Manor of Death

by Holly Dey

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “And how’s that gonna work?”

  PC backed out of the parking space and pulled into the street. It took a few minutes for her to organize her thoughts.

  “Rocky, when Daddy died, and they didn’t catch the killer, there was nothing I could do about it. I was sixteen. When New Year’s rolled around a couple of months later, I made the last resolution I will ever make. I resolved that I would catch every killer I could and put them in a cage. That’s why I became a cop. If Possumwood PD can’t get to the bottom of this,” she swallowed hard. “I will.”

  Rocky snorted. “And how do you know I’m not the killer?”

  “I don’t. But I know you. And the current evidence doesn’t support you being the killer.”

  “Current evidence. So you’re not entirely convinced.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No.”

  I believe you. Don’t prove me wrong. I don’t want to go there, but I will, if that’s where the evidence leads. PC didn’t want to think about that.

  “Rocky, I understand how hard it was on you to lose Daddy. You were so close. I think he’d be proud of you for working to get your life back on track. I’ll do everything in my power to help you. You know that.”

  He grunted.

  Noncommittal. As usual. What else was there to say?

  PC pulled into Rose’s driveway and cut the engine. She opened the door, giving a surreptitious peek at the binder via the rearview mirror. Who’d put it in her car, and why? It was the last thing she wanted her mother to see, so she’d come back for it later, when she took Cordite out for his evening potty break.

  Rose was sitting in the living room, waiting. She struggled to her feet, and Rocky scooped her up in his arms. Her mother hadn’t looked so frail before. Or maybe PC just hadn’t wanted to see it.

  “I’ll go make dinner.”

  PC pulled out a stock pot and filled it with water for pasta. As it heated, she chopped mushrooms and broccoli.

  Who left the murder book in my car?

  Woody? Seems unlikely. He wouldn’t do anything to encourage me to stay in Possumwood or get involved with the police. Would he?

  She added a wilting zucchini to the pile of chopped veggies.

  Tran? He’d asked if I’d be willing to help with the Micah case. Was he trying to sweeten the pot? He said he’d researched me, so it wouldn’t be too hard to connect murdered Trey Donovan to hometown girl Sergeant PC Donovan.

  An unsub? If it wasn’t Woody or Tran, it had to be someone else, an unknown subject. But why?

  Who stands to gain from giving me that file?

  Poor Cordite was squirming by the time Rose and Rocky finally decamped to bed. PC picked up her car keys, a festive Christmas-themed dog poop bag, and snapped the leash onto the dog’s collar. He barely made it out to the grass, lifting his leg on the large azalea bush that grew by the front porch steps.

  “I won’t tell Mama if you don’t.”

  The terrier mix trotted slightly ahead as she walked around the block. They were more than halfway through before he paused to make a deposit.

  “Finally.”

  They jogged the rest of the way back to PC’s car, where she retrieved the notebook, then slipped in through the garage to leave the gaudy “present” in the outside trash. She briefly wondered if she should dust the binder for prints, but since she didn’t have a way to run them through AFIS these days, it would be pointless.

  PC got ready to turn in and settled into her bed with the murder book. Cordite jumped up and snuggled next to her. PC scratched his ears, and his tail thumped lightly on the covers.

  What is inside? She took a deep breath before opening the binder. The first pages revealed some grainy, black-and-white stills from the security camera footage of the person who’d robbed the convenience store and shot Trey Donovan. The subject was wearing a hat with a hoodie pulled up over it. Gloves. Oversized jacket. Jeans. Tall, probably male, but could have been either, really. The camera was from back in the days of actual video tape. Not great resolution to begin with, and the same tapes were typically recorded and rerecorded until the picture was a staticky mess.

  According to the initial incident report. A customer–the high school principal–had come in at 11:45 to buy some beer before the store closed at midnight. He found PC’s father on the floor behind the counter and called police. No one had seen or heard anything. As bad as the video was, it seemed to back up the witness’ story. He was not as tall as the shooter, and he had a rock-solid alibi–he’d been chaperoning the Homecoming dance.

  The follow-up reports noted that rewards had been offered and neighborhoods had been canvassed. Not a single clue had turned up. The prevailing theory was that the robber was someone passing through town who stopped to grab some fast cash at a vulnerable store.

  PC studied the pictures some more.

  Is that blob in the window a reflection? Could be the killer’s face.

  It was a long shot. Longer than long, given the terrible resolution. But there was the slimmest of chances that her friend Jack at NASA might be able to clean it up. She’d worked with him a few times before, and he could just about perform miracles.

  She’d call him first thing in the morning.

  The droning of the TV kept PC awake. At least that’s what she told herself. She got up and padded into the living room.

  Her brother flicked aimlessly through the channels.

  “Hey, Rocky. You doing okay?”

  He shrugged. “You think they believe me?”

  “They don’t have any evidence that you did anything.”

  “But you believe me, right?” His voice pitched upward.

  “Of course.” Unless evidence turns up to prove me wrong. “Why don’t you get some sleep? You’ve got work early tomorrow.”

  Rocky snorted. “You really think I still have a job?”

  “I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”

  Chapter 7

  “I was wondering if you’d come back.” Durelle Fennec gave Rocky a hard stare from behind her desk.

  He looked at the floor. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry for all the trouble. But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t kill her.”

  Fennec’s gaze was inscrutable behind her hooded eyes. PC couldn’t tell if the director was mad at Rocky, or mad because his arrest had left her short a janitor. Could be she was just mad at life in general.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work.”

  “Thank you, ma’am!”

  “Go.”

  Rocky scurried out of the office.

  “What time is he off? I’ll need to pick him up. Today, anyway.” Did Rocky even have a driver’s license?

  Fennec nodded. “He usually works ‘til six or seven. Sometimes later–depends on what’s going on. He had been sleeping here, in empty beds, as they came available.”

  “Thank you, for giving Rocky a chance. That means a lot to me.”

  Her lips squeezed into a tight smile, but it didn’t reach Fennec’s eyes. “You gotta give people a chance.” Her gaze paused on a framed picture on her desk. “I wish someone had given my mama one. But they never did.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  PC could feel a story burgeoning on the other woman’s lips. Like a killer about to confess. Fennec picked absently at an oddly round scab on her right arm.

  “She used to have a job. A good job. When I was in junior high, we had a nice car, good clothes, there was always food in the house.” She shook her heavy head.

  PC waited for her to continue.

  At last, she did. “She didn’t take that money. They called her a thief. They didn’t know her at all. She’d never steal so much as a dime.”

  “Mmm.”

  Fennec took a long drag on her coffee cup. “They couldn’t prove a thing. There was not a shred of evidence against her. Nothing. But they fired her anyway. We lost the house. The car. Had to go live with
my grandmother.”

  PC’s ears pricked up. “When was this?”

  “Long time ago. Almost forty years. Nobody’d give her a chance to prove her worth. She was called ‘thief’ in the newspaper, and most people believed it. That’s why I give people a second chance. A third chance and a fourth chance if they need it.”

  “That’s very commendable of you, Ms. Fennec. I’m so sorry that happened to your mother. Who fired her?”

  “Possumwood High School. She was a secretary in the business office.”

  “I’m sure your mother was innocent. I mean that. But if you’re the one who handles the money, and some of it goes missing, it doesn’t look so good.”

  “Believe me, I’m aware of that. But it wasn’t her job to make the bank runs. Ever. Except that one day, when her manager was sick. He’d caught a cold after being soaked too many times in the dunk tank at the band carnival. At least that’s what he told people. Mama and I went over this so many times over the years, trying to figure out who took the money so we could clear her name. Never did, though. All of this because of that horrible girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The one that lied and told them she saw Mama hide a bag of something under the seat of her car when she made the bank run. I’m glad she got what was coming to her.”

  “You mean… Heather Micah?”

  “Yes.”

  Interesting. Very interesting. “That seems weird that a high school student would randomly accuse an adult of a crime. Any idea why she’d do that?”

  Fennec took another sip of coffee. “I know exactly why.”

  PC pricked up her ears. “Oh?”

  “Mama caught her getting into her car. It was just after lunch–Heather was cutting class. She begged Mama not to turn her in, but she did. Heather claimed she was getting a textbook out of the back seat. Couldn’t prove she wasn’t.” Fennec shrugged.

  “That’s vindictive with a capital V.”

  Fennec just nodded.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. You have a good day, okay? I’ll come for Rocky around six.”

  Fennec waved PC out of her office.

  Mama’s menagerie was going to get vocal about breakfast soon, so she hurried home to tend to the critters. A shower and a trip to the post office was in order after that.

  After PC dropped the photograph in the mail to Jack, she took a short walk around the town square, courthouse side, to stretch her legs.

  It was one of those stellar winter days that is the whole reason for putting up with the brutal southern summer. The air was crisp at around 60°, the sun was bright, and the sky was a deep cerulean, streaked with a few wispy cirrus clouds. There was just enough breeze to carry the scent of distant snow, but not so much that she needed a jacket.

  The day would have been perfect, if she’d been able to get the burgundy notebook out of her mind. Who had left it for her? Why? She didn’t know any more today than she had the night her father had been struck down in cold blood. Or was there something she was missing? Something the person who’d left it saw, but she didn’t.

  She had to stop short to avoid crashing into an older couple who had just opened a door in front of her. He carried a large, paper-wrapped object, and she tucked one hand into the crook of his arm. They looked like they’d just won the lottery. They smiled at each other and walked away from PC, laughing and chattering. Very Hallmark Channel.

  She wondered if she and Mike would have been like that at this stage in life. If he hadn’t been killed by that damn drunk driver weeks before the wedding. She wore the ring he gave her for almost a year after the funeral. It was too hard, too final, to take it off for a long time.

  She sighed. The splendid day had taken a somber turn. She hated being ambushed by history.

  “Are you going to stand out there all day, or are you coming in?”

  Drew Berlusconi held the door to The Best Little Art Gallery in Texas open for her.

  His grin was enough to scatter the dark clouds that had gathered over her. She scrambled for an excuse to be there as she crossed the threshold into the warm gallery.

  “That painting of the chrysanthemum by Lin Youn–I was thinking… I might buy it for my mom. Lin’s her next-door neighbor.”

  “Of course!”

  He led her to the painting. Water drops glistened on peach-colored flower petals that floated above green leaves and stems. She almost reached out to blot the water from the canvas, the droplets looked so real. It was a steal at $50.

  “All the enjoyment of fresh flowers, none of the hassle.” His lips parted in a half-smile.

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  Drew took the painting down from its easel, and PC followed him back to the front, where he got out a roll of brown paper.

  “Did you want a frame?”

  “It doesn’t come with one?”

  He rummaged around behind the counter for a moment. “How about this one? I think the mahogany will be a great contrast for the peach and orange in the painting.”

  It looked expensive. She was afraid to ask how much, but wondered how tacky it would be to make a run to one of the craft chain stores for a cheaper one.

  “It’s on me.”

  Am I that transparent? “Thank you so much! You don’t have to do that.”

  Drew shrugged. “My pleasure.”

  PC eyed a long scratch that started just below Drew’s jaw and disappeared under his collar. “I hope the other guy looks worse.”

  He looked up, confused.

  “Looks like someone tried to go for your jugular.”

  His hand rose to his throat. “Oh, that. I was unblocking the pump of the fountain in my courtyard last night and had a disagreement with the screwdriver.”

  “Oh. Glad it’s nothing serious.”

  As he prepared the painting, PC looked at the pictures near the front. One was a huge rendition of a woman in a canoe in the middle of a very large lake at night. White horses splashed in the shallows to her left. Wasn’t that the one Heather Micah commented on that made Drew angry? What was the name of the artist she suggested? Bertoli? Bucatini?

  PC moved closer to see if she could make out the signature. She thought she spotted it but couldn’t tell if it was writing or just errant brush strokes. Deen? Doan? The name Heather used was much longer… Beltracchi! That’s what she’d said, and that’s what seemed to be the final straw that made Drew call the cops.

  “So, is this one a local talent? Didn’t Heather say it was a Beltracchi?”

  “Certainly not!” The vehemence of Drew’s words made PC jump. “That is an original Patrick Daun.”

  “Okay.”

  Drew slapped tape onto the brown paper, then paused to glare at PC “You don’t know who Wolfgang Beltracchi is, do you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “No.”

  “He’s a notorious art forger. Extraordinarily talented, embarrassed a lot of art authenticators. Made millions before he was sent to prison. There was a couple, old money art collectors, here in the gallery on Wednesday night, who were looking for an investment quality piece. They were interested in the Daun until that woman started insinuating it was a forgery.”

  Drew finished wrapping, so PC took out her wallet and handed him her Visa. She looked at the Daun. “How much—”

  The sleigh bells on the door jingled as a trio of hipsters came into the gallery.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He handed PC her credit card. “If you’d like to meet me for dinner at Truffles!, we could discuss it further.”

  “To discuss art?” PC gave him a coy smile. “What time?”

  “Eight?”

  “See you then.”

  Rocky got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Sure.”

  PC sat in her mother’s driveway for a few minutes before she went inside, using her phone to look for paintings by Patrick Daun. A Daun original could go for upwards of seven figures. How on ea
rth had a small-town art dealer managed to end up with one? This was going to be an amazing story. But would it be fiction? The way he’d reacted when she’d mentioned Beltracchi made that seem unlikely.

  She found herself humming as she carried the wrapped painting into her mother’s house. Rose was sitting in her recliner. The TV was on, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it.

  “Mama, I brought you something.”

  Rose looked up, her eyes unfocused. “What ish it?”

  PC leaned the artwork against the wall and moved to her mother’s side. “Mama, are you alright? Your eyes are awfully red.”

  Rose gave her a lop-sided smile.

  “Mama, raise your arms.”

  One arm flopped over her head, and the other jutted straight out from her shoulder. Then she dissolved into fits of giggling.

  Oh, god. I think she’s had a stroke.

  Chapter 8

  PC fumbled for her phone. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  Rocky came into the living room from the kitchen. “An ambulance? Why?” His brow furrowed. “Mama, you seen those brownies that were sittin’ on the table?”

  Rose started laughing so hard PC wondered if she’d be able to breathe.

  “Justice and Lin came over, so we et ‘em.”

  Rocky’s jaw went slack. “Mama! You didn’t!”

  “Who cares about your stupid brownies? I’ve got to get her to the hospital!”

  Rocky’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Why? Because I think she’s had a stroke.” PC woke her phone.

  Her brother put a hand over hers to stop her. “She’s fine.”

  “What do you mean, she’s fine? Look at her!”

  Rose cackled to herself in the recliner.

  “Those brownies were, um, full of herbs.”

  PC blinked several times. “Herbs?”

  Rocky gestured with his hands. “You know. Herbs.”

  “You fed my mother and her friends space cakes?”

  He held his hands up, palms towards his sister. “I didn’t feed it to them. They did that themselves. They didn’t even leave me any.”