by Judith Rolfs
He invited the media into the conference room and started speaking immediately. “Our investigative team is hard at work to determine if this death was suicide or murder. We hope to solve this quickly.”
A reporter from the city of Milwaukee paper shouted, “Is murder a common occurrence in this area?”
“Most of our local cases involve drug peddling and con men bilking the elderly. We recently helped put away two men who had posed as electric repairmen to get an eighty-six-year-old woman to pay for bogus repair of electrical wires they claimed had been damaged by lightning.”
“Don’t they need a permit to solicit?”
“Tell them. We have no illusion of totally ridding the area of the likes of them. Con men are tough. Often they’re skilled actors and know how to inspire confidence.”
“Then that could be how this person got entry?” Whitney asked, pushing her suicide theory.
Chief Bolan shrugged. “Don’t know. Fortunately for Cortland City, we don’t see much of what we consider violent crimes.”
He stood before anyone asked more questions and made a rapid exit. Dealing with the media was a necessary pain in the neck on a case like this. But he had to allay some of the local citizens’ anxiety that the suicide or murder of a woman in her own home produced.
The Chief liked having a life apart from his work as a law enforcement officer. Friends called him an egghead for his intellectual side. Reading anything from serial crime stories to classics captivated him, but his favorite was biographies. He admired Winston Churchill, because he always went into the trenches with his troops and the famous Prime Minister of England never gave up. That had become Chief Bolan’s motto for his career.
Crime had disturbed Chief Bolan deeply ever since he was twelve and witnessed a man killed in a 7-11 shoot-out by a thief stealing cigarettes. That day he decided to become a police officer.
Sure he had occasional down times. He got ballistic over the explicit pornography and the Internet recipes for crime and bomb making that made felons experts in criminalese. Such information didn’t make his job easier.
He married a woman who understood his passion for keeping the community safer. To relax, he and his wife watched travel videos and explored vacation spots on the Internet. Carol Bolan worked as a nurse. They had no children and thought nothing of flying to Europe for long weekends.
The Chief also made it a priority to squeeze in time to speak to kids in the schools. His message was always the same: “Make sure you work hard at your studies and you’ll have success. The result of obeying God’s moral laws and the laws of society is a happy, peaceful life. Well worth the effort.” Chief Bolan talked tough and acted cool. The kids loved him.
Blaine’s case, plus the pending suicide investigations, were challenges in what was a fairly routine job. Difficult as the situations were, Chief Bolan had no doubt he was up for them.
He picked up a pencil and outlined his list of suspects. Next to each he jotted the questions he wanted answered. First, Blaine’s ex. The husband’s name always went on top, but he’d be the last of the short list interrogated. The chief liked to build his ring of facts while the primary suspect fretted a bit. That’s what he’d do now—let Blaine’s former husband sweat a few hours.
“Harold!” he yelled. Where was that deputy?
Finally, Harold’s lumbering steps approached.
“Get with it. We have a murder to solve.”
THIRTY-NINE
“It’s great not having the nagging pain in my jaw.” Louise rubbed her chin.
George, who worked next to her, was half-listening.
“Maybe tonight I’ll even visit my neighbor. I heard she’s had a tough time lately. I don’t want anyone saying I’m not friendly.”
He nodded. “Ain’t nobody gonna say that, Louise.”
Louise was back at her job on the line at Motorola, fitting a chip into cell phones while singing the praises of her dentist and oral surgeon to her tall co-worker, George.
Her shift ended, and Louise pulled into her drive a little after 5:00. Two squad cars were parked in front of Blaine’s house. Louise hoped the poor woman wasn’t in trouble with the law. She sure wasn’t going over there now.
Louise tried to stifle her curiosity and not keep staring out her picture window by straightening up her living room. She looked out again at 5:30. One police car was still there. None of your business, Louise. She lumbered into her bedroom to collect a load of laundry.
At six p.m. Louise turned on her kitchen TV, ready to start dinner. She opened the fridge and peered in. What could she eat with her still tender left jaw? The head of iceberg lettuce had sick-looking leaves on the outside, but maybe she could salvage some. She pulled it and a soon-to-be hopeless tomato from her crisper bin. A salad with greens chopped very fine would be tasty and healthy.
Louise stopped. Was that her street she heard named on TV in the news blip? The volume was too low to be sure. She dried her hands, reaching over to turn the TV up as the newscaster reported, “Murder in Cortland City. Late yesterday afternoon a woman identified as Blaine Cartier was murdered at her condo in the Cedrick area. The cause of death, a bullet wound to the head.”
Louise’s dishtowel slipped out of her hands to the floor. She covered her heart, beating at twice its normal speed, with her right hand.
“The police are still investigating. At this time no one has been charged. Anyone with information is asked to contact the police.”
Louise hurried into the hall, opened her front door six inches, and looked out. Two other unmarked cars pulled up. A young woman stepped out of the first one and hooked a black briefcase over her arm. She flashed something at the policeman outside. A man with a black camera bag hopped out of the Cherokee Jeep and hurried behind the dark-haired woman.
Louise thought back to yesterday and the lady she saw leaving Blaine Cartier’s in the silver gray car. Had that woman come forward? Should I check? Surely the person couldn’t have been involved, but maybe she knew something that could help the police.
How could a killer be this close to my home? Louise shivered. Was it a man going through the neighborhood preying on single women? She fervently hoped the woman across the street hadn’t been raped. What a terrible thought.
Saying nothing is best, right? God, I don’t know what I should do. You know how nervous I get around police. I’m depending on You to help me not drink.
Louise had lived much of her life in fear of being pulled over by a cop. After two DUIs several years back during her drinking days, she had a permanent aversion to anyone in a blue uniform. She didn’t want to come face to face with one now. Still she chided herself—you should tell what you saw to an officer.
“No.” She said the word aloud, tapping her foot. What good would it do?
She plunked down at the table. The room whirled before her eyes. She dropped her head into her hands. Feeling stress building, she made her decision. She needed a drink. “I really do,” she whispered.
It would be okay just this time under the circumstances—only one.
Louise marched over to the opposite wall and pulled a bottle of vodka from behind the refrigerator—the only one in the house, the one she couldn’t bear to part with in case she ever needed it. Like now.
FORTY
Louise prayed one more time. God, you’ve helped me so far with my drinking problem. I’m grateful. But this is too hard.
She stared at the TV. A stretcher was being rolled down the sidewalk across the street. That could have been me.
She uncorked the bottle and lifted it to her lips. Her mama nearly died from a heart attack when Louise was thirteen. They carried her out too. Louise lowered the bottle and read the label, “Smirnoff.” No need to read it. She knew what it said by heart.
The vodka odor both sickened and attracted her. She lifted the bottle again.
Her eye caught the magnet on her refrigerator door, “With God nothing is impossible.”
Louise s
tared at it for several minutes then stumbled to the kitchen sink before she could change her mind. She flipped the bottle over and poured the contents out. Then she sprayed the sink with water, poured soap into the bottle, and washed it out before she threw it away.
Trembling, Louise marched toward her front door then came back, grabbed her coat from the closet, and slipped out.
She paused on her front stoop. What should she do now?
* * *
Whitney Barnes stomped away from Blaine’s house, briefcase squeezed under her arm. Her low heels slapped the concrete walk noisily, accenting her fury. Another senseless death of a poor woman whose life had been filled with tragedy. God, why didn’t you protect her?
She knew the answer but didn’t like it. God gave everyone free will. Some people chose evil. Perfection existed only in heaven.
Whitney slowed her pace and looked around before getting into her car. Her shoulders softened.
Kitty-corner across the street, a middle-aged woman in a gray flannel coat stood on her doorstep watching her. Whitney had been told the police questioned the neighbors. This woman hugged her arms and appeared a bit bewildered. Had she just arrived home?
Whitney closed her car door, crossed over, and put on her warmest smile so as not to upset the woman. “Hello.” She called out as soon she reached speaking distance. “I’m Whitney Barnes from the Courier. Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re?”
“My name is Louise Aherns.”
“Did you know the woman across the street who was murdered?”
Louise nodded. “Yes, I mean, no I never met her. I just heard the news.”
They were face to face now. Shock was written over the woman’s features.
Louise wrung her hands. “I work, but I was home yesterday afternoon and last night. I never heard a shot. I may have napped right through it.”
“There may have been a silencer on the gun. I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind?”
Louise eyed Whitney warily. “Are you with the police?”
“No. I’m a journalist covering this story for The Cortland Courier city paper. It’s cold out here. May I come in for a minute?”
Louise turned as if in a stupor and held the door open. The photographer for the Courier crossed the street in response to Whitney’s wave, and popped his flash.
“No pictures,” Louise yelled, stiffening. “Why did he take my picture? On second thought, you better not come in.”
Whitney hastened to persuade her. “It’s all right. We don’t need any more pictures.” She shook her head at the photographer and gestured for him to leave.
Whitney entered behind Louise into the kitchen. “Tell me, please, if you noticed anything unusual happening across the street yesterday?”
“I don’t know what’s usual. Like I told you, I work. I’m not usually around until after five. Yesterday, I had a dental problem—a root canal. I was sleeping off the gas. When I happened to look out the window, I saw a friend at Mrs. Cartier’s. I mean, I figured she knew her, and frankly, I was glad someone was visiting her because I’ve never gotten over. I didn’t know Mrs. Cartier. I’m sorry for her, though. I heard about her daughter and all and figured she must be grieving.”
“Yes, a tragedy. What time was it when you saw the woman?”
“I couldn’t say for sure. Like I said, I’d been sleeping off my anesthetic. Maybe about this time.”
“Can you describe this person, please?” Whitney started writing.
“I never saw her up close. I can tell you one thing. She walked nice.”
“Nice? What do you mean?”
“You know—not drooping her shoulders down the sidewalk. Classy, like she worked in an office, not a factory, held her head high.” Louise’s face lit up. “Maybe she’ll know something. I bet the police already found her and asked.”
“Right. Could you describe her clothing?”
“A coat, something dark—maybe navy—low heels. She wasn’t tall, kind of average, although it’d be hard to say for sure from the distance.”
Whitney bit her lip to stifle frustration. Louise had given a totally common description of almost anyone. She desperately wanted information that would lead to Blaine’s murderer.
Whitney took Blaine’s death personally. Their lives had touched briefly but with a strong spark. She recalled Blaine’s excitement when she’d selected her for the freelance writer job. Blaine’s voice had resonated with confidence when Whitney showed enthusiasm for her writing. Her killer must be captured.
Louise finished her wandering description. “I might recognize the design of the coat, I’m not sure.”
“Was there anything at all unique about this person?”
“No, even the car was pretty ordinary—a silver BMW. They’re everywhere these days, except my garage.” Louise forced a weak laugh.
Whitney gripped her pen tighter. “You’re sure it was a BMW?”
A picture of Sarah’s BMW flashed in Whitney’s brain. The counselor appeared to be a deeply spiritual woman. Whitney didn’t want to think she could be involved in Blaine’s death. Had she made a house visit?
Louise drew herself up to her full five foot four height. “I know my cars. My dad was a mechanic.”
“Sorry, just checking because you couldn’t describe the woman very well.”
Louise sat up straighter. “I didn’t see her good. She was turned from me.”
Whitney breathed a silent, Thank you, Lord. This BMW could be a good lead.
“That you recognized the make of the car will be very helpful.” Whitney didn’t want to annoy Louise. If she became tense, it would be harder for her to recall details. “Is there anything else?”
Louise looked up at the sky before she answered. “I don’t think so.”
“You’ve been a big help. Louise, you should give the police this information also.”
“No way. That’s why I told you. You tell the police for me. I’d rather not get involved. Policemen make me nervous.”
“I’ll pass the information on, but they’ll probably want to talk to you also.” Whitney spoke gently. “You’re an important witness. It’s the right thing to do. The police appreciate law-abiding citizens. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t know...” Louise’s hands started to shake.
“I’ll stay with you until they’ve talked to you.” Whitney had to get back soon to make deadline, but what was another thirty minutes? She couldn’t be sure Louise would follow through without her encouragement.
While the policeman interviewed Louise in her kitchen, Whitney ducked into the living room and contacted Ellie on her cell.
“Did you hear about Blaine Cartier?”
“Yes, it’s terrible. What’s going on, Whitney? Do you think the killer is the same person who shot my mom?”
“That’s what I want to know. I have to go back to the paper now and get my story published.”
“Can I help?”
“The BMW seen in front of Blaine’s home may be a link. We need a list of people in this area who drive a silver one. The owner may have had some connection with the deaths of Blaine, Jillian, or your Mom. It’s a clue to Blaine’s murderer we can check on our own. Can you get started on it?”
“You bet. You need the names of everybody in the county?”
“Yes. It’s a long shot, but it’s all we have to go on. I expect the police will check with the Department of Motor Vehicles, but that information won’t be available to us. We’ll have to be more creative.”
“I can check car dealerships then gas stations. I’ve got a buddy who works at the local Super America. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Good girl. I have to run.”
* * *
Across town Lily stood in her living room several seconds after the evening news broadcast ended and a Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn movie began.
The ten o’clock news report jolted her. It must have
been a slow night for national news. Murder in Cortland City became a big event.
Who would ever have expected the information about the BMW to be blasted across the country? What was this Louise woman doing home? Lily’s meticulous research had indicated everyone on Blaine’s block would be at work during the time she was there.
She waltzed into her bedroom, opened the closet door, and pulled a navy coat off its hanger. She returned to the living room and switched off the TV. There was a chill in the air. A fire would be nice. She started a Dura flame log and threw the coat on top.
Lily sat a long time watching it burn to ashes.
This was getting more complicated than she’d originally intended. It might be necessary to kill again to protect herself. She sighed deeply.
A phrase ran through her mind. Life is what you make it. She shook her head.
Murder was an octopus with many tentacles.
FORTY-ONE
Dr. Sarah struggled to lift the lower sash of her office window. A blast of fresh, wet air splayed on her face, forcing her to smile despite the grayness outside. Unfortunately, it did nothing to help the throbbing at the back of her head. Her office building was being updated, and the nauseating smell of varnish lingered in the air despite the swirling air conditioning fan.
Rather than race through an early bird dinner at a restaurant, she’d chosen to eat in the lounge of her four-room office suite. She kept strawberry yogurt, Golden Delicious apples, and nuts in the small corner refrigerator.
The small TV and DVD/VCR set against the far wall were used when she required clients to view a DVD on marriage communication or parenting skills. Settling onto a tweed-covered chair, Sarah clicked on Fox to get the day’s news.
Her custom was to catch up on current events early every evening. In the morning she preferred silence to pray for her family and for the clients she’d be seeing.
Sarah dipped her spoon into the creamy strawberry yogurt. The scene switched to a male reporter in a flapping trench coat standing in front of a condo building. The reporter announced, “This is the location where Blaine Cartier was shot to death presumably last evening around five. Suicide has been ruled out.”