Chapter 18
When Annie told the Cumberland Creek scrapbookers that Detective Bryant was coming to the next crop, they decided to meet a little earlier than usual. Sheila ordered Chinese and they skipped out on dinner at home.
“Now, can someone fill me in on what happened at the reception? I mean, all I remember is talking about murder, feeling like I needed fresh air, and then nothing,” Vera said.
“Murder?” DeeAnn said, placing her plastic fork down.
Sheila grimaced. And the women looked at one another.
“You and your big mouth,” Sheila said under her breath, brushing a noodle from her burgundy Virginia Tech sweatshirt.
“Sheila?” Annie said.
“It’s all right. You should hear the way she talks to me sometimes. God knows why I put up with her,” Vera said, smoothing over her place mat.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” DeeAnn said. “What’s going on?”
“It’s just that after we found out that Maggie Rae’s husband hurt her, we wondered if he more than hurt her, you know?” Vera said.
“It’s a long way from beating to killing—if he, indeed, beat her. Hurting could mean anything,” Paige said.
“Is it a long way?” Sheila wondered. “Can you pass me the fried noodles, please?”
They sat in silence eating their Chinese food when Detective Bryant rang the doorbell. Sheila glanced at her watch. “He’s not supposed to be here yet.”
“We have nothing to hide. Just let him in,” Vera said.
Greetings exchanged, the detective walked into the room filled with pretty scrapbooking doodads, paper, and food. He was a large man, tall, about six-five, and broad at the shoulders, narrow at the hips. He was manly-looking enough to look out of place in this group of women, who were all looking at him—a decent-looking, clean-shaven man in a blue suit, with eyes to match. Shoes polished to a shine. Spiffy. Maybe an ex-military man? Hadn’t Vera seen him at the funeral?
“I’m Detective Adam Bryant,” he said, flashing his badge. “I just have a few questions for you. Now, what’s going on here?” He gestured at the table.
Vera cleared her throat. “Dinner,” she said, smiling. “Would you like some?”
“No thanks. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” he said, smiling politely, revealing one deep dimple on the left side of his mouth.
“He knows everything,” Annie said. “One of the family members saw us taking the scrapbooks.”
“Well, now, if that don’t beat all,” Sheila said, setting down her fork. “Saw us taking the scrapbooks, yet never said a word. That’s how much it meant to them!”
“And you are?” he said to her as he held up his recorder in her direction.
“Sheila Rogers. I own Creative Scrapbooking, where Maggie Rae bought those supplies from. We saw the boxes on the street for the trashman and we took them. If that’s illegal, then I’m sorry. We just wanted to make some scrapbooks for her family!”
“Calm down, Sheila,” Vera said, touching her arm. “Please sit down, Detective.”
He pulled up a chair and glanced around at the stacks of scrapbooking materials.
“Well, now,” the detective said, lifting one of his eyebrows. “I’m not so much interested in you ladies stealing the trash as I am in what’s actually in her stuff, and what you are doing with it.”
Annie cleared her throat. “I’ve made a folder for you of her letters, notes, and other personal papers. I’d like it back at some point, if it’s possible. There may be things I can use in her scrapbooks.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Chamovitz,” he said. “And what about the rest? The photos?”
Vera shrugged. “I’ve already finished a dance scrapbook for Grace. Annie’s finished one about Maggie Rae, and the others are almost done, too. We’re making scrapbooks to give her children. Her papers just happened to be in the pile of stuff waiting for the trash—later, the very same day she died, I might add.”
“Bastard,” Sheila said.
The detective lurched backward, eyebrows shot up. He folded his arms. “Such strong language, Ms. Rogers.”
“I think he killed her,” Sheila said.
“Now, wait a minute. You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Detective Bryant said. “Dangerous assumptions.”
“But it does seem suspicious,” Annie said. “Why would he get rid of that stuff the day she died? That’s odd.”
“If he actually killed her, it would be an incredibly stupid move on his part,” Bryant said.
“Could you pass me the duck sauce, please?” Vera asked. “Robert doesn’t strike me as being very bright.”
Sheila rolled her eyes. “I know what you mean.”
The detective crossed his arms.
“That’s a mean thing to say. The man is obviously grieving,” DeeAnn said, glancing at Bryant and smiling.
“Maybe,” Vera said. “Maybe that’s it. But he gave me a weird feeling. I don’t know. He’s just odd.”
“Hmm,” Bryant said, leaning forward. “How well do you know him?”
“I don’t know him at all. He never came into the studio or came to any of the recitals,” she told him. “I’ve gotten to know many of the other fathers, but not him. The first time we spoke was at the reception.”
“Still, just because we think he hit her, and he is a bit strange,” Annie began, “I mean ... to actually kill her?”
Chills crept up Vera’s back. She felt the blood drain from her face. “You know,” she said, “I just remembered something. On the night before Maggie Rae supposedly killed herself, she called the dance studio to set up an appointment to talk to me about the youngest daughter taking dance class. I thought it was odd, because a woman who’s planning to kill herself probably wouldn’t be doing that.”
“That may be true,” Bryant said. “But everything is fine sometimes and then one thing happens to set a depressed person off, you know? Did you happen to save that message?”
“I think so. Come down to the studio anytime,” Vera said.
“I think you need to be careful, ladies,” Bryant said. “Nobody’s talking about a murder investigation. People don’t like being accused of murder.” Just then, his beeper went off. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m sorry,” he said, getting up from the table. “I need to get going. Thanks for the information, ladies.” He held up the envelope and walked toward the door. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Good Lord,” DeeAnn said after he left. “I hope so. What a man to feast your eyes upon.”
“DeeAnn! Really,” Sheila said, then laughed.
Chapter 19
Vera sat back on her couch and took another sip of her decaf. Damn, she already missed coffee, but she was determined to eat and drink what was best for her unborn baby. Her mind sifted through the possibilities this child brought to her and Bill. Was it true that babies brought couples closer together? Was it true that pregnant women craved strange food, and their husbands hunted down whatever they wanted at all hours of the night? Was it true that pregnant women couldn’t get enough sex?
She smiled as she heard Bill coming down the stairs.
“Morning,” he grumbled. “Coffee?”
“Yes, but it’s decaf. I can make you some,” she said, picking up the paper to read more about Maggie Rae’s husband, Robert Dasher, who evidently was a person of interest in what was now a murder investigation.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll get it.”
She loved the way he looked in the morning, unshaven and unkempt. His stubble now as much gray as brown, and with a little bit of a double chin since he’d gained a bit of weight and was working on quite the beer belly. It took at least a cup of strong coffee for him to get that spark she loved into his green eyes.
She heard him scrambling around in the kitchen as she read over the newspaper. He was emptying out the leftover coffee from the decanter, putting the pot back in its place; now he was pitching the grounds and scooping in new coffee. God, could she smell that from here? It seemed as if all of her senses were heightened with this pregnancy.
Her attention snapped back to the newspaper. She skipped to the part about Robert:
Thirty-two-year-old Robert Dasher, Maggie Rae’s husband, has a history of domestic violence. He is currently not an official suspect in the case. According to statistics on murder cases within the home, the partner is usually the first suspect.
Dasher, a former long-distance runner, holding statewide titles, works as an accountant for Brett & Hughes. A spokesperson for the company said he is a model employee, rarely missing a day’s work.
“According to the Cumberland Creek Police Department, Dasher was questioned and let go,” Vera said out loud as Bill entered the room with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, his fingers curled through the blue handle.
“For what?” Bill said, spilling his coffee as he set it down on the table. “Damn. I’ll be right back.” He went off to get a towel.
“They are now saying that Maggie Rae’s death was a murder, not a suicide,” she said, raising her voice as he left the room.
“Murder?” he said, cleaning up the spill. “Really?”
His eyes were suddenly bigger and brighter. It was the lawyer in him, she supposed, excited about the possibility of a murder case in their sleepy little town.
“And—and did you say they let Robert go?” he asked, stuttering.
Goodness, he is excited.
“They have no evidence to hold him, I suppose. They are calling him a ‘person of interest’ and they mention several other ‘persons of interest.’”
“Did they, um, mention any names?”
“Only two, but they claim there are more. Local resident Leo Shirley and Maggie Rae’s brother-in-law, Zeb. Do you remember him? He was at the funeral.”
“Kind of. Usually in these cases, it is the husband,” he said, sitting down in his favorite overstuffed chair. He lifted his coffee to his lips.
Is that a tremor in his hands?
He set his cup down on the table beside him, then took the remote in his hand, flipping on the television.
Soon Vera would leave the room because she couldn’t stand to watch television with her husband. His constant flipping of the channels drove her to distraction—it was almost like fingernails screeching across a blackboard.
“You seem excited,” Vera said.
“Now that they know it wasn’t a suicide and are saying it’s a murder, it is exciting, ” he said after taking another sip of his steaming black coffee.
“They’ll find evidence, I bet,” he said. “He’s a strange guy, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He does seem odd. Maybe just very different from the men around here.”
“I bet he did it,” he said after a few minutes. “Just a feeling.”
Vera believed in the justice system and had absolute confidence that both the killer of Maggie Rae and the person who stabbed Bea would be brought to justice. So her thoughts already moved on to what colors she was going to use in the nursery. She noted, however, that Bill seemed to be taking quite an interest in this case. Maybe he’d offer to take up Robert’s defense.
“I’d like to start fixing up the extra room for the baby,” she said. “I’m thinking we should paint the walls yellow. Um, I don’t know. Maybe purple? But whatever we choose, we need to be careful of what kind of paint we use. You know, some of it emits harmful gases for a baby to breathe, so we need to be careful.”
Bill looked at her. “I’m leaving that all up to you, darling. I trust you to take care of it.” He turned back to the television.
“I’m going to need your help,” she said.
“What?” he said, clearly not paying attention. He smoothed what hair he had left down onto his head. “I’m sorry. I was trying to watch the news.”
“I said I’m going to need your help, Bill,” Vera said.
“Oh, sure, just let me know what you want done and when,” he said, smiling at her.
“I better get dressed. I’ve got a class this morning.”
As she walked up the stairs, she stopped momentarily to watch the weather, caught a glimpse of her husband biting his lip—a habit he only indulged in when he was worried.
Is he worried about the baby? About Maggie Rae’s husband? About what?
After brushing her hair thoroughly and placing a headband on it to keep the bangs off her face, Vera smeared red lipstick from corner to corner of her mouth. Then she took a sideways glance at herself in her full-length bedroom mirror. Of course, she was being silly. She wouldn’t be showing yet. But soon. She couldn’t wait for that beautiful baby bump to appear. Everybody would know she was going to be a mom. Finally. A mom.
Suddenly Bill was behind her, his arms wrapped around her.
“We are going to be parents,” he said quietly.
They looked at themselves in the mirror. Bill’s thin lips kissed the nape of her neck, sending shivers through her. His kisses were as light and soft as rose petals brushing her skin. He held her tighter in his arms, placing his chin on her shoulder.
“I, ah, have a little time to spare this morning. Do you?”
The doorbell rang, intruding on their Monday.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “You stay right there.”
Vera sat on the edge of the bed and began to disrobe. She heard the muffled voices of men. “Detective Bryant,” she had heard that. Those Cumberland Creek police just couldn’t leave her lawyer husband alone sometimes.