Chapter 14

People accuse me of being cold and shallow. Such a persona comes with practice. Fear is dangerous. Anger at injustice is draining.

How much emotion does one show at a moment like this? Should I be shocked or horrified? I’ve seen worse. I didn’t particularly like Fluffy, but part of me feels I should offer some words of sorrow for the poor fur ball. Strangely, I can find none.

I close the gift box and push it away from me on the counter. Looking out the window at the deck and orchard beyond I find myself saying, “Where’s the rest of him?”

Five years ago it wouldn’t have been the same, but today it takes a lot to get to me. I can’t afford for it to be otherwise. Even now I’m scripting my conversation with Mrs. Taylor and trying to determine how this all fits together.

Mourning the dead is a waste of time.

I turn to look at my companion, “I didn’t do this Nadiya.”

Clearly my words strike her as a bit odd. Green eyes narrow in contemplation. Her voice isn’t as strong in affirmation as I’d hoped, “I know.”

I pick up the small white gift card, twirling it between two fingers. No impressions, nothing except the plain black ink. Someone appears to have noticed my houseguest.

My tone is firm, “You need to go home to San Francisco.”

“What?!”

Her resistance makes me blink. Caffeine is a stimulus I desperately need, so I move to collect the beans, pulling small appliances towards me. “You heard me.”

To cut off her argument, I put the coffee grinder into action. Wisely she bides her time while I depress the button several times, probably more than needed, crushing the French Roast into tiny particles with a blur of sharp noisy bursts.

The joy of control is short lived.

As I add water to the coffee maker, she says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You wanna stay and look for Fluffy?”

“No. We’ll go find this bastard.”

“We?” I shake my head, flipping on the brew switch, “You know some clues I don’t? I shot the wad finding Janet. The police aren’t exactly blazing a trail in the right direction. What exactly did you expect to do?”

“We’ll scope the area, or search the house. It’s got to be someone you know, Hale. This is personal.”

My shovel was found at the murder scene – coincidence? I suppose someone could be trying to frame me, but I can’t grasp a motive. I refuse to be side tracked into theories, and shake my head, “That doesn’t make sense. I didn’t know Janet. And I haven’t been threatened.”

She points to the container that hides the cat’s eyes, “That’s not a threat?”

“Not to me it’s not. It was addressed to you.” I feel quite accomplished at how I’ve turned the argument around, closing in on the win. “So, you’re leaving.”

Crossing her arms, Nadiya resists, “We have to finish the book.”

“You’ve never edited a book on-site before. You can do that three hundred miles away in your security filled, doorman watched, building.”

I decide not to wait for the brew to finish and fetch a mug, collecting the hot coffee mid cycle. I add, “I’m not writing another word until you’re in your car driving west.” Much as I’d done yesterday, I punish my throat with scalding water, keeping me from saying half the things I’d like to. My voice is weak afterwards, “Please, can I have my way this once?”

“No.”

Carefully, I put the mug on the counter. “Well, I guess that means I’ll have to leave. Gonna be kind of boring here without me – just the trees for company.”

“Maybe I like trees.”

“Fine. I’ll go pack.”

“Hale…”

Her voice is softer and closer than I thought it should be. My head turns to see her standing next to me. I really don’t want to go to Tahoe and wait her out; it accomplishes nothing. “I can’t be responsible for you.”

“Did I ask you to be?”

‘Well, no,’ I think, but it’s beside the point. “I’m not much better company than the trees.”

“I’ll make do.”

I reach for the coffee again to give my hands something to do, this time taking a more moderate sip. “I’ll get changed and we’ll walk over to Mrs. Taylors’.”

She celebrates my defeat, “Great. Taking a look around for clues is a good plan.”

I nod, preparing to head off to the shower.

As I leave the kitchen, Nadiya calls after me, “Everything will be all right.”

Why am I not so sure….

We canvas the orchard, but find nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. The black furry body of Fluffy remains missing. Mrs. Taylor is unimpressed by my carefully crafted speech about her cat and that great pet cemetery in the sky. I get the distinct impression after our conversation that she still plans to keep an eye on me without baking any cookies for the privilege.

Back at the house, I retract my pledge to boycott writing until Nadiya vacates the premises. Instead, I’m most productive, producing the necessary concluding chapter in record time and beginning the required edits. I take only one major break in the afternoon, for lunch and to try and reach my sister Bailey. She doesn’t answer the phone.

I try again about 3:30 pm – no answer.

I find myself doing math in my head. The box in the kitchen was left some time before 7 am. It takes 6 hours to get to Southern California. Bailey lives just south of Pasadena.

I dial again, leaving a message, “Bailey. Call me as soon as you get this.”

I find myself staring at the flip phone, unconsciously willing it to ring. I begin to pace about the living room.

Sitting on the couch is Nadiya. She watches for a minute or two before asking, “What’s the matter.”

“I don’t like when two plus two equals five.”

“What?”

“Bailey. I can’t reach, Bailey?”

“So?”

I try to appear casual, “Nothing.” With a half smile, I change the subject. “I’m expected down at the police station.”

Nadiya struggles to keep up with the shift, “Why?”

“Got to do some explaining to Beth’s boss.”

I can tell she wants to say something else, but instead she glances down at the pages she’s editing.

I cock my head to the side, listening, “Why don’t you like her?”

Nadiya looks up, a frown on her face. “Don’t do that,” she cautions.

I take a half step back, and make an assumption about what’s upset her. “I’m not reading your mind. I’m just a good guesser.”

I get silence as a reply. I retrieve my baseball jacket from the chair and slip it on. “Wanna answer my question?”

“Nope.”

Great. This is just what I need. With a sigh, I head towards the door. “I’ll be back in an hour...I hope.”

The police station is one of those places that you tend to avoid. Since Placerville’s town nickname is Hang Town, the local authorities carry more of a mystique. The building however is ordinary, two stories and brown. Standard windows face the street and a half dozen white and black cars take all the prime parking spaces.

I pull the truck into a vacant spot and check the time. It’s just past 4 pm, and I know that Detective Olsen will be on duty and waiting for me. I have nothing new to share. Nadiya and I found no additional clues on the property, and I’m reluctant to discuss Fluffy since I’m not sure what to make of it myself.

I’m expected. I can tell right away that the desk clerk was advised to usher me in. I feel underdressed, the casual golf shirt and Dockers don’t quite hold muster with the crisp pressed uniforms that surround me. The Chief is no exception. His name is William McCain and he’s wearing the blue uniform like a military general. I can almost smell the starch. His hair is thin, showing the signs of wear of a man at fifty. The shiny badge holds a place of honor over his heart and I’m reminded of the Tin Man, his face in need of oil to crack a smile.

I offer a hand to shake across the desk in his small office. He rises and accepts, a bit to my surprise, before he motions with his hand for me to take a seat. I’m interrupted by Detective Olsen who sweeps into the room, dressed in similar formal blue and apologizing for being tardy.

I’m suddenly glad I kept what I thought was an informal appointment. Heaven forbid that I had been late.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Marcum,” he begins. “What can you tell us about the case.”

“Which one?”

Beth remains silent, but her boss catches the slip. “What do you mean, which one?”

I dodge, “Why don’t we keep the focus on Janet Bartholomew.”

“Yes, let's…begin….there,” Chief McCain says, “Detective Olsen took a tip from you and uncovered a missing actress, but you beat us to Pasadena and asked questions. Why?”

I’m hardly surprised that my trip to Southern California is public knowledge, yet the question WHY is always tough for me. I suspect my hesitation is duly noted like the color of my eyes. I’m an honest person so it’s hard for me to be completely evasive. “Sometimes I have to follow my gut.”

The smile the Chief shares is rather snide, “And what did your gut tell you?”

I offer a completely straight face in return, “To go to Pasadena and ask questions.”

Beth jumps in, trying to save the conversation before it turns ugly. “Our interviews uncovered a couple of staff who remember a man who appeared suspicious the night of Janice’s disappearance. He was in the audience and apparently made a bit of a commotion during the performance.”

She takes a deep breath and continues, “The description we have is tall, maybe six feet, dark hair, blue eyes.”

The Chief tries to catch me off guard with, “Where were you the night of March 30th, and morning of April 1st.”

I’ve already seen it coming in more ways than one. “At home. Alone.”

The look on Beth’s face is priceless. The redhead probably expected me to pull Nadiya out of a hat and put suspicion to rest, but I can’t do that. She asks, “You’re sure.”

This does make me smile, “Yeah, I tend to remember my overnight company.”

I look at the Chief and add, “Don’t waste my time. Do you honestly believe I’m this woman’s killer? I’m willing to help but not if I have to defend myself every time I do something.”

He sits back in his chair and surveys me for a full minute in silence. I’ve been in this position before so I’m more than capable of waiting him out. Eventually he caves, “No, you’re not a suspect.”

I can hear the ‘YET’ on the tip of his tongue. This is where I need to look at Beth and she what she thinks. She’s not bouncing in her chair or slapping me on the back, but I sense she’s in my corner.

That's enough for me. So, I say what I planned to from the moment I walked in the door. “I’d like to see the coffin.”