Shriveled pumpkin shells,
dry corn husks in autumn fields
All Hallows’ Even—Szan
My “spider sense” tingles. “Dead? How?” Must have been natural causes or I’d know about it, unless it was within the past few weeks.
“Killed himself.” The receptionist shakes her head sadly.
A ruling of suicide, no further investigation warranted. No wonder I don’t know about it. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Guess he did take it hard.”
“Guess so,” she replies. “All those years with the sheriff’s department, you’d think he’d be tougher than that.”
Indeed. Not that I haven’t heard of a lawman taking his own life, but over an incident that could hardly be considered his fault? Perhaps next-of-kin could shed some light on it. Unfortunately no Scott Corcoran is listed in Linfield, which doesn’t surprise me. Many officers I know aren’t listed; I’m not.
The drive up River Way should be pleasant, the fallow fields to the left dotted with bright orange pumpkins in honor-system farm stands. Under a low sky though, the earth is dun and there are no pumpkins, perhaps due to a dearth of honor. To the right, the river’s deceptively lazy appearance masks a current that is deep and strong enough to have once supported shipping and milling, fast enough for white water rafting and sculling.
At the third trailer park in Linfield, I find a mailbox cluster. Number Seventeen is labeled Corcoran. On the off-chance the mailbox and lot numbers match, I knock on the door of the corresponding trailer. The woman who answers proves to be the dead security officer’s wife. The widow Corcoran has pure white hair and the weariness of someone depleted by grief. I give her my name and state I’d like to ask her a few questions about Scott without saying why. It doesn’t seem to matter; she invites me in with the eagerness of the recently bereaved trying to keep the memory of the newly departed fresh by talking about him.
“I’m fixing some tea,” she says. “Would you care for some? It’s caffeine-free.”
While she prepares it at a galley kitchen range, I take a seat at a compact dining table against the window. To my left is a living room, casually-furnished but neat and clean. Bowling trophies line the wall shelves. Hung beside them are family photos and formal portraits of Mrs. and, I presume, Mr. Corcoran. One shows him in uniform, standing at attention, his right hand at his forehead in a salute, the left arm at his side bowed slightly around the sidearm at his hip. Framed certificates commend him on various achievements with the Sheriff’s Department. A hardwood gun case with a formidable brass lock stands in a corner. Corcoran had a nice collection of long guns.
Mrs. Corcoran brings a small pot and two cups. “There’s sugar on the table.”
So there is. “Raw” sugar in little brown packets fills a yellow bowl next to a container of salt substitute and bottles of vitamins and herbal supplements.
“Or would you rather have honey? That’s healthier,” Mrs. Corcoran says.
“This is fine.”
“It’s chamomile. It’s supposed to be relaxing. I seem to be having a little trouble in that department since Scott—died. Why exactly are you interested in him?”
“It’s Hector Waltann I’m interested in, Ma’am. From Facets? I’m talking to everyone who knew or worked with him. Apparently he’s missing. He hasn’t been at work, at home, or at his condo.”
“Missing? I guess Scott had mentioned seeing less and less of him at the store, which was unfortunate. He liked Hector. Couldn’t say the same for that Mr. Overshort.” Mrs. Corcoran shakes her head. “Lemon? Milk? Milk has a sedative effect. It’s the calcium, you know.”
“No. Thank you. About Mr. Waltann?”
Mrs. Corcoran doctors her tea. “Well, I really couldn’t say. I don’t know what Scott could tell you if he were still—still—” Tears start to flow. She sniffs and blots them with a paper napkin. “I’m sorry. I’m not adjusting well.”
“I think you’re doing just fine, Ma’am.”
She smiles faintly. “It’s just that Scott was so close to retiring, and then this. It was so sudden, so unexpected.”
“Hadn’t Scott been depressed?”
“Depressed?” she says, anger flash-drying her tears. “You’ve been talking to someone from the department! Scott wasn’t depressed; he was looking forward to retiring. We had plans, we were going to travel. Yes, I know. His death was ruled a suicide, but I don’t believe it, not for a minute. And with a stolen shotgun? Scott would never steal. Now I can’t explain what he was doing in some no-tell motel—” She gives me a stern look. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking but I don’t believe that either. I’ll bet he was working a sting. The department denies it, of course. I think they’re afraid of the liability.”
She takes a breath and says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to rant. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help. With finding Hector, that is.”
“Not at all, you’ve been a big help, Mrs. Corcoran. Thank you for the tea, and your time. One last thing. What did your husband say to you about the theft at Facets?”
Mrs. Corcoran shakes her head. “That’s what so strange. It was such an uneventful night, he didn’t even know there had been one until after they discovered inventory missing.”
I’m tempted to believe her but wives often see what they want to see. Besides, it sounds like she has a beef with the sheriff’s department. Scott Corcoran could have been depressed about the Facets theft. Maybe there had been something to see and he missed it. The stolen gun doesn’t make much sense, it’s true. He had a case full of guns, any one of which would have done the job. Maybe he didn’t want to sully his collection. Who’s to say what makes sense to a man bent on doing away with himself?
It may have nothing to do with Hector’s disappearance but this theft at Facets stinks. Whatever happened that night, one other person might have seen something significant and not realized it: the cleaning lady. She could even have been in on it. Much as I hate to admit it, Overshort could be right. It could have been an inside job. The fact that Scott Corcoran saw nothing on his rounds and that the Secur-It alarm wasn’t tripped implicate someone with legitimate access to the store. That would include the cleaning lady.
North on Pleasant Street, a gently curved thoroughfare, single-family detached homes are increasingly being converted into small business offices: an insurance agent, a tax accountant, a dentist. A wood-framed bungalow houses Clean Sweep, the cleaning service mentioned in the Crier article. An inexpensive upholstered settee-and-side-chair suite has turned a home’s front room into an office waiting area. Cluttered with full ashtrays and untidy piles of dog-eared magazines, it could use a good cleaning itself.
A heavy-set woman in her early thirties scurries in from the back of the house to greet me. Her clothes, a navy double knit pants suit and high-necked bowed blouse, fit as if they’re wearing her rather than the other way around.
She introduces herself as the manager. “Did we have an appointment?” she asks. Her frantic air borders on panic.
“No. I’m sorry. I was in the area and saw your sign—”
She lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I didn’t think so. See, normally I’d come to your place. If I’m on site, I can better assess your needs.” She wrings wrinkled hands that look older than the rest of her. “I’d hate for you to judge our service by the condition of this room. Growing pains, you see, new clients and I—not that I’m overextended or understaffed or anything like that, although I am short one person but—well, I like to put our clients’ needs before our own and—”
She has a lisp, her L’s come out like Double-Us. “Clients” sounds like “cwients.”
“No problem.”
“Come on back, we’ll talk in my office.”
I follow her down a short hall that branches off into a kitchen on the right. What was probably a bedroom on the left now serves as an office. Instead of a bed, a desk, swivel chair, folding chair, and file cabinet furnish a room just as cluttered as the front. Office equipment crowds the desk. Unsteady stacks of file folders stand on the floor. She plucks a pink smock from the folding chair, motions for me to sit, and takes her seat behind the desk.
“How did you learn about our service?” she asks.
“Through one of your clients. Facets?” I reply.
She frowns. “Is Hector back?”
“Had he left?”
More to herself than to me she says, “‘Cause if he’s back, maybe he could have a talk with that partner of his.” Her eyes narrow and she stares into space.
“Overshort?”
Her gaze comes back into focus. “Sorry. Just thinking aloud there.”
“Thinking Hector could get him to renew your contract?”
She presses her lips together.
“Don’t be embarrassed on my account, ma’am. I understand. New management almost always starts by cleaning house. No pun intended.”
“No pun ... Oh!” She chuckles. A phone rings. She pushes aside some papers to get to it. “Cwean Sweep, this is—Yes, I’m working on that. See, I had an unexpected, uh, resignation. I’m trying to fill that position just as soon as I can. Say, can I call you back? I’m with another customer. Yes, thanks.” She hangs up. “So, is Hector back?”
“As I said, I wasn’t aware he had left. When would that have been?”
She gazes into the distance again. “Well, I can’t pinpoint the date exactly. Our last day at Facets was about a month ago. Right after the ...” She stops abruptly.
“Theft,” I finish for her. “And it was Overshort you heard from.”
“That’s right. I tried to speak with Hector but I was told he wasn’t around. And Mr. Overshort did have authority so there wasn’t anything I could do.”
Hector not around. Where have I heard that before? “Overshort made you feel like it was your fault, didn’t he? The theft, I mean.”
She wriggles on her chair. “I assure you we had nothing to do with it. Pwease bewieve me. My girls are all bonded and insured. I screen my personnel carefuwwy. Monetta had worked at Facets for years, they were very satisfied with her work.”
The phone rings again and I wait impatiently for her to issue a quick promise to call back. I want to hear more about this Monetta. But the manager says, “Cwean Sweep. Yes, I’m aware of that. I’ll get someone else to you this afternoon, I promise.”
When I have her full attention again, I ask, “Is, uh, Monetta, uh, available? To work other locations?” If the manager says “yes” and wants to write up a contract, I’m in big trouble.
She replies, “I’m afraid not. See, uh, Monetta’s no longer with us.”
I feign great disappointment. “That’s too bad. Has she gone with another service?”
The phone rings yet again. The manager holds up a forefinger, mouths “Wait,” and takes the call. I shift on my chair and nod as politely as I can.
Finally she finishes the conversation, turns to me, and smiles. “Where were we?”
“Monetta. You were about to tell me whom she’s working for now.”
“Working for? ... Oh, I’m sorry. You misunderstood. I mean, she’s no longer with us. She’s, um mm, well, dead.”
“Dead,” I echo in the same calm, professional tone I’ve used all afternoon, although now the hairs on the back of my neck are standing straight up and my pulse is racing.
“Some mugger attacked her out on Forbes Road in the middle of the night earlier this week,” the manager says. “With a shotgun. A carjacking, I guess. You know, I don’t even think whoever did it got away with much, just Monetta’s purse. What a shame. She was just getting her life back together.” She tsks and shakes her head.
Forbes Road? Earlier this week? The pregnant woman who died in the hospital? Could it be? “How’s that?” I don’t have to pretend to be interested, I have to reign in what must look like an obsession with the woman.
The manager folds her arms on her desk and leans forward. “I guess she thought Mr. Overshort canceled our contract because of her and took it personally. It was like she disappeared overnight. She didn’t come back to work. I called her house, her references, but no one knew where she was. Then last week, she just showed up again. Said she had been so upset about what happened at Facets, she went a little crazy, left town for a while. But now she was back and could she come back to work? See, she was pregnant and she and her boyfriend decided to stay together, have the baby.”
The young man in the hospital. A baby. “We lost them both,” the doctor had said.
“Well, she had been dependable up to this point and seeing as how I need all the good help I can find—”
As if to prove her point, the phone rings again. The manager rolls her eyes and puts the caller on hold. To me she says, “Poor Monetta. She had just come back to work for me and then that horrible shooting. Let me finish this call and then I’ll be right with you.” She gives me a broad wink. “Your place I will do personally myself.”
“That’s OK.” I get to my feet. “I can see you’re busy and I did drop in without an appointment. I’ll call and schedule a site visit.” I take a business card from a caddy that peeps out from under a pile of papers. “I’ll let myself out.”
*****
I don’t know what I expected to hear. In an investigation I’ve learned it’s best not to have expectations. Then I’m free to see reality for what it is instead of what I would like it to be, and I avoid going down the wrong path of inquiry. It’s difficult when neon arrows flash “This Way.” That seductive light only deepens the blackness of the shadows where secrets hide.
More than ever, I want to talk to Heidi Quince. I try the number she wrote on the back of her business card. She’s hesitant but she agrees to meet me. “Someplace public, where it might look like we simply ran into each other,” she says.
“Where would you suggest?”
There’s a moment of silence. Then she says, “Under the covers.”