“Yeah.” He left the car and strode purposefully up the walkway toward the front door. Allyson followed less confidently behind.
Lights were still on in what he assumed to be the living room and in a few other windows upstairs. As he approached the porch, he could see a television on inside. “Looks like she’s awake,” Allyson observed.
“She probably won’t sleep well for a while,” he empathized.
As the two stepped up to the door, a cat appeared in the glass partition of the doorframe. The animal looked at the visitors as if he were a butler receiving guests. Sean rang the doorbell and a few moments later, the door cracked open slightly. A woman, probably in her mid fifties, judging by the streaks of gray in her thick brown hair, peeked around the corner just below a latched chain.
“Yes?” Her voice strained like it was an effort to speak, much less be cordial.
“Mrs. Borringer, my name is Sean Wyatt, I was an associate of your husband’s. Would it be alright if my colleague and I came in for a minute?”
“You were a friend of Frank’s?” Her question came from a suspicious face.
“No ma’am,” he answered. “I wouldn’t lie to you and say I was. I met him a few times and referred to him for a few questions on occasion. I work for the IAA.”
“I know who you work for, Mr. Wyatt. My husband had a great deal of respect for you. I’d hoped you would come by eventually. Please, do come in.” Her slight English accent had become more prevalent since her mood seemed to have lifted slightly.
She unlatched the chain on the door and opened it wide for the two of them to enter. “Please excuse the mess, quite a lot of things to do the last week or so, since the incident.”
Mrs. Borringer stood to the side to let the two visitors in. She was casually dressed, wearing a pair of khaki pants and an Atlanta Braves sweater. The woman must have been a neat freak. There were a few boxes laying about, a small stack of letters on the table, and a small array of baking pans filled with various foods, presumably brought over by well-wishers and mourners. Hardly in disorder, though.
“Please, come in.” She closed the door and locked it behind them, ushering the newcomers to a sitting room near a fireplace. “By all means, have a seat,” the lady motioned to a very soft looking couch. The décor was best described as inconsistent. While the outside of the house portrayed a more neo-classical-northwestern look, the interior appeared more of a kind of mosque/synagogue than a home. There were very few pieces of furniture, save for a dark, walnut table that matched the hardwood in the living room and hallways. The walls were decorated with different religious emblems and pictures from differing theologies. It seemed that each wall was dedicated to a different ancient culture or religion.
“This is a very interesting home you have here, Mrs. Borringer.” Allyson broke the proverbial ice with her ambiguous compliment.
“Thank you, dear.” The woman’s smile was sincere. “Frank respected all religions and cultures and appreciated each one’s contributions to the world.” She drifted off in thought, then returned. “He believed that we all came from one place in history and that what had once been a singular view became twisted and changed over the years. But remaining in every religion, every cultural belief system, a part of the truth still existed.” She stood and asked if the two visitors would like coffee. “I can’t have any, though, too late in the day for me. That stuff would keep me up ‘til the morning. But I can make a pot if you’d like.” She waited expectantly.
Her generous smile was irresistible. “That would be great, if it’s not too much trouble,” Sean answered.
The lady smiled down at him. “No trouble at all, Sean.” She spoke like she had known him for years.
While she was in the kitchen, he decided to continue the conversation. “Did you know what it was that your husband was working on the last few weeks just before he died?”
Sounds of pots being filled with water and dishes being moved around preceded the answer. “I don’t know what he was working on.” There was a pause before she continued. “The police came by twice and asked me the same thing both times.”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Borringer. I didn’t mean to…”
“Oh, it’s okay, dear. I know you didn’t.” There was a minute of silence before she reappeared.
Allyson smiled at her as she came through the doorway of the kitchen, a small plate of cookies in her right hand.
Mrs. Borringer returned the smile, “Yes,” she began, “I doubt those incompetents at the police department will ever find the villains that did this to poor Frank. He never crossed anybody, never hurt anybody.” Her face became resolute, “My husband was a good man in a world of horrible people. And I fear that we may never know who took him away.” Rather than breaking down, an odd sort of anger had taken over her demeanor.
Sean was interested in the police department’s role in this whole turn of events. Allyson had taken a cookie and was nibbling on it, listening intently. “You said the police came by a couple of times?” he stated the question when it felt like the lady could answer.
She snapped out of her daze with a start, “Yes. Yes,” emphasizing an oddity about the answer. “It seemed strange to me that the investigators that came to visit me were, on each occasion, a different person.”
It was Sean’s turn to perk up. “What did they look like, Mrs. Borringer, the two detectives?”
A slightly confused look appeared on her face. “The first officer was very polite. He was probably just under six feet tall, had dark hair, white guy.” Then, her thoughts wrapped around the details. “Now, the second fellow was taller, probably 6’3’’ or so. He had a trench coat on but I could tell he must have been pretty strong. His attitude was impatient, though, not very friendly. I much preferred the other policeman.” Her words sounded like a child speaking about a preference of pastries.
Allyson and Sean had finished their snacks. “This second man, did he produce any identification?” Sean had become more curious.
The older woman gave a look of confirmation. “Yes. Said his name was Detective Jurgenson.” She stood and walked back into the kitchen to retrieve the coffee. “Cream or sugar?” she called to them from the open doorway.
“Both,” the two of them responded at the same time to which she responded by adding the substances to the drinks.
“When he arrived,” she continued speaking while stirring the cups, “he presented his badge and ID. Of course, I have never seen those things before. Looked real enough, I suppose. Had to go by what I’d seen on the tele. But he was a pushy young man, I must say. He went through all of Frank’s things in the upstairs office and pretty much everywhere else.”
“Did you notice if he took anything when he left?”
“No. I made sure that nothing was taken. Frank was the victim so there would be no need to confiscate anything of his.” She sat thoughtfully. “I don’t think the man found what he was looking for anyway. After he was done tearin’ the place apart, he started asking me more questions. His queries didn’t really strike me as weird until later.”
“What exactly did he ask about?”
She returned with a silver serving tray containing two large latte cups. “Well, he seemed very interested in Frank’s work. While Detective Thompson had seemed genuinely concerned with who might have had it in for my husband, Detective Jurgenson only asked questions about his projects and anyone who may have been assisting him.” There was a pause. Then, “It was almost as if he didn’t care about finding Frank’s killer at all.”
Allyson and Sean gave each other an interested, momentary glance before graciously accepting their overly large cups of coffee with a polite “thank you.” Sean looked back at the lady, who now sat staring thoughtfully at her folded hands upon her lap. “Did this man happen to have any scars or an odd accent, just something that would set him apart?”