She Wore Mourning

by P. D. Workman

  They walked into the restaurant, were seated, and went through the buffet. Zachary loaded up his plate and Kenzie very carefully picked and chose small amounts of a few favorite foods. Zachary was a little embarrassed at how his plate compared to hers. It probably wasn’t her first meal of the day, though.

  After they had sat down at the table, Kenzie slid the familiar medical examiner’s report across to him.

  “I’m not sure why you need that,” she said. “I thought you were closing the case.”

  “I was. I am. I have to rewrite the final report. All of my materials are gone in the fire.”

  “You should have saved it in the cloud.”

  “Where someone else could access it? I never save case files to the cloud.”

  “Then how are you going to recover all the stuff you lost in the fire?”

  “I don’t know.” Zachary sighed. “I’ll have to reconstruct what I can. Request new copies.” He groaned as he thought of all his photography equipment and negatives. He had been saying for years that he needed to store stuff off-site. That he needed to find a way to back up his data somewhere safe. He never had. The backups he had made of his computer were in the apartment, just like the computer. A lot of good that did.

  Kenzie put a forkful of salad in her mouth and chewed it slowly. “What are your other active cases about?” she asked.

  Zachary shrugged. “Adultery. Insurance fraud. Accident reconstruction. Stuff like that.”

  “The Declan Bond case is the only one about a death.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then doesn’t it have to be the one that they’re trying to stop you from investigating? Who’s going to set your apartment on fire over adultery? The only one that makes any sense is the Bond case.”

  “Only it doesn’t,” Zachary disagreed. He took a minute to nibble the meat from a buffalo wing before expanding. “I know the principals involved in the case. If it was the mother, which is what I think, it doesn’t make any sense that she would try to get me to shut down the investigation. She already got away with it, and no one from the police department is going to reopen the investigation. She wouldn’t kill me because I state in my report that she’s the only one who had motive and opportunity. Her mother and husband are just going to brush it off. It isn’t going to get to her employers or viewers. There’s no reason to kill me.”

  “Why do you think it’s the mother and not just an accident?”

  Zachary sighed and shook his head. He was starting to get warm inside at last. He wrapped his fingers around his coffee mug while he tried to explain it to Kenzie.

  “First, because of the cough medicine.”

  “So he had cough medicine in his system. That’s not suspicious.”

  “It’s suspicious when they all say they wouldn’t give him cough medicine. If one of them volunteered and said, ‘yes, he was developing a cough, so I gave him some medicine,’ then I would be happy with that. No big deal. When the mother says that they absolutely would not give him cough medicine because it knocks him out… that’s a different story.”

  “Tell me more about why she wouldn’t give it to him.”

  “She gave him a children’s cold tablet once a couple of years ago. It knocked him out and scared her so much that she’s never given him any cold medicine since.”

  “That’s sort of an extreme reaction, isn’t it?” Kenzie suggested. She flaked a little fish into her fork and took a dainty bite. “Why wouldn’t she just go with a half dose the next time?”

  “Because Isabella is all about extreme reactions. She gets stuck and does things that don’t make logical sense. Like putting out fresh food for the missing cat every day for eight years. Like refusing to eat off a plate in her own home, because Spencer threw out her favorite. Like not painting the color blue since Declan’s death. That’s what she’s like.”

  “A little like someone I know who can’t listen to Christmas songs and insists on GPS tracking anyone he gets close to.”

  Zachary scowled, staring down at his plate. He started on a small slice of pepperoni pizza.

  “Regardless. Declan reacted to cold medicine, so she was afraid of ever giving it to him again.”

  “So maybe Spencer gave it to him.”

  “Spencer obeys his wife’s rules. They both have rules to keep the house running. He’s learned from the past what happens when he’s up against one of her compulsions.”

  “So, he does it secretly. He doesn’t tell her.”

  Zachary thought about it and shook his head. “He knew how Declan reacted the last time. He wouldn’t risk doing it again.”

  “Like I say, he gives Declan a half dose. The kid is much older now. A half dose would probably be just enough to keep the cold symptoms at bay without knocking him out.”

  “But then why deny it? Why not just say that he was the one who gave Declan the medicine when I asked him?”

  “Because it would get back to his wife. He’s keeping it a secret from her at all costs. Because… he doesn’t want her to blame him for Declan’s death.”

  “It had to be Isabella,” Zachary said stubbornly. It was the only answer that made sense.

  “I’m not convinced,” Kenzie said. “I think the father could have given it to him, but kept it a secret so they wouldn’t get blamed. Or Declan might have drunk out of the dosing cup after someone else took some without anyone realizing.”

  “At least you’re not saying it was a stranger who took him from the yard and gave it to him.” Zachary was aware that his tone was sullen. He grimaced at his own reaction. Kenzie was helping him out; he shouldn’t do anything to alienate her.

  “It’s still another possibility,” Kenzie said. “You said yourself lots of parents do it to put their children to sleep or make them more compliant. It’s a well-known strategy. There’s nothing to say a stranger didn’t lure him out of the yard with a popsicle laced with cough medicine.”

  “The most likely suspect is still the mother.”

  “Maybe. That’s only speculation. You have no evidence.”

  “I don’t need evidence. They’re not going to reopen the case. All I’m doing is making a final report of my findings to the family in a case that is never going to be re-investigated.”

  “You said she has motive.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her motive?”

  “Declan was a pain in the neck. Motherhood is difficult, and she didn’t want to do it anymore. She wanted him out of the way.”

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “Not all women are cut out to be mothers.” He thought of his mother, of her decision to break up their family and not be a mother anymore. “It didn’t fit with her lifestyle. With her mental illness. She just wanted to paint. Not to have to take care of a mewling brat while she was trying to work from home.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “No. It was pretty obvious that she didn’t give Declan much attention. Even if you believe her story, she lost track of him for an hour or more. Not just two minutes. She wasn’t painting facing the window so that she could watch him. She was painting with her back to the window so that she would have to turn all the way around to see him.”

  “That still qualifies as an accident, not murder.”

  “If you believe her story. And I don’t.”

  “Did she tell you that she didn’t want to be a mother? That she didn’t like watching him? That she was glad he was out of the way? Exactly what did she say?”

  “Spencer did things with Declan. Read to him, made his meals, played with him. Everything he said indicates he was engaged with Declan. Isabella is the opposite. She put him down for a nap. She sent him out to play while she painted. She was detached. Disengaged.”

  “They had different approaches to parenting. If she didn’t say he was a bother or a distraction…”

  “Isabella is OCD. She likes everything done a certain way. A child would just mess everything up.”

  “Didn
’t you tell me she’s the hoarder? She’s the one with the messy studio, and it’s the dad who’s the neat freak?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why would she be upset by a child messing things up? She’s the one who likes a mess.”

  Zachary frowned. He switched mid-meal to chocolate pudding. One of the things he loved about buffets was it was not necessary to eat things in order. He could have dessert first. He could have it halfway through. Whenever he wanted.

  Spencer would have to eat everything in order. Isabella, on the other hand… she was the one who would be able to mix everything up.

  “How does Isabella deal with her OCD?” Kenzie asked. “Is she on medication? In therapy? How does she manage thoughts that intrude in her life?”

  “She’s in therapy. No meds, as far as I know.”

  “And Spencer?”

  “I don’t know which one he’s doing right now, if either. He has a sort of unique approach to things that disrupt his life.”

  “Oh?”

  Zachary told her about how he had moved to Vermont because of the billboard sign ban. So that his life wouldn’t be overrun by having to count signs all day every day.

  Kenzie stared at Zachary. He thought at first that she was done eating and was waiting for him to finish, but she still had food on her plate, forgotten. He looked down at his food, then up at her face.

  “What?”

  “Spencer deals with his OCD by removing the triggers.”

  Zachary nodded. “Right.”

  “He removes his triggers.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Getting information from Molly about the OCD support group where Spencer and Isabella had met had taken some persuasion. She had been reluctant to even talk to him again, let alone part with any information.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be anonymous?” she asked. “It’s one of those doctor-patient privilege things. Or like AA. Everybody only goes by their first names, and they’re not supposed to talk about what goes on in the support group outside the meeting. People don’t want everybody knowing that they have OCD.”

  “Molly, I really need to talk to somebody who knows a little bit more about Isabella’s OCD if I’m going to help,” Zachary coaxed. “I’m not asking for the name of her therapist. I just want to know what meeting she goes to. The one where she and Spencer met. Do they still meet every week?”

  “I don’t know.” Molly went into her little galley kitchen and fussed around, making some tea. “Isabella only goes now and then, and I don’t think Spencer has been in a couple of years. If you want to know more about Isabella’s OCD, you can just ask me. Or ask Isabella herself. We’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know.”

  “I really need an unbiased third party.”

  “You’re not even supposed to be investigating anymore. I told you to mail me your final report. I’m not paying any more.”

  “I’m not charging you any more. I just want to be sure I have all the details right…”

  “Isabella didn’t drown Declan. It was an accident. She didn’t have anything to do with it, other than that she was watching Deck when he wandered off.”

  Or she hadn’t been watching him. Zachary refrained from reminding Molly that if Isabella had actually been watching him, he wouldn’t have wandered off.

  “Maybe it wasn’t Isabella’s fault. I’m willing to consider that.”

  Molly looked unconvinced.

  “I just want to talk to someone who knows the two of them. Outside the family. Someone with more experience in OCD.”

  Molly’s eyes went sideways to Kenzie. Zachary and Kenzie had hoped that having a woman along might soften Molly up a little. He hoped she’d open up and be more cooperative with a woman. That had backfired, with Molly immediately distrustful of the stranger. She had hired Zachary. Not Zachary and Kenzie. Even though they introduced Kenzie as Zachary’s assistant, she obviously didn’t like it.

  “Molly,” Zachary tried again. “I don’t think it’s breaking any confidences to tell us where and when they met with their support group. Surely a lot of people must know those details.”

  “It isn’t exactly a secret,” Molly admitted.

  “Then if you can just give me the information, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  She still dithered, pretending she had to look it up in her notebook. Kenzie looked at Zachary, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. Molly was just stalling. A couple of times she looked at the phone, an older-model landline, and Zachary wondered whether she was going to call Isabella to ask permission or wait until after they were gone and then call to give her a warning.

  Finally, Molly pulled out a scratch pad and wrote out the address and the time of the meeting. She glanced in Kenzie’s direction but handed the note to Zachary.

  “I don’t like this,” she warned, just in case they hadn’t understood that from her previous objections. “I don’t think this is right.”

  “The reason you hired me was to find out the truth,” Zachary said. “And I think I might have found something.”

  Of course, the OCD group wasn’t that day, and they had to wait until the group met again, because a ledger wasn’t kept of the individual members with their contact information. Members could exchange information among themselves, but there was no central register kept. It wasn’t quite anonymous, but they did their best to respect their members’ right to privacy.

  The next couple of days were excruciating. While Zachary had plenty to do, trying to start the process of getting his identification reissued when he didn’t have any identification to prove who he was, it mostly involved phone calls with long hold times. Bowman was a gracious host, but Zachary knew having a house guest was stressful, and he didn’t want Bowman to think that he had to provide entertainment. He just needed a place to sleep and to pick up a few meals until he was able to get back on his feet.

  The night of the OCD support group finally came, and Zachary headed over to the meeting place, the basement of a church. There were signs up stating that the group was nondenominational and not associated with the church that provided the space. Zachary stuck his head into the room, reluctant to go in without an invitation.

  “Don’t be shy,” a voice boomed out behind him. “Go on in. Everyone is welcome.”

  Zachary turned his head to find that the big voice had come from a diminutive, scraggly-blond, thin man who didn’t look a day over twenty.

  “Uh, thanks,” Zachary said. “I don’t know…”

  “Come on,” the young man encouraged. He reached as if to put his arm around Zachary’s shoulders to sweep him into the room, and then jerked back before touching him. “Sorry. Sorry. Come on in. There are cookies!”

  Zachary stepped in through the door and moved toward the snack table to give himself some space.

  “Looks good,” he agreed, looking at the sad little coffee station and plates of store-bought cookies.

  “My name is Winston,” the young man said.

  “Uh, Zachary. Good to meet you.”

  “It doesn’t have to be your own name. Just something that people can call you. There’s a sign-in sheet over there.” He pointed to a clipboard attached to a pen with a string.

  “Thanks.”

  In a few minutes, all the members of the support group had assembled, and they made their way over to the chairs, where introductions were made, and a group leader ran through the usual order of business for the group.

  Zachary introduced himself by his first name only, and glanced around the group, trying to analyze all the faces. Who would have known Spencer? Who would have associated with Isabella? Had they made other friends before they had gotten involved with each other? Or had they immediately been drawn to each other to the exclusion of anyone else? Isabella still went to the group sporadically, though she obviously hadn’t wanted to show up while Zachary was there.

  “I have a friend who used to go to this group. Do any of you know The Happy Artist? He’s married to h
er. He told me about this group, said I should come.”

  They looked at each other for a few seconds, no one saying anything.

  “Spencer?” a man with a bushy mustache asked finally. He had introduced himself as Dave. “Long time since I saw him.”

  Zachary nodded eagerly and looked around at the rest of the group to see a couple of other nods as people remembered Spencer. “Yes, Spencer. He thought the group would help me.”

  Dave’s mouth pursed sourly. “Really. I don’t know how much it ever helped him.”

  “He came here, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he came, but I don’t think he ever really invested in the group. He thought he was better than the rest of us.”

  “That’s not fair,” the redheaded woman called Angie spoke up, shifting uncomfortably and darting quick glances at Zachary. “He never said he thought he was any better.”

  “He didn’t have to. It was obvious from his attitude.”

  “He didn’t share with the group?” Zachary asked.

  Angie sipped her coffee not from one of the foam cups provided at the coffee station, but from a chipped ceramic mug, reminding Zachary of the story of the plate Spencer had disposed of.

  Dave shrugged. “He shared… inconsequential stuff. Fluff. The things that didn’t matter. The work that we’re trying to do here… it can be pretty painful. Gut wrenching. People dig down deep and bare their souls. Then someone like Spencer comes along, pretending that he’s got it all together.”

  Zachary nodded, trying to work through this. “He did seem like he had it all. Married, good job, taking care of his little boy…”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” contributed the woman in a blazer and skirt. Zachary couldn’t remember her name. Something that started with an M? She looked professional and perfectly coifed. Was she referring to herself or to Spencer when she said that? Maybe both.

  “Did you know him?” he asked her.

  “I remember him. He did act like everything was going pretty well for him, but I think he had problems he didn’t want to talk about.”