20
“Who are Melvin Rotsworth and Roger Phizter, and what do you know about Hank Wurthers and the county commissioners?” Emily asked Delia as she set down two beers and two bear claw pastries on the kitchen table. It was after nine o’clock, and Delia was in her pj’s already. She routinely had to rise at three AM to open the door of Brown’s Bakery. Emily sunk her teeth into the flaky, cinnamon-y goodness and chased it with a pale ale from Mash Up, a local brewery. The perfect pairing.
“Melvin Rotsworth moved here a couple years ago with his family to start a plumbing business in Freeport. Rots-No-More.”
“Horrible name,” said Emily with a mouth full of claw.
“Terrible. But business is good, and from what I hear, he does good work. And Roger Phizter is a pharmacist.”
“And do either of them have coroner experience? My guess is no.”
Delia shook her head.
“Then why on God’s green earth do they want to run for county coroner? Neither one has a medical degree, so they’d still have to farm out the autopsies to a medical examiner. Which means the county would be paying double fees. With me, like Dad, they’d get two in one. One-stop shop. Besides, both those men are working full-time already. It makes no sense.”
“It’s simple politics, Em.” Delia broke off a piece of pastry and popped it into her mouth. “Melvin and Roger are making a power play.”
“How’s that?” Emily groaned.
“In a lot of counties, the coroner position is a stepping-stone into local politics. Get elected coroner, do the job for a couple years. Gain local recognition and then run for another office up the food chain, so to speak.”
“Ridiculous. You can’t play with people’s lives and deaths like that.”
“Doll, that is exactly one of the reasons your dad stayed in his position for so long. He knew no one else cared as much as he did or could do a better job. He didn’t play their political games. Don’t let them walk all over you. Demand to be paid fairly. And demand justice.”
Speaking of. “Delia, I wondered if I could ask you a favor.”
“Always.”
“Mrs. Parkman doesn’t have the funds for a proper funeral for her daughter—”
“Say no more. I’ll start a kitty at the bakery. And all tips will go in as well.”
“Thank you so much, Delia. Now, we just need a new funeral director.”
“Have you heard from Cathy?”
“Only that she arrived safely to Ben’s house. I’m taking the lack of news as good news.” Emily licked cinnamon off her fingers and chugged down the last swallow of her ale.
“You’re doing a great job, doll. Your dad would be really proud. Don’t let those old codgers get you down. They have no idea how important it is to maintain justice in the community—and what it takes to do it properly,” said Delia triumphantly as she pushed her almost-untouched bear claw over to Emily. Emily smiled and took the pastry. She was ravenous.
“Have you thought about Dr. Payton’s job offer?”
“It’s a request to apply,” Emily mumbled through her mouthful of bread.
“Semantics. He sees something in you that he wants.”
“He has eyes only for you,” Emily joked. “And your cinnamon rolls.”
“He’ll have to take a number, like the rest of the men waiting in line for my sweets.”
Emily laughed and felt the tension release in her shoulders. “What about settling down here? Taking on Melvin and Roger?” she mused.
She considered Delia’s life. Delia had given her life to the FBI and had forgone marriage and kids. Not that she’d ever seemed lacking without them. Her life was complete and fulfilled, and she had expressed that to Emily on numerous occasions. She was not defined by her lack of marriage or children. Emily knew that whatever she chose, Delia would support her one hundred and ten percent.
“I don’t know, Delia,” she continued. “It’s hard to wrap my mind around university life. I’ve just never thought of myself as the teaching type.”
“You stay, and you’ll never leave.”
“You live here.”
“I came back. I had a life first. Besides, you’re a natural teacher, Emily. You always have been. You get that from your dad, too.”
Emily’s memory flashed to the many times in the operating room when Dr. Claiborne had handed her the reins to instruct a student doctor on how to make a clean incision or sew up a chest cavity.
“Here, you help a community. There, you influence generations from all over the world,” said Delia, with a keen eye toward Emily.
Emily had never considered that angle before. Delia had a point. Where would her talents be more useful and effective? On the field? Or teaching those who would be going onto the field? And which could she weather better—university politics or Freeport politics? It wouldn’t hurt to at least explore the opportunity at the University of Michigan. Especially since it had come knocking at her door, delivered in such a genteel package.
“He’s not bad to look at, is he?” said Delia with a sly smirk.
Emily laughed. “He’s definitely my type.”
“Brains, brawn, and beauty. I got you.” Delia glanced over and checked the time on the microwave. “Oh, goodness. I have to be up in five hours. If I don’t get my beauty sleep, I end up sprinkling salt instead of sugar on the doughnut twists.”
That was Emily’s cue to head home, but instead she reached for her bag.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Emily pulled out her laptop. “Do you have a quick minute to take a look at something?”
“Please tell me these are from the Pinetree Slopes case.” Delia’s voice sprung up with that old, investigative excitement.
“You don’t think I would leave you out of the loop, do you?” said Emily as she opened the images from Sandi’s autopsy. “And don’t worry, Nick is okay with this.” She told a little white lie. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
“I can tell you’re lying, Miss,” Delia said. “You pursed your lips just now when you told me.”
Emily sighed. There was nothing she could put past Delia. Which made her the perfect asset and ally. “I just want a second opinion on these fissure lines. It’s within my rights to consult a consultant.”
“I won’t disagree. I’m just remembering what a row it caused with the Dobson case.”
“Nick saved my life. We have an understanding now.”
Delia accepted this answer. Emily scrolled through the files until she found the ones she was looking for.
Delia slipped on her reading glasses as Emily turned the screen to her view. One of Delia’s many specialties at the FBI was forensic tool examination. Delia flipped through the series of X-ray images.
“Damage to the neck vertebrae and hyoid bone. Classic strangulation injuries,” she muttered, her eyes scanning the film of Sandi’s skull and neck. Delia clicked the mouse, and the screen changed to an image of Sandi’s ribs and midvertebral section. She slid her glasses down her nose and shook her head.
“What is it?” Emily asked.
“If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a thousand times. See the fourth and fifth left rib? Look closely.”
Emily leaned in as Delia ran the point of a pen across a series of small fissures.
“Common blunt-force-trauma injury,” Delia said with a sigh. “Right under the heart.”
“The question is, which injury did her in first—heart or neck?” said Emily.
“Beaten and strangled.” Delia drew in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. “Hard to know which came first. More importantly right now, what caused it?”
“And that’s why Dad came to you,” Emily said.
“From time to time. He knew when to ask for help,” Delia said with a comforting tone. “And I’m here for you, too.”
Emily followed Delia’s gaze back to the screen.
“It wasn’t a sharp object,” said Delia. “Something more narrow and rounded. Like a crowbar or pipe.”
“Those are a dime a dozen. It’ll be impossible to locate the murder weapon. Especially ten years later,” said Emily.
“Could be,” said Delia. “Best to focus on other evidence. There’s always another path, right, doll?”
Yeah. But why was it always so hard to find the trailhead?
Delia rose from the table, taking the two empty beer bottles and setting them in the sink.
Delia turned back to look at Emily. “It must be lonely in your house now.”
Her house. Technically. Yes.
“You going to be okay heading home tonight?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Home. Was her father’s house still—or rather, now—home?
Where was home?