I followed her upstairs, where I was hit by a smell so bad I gasped. Just then, the woman pushed me in the doorway of what appeared to be the master bedroom. She finally seemed to remember English. “Fix her. She sick. When I got here. She like this.”
I heard the sound of a doorbell coming through the intercom receiver on the wall. The housekeeper—at least I assumed she was the housekeeper—frantically rushed to press the buttons.
I stayed back but could see there was a woman in the bed who didn’t appear to be moving. Pillows were propped up against the dark wood headboard, but she had fallen forward such that her face was obscured by her dark blond hair, which was spread out over the white chenille coverlet. A large stain marred the blanket.
As I took in the scene, I heard the whine of a siren and the rumble of a truck motor. Then flashing lights came through the window, and I understood why I’d been let in so quickly. The housekeeper must have called 911 and assumed I was the EMTs. No wonder she’d looked at me so oddly. She must have thought I had medical gear in the paper sack.
Even though I was across the room I had a feeling the person in the bed was beyond anybody’s ability to fix. Because of my extensive reading of The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation, I automatically started checking out the surroundings carefully. The light next to the bed was still on, and a book appeared to have fallen on the floor. There was a carafe of water, still full, on the bedside table as well. Something next to the carafe caught my eye, and I actually took a step closer to get a better look. It was a clear plastic box of what appeared to be little apples. Several were missing.
The sounds of footsteps and voices jarred me from my observations. The housekeeper began to scream and the footsteps grew louder. Two men in dark blue uniforms rushed past me. That was when I realized what the things in the box were. Marzipan. I’d seen the almond-paste candy formed into all kinds of fruits and flowers before. As far as I was concerned, the taste never lived up to the presentation.
This seemed like a good time to leave. As I reached the top of the stairs, two firefighters came up and rushed past me. No one seemed to notice me as I headed down the staircase and toward the door. It seemed a safe guess that the woman in the bed was Mary Beth Wells. I hoped the paramedics would be able to revive her. In any case, it didn’t seem likely she’d be up for discussing a crochet piece.
I got outside and walked quickly past the ambulance and small fire truck. I picked up speed, but when I went around the curve of the driveway I caught sight of the solid blue-green gate. It was closed.
I knew most of those electric gates had some kind of electric eye that made them open when you got close. As I approached it, sure enough, it began to open, but since I was walking and the gate was timed for a car, I worried it wouldn’t stay open long enough. I began to run. Clutching the bag, I picked up speed. The slight downhill slope of the road only made me go faster.
The gate was still in the process of opening as I flew through it. It was only then that I saw the police cruiser pulled into the driveway waiting to come in. I had too much momentum to stop and went running past the black-and-white. Oh no. The doors flew open, and the two patrol officers jumped out and yelled at me to freeze.
I guess running out of there kind of gave the wrong impression.
CHAPTER 6
I SUPPOSE I SHOULD BE GRATEFUL FOR SMALL favors. The officers didn’t handcuff me—they just gave me a lift back up the driveway. Riding in the backseat of a cruiser was not exactly my favorite mode of transportation. The seat was hard plastic and had a residue of bad odors, and there were no window openers or door handles, which made me feel more than a little trapped.
They pulled around the ambulance and fire truck and parked on the grass. I guess if you’re cops you can do stuff like that. One of the uniforms opened the back door and escorted me to a bench on the lawn. Just to make sure I stayed put, he sat with me while his partner went into the house. My stomach fluttered when I saw the name on the badge.
Officer James turned toward me and studied my face. “Have I picked you up before?”
“Not exactly,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t pursue it. He’d been first on the scene of the very first crime I’d been involved with.
His eyes lit up with recognition, and then he appeared concerned. “You aren’t going to throw up, are you?”
Ah, so he did remember. I had rambled on and on that time, telling him I was afraid if I stopped talking I might throw up.
I assured him I had changed since then, and the conversation ended except for him asking me for fingerprint and hair samples and telling me I had to wait to talk to the detective. Since Barry was somewhere on the East Coast interrogating a witness, I knew it wouldn’t be him.
The one positive about waiting was I got a chance to really look at the view. It was better than thinking about why I was there, I decided, as I continued to clutch my purse and the paper sack. I knew there were houses below, but they were out of sight and I had an unobstructed panoramic view of the Valley. It was breathtaking, though I didn’t need any help having my breath taken. I couldn’t help it. Even though I was perfectly innocent, my heart was pounding in anticipation—and not in a good way. It was getting cold, too.
A blue Crown Victoria pulled up the driveway and stopped. By now the ambulance and fire truck had left. The fading sunlight reflected off the windshield and I couldn’t see who was inside. But I had that old sinking feeling in my stomach when I saw who got out. Detective Heather Gilmore didn’t look happy to see me, either.
We had a bit of history. More like a very short story. She wanted Barry Greenberg and I had him. I guessed her biological clock was getting into the red zone and she wanted to get married, so she’d zeroed in on him.
Usually, she dressed in a well-fitting suit. But this time she was wearing jeans and a white turtleneck with a safari-style jacket over it. Something looked wrong, and I realized she must have gotten the call when she was off duty. Judging by the one hand with red polish and the other hand with none, she’d been in the midst of a manicure. Then I noticed the wet white blond hair sticking out below the scarf she had tied over her head. She must have been getting her hair done, too.
I noticed a thick belt around her hips when her jacket opened, revealing her badge and gun. Did she wear it to the beauty shop?
My companion patrol officer went over to talk to her out of my earshot. Detective Heather was glaring at me the whole time he spoke. Of course, I called her Detective Heather only in my head and to my friends since it sounded a little too much like calling her Detective Barbie Doll.
“Okay, why exactly were you fleeing the scene?” she said when she finally walked over to me.
“Fleeing is such a strong word,” I said, standing up. I tried explaining that I was concerned about the gate shutting on me, but she didn’t look sold.
“Why exactly were you here to start with?” she asked, taking out her pad and pen. “How do you know the deceased?”
It was the first time I was hearing it confirmed that she was dead. Even though it seemed pretty obvious when the ambulance left without her. Still, hearing it out loud unnerved me and my legs felt rubbery. I sat back down on the bench rather hard.
I held out the paper sack and told her the story about the crochet group finding it on our table and how I had tracked down Mary Beth Wells as the owner by the color of the thread.
She slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and took the bag. She pulled out the contents and set them on the bench. I pointed to the aqua thread, but she ignored me and examined the diary entry and the note. She looked ready to roll her eyes.