TWELVE

 

As I crossed Rosalie’s backyard on my way home, my phone rang. The display indicated the call was from the hospital. Before answering, I inhaled a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever news I’d receive. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Pollack?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Pavlochek at Overlook Hospital.”

Dr. Pavlochek was the neurosurgeon on call when Lucille suffered a minor stroke last year. Tests had discovered a small brain tumor, which had required surgery but when biopsied afterwards, proved benign. “Is Lucille conscious?” I asked.

“Conscious and feisty as ever. All her tests came back negative. She’s free to leave.”

“For home or rehab?”

“Rehab isn’t indicated.”

“Really?” Not that I had hoped Lucille’s injuries were more severe, but the last thing I needed was dealing with a demanding semi-invalid during a major home renovation, not to mention a killer on the loose. Lucille was enough of a challenge when free from wounds or illness. “Are you sure she wouldn’t be better off in rehab for a few days?”

“Medicare won’t cover it,” said the doctor. “Aside from the gash on her head, which required several stitches, and a few bruised ribs, her injuries are relatively minor. She’s already up, walking around, and demanding we release her. Just don’t let her attempt anything strenuous for a few days.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I said. Except for carrying around her dog, Lucille had never lifted a finger to do anything since moving in with me. However, she’d even given up stooping to scoop the former Devil Dog into her arms or onto her lap ever since he’d made it clear he preferred Nick over his rightful owner.

“I can pick her up in half an hour,” I said, then thanked the doctor before disconnecting the call.

“I guess sometimes it pays to have a thick skull,” said Zack after I informed him about Lucille. Then he added, “I’ll go to the hospital with you. If she’s in one of her moods, she might be a handful.”

“Is she ever not in one of her moods?” Still, I appreciated the offer. I graciously and gratefully accepted, giving him a kiss because handful was my mother-in-law’s middle name.

When we arrived at the hospital, we were surprised to find her sitting in a wheelchair parked under the portico at the entrance. A blanket was draped across her lap and tucked under her legs. She clung to a second blanket wrapped like a shawl around her shoulders. Behind her, a frowning orderly held fast to the wheelchair handles.

My jaw dropped open. “Why would the hospital make her wait outside in this weather?” Another cold front had moved in overnight, and the addition of wind gusts made the day feel more like November than late April.

“My guess?” said Zack. “She insisted.” He pulled up in front of her.

I opened the passenger door and jumped out of the car. “Lucille, why didn’t you wait inside? I brought you a change of clothes and your coat.”

She ignored my question, and as I opened the back passenger door, instead demanded, “What took you so long, Anastasia? I’ve been waiting out here for hours.”

I stared in shock at the orderly. “Hours? Dr. Pavlochek called me thirty minutes ago.”

The orderly checked his watch. “We’ve been standing out here exactly three minutes, ma’am.” His frown grew into a scowl as he tucked his chin and glared at the top of Lucille’s head. “And only because the patient insisted. I tried to keep her in the lobby until you arrived, but she demanded I wheel her outside.”

“Why couldn’t she wait in her room?”

The orderly raised his head, locked eyes with me, and seethed, “Because she refused.”

He undid the wheelchair brake, rolled her closer to the back passenger door, and muttered under his breath, “I don’t get paid nearly enough to put up with patients like her.”

“I’m sorry,” I mouthed as Zack exited the Jetta and grabbed Lucille’s cane from the trunk.

The orderly shrugged. “Not your fault. We all have our burdens to bear.”

Zack assisted the orderly in getting Lucille into the car. Even then, both men struggled. As much as Lucille wanted to put distance between herself and the hospital, she certainly wasn’t cooperating with the transition from wheelchair to backseat.

When Zack and the orderly finally got her settled and buckled in, I closed the door and thanked the orderly. “I don’t envy you,” he said.

Under the circumstances, I couldn’t blame the man for his unprofessional comments. Orderlies didn’t have the easiest of jobs, even without having to deal with the likes of Lucille Pollack, a straw that would break the strongest camel’s back. I offered him a smile of commiseration and said, “I don’t envy me, either.”

Most people with bruised ribs would find it hard to keep up a nonstop diatribe. Not Lucille. She started haranguing me the moment we pulled away from the hospital entrance. I closed my eyes, trying to tune her out, but attaining my inner Zen proved futile. Even Buddha would find my mother-in-law a near-impossible challenge.

Making matters worse, our timing sucked. Schools had let out for the day. When we weren’t stopped by crossing guards directing traffic at schools or allowing pedestrians to cross streets, we were stuck behind school buses dropping off kids. The trip back to Westfield took nearly twice as long as the drive to the hospital. And through it all, Lucille’s incessant complaints sucked the air from the car.

As we sat in traffic, Zack removed one hand from the steering wheel and settled it on my thigh. “Deep breaths,” he whispered.

~*~

When we finally arrived home, we were greeted with hammering, drilling, friendly chatter, and rock music coming from the kitchen. Before we’d had a chance to remove and hang up our coats, Lucille added the noise level to her litany of complaints. “I need my rest,” she said. “Tell those men to come back another day.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Zack.

“How dare you!” She raised her cane at him. “This is my son’s house, not yours.”

“No, Lucille, this is my house,” I said, stepping between the two of them. “Mine and Alex’s and Nick’s and Zack’s. Karl is dead. You’re here as my guest. If you don’t like the accommodations, you’re more than welcome to find another place to live.”

“I can offer you a pair of noise-cancelling headphones,” said Zack, his voice much calmer than mine. When Lucille answered with a dagger-eyed glare, he added, “Or arrange for you to stay at Sunnyside until the renovation is finished.”

“You’re not locking me up in that hellhole again,” she said. “They tried to kill me. I’ll have you arrested for elder abuse.”

No one had tried to kill my mother-in-law during her stay at one of the most upscale rehab and senior living facilities in the state. Someone had tried to kill me. However, in typical Lucille fashion, she’d usurped the narrative and made the story her own.

“Your choice,” said Zack, helping me out of my coat before removing his own. He strode down the hall to the coat closet. When he returned moments later, he said, “Let me know if you want those headphones, Lucille.” Then he headed toward the kitchen.

“That man is a charlatan,” my mother-in-law said, sneering at Zack’s back. “You’re too stupid to realize he’s only interested in you as a way to get his hands on what you inherited from my son.”

I laughed. “That man is one of the highest paid photojournalists in the world. He doesn’t need my non-existent inheritance.”

“Believe what you want to believe,” she said. “I know the truth. You’ll be sorry you ever took up with him and sullied my son’s good name.”

Karl had sullied his own good name when he took up with Lady Luck, a fact Lucille adamantly deemed fiction. I bit my tongue and walked away. Her injuries notwithstanding, if Lucille had sufficient lung capacity to verbally abuse us, she had the strength to shuffle herself off down the hall to her bedroom.

Nick arrived home while Zack and I stood admiring the progress Jesse and his crew had made so far in the kitchen. After dropping his bookbag in the mudroom and gracing me with a perfunctory peck on the cheek, he asked, “Computers still down at work?”

“As far as I know. I haven’t heard otherwise. No after-school practice today?”

“Coach has the flu.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“He and Sophie stayed to work on something in the library. Did anyone walk Leonard?”

“Not yet. Zack and I only returned a few minutes ago from picking up your grandmother at the hospital.”

“Really? She sure didn’t look okay last night.”

“I wouldn’t call her okay, but she isn’t in bad enough shape to take up a hospital bed.”

“Is she refusing to go to Sunnyside again?”

“According to the doctor, her injuries aren’t severe enough to warrant rehab.”

He scowled. “Too bad.”

I shot him a Mom Look. “Really, Nick?”

His cheeks grew red. “I only mean it would be nice to have a break from her. She’s not the easiest person to be around.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He smirked. “Really, Mom?”

“Touché, Nick.”

“I’m going to walk Leonard, then toss the Frisbee around to give him some exercise.”

“Isn’t it too cold and windy?”

“We won’t stay out long.”

I watched from the kitchen window as Nick bounded up the stairs to the apartment, then made his way back down with Leonard. But something was wrong. Barking and growling menacingly, Leonard nearly dragged Nick down the staircase. Nick struggled to hold onto the railing and keep from losing his footing. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, Leonard refused Nick’s efforts to steer him toward the driveway. Instead, Leonard yanked Nick toward the backyard.

“What’s going on with Leonard?” asked Zack, breaking off his conversation with Jesse and coming up behind me.

“I’m not sure, but something has him riled.”

Leonard broke free from Nick and raced along the side of the garage. Nick chased after him. “Leonard, stop!”

The dog darted behind the garage. Nick followed, then suddenly screamed, Mom! Zack! Come quick!”

But we were already on our way, not even bothering to grab our coats.

We found Leonard digging through a fresh mound of dirt where a narrow strip of groundcover had separated my garage from Rosalie’s garage. Nick stared in horror at what Leonard had uncovered.

Zack grabbed Leonard’s collar and yanked the dog away. Leonard snarled in protest. I grabbed the leash and handed it to Nick. “Get him out of here.”

“Where should I take him?”

“Go for a walk to calm him down. If that doesn’t work, lock him in the basement.”

Nick managed to drag the dog out of the backyard. A moment later, the barking subsided.

I turned back to find Zack already on his phone speaking with the 911 dispatcher. “Yes, a body,” he said. “Buried behind the garage.”

~*~

I ran into the house to grab our coats while Zack stood guard over Leonard’s find. As soon as I returned, we began to hear sirens, growing louder as they neared us. Within minutes, law enforcement vehicles, both marked and unmarked, their lights flashing, had arrived. While uniformed officers worked to cordon off the crime scene, others held back a gathering gaggle of curious neighbors.

After Agent Ledbetter’s admonition about handling the stolen jewelry, except for my mad dash coat retrieval, Zack and I remained frozen in place. We were too afraid to disturb any possible evidence that might lurk among the freshly emerging blades of grass and residual winter muck.

Detective Spader arrived and shook his head as he lumbered toward us. Apparently, he was less concerned about disturbing the crabgrass. “Another body, Mrs. Pollack?”

“Not funny, Detective.”

“On some days, macabre humor is the only way to get through this job.” He removed his notepad and a pencil from his coat pocket and flipped to a blank page. “How’d you discover the body this time?”

“I didn’t. Leonard did.”

He squinted at me for a moment before recognition dawned. “Oh, the dog.”

I explained how Leonard had pulled away from Nick and raced behind the garage. “Nick yelled for us when Leonard uncovered a foot.”

Spader looked past us to where crime scene techs were already carefully removing dirt from the body. “Was that pile of dirt there previously?”

“No,” said Zack. “The ground was flat, planted with pachysandra to keep down the weeds.”

Jesse and his crew had stopped work and gathered on the patio. A uniformed officer prevented them from moving closer. “What’s going on?” he called to us.

“Say nothing for now,” said Detective Spader. “We’re going to have to question him and his crew.”

“Surely, you don’t think they’re responsible?” I asked.

“No, but one of them may have seen or heard something. Anyone else in the house? The boys?”

“Nick is walking Leonard,” I said. “Alex is still at school.”

“Lucille,” said Zack.

Spader paused from scrawling something on his notepad and glanced up. “She’s out of the hospital already?”

I nodded.

“Do you think this is somehow connected to the attack on her?” ask Zack.

Spader answered with a question of his own. “Don’t you? Seems awfully coincidental otherwise.”

“But how do you connect the dots?” I asked. “Why would Lucille’s attacker leave her tied up in the closet but risk getting caught by taking the time to bury a body behind the garage?”

“Hopefully, we’ll connect some of those dots when we identify the victim,” said Spader.

Zack had pulled out his phone. “What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Last night I stopped watching the security feed once we saw the intruder had used a key to enter the house. I never checked any of the other cameras around the house.”

“Better late than never,” said Spader. “Now would be a good time to take a look because at least one other person was on your property last night.”

Zack glanced up from his phone. He wasn’t happy, but I could tell his grim expression had little to do with Spader’s comment. Zack was annoyed with himself.

“Don’t kick yourself,” I said. “It was a crazy night. Besides, didn’t the crime scene unit check the property last night? Why didn’t they see a freshly dug grave between the garages?”

“Valid point,” said Zack. We both stared at Spader.

“I have no answer for that,” he said. “If they’d done a thorough search of the property, they should have noticed this.” He called over one of the officers. “Eastman, who searched the property last night?”

“I did, sir, along with Officer Temple.”

“Did you check behind the garage?”

“Of course, sir.”

“You didn’t see a fresh mound of dirt?”

“We did, sir.”

Spader’s voice grew threatening. “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

Officer Eastman stared at his superior. “Should we have, sir? We were in search of a perp possibly hiding on the property, not a dead body.”

“And a mound the size of a grave didn’t seem odd to you?”

Eastman shrugged. “Not really, sir.”

Spader gritted his teeth. “And why is that?”

“It’s spring, sir. Everyone is getting topsoil deliveries to freshen up their planting beds.”

Spader sighed. “Thank you, Officer Eastman. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.” With relief written across his face, he scurried back to his position.

After he left, Spader said, “Under the circumstances, I suppose I might have jumped to the same conclusion.”

“Except that this is the second dead body found on our property in less than a week,” I said.

“There is that,” said Spader. “On second thought, maybe I wouldn’t have jumped to the same conclusion as Officer Eastman.”

“I would hope not, Detective.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mrs. Pollack.”

Zack had remained fixated on his iPhone screen, the worry line between his eyebrows growing deeper as the security video continued to play. I decided not to interrupt him. Zack was one of the only men I knew capable of multitasking. I was certain he’d listened with at least one ear to every word of the conversation between Spader and his officer.

At that moment, one of the crime scene techs called to Spader. He told us to wait as he walked behind the garage. He returned shortly, a grim expression covering his face. “You no longer need to worry about Cormac Murphy, Mrs. Pollack. Someone took care of that problem for you.”

My head spun. “If Murphy had Doyle killed, who killed Murphy?”

“That’s what our investigation will reveal.”

“Hopefully,” I said.

“Hopefully,” echoed Spader.

“Was he killed here?” asked Zack.

“Looks that way.”

“How can you tell,” I asked.

“His head was bashed in. The techs found a bloody brick buried with him. There’s a brick missing from your flowerbed edging along the patio.”

“I get that Murphy had plenty of enemies,” I said, “and any number of them might have killed him. But why here? Murphy left Doyle’s body in an SUV on my driveway to send us a message. What message is this killer sending? And now that Murphy is dead, can we be sure he was responsible for Doyle’s murder? We have nothing to do with any turf wars in Boston. I haven’t even been to Boston in more than a decade.”

“The bigger question,” said Zack, “is why were Murphy and one of his goons here last night?”

He showed us the video on his phone. “After Doyle’s murder,” he continued, “I installed another surveillance camera, one that would capture more of the street in front of the house.”

Zack tapped the play button, and Spader and I watched as an SUV pulled into the driveway and parked. Two men exited the vehicle. Although he kept his head down, I recognized Murphy by his old-fashioned fedora and the cigar stub jutting from the corner of his mouth. The driver pulled a shovel from the back of the SUV, and the two men proceeded down the driveway to the back of the house and garage.

“I don’t suppose you have video from behind the garage,” said Spader.

“Afraid not,” said Zack, “but the camera at the back door captured this.” He brought up a second video that showed the man who had entered the house earlier leaving through the back door, grabbing a brick from the flowerbed around the patio, and stealthily making his way toward the back of the garage.