs of custodian job applicants. Show up at your next shift and see what happens.”

  “I hope you’re right. But Woody’s always had a grudge against me. If there’s any chance he can pin this on me, he will.”