No Turning Back, page 12
We arrived at the station all too soon. I'd been enjoying the rare tension-free moments between Blane and me. Taking my elbow, he hustled me inside. Blane gave our names to the officer sitting behind the front counter and he told us to have a seat in the waiting area. We obediently sat in the blue plastic chairs and waited in silence.
A few minutes later, a man stepped through the doorway and walked over to us. He was about five-ten and looked to be in his early forties. His hair was brown and thinning on top and he wore non-descript brown pants, a white shirt and too short tie.
"Kathleen Turner?" he asked, as Blane and I stood. I nodded and he extended his hand.
"Detective Frank Milano," he said, shaking my hand firmly. Blane introduced himself as well and they also shook hands.
"What's this about?" Blane asked. He'd told me in the car to let him do the talking.
"We'd like Miss Turner to help us identify a body," Detective Milano replied. My mouth dropped open in shock.
"A body?" I repeated and Blane gave me a look. I shut my mouth with a snap.
"Yes," the Detective ignored Blane and answered me. "We think we may have found the person who killed your neighbor, Sheila Montgomery, but need to make sure. We thought you might know him."
I was surprised for a moment, but then realized that this was good news. Maybe Mark had been wrong about shadowy people being after him and Sheila. But I didn't know why the police would think I knew who it was.
"We'll need to take you down to the morgue," he continued, and I nodded.
"Okay." The detective turned and led the way, Blane and I falling into step behind him.
"Have you ever seen a dead body before?" Blane asked me quietly. I thought of my mom and dad and nodded.
"Have you seen a dead body that hasn't been prepared by a mortician?" Blane persisted. I could see where he was going. I knew dead bodies were awful, but I thought I had a pretty strong disposition.
"I'm not going to get sick or pass out, if that's what you're wondering," I hissed in exasperation, rolling my eyes. Please. It's not like I was some kind of fragile flower. Blane didn't say anything more and I hoped I'd made my point.
A few minutes later we were in a chilly room that smelled strongly of antiseptic and something else. My imagination said it was death and decay. I told my imagination to shut the hell up.
A tech met us and took us to an even colder room where the cabinets were. It looked eerily familiar. Not because I'd been in a morgue before, but because it looked just like what you'd see on TV. I shivered and I didn't think it was just because of the cold.
The tech and Detective Milano stood on one side of the cabinet and Blane and I on the other. My earlier bravado to Blane was fading quickly and I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. When the tech opened the door and pulled out the body tray, I started to feel a little lightheaded.
There was a very still figure on the tray, covered with a white sheet. I couldn't look away from it. The smell was much stronger now and my stomach rolled. I swallowed heavily, determined not to throw up.
The tech pulled down the sheet. It was Mark. He looked perfectly peaceful, as if he could be sleeping. Except the entire back of his head was missing.
The room seemed to grow dim before my eyes. I stumbled backward, needing to get away from the horrifying remains of Mark's body. I reached out blindly for Blane, unable to tear my gaze away from the gruesome sight.
The next thing I became aware of was the sound of angry voices. They seemed to come from far away, like my ears were full of cotton. I felt very floaty. And cold. Cold and floaty. The voices were louder now and I could make out the words.
"...the fuck you think you're doing, Detective," Blane was saying, and the fury in his voice made me want to cringe. "Some warning would have been nice." I couldn't hear the detective's response.
I realized I was moving. Opening my eyes, I looked up into Blane's face and realized he was carrying me. I squeezed my eyes shut, immediately wishing I could pass out again just to spare myself the humiliation of being carried by Blane.
Before I could ask to be put down, he was laying me carefully on a sofa. Behind him I could see Milano hovering, a somewhat anxious expression on his face. No doubt he was wondering if I was going to throw up as well. I took a mental inventory but didn't hurt anywhere which struck me as odd.
"Didn't I hit the floor?" I asked Blane, confused. He'd taken off his suit coat and laid it over me. Since I was still shivering, I was grateful for it. His face was set in anger, his lips pressed together in a thin line. At my question, though, they softened.
"You think I'd let you fall?" he replied in a soft, teasing voice that only I could hear. "I have to keep you uninjured so I can remind you that you were quite sure you wouldn't pass out." Okay, I had that coming.
I sat up and Blane moved his jacket behind me to rest over my shoulders. Looking up, I saw Milano. I glared at him accusingly.
"Why didn't you tell me it was Mark?" I demanded. He looked uncomfortable at my accusation.
"We weren't sure he was the same person as the one you said was Sheila's boyfriend," he answered defensively. "We needed you to identify him as the same man."
"What happened to him?" Blane asked. He had been crouched in front of me, but now he moved to sit beside me on the small sofa. Glancing around, I saw we were in what looked like an employee break room. Besides the sofa and a few mismatched chairs, there was a refrigerator, microwave and TV.
"Neighbors found him," Milano said. "He wrote a suicide note confessing to the murder before he shot himself." The image of Mark's poor head came back to me and the room seemed to tilt. Blane must have sensed my distress because he slid his arm around my back and gripped me tightly.
"Breathe slow," he said in my ear. "Breathe deep." I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. I felt the world right itself again after a few moments. When I opened my eyes again, I saw Milano was watching us suspiciously. I knew what he probably thought, seeing Blane's arm around me, but didn't care.
"You're saying he killed himself?" I asked. That just didn't make sense. Mark had been scared and trying to keep himself alive yesterday. He had not seemed like a man in the throes of depression and guilt.
"That's how it appears," he answered.
"You've got it wrong," I said firmly. "There's no way he could have murdered Sheila and he didn't kill himself either. He was murdered, too." I could see the skepticism in Milano's eyes, then pity, which just infuriated me.
"Believe me," I insisted. "You've got to find whoever did this. They killed Sheila and now Mark." Milano was already shaking his head.
"I'm sorry but the case has been closed. Mark was her boyfriend. You yourself said they argued that night, which places him at the scene of the crime. His note was his confession."
"But you're wrong!" My voice was getting shrill and Blane pulled me tighter against his side. Whether to comfort me or quiet me, I didn't know.
"I'm sorry," Milano said, and to his credit, he seemed sincere, "there's nothing more I can do." With a last look at Blane and me, he left.
"Are you all right?" Blane asked. I sniffed. My eyes were wet and my nose had begun to run. Angrily, I swiped at my eyes with my sleeve.
"Fine," I said curtly. "Can we go?" In answer, Blane stood and helped me to my feet. I shrugged off his coat and handed it back to him. We headed to the car and I crossed my arms over my chest. The sunlight was fading and the wind had picked up. After we'd gotten in the car, Blane turned up the heat.
"Don't you ever wear a coat?" he asked. I grimaced. I hated wearing coats. Usually, I wore layers and sweaters until there was snow on the ground. Then I conceded to winter and wore a coat.
"Not usually," I answered. It wasn't until we were halfway there that I realized we weren't going back to the firm, but were headed to my apartment.
"Why are you taking me home?"
"You've had a shock," Blane said matter-of-factly. "You're taking the rest of the day off. You need to rest." I opened my mouth to protest, but a glance from him made me close it. It was nearly five anyway. It wasn't worth arguing about.
We pulled into my parking lot as dusk was falling. I turned toward Blane to thank him, but he was already getting out of the car. In a moment, he was opening my door and helping me out of the car. We climbed the stairs in silence. I hated to admit it, but he was right. I felt shell-shocked.
Pulling my keys from my purse, I went to unlock the door and froze. It wasn't locked. Blane, standing behind me, noticed something was wrong.
"What is it?" he asked. I turned toward him, my eyes wide.
"I always lock my door," I said. Understanding dawned immediately in his eyes and he abruptly pulled me away from the door, pushing me behind him. Reaching for his back, he pulled out his gun. I blanched. I hadn't even seen him put that on in the car.
"Stay here," he ordered. I nodded obediently, but I was thinking "Fat chance, buddy." My cat was in there.
Quickly pushing open the door, Blane took a glance inside. If anyone was waiting on the other side, they didn't show themselves. Carefully stepping into the apartment, he held the gun out in front of him. He disappeared from my view and I counted to ten, okay five, before following him. The scene that met my eyes made me gasp.
My apartment had been thoroughly trashed. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My couch was flipped over, the cushions shredded. The glass of my television screen had been smashed. The few potted plants I'd managed to not yet kill had been dumped on my carpet.
I could see into the kitchen and the refrigerator door was standing wide open, its meager contents dumped out on the linoleum. Dishes and glasses had been broken and lay in shards on the floor.
As I stood in shock and dismay, Blane came back into view from my bedroom, tucking the gun back in his waistband. His face was grim and terror gripped me.
"Did you find Tigger?" I asked frantically. I knew I absolutely could not handle it if something had happened to him. Blane shook his head.
"No. We can keep looking though." But I knew that he thought Tigger was probably dead or gone and his image blurred as my eyes filled with tears.
Carefully stepping over the broken glass, I stood in the doorway of my bedroom. My clothes had been pulled out of the closet and lay in disarray on the floor. I could see they'd been torn. Unable to stomach any more, I turned away.
A knock from the living room made us both spin around. My new neighbor, CJ, was standing there. Her mouth was shaped in an O as she peered around, wide-eyed. But I didn't notice that so much as what she was holding.
"Tigger!" I shrieked, stumbling forward to take him. Thank God. Tears leaked from my eyes as I felt his familiar rumbling purr. I looked at CJ.
"Thank you so much," I said. "How did you find him?"
"He was wandering around outside," she answered. "I thought he might be yours." She paused. "So, what the hell happened in here?"
"Did you see or hear anything unusual today?" Blane asked. CJ shook her head.
"Nah. I work at night so I sleep during the day. Didn't hear a thing. Sorry." I was disappointed, but at least I had Tigger back.
"Well thank you so much for taking care of my cat," I said gratefully.
"No problem. Catch you later."
After she left, I looked around and sighed. What had already been a long day was promising to be an even longer night. And I didn't even want to think about how I was going to replace all of my things. I didn't have any renter's insurance.
"Come on," Blane said, picking his way through the living room to the door. I frowned in confusion.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "I can't leave. I need to call the cops and start cleaning this mess up."
"No you're not," he said curtly. "We'll call the cops from my place. You're staying there tonight." That was such a bad idea. Tempting, in that way that makes you know you'll love every minute and hate yourself in the morning, but still a bad idea.
"I don't think so," I stated firmly. "I can go stay with Clarice or something." Blane's jaw set and I grew wary.
"You can come willingly or unwillingly," he threatened. "But like it or not, you're coming with me." The look on his face made me think he wasn't bluffing.
Somehow I knew that if I went with him, there would be no turning back, a line in the sand would have been crossed. But despite that inner voice shouting at me, telling me going with Blane would be much more dangerous to my well-being than staying here, I gave in and followed him out my apartment door.
Chapter Seven
I held Tigger in my arms as Blane drove. I felt numb. Mark had been murdered, and it appeared I might be next on their list. I held Tigger closer to me. Suddenly, he seemed like all I had.
The car stopped, Blane turned off the engine, and I looked around curiously. Not having paid attention to where we were driving, I hadn't realized we had arrived. Glancing out the window, I found myself gaping.
We were stopped in a circle driveway and my side faced the house. And what a house it was - a gorgeous, two-story colonial style house with huge pillars in front. A long sidewalk led to the enormous front door and discreetly placed floodlights lit the house at strategic spots. The bottom floor showed lights on inside and I wondered if Blane lived with other family members. Or a new girlfriend.
I took so long staring wonderingly at the house that Blane was already at my door before I had realized he'd gotten out. I gripped Tigger tightly as I stepped out of the car. We turned to the pathway and Blane reached over, lifting my purse strap off my shoulder, and carrying it by his fingers. His hand settled on the small of my back as he guided me up the walk.
Even in the deepening twilight shadows, I could see the grounds were spacious and landscaped. We passed carefully tended shrubs, and even though the yard was full of trees, I didn't see more than a handful of stray leaves on the ground. Those seemed to be an almost artistic touch rather than normal autumn debris. As we neared the door, it opened and I paused, hesitant.
"It's all right," Blane said reassuringly. "It's just Mona, my housekeeper." Sure enough, a woman stepped into the doorway, smiling widely. She was a bit taller than me and appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties. Her hair was a shiny silver gray and styled in a sleek bob. Her clothes were very nice and conservative, yet still practical. For some reason, she reminded me of a piano teacher.
"Good evening, Blane," she said, as we neared and passed by her into the house. She shut the door and turned to us, her eyes resting expectantly on Blane.
"Good evening, Mona," Blane said. "This is Kathleen Turner. She works at the firm. Someone broke into her apartment so she and her cat are staying here." Mona frowned. I smiled nervously, hoping Mona didn't think I was one of Blane's flavors-of-the-month.
"I'm so sorry to hear that, dear," she said, and her eyes were kind. I let out the breath I'd been holding. She glanced down at Tigger, clutched in my arms. "Of course you're welcome here. What is your cat's name?"
"Tigger," I answered, "his name is Tigger." Said cat was still snoozing, his purring so loud it was almost embarrassing. Mona reached over to scratch Tigger's ears, which made him purr more loudly.
"Perhaps Tigger would like some dinner?" she asked, and I nodded. She reached for him, and as I handed over my precious orange lump of pampered feline, Blane spoke to Mona.
"Where's Gerard?" he asked.
"Oh, he's upstairs," she said casually. "One of the bathrooms has a leaky faucet." Tigger seemed content in Mona's arms as she stroked his fur. "It'll be good to have a cat around here again," she said. My eyes widened a bit. This was just for tonight. I opened my mouth to correct her, but she kept talking. "My own cat, Morris, died a few years ago. We still have his litter box and things. You won't mind, will you, Tigger," she said to the oblivious cat. Well, crap. Now I didn't have the heart to tell her we weren't staying long.
"Will you let him know that I'm in for the evening?" Blane said.
"Of course," Mona replied. "Let me get Tigger settled and I'll get you two some dinner."
"I'm putting Kathleen in the Garden Room," Blane called after her as she walked away. "Is it suitable?"
Mona stopped abruptly, turning around to look at Blane, and her face registered surprise before she masked it. "Quite," was all she said before resuming her path to the kitchen.
I tried not to gape like a complete hick as I cast furtive glances around the foyer. The whole house had beautiful wood floors with rugs tossed lavishly throughout. A grand staircase, straight out of Gone with the Wind, led to the upper floor. Off to my right on the main level was a grand piano under a chandelier and an archway leading to yet another room. To my left was an identical towering arch that led to a dining room with a dark mahogany table that easily sat twelve.
"This way," Blane said, taking my elbow. My arms suddenly felt bereft without Tigger.
"Mona and her husband Gerard take care of the house and grounds," Blane explained, as we climbed the stairs. "They live in a house that adjoins the property. They decided to come with us when we moved here from back East when I was a child."
"How long have they worked for you?" I asked.
"As long as I can remember," Blane answered. "Mona was also my nanny when I was a child." He'd had a nanny. I'd had after-school specials on the television. I was yet again reminded of the vast differences between Blane's station in life and my own.
The upstairs was just as awe inspiring as the downstairs. A long Persian runner lay on the floor of the hallway and I nearly couldn't bring myself to walk on it, it was so pretty. Blane walked to the end of the hallway and opened a door, pulling me inside. He flipped on the lights and I stared in awe once again.
Now I understood why he'd called it the Garden Room. All four wall featured a magnificent continuous mural. Impressionist painters had always been a favorite of mine and I recognized Monet's Garden at Giverny. Even the bed linen fit the theme. The overall effect was that you were standing in the middle of a beautiful, sun-dappled garden with lavender flowers and a pond with water lilies.
