Justification for Murder (5 page)

S
affron grabbed the ceramic bowl from the floor and set it on the counter. It was pink and covered in colorful polka dots. In the center the words “Cat’s Food” stood out in royal blue. She filled it with kibble, and Cat jumped onto the countertop, purring while circling and rubbing against Saffron’s arms.

The bowl made her think about the time when she took her best friend’s little girl to the Petroglyph Ceramic Lounge in Los Gatos several months earlier. Emma and her husband needed some time alone to discuss the different alternatives they faced. She’d noticed a lump in her left breast, and Dr. Leavenworth had strongly recommended doing a biopsy, or removal, rather than waiting another six months. They decided to go for the biopsy, and eight days later they got the results back. It was benign.

Saffron placed Cat’s bowl back on the floor and remembered the day she had taken Sofia to the ceramic store. They had stopped first to get two big frozen yogurts, filled with sprinkles and hot fudge.

With dripping cups of halfway-melted yogurt, they entered the Petroglyph store and settled at a table. They almost took more time deciding which ceramic figure they wanted to decorate than actually painting it.

“I’m not going to tell you what I’m doing,” Sofia said, sitting next to Saffron with a small bowl. She reached for her yogurt and finished it in a few big spoonfuls.

“Oh no? And why’s that?” Saffron asked, putting some paints on the table.

“Ouch, ouch,” Sofia complained, closing her eyes and pressing her hand against her forehead.

“You got a brain freeze? Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth,” Saffron instructed.

The girl nodded and did, still holding her forehead with her tiny hands.

“So, why won’t you tell me what you’re going to make?” Saffron asked when the girl’s pain was gone.

“Because I want it to be a surprise.” Sofia was too young to have a smug smile, but she did.

Saffron moved a strand of light brown hair out of Sofia’s face. The girl watched her with incredibly large eyes behind matching green-paste glasses. Saffron smiled and began to work. Sofia did the same.

After a few minutes of deep concentration, Sofia said, “I need some help.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“I want to make sure I spell ‘Cat’ the right way.”

“Okay. Do you want me to help you pick the letters?”

“Yes!” she said, pushing herself off the table so fast the chair almost fell to the floor. “Sorry,” she apologized, looking embarrassed.

Saffron smiled, waving her hand, mouthed, “It’s okay.”

They huddled over the three buckets with letters. Checking one by one took too long, so Saffron grabbed a handful and set them on the table. They both searched.

“How would you spell ‘Cat’?” Saffron asked.

“Here, I found a
C
.” Sofia did a happy dance, holding the letter in her tiny hand.

“That’s excellent. What do we need to find next?”

“An
A
. Right?”

“Absolutely.” Saffron picked one and showed it to her. Sofia grabbed it and placed it carefully next to the
C
.

After going through a couple more handfuls of letters, they finally found the
T
and moved back to table. A few minutes later, Sofia asked for help again, this time to spell the word “food.”

An extra letter made it back to the table later. The
S
. Saffron’s heart got warm when she saw Sofia was actually using the possessive correctly.

“What do you think?” The girl asked once the last coat of paint was done.

“I love it.” It was surprising that a six-year-old could make something so cute. “And what do you think of my mug?”

“I think you should give it to me for my birthday.” That snooty smile framed her face again.

“But your birthday was a few months ago and you already got a lot of presents.”

“No. For my next birthday.”

“You think? I bet you’ll forget all about this present when you turn seven next year.”

“No, I won’t!”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” she said, mimicking Saffron from earlier.

“Okay, then. But you should know that I’m going to remind you if you forget.”

Sofia took one of the few clean paper towels left on the table and, with a brush still full of pink paint, wrote, “Birthday present.” After she inspected it to make sure all the words were spelled correctly, she handed the reminder to Saffron.

Two weeks later they went back to pick up the baked pieces. The pink bowl had turned out perky and girlie. Perfect for Cat. The mug was bright blue and covered with orange sea creatures. Chocolate milk would probably look pretty gross in it, but Sofia seemed happily pleased.

The noise of Cat scratching the sofa brought Saffron back to the present. “Hey, Cat, stop that,” she said.

Her entire body hurt as if she had done three hours of cross-training. The adrenaline from the car crash the night before was starting to take a toll.

She grabbed her jacket and purse and locked her front door on the way out. She headed back to the hospital, hoping Ranjan’s uncle wouldn’t be there, so she could spend some time alone with her boyfriend.

The afternoon rush hour hadn’t started yet, so the drive was fast. When she walked into the hospital she noticed that her jaw hurt. She realized that it had nothing to do with the adrenaline. She’d been clenching her teeth during the entire drive in anticipation of running into Dr. Balasubramanian again. Saffron wondered how Ranjan could still be so close to a man so strict and narrow-minded when he was so open and interesting. But maybe it was the blood tie. “Who knows?” she asked out loud when she opened the door to Room 305.

What she saw when she walked in made her wished she’d never come.

S
orensen turned up the volume on the radio, masking the engine’s roar. “I love this song,” he said when the raspy twang of Carrie Underwood came up. He started singing, completely out of tune.

Sorensen saw Jon trying to hide a smile by looking out the window. He still looked a little green from his first crime scene.

“What’s so funny?” Sorensen tried to fluster the intern.

“I just find it funny that a Viking like you likes country music.” Jon said, crossing his arms and not meeting Sorensen’s eyes.

“Nothing wrong with that. I bet you like some hip-hop crap talking about beating the shit out of somebody’s mother.” He slammed on the brakes, launching both of their bodies against the seat belts. “Asshole!” he yelled at the car that had just cut them off. “I should give him a ticket for reckless driving.”

“Can you do that?” Jon asked.

“I can do anything. I’m Erik the Viking Sorensen.” He pounded his chest twice with a closed fist. “What do you make of these suicides?” he asked, changing the subject.

“What’s the saying: ‘Once is chance, twice is coincidence, third time is a pattern’?”

Sorensen nodded. “It’s really strange that the three deaths occurred in pretty much the same exact way, but they’re all suicides.”

“Did you see anything suspicious at any of the crime scenes?” Jon asked. “I didn’t notice anything from the reports.”

“No.”

“Do you think somebody may have tampered with them in any way?”

“It didn’t seem that way, but anything’s possible.”

“Do you believe somebody could have killed these three women and left no evidence behind?” Jon pushed.

“That’s hard to believe. But we don’t have the final evidence report. Something may still come up,” Sorensen said, sounding more hopeful than he felt. “The thing that keeps me awake, besides the images that won’t go away, is why would somebody want to kill these women that way? There are many easier ways to kill somebody, even if you want to make it look like a suicide.”

“Yeah,” Jon echoed, “why do it this way? Why these women?” Then he added, “I haven’t found any connection between them so far.”

The GPS in Sorensen’s car was broken. Jon checked his phone. “We’re getting really close. In about two streets, turn right. It should be the second house on the right. The yellow one.”

Sorensen turned to look at him for longer than was safe. “How the hell do you know the color of the house?”

“I checked Google’s Street View.”

He touched the screen of his phone a couple times and showed it to him. A one-story yellow house with white trim was staring back at him.

“Man, that’s some creepy shit,” Sorensen said and made the first right, still shaking his head.

“There, that’s the one.” Jon pointed to a modest house with a well-manicured lawn and colorful flowerbeds.

They walked toward the house. Sorensen took out his small black notebook to double-check the name. When they reached the porch, he put the notebook back in his pocket and stood there. Nobody rang the doorbell. They exchanged glances.

“What the hell are you waiting for, Jon?”

When he pressed the bell, musical chimes rang inside the house. They waited. After a couple seconds Jon pushed the button again.

“I don’t think anybody’s home.”

“Really?” Sorensen rolled his eyes.

“Excuse me…?” a voice called from the street.

They turned toward a small elderly woman with a white poodle.

“Excuse me? Are you looking for Mrs. Robinson’s daughter?” Before they could respond, she said, “You know that poor Taisha died, right?”

They walked toward the old lady, Sorensen taking the lead. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Detective Erik Sorensen, and this is Jon Evans. Yes, we knew.”

He extended his hand. Hers disappeared in his when she took it.

“Very nice to meet you. I’m Isobel. Isobel Lewis.”

“Did you know Mrs. Robinson well?” Sorensen asked.

“Yes, we were best friends. I still cannot believe what she did.” She shook her head, as if trying to push the thought away. “I live right next door. Would you like some tea?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Sorensen said.

Her house was as modest as Mrs. Robinson’s. The entry walls were covered with flowery paper that was probably a hundred years old. At the end of the narrow hallway there was a tiny, lacquered wooden stand covered by a crochet tablecloth and five small porcelain figurines, all evenly placed.

“Coats?” Isobel asked, opening the entry closet. It was very full and it smelled musty, as if it stored old treasures that were in dire need of dusting.

“We’re okay, thank you,” Sorensen said.

She took off her own jacket and placed it on a hanger that held three other ones. Both men made a gesture to help hang it, but she swiftly inserted it in the crammed closet and closed the door with a soft thud.

“Cookie, come over here,” Isobel called down the hallway. The dog trotted back wagging her tail. “You don’t want to walk around on a leash all day, do you?” she asked, shaking her head. She removed the leash and hung it on a little hook by the closet door. She then led them to the living room. “Please sit. I’ll make some tea.”

The sofa was the same yellow as the victim’s house. It was old but well kept. Sorensen and Jon watched Isobel fill the kettle in the open kitchen. Cookie settled down between the two men and started snoring almost immediately. Isobel took a box of biscuits from the cupboard. She placed three saucers, tiny porcelain cups and spoons on a tray, and brought it to the coffee table while the water began to boil. Jon helped her set the cups and then took the tray back to the kitchen.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked.

“It would be lovely if you could bring the biscuits to the table, dear,” she said, handing him a full plate of tea pastries. Jon took it and sat again on the sofa.

The old woman came back and served everybody tea without saying a word. Jon looked uncomfortable, and Sorensen wondered if Jon was the kind of person who didn’t deal well with silence. He made a mental note to learn more about that. Jon was an extremely valuable researcher, but Erik knew there was more he could do.

“Isobel, I understand that you were the one who found Mrs. Robinson, right?”

The hand that was holding the saucer started to tremble, rattling the cup and the tiny spoon.

“Yes, I found her.” She took a deep breath. “It was her turn to come to my house for tea. You see, we always have tea…had tea together. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays we met here. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays we went to her house. Sundays we always had tea after Mass at a tiny coffee place next to our church, down by First Street. You may know it.”

The two men shook their heads, then Sorensen nodded for her to proceed. Jon nibbled on a chocolate cookie. Sorensen put a whole one in his mouth.

“It was a Wednesday, so she had to come over. But it was already ten minutes past three and she was never, ever late.” She took a sip and closed her eyes, then shook her head. The plate started shaking again. She held it with both hands and put it back on the coffee table.

“So I went over to see why she was late. I knocked first, but there was no response. I knew she was home, so then I got scared and thought that maybe she had fallen or something. You know, at our age you never know…I have a key. She had one for my place too. I opened the door and called her. There was no reply. I went to the kitchen first, then her bedroom. She wasn’t there. Then I saw that the door to the backyard was open. She had a little shed there. She was very proud of her roses. I thought maybe she’d gone there to do something and lost track of time.”

Sorensen took another cookie. Isobel finished her tea before she continued.

“That’s when I saw her. She was on the ground. Facedown. I rushed to her and saw the blood. I couldn’t move her. She was quite bigger than me, so I ran back to the house and called 911. They didn’t want me to stay, but I did anyway. When they came, I saw the big garden shears and all the blood. Then I found out she had hurt herself.” She shook her head, her face still showing disbelief.

“Do you have any idea why she would’ve done that?” Sorensen asked.

“She had cancer. Breast cancer. I think it was her way to tell the world that the cancer didn’t win.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Jon said.

Sorensen stood. “Thank you very much for the tea, Isobel,” he said, holding her hand softly in both of his.

She walked them to the door. Right before Isobel closed it, Jon turned.

“Mrs. Lewis, do you know who Mrs. Robinson’s doctor was?” Jon asked before she closed the door.

“I do. I recommended her. Dr. Leavenworth, down at Good Samaritan Hospital.”