Nobody Lives Forever

by Edna Buchanan

  She turned and walked into her house, still carrying Benjie, who stared sullenly over her shoulder.

  Laurel sank to her knees and gathered the garden tools. The odors around her were pungent and earthy. The maidenhair ferns looked wilted and dead. My God, what was happening to her. She sprang to her feet, ran into the house and with trembling fingers dialed long distance.

  “Mother,” she said, weeping. “I thought you were coming. It’s happening again. I need help, please.”

  Her mother’s voice was sad and resigned. “Your father and I are on the way.”

  “Thank God.” Laurel slid to the kitchen floor, and sat hugging her knees.

  A few minutes later Harriet stood, straightened her clothes and dialed the same number. “Everything is fine,” she said crisply. “Don’t listen to her and don’t bother making the trip all the way down here. We’ll call you in a few days.”

  The doorbell rang at precisely seven.

  Laurel looked surprised. “Dusty! How are you?”

  “Did Rick forget our appointment?” Dusty looked pale and drawn. “I didn’t see his car in the driveway.”

  “I’m sure that if you have an appointment, he’ll be here. Come in and sit down.”

  Dusty appeared confused and uncomfortable. She chose a straight-backed chair near the front window.

  “Can I get you anything, coffee, a glass of wine?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Laurel walked toward the kitchen, then stopped for a moment. When she turned back into the room, her eyes and the tilt of her head were decidedly different.

  “Dusty, have you seen my kitchen?”

  “Not really, Laurel.”

  “Come on, you must.” She beckoned.

  Dusty cast a desperate glance out the window, hoping to see Rick’s car, then reluctantly followed. She left her purse on the floor.

  “This is the most efficient kitchen I have ever seen,” her hostess said proudly. “Did you know it was custom-designed? See how the colors are bathed in a warm glow? That’s because several tiers of lighting were installed above and beneath the soffit and under the cabinets to illuminate the countertops.”

  Dusty nodded politely.

  “And the appliances are all top of the line. A subzero refrigerator,” she swung it open, like Betty Furness on TV, “a regular oven, as well as a microwave. And look at all this storage space.” She displayed the slide-out shelves for pots and pans.

  “It’s lovely, Laurel.” Dusty seemed impatient. “Do you think Rick will be here soon?”

  “Of course not.”

  Dusty looked startled and cocked her head to one side, as if she had heard wrong.

  “As I was saying, when you see this home, this kitchen, you have to understand why I will allow none of it to be compromised or put in jeopardy. We’ve all discussed it, and we all agree,” she said, drawing the filet knife from the block on the counter and turning to Dusty, her hand low, the blade gleaming, “that you will no longer be tolerated.”

  The knife caught Dusty in the midsection, below the rib cage. “Oh my God. Laurel!” She felt no pain until it was pulled out. She dropped to one knee, staring in disbelief at the blood on her hand and her clothing. Harriet had retreated. Dusty pulled herself up, wincing in pain. She swallowed hard and moved fast toward the door. But Alex blocked her way. He had a gun in his hand and a grin on his face.

  Beth thought she heard a loud bang about half an hour later. She stopped and listened but heard nothing else for several minutes. Then a car roared out of the driveway next door at high speed, tires spinning on the gravel, then burning rubber on the blacktop. Her mouth tightened in indignation. What a reckless and dangerous way to drive in a residential neighborhood where small children play. The car was red, the same car she’d seen arrive earlier. She dialed Laurel’s number, but it was busy. She looked next door and saw the front door ajar. Stepping out into the cool dusk, she crossed the lush green lawn and pushed open the door. “Laurel? Are you there?” Nothing. She stepped further inside and saw blood spilled on the carpet, spattered on the walls and staining the pale flowered sofa. Lamps had been knocked over and the coffee table and a chair upended. She began a low keening when she saw Chuckles, the Siamese cat, blood-soaked and crumpled in a corner. For a wild instant she believed, she hoped, that all the blood she saw came from the dead animal.

  “Laurel?” As though mesmerized, eyes huge and haunted, she silently followed the crimson trail, padding down the carpeted hallway to the master bedroom, then looked inside.

  Her screams bounced off walls as she ran headlong through the house and out onto the lawn where she dropped to her knees, retching and sobbing.

  Thirty-Nine

  It had been a good day, like old times. Rick was relieved that Laurel had not joined them. He needed this. Jim never even complained about being out on the water. They drank beer, talked cases, and as they climbed back into his car at the marina, Rick invited Jim home for dinner.

  They swung by Pigeon Plum Circle on the way. Rick’s card was still in the door. “Wonder where the hell that woman is?”

  “It’s not like her to go off and sulk without letting us know where she’s at.”

  “Maybe she left word at the station,” Rick said.

  A police crime-scene truck whizzed by as they drove leisurely across the causeway. “Wonder where they’re headed in such a hurry?” Jim said. They saw the answer when Rick turned onto the island minutes later. The scene seemed a replay of the night Rob Thorne died, the eerie rhythm of flashing lights, the morgue wagon, men in uniform measuring out yellow crime-scene tape. Even a distraught woman in the arms of her husband. The woman this time was Beth Singer. Rick’s first thought was that something had happened to Benjie. Then he realized that the tape was being strung around his house and his lieutenant was striding toward the car, his face strained and solemn.

  Beth ran toward them. “Rick! It’s Laurel! It’s Laurel!”

  “What the hell happened?” Rick stepped from the car, his mouth suddenly dry.

  “Christ,” Jim was saying behind him.

  Beth’s husband caught her and she turned, weeping into his shoulder. “What is happening here?” she wailed. “My baby! I don’t want my baby to grow up here.”

  “I’m sorry, Rick,” the lieutenant shook his head. “You can’t go in there.”

  Rick ignored him and bolted for the front door. “Laurel! Laurel!”

  Two uniforms, men he knew, barred his way, looking back uncertainly to the lieutenant for instruction. “This is my house! I’m going in there.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant.”

  “Then you’re gonna have to arrest me! It’s my fucking house!” He tried to push past them.

  “Christ, Lieutenant, ya gotta let him in there for just a few minutes.”

  “It won’t give him any piece of mind, Jim.” The thin, sallow-skinned lieutenant ran a hand through his thinning hair and relented. “Go with him, don’t let him touch anything. In and out. Taggerty and Dominguez have the case.”

  The uniforms stepped aside. “The bedroom,” the lieutenant said, and turned away.

  “Hang in there and be cool,” Jim muttered. He held Rick’s elbow tight as they stepped carefully. The bed was bloodstained. The body lay on the floor covered by bedclothes and a gingham apron. A bare, blood-smeared leg was visible, and a sweep of blonde hair. Brain matter clung to the ruffled bed skirt.

  Rick moved no closer. “Get me out of here,” he whispered, paler than Jim had ever seen him.

  Steered out the front door, Rick sank down onto the stone bench where he had found Laurel the night of Rob Thorne’s murder. Jim left him there, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

  He was in the same position when Jim returned from conferring with the lieutenant. “Beth, your neighbor, heard a shot and saw a red Datsun take off. She found the body.”

  Rick raised his face from his hands. His eyes were a
luminous glimmer.

  “Lotsa red cars in the world,” Jim said. “We have to go down to the station, give statements.”

  “Us?”

  “Routine. They wanna know about the threat she got, the note. Where we were today, whatever leads you can offer.”

  Rick got to his feet slowly, like a man numbed by novocaine. Jim guided him to a patrol car. “No.” Rick shook him off. “I can drive.”

  The lieutenant moved to intervene, and Jim stopped him. “I’ll go with him. We’ll meet you there.”

  Jim drove. Rick spoke only once. “She was so young. I didn’t even say good-bye. She was still asleep when I left this morning.”

  “We got an early start,” Jim said.

  Dr. Feigleman was impatiently pacing the detective bureau. He had responded quickly to the call of a bereavement. This was a unique case. Since his association with the department, he had counseled only two other officers who had lost loved ones to murder. Both were patrolmen. Robbers had killed the young brother-in-law of one, and the sister of another had been shot by an obsessed would-be lover. There had been nothing like this, the young sweetheart of a detective who investigates murders, slain in the home they shared. He double-checked before leaving the house, to be sure that the detective himself was not a suspect. A domestic dispute would not be nearly so desirable a case from his point of view. The department had already confirmed the man’s presence on a boat, at a marina, in the company of another detective at the time of the slaying. This would be an extremely interesting case study.

  The department chaplain was also waiting at headquarters, clutching a leather-bound Bible and looking soulful. His presence annoyed Feigleman. If Sergeant Barrish wanted a clergyman present, he could call in his own, if he had one. The two men did not speak as they waited. They had never been on the best of terms.

  As Rick emerged from the elevator, still clad in a pullover shirt, blue jeans and boat shoes, both men lunged out of their seats and rushed toward him.

  “My son,” the chaplain said.

  “Sergeant,” Feigleman said, “it’s important to sort out—” Jim brushed them to one side with a sweep of his big hand and a cold stare that meant business.

  He steered Rick by them, speaking bitterly from between clenched teeth. “Goddammit! This man has just lost somebody close to him.”

  “Precisely. Which is why I am here,” Feigleman said. “To do everything I can for him.”

  He needs words of solace and assurance,” the chaplain said. “We can pray together.”

  “Maybe later,” Jim said brusquely.

  “The press is already calling,” a harried-looking civilian clerk told him.

  “No calls,” Jim said, “no reporters. Refer them to public information.”

  A man in uniform escorted a well-dressed elderly couple into the detective bureau. The woman was weeping. The man walked with difficulty, using a cane. Rick swept them into his arms. “How did you get here so fast?”

  The woman clung to the front of his shirt as if she was drowning and he was a life preserver.

  “Laurel called her mother again earlier today and said she needed help. We started the drive down an hour later. When we got to the house, they told us…”

  “She called for help?” Rick looked bewildered.

  “They want to take a statement from us,” the old man said, his eyes swimming. “What happened?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Jim said. He grasped Rick’s right shoulder and spoke into his ear. “The ME needs somebody to make the official ID. I’ll go. You stay here with her folks. I’ll be back.”

  Rick nodded.

  Feigleman and the chaplain still hovered nearby, like birds of prey. Feigleman was scribbling in a small notebook.

  Forty

  Miriam manned the front desk at the medical examiner’s office. “This is a tough one,” she said sympathetically.

  “Life sucks,” Jim said.

  “How is Rick?”

  “Not good,” Jim said. “They were living together. I don’t know what their plans were. He wasn’t ready to lose her.”

  “Not like this,” Dr. Lansing said. He had stepped out of the morgue to join them. “From what I can see, there was a hell of a fight. She was sexually molested with a foreign object, looks like a can of hair spray. We’ll know better in a little while. They’re cleaning the body up right now.”

  “Let’s fill these out,” Miriam said briskly, reading aloud as he filled in the blanks on the official forms in front of her. “I, James Ransom, do hereby assert that I have viewed the body and identified the deceased as Laurel Trevelyn, whom I have known for a period of”—she looked up at Jim—“how long did you know the deceased?”

  This is all it comes down to, he thought, looking into her bright, questioning eyes. How long did you know the deceased?

  “About eight months, but I helped them move her things into Rick’s house.” Images of that day flickered through his mind like an old home movie. He quickly blocked them out—forever.

  “Before you leave, you can sign, and I’ll witness the signature,” Miriam told him. She patted his hand like a grandmother about to serve cookies and milk.

  “She’s a mess,” Lansing said as they entered the morgue. “Shot in the face. It’s good that you came by instead of Rick or some family member.

  “We took the initial photos, and the guys from the lab were here. They did laser printing of the body. God, that machine is a pain in the ass. She was lying partially on a sheet pulled from the bed, so we wrapped her in that so there would be no contamination and we would be sure to bring everything in with her.

  It was a contact wound to the forehead, the muzzle right against the bone, almost between the eyes. Pulverized the inside of the skull. You can see the result.”

  She lay on a stainless-steel tray with raised sides locked over the end of a large sink. There was the smell of blood, disinfectant and oily peppermint from the polish cleaner used on the trays. The only sound was the gentle whoosh of water running from two clear rubber hoses. The water circulated around the edge of the tray and emptied into the sink through a hole at the foot.

  Her head was raised on a Formica-covered wooden block about four inches high to prevent blood from settling in the brain. Little shape was left to the face, which had collapsed in on itself like a Halloween pumpkin left too long in the sun. Lester, the morgue attendant, had picked up the larger of the two hoses and a fat sponge and was gently washing away the blood. It swirled red, then pink, and eddied away in the constant flow of water.

  Jim watched with a clinical curiosity as the routine cleansing revealed the damage. The bullet had taken the left eye, leaving an empty socket. The right eye remained, big and blue. Blue. Blue. Jim rocked back on his heels.

  “What’s the height and weight?” He sounded normal, but his face betrayed him, eyes moving over the long legs, narrow hips, well-developed breasts, the blond hair.

  Lester put down the bubbling hose and reached for the chart. “She weighed in at 129 pounds, five feet six and a half inches.”

  “Doc, tell Miriam to tear up the ID form that says this is Laurel Trevelyn.” Jim’s fists were clenched. “It ain’t her.”

  Lansing looked startled.

  “Take a better look, Doc. You know this lady.”

  Jim left the morgue quickly. Lansing walked around the tray for a better view. “Oh, my Lord,” he said softly.

  Jim drove fast, back to the station. “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”—he slammed the steering wheel—“Dusty! You were right!” Tears streamed down his face.

  Forty-One

  The clerk timidly intruded. “I know you’re not taking calls, Sergeant, but it’s a family member.”

  Rick nodded, stepped back to his desk and picked up the telephone. His hunched shoulders dropped, and his spine slowly straightened as he listened. He spoke in a voice too low for others to hear, but the tone sounded urgent
. A secretary walking by heard the end of the conversation as he pleaded with the caller, “Please, wait right there.”

  He cradled the phone and walked out of the detective bureau. No one thought to stop him.

  Jim walked into homicide, his face gray. “Where’s Rick?”

  “That’s just what the fuck I was going to ask you,” Dominguez said. The short, muscular detective was furious. “We never got his statement. He takes a call, we turn around and he’s gone. The guy at the front desk says he took off outta the parking lot like a bat outta hell. What the fuck is going on?”

  “I guess he found out what I was just gonna tell him. The body at the morgue, it’s not Laurel.”

  “Whattaya—?”

  “Laurel’s alive?” her mother asked weakly, clutching at a chair for support.

  “Yeah. It looks that way.”

  “Who the hell is the victim?” Dominguez said.

  “It’s Dusty.”

  “You’re shitting me. Oh, my God,” the short detective said.

  Laurel’s mother gazed at her husband, her head wobbling back and forth in an expression of denial. “We should have known. We should have known…”

  “What does that mean?” Jim said.

  “Laurel, has always had … problems.” The father said the word precisely, infused with meaning beyond its definition.

  “What kinda problems?”

  “You know she is our adopted daughter?”

  Jim nodded. “No secret.”

  “We adopted her late in our lives. She was six years old, a severely abused child. We were in our fifties, foolish and idealistic. We thought we could make up for all that had happened to her by giving her love and the things money could buy. It never worked out. There was always trouble. She was under care … But she seemed to be doing so well that we thought that with a man like Rick…” his voice trailed off.