Gayle Roper - Caught In The Act

“Are you and Mrs. Meister good friends? Would she tell you if things were nasty between them?”

“Work friends, that’s all.”

He nodded. I could see my influence as a character witness shrinking faster than a blown-up balloon without a knot in the end.

“Why were they meeting?” he asked.

“I have no idea. She didn’t tell me. She just asked for a lift.”

“She doesn’t have a car?”

“Her father drove her in to work today.”

“She lives with her parents?”

I shook my head. “I told you. She owns a condo. Maybe she’d spent the night with them or something. Or maybe her father drove out to her place to get her and then drove her to work. Or maybe her car’s in the shop.”

“Was Mrs. Meister surprised when she found her husband?”

“Very,” I said, picturing her reaction. “I think she was devastated.” I paused, then asked a question I wanted answered. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”

He raised his eyebrows, then said politely, “I’m not giving half-baked opinions to the press, Merry. We’ll wait for the coroner’s report.”

“Don’t get so testy, William. This isn’t for publication,” I hastened to assure him. “This is for me. I want to know how close you think we came to walking in on a murderer. I mean, nothing appears to have been touched or stolen. Is that because we arrived and scared someone off? Is there a very mad person out there who might not like Jo and me anymore?”

He studied me for a minute. “Okay, off the record. I don’t think you scared anyone away. I think he’s been dead for maybe three hours.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You sure you want to know?”

I nodded, hoping I wouldn’t regret this.

“The white, waxy condition of his skin, the flatness of the eyes indicating loss of fluid and the lividity.”

I’d noticed the purple-blue on the back of his arms and on the underside of the exposed calf where the blood left in his body had gathered in response to the pull of gravity.

“And,” he finished, “rigor appears to have begun in the smaller muscles.”

“But he’s still warm to the touch.”

“The body cools slowly, a degree or two an hour.”

“Dust to dust doesn’t take long, does it?”

Sergeant Poole grunted noncommittally. “Where were you all afternoon, Merry?”

“Me?” I think my voice squeaked.

He nodded.

“At work. Lots of people saw me. Lots.” And a cannibalistic plant. “You don’t think I had anything to do with Arnie’s death, do you?”

William Poole smiled slightly. He had an interesting lopsided smile which sat pleasantly on his furrowed face. “Not really, but I have to ask. It’s what I get paid for. Now what about Mrs. Meister? Where was she all afternoon?”

“At work, too.”

“Do me a favor,” he asked congenially. “Write down the times you had any conversation or contact with Mrs. Meister during the afternoon. One of my men will stop by for the list tomorrow.”

“I’ll have it ready.” I’d be more than happy to provide Jolene’s alibi.

“Do you know you have blood on your hands, Merry?”

I looked at them and shivered. The blood was dried around my nails. “I got it when I pulled Jolene away from the body. I know I have some on my shoes and on my coat from when I knelt beside her. Even my knees.”

Shortly after that, I was dismissed. Both Jolene and I were in the living room waiting for permission to leave when an officer came to us.

“We’re going to remove the body now,” he said. “I wanted to warn you because I don’t know if you want to see him carried out in a body bag. I’d like to give you the opportunity to leave the room.”

I glanced at Jolene who looked horrified.

“A body bag,” she whispered. “Oh, no!”

I heard the wheels of the gurney roll across the parquet. I grabbed Jolene, turned her from the door, and held her as they wheeled Arnie from his brightly lit home for the final time. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I didn’t even know the man. I couldn’t imagine how Jo felt. Her shoulders were shaking.

When she and I were finally given permission to leave, I glanced at my watch. It was 8:30. We’d been at the house for about three hours. I was already a half hour late for the photos of the AAC-FOP committee, and I had to take Jolene home yet. I shrugged. Hopefully the committee had lots of last-minute plans to make and would still be there by the time I managed to make it.

We drove back to Amhearst in silence. I kept thinking that one second you’re alive, and the next you can be dead. One minute your brain is zipping electrical impulses all over your body, the next it’s flat line. One minute your blood is racing through your veins, and the next it’s a pool all over the yellow tile floor.

A mystery, if ever there was one. What did you think about this phenomenon called death if you didn’t believe that absent from the body was present with the Lord?

We drove through downtown Amhearst, past the cluster of brightly decorated stores open until nine in a mostly vain attempt to attract the Christmas business back from the malls. Shortly we pulled up before half of a double on Houston Street in the older, less prosperous part of town.

The light by the front door showed a porch covered with bright green indoor/outdoor carpeting and lined with black wrought-iron railings. In spite of it being December, two white molded plastic chairs sat on either side of a small white plastic table in the center of the porch. On the table was an arrangement of plastic greens and an angel whose head turned from side to side. A wreath of plastic greens with a mashed plaid bow hung between the storm door and the inside door.

I couldn’t imagine anything more unlike the mansion we’d just left.

Jolene grabbed my arm. “Come in with me, Merry. I can’t face my parents alone. They loved Arnie. They really did.”

The last thing I wanted to do was help break the news of the tragedy, but I opened my car door and climbed out. We started up the steps as the door of the other half of the double opened. A man in a camel topcoat came rushing out only to stop short when he saw us.

“Jolene,” he said and sort of reached for her.

“Reilly.” Jolene nodded at the man but kept walking up the stairs, making it obvious that she wasn’t stopping for conversation.

Reilly watched her with a hungry expression, but when Jolene kept moving, he went down the steps to a car at the curb.

“Who’s he?” I asked as we reached the porch.

“Reilly Samson. He works with Arnie. His grandmother lives next door.”

“Her?” I indicated the gap between the curtains next door where an eye stared at us. I smiled and nodded. The curtain promptly fell back in place.

“Old Mrs. Samson, the world’s nosiest neighbor,” Jolene muttered. Her face twisted. “Wait until she hears about Arnie! She’ll probably celebrate.”

“What?” I was shocked.

“She hated him.”

“Why?”

“Who knows. She’s just a bitter old lady who hates everyone.”

“Even Reilly?”

“Sometimes I think so.”

“Even you?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Especially me,” Jolene said.

“Really? Why?”

“Because I got rich.” With that, she opened the front door.

The house was a typical Amhearst double with two stories plus basement and attic. The rooms ran in a front-to-back pattern of living room, dining room, kitchen, and back porch on the first level with a large staircase in the front hall running to the second floor where a hall opened into three large bedrooms and a bath. The third-floor attic where the roof pulled the walls in would be a single huge room. A postage stamp of a backyard finished the property.