8

That’s the guy you were chasing around with the shovel!” Tom yelped.

I couldn’t speak. I just stared, shocked, astonished, horrified, sickened. My head and stomach reeled. Jerry lay on his side with his knees bent, his neck twisted so his face was look-ing upward. One arm was under him, the other draped across his body.

I grabbed for something, anything, to steady myself. That happened to be Tom. He gave me a dirty look and shoved my arm away. The taller officer reached inside the trunk and felt for a pulse at Jerry’s throat. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. I think all of us already knew. Jerry’s eyes were partly open, glazed with that awful unfocus of death.

After one petrified moment, the shorter officer ran for the patrol car, and in another moment I heard the squawk of the police radio. It came like something from another planet, loud and yet incomprehensible. Or maybe the incomprehensible part was because everything in my brain seemed stalled. Tall Officer looked at me.

“You know this person?”

I touched my throat. “No . . .” I whispered.

But I didn’t mean no, I didn’t know him. I meant No, no, no! This can’t be! I’d been furious with Jerry. I’d wanted to dump lemonade over his head. I’d wanted to wham him with what I thought was a broom. But I hadn’t wished death on him. How could he be dead? How could he be here, dead?

“Do you know him?” the officer repeated.

“It . . . it’s Jerry Norton.”

“A friend of yours?”

“She was chasing him all over the yard a couple of days ago! Yelling like a wild woman! She banged a shovel right into his car door trying to get to him!”

Tall Officer’s eyebrows lifted questioningly at me.

“We, uh, had a disagreement,” I admitted. “I was . . . encouraging him to leave. But the shovel was a mistake. I thought it was a broom—” I broke off. Even I could hear how lame that sounded. Surely a person could distinguish between a broom and a shovel. “I sent him an e-mail offering to pay for damage to the car door.”

“There’s the shovel!” Tom sounded gleeful. He made a dramatic fling of outstretched arm toward the rusty old shovel, now lying in the gravel on the far side of the limo, where I hadn’t seen it until now.

He started toward the shovel, but the officer commanded sharply, “Don’t touch it!”

Tom looked startled, then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robe with a pretended nonchalance, as if he’d never intended picking it up.

“I use it to flatten those mounds of dirt that keep showing up on the grass. Moles or gophers or something. Like those.” I pointed to a couple of new mounds over on Joella’s side of the lawn. “I didn’t hit Jerry with it!”

I broke off again. No one had accused me of hitting Jerry.

Why was I so frantically denying it? “I mean, someone hit me. Maybe they used the shovel!”

“A few minutes ago you said you’d stumbled and fallen.”

“I . . . I thought I must have, but maybe . . . I don’t know!”

I’ve never fainted in my life, but I felt on the edge of it right then. Jerry dead . . . dead. In the trunk of my limousine. The officer looking at me with an oddly speculative expression. My head doing a loop-the-loop carnival spin.

“He was murdered, wasn’t he?” Tom said. “Clobbered with that shovel and then dumped in the trunk! I knew it. I knew some-thing like this was gonna happen soon as I saw that limousine!”

“I don’t understand . . .” I shook my head, too bewildered to be more than distantly aware of pain caused by the movement. “How did he die? How did he get in there?”

“He didn’t crawl in by himself,” Tom said. “That’s for sure. Looks to me like—”

“Cause of death will have to be determined by the medical examiner,” the officer cut in. “Deputy Cardoff is calling the station now.”

“I don’t understand!” I repeated. “Everything was okay when I came out to lock the limo—”

“What time was that?”

I thought back, and my mind tossed up those red letters on my clock radio. “It was 4:03 AM. I looked at the clock,” I explained quickly, because I thought the officer might think it odd I knew the exact time. “I heard Moose—that’s the Sheersons’ dalmatian—barking. And I realized the limo wasn’t locked, so I came out to do it. It was all foggy then.”

“Did you look in the trunk at that time?”

“No, I just opened the door on the driver’s side, and the light went on and . . . something happened. I don’t remember anything after that until Tom found me lying on the ground.”

“Had Mr. Norton been a visitor in the house earlier last night?”

“No. We’d . . . broken up,” I said reluctantly. “I hadn’t seen him since Wednesday.”

“You’d had a personal relationship?”

“For the last four months or so. He also worked at F&N.”

“But you don’t know why he was here on your property, or how he got here?”

“I have no idea.”

“But it’s no wonder she didn’t want you guys looking in the trunk of the limousine,” helpful Tom put in.

The officer joined his buddy over at the patrol car. I couldn’t hear their discussion, but I doubted they were talking about what an exemplary citizen I was.

I couldn’t look at Jerry. And yet I couldn’t not look at him. He was wearing jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt. Dark socks. His loafers were around behind his body, as if they’d been tossed in after him. I couldn’t see any wound, but there was a dark blotch of something around his head and shoulders.

Oh, Jerry, Jerry, I’m so sorry! Who did this? Because some-body had. Tom might be acting like a pea brain, but he was right about one thing: Jerry hadn’t crawled into the trunk by himself. He was put there by someone. But by whom? Why? And how come here?

Murder.

Both officers returned to where I was still standing by the trunk. I sensed a change in atmosphere now. Before, the offi-cers had been interested and sympathetic, concerned that I may have been hit by some unknown assailant and not realized it. Now there was a ground shift, invisible vibes changing channels, and I felt myself helplessly slipping from victim to suspect.

Neither officer said anything to me, but I found myself almost frantic to convince them of what really was true. “I . . . I don’t know anything about any of this!”

Together the two men went over and bent to examine the shovel without touching it. One of them pointed to the blade. The other one nodded. I could see something red on it. Bits of paint from the Trans Am? Or blood?

Tall Officer returned. “When did you last use the shovel?”

“I . . . I guess when I was chasing Jerry with it.”

The notebook came out again. “And this was?”

“Wednesday evening. We had a disagreement, and I wanted him to leave. But, like I told you, I didn’t realize I was chasing him with the shovel—honestly I didn’t! I thought I’d grabbed the broom. That one over there by the garage.” I pointed to the broom.

“Did you leave the shovel where it is now?”

“I think I put it back there by the broom.” But I wasn’t certain. At this point I wasn’t certain of anything.

And this could look bad for me, very bad, I realized with an apprehension that made my palms go icy-sweaty. I’d chased Jerry with that shovel. With Tom and half of Secret View Lane as witnesses. To add to it, Jerry’s body now lay in my vehicle. And I’d been out here in the middle of the night under what even I could see looked like odd and suspicious circumstances.

“But someone hit me. That’s why I was unconscious. It must have been the same person who killed Jerry.” I touched the back of my head again, wishing now I’d let the paramedics at least look at the bump.

Tom’s face lit up as if a lightbulb had just gone on in his head. “Hey, I saw it on TV just last week. This guy shot him-self in the leg to make it look like he’d been attacked, and he was really the killer!”

I planted my fists on my hips, annoyance with Tom finally crashing through my combination of numbness and panic. “Tom, for heaven’s sake, I couldn’t hit myself on the back of the head.”

Tom looked at me as if sizing up my potential for an anatomical pretzel twist that would enable me to accomplish such a blow.

I pushed the point. “And how do you think I could have gotten him into the trunk? I weigh 130—” I guiltily amended it. “Around 134, and Jerry weighs at least 190.”

“The trunk was open. You whacked him with the shovel, and he fell forward into the trunk. Then all you had to do was lift his feet inside. Which was when his shoes fell off!” Tom added triumphantly. He turned to the officers again. “And then she was going to haul him off to the woods somewhere and dump him.”

“So why would I knock myself in the head instead of just doing that? Why would I let you find me and call the police?”

“Well . . . maybe you didn’t hit yourself,” Tom conceded. “Maybe you were getting in the limousine to drive away, and you did slip and fall.”

“I was going to drive off in my pajamas?”

“Women wear all kind of strange things these days.”

This was ridiculous! And yet Tom’s scenario wasn’t totally unbelievable, I realized, appalled. It hadn’t happened, but it could have. Were the officers thinking that too? “But—”

Tom turned to the officers with a sage nod. “I always figured those two could be up to something. A flashy sports car and a limousine. They could be dealing in heroin, cocaine, meth, who knows? Or maybe some of those—what d’ya call ’em? Decorator drugs.”

“Designer drugs,” I corrected, then groaned at myself. My kind, good neighbor is trying to railroad me into a drug and/or murder charge, and I’m helping him with vocabulary.

All three men were looking me over.

Sometimes Tom puzzles me. His wife, Emma, had been meddlesome and cranky, always complaining or making trouble about something. Before her death Tom had seemed like a quiet, easygoing sort of guy, sometimes even a little embarrassed by his wife’s troublemaking. But after Emma was gone, it was as if he felt obligated to take up where she’d left off, and he’d turned into this grouchy curmudgeon, exactly like her.

I looked sideways at the officers. Surely they weren’t buying into Tom’s wacko theories . . . were they? I decided to ignore Tom, as I hoped the officers would do also.

“Was he murdered?” I asked.

“That’s for the medical examiner to determine, ma’am,” the officer said, as he had earlier. “Now we’re going to need more information here.”

He was in the process of asking me Jerry’s full name, his address, occupation, what kind of car he drove, and next of kin, when two more sheriff’s department cars arrived.

Then everything turned chaotic. Neighbors returning to crane their necks and mill around. A crime-scene van arriving. Yellow crime-scene tape going up. One officer photographing everything. He didn’t suggest it, but I pulled my hair aside and asked him to photograph the back of my head. If they were going to document everything, I wanted it documented that I’d been clobbered.

To explain the Texas license, I had to show the officers the papers concerning the limo, one officer going inside with me while I located the envelope Cousin Larry had left. I asked at the same time if I could get dressed, and the officer allowed that.

Outside, I discovered I’d put on mismatched shoes, one a Nike from a pair Sarah and Rachel had given me at Christmas, one a cheapie from a pair I’d bought myself. I hoped the officers wouldn’t notice. Maybe mismatched shoes were some secret psychological mark of a killer.

Joella came out, also dressed now, in shorts and a loose maternity blouse. One of the recently arrived officers told her to keep back.

“No!” She rushed over, put her arms around me, and glared at him. “My friend is hurt, and I’m going to take care of her!”

I felt a quick rush of affection for her, grateful that she was concerned about me—unlike all the other curious gawkers.

The officer, not one of the original two who’d seen me on the ground, came over too. “You’re hurt?”

I skipped the I’m fine and turned around to let him see the back of my head. I really was feeling quite shaky by now. He had a discussion with Short Officer, then waved me off.

“But don’t leave the premises,” he warned. “We’ll need to talk to you again.”

With a protective arm around my waist, Joella led me over to her side of the duplex. Inside, she sat me down at the counter that was a duplicate of my own and made a cup of strong instant coffee in the microwave. Joella didn’t even own a coffeemaker, cautious about any possible adverse effects of coffee on the baby.

I knew she had to be curious about what was going on out there, but when I started to tell her, she said firmly, “Let’s see what’s with your head first.”

She put a hot washcloth on the back of my head and soaked away the messy ooze. Then, using a wide-toothed comb, she carefully worked through the hair until she could pull it away and expose the wound.

“What’s back there? Does it look as if I was hit with the shovel?”

“It isn’t a slash type wound, but the skin is broken and there’s a big bump. I don’t think you need stitches, but you were sure hit with something. Maybe the flat side of the shovel?”

I was glad to hear she didn’t think I needed stitches. I’d been a little afraid resourceful Joella might whip out needle and thread and start sewing. She cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide, then finished up with antibacterial ointment. She settled me on the sofa in the living room with a blanket. I lay on my side to keep from putting pressure on the wound.

“Now do you want to know what happened?” I asked.

“Only if you feel up to telling me. At first I figured Tom was just causing trouble again, calling the police to complain about something, but now—?”

“Jerry is dead. The officers opened the trunk of the limo and found him in there. I . . . I think he was murdered.”

“Oh, no . . .” She touched her fingertips to her lips.

I knew she was thinking not only of the horror of his death, but also her earlier “good riddance” about him. But she hadn’t been thinking dead then, any more than I was.

She swallowed. “You saw him?”

I told her everything I knew then, from waking up in the night to the almost certainty that I was now a suspect in Jerry’s murder, especially with Tom supplying appropriate scenarios.

“How did he die?”

“I couldn’t tell, and the deputies aren’t saying. But maybe with my shovel.”

“Oh, surely they’ll realize you couldn’t have done anything like that!”

“If I was them, I guess I’d be suspicious of me too.”

I really expected her to say something soothing. They won’t listen to Tom’s wild ideas. They won’t accuse you of something you didn’t do. But instead she had a strange, worried look on her pale face, and the thought occurred to me that after what had happened to her, perhaps she hadn’t a lot of faith in the criminal justice system.

But she did have faith in her God, because she squeezed my arm and said, “God is in control.” She was standing by the window, and now she said in a choked voice, “I think they’re taking Jerry’s body away now.”

I rose up . . . carefully . . . and looked out. More vehicles had arrived since I’d come inside, one with a TV station’s letters on the side and electronic equipment on top, another a van with a county insignia on the side. Two men were carrying a covered figure on a stretcher from the back of the limousine to the van. A professional-looking man in a dark suit walked beside them.

Jerry. Jerry dead on that stretcher. It was so hard to believe. Jerry murdered.

“Was he murdered somewhere else and then put in the limousine? Or murdered here?” Joella asked.

“I don’t know.” Either thought was horrifying . . . and puzzling. Why would a killer bring Jerry’s body here? But if he’d been here when he was killed . . . why? What was he doing here? Was the noise that had wakened me the sound of the trunk slamming on his body?

When the van drove away, Short Officer came around the limo and headed for Joella’s door. She opened it before he knocked. My hands did that peculiar icy-sweat thing again. All I could think was that he was here to take me away in handcuffs.