CHAPTER 12

Detective Andy Anderson patted the table in front of him. “At last! I thought we were going to spend all night listening to stories of romance and mystery.” He turned his crew cut head toward his companion. “I heard a lot of animosity toward the deceased. Some folks might call that a beginning of a motive. Did you hear it? Or were you as caught up in this tall tale as Miss Kincaid here?”

Sally Normandy held up a hand, like she was reminding him to take it easy. She was, after all, the one who told me to start at the beginning. She didn’t want me to leave out any details. So if Detective Double A was upset with me, I didn’t much care. I was giving them what they asked for. Besides, Sally seemed like a person I’d be much more interested in pleasing than Detective Turn-Sideways-And-He-Disappears Anderson. Unfortunately, he ignored Sally’s gesture and kept talking.

“Miss Kincaid, let’s get back to that necklace.” Anderson flipped a few pages back in that yellow legal pad he’d been taking notes on all the while I talked. “When was the first time you saw it?”

I wasn’t sure what he was looking for. “What necklace?”

Anderson made a disgusted face. I thought he’d probably not be as irritable if he’d allow himself a slice or two of pepperoni and sausage pizza every so often.

He turned again to Sally. “Is this how she’s gonna play it? Pull the I-don’t-know-what-you’re-getting-at routine every time we trip her up?”

Trip me up? Is that what was happening here? Did they want all my details in order to build a case against me? Were they seeing me as someone who would be even remotely capable of murder?

I looked into Sally’s blue eyes. They seemed as concerned and supportive as when she first walked into the room. Had I misread her intentions? What if the two of them were playing some sort of good cop–bad cop role like on those TV crime shows?

“Do I need to call an attorney?” I asked.

Neither of them answered. I suddenly felt very cold, as if the air in that little interrogation room had dropped fifteen degrees in the time it took me to ask my question.

Sally reached into the deep plastic tray she’d set on the chair beside her when she first walked in the room. It looked like the kind our mailman, Darryl, carries when he has an especially large delivery to bring to the library. She pulled out a small manila envelope. Today’s date was marked on the outside, along with a long row of digits and letters I could only imagine to be the case number.

This is what it’s come to, I thought. The Madison Police Department has assigned a case number to my life. An even more sobering realization hit me. I’ll bet that big letter H stands for homicide.

Sally opened the envelope and shook it. A clear Ziploc plastic bag fell onto the table in front of me. A gold necklace was inside. The chain was twisted and chinked. From where I sat, it looked like there was mud caked into the links.

I stared at it. Anger surged up inside me, slamming into my chest. Trying to force an opening. Eager to spit words of accusation and damnation to anyone within shouting distance. I squeezed my fingernails into my palms.

“Do you know where we found this?” Anderson asked.

Words wouldn’t come. I sat there, paralyzed, mute, staring at the delicate gold necklace with the solid little rectangle dangling from it.

Sally inched the plastic bag toward me. “Take a good look, Tess. Turn it over, look long and close. Don’t take it out of the bag, but look hard. Tell us if it looks familiar.”

Of course it was familiar. I knew exactly what it was. Still, I did as she asked. I picked up the bag and examined the necklace. This close, I could see something green tangled in the chain along with the mud. Grass maybe? Moss? Like the necklace had been someplace other than around the neck of a newly minted PhD from Tufts. The one who specialized in the history of Barry Manilow. I ran my finger over the inscription on the gold fob.

Mimi.

“You know this necklace, Tess?” Sally Normandy’s voice was kind.

I nodded.

“You’ve seen it before?” she continued.

I nodded again.

“Can you tell us where?” she asked.

My mouth was as dry as an oven. My tongue felt heavy and large against my teeth. It was a struggle to get the words out. “She had it,” I said. “Her mother gave it to her.”

“That’s what she told you, huh?” This time Anderson asked the question. And his voice wasn’t anywhere near as kind as Sally’s. “Out of her very own mouth. You heard her tell you her mother gave her this necklace.”

I nodded.

“You have any reason to touch this necklace?” Anderson continued. “Maybe during one of your all-night gab fests? Or maybe when she might have been showing it off?”

I tried to think. Had I touched it? Was this another time they were trying to trip me up? Maybe catch me in a lie?

“I don’t know,” I finally said. “Maybe. I know I saw it. She said it was a gift from her mother. She never took it off.” A filmy slip of memory drifted into my field of awareness.

Detective Anderson seemed disinterested in my new recollection. Sally Normandy’s face revealed nothing.

Andy Anderson leaned back and crossed his wiry arms across his chest. “What are we to make of the fact that this necklace was found with the body?”

Body.

The body. I forced myself to swallow hard in order to start my next breath. The body. I tried to picture where it was right now. In the morgue? In a refrigerated drawer? What happens to bodies once they’re discovered? Once they’re no longer a person, but a vessel for clues in a murder investigation.

I started to shake.

Sally looked toward the one-way mirror and asked for a blanket. Less than a minute later the door opened and a set of hands offered a folded piece of heavy red fabric. I saw only the hands. I didn’t see the arms they were attached to. I didn’t see the body. Maybe it was down in the morgue, too. Maybe this whole place was filled with bodies that didn’t belong anywhere else. Like a warehouse for thrown-away humans whose only value is whatever service their bodies can perform. Ask these questions. Record these notes. Fetch some water. Bring a blanket.

Give us enough clues to hang a killer.

What becomes of the bodies after the services are performed? Do they rest in some sort of suspended animation until needed again?

I laughed at the absurdity of my thought. A short guffaw huffed unbidden from my chest, and the next thing I knew I was laughing so hard my shoulders were heaving. Tears ran down my face. I couldn’t catch my breath.

I couldn’t catch myself.

Sally stood and stepped behind me. She laid her hands on my shoulders and pressed down. “Stay with me, Tess. I know this is hard.” Her tone was so soothing. Like a whispered promise that normal was out there and I’d find it again someday.

That was a lie, of course. Nothing would ever be the same again. But in that moment her voice was so seductive. I focused on her words and let them pull me back from my hysteria.

“You’re safe here, Tess.” I could smell Sally’s perfume. It smelled like fresh rain. “We want to hear more.”

She offered me my glass of water when I was calmer. I couldn’t hold it in my quivering hands, so she held it for me, pressing the rim against my lips. She cooed encouragement as I took a few sips.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.” There was something reassuring in her simple response. Like watching my meltdown was no great whizbang for her. Like she’d seen it a thousand times before and now it was time to get back to business.

“So John left for work after taking you out to breakfast last Sunday morning,” she said. “Then what happened?” The glare she tossed toward Andy Anderson was more warning than here-we-go. “And remember, tell us slowly. Details are important.”

Don’t leave out anything that might trip me up. Isn’t that what you mean?