“What happened?” A small line appeared between his eyebrows. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s a. . . .” I thought through the friends of my youth and came up empty-handed. Back to fiction. “A police officer.”
“What’s her name?”
The short story was becoming a novella. “Sharon.”
“Here? In Rynwood? Has she found out who killed Mrs. Mephisto yet?”
The garage door opened six inches. “We’re going to be late,” Jenna wailed.
“Get your coat, Oliver,” I said. “We’ll talk about this tonight.”
I backed down the driveway, thinking hard. Oliver hadn’t wet the bed in months. Jenna hadn’t had a shouting sulk like that in . . . well, ever. To have the two incidents occur simultaneously made me think there was a single cause. And there was only one way to fix it.
I dropped the kids off at school, made a short stop back home to toss Oliver’s pajamas and bedding into the wash and to put some vinegar on the mattress, then headed to the store and the privacy of my office. Any other time I might have been nervous dialing this particular phone number, but today my fingers didn’t quiver at all.
“Dane County Sheriff’s Department,” said a calm female. “How may I direct your call?”
“I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of the murder of Agnes Mephisto. She was killed in Rynwood two days ago.”
“The sheriff oversees all murder investigations, ma’am, but the deputy in charge of that case is Deputy Wheeler. I’ll transfer you now.”
There was a click, a hum, and then a ring and a half. “Deputy Sharon Wheeler.”
I gasped loud enough for her to hear.
“Hello? Ma’am? Are you all right?”
Her name was Sharon. What were the odds? My multidegreed brother could probably tell me, but then I’d have to feign interest in how he got the answer. “I’m fine. Just a . . . a little frog in my throat.”
“How can I help you?” The deputy sounded busy but helpful. I knew the tone well; I used it myself every Saturday afternoon I worked at the store.
“My name is Beth Kennedy,” I said, “from Rynwood. My children attend Tarver Elementary, the school where Agnes Mephisto was principal. I was just wondering if you’re close to finding her murderer.”
“The investigation is proceeding. The local media will be notified when we have solid information.”
“Do you have anything?” I asked. “My son and daughter aren’t sleeping well, and I’m worried about them. If I could tell them the police are close to finding the killer, I’m sure it would make a big difference.”
“I’m sorry about your kids,” Deputy Wheeler said. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“Thank you.” As if a seven-year-old would care about “everything we can.” I squinched my nose at the phone. “Gloria Kuri, Agnes’s sister, is sending me the key to the house. She wants me to clean out the refrigerator. I should have the key by Saturday. Will it be okay to get into the house?”
“The house is no longer a crime scene,” Deputy Wheeler said. “If you have lawful right, you may enter at any time.”
“What if I find something important? To finding the killer, I mean. Should I call?”
“At any time,” the deputy said, and I realized I must have sounded like an idiot. Crime-scene people had probably gone over the house with all sorts of fancy equipment. What was I going to find that they already hadn’t?
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
Embarrassment heated my face. “Thanks for taking my call.”
“Not a problem. Hope those kids of yours are okay.”
I hung up, thinking that she was just busy, not unfeeling. She probably had children of her own and knew what it was like.
Still, it sounded to me as if this evening’s first chore would be to haul out the vinyl mattress pad.
Chapter 8
Friday night, Richard picked up the kids. While Jenna and Oliver were fastening their seat belts, I told my ex about the wish for a dog and the bed-wetting incident and their reaction to the death of their principal.
“But they hardly knew Agnes Mephisto.” He glanced at the car. “They can’t possibly be that upset.”
“They saw her every day at school. And it’s not as if she died from cancer or a car accident. She was murdered.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
This was Richard’s standard response to anything he wished to avoid. It covered everything from worry about finding the perfect Christmas present to panic over blood gushing from a child’s nose.
“Could be.” I waved good-bye to the kids. “But if you have to buy a new mattress on Monday, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Saturday morning I was at Marina’s bright and early. I knocked and let myself in. The lady of the house sashayed into the kitchen wearing Capri pants and a fitted blouse with a scarf tied flat around her neck. Another scarf was tied around most of her hair, the ends of her light red mop sticking out the top and flopping around in all directions.
“You look as if you stepped out of a 1950s Good Housekeeping magazine,” I said.
“How perceptive of you, daahling.”
“Why the fifties?”
“Don’t you read the obituaries? That’s when Agnes was born.”
My own clothing was well-worn running shoes, jeans unfit to be worn in public, and an aged Northwestern sweatshirt. The purple had faded to a light plum, and half the letters had peeled off, proclaiming that I was now an alumna of NOR WE ERN. “One of us,” I said, “is dressed inappropriately. Wonder who it is?”
“Only time will tell.” Marina smiled grandly. “Shall we?”
I’d parked my car in Agnes’s driveway and walked to Marina’s house. Now we made the journey in reverse. Marina chattered about the Saturday activities of her husband and youngest son, Zach. I half listened to the hiking plans, but most of my attention was on the ranch house in front of us. Beige vinyl siding; brown shutters; juniper bushes in front; maple trees and a fence in back—so average it was hard to believe it actually existed.
We climbed the concrete steps to the front door. I took Gloria’s key from my purse, inserted it into the dead bolt, and stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Marina leaned close. “Is it stuck?”
I’d always wondered if I could sense where a murder had taken place. Was anything left behind? Maybe a piece of tormented soul would chill my blood. Maybe there’d be a silent cry of anguish that only certain ears could hear. Or maybe—
“Let me try.” Marina brushed my hand away and unlocked the door easily. “You must have been turning it the wrong way, silly.”
We stepped inside and into a dusky gloom. “Eww.” Marina blew out a breath. “Stinks in here.”
Marina marched to the nearest window, unlocked it, and pushed the frame high. “I don’t care if it is twenty degrees colder outside than in. This stink has got to go.” She circled the room, opening drapes and windows.
I flipped on the light, flooding the room with a wash of light, and stood transfixed.
Marina opened another window and brushed her hands. “There. Hey, what’s the matter?”
I stared at an amoebalike stain on the carpet. The stain and its accompanying smell were organic; a cloying odor that made the back of the throat feel as if it were coated with gunk. Agnes had died right there, leaving behind a spot made up of things I really didn’t want to think about.
“Oh, ick.” Marina wrinkled her nose. “That’s where this ranky stink is coming from. Why on earth didn’t Agnes clean it up?” Marina’s thoughts caught up with her words. “Oh,” she said, and sat down hard on the couch. We stared in silence at the spot where Agnes had breathed her last breath, where she’d left her last mark—literally.