Blessed be the Wicked

by D. A. Bartley

  “Did her mom know about Steve?” Abbie asked.

  “No! She didn’t have a clue, but she was always on top of what Jess was eating, ever since her anorexia in high school.” Abbie remembered her own high school days and the pressure to be pretty and thin. She remembered the girls who pushed food around on their plates but never ate anything. Apparently things hadn’t changed that much in the years since. There was a lot of pressure on young women to be attractive. Utah had more plastic surgeons per capita than any other place in the country, including LA and New York.

  “Did she say anything to you when Steve died?” Abbie asked.

  “She didn’t.” Meghan shook her head. “She didn’t say anything about it at all. I thought it was kind of weird. I think she was in shock.”

  “Did you know Jess was taking Ativan?” Clarke asked.

  “Yeah.” Meghan didn’t seem surprised by the question.

  “Do you know if she ever took more than she was supposed to?” Abbie followed up.

  “No, she was really responsible about it. I’m on it, too. I used to take Xanax, but my doctor changed me to Ativan. We were both super scared about overdosing, so we were really good about only taking as much as we were supposed to.”

  “This is a tough question, but I need to ask it. I’d like you to take your time before you answer,” Abbie said. “Do you think Jessica could have taken her own life?”

  “No way! Sure, she was messed up about Steve dying. I mean, really, the whole thing with Steve was messed up.”

  You can say that again, Abbie thought.

  “You know though, I tried not to judge. She was my best friend. I was going to be there for her no matter what. Suicide? No. Jess would’ve found someone else to marry. She knew that.”

  “Do you know if she had ever tried to hurt herself before?” Abbie pressed.

  “Jess could be dramatic sometimes, but she never did anything serious. You know? She never did anything that couldn’t be fixed.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt her?” Abbie asked.

  “No way. I mean, like, sure, there were girls who were jealous. Jess kind of always got what she wanted. People were nice to her, and guys would do anything for her. So, yeah, there were people who resented that, but nobody would ever actually want to hurt her. They’d just say mean things about her behind her back.”

  “Things like what?” Abbie asked.

  “You know, like she wasn’t that smart or she was kind of flaky. She lived in her own little fantasy world of rainbow sparkles. Stuff like that.”

  “Do you happen to know where Jess was the day Steve Smith died?” Abbie asked. “That would be last Sunday before church.”

  “I don’t know where she was before church, but she was at church with us.” Meghan looked across at Clarke. “We sat together in Sacrament Meeting.”

  Clarke nodded.

  “If you think of anything that seems like it might be important, please call me or Officer Clarke.” Abbie stood up. “I know this was hard. You were a very good friend to Jess. She was lucky to have you in her life.”

  Clarke stood up and so did Meghan. Abbie could tell Meghan wanted to give Clarke another hug but was holding back because she didn’t think it was appropriate. Meghan’s eyes were watery as she watched the two of them walk to the door. Then she suddenly blurted out, “This might not be anything, but there was something weird last Sunday at church. I think I saw that General Authority, the one who does all the media stuff for the Church. You know, Elder Brown … no, that’s not right … Elder Boon? I swear I saw him before Relief Society talking to Jess.”

  Abbie took this bit of information in without even batting an eye. “Thank you. That’s exactly the kind of little detail that will help us figure out what happened. If you remember anything else, let us know.”

  As soon as they were both in the car and couldn’t be overheard by anyone, Clarke asked, “Did we find a pink diamond engagement ring in Jess’s room?”

  “No,” Abbie said. “We didn’t.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Flynn’s not using his place. You’re staying there until we figure out what happened here.” John’s voice was stern.

  Abbie wondered how long he had been waiting in front of her cabin. He was two thirds of the way through the book he was reading. Abbie knew from years of being his little sister that, when he sounded like this, there was no sense in disagreeing. He handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s his housekeeper’s number. She’s expecting to hear from you. She’ll meet you at the house and give you the keys and security code. I think you should leave your Rover in the garage there. Flynn has cars. He said take whichever one you want.”

  Abbie threw her arms around her big brother. The day had not given Abbie much time to tend to thoughts of the break-in. Now that she was opening the door to her home where Bowen had been about twenty-four hours ago, she couldn’t ignore how raw her nerves were. She was grateful John was there.

  “Get what you need for a few days. Do you want me to come upstairs with you?”

  She was a cop. She didn’t need her big brother holding her hand while she packed an overnight bag. “No, it’s okay.”

  “I’m coming anyway,” John said as he followed her upstairs. Abbie smiled as she exhaled.

  She pulled a carry-on suitcase from her closet and started packing. She kept the matching small duffle bag packed with travel-sized versions of all her toiletries and duplicates of her tooth and face brushes. In less than twenty minutes, she was done. She grabbed a large canvas tote bag hanging from the inside doorknob of her closet and dropped her dad’s research on blood atonement inside.

  John carried her things to her car. “Why don’t you call Flynn’s housekeeper now and tell her we’re on our way over?”

  Abbie did as instructed. The woman who looked after Flynn’s house had the voice of an indulgent grandmother and assured Abbie she would be waiting for her. Mr. Paulsen, she said, had already given her instructions.

  After Abbie finished talking to Flynn’s housekeeper, John said, “I’ll follow you over there.” As much as Abbie knew she was capable of taking care of herself, she was relieved John was so protective.

  Abbie turned onto Ritter Drive, then onto a long private driveway overlooking a field with a few horses she could see in the faint light of dusk. As she passed one of the trees midway down the drive, outdoor lights switched on, evidently set with motion detectors. She pulled in front of the three-car garage.

  A barrel-shaped woman with a contagious grin and short gray curls waved from the front door. It was painted forest green, as was all the trim and shutters of the classic white clapboard house. The house was grand for its era, but in comparison to the McMansions of Ben Lomond Circle, a real-estate agent now would describe it as “understated” and “gracious.” There were two full stories and a pitched roof with dormers.

  John pulled up behind Abbie, hopped out, and took her two bags from her car to the front door. He introduced himself to the woman standing at the door. He turned and gave Abbie a hug.

  “I’m sorry to run, but I’ve missed half of Harrison’s performance already. I need to get home. Text me tonight before you go to sleep.”

  Abbie hugged her brother tightly. “Thank you.” She didn’t want to let him go, but she released him so he could catch the end of his son’s musical.

  The woman said, “Hello, Abbie. I’m Margene. It’s so nice to meet a friend of Flynn’s. Let me take you to your room so you can drop your bags; then I’ll show you around the house.”

  Abbie followed Margene up the highly polished wooden staircase to the second floor as the older woman chatted away. “Flynn mentioned that you’re a morning person, so we thought it would be nice for you to be in one of the bedrooms facing east.” Margene entered a perfectly appointed room decorated in shades of pale blue. Abbie wasn’t an expert in antique furniture but had a feeling that each piece was a mint-condition original. There was a full-sized
four-poster bed facing a fireplace, a chaise longue and small side table inlaid with wooden flowers and leaves in front of a large window overlooking the field outside. To the side of the door stood a chiffonier with an arrangement of fresh white roses and sprays of baby’s breath.

  “Flynn always makes sure there are fresh flowers if the guest rooms are being used.” Margene walked across the room to a door on the side of the bed. She opened it and turned on the light. It was an all-white bathroom with Carrera marble tile. “Adding small bathrooms for each bedroom was the only real structural change Flynn made from when his grandparents lived here. It took some effort, but it does make for a more comfortable stay.” Abbie had to agree. There was a single white rose in a small bud vase sitting on the side of the pedestal sink.

  “I’ll take you downstairs so you know where everything is, and then I’ll leave you be. Flynn mentioned you’re a detective and probably need a good night’s rest. I made dinners for the rest of the week. I’m not sure how long you’re planning to stay. They’re all in the fridge, labeled with heating instructions.” Margene turned on the lights in the kitchen. The cabinetry was white, the floor classic black-and-white tile, and the counters and backsplash were white subway tile. The appliances were brushed stainless steel—a toaster, coffee maker, and an electric tea kettle—but they didn’t look as if they’d had much use.

  “I don’t drink myself,” Margene said—although Abbie already knew that—“but here’s the wine fridge.” The older woman then showed her through to the walk-in pantry and pointed to a door. “This leads down to the cellar. There’s quite an extensive wine collection, or so I’m told. Flynn said to help yourself to anything.” After a quick tour of the ground floor, the laundry area, and the garage, Margene gave Abbie a tutorial on setting the security system.

  “You should set this external system as soon as I leave. I was given strict instructions that you do so. Also, you’ll need to pull your car into the garage.”

  The older woman said good night, adding that she didn’t live very far away and that if Abbie needed anything, anything at all, she should not hesitate to call. “I’ve been looking after this house and the Paulsen family for longer than you’ve been alive, my dear.”

  Abbie punched in the security code as instructed. She walked to the garage. When she turned on the lights, she saw a navy Karmann Ghia parked behind the first of the three garage doors. She entered the security code again and opened the garage door. Above the light switch was a pegboard with three neatly labeled keys hanging from hooks. How could she possibly resist the Karmann Ghia? She carefully backed the car out and pulled her old Rover into its spot, which was a bit of a squeeze. After closing the garage door and reentering the security code, she felt the muscles between her shoulders and neck finally release some of the tension that had been building up for the last twenty-four hours.

  Abbie opened the wine fridge. There was a bottle of Domaines Ott Rosé, which was calling out to her. She found a waiter corkscrew in a drawer lined in dark-green felt along with some bottle stoppers for still and sparkling wine. Abbie opened the bottle and poured the pale-peach liquid generously into a stemless glass. After a few swallows, Abbie acknowledged her growling stomach and opened the fridge, where she found a plastic-wrapped plate of poached salmon, cucumber dill salad, and thick spears of asparagus. All of it could be eaten cold.

  Abbie emptied her wine glass and poured a second one while enjoying what turned out to be one of the best dinners she’d eaten in a long time. The silence of the house set so far back from the road gave her the space to think, really think, for the first time since the break-in. The conversation with Meghan didn’t support the murder-suicide theory in the least. Abbie couldn’t think of any reason why Meghan would have lied about the engagement ring. If there was an engagement ring—even a missing one—it meant there was an engagement, which cast a new light on everything.

  Abbie took another sip of her wine. Jessica’s was not the only ring that was missing. Another image flashed in Abbie’s mind: a strip of thick white skin on a man’s hand where a wedding band had once been. Hadn’t the dry cleaner mentioned something about Smith wearing a garish platinum band with diamonds?

  After unpacking her things, washing her face, and brushing her teeth, Abbie crawled under the covers. She set her phone to charge when she saw two messages. One was from John. She quickly texted a reply, saying she was well and safely ensconced in Flynn’s house. The second was from an unknown number with an 801 area code. She listened to the voicemail. It was from a Dr. Lars Eriksen, the ME who’d been assigned to Jessica’s case. He’d finished with the autopsy and suggested that Abbie might like to speak in person at her earliest convenience.

  Abbie texted Clarke to let him know that she was going to Taylorsville first thing in the morning because the ME had asked to see her. Clarke texted back immediately: THAT’S WEIRD, ANY IDEA WHY? Abbie responded that she wasn’t sure. This was true. She wasn’t sure why the ME wanted to speak in person, but as she drifted off into much-needed sleep, Abbie had a pretty good guess.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After years of living in Manhattan, where it could take an hour to travel just a few miles, Abbie relished being able to drive forty miles. She parked Flynn’s Karmann Ghia in front of the gray-brick, steal-and-glass structure that was the newish Office of the Medical Examiner for the State of Utah. Clarke had called Abbie before she left Riverdale to see if she wanted him to meet her there, but they both agreed that, given Henderson’s deadline, it would make more sense for Clarke to go over the Smith financial documents again to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Clarke wasn’t any more convinced Jessica was Smith’s killer than Abbie was.

  Dr. Eriksen was expecting her. Although mornings generally were reserved for autopsies, he had left instructions at the front desk that Detective Taylor should be taken to his office as soon as she arrived. Abbie hadn’t been waiting long when he opened the door behind her and walked around to his desk. He was a tall man in his mid-sixties—trim and athletic. Abbie suspected he spent a lot of time on the slopes.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” Abbie said. “I know you guys are understaffed and overworked.”

  Eriksen smiled. The deeply etched lines around his eyes deepened. He wore his thick silver hair short.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I imagine you guys are overworked, too.”

  Abbie shook her head. “Nothing like you.” Drug overdoses had become an epidemic in Utah in the last few years. It was well known that the Office of the Medical Examiner was completely understaffed when compared to other states.

  “Can you give me a layperson’s overview on Jessica Grant?” Abbie asked.

  “Sure. Your victim bled to death after her throat was slit, which also deprived her brain of oxygen.”

  “Were there any hesitation cuts?” Abbie asked.

  “No, but I don’t know why there would be. You weren’t thinking this was a suicide, were you?” Eriksen asked.

  “A suicide note has been found.”

  “It wasn’t a suicide.” Eriksen’s tone was calm and certain.

  “No room for doubt?” Abbie felt her heart skip a beat at the prospect that she was right about Jessica’s death.

  “No. First of all, as you already pointed out, there were no hesitation cuts. Second, there’s the amount of lorazepam in her system. She was probably unconscious when her throat was slit. Finally, and most importantly, there’s the angle of the wound. My best guess is that whoever cut her throat was standing over her.”

  “You’d testify to that?” Abbie asked.

  “Sure. I don’t think it’s a close call. You’d have a difficult time finding a reputable ME who’d come to a different conclusion.” Eriksen said.

  “Even though we found her holding a bowie knife?” Abbie asked.

  “Sure. The knife found in her hand is the knife that killed her, but she couldn’t possibly have done it herself.”

  This wasn’t a neat and tidy murd
er-suicide after all. This was a second murder. Whoever had killed Smith had come back for Jessica. Why?

  “Was she pregnant?” Abbie asked.

  “Yes,” Eriksen said. “How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Given how thin she was, it didn’t look that way, but she was just into the second trimester of her first pregnancy,” Eriksen said.

  “Is it possible to determine who the father was?” Abbie asked.

  “I already have. I had a hunch, too.”

  * * *

  Abbie texted Clarke the moment she got to the parking lot. JESS PREGNANT. SMITH THE FATHER.

  Dr. Eriksen promised he’d email the report to Henderson immediately. Henderson was not going to be happy about it. The murder-suicide theory was just so clean—no loose ends, no reason to keep digging, everything tied up with a nice little bow. But after Henderson read the report, there would be no room for argument.

  About an hour later, when Abbie walked into the station, she felt tension in the air. Clarke gave her a nervous glance when she walked in and then looked right back at his computer screen.

  “Taylor, Clarke.” Henderson spoke their names crisply, but there was no hiding the anger in his voice.

  Abbie followed Clarke into Henderson’s office. Neither one sat.

  “Clarke told me what this Eriksen guy concluded. I called him immediately to get the report because, of course, such a report would change the complexion of this case,” Henderson said. “It’s highly irregular for an ME to speak to a detective on a case before sending the report here, by the way.” Henderson glared at Abbie.

  Because this was Abbie’s first murder case in Utah, she had no way to know whether what Dr. Eriksen had done was irregular or not, but Abbie didn’t think Henderson was waiting for a response from her, so she stayed quiet.

  “By the time I finally got through to someone who could help, your Dr. Eriksen had been called away because of a family emergency. No one in Taylorsville can find any report by Eriksen on Jessica Grant.”