“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
He arched a brow.
“Fine,” I said. “Explain it to me.”
He lowered his voice another degree. “Imagine my grandma getting out of her room. Somehow. And imagine Julia Poole realizing it, and going after her. That was her job, right? And imagine the two of’em finding each other in the gazebo.”
“OK,” I said. I could imagine it so far.
“Imagine my grandma being confused. And imagine Julia trying to grab her and take her back to her room. And imagine my grandma lashing out with the knife.”
I could imagine that, too. Except for a few details.
“What knife? Where would your grandmother have gotten hold of a knife? Especially one sharp enough to cut a throat in one slash? It’s not like they’d leave that kind of thing lying around for the residents to find.”
He had no answer for that.
“And anyway, what happened then? Your grandmother weighs less than a hundred pounds soaking wet.” And she’d been soaking wet that night. “I haven’t seen Julia Poole, or her body, but she would have had to have been even smaller than that for your grandmother to have carried her to the car. That’s not likely. Most people are bigger than your grandmother. If she’d dragged Julia, you would have seen drag marks. If she’d driven the car to the gazebo, you would have seen tire tracks. And does your grandmother even know how to drive?”
“Yes,” Rafe said. “And someone did drive the car to the gazebo.”
Really? “Grimaldi didn’t mention that.”
“I guess she thought you wouldn’t care,” Rafe said.
She’d thought wrong. But of course she’d had no way of knowing that.
“So someone killed Julia in the gazebo—not your grandmother; whoever she had her midnight rendezvous with, obviously someone who brought the sharp knife with him, since I don’t think Julia would have brought it—and then that person left her there while he went to get her car, since he didn’t want to carry her from the gazebo to the parking lot. It’s a bit of a walk, as I recall.”
Far enough that anyone sane would opt for the car over carrying the body the distance. And anyway, it was a lot safer for the murderer to leave the body behind while he got the car. Staggering around with Julia’s bloody body in his arms might be a bit hard to explain if anyone happened to see him.
“And while he was getting the car, your grandmother got to the gazebo and found Julia. And tried to help her, because Julia was hurt. And when the murderer came back, he found them both. And loaded them both into the car and drove them to Shelby Park. And pushed them into the water.”
Rafe didn’t say anything.
“You do realize he was trying to kill your grandmother, right? Or at least he was hoping that she’d drown, or die of hypothermia or something, so she couldn’t testify against him.”
“She can’t testify against him anyway,” Rafe said. “She don’t know who he is.”
Or didn’t remember him, if she did.
“We could hypnotize her,” I suggested. “Maybe if she was hypnotized, she’d be less confused.”
“Or more.” He shook his head. “Just keep it quiet about the blood for now. I don’t want Tammy getting any ideas.”
He put a palm against my stomach. “How’s the baby?”
The baby—awake at this time of day—immediately noticed and kicked at it.
“Alive and well,” I said.
“No problems?”
I shook my head. “I feel fine. I took a nap in front of the TV with your grandmother earlier. And I have a little heartburn from the spicy food, but nothing worth mentioning.” No sense of impending doom, or impending labor. Everything was just as normal.
He nodded, and bent to brush his lips over mine. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”
“I’ll clean up after dinner,” I said, “and get your grandmother situated. I’ll meet you in front of the TV.”
He headed up the stairs, and I went to prepare for another slow evening at home.
Eight
The Phillips-Robinson funeral home consists of a couple of big, white, Southern-style buildings on Gallatin Road in Inglewood. There’s a Mexican restaurant across the street, a Smoothie King on the next corner, and a big pine tree on the lawn in front of the funeral home. It wasn’t decorated for the holidays yet, but a sign advertised a Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony the first week in December. By now, we were two days away from Thanksgiving, so the holidays were coming up quickly.
When I’d been here last year for Brenda Puckett’s funeral, the parking lot had been bumper to bumper, including vans from all the major networks. Brenda’s murder had been headline news.
Today, it was quiet. Half a dozen cars in the parking lot, nothing more. I pulled the Volvo into a space between a muscular truck with a trailer hitch and a bumper sticker that said “I’d rather be fishing,” and a late model BMW convertible with the roof up in spite of the bright sunshine.
“Ready?” I asked Mrs. Jenkins. She nodded.
I’d tried to make her look as presentable as possible for the occasion. Since she insisted on wearing one of her new housecoats, and since we had a limited number of them—and they don’t tend to come in mourning colors—I’d done the best I could under the circumstances. The housecoat was navy blue, with sprigs of white flowers. I had paired it with white socks and Keds, and the coat we’d bought yesterday. She looked... if not put together, at least clean and maintained.
The smallest viewing room wasn’t hard to find. It was the only one in use at the moment, and in spite of the small crowd, there was enough noise to point us in the right direction as soon as we came through the front doors into the building.
“This way.” I took hold of Mrs. Jenkins elbow. Not because she couldn’t find her own way—I assumed she could, since she wasn’t deaf—but the place was big, with lots of doors that all looked the same, and I didn’t want to lose her. Who knew: with her luck, she’d probably end up in the embalming room, or somewhere like that.
The small viewing room held less people than I would have expected from the noise. The half dozen cars in the parking lot had resulted in maybe eight people in the small room, and a couple of them were conversing loudly. Under other circumstances, I might even say they were arguing, but since I’d been here before, and had witnessed an actual screaming match over the coffin, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and just say they were talking loudly. They were certainly nowhere near as loud as Kenny and Stacy had been on that other occasion.
“...lucky we don’t sue!” one man proclaimed.
He was almost as tall as Rafe, and ten years ago, might have been as muscular. Now, he was just big, with a few extra pounds around the middle, straining the buttons of the blue shirt he wore under a navy blazer.
In a weird sort of optical illusion, another man stood behind him, contributing his own two cents along the same lines. He looked something like a pale copy, or maybe a shadow. Same face, approximately twenty pounds lighter, and dressed in a gray jacket with a paler gray shirt under it.
Twins. Angry twins.
The man they were yelling at, on our side of the casket, was shorter, slighter, and older, with a head full of salt-and-pepper hair. And a nicely modulated voice with an educated, clipped accent that held more than a hint of annoyance. “I wouldn’t recommend it. After all, who knows what might come out?”
When we walked in, they all turned to look at us. For a second, nobody said anything. The florid guy in the blue jacket, his color high, looked from me to Mrs. Jenkins and back, and his brother did the same.
However, it was salt-and-pepper who looked like he’d had the rug yanked out from under him. He flushed, and his mouth opened for a second before he hiked up his jaw again.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I said, since my mother taught me to be polite in all circumstances, even when other people aren’t. “Is this the Bristol memorial?”
Nobody said anything, but
a few people nodded.
“My grandmother-in-law was a friend,” I said, gesturing to Mrs. J. “She would like to pay her respects.”
They all stepped back from the casket. We stepped forward.
There wasn’t much to see. The coffin was white, and pretty plain. Someone either had simple tastes, or not much money. Or maybe hadn’t liked Beverly Bristol much.
The coffin was closed. I had thought maybe I’d get a look at Ms. Bristol, but I guess after a week, decomposition had probably started, and she might not have been a pleasant sight. The smell of lilies hung heavy in the air, masking—pretty well—the odor of anything else.
For a second or two, nothing happened. Then the guy with the salt-and-pepper hair murmured an “Excuse me,” and brushed past us. He headed out the door, and I heard the hard soles of his dressy shoes slap against the floor in the hallway. A second later, the front door opened and closed.
It was like the rest of the room took a breath, and the guy in the gray jacket and shirt, less florid than his brother, managed a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Sorry about that.”
I smiled back. “Family get-togethers can be fraught.”
His brother, in the blue jacket, muttered something, and Gray Jacket gave him a warning glance before turning back to me. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
That would be because I hadn’t mentioned it. Of course I didn’t say so. “I’m sorry. I’m Savannah Martin. Collier. This is my grandmother-in-law, Mrs. Jenkins. She knew your grandmother.”
“Aunt,” Gray Jacket said.
“I’m sorry. Your Aunt Beverly.”
I smiled again. He didn’t.
It was awkward. Weird and awkward. I’m sure they didn’t mind us being here—why would they? They didn’t know us, and that’s what a memorial is for, isn’t it? But I also got the distinct impression that we weren’t welcome. Maybe they’d hoped to keep it to just the family. Or maybe they didn’t like strangers.
Maybe we made them feel as uncomfortable as they made us feel.
I felt like they were all looking at us, just waiting for us to vacate the room.
I glanced at Mrs. Jenkins. She was looking around curiously, her black eyes birdlike in her little, brown face. If she felt any discomfort, or any lack of welcome, it wasn’t apparent.
Maybe I was just imagining things. But it didn’t feel that way.
I took a step back, keeping my hand on Mrs. J’s arm. “I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll let you get on with it.”
Nobody said anything. Nobody asked why we were leaving so soon, or wondered why we weren’t staying longer.
I pulled Mrs. Jenkins out of the small visiting room and down the hall toward the front door. And I admit I held my breath until we reached the door to the outside and pushed it open. When it swung shut behind us, I felt like I could take the first full breath of air since I’d walked into the funeral home. “That was weird.”
Mrs. J didn’t say anything, just smiled at me.
“Did you get a chance to say goodbye to Ms. Bristol?” That’s why we’d come, and now I’d ruined it for her by yanking her out of there after just two minutes. Who knew, she might not have felt any discomfort at all. She might have wanted to stay. To commune further with the dead.
“Yes, baby.” She patted my arm.
“OK. Good.” I looked around the parking lot. It was still early. Too early for lunch. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”
It’s never too early for ice cream.
Mrs. Jenkins beamed, and trotted next to me toward the Volvo.
I’m not entirely sure what happened next. One second we were on our way across the parking lot. The next, we had to jump out of the way as the fancy BMW parked next to us zoomed backwards out of its slot and straight at us.
I shoved Mrs. Jenkins to the side while I did my best to scramble to safety myself. We both ended up on the cold blacktop. Mrs. Jenkins skidded and skinned her knees. I watched the rear of the BMW come closer and closer, absolutely sure it was going to hit me... but just before it did, it came to a halt, and then sped forward. It belched a cloud of exhaust that made my eyes water, and I wasn’t able to clear my vision again until the car had exited the parking lot and taken off south on Gallatin Road with a roar of the powerful engine.
Clearly the driver was upset.
I turned over on all fours and crawled the couple of feet to Mrs. Jenkins, who was looking dazed, bleeding from both knees. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.”
It was my fault, or at least to a degree. I’d pushed her out of the way of the car, and she’d fallen and hurt herself.
On the other hand, if we’d stayed where we were, the car would have hit us and we’d probably be hurt worse, so I couldn’t feel too bad about it.
I’d managed to land on my butt. I’m reasonably well padded there, so I figured I was OK, maybe except for some bruises. And the baby wasn’t hurt, which was the main thing. The stomach was absolutely fine.
Mrs. J’s knees weren’t. It was a good thing she was small and light, or I might not have been able to haul her to her feet. “Let me help you to the car.”
I put my arm around her and supported her as we hobbled toward the Volvo. “There’s a drugstore just down the street.” The BMW was probably passing it just about now. “We’ll stop there and get some Band Aids and Neosporin and get you fixed up. Then we’ll go find some ice cream. That’ll make you feel better.”
She patted my arm after I loaded her into the car and made sure her seatbelt was fastened. I figured she was just offering comfort. She did that. But when I looked at her, it turned out she had something to say. “Fesmire.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?” It sounded like something out of Harry Potter. Maybe some sort of healing spell.
Although it did sound familiar. It took me a few seconds to place it. “Doctor Fesmire? Alton Fesmire? From where you live?” Or used to live.
She nodded.
“In the BMW?”
She looked blank at that. Maybe she didn’t know what a BMW looked like. “In the car? The one that ran us down?”
Mrs. Jenkins nodded.
Interesting. I chewed on it as I closed her door and made my way around the hood of the Volvo to the driver’s side door. “Are you sure?”
She shrugged. So maybe she wasn’t sure. Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk about it.
I started the car and rolled out of the parking lot. Two minutes later, we parked in front of the drugstore and headed in. I would have left Mrs. J in the car—her knees had to be painful, and she didn’t need to be there for me to buy Band Aids and Neosporin—but I was afraid I’d come back out and find her gone. So I made her come inside with me. There were chairs in the pharmacy waiting area, so I used one of those to smear a generous layer of cream across each knee before I covered them with the biggest Band Aids I could find.
As a side note, the Band Aid industry hasn’t graduated to skin-coordinated products yet. The pale Band Aids stood out distinctly against Mrs. Jenkins’s brown skin. Although when she stood up, the bottom of the blue housecoat fell to cover her knees, so I guess it was OK. Still, someone should go into business making Band Aids for people who aren’t pale peach.
I paid for the products I’d used, and we hobbled back out. “Ice cream next,” I told Mrs. Jenkins, and she beamed at me from the passenger seat.
There’s a place a bit farther north into Inglewood that has homemade ice cream, so we headed there. And while we drove, I pulled out my phone and called my husband. “Tell me about Doctor Fesmire.”
“Scuse me?”
“Doctor Fesmire,” I said. “Alton Fesmire. The guy from the nursing home. What does he look like?”
There was a moment of silence. “You looking to leave me for a doctor, darlin’?”
“No,” I said. “Your grandmother mentioned him. After someone tried to run us over in the parking lot of the funeral home.”
The silence this time was fraught. I sighe
d. “How about I start from the beginning?”
“How about you do.” His voice was dangerous.
“I’m not sure it was deliberate. But I don’t know that it wasn’t, either. Anyway, we went there. For Beverly Bristol’s funeral. The visitation started at ten. We got there maybe a quarter after. It was a small crowd.” I told him about parking next to the BMW. “When we went inside, a couple of people were arguing. This big, burly guy whose suit was too tight. His brother, who looks just like him, except he weighs less. And this older guy with salt-and-pepper hair.”
“Fesmire has gray hair,” Rafe said.
“Dark, going gray and white?”
He made a noise that sounded like agreement.
“Small, spare guy? Well dressed? Drives a navy BMW?”
“I can call the DMV and find out what he drives,” Rafe said. I opened my mouth, but he was already gone. I put the phone on speaker and dropped it in my lap, and concentrated on driving.
He came back on a minute later. “BMW convertible.” He rattled off the license plate number. A couple of digits sounded familiar.
“I was too busy getting out of the way to remember it all,” I told him, as I kept a steady course toward the coffee shop with the homemade ice cream. By now we were so close I could practically taste it. “But that sounds right. And it was definitely a navy blue BMW convertible with an older man with gray hair inside.” Or at least it was a reasonable conclusion. The man with the gray hair had left the funeral home, and the BMW had started moving a minute or two later. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver—too busy scrambling—but the guy with the gray hair hadn’t been anywhere else that I’d seen. And it made sense that he might have sat in the car for a minute gathering himself before he started the engine. He’d seemed rattled when he left. “Your grandmother mentioned Doctor Fesmire.”
“Then I’m sure she saw him,” Rafe said. “You both all right?”
I saw the revolving sign of the coffee shop up ahead. “We’re fine. I have some bruising on my rear end, but at least I didn’t land on my stomach. And your grandmother skinned both her knees. We stopped at the drugstore and fixed her up. Now we’re having ice cream.”
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