“I thought that was you.” I hear the shrill voice of Mary Meade. “Looking for recyclables now that you are retired, Gwen?”
I am still bent over and barely aware of her voice as the stars in my eyes clear. Not now, Mary, not now. Pretending to be looking for something, I move further away from her prying eyes.
“Shhh,” I say. I keep low, shielded by the dumpster. Ken is going to wonder why my clothes smell horrible every time I come home. But I’ve got to do something here.
“Here kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty.” I keep ignoring Mary until I can stand up straight, then I emerge from the other side of the dumpster.
“Did you see a black kitten, Mary?” I ask before disappearing behind the other dumper.
I can tell she is dubious of my stated purpose by her drippy reply. “No, I didn’t.”
“I thought I heard a faint mewing. Here kitty, kitty.” I am further away from her when I reach the sidewalk.
“Always a protector of small animals,” she says with a smirk. I am reminded of the time one of my pupils found a robin’s nest with babies that my class nursed to health. Or was it the tiny rabbits?
“Sorry, Mary,” I say, “no time to chat. I’m on my way to the coroner’s office.” How I enjoy getting the last word in with her.
I walk less like the walking dead with each stride as I make my way to Tom Cleary’s office. Dark clouds have rolled in, and I’ll need to get home before it pours. His office is at the other funeral home in town several blocks away. I need this walk to clear my brain.
At least I didn’t puke in front of the officers. I wasn’t expecting to be ambushed. That was the first time a police officer ever threatened me with arrest. I am sure that is what I reacted to. This must be the price for standing up to bullies when you can’t use your fists.
Detective Shafer had given two important facts though: Jake had gunshot residue on his hand, and the gun was close enough to the side of his head to cause other marks besides the bullet’s entry wound. I am less inclined to think of his death as a murder, but the police still don’t have a motive. Am I slow to change my opinion, or is something still nagging at me? What was that about agreeing with me that there was no note?
At least they can’t keep me from seeing the coroner’s report. By doing so, I am choosing to honor my decision to seek closure for the Dawsons and Sharon. Was it my father or my husband who said I am stubborn? Probably both.
“I must charge you for the report, Mrs. Strong. The toxicology report is extra,” Tom tells me.
He is a stoop-shouldered older man with a sallow face and pasty gray hair. I wonder if embalming fluid has seeped into his system over the years. He is widowed and didn’t have any kids in the school system, but I have seen him many times at charity functions. “You can get it from the police as part of their investigation for the cost of photocopies,” he offers.
I could if it was a closed case. “Can you tell me your findings?”
“Why? The boy shot himself.”
“Has anybody given you a motive?” He shakes his head. “How much are the reports?”
“This is highly irregular, Mrs. Strong. We normally make copies for the police. But for the insurance companies and probate lawyers, it is $400 for the full report and $100 for the tox scan.”
“I don’t have $500 to give you, Tom.”
“Then you should get a copy from the police.” He starts to put the report back in the filing cabinet.
“I can’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“They decided to reopen the investigation.”
“They what? When?”
“This morning. After I made a request for the file from Barney Williams last night, and after my daughter made a similar request of the State Police, they decided to reopen it.” I shrug.
“Do they have anything to tell them this wasn’t death by suicide?” he asks.
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“By reopening the investigation, they don’t have to give me copies of anything under Freedom of Information.”
“Is that so?”
“I am sad to say so, Tom. I promised Mabel and Warren—”
“The boy’s parents?”
“Yes.”
We stand in silence. He slowly shuffles over to his desk and looks in his empty blue Yale Med School coffee mug. He takes the file and opens it on the counter. “May I borrow your phone?”
“What?”
“May I borrow your phone? I’d like to make a call upstairs while I fetch another cup of coffee.”
Tom leaves me with my composition notebook and the file for the time it takes to make slow-drip coffee. He took my phone so I can’t take photos of his file.
I hurry through the report. Erin was right. They only tested for alcohol and the usual drugs. No PCP or angel dust, mushrooms, or designer psychedelics. Cause and manner of death are consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot to the left side of the head. They swabbed for nitrates on his left hand, and it came up positive. The slug was sent to the State Police lab. There are no defensive wounds or marks anywhere on his body. There is nothing remarkable in his autopsy.
I hear footsteps on the stairs. I glance at the autopsy photos and start to get a sick feeling in my stomach again. The last photo was taken at the scene. It confirms the position of the body, just as Erin and I imagined it was.
Tom steps back into the room. “Thank you for letting me use your phone, Mrs. Strong. Cell reception is so much better upstairs.”
I close the file and tuck my notebook back into my bag. “Glad I could help.”
We smile as I quickly depart. It is raining, but I see some sun shining through on this case.
My phone rings as I hit the pavement. It is from a number I don’t recognize. I answer. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Strong, this is Candace, Mabel’s oldest. We met last week.”
I duck under an elm tree. Nature’s umbrella. “Yes, I remember. How can I help you?”
“Mom told me you are looking into what happened to Jake.”
“Yes, Sharon told me you are the boys’ bookkeeper. I was hoping to talk to you too.”
“That’s what I am calling about. I have some information that I think you might be interested in.”
“I’m downtown. When can we meet?”
“I work at Emory’s Auto Parts. We can talk during my lunch break.”
I glance at my watch. “Do you want me to grab you a sandwich?”
“No thank you, I brown bagged it today.”
“See you at noon?”
“Yes, that works perfectly.”
I grab a pre-made chicken salad, chips, and a large, sweet tea at the Quickie-Mart. It’s only a block over to Emory’s, and I do a fair job of walking under awnings and dodging raindrops to stay dry.
When I arrive, I am waved into the office by the counter person. Boxes of inventory overstock and returns line two cinderblock walls. An old green metal four drawer desk holds a monitor keyboard. Candace’s lunch rest on deli paper next to a Mountain Dew.
Candace and I hug. It’s natural. I taught all the kids, and Mabel told her I was working for them.
“I only have a half-hour,” she tells me, “especially since I took the last two days off without pay. I can eat while we talk.”
“They don’t have a bereavement policy here?” I almost wish I could take that question back.
“If this were a chain store, yes, but this franchisee is very strict about time off. I used all my vacation time during the summer. I am not getting paid for the last two days.” She shakes her head. “Rules are rules.”
I set out my lunch and my notepad, then fork the salad and grab some chips.
“Did Sharon tell you about the Stillman twins?” she asks.
“A little. What do you know about them? I’d rather hear some stuff twice than assume I know the story.”
“Jake and Brian did a lot of favors for the older folks in town. Get their business, then they’d tell their families. Some jobs never saw an insurance appraiser. Some customers didn’t want to get cancelled or have their rates go up. They did those jobs at cost, and it worked. They became the go-to auto body shop in town. The bulk of the regular paying jobs were insurance claims and deer strikes. The insurance companies are sticklers and make sure they don’t pay a penny more than they have to, and I am really talking about nickels and dimes. The boys did a nice volume, but both were working six and seven days a week. Banging fenders is difficult work.” She takes a bite of her sandwich while I stab at my salad. Yesterday’s chicken is today’s chicken salad, I am reminded as I swallow.
She continues. “Their profit margin is razor thin for most jobs, break-even for some, and then there are the Stillman twins. Young guys acting like bigshots with their fancy trucks. They don’t fool me.”
“Oh?”
“They are doing something illegal. I just don’t know what it is.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Cash. Cash for everything. Cash at the body shop for all the Mustang restores. Cash here at this store. I even checked at the dealerships. Big cash down payments, and they use a casino pre-paid debit card for the monthly payments.”
“Casino pre-paid debit card?”
“If you ever want to launder money, Mrs. Strong, take a wheelbarrow full of cash to the casino, and they will gladly set up an account for you to gamble, but you can also set up withdrawals on the card. It’s untraceable. I could set up an account in Mickey Mouse’s name, and as long as I know how to access it, nobody’s the wiser.”
“That’s incredible,” I say between bites.
“I’m thinking the Mustangs are a way for them to launder money, but I just can’t figure it out.”
“How do Jake and Brian fit into it?”
“Since the twins are doing something funky, I told them to charge more for their labor and the parts. These are ‘restoration’ builds. Jake and Brian were doing specialized work and had to spend more time finding the parts.”
“And?”
“At first, Jake didn’t want to take my advice, and Brian pushed back too, saying they were getting cash. They didn’t have to report the jobs on their taxes.”
“And what did you have to say?”
“I said an IRS auditor would look at all the Mustang parts and wonder what cars the guys were putting them on. I argued that the twins had a huge profit margin, and the guys doing the heavy lifting should get a slice of the pie.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“Brian said they would start paying cash for those parts and that nothing about the cars would go into the books. Jake was okay with that, but he didn’t like dealing with the Stillmans. He would have been happy just playing by the rules.”
“So, what happened?”
“Jake wouldn’t touch the Mustangs. He wouldn’t order parts or do the rebuilds or any of the painting. Told Brian he could keep all the money. When the Stillmans saw the slowdown, they confronted Jake, and he told them they could shove it. He didn’t want their money. Brian smoothed things over by saying he was going to get some Vo-Tech seniors to work with him on the Mustangs over weekends to catch up. Great experience for them, cheap labor for Brian. And the Stillman Mustangs and their dirty cash were splitting up two lifelong friends,” Candace concluded.
“Do you think that Jake knew where the Stillmans were getting their cash?” I ask.
“He said nothing to me. Did he tell Sharon about them?”
“Just a little, but nothing like what you told me today,” I say. “Sharon sensed some unrest with Jake over the twins.”
Candace glances at the clock, then scrunches up her deli paper into a ball and tosses it in the wastepaper basket in the corner. “Tell her that I don’t think that Jake killed himself, and if he did, it wasn’t over her. Those two were in love. They were soulmates, and I don’t say that lightly. My family didn’t know what to think when it happened. We treated her poorly. Please apologize on our behalf.”
At that moment, Mr. Emory pops his head into the room. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Strong. I didn’t know you had company, Candace.” He glances at the clock before ducking back out again.
She shakes her head. “I watched my baby brother get buried about this time two days ago, and he’s worried about me overextending my lunch period.”
“Candace, I will keep asking questions until I get an answer.”
“Thanks, I know you will.”
We get up and hug again. I toss my trash, then walk out to the sidewalk. The rain is getting heavier, and I am not sure where I am going next.
Candace comes out behind me in a rush. “I almost forgot to tell you something that is very important. It’s why I called you in the first place.”
“What’s that?”
“Brian and Jake went to some Small Business Administration meeting years ago on startups, and the presenters suggested that business partners take a life insurance policy out on each other, in case something happens. They’ve been paying those premiums for several years now.”
My stomach flutters. I remember thinking about the young man grasping the front handle of Jake’s casket as I sat next to Sharon in church. “How much were the policies?”
“A million dollars each.”