Wedding Day of Murder (6 page)

She dropped her hand and glared at
him. They drove in silence for a few minutes. He hoped she was falling asleep,
but no such luck. “I don’t fink I wike you,” she declared.

“Really? ‘Cause I fink you’re
pretty cute.” He reached over to squeeze her knee but she slapped him, hard.
“Ouch. Lacy, you hit me.”

“You’we not awowed to touch me. I
have a boyfwend.”

“I
am
your boyfr…You know what? Never mind.” He pulled into the
pharmacy and parked. “I’m going to pick up your prescription. Do not move from
that spot.”

“I’m cold. I’m gonna fweeze.”

“I’ll leave the car running on the
condition that you absolutely do not touch the keys or anything else. Got it?”

She nodded.

“Promise.”

“I pwomise.”

“This will only take a minute,” he
said. He left the car and sprinted inside. The surgeon’s office had called in
the prescription, so he only had to pick it up. It was ready and he was
finished in record time, but he was still anxious as he jogged back outside. He
needn’t have worried, though. Lacy sat in the car, resting her head on the
window.

But when he pulled the handle of
his door, it was locked. He knocked. “Lacy, unlock the door.”

She raised her head and stared at
him.

“Unlock.” He pointed and knocked
again. She shook her head.

“You’we not da weal Yayshon,” she
called.

Rather than try to argue with her,
he pulled a chocolate candy bar from the pharmacy bag and pressed it to the
window. She unlocked the door. When he was inside the car, she reached for the
bag but he held it away. “Oh, no you don’t. Not until we get some real food and
water in you and you sleep some of the crazy away.”

“You wied! I fought dat was fo me.”

“It is for you but not yet. Be
patient.” She reached for it again and he put his palm on her chest to shove
her away. “For the love of all that is good, woman, don’t make me cuff you. Sit
there, Elmer Fudd, and don’t say another word or else.”

She sat back and crossed her arms
over her chest. “I don’t wike you.”

“Yes, I think we’ve established
that,” he said. “Stop talking before you undo your incisions.”

She was quiet for a long time while
he navigated heavy traffic on the interstate. He hoped that meant she was either
asleep or coming to her senses. When he reached their exit, he chanced a glance
and found her head submerged in the pharmacy bag.

“Lacy! What did you do?” he asked,
although the evidence was clear.

She jumped guiltily and the bag
fell away, revealing a face covered in chocolate drool.
 
“I don’t feew so good.” One of her arms
pressed over her stomach. He dumped the medicine and chocolate wrapper and
shoved the now-empty bag back into her hands. “Please try to make it in the
bag. I just had this car detailed.”

She nodded dutifully and sat back,
the bag pressed to her face like a muzzle. Fifteen minutes later when they
arrived at her house, she was asleep. Jason crept to her side of the car and
opened the door with no noise, hoping against hope that she didn’t wake up and
try to shank him. But when she woke, she looked at him with recognition.

“Yayshon, is it over?”

“I hope so,” he said. He helped her
from the car and put his arm around her for support. She leaned into him and
blinked sleepily at the house.

“I’m home. Did I sweep dat whole
time?”

“No, you were awake for part of
it.”

“Did I do anyfing I’m going to
wegwet if I see it on video?”

“There’s no video,” he evaded. She
groaned. He helped her to bed, retrieved a warm cloth, and washed her face. “Lacy,
there’s melted chocolate in your gauze. I’m going to have to change these. Now
is a good time to rinse so you don’t get dry socket.” He pulled out the gauze,
helped her sit up so she could rinse and spit, and gave her a pain pill before
stuffing new gauze in her cheeks.

“Dis is disgusting. It’s too much.
I’m sowwy,” she said. “I fought it would just be dwiving me.”

“This is nothing,” he assured her.
“It’s like washing dishes, and you know how much I love that.”

“It’s too soon fo’ you to see me
wike dis,” she lamented. She lay down and squinched her eyes closed.

“You changed my bandages after I
was shot,” he reminded her.

“Dat’s diffewent,” she said.

“How so?”

“Because I got to wook at you
naked. You get to see my teef. No one wants dat.”

“Once again your leaps of logic
amaze me. Lie down and try to get some sleep.” His hand made a pass over her
head and he took a step back. Her eyes popped open.

“You’re gonna weave me?”

“I want you to rest.”

“Pwease don’t go. I’m afwaid. What
if da bad people come back? Someone twied to kill me today.”

He picked up the bottle of pain
reliever he had given her and checked the dosage to make sure he hadn’t messed
it up. He hadn’t. “When this is over, we need to have a serious talk with your
doctor about medication.” He set the bottle down and looked uncertainly from
her to the door.
 
“Are we sure
there’s no way your grandfather is going to show up early and catch me in here
with you?”

“He’s wif Gwamma,” she assured him.

He shucked off his shoes and slid
in beside her. She rested her head on his chest and gazed up at him, half
adoringly, half deliriously. “I fink you’re spectacuwar.”

“I think if you don’t start using
smaller words, you’re going to do permanent damage to that jaw.” He pressed his
index finger to her lip. She tried to smile and to kiss it. He grabbed the
washcloth from the nightstand and soaked up the drool.

“Did you know my wittle sister is
having a baby?” she asked. Her eyes were glazing again. At least this time her
psychosis appeared to be manifesting itself as affection and not paranoia.

“I did. You’re going to make an
awesome aunt.”

“I’ve never been more jeawous of
her in my wife,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I was supposed to be da one to
get mawwied and have babies. I didn’t even fink she wanted dose fings.”

“You’ll get there,” he assured her.

“You’re so pwetty,” she said. She
poked his cheek, narrowly missing his eye. “I bet you’d make pwetty babies.”

“Geez, is it suddenly and
uncomfortably warm in here?” he asked, squirming .

She grasped his collar and sat up,
so close to his face that her nose was flattened against his cheek. “Someday,
will you have my babies?”

“I will give it serious
consideration,” he said.

“You pwomise?”

“I promise,” he said.

She lay back down again.

“Lacy.”

“Mm.”

“Before you go to sleep, will you
do one thing for me?”

“Hmm.”

“Will you say, ‘I’m hunting
rabbit’?”

“I’m hunting wabbit,” she dutifully
repeated.

“Thank you. Good night, varmint.”
He kissed the top of her head, and she was out like a light.

The phone buzzed, jarring him.
Jason hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He jumped and reached for his phone,
clunking Lacy’s head. It was pillowed on his chest, and she was drooling. He
multitasked—glancing at his phone while reaching for a tissue to mop the
puddle on his shirt.

“We need you.”

Three words from Arroyo, and his
day off was over. Sounds from the kitchen indicated that someone was home and
Lacy wouldn’t be alone. There was no need to stay, no reason except his own
worry. What if Lacy woke up out of her head again? Would she be afraid? Angry?
Would her family be able to contain her? It was a ridiculous notion; they had
been taking care of her for twenty-six years. Why did he believe he did it
better? Why did he believe he loved her more?

Still, he waited another moment,
reluctant to go. He kissed the top of her head and eased from the bed, hoping
he would find Mr. Middleton in the kitchen. Instead he found Lacy’s mom,
humming distractedly as she unloaded silk flowers from a bag.

“Good morning,” he said, never sure
of his footing with the woman. On the surface of things she seemed to like him,
but Jason had the feeling that her words weren’t always genuine.

She whirled with a smile. If she
was alarmed to see her daughter’s boyfriend emerge from her bedroom, she didn’t
show it. In that regard, he was glad to see her instead of her father. “Oh,
Jason. Hello. Have you been in there all night? Better run before Mom and her
boyfriend get home. They won’t like that. House rules.”

“No, Lacy’s surgery. Remember?” He
made a halfhearted motion toward Lacy’s room.

“Oh, right. How did that go? Did
she give you a run for your money?”

“She always does,” he said. “The
anesthesia was interesting.”

She chuckled. “I have the same
problem, I’m afraid. Must be the hair.” Absently, she touched the ends of her
hair. The color was an exact match for Lacy’s; he found that oddly disturbing.

“I have to go to work. The doctor
said Lacy needs to swish with water every few hours, and she’ll need her gauze changed.
The medicine is in the bathroom. I didn’t want her to wake up and take it half
asleep. She hasn’t eaten except for some chocolate.”

“Jason, she’ll be fine,” Frannie
said, returning her attention to the flowers again. “Lacy’s hardy, like me. We
bounce back and have a high pain threshold. It’s Riley I’m worried about. I
sent her home for a nap. Shopping didn’t used to wear her out this way.” Her
pretty face changed to a worried frown. It was odd for him to see a face so
like Lacy’s on someone else. Lacy’s look was unique. She didn’t look like
anyone else he knew--except her mother. He wasn’t sure why that should disturb
him. Frannie had aged well and was still attractive, all good indicators that
Lacy would do the same. Maybe it bothered him because Lacy and her mother were
so different. Lacy was genuine and deep. She cared about people, sometimes too
much. Frannie was…he wasn’t sure exactly what Frannie was, but it wasn’t Lacy.

“Call if you need anything and I’ll
come back,” he said. He was hovering like an idiot. Was something wrong with
his instincts that they were shouting at him not to leave Lacy in the care of
her mother?

Frannie looked up at him as if
wondering the same thing. After a few blinks of what might have been annoyance,
she smiled. “Lacy’s lucky to have someone so caring. You can go, she’ll be
fine.”

“All right,” he agreed at last.
What choice did he have? She was the mother, and he had to work. Maybe his
issues with Frannie had less to do with her and more to do with his own
mother.
 
How many times as a kid had
he been sick with no one to take care of him? Lacy was surrounded by a loving
family. Frannie was right; she would be fine.

“What’s up?” he asked Arroyo as he
arrived on the scene. Absently he noted that his men were contained to the back
of the building. Business at the Stakely building went on without a care. Lacy
would be happy about that, and he made a mental note to tell her when she was
herself again.

Arroyo motioned him aside, away
from the uniforms who were scanning the area, searching for minutia. Just a few
months ago he had been one of them. He tried not to glance with longing as they
painstakingly made their way around the lot. Flat-footing it was often boring
and lacked glory, but also lacked responsibility. Oh, how he missed the freedom
of clocking in and out without a care. Now the job was always with him. The
only time he found relief was when he was with Lacy. He didn’t need an expert
to tell him that having one outlet in the form of his girlfriend was too much pressure
for a fledgling relationship, but he saw no immediate fix for that. He didn’t
warm up to people easily, and he had no time for hobbies right now. There was a
reason so many cops burned out and divorced. Arroyo started to speak, and he
set all other thoughts aside.

“The vic was a journalist.”

“We’re calling him a vic now?”
Jason said. That morning he had been a random dead body, possibly an overdose.

“Name’s Carl Whethers. He had a jab
wound in the thigh. We’re waiting on the tox screen, but it doesn’t look good.
No history of drugs, no tobacco, not even a drinker. It’s like he was Mormon or
something.” He glanced apologetically at Jason. His refusal to partake in
alcohol was a major source of amusement to his fellow officers. Behind his
back, they called him Brigham Young, though he wasn’t a Mormon and had no idea
what they believed.

“Diabetic?” Jason tried. An
insulin-dependent diabetic would have a valid reason for needle marks.

“Doesn’t appear so,” Arroyo said.
“Looks like a normal, healthy guy with a puncture.”

“Not good,” Jason said.

“Yeah, I’ve done the preliminaries
here. Junky Joe the ‘security guard’ was obviously my first suspect, but his
sister verified his alibi. Lucky for him he happened to stay home last night
and not go prowling.”

Jason said nothing. Part of being a
good cop was setting personal feelings aside. He liked Joe and wouldn’t have
considered him a suspect. Not only had he given up drugs a while ago, but he
was far too frail to lift a guy into a dumpster without help.

“I’ve searched into the guy’s
background some, and he has no priors, no record. He seemed to be an up and up
journo, and he seemed to feel he was on to something here. That’s where you
come in. We’ve got this scene pretty well tied up, but we just found out from his
employer that he’d rented a trailer. No one’s been there yet. After that, I’m
going to need your help with the interviews.”

Jason nodded and surveyed the scene
once more before he left. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Arroyo was shoving
him off, but that didn’t make sense. Why would he call him in only to shut him
out? Perhaps Lacy’s dislike of the man was coloring his judgment. He hoped not.
He drove to his house and retrieved his gun from the lockbox in his closet. Now
that he no longer wore a uniform, he had no need to carry his gun every day. He
missed the comforting weight of it on his hip. He still shuttled it back and
forth to work so that it was nearby in case he needed it, and he wore it
occasionally, but it wasn’t the same. Jason was a creature of habit and
routine; he enjoyed the daily rituals that made him feel secure and in charge
of his surroundings. Putting on his uniform, vest, badge, and gun had been a
good way to prepare for his workday. Now his uniform consisted of khakis and a
tie. What did that prepare him for? Bureaucracy.

He slipped on the shoulder holster,
switched to his work vehicle, and set off again.

Carl Whethers’ tiny camper was
parked on a vast piece of land. Jason would need to track down the landowner
and see if he’d had any contact with the victim. Most likely, Carl had been an
unwelcome squatter, but Jason needed to make sure. Even the most casual,
innocuous contact could be important in a murder investigation. He knocked on
the door, his hand on his gun. While it was unlikely that the killer was
lingering inside the trailer and would answer the door, a cautious cop was a
live cop. No one answered. He retrieved a crowbar from his SUV and popped the
door.

The camper smelled musty and stale,
exactly like a small, enclosed space that was rarely used. The door opened into
a living room. Jason made short work of tossing the couch. After his search, he
put it back together, unable to stomach the untidiness. There was a small table
and chair, but the cushion didn’t come off the chair. He searched two cupboards
and then he was in the kitchen.
 

A can of tuna had been consumed
without the benefit of a bowl. The empty can and fork sat forlornly in the
sink. Jason grimaced and turned away, sickened by the smell as much as the
sight. He would rather deal with dead bodies than messes. How did people live
this way? He would prefer to take a kidney punch than to ever leave a dirty can
in the sink. There were only a few cupboards in the kitchen, stocked mostly
with dry goods and nonperishables. Except for an apple on the counter, the
camper was lacking in any fresh food.

For a moment, he pushed aside the
job and took in his surroundings. Jason had been camping twice as a
kid—once with some guys from the football team, and once with the boy
scouts. He had loved it, but had never felt the need to get away when he was
working the beat. Now that he was a detective, things were different. He needed
a mental break. He wanted to take Lacy, but the image of her sleeping in a tent
wouldn’t form. Maybe a camper was the perfect compromise, although he would
have to investigate the safety devices on the stove. Lacy and open flames
didn’t mix.

He shook his head, pushing aside
the thoughts about camping. His ability to compartmentalize was an invaluable
asset. The job was different from his life. He needed it that way for his
sanity. Putting his cop hat back on, he moved on to the bedroom and stopped
short. Lacy’s face stared back at him from the camper’s wall.

She was everywhere; her face
covered the wall from top to bottom. He recognized himself in a few of the
pictures. The last picture was taken yesterday sometime during their run. His
fingers were wound in Lacy’s hair and he was smiling; Lacy looked like she was
gasping in pain. An initial review of the pictures seemed to suggest that they
were in chronological order, beginning sometime in high school. The first
picture was of Lacy in a new band uniform. Though his memories of her from that
time were vague, he did know that the band got new uniforms their senior year
because the football team had gotten new uniforms, too.

After that, the pictures were like
a timeline of Lacy’s metamorphosis. In the first picture, she was chubby,
awkward, with frizzy hair, oversized glasses that turned dark in the sun, and a
retainer. She also had a large, purple goose egg on the side of her forehead.
As the timeline progressed, she slimmed down, the glasses and retainer
disappeared, and the frizz in her hair made way for smooth, glossy waves. The
only common factor was the bruises. There was one in almost every picture,
though the location moved from place to place. If he weren’t in shock, he would
have found that amusing. He recognized Kimber from a couple of the college
pictures, along with an Asian kid he presumed to be Andy.

He studied the pictures for a long
time and sat on the bed, dropping his head to his hands. This was not good.
Lacy was the first person on the scene, the first person to find the body, and
now her pictures were on the dead guy’s wall. Objectively, that made her the
prime suspect. His head jerked up as a new thought occurred. He could hide
them. He was the first person on the scene; no one had to know about the
pictures of Lacy. Her name didn’t have to be mentioned. What was the point,
anyway? Jason knew she wasn’t the murderer. For a moment, he let himself
believe that he would do it. The vision of himself ripping down the pictures
and tossing them away relieved a little of his pressing anxiety. He wouldn’t do
it, though. He couldn’t stomach bad cops. Even though he knew Lacy wasn’t
guilty, destroying evidence was wrong; it went against everything he believed.
He would include the photos and have faith that the system would work as it
should. The truth would out, and Lacy would be off the hook.

Besides, even though she wasn’t the
killer, she was still somehow involved in this case. Why else was her picture
plastered on a dead man’s wall? That question disturbed him more that the
thought of her being falsely accused. What was going on?

He stood and took pictures of the
wall to preserve the scene as he’d found it. He snapped a half dozen pictures
of each room in the camper, pulling out drawers and opening cupboards to show
their contents, and then he removed the pictures and bagged them, marking them
with the date and time for evidence. When that was finished, he drove back to
the office. The protesters sat in the lobby singing Simon and Garfunkel songs,
led by the intrepid, dread-locked female. Her voice rose loudest among those
assembled, off-key and singing almost all the wrong words. Jason refrained from
telling her that it wasn’t, “a Pikachu, Mrs. Robinson,” just like he refrained
from requesting the “Sound of Silence.” He eased past them, ignoring them when
they snorted and squealed. He locked his gun in his desk drawer, deposited the
pictures in the evidence room, and went to find Arroyo.

He found him in the break room,
shooting the breeze with the mayor whose feet were propped casually on a table.
Jason stopped short in the entryway, disconcerted by the scene. It wasn’t just
that the mayor had no jurisdiction here. He was in charge of the town, but the
sheriff’s office covered the entire county. No, the off-putting feeling came
more from the conspiratorial air between the two men. The mayor caught sight of
Jason and dropped his feet. Arroyo saw him and stood upright.