by Sara Rosett
But it looked so real. The plastic bins under the worktables had blocked my view of it before, but now it was visible, since I’d shifted position. Hesitantly, I walked forward, not sure why I was moving so slowly. I wanted to get out of the garage, but if it wasn’t a mannequin . . . if Gabrielle had slipped and fallen . . . maybe an accident . . . if she needed help . . .
I skipped over the dark smears on the concrete and moved around a box on the floor. It held the white elephant gifts—I caught sight of the ugly picture frame, the bat box, and the sewing machine. I rounded the end of the tables and saw a woman lying face down, one arm extended out from her body. Dark hair splayed across her shoulders and the floor in an almost perfect circle as if she’d struck the ground and hadn’t moved. I sucked in a gulp of air and backed away when I saw the bloody concave wound in the back of her skull.
I clamped my hand across my mouth. “Oh my God,” I whispered against my fingers. It was Gabrielle. Her face might be turned away, but I recognized the loose, dark hair and fitted, boiled wool jacket with matching red skirt. Gabrielle had worn it to the last chamber of commerce meeting. She’d made every head turn when she walked in the room that day. This was no accident and there was nothing I could do to help. At least, I didn’t think there was anything I could do. I forced myself to crouch down over her extended arm and feel for a pulse. There was not a flutter of movement. I stood up quickly and backed away, flexing my hands open and closed as I took deep breaths, my thoughts skittering from one direction to another. How horrible for Gabrielle. I hadn’t liked her, but this . . . this was terrible.
Oh God, I was going to have to tell Jean. Was she even home? No, call nine-one-one first, then find—
A voice sounded behind me. “Ellie! There you are. Let’s make this quick.”
I jerked around and watched a dark figure come into the garage from the brightness outside. The glare of the sunlight backlit the woman and my heart raced even faster. As she walked into the garage, the fluorescent light evened out the shadows and I saw it was Gabrielle in a thick sweatshirt, designer jeans, and three-inch-heeled boots. Stunned, I couldn’t speak for a moment and gaped at her. “But you’re . . . How . . . ?” Then suddenly my brain snapped into gear. I looked at the black SUV in the garage and saw that it didn’t have advertising signs on the sides and it was a different style—sleeker—than the one I’d seen Gabrielle drive, so it must belong to Jean and Simon. It wasn’t Gabrielle who’d been in the garage. She’d just arrived. The dead woman was Jean. It had to be. I hadn’t looked at her face. I’d only assumed from the clothes and her dark hair.
I surged forward. “No. Don’t come any closer. We’ve got to go outside.” I sped toward her, my hands up like a cop stopping traffic.
“Ellie!” she said sharply, dodging past me. “What is wrong with you? I’ve only got a few minutes and I need to get my supplies and get on the road. Our little chat will have to wait—”
“Gabrielle, don’t go over there.” I reached out and grabbed her arm with my left hand, but she twisted away and walked through the trail of blood, smearing it without noticing as she moved toward Jean’s work area. “Wait!” I called, going after her. “It’s Jean—”
“Really, Ellie!” she said, exasperated. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, ordering me around—,” she broke off as she rounded the tables. In seconds, her face shifted from bafflement to dawning horror. She dropped to her knees and pulled on Jean’s shoulder, rolling her over.
The way the body moved, slowly, heavily at first, and then slapped to the concrete with a dull thud turned my stomach. “I’m calling nine-one-one,” I said, backing away. With one arm under Jean’s neck and shoulders, Gabrielle pulled Jean’s head into her lap and leaned low over her face, murmuring to her as she wiped the hair back from her forehead. She kept repeating, “Hang on. Hang on, Jeannie. Hang on.”
I had to scurry outside and get my phone from my purse, which I’d left in the van, then I had to look at the number on the mailbox so I could give the dispatcher the correct address. That was when my legs started to shake. I made my way back up the driveway, feeling as if I’d run a marathon. There was nothing I could do to help Jean at this point, so I collapsed onto the sidewalk to wait for the ambulance.
Chapter Six
I was standing beside the empty ambulance nearly an hour later when Gabrielle emerged from the garage, her jeans splattered with a dark stain. The little cul-de-sac was full of official cars and people milling about. Someone had called Simon and he’d arrived shortly after the ambulance. He’d flung his car into the driveway with a squeal of brakes and run into the garage, not even bothering to close the car door. I hadn’t seen him since, but assumed he was in the house somewhere.
A few neighbors were looking on from down the street and talking to a reporter from the North Dawkins Standard. I knew he was a reporter because he’d shouted at me, asking if I’d tell him what had happened. I’d shaken my head and moved away. After I’d called nine-one-one, I’d made two more calls. I’d phoned Abby first, giving her the barest details of what had happened so she’d know why I wasn’t at home when school let out, then I’d called Mitch. He’d been as shocked as Abby had been and said he was leaving work right away. I felt steadier after talking to him. There were times when his calm, measured attitude drove me crazy, but today it was just what I needed.
I’d been interviewed by the responding officer from the sheriff’s department—Shadow Ridge wasn’t within the city limits of North Dawkins. An empty gurney with a body bag waited as the officials investigated. The shakiness I’d felt as I’d waited for the ambulance had subsided. My hands weren’t trembling anymore and my heartbeat had returned to normal, but I still felt off kilter.
“There she is.” Gabrielle’s voice, angry and taut, cut across the low, professional tones of the people moving around the cul-de-sac. “Her. She’s the one who was here.”
I realized with a start that she was pointing at me.
Gabrielle marched down the driveway to me. A young man in a navy blue jacket and chinos quickly followed her, catching up to her as she arrived at my side.
“Her,” she said again, jabbing her finger at me. “She was in there. Her name is Ellie Avery and—”
“I know who she is,” he said.
“Hello, Detective Waraday,” I said. I’d met Detective Dave Waraday a few years ago when I got involved in a search for a local woman, Jodi Lockworth, who’d gone missing. Waraday hadn’t been happy I was involved in that case and that same displeased frown that I’d seen so often was again on his baby face. He was one of those people who was going to look like he was in his twenties long after he’d turned the corner of the big three-o. His straight, brown hair was still dark and thick, his face was still unlined, and he had the fresh-scrubbed quality of the all-American star quarterback. But there was something in his face that was different . . . a weariness? Or maybe it was wariness. It had to be hard to deal with murder day after day. I’d recently seen his photo in the paper. He and Colleen, a high school science teacher I’d met while helping with the search for Jodi, were engaged. Should I congratulate him on his engagement? No, this was definitely not the time, I decided.
“Mrs. Avery,” he said. “And you’re here because . . .”
“I found her. I found Jean.”
Gabrielle surged toward me. “No, you didn’t find her. You did that to her—you killed her.” Waraday quickly stepped between us and maneuvered Gabrielle back a few steps.
I was so shocked I could only stare at her and gape.
“Ms. Matheson,” Waraday said, “you need to wait inside with Mr. Williams.”
“She was in there. That was her white elephant gift—the diamond paperweight was hers—and look at her shoes! There’s blood on them—”
“Ms. Matheson!” he said, his voice so commanding that I jumped a little in surprise. “You have to go inside.” When she didn’t budge, he forcibly turned her around and, holding her upper arm, walked her tow
ard the house as she struggled to free herself. He signaled for another officer, who came over and escorted Gabrielle to the front door, where she shot a dark glance at me.
Waraday returned, adjusting the navy jacket with the words Dawkins County Criminal Investigation Division stitched on it. He shot a glance at my boots. “Come with me,” he said shortly, and escorted me away from the stares of the people in the cul-de-sac. I followed him up the incline of the driveway. Instead of going into the garage, he kept walking into the unfenced backyard. A large swath of yellow grass ran right up to a thick line of bare trees. Faded brown and golden leaves carpeted the ground under the trees. The house was situated deep in the Shadow Ridge development and there was nothing around it except for its two neighbors on the cul-de-sac. The stretch of forest extended unbroken in all directions—except for about a quarter of a mile to the right, where I could faintly see the outlines of a line of houses, another development butting up against this one. We were close enough between the Williams’ house and the house next door that we were sheltered from the wind, which had started up again and was pulling at my coat and hair.
Waraday pulled out a notebook and very formally took down my name and address. As I gave the information, I twisted my boot. There was a large, dark splotch on one toe. Waraday asked, “How well did you know Mrs. Williams?”
It took me a second to process his use of Jean’s last name. “Not that well. We were more acquaintances than friends. I saw her at spouse club activities and would talk with her there, but we’ve never met outside of the spouse club. Her son is older—in college. I have more interactions with the women who have younger kids.” I realized I was babbling away, probably telling him more than he wanted or needed to know.
“Did Mrs. Williams have any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?”
“No,” I said quickly. The idea was preposterous. Who would want to hurt Jean? “No, I don’t think so. She wasn’t the type of person who generated . . . animosity.” Unlike her sister, I thought, but kept that to myself. “Jean was nice. That’s such a bland word, but she was always pleasant, always smiling. She liked to bargain shop. She turned that into a home business. That’s about all I know about her. And I guess she was close to her sister, although they have very different personalities, she and Gabrielle. Gabrielle moved here after her divorce so she could be near Jean.” I didn’t want to talk about Gabrielle, so I quickly added, “I know she liked to paint, too. Oil paint. She was taking classes. She mentioned that once at a spouse coffee.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Last night at the spouse Christmas party. We talked for a few minutes after the gift exchange.”
“About what?”
“Um . . . about Helping Hands. Simon, her husband, is on the board. The squadron is doing a fundraiser for Helping Hands, a basket auction. She probably set that up.”
“Did she seem different in any way? Stressed or worried or anything unusual?”
“No, she acted like she always did—friendly and pleasant. If something was wrong, I didn’t notice, but, again, I don’t—didn’t—know her that well. You’d have to ask someone closer to her, like Gabrielle or Hannah.”
“Hannah?” Waraday raised his eyebrows, pen poised.
“Hannah Jenkins, the squadron commander’s wife. She seemed to know Jean better than I did.”
Waraday’s attention shifted from his notebook to my face with an intense searching look. “Why are you here at the Williams’ house today?”
“Gabrielle asked me to meet her here.”
“Why here?”
“She said her schedule was packed and she didn’t have much time, but we could meet here for a few minutes because she had to pick something up. She said something about storing things here at Jean’s house. Some organizing stuff.”
“Gabrielle Matheson is a professional organizer?” Waraday asked.
“Yes,” I said, my heart sinking. This was going to be bad. There was no way I could avoid or gloss over our professional competition and the argument we’d had. Waraday was thorough. He’d find out.
“And why were you meeting?” he asked. There was a clatter as an EMT pushed the empty gurney up the driveway.
I swallowed, pushing down a flashing memory of how Jean had looked when I found her. It wouldn’t do any good to hide anything. Jean’s family deserved to know what had happened and I wasn’t going to waste Waraday’s time beating around the bush. “Gabrielle and I had an argument last night at the squadron spouse Christmas party. She’s stealing my established clients—undercutting what I charge and poaching new clients. She was trying to—” I broke off, realizing I sounded like my kids when they try to justify themselves after they’ve broken a rule. “Never mind what we argued about. What’s important is that we did argue and later I wanted to patch things up, so I called her today and asked if she’d meet me. She told me to come here.”
Waraday still hadn’t written anything in his notebook, but he was watching me carefully and I knew he was taking it all in. “Did anyone else witness this argument?”
“The whole squadron spouse club.”
“I see. Was Mrs. Williams involved in it?”
“No,” I shook my head. “Jean wasn’t anywhere near us. It was just between Gabrielle and me.”
“So you argued over professional issues yesterday. You called today and set the appointment,” he summarized, and I nodded. “What time did you arrive?”
“It was probably about twelve-fifteen or twelve-twenty or so. I’d just met with Paige at Fit Lifestyle and came directly here. It only takes a minute or two to get here.” I described how the garage had been open and that I’d assumed the SUV inside belonged to Gabrielle.
Waraday jotted something down, then asked, “So you thought Ms. Gabrielle Matheson was in the garage?”
“Yes, I didn’t notice that the SUV didn’t have the advertising signs on it and once I was in the garage, I saw Jean’s setup for her business and was looking at that.” I shrugged. “It’s a fantastic setup, so I wanted a closer look. I figured Gabrielle was inside and I would knock on the door to the house or call her on my cell phone after I had a quick peek at Jean’s work area. But then I kicked something—the diamond-shaped paperweight—and I saw it had . . . something on the pointy end. I wasn’t sure what. The lighting was a bit weird in there, all the sunlight from the one open garage door, but the rest of the garage wasn’t brightly lit except for Jean’s work area. I was in the shadowy part in the middle.
“Anyway, I didn’t realize it was blood right away. I touched my boot and then after I sniffed it, I knew. That’s when I saw her hand. That was all I could see, an outstretched arm on the ground.” I stretched my arm out to illustrate. “The rest of her body was behind some plastic bins. I couldn’t see it. I went over to see if she was okay. I thought she’d fallen . . . but she hadn’t. I checked her wrist for a pulse, but with her head . . .” I stopped and swallowed. “Anyway, Gabrielle came in—scared me to death because I thought it was Gabrielle on the floor—but then I figured it out, that it was Jean who was dead. I tried to keep Gabrielle from seeing Jean, but she shook me off. That’s when I called nine-one-one.”
I paused, hoping I’d given a fairly coherent account. He’d let me run on, not interrupting me, only occasionally scribbling a note. He asked, “The paperweight, it was yours?”
“Well, I won it at the party. It was one of those gift exchange things. I didn’t want it, so I gave it to Jean. Lots of people gave their gifts to her after the party was over so she could try and resell them through her business. That’s what she does—did, I mean—resell items at online auctions.”
“I see,” Waraday said.
At his flat tone and blank face, my stomach twisted. He hadn’t written off Gabrielle’s accusation, I could see that in the speculative look he was giving me. Jean’s blood was on my shoes, my fingerprints were on the paperweight that killed her. Suddenly, I was afraid. Maybe I shouldn’t have t
old him everything. What if . . . what if he thought I did it? No, it was all circumstantial . . . wasn’t it? My palms felt slick and, despite the chilly breeze whipping through the air, I felt overheated.
“Lots of people have those paperweights,” I said quickly. “Our insurance agent gave them away a few years ago, so I’m sure they’re all over North Dawkins. We actually had one, but I thought it was too dangerous to have around the kids. I was afraid they’d put someone’s eye out . . .” I trailed off abruptly.
“So the paperweight will have your prints on it?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I held it at the party, after all.”
Waraday stared at me for a long moment, then his gaze dropped to my feet. “I’m going to need those boots.”
I had to drive home in my socks. One of the EMTs took pity on me and gave me a set of paper booties to wear over my socks, but my feet were still freezing by the time Waraday told me I could go. I hadn’t lingered. I pulled into our garage and parked beside Mitch’s car, my heart fluttering in near panic as I thought about what I’d told Waraday and how the situation must look to him.
I’d called Mitch, when Waraday released me, and told him I was on my way home. He’d beaten me here, but there was no sign of Abby or the kids.
Mitch met me at the door and I went into his arms, leaning against his solid, comforting presence. “The kids and Abby should be here any minute,” I said into his shoulder as Rex wiggled around, bumping into my legs.
“Abby’s taking them for ice cream after school. What happened to your shoes?”
“Waraday took them. They’re evidence,” I said, frustrated with myself. I burrowed into Mitch’s shoulder. “I’m so stupid. Why did I have to go on and on and on?”