| |
“Mikey said you lived alone!” Randal’s words stuck in my brain like an ear worm the next morning. After Eddy went off to his interview in high spirits, I pondered the statement through the morning while I tidied up. Satisfied everything was where it was before the prior night’s fiasco, I got ready for the day.
I called Sheriff Don after lunch.
“I’ll meet you at Colossal Health,” he agreed. After that, I made a few more calls.
I raced to the hospital in my dusty Ford wagon, Myra riding shotgun, clinging to the shoulder strap of the seat belt, her right foot acting as an imaginary brake.
“Kiddo, where’d you learn to drive like this?” Wayne asked from the back seat, as I made a sharp right and floored the accelerator. He gripped the edges of the seat, fighting the momentum to slide from side to side.
“Television!” I retorted, and made a left turn into the parking lot of Colossal Health Hospitals.
“It’s him,” I said, sharply inhaling. Speechless, we watched as Sheriff Don marched Michael Preston Ness to the waiting police car, all lights flashing.
The big man was cuffed and stumbled as the sheriff herded him to the car. His round face was easily twice as red as the day he and Janice from HR had escorted me out of the building on my last day of work. It was satisfying to see him get his just desserts.
News trucks from all the twin cities television stations, along with the local cable channel, recorded his walk of shame. My calls as a private citizen to news stations reporting “breaking news” had paid off handsomely. I allowed myself a pat on the back. I was still the best marketing facilitator out there.
I’m sure “Mikey” had paid Mr. Randal a nice sum for breaking into my place after I’d witnessed Randal and Paul Seever disposing of the bodies.
“So, what was Mikey’s deal in all of this?” Wayne asked, while we sat and watched, entranced by the unfolding scene.
“He got a kickback from Mr. Randal every time he steered someone to his funeral home for burial. Charity cases were best, because there were fewer people paying attention,” Myra said. She added with a smile, “It doesn’t hurt to have a brother who’s the county’s police chief.”
“But,” I said, “Mikey got greedy. He decided they could make more money if they did one voucher, retrieved the body from the casket, and used the body again to obtain another voucher. That way, Randal got two funeral vouchers, and Mikey got double kickbacks. These poor people have no one to advocate for them so the plan was simple.”
“It took the pressure off Mikey to wait for another body, and determine who was indigent and unknown and who wasn’t. No one caught on. One accounting system didn’t talk to the other, so using the same name wasn’t a problem. They learned it was a mistake to use someone with known relatives twice in the county system—Jimmy’s relatives howled when they were notified of another burial. Most of the notifications came back ‘addressee unknown.’ It was a wonder his relatives were ever found.”
“I can imagine their confusion, kiddo,” Wayne said, grimacing.
“Not to mention the fraud to the taxpayers,” Myra added.
“The hospital told Jimmy’s mother and sister it was a computer glitch. They told them they didn’t need to pay anything for his burial or service. That satisfied them until his body showed up in my attic.”
“So, what was Paul’s motive for doing all of this—was it money, too?” Myra speculated, asking, “Are they arresting him?”
“Sheriff Don said he would send a team to arrest Paul at his mother’s place, as we speak,” I said. “I wanted to see Michael Preston Ness’ arrest go down. It’s personal.”
“I hear you,” Myra said, giving a nod and sidewise glance.
“Ditto,” Wayne agreed, giving a thumbs up.
“Paul’s motive was something more than money. He was a different kind of bird. He wanted the free and moneyed lifestyle he had with Ariel, along with her family’s prestige.”
“How high can we fly?” Wayne said, with a laugh and nod.
“Yep,” I replied, remembering the scene in Ariel’s bathroom the night she died. The bottle I’d presumed was shampoo, resembled the bottles containing embalming fluid in the supply closet of the mortuary. Paul had access to the chemical that was used in “wet” marijuana.
“Paul came back for the bottle of formaldehyde after Ariel’s death,” I said, adding, “Marijuana and embalming liquid would show up in the bloodwork if they were celebrating.”
“We haven’t heard the results from the autopsy, have we?” Myra asked. “I’ll need to talk to my brother.”
Wayne and I groaned aloud when Myra mentioned her brother. Still, it didn’t hurt that she knew someone higher in the pecking order.
I left Myra at her home. She got out of my car, stretching, saying she would call with any updates from her brother. Wayne took her place in the passenger’s side. I drove home, satisfied with the day’s events. Michael Preston Ness had gotten his due. Even better, everyone at the hospital had seen him led from his office in handcuffs to the police cruiser. It would top every local news station’s evening newscast.
I stopped in the driveway and let Wayne out. He eased his lanky legs out the car, and I headed to the garage to park.
Mrs. Gilman came out wearing a yellow hoodie and sweat pants, carrying an envelope to post. I closed my garage door and met up with Wayne and Mrs. Gilman on the sidewalk.
“Yo, Gillie,” Wayne greeted her, his voice crooning.
“Wayne,” she gushed, her face lit up.
“We still on for the movie?” he asked, with a broad smile.
“Yes, Wayne, that will be lovely. Nice to see you, Katelyn.” Mrs. Gilman nodded towards me and continued to the postal box.
“Bye, kiddo,” Wayne said, and winked, joining her, “Gillie and I are going to grab something to eat, and catch the double feature at the drive-in.” The town’s one surviving drive-in theatre had started its Friday night fare of double features.
“Have fun, you two.” It was spring and love was in the air.
Mrs. Gilman dropped her letter at the mail box. Wayne draped his arm around her shoulder as they strolled to his vehicle. He threw open the passenger’s side and held her hand as she stepped up to the van.
I let myself in, thinking about love, Eddy, and missing my beloved Jake. Boots rose from his roost, meowing. I spotted a note from Eddy scrawled on a piece of notepaper left on the kitchen table, “Going out, don’t wait up.”
“It’s just us tonight, Boots.” Stroking the cat, I fed him a can of tuna and ordered up my favorite pizza from the local delivery joint. “We’re going to celebrate.”
I was finishing my third piece of pizza when Myra called.
“My brother said the medical examiner confirmed Ariel was strangled. The pattern on the chain the men found in the drain matched the indentations in Ariel’s neck,” her voice rose in excitement as she explained.
“Ugh,” I said, groaning.
“Whoever strangled Ariel with the necklace, broke the chain, and dropped it! You said she always wore a silver cross?”
“She did.” It was hard to miss.
“Whoever has the cross is the murderer! My brother said they were going to search Paul Seever’s mother’s house and Ariel’s car. According to one of your neighbors, Mrs. Gilman, she saw Paul leave Ariel’s townhouse with a paper bag the night of the murder. She said it appeared suspicious.”
“Call if you hear anything else,” I said, and disconnected. My extrasensory perception kicked in. What if the bottle wasn’t all Paul came back for? Maybe, he searched for Ariel’s chain? He’d taken a couple of minutes and couldn’t linger with neighbors milling around. Desperate, he may have taken the bottle because it was obvious, and left without finding the chain.
Following my gut, I slipped on a jacket, tucked my cellphone in my pocket, and grabbed a plastic baggie and a flashlight from the kitchen. Outside, all was quiet in the driveway as I trotted to the garages.
The parking lot lights illuminated the garage doors. I grabbed the handle to Ariel’s stall and tugged. It wouldn’t budge. I tried the side garage door. I twisted the knob and the door opened with the sound of a high-pitched creak. I clicked on the flashlight to view an empty stall. Ariel’s luxury car had been towed. Had it been repossessed? Did Ariel’s family have the Jag? Who got Ariel’s possessions seemed a minor detail in the chaos of her death.
I shut the door and aimed the flashlight into the corners of the building. In the solitude, I felt my heart pounding. I stilled myself, listening to my sixth sense as I trained the light into crevasses. I paced the length and the width of the stall. A spot of glitter made me halt as I focused the light up and down the open studs of the structure. I sucked in my breath.
It was there. Peeking out, was a tiny gleam of silver. It was at the top of a stud, front and center of the garage. I looked around. How could I reach the top? There was no step ladder.
Gripping the flashlight, I extended my arm as far as it could go, and jumped at the cross. Maybe, I could knock it off the ledge. No dice. It sat, mocking me. Desperately, I inspected the stall. It was at that moment; I spied a one-by-six length of wood propped in a corner of the garage. The wood was likely left over from Wayne’s shelving project for Ariel.
I positioned my flashlight on the floor, trained on the silver object, and went for the wood. Hoisting the piece by one end, I aimed. It was shorter by about two feet than what was needed to reach the cross. I lifted my arms taking a swipe at the silver piece, and missed it. The tip of silver sat, scornful of my aim. I took another jab at the shiny object; it stirred an inch. Grunting at the weight of the wood, I extended my arms again, jumping, putting my weight into another thrust.
The silver piece spun around and flew off the edge, bouncing off a wall stud. Awesome. It landed at the side of the garage. Grabbing the flashlight, I went to the silver cross. Taking the plastic baggie from my pocket, I bent to scoop up the crucifix gleaming back at me.
Ariel’s garage door snapped open. A car’s headlights blinded me as the driver revved the engine. Swiftly bagging the cross and stuffing the baggie in my pants pocket, I faced the car. Shielding my eyes, I saw Paul Seever behind the driver’s seat of Ariel’s Jaguar, his face twisting in rage.
I dashed to one side of the garage; the car narrowly missed me. It squealed to a stop. Seever threw the car into park, flinging open the driver’s door, blocking my exit from the garage stall.
More adrenalin kicked in and I scrambled to the side garage door. I breezed out, my breath coming in jagged gasps. I ran to the patio door of my townhouse and kept running, past my patio, past Mrs. Gilman’s, to Ariel’s patio door.
Miraculously, it was open. I said a prayer, thanking God or whoever was in charge of open doors, and slipped in. Slamming the slider, I ran to Ariel’s bedroom closet and hid, crouching, making myself as small as possible. I heard Paul pounding on the door to my house as I snatched my cellphone from my jacket pocket and dialed 9-1-1.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Come quick, there’s a killer pounding at my door!” I whispered hoarsely into the earpiece.
“Could you speak up? Repeat your emergency.”
“THERE’S A KILLER POUNDING AT MY DOOR!” I shook with fear, panicked that Paul could come to Ariel’s door at any moment.
At that moment, I heard what sounded like a kick and the sound of my townhouse door breaking into a million pieces.
“YOWL!” Boots yelled, “YOWL, YOWL!” My blood started boiling and it felt like my chest would explode. With a surge of adrenalin, I screamed my address to the operator. In the distance, I heard sirens whine. I burst out of Ariel’s closet.
“DON’T YOU DARE HURT MY CAT!” I yelled into the dark bedroom. I went for the light switch, gagging with the profusion of lilac and purple colors in the bedroom.
I scanned the room for any kind of weapon. Not much. I strained to hear Paul’s movements in my townhouse. It was quiet, too quiet. Then, I spied the wall shelf Wayne had made for Ariel propped against the dresser. I hefted the ornate, sturdy, red oak piece and headed out. I threw open Ariel’s entry door.
“BOOTS! COME HERE!”
Boots came barreling out of my townhouse, running towards me. He scampered past me into the safety of Ariel’s living room and hid. Paul Seever was a couple feet behind the cat. His face still contorted with fury, the grease holding his slicked-back hair shining eerily from the lighting in the hallway. He held a black revolver.
“YOU BITCH!” He waved the gun at me.
I threw the shelf, aiming for Paul’s groin.
He pulled the trigger, pieces of door molding splintered beside my head. I ducked back inside Ariel’s townhouse, slamming the door. In a frenzy, I threw the deadbolt.
“OWWWE!” a scream of pain echoed from the other side of the door. Relief swept through me; the weight had hit its target. I slumped against the door. About to peer through the peephole of Ariel’s door, Sheriff Don’s stern voice ordered, “DON’T SHOOT, PAUL!”
Then I heard the sound of a gun blast.