A Curious Incident, page 5
“Thank you. I’d like to see your garden, if that would be okay. Where the vandalism happened.”
“I’ll take you,” Lauren said. “It’s a mess.”
David hesitated. I gave him a smile. He shrugged. “Okay. Lauren, will you show Ms. Doyle to the backyard. I’ll tell Sheila you’re here. No guarantee she’ll talk to you.”
“Which,” I said to myself as much as to Lauren, “is why I can’t do what the police can.”
Still carrying her cat, the girl led us through the house. I kept hold of Violet’s leash and she trotted along beside me. A wide oak stairway curved upstairs, and the foyer opened onto a hallway leading deeper into the house. I glanced into rooms as we passed. The house was new, everything beautifully decorated and spotlessly tidy. The art was good, but chosen, I thought, more to complement the decorating scheme than because the buyer liked it. The whole house—the downstairs anyway—had a soulless quality, as though the decor had been plucked directly out of a designer’s catalogue, with no attempt to customize it for taste or comfort. The kitchen was enormous, tall windows trimmed with yellow and blue valances, glass-fronted cream cabinets, blue glass backsplash, a granite-topped island, and polished hardwood floors. French doors opened onto a spacious wooden deck, placed to give the most optimal view of the garden. Snowball squirmed in Lauren’s arms, but she held onto the cat tightly.
Jayne sucked in a breath. It was fully dark now, but the outside lights were strong, and more light streamed out of the kitchen.
The devastation was immediately obvious. Naked branches and bare earth. Torn flowers scattered across the ground, shredded leaves, holes scratched into the golf-course-quality lawn here and there, apparently at random. Some large white and gray stones, which had probably been arranged in a deliberate design, were piled in a shapeless clump on the grass, and pottery was either smashed or the vessels tipped over.
“Did your parents do anything to tidy up? After this happened?” I asked.
“No. Mom was too upset all day, and then the police came.”
“Were you here Sunday morning? Did you see the damage?”
“Oh yeah. I heard Mom screaming, and I thought she was being murdered or something.” She ducked her head. “Sorry—that wasn’t funny.”
“I understand.”
“I came running down the stairs and found her having a total fit.”
“Had you been outside yourself that morning?”
“No. I was told I had to stay in the house when the garden visitors were here. I was still in bed when I heard Mom screaming. I was supposed to go to Aunt Irene’s for a sleepover later anyway, so I called her and told her what was happening, and she came to pick me up.”
“Where was your father?”
“He got home this morning. After Aunt Irene and I went to the police station to get Mom.”
“Do you know where he was on Sunday?” I had to ask the question, and I hoped Lauren wouldn’t realize I was checking on his alibi.
She was a smart girl—she shot me a look, but she answered. “Something to do with work. He travels a lot.” She ducked her head again and stroked Snowball.
“I see,” I said. “I’m going to have a look around. You and Snowball stay here with Jayne.”
I handed Violet’s leash to Jayne, opened the French doors, and stepped onto the wooden deck that ran the width of the house. The deck held a table and eight chairs, a gleaming steel barbecue, and a white wicker couch with matching chairs covered with bright blue and yellow cushions. Iron urns and terra-cotta pots overflowed with lush flowers, tall grasses, and trailing vines. The deck area appeared to be untouched, no doubt because the vandal didn’t want to get too close to the house.
The yard was about a fifth of an acre in size, and the garden appeared to have been formally laid out in a series of perennial beds interspersed with bushes and trees. I walked across the lawn, taking care where I put my feet.
Ryan would have had this area searched, particularly as the vandalism might relate to the murder, but the police didn’t have unlimited resources, and the scene of Anna’s death would have taken most of their attention.
Other than the deck, which had been left alone, the damage was widespread. I studied the garden carefully, but I could see nothing I thought might be significant. The vandal or vandals had brought scissors or shears of some sort—branches of bushes and stems of flowers were cleanly cut—but they hadn’t taken down anything more substantial, such as large tree branches. That would suggest they’d carried nothing bigger than would fit in a pocket or tote bag. The dug-up patches of lawn were no larger than a couple of inches across, doable with a small trowel. I could see no noticeable pattern to the destruction or figure out why some patches of plants had been left alone while others appeared to have been completely destroyed.
I examined the earth in the disturbed flowerbeds, looking for footprints. It hadn’t rained for several days, but Sheila kept her garden watered, and a few imprints of small feet were pressed into the earth. Lauren or her friends, I assumed. A light, round depression about twice the size of a quarter marked the ground next to some of the prints. I studied the marks carefully, but couldn’t guess what had made them unless it had been a toy of some sort. I searched for threads or scraps of cloth that might have become snagged on broken branches, but came up empty-handed.
I rubbed my fingers lightly across my right cheek and studied the ruins of the garden for a long time. When I was satisfied I could learn no more, I headed back to the house.
There was a savageness to this destruction, shocking in its depth of feeling. Not that I’d thought the mob had put out a contract on Sheila Tierney’s garden, but it was clear that whoever had done this had truly hated Sheila.
Sheila or her husband, David. I mustn’t forget that David lived here too.
Jayne and Lauren stood at the kitchen windows watching me. David had joined them, but not Sheila.
“I noticed some firm patches of bare earth between the flower beds,” I asked when I was back in the kitchen. “Did the garden have statues?”
“Yes,” David said. “Sheila likes Greek- and Roman-style figures, and we had a few dotted around. Nothing very big, though. The police took them. Looking for fingerprints maybe?”
“Probably. Is Sheila coming down?”
He shook his head. “She’s asleep. I left her. It’s been a hard day. I’ll tell her you were here and suggest she give you a call in the morning.”
“Do you do any of the gardening yourself?”
“Some. I mow the lawn, lug plants around, dig up new beds, trim dead branches, take things to the dump.” He smiled but his smile was strained. “I’m not allowed to do much more.”
Allowed was an interesting choice of words. I let it pass. “You and Sheila do the maintenance yourself? Must be a lot of work.”
His face twisted and he rubbed at his chin. “We used to have a landscaping company that came twice a week, but … we let them go.” His eyes turned from me and darted around the room, settling on nothing. “They … uh … didn’t get along with Sheila.”
He was lying. I filed that thought away and thanked him for his time.
“You were outside for a long time,” Lauren said eagerly. “I bet you discovered all sorts of things the police missed, didn’t you? Like Sherlock Holmes does.” Snowball had disappeared. Bored, no doubt, as no one was paying her any attention.
“I’ll have to think it all over,” I said. “It’s quite a mess out there.”
“I like it.” Lauren lifted her chin and spoke firmly. “I’m glad they did it.”
“Lauren!” David said. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. Maybe now I can play in my own backyard without Mom yelling at me to stay away from the stupid flowers.” She looked down at Violet, sitting politely at her feet. “My friend Alice has a dog. When I go over there, we can play with the dog in the yard. Throw the ball and everything. No one yells at us if the ball goes into the flowerbeds and we have to go after it. I hate our garden! I’m glad it’s ruined. So there!” She burst into tears and ran out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” David said. “She’s upset. She didn’t mean that.”
“Sure she did,” I said. “No child wants to live in a museum. Thanks again for your time.”
And with that, Jayne and I left.
Chapter Six
“For someone who insists she’s not investigating,” Jayne said, “you spent a lot of time poking around that garden.”
“What can I say? It presents an interesting puzzle.”
On the way back to my house, we took a detour to the town park. Officer Johnson and the crime scene tape were gone, and I ducked into the woods after asking Jayne to stay on the sidewalk with Violet.
I switched on the flashlight app on my phone and used it to illuminate the trail laid down by countless feet wearing big heavy boots. I soon came to a patch of disturbed earth beneath an ancient oak tree. This, I assumed, was the spot where the body had been lying when it was found. I was only a few steps from the street, close enough that I could hear Jayne telling Violet I’d be right back, but the only light came from my phone. I didn’t see anything significant, but I hadn’t expected to. The police had been thorough.
I switched off the flashlight app and stood still, enveloped in the near-complete darkness. A car passed on the street, a small animal moved in the undergrowth, and Jayne continued chatting to Violet. The sound of the incoming tide crashing to shore was faint and distant. My eyes slowly became adjusted to the ambient light leaking through the trees, and I retraced my steps.
When I emerged onto the sidewalk, Violet swung toward me and Jayne started to speak. I held up my hand. It was ten o’clock. Twenty-four hours ago, Anna Wentworth and her dog had walked down this sidewalk and gone into the woods. Only the dog had come out again.
Almost certainly, Anna would have been on the sidewalk when she approached this spot. Did she go into the woods voluntarily? If so, why?
She didn’t have to have been lured there. She might have simply allowed the dog to lead her into the woods, perhaps so it could visit a favorite spot under a tree. I thought it unlikely her attacker would strike when she was standing in plain view on the sidewalk. It might have been dark, but this was an open space. Cars and people passed, windows overlooked the street. This wasn’t a neighborhood where people pretended not to notice what was going on.
As if to prove my point, Jayne whispered, “Incoming.”
A car pulled up beside us. The driver’s door opened and a man got out. Violet wagged her tail and dashed forward to greet him. He ignored her and she scratched at his right leg. Violet doesn’t like to be ignored.
“Good evening,” I said. “Nice night for a walk.”
“Nine-one-one got a call that two women were nosing around the murder scene,” Ryan Ashburton said. “As I was on my way here anyway, I said I’d take it. I’m not at all surprised to find that it’s you two.”
“I’m not nosing around anything,” Jayne said. “I’m out for a walk with my friend.”
“Gemma?”
“I wanted to see the scene for myself. I stopped by earlier, but Louise didn’t want my assistance.”
“No kidding. She called me and said she’s wondering if there’s any way to get your work visa revoked and send you back to England.”
“Very funny.”
“She wasn’t joking, Gemma. Even Louise might, if pressed, agree that in previous cases you had reason to be interested in what we were up to. Those cases involved people you know and care for.”
“Except for Maureen,” Jayne said, not at all helpfully. “Gemma doesn’t like Maureen. She helped her because Maureen said she couldn’t.”
“That makes me feel so much better,” Ryan said.
“We’ve just come from the Tierney house. Where, by the way, I have a right to be because Lauren’s my friend.” I sighed. “Ryan, if you could see her. The girl’s confused and terrified. Her mother’s locked herself in her room, and I get the feeling her father’s away so often, Lauren and he don’t have much of a relationship. She wants to do whatever she can to help, and in her mind that means asking me for my help.”
“Gemma …”
“I told her I trust the police and she needs to do so too. Believe me, Ryan, I don’t want anything to do with this, but if I can help, I will. I have on occasion been able to figure out things before the police did.”
“You have to admit she’s right,” Jayne said. “Gemma’s mind works in a way no one else can understand. You were prepared to close the Sir Nigel Bellingham murder as a suicide, but Gemma put the separate pieces together. Never mind what happened over the winter when we were in London for the conference.”
“It’s only because of those occasions that I’m not arresting you—both of you—for interference,” he said. “You have helped us, and even Louise and my chief admit it.” He coughed and leaned over to pat Violet. “Have you … uh … seen anything here we might have missed?”
I hid a grin. “No. It’s possible, likely even, that Anna’s killer knew her routine. Did she take this route every night?”
“Not every night, but often enough, according to the neighbors. Anna walked the dog most evenings, always on her own, usually around this time. Her husband didn’t ever take the dog out or come with them. If she wasn’t home, her husband let it out in the yard.”
“Did the neighbors notice if she regularly went into these woods?”
His eyes flicked in the light from the headlights of his car. “I don’t think our officers asked that.”
“They should. It’s the perfect spot for an ambush, particularly if she did step off the sidewalk. An ambush implies malice aforethought. How long has that streetlamp across the street been out?”
“I don’t know. I’ll check.”
“What do you know about the murder weapon?”
“Almost certainly she was felled by a blow to her head from a rock. We found one nearby that was likely what was used. No fingerprints on it.”
“Which also means aforethought,” I said.
Ryan nodded.
“Why do you say that?” Jayne asked.
“It would be extremely difficult to wipe prints completely off a rock because the surface is so textured. Therefore, the person likely wore gloves to handle it. At this time of year, no one has gloves in their pocket unless they’re up to no good.”
“They could have used something else,” Jayne said. “A scarf, a plastic bag that just happened to be in their pocket.”
“We’re not ruling anything out,” Ryan said.
“You said you were on your way here anyway,” Jayne continued. “Why?”
“She was killed at this time last night. I wanted to check out conditions around here.” He spread his hands. “Not much happening.”
“There’s enough,” I said. “Lights are still on in these houses. People are watching TV.” A car drove by, the driver paying us no attention. “Traffic on the streets.”
“Yup,” Ryan said. “It’s quiet, but not deserted.”
We stood in silence for a few minutes. Violet sniffed at the ground and headed for the trees. Jayne pulled her back.
“Did you see the body?” I asked at last.
“I did,” Ryan said. “I was on call last night, probably got here no more than fifteen minutes after nine-one-one got the call.”
“Did Anna look like she’d confronted her attacker? Fought with him or her before being overcome?”
“At first, I thought so. She had a couple of scratches on her face. But I soon realized they weren’t completely fresh, and I’ve since been told she was in a fight earlier in the day, witnessed by a good number of people. I saw no marks on her hands. Her fingernails were cut very short, but they were clean. All that’s just a visual impression. The autopsy might tell us more.”
“When is the autopsy?”
“Tomorrow.”
A light over the front door of the house directly across the street came on, and the door opened. A man stepped out and stared at us. Ryan lifted a hand, and the man went back inside. The door shut behind him, but the light remained on.
“I wonder,” I said, “if the neighbors were that attentive to their surroundings prior to a murder happening almost on their doorsteps.”
“Quite possibly not,” Ryan said. “This is a peaceful neighborhood in a low-crime town. People aren’t on alert.”
“What are you going to do now?” I asked.
“I’m heading back to the office to read through the witness statements about the argument between Anna and Sheila earlier on Sunday, and after that I hope to get home for some sleep. The autopsy’s scheduled for first thing tomorrow.”
“Will you tell me what, if anything, you learn?”
“No. I’m off. Jayne, see that Gemma goes straight home, will you?”
“Ha! As if she ever does anything I tell her,” Jayne said.
* * *
When we got to my house, Jayne said her good nights and left.
I realized I hadn’t had dinner and pulled a container out of the freezer. Uncle Arthur’s the cook in our house, and he likes to make gigantic servings of stews and curries in the slow cooker and freeze the extras. This one was labeled “Squash and lentil curry” in his large, clear handwriting. I dug further into the back and found a container of cooked rice. Putting the two dishes into the microwave was the sum total of meal preparation I felt like doing tonight.
The effect of the two gin and tonics had worn off long ago, so I took out a bottle of sauvignon blanc and poured myself a glass.
While the food warmed, I took my drink into the den, found my iPad in the reproduction antique secretary, and curled up in my favorite wingback chair. Violet ran in ever-decreasing circles on the hearth rug, finally finding the perfect spot on which to take a pre-bedtime nap.
This house is far too big for two people, but Uncle Arthur and I like to have our own space, so it suits us. His suite is on the upper floor (which, being in a saltbox, is only half the width of the house); my bedroom and home office are down the main floor hall. We share the kitchen, living room, and den.
