The interview ended when Detective Molino thanked me and we shook hands again. I tried to make my shake firm and confident, but it's hard to feel confident with nervous sweat rivering down your ribs and your mouth feeling as if it's stuffed full of old socks.
“We'll be in touch if we need any further information,” he said. “You may notice deputies in the area, interviewing your neighbors during the next few days. And if you think of any-thing else, give me a call.”
He handed me a business card. Detective Sergeant Anton Molino. I wondered if kids ever called him Ant when he was a kid. Probably not without risk to life and limb.
“I'll do whatever I can to help.” Then, thinking maybe that had too much of a kiss-up sound, I took a deep breath and asked bluntly, “Am I a suspect?”
“At this point we're looking at the circumstances of Mr. Norton's death as suspicious,” he said. “The medical examiner will determine cause and manner of death after the autopsy.”
“When will the autopsy be done?”
“Monday morning, I believe.”
“Should I locate a lawyer . . . just in case?”
He gave me a calculated look that to me said,
Yes! Get a
lawyer. You're going to need a good one.
Although what he said out loud was, “That's up to you, of course.” Followed by a smooth segue into, “You aren't anticipating leaving town anytime in the near future, are you?”
“Are you saying I can't leave?”
“I'd think it advisable if you stay here in town. We may want to talk to you again. Or we may need you to come in for fingerprinting.” He paused. “Although, come to think of it, if you don't mind, we could just take care of that now. We'll need your prints for elimination purposes because they'll be in the limousine.”
I couldn't tell if this truly was an afterthought on his part, or if he was just trying to make me think that. Not an after-thought, I decided as we went down a hallway to a room where the equipment was kept. Detective Sergeant Molino was a man who planned ahead.
I expected a messy process, with my fingers rolled in ink, because I remembered that from an old detective show I used to like, but the county had recently upgraded to electronic equipment. I just had to fill out a form, scrub my hands with antibacterial soap, and roll my fingertips across a scanner surface.
I think I'd have preferred the ink. There's something extra-scary about feeling as if an all-knowing computer is probing your deepest, darkest secrets.
I had to wait around a few more minutes until my statement was typed up and I could sign it. When I finally staggered out to the car, where Joella was patiently waiting, I felt drained, sucked dry as an old shell on the beach.
“Everything go okay?”
“I'm not under arrest, so I guess that's about as okay as it gets at the moment. But they took my fingerprints.”
It wasn't until we were driving away that another thought hit me. The other woman.
If she'd killed Jerry, she must also have hit me over the head. Had she done it because I'd interrupted the murder? Or had she been angry enough to kill both of us? Had she perhaps thought she
had
killed me with the blow?
Would she try again?
A
few days ago the big looming crisis in life was my sixtieth birthday. I should have realized when I was well off. Even dumped and downsized had paled. Now I could worry about whether I was soon to be accused of murder . . . or soon to become the next murder victim.
I half turned in the seat. “Jo, do you think Jerry was seeing another woman?”
She didn't seem surprised by the question. Sounding as if she were choosing her words carefully, she said, “Neil at the bakery sent me over to Olympia one time to pick up some special decorations for a wedding cake, and I saw Jerry coming out of a restaurant with someone. But I don't know that he was
seeing
her.”
“An attractive someone?”
“Yes, quite attractive.” She sounded reluctant.
“Attractive how?”
“Oh, you know. Tall and slender and graceful.”
“How old?”
“Maybe twenty-eight or thirty. Long, dark hair. Not messy, but . . .”
“One of those styles that looks like you just got out of bed?”
“Just kind of . . . tousled.”
“And you never told me?”
“Andi, it was lunchtime. They seemed engrossed in each other, but they weren't pawing or climbing all over each other. I heard him call her Elena, but she could have been a business associate. His stockbroker. His guru.”
“That's really what you thought?”
Joella hesitated. “I thought it looked . . . suspicious. You know how you just kind of get vibes sometimes? But I also thought it wouldn't be fair for me to jump to conclusions and tattle about something that could be perfectly innocent. You hadn't been seeing him very long then. He could have been breaking up with her.”
“Did she look as if she could clobber me with a shovel?” I muttered, but I didn't repeat the question when Joella said, “What?”
Back at the house, she told me to come over about six for dinner. “We won't celebrate, considering the circumstances. But a birthday is a birthday. Neil gave me a recipe for a special frosting with pecans and coconut, and the cake's all ready.”
I called Sarah before I went over to Joella's, and she was appropriately horrified by my news.
“Mom, I think you should get out of there
now
. Who knows what kind of psycho nut is running around and might come after you again? Come down here. Just get on a plane and come.”
“I'm not sure I can leave.”
“If they need you as a witness, they can fly you back.”
“Actually, I think they may be looking at me as something other than a witness.”
“What?”
“A suspect.”
When I told her why, she scoffed, but I'd heard her gasp and knew she was worried.
By six o'clock, when I slipped through the garage to Joella's side of the duplex, the patrol car and crime-scene van were gone, leaving only the yellow tape around the driveway. Inside, Joella had pulled the drapes across the windows to shut out the grim reminder of what had taken place out there. She had the radio tuned to Garth Brooks singing cheerfully about his friends in low places.
She offered a prayer, and we ate her great dinner of lasagna and broccoli and salad, determinedly keeping the conversation small-talky upbeat. Neil's new berry strudels that were selling great at the coffee shop, a rummage sale at the church, the odd inheritances Uncle Ned had left Sarah and Rachel, and how Rachel was upset about Sarah going back to college. At the end of the meal, Joella brought out the cake, three tall layers with a rich, brown-sugar frosting jumbled with pecans and coconut.
“Jo, it's gorgeous!”
There was no blaze of sixty flames, just one oversized candle. Joella lit it and sang a sweet “Happy Birthday” to me.
“One candle because you were afraid the right number would bring the fire department?”
“One candle because this is the first day of the rest of your life.”
We both contemplated that statement until she gave a sheepish smile and said, “I guess that's kind of corny, isn't it?”
“I didn't know your generation even knew what corny was.”
“Corny is intergenerational. Probably nondenominational too.” She giggled, that infectious laugh that so often got me going too. “But the first day of the rest of your life is true even if it is corny.”
“And I love it!” I really did. The first day of the rest of my life. For a few moments the awfulness of the past twenty-four hours faded, and I felt a burst of jubilation. I could do any-thing, be anything, no matter what my age! I leaned over and gave her a big hug. “Thanks, Jo.”
Then I blew out my candle and dug in and ate enough cake with nutty frosting to add a half dozen new jiggles to my thighs.
JOELLA CAME OVER the next morning to ask if I wanted to go to church with her. I'd gone a couple of times, but this was the first time I felt as if I really needed to go. Though when I examined my reasons, I was embarrassed.
What did I think, that going would earn me enough brownie points with God to keep the police from deciding they had evidence enough to arrest me? I didn't figure I had enough standing to ask for anything during prayer time, but I found myself more caught up in the sermon than I'd expected. All about Job and his problems, which did something toward put-ting my own in perspective.
Afterward Joella dragged me over to introduce me to the man she'd been wanting me to meet, but he turned out to have an attractive older woman tethered to his elbow. Even eager Joella could see her matchmaking plan was down the drain. I was relieved.
MONDAY MORNING I waved to Joella when she left for work, then tried to get a résumé started. I was on chatting terms with people at several insurance offices around town, and I could contact them. Maybe the school system or county government?
But it was no use. I couldn't keep my mind on this. All I could think about was what was happening to Jerry right now. An autopsy.
Joella had said reports of the death in a limousine had been on the TV news both Saturday and Sunday, but I'd deliberately avoided watching. I'd had numerous phone calls from reporters, and I'd tried to be polite and explain to the first one why I didn't want to be interviewed, but I'd finally just had to hang up on him. After that I'd opted for the handy “No comment” and hung up right away.
Just after noonânot lunch, because with my thoughts on Jerry, lunch just wouldn't go downâthe phone rang. An un-familiar male voice said, “Is this Andi McConnell?” and I felt every muscle from scalp to toenails electrify.
Surely they wouldn't be calling to give
me
results of the autopsy . . . or would they? Maybe they figured it would jolt me into a confession?
I tried to keep my voice from squeaking when I said, “Yes, this is Andi.”
Apparently I was unsuccessful, because after a short pause the voice said warily, “Are you all right?”
“Just a little catch in my throat.” I cleared my throat . . .
hrrumph
. . . to fortify that position.
“This is Matt Fitzpatrick, MATT'S SAILBOAT CHARTERS,” he continued briskly. Apparently if I wasn't actually strangling, he wasn't going to concern himself.
“Oh, Fitz's son.”
“He's running some errands, and I just wanted to let you know that the clients we're expecting tomorrow will be arriving at Sea-Tac at 11:12 on Continental Airlines. There are three couplesâ”
“I'm afraid there's a problem,” I broke in. “I tried to get hold of Fitz over the weekend, but I couldn't reach him.”
“What do you mean, a problem?” The ominous edge to his tone suggested he was not a man who tolerated problems of anything below the nuclear level.
“I can't use the limousine to go over to Sea-Tac tomorrow.”
“But you assured my fatherâ”
“I'm sorry, but something has come up. I know it's in-convenient for youâ”
“Yes, it is. Extremely inconvenient,” he agreed in a voice that suggested I'd knocked the universe's time-space equilibrium out of kilter. “I told my father we'd be better off contacting a reliable limousine service, but he was quite insistent.”
In one sentence Matt Fitzpatrick had managed to castigate both his father and me: I was unreliable, and Fitz made lousy decisions.
I sputtered and then snapped, “I'm sorry, but I didn't know at the time I talked to Fitz that the police were going to find a body in the trunk of the limousine. It isn't something you plan ahead for.”
“A . . . dead body?”
“Yes. Dead. The sheriff's department towed the limo away to . . . do whatever it is they do to look for clues.”
“I see.” He sounded more wary than convinced.
“Okay, look. I think Fitz said he usually picked up people in your SUV, but he couldn't tomorrow because he has an appointment with a lawyer?”
“That's right.”
“How about if I drive the SUV over to Sea-Tac to do it? And I won't charge you anything for my time. I'll just do it. So you won't be inconvenienced.”
If he heard my sarcastic emphasis on
inconvenienced
, he ignored it. “Yes, well, okay. That should work out. You have a driver's license and everything?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, fine then. And we will pay you, of course.”
“I'll be at the marina about eight. That should give me plenty of time to get up to Sea-Tac. You can give me further details then.”
“Okay. Well . . . thanks. I'll tell my father. I'm sorry if I sounded a bit abrupt. We had engine trouble on this last charter trip.”
Too bad. I had a murder.
The tone of Matt Fitzpatrick's call annoyed me to the point that I felt a sudden burst of energy. I changed to my usual mowing outfit: faded old denim shorts, grass-stained T-shirt, and sneakers with holes in both toes. I dragged the push mower out of the garage and blasted across the lawn as if the grass were an enemy I was mowing down. But by the time I was halfway through my side of the yard, I was sweating and feeling swirly in the head, and the thought occurred to me that this exertion might not be the most appropriate activity for someone who's recently been whacked on the head.
I was leaning against the handle, head down, resting for a minute, when two cars from the sheriff's department whipped around the corner at the end of Secret View Lane and pulled to the curb in front of my house. Three officers I didn't recognize, plus Detective Sergeant Molino, jumped out.
I straightened uneasily. Tom was right out there on his deck. The binoculars appeared to have taken root on his face. Had he called the police again? What now?
Detective Sergeant Molino came to me, official-looking paper in hand. “We have a search warrant for your house and vehicle, Ms. McConnell. I'm here to serve the warrant and conduct the search.”