That brief, never repeated encounter made the garden all the more valuable to her. She had spent a long time in the garden late this afternoon, watering it, trying to protect it from the heat. She had gone out to it again in the early evening, after supper but before the summer sun was down, letting its colors and fragrances ease her mind, cutting flowers for her table.
Jim Lawrence parked the patrol car next to the curb in front of the Darren house, allowing himself the luxury of a sigh as he pocketed the keys. This had been one helluva night, the worst he had faced since becoming a sheriff’s deputy, and it was far from over. He had been glad to let the high muckety-mucks take over at the refinery. He had no desire to try to juggle the demands of firefighters, OSHA, oil company men and every kind of law enforcement yahoo between here and God’s forgiveness. Let the sheriff handle it himself.
The task he had been given that night was bad enough. He had spent the last four hours getting in touch with families who lived outside of town, out on farms, and bringing someone from each family to the temporary morgue at the junior high school. Mothers, fathers, wives, husbands-brought them into town to help identify the bodies (“No, Mrs. Reardon, he wasn’t fighting anybody. His fists are up because… well, that’s just what happens to the muscles in a fire.” How could you say that gently?) For some, all they could do was give some needed information (“Who was his dentist, Mr. Abbot?”) to the harried coroners.
Emma, the woman who worked dispatch, did her best, but she was fairly new on the job and ill-prepared for a disaster of this magnitude. In the midst of the chaos that came with the refinery fire, she had managed to log a call from Kaylie Darren, asking Jim to come by, no matter how late, whenever he had a minute. It was important that he come by, but it could wait.
Emma hadn’t managed to find out what Mrs. Darren had wanted. He tried to guess, figured she must be having problems with her neighbors. Maybe the Hansons’ teenage sons had been causing her some trouble. They had been knocking over mailboxes, setting off firecrackers and making general nuisances of themselves this summer. Hormones and heat. Bad combination.
Still, Kaylie wasn’t the type to complain about such things. He had known her back before she was Mrs. Darren. Kaylie Lindstrom. They went to high school together. She was blond, blue-eyed, skinny. Just started to fill out some when Joseph Darren had nabbed her. Have to give the son of a bitch that much-he had foresight then.
Jim mused over all he knew of Joseph Darren. Mother was a suicide. He had lived in Wichita for a while, got a girl pregnant. He gave his daughter his name, but never married her mother. Had the daughter with them every other weekend. Of course, that was when she was little. Daughter was grown by now. Hell, she must be-what, twenty-two? Older than most of the students Joseph Darren was rumored to be sleeping with. Jim remembered hearing that the daughter was married not long ago. Maybe she did better for herself than Kaylie did.
He thought of the day Kaylie had shown him the garden. He thought she had seemed starved for attention, and he had meant to come by again sometime. But maybe because she seemed starved for attention, he had hesitated to do so.
He got out of the patrol car and walked wearily toward the house, wondering if Kaylie knew her garage light was on.
She met him at the door, opened it and beckoned him inside before he could knock. Must have been watching for the patrol car. He stood in the front hallway, studying her for a moment. She looked good, slender and fit, but she was tense and talking too fast. Asked him to come in, thanked him for coming over, said she knew that he probably had his hands full what with the fire and all and… and trailed off, apparently not able to say whatever it was she had to say. His weariness left him then. He realized that something very serious was going on; she hadn’t called to complain about the Hanson kids or anything like that. He already knew he wasn’t going to like it.
He had seen this before, when a person had something they wanted to tell him, but couldn’t lay his or her hands on the starting thread of the story. He would make the first tug, so that she could begin the unraveling.
“Emma was a little flustered tonight, Kaylie. She didn’t tell me what it was you needed to see me about.”
“No, I-I guess I forgot to tell her.”
Tug or wait? He waited. She was looking up at him now, searching his face. Goddamn, it was hot in this house. What was she looking for?
“Kaylie?”
“Joseph’s dead.”
Wait. Keep waiting, he told himself.
“He’s in the garage.”
“Why don’t you show me, Kaylie?”
She nodded. He followed her into the kitchen, to the door leading to the garage. When she opened it, there was another blast of heat, and as he entered the garage he realized that the clothes dryer was on. But that distracted him only for a moment.
Jim saw the feet first. The shoes, black leather shoes; dark gray socks; sharply-creased gray pants, stained; fingers curving, hands limp at his sides; long-sleeved white shirt (stray thought: must have been hot, wearing that thing on a day like today); red tie, collar, rope; head bent forward, eyes open and staring down; rope continuing to rafters. One straight, still line of lifelessness. Ladder not far away. All baldly illuminated from overhead by a single light bulb in a white ceramic socket.
Behind him, Jim heard the rhythmic hum and whisper of the dryer.
In front of him, Kaylie swayed a little, and he caught her to him, letting her bury her face on his shoulder. She didn’t cry, she didn’t even put her arms around him, just leaned into him. He held on to her.
Joseph Darren’s lifeless eyes continued to stare down. Jim stared back.
You son of a bitch. Just like your mother. Wasn’t that enough to teach you what this would be like for Kaylie, coming in here to find you like this?
“Let’s go back into the house,” he said.
She looked up at him. Didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Kept watching his eyes. What was she looking for?
“Shouldn’t we cut him down?” she asked.
“No, I’m sorry, we can’t. With this fire, well, I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a while before I can get a crime scene team out here.”
“A crime team?”
“An investigator, a criminalist, whoever else they want to call in. And a coroner. A suicide is a reportable death. I’m sorry, Kaylie; it’s the way I have to handle it. Let’s go inside.”
She let him lead her back into the kitchen. He closed the door to the garage and felt her relax a little as it clicked shut. The kitchen was bright and gleaming, its white-tiled counters scrubbed, the white linoleum shining. The second hand on a round, plain-faced, battery-operated clock ticked away the time with small, jerking movements. On a dish drainer below it, two plain, white dishes, a wine glass and two sets of silverware were drying. On the kitchen table, a red vase held a wild assortment of summer blossoms, mostly roses.
“From your garden?” he asked.
“Yes, I brought them in today. Can I get you something cold to drink?”
“Thanks, that would be nice. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“You’re leaving?”
Looking at her troubled face, he felt another surge of anger toward the man in the garage. Hell, and he hadn’t done so well by her himself; left her waiting around with her husband’s corpse for several hours.
“Just for a minute. I’m just going to go out to the car; I’ll be right back. You’ll be all right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Hot as it was outside, it was actually cooler than in the house. The stench from the fire was all that kept him from asking Kaylie to talk to him on the porch. He called in on his radio; Emma, who was feeling guilty about not taking a better message from Kaylie, called him back and told him that she had tried to get the county people to cooperate, but it would be at least an hour before they could get anyone out to him. He gathered up his clipboard and forms.