David comes up the aisle, and I slide over a spot so he can join me. “You came,” he says.
“We were friends, I found her,” I say, and by the way he flinches I know that I’m speaking too loudly for the occasion. It’s difficult for me to regulate my volume.
“I know,” David says. “I just didn’t think church was your thing.”
He’s right. Church isn’t my thing. After the accident I stopped attending weekly Mass with David and Nora. At first, I was just trying to regain my strength after being injured so badly, and then it seemed a little silly when I couldn’t actually hear what the priest was preaching about. And then that hour at home while the two of them were away was a convenient time to get appropriately sloshed to face the day ahead of me.
“I thought I should come,” I say, leaving it at that. David’s wearing a suit and tie but he looks worn-out, his face heavy with fatigue. Probably lots of midnight baby deliveries. I remember him staggering into bed after busy nights at the hospital.
I see Jake out of the corner of my eye as he sits in the pew just across from us on the other side of the aisle. He doesn’t even glance our way. I know he’s here in an official capacity. I’ve read enough mystery novels, seen enough crime dramas to know that the police always attend the funeral of a murder victim. Jake will mentally take note of the mourners, focusing primarily on the main suspect, who in this case is the husband, Marty Locke.
I’m still a little stung that Jake dismissed my sighting of the strange man with the bouquet of flowers down by the river. Sure, it could have been a friend or family member honoring her passing, but I’m positive it was more than that. I stare at Jake, willing him to look my way, but he looks everywhere but at me, his face inscrutable.
David leans in close to me as if to murmur in my ear, then catches himself and pulls back. Whispering doesn’t work for me. David never learned sign language. Not that I blame him. I didn’t even learn it until well after he threw my drunken ass out of the house. But I know his facial expressions and mannerisms as well as I know my own and can figure out about 80 percent of what he says.
I turn my head so that I can see his lips and our noses are only inches apart. It’s at once disconcerting and so familiar. “Do you have to go into work after this?”
I nod. “Joseph just told me to come in after the services.” A look that I can’t quite name crosses David’s face when I use Dr. Huntley’s first name. Disapproval? Jealousy? David lays a hand on the small of my back and to my dismay a rush of electricity courses through me.
“You’re still coming over on Friday for dinner, right?” David asks, and I nod. I don’t know what to make of this. Is David just being the friendly, supportive ex or is it something more? I don’t know if I want to find out. I’ve spent a long time trying to get over David and every time I see him I realize I haven’t come as far as I thought.
The funeral service begins, and I resign myself to following the cues of David and those around me about when to sit and stand. The minister is much too far away for me to see his face. Instead, I watch the faces of those who knew and loved Gwen. There are lots of tears.
At the front of the church sits Marty with their daughter, Lane, who looks slightly dazed. The reality of losing her mother hasn’t struck just yet. But it will. I know. My mom died of a brain aneurysm when I was thirteen. She was in our kitchen pouring coffee into a mug and then she was on the floor. I miss her every single day.
An elderly woman who looks like an older version of Gwen sits on the other side of Lane. Does Gwen’s mother believe that her daughter’s husband killed her? If so, how could she bear to sit next to him, let alone be in the same church?
I try to see who Jake is focusing his attention on. For the most part it looks like he is interested in Marty and his behavior. Marty’s reactions look entirely appropriate under the circumstances—intermittent tears, hand firmly clutching on to his daughter’s. Jake catches me staring at him and glowers briefly at me before allowing a slight smile to reach his lips. He’s still mad at me for being nosy, but not very. We’re going to be okay.
I glance around the church, looking for more people I know. In front of me and off to the right I spot my dentist and a few more nurses that I’ve worked with in the past. The reality is that of all the people in this church the only two that I’ve had any meaningful interaction with in the last few years are Jake and David. And David is probably pushing it.
Suddenly, my eyes land on a familiar profile. Standing in a pew one aisle over is P. McNaughton. He’s dressed in clean but shabby khakis and his sport jacket stretches tautly across his narrow shoulders. Maybe he simply is a friend of Gwen’s who stopped by the river to mourn her passing. He turns his face and our eyes lock. I must make some kind of sound, because David looks at me with concern. McNaughton’s intense gaze is unflinching and it’s all I can do to keep from looking away. I’ve had much scarier people stare me down in the ER, but something in his dark eyes gives me pause. Again, just like at the river, in addition to anger I find what can only be described as fear on his face. But not a timid, reticent kind of fear. More of a backed-into-a-corner, fight rather than flight agitation.
When he finally pulls his eyes from mine, I look to the front of the church and feel like I can breathe again. Why is my presence so unsettling to him? When I glance back at McNaughton he’s sidling from the pew and, head down, is moving toward the exit.
If what he was doing down by the river was so innocent, why would he run from me again? I have no idea what I’m going to do or say if I catch up with him, but before I can stop myself, I elbow past David to follow McNaughton from the church.
When I step outside it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight after the cool dimness of the church. I scurry down the steps and to the sidewalk that lines the busy street in front of the church. Looking both left and right I see no sign of McNaughton. He’s gone.
I turn back toward the church trying to figure out what I’m going to do next. There’s no way that after my sudden exit I’m going back inside for the remainder of the funeral. I’m sure David thinks I’ve lost my mind again and I don’t even want to know what Jake is thinking.
I have a feeling I’m going to find out sooner than I’d like. Jake pushes through the church doors and squints into the sunshine. When he sees me he wastes no time jogging down the steps and to my side.
“What the hell, Earhart?” he signs. “What are you doing?”
I could tell him the truth, that I figured out who the man at the river was. I could tell him about the odd messages P. McNaughton posted on Facebook. I could tell him that when McNaughton recognized me, he took off. But what’s the use? Jake will just tell me I’m overreacting, that I’m reading too much into a simple gesture of grief. Instead, I give him a weak smile and lay a hand over my stomach. “I’m not feeling great,” I say. “I just needed some fresh air. I’m feeling better now.”
Jake regards me skeptically but doesn’t press further.
“Nice funeral,” he signs instead. “Good turnout.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Right now, I don’t think I could even fill up two pews if it was mine.” I think of the way that Gwen’s daughter, Lane, kept looking around as if searching for her mother. Would Nora miss me that way if I were to die? Would David even allow her to come to my funeral?
“Aww, come on,” Jake says, poking me in the shoulder. “You’d fill up at least three pews, I’d make sure of it.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “You’re a gem.” I pull out my keys and we begin walking toward the parking lot. “Aren’t you going to the cemetery?”
“No, another detective is already there. The burial is just for the immediate family, but I still want someone to be there to keep an eye out. See if Marty acts oddly.”
“So he’s still the main suspect?” I ask.
“He says he was in Waterloo for work. We’re checking out his alibi. So, until we know for sure where he was, yes, he’s our main suspect.”
Again, I debate whether to tell him about McNaughton. If I say anything I’m sure to get my ass chewed for interfering in police business. But if I stay quiet and Jake finds out that I was withholding information he’d be just as pissed. I can’t win.
“I think Gwen might have had a stalker,” I say as we finally reach my Jeep.
“The flower guy?” he asks, and from the look on his face I know he’s not impressed. Jake crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits for me to say more but he’s pissing me off so I keep quiet.
“Well,” Jake prods.
“His name is P. McNaughton and he was here, at the funeral. When he saw me, he panicked and ran out of the church. He left weird messages on Facebook.”
“Amelia,” Jake says.
“Maybe he had something to do—”
“Amelia,” Jake says again, rubbing his forehead. “You have to stop.” Jake grabs hold of the open car door between us while Stitch squirms between the seats trying to get Jake’s attention but Jake is focused on me. “You need to stop. Let me do my job.”
“Then do it,” I say in frustration. “I found her body, someone tried to break into my house. Have you found out who did that yet? No, you haven’t.” Jake’s face reddens in anger but he doesn’t answer. “I find this weird guy, who is not Gwen’s husband by the way, laying flowers at the murder site and now he’s at her funeral. Plus, he left dozens of posts online about Gwen. Did you even know about that?”
“Are you done?” Jake signs. “You have no idea what we know. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. We’re the cops, you’re...” He hesitates, as if not sure what to say.
“What, Jake?” I sputter. “What am I? Deaf? A lowly office worker with too much time on her hands? A drunk? Is that what I am?”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Maybe you’re right about this guy, but let us do the work and we’ll find out what he’s all about. Maybe he did murder Gwen. Maybe he is dangerous. So stay away from him and let us find out. I can’t work this case and worry about you too.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right, I’m getting in the way of the investigation. Maybe McNaughton has been stalking Gwen and she rejected him and he ended up killing her in a fit of rage. But maybe he had nothing at all to do with this and I’m muddying the investigation.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to say. “I thought I was helping.”
“Well, you’re not.” The clipped movement of his hands lets me know how frustrated he is with me.
“Fine,” I say as I slide into the driver’s seat and try to yank the car door from his grasp. He holds on tight.
“Don’t worry, we got this, Earhart,” he says, bending down so I can see his face, his hard features softening. “You focus on your new job, let me focus on mine. Okay? Let the flower guy go.”
“Fine,” I say again as I start the engine. “I’ll let it go.” He looks at me for a moment longer and I hold his gaze. We both know I’m lying.
He stands upright, shuts the door and then takes a step back from the car. I pull away and when I look back in my rearview mirror he’s still watching me, hands stuffed in his pockets, shaking his head.
12
I drive to the clinic and sit in the parking lot for a few minutes absentmindedly rubbing Stitch’s head and thinking about what Jake told me about leaving the investigation to the police. He’s right, I should, but I don’t think I can let this go. It isn’t just that I was the one to find Gwen—that alone would be enough—but she was my friend and she reached out to me more than once and I dismissed her like our friendship meant nothing.
I use my cell phone to look up P. McNaughton’s address. No less than twenty McNaughtons pop up, but only two with the first initial P. Penny McNaughton on Wildwood Drive and Peter McNaughton on Mercer Street.
I’m tempted to drive over there right now, but to do what? Knock on the door and if Peter answers ask him what he was doing at the river and at the funeral? He probably had more of a right to be there than I did. No, I need to think about this a little more.
Even if I wanted to go to Peter’s house, I can’t. I have to get to work. Jake is probably right, I should focus my energies on my new job. How much trouble can I get into there?
When I walk into the clinic with Stitch I find Dr. Huntley standing at the front desk talking with a woman of about fifty. She supports her emaciated frame by leaning against the counter. Her eyes are haunted and sunk deeply into her skull. Just peeking out from the neckline of her shirt is the raised outline of her port. Dr. Huntley appears to be speaking intently, and the woman looks up at him, hanging on to his every word.
I see that the television monitors placed throughout the waiting area are turned to a local news station and of course the topic of conversation is Gwen Locke’s murder. The closed captioning running across the screen tells me they are revisiting and recycling every scant piece of information about Gwen’s death that they can. I’m about to slink away when snippets of my 9-1-1 call appear on the monitor. They still don’t mention me by name but by now it’s common knowledge that I’m the caller. The newscaster brings up a bit of information that I didn’t realize was going to be released to the public. The presence of a boat around the area of Five Mines where I found Gwen.
I’m a bit surprised it’s even getting mentioned. I never actually saw the boat, I simply felt the wake it churned up. The boat could have been in the area and speeding about for any number of different reasons: a joyrider, an early-morning fisherman late for a day job, a murderer dumping a body. At any rate, the newscaster is advising viewers to contact the Mathias Police Department with any information regarding a boat and its driver no matter how inconsequential it seems.
I want to get back to the file room as unobtrusively as possible but I feel Lori’s hand on my arm. I look away from the television to find Lori, along with Dr. Huntley and a few patients standing at the front desk, looking at me. “You saw a boat? Did you see who was driving it?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not supposed to discuss the case,” I say apologetically, hoping that will be enough to quiet any questions. I don’t know anything and I don’t want to be known as the lady at the clinic who found the body in the river. I just want to go about my business.
I excuse myself and retreat to the file room where someone has set a new stack of files and a pile of unopened mail next to the scanner. I toss my keys onto my desk and decide to tackle the files first.
I’ve gotten through two when Dr. Huntley pokes his head into the room. “Amelia,” he says. “How are you? I wasn’t expecting you back from the funeral services so early. There was no need to rush back.”
“I decided not to go to the grave site,” I explain, leaving out the bit about how I chased Peter McNaughton out of the church. “The services ended a bit sooner than I thought, so I came over here.”
“Good enough,” Dr. Huntley says, pulling a pen from his white coat and spinning it in his fingers. “Sad about that woman, though.”
“It is sad,” I agree. “Did you know her?” I ask. “Gwen Locke? She was a floater nurse at Q & P.”
Dr. Huntley leans against my desk, thinking for a moment and then shakes his head. He fumbles with his pen, dropping it to the floor. I bend over to pick it up and hand it back to him. “Her name sounds familiar, but I don’t remember ever working with her. Are you getting settled in all right?” he asks and I nod. “Great,” he adds. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
After he leaves I return to my scanning and filing. Each piece of paper is an education in pain and suffering. Cancer does not discriminate. It doesn’t care if you are young or old, rich or poor. It doesn’t care about your race, col
or or creed. The drugs and treatments that are wielded to destroy the cancer can be just as devastating as the disease. After all, to battle a beast like cancer, you need to use something as equally cunning and toxic. I scan documents that refer to PET scans, maintenance therapy and IV treatments, I enter words like Zometa and Methotrexate and Doxorubicin into the computer system.
The last folder in my pile is especially thick. Though I’m only supposed to scan documents and then enter basic demographic information into the computer, I can’t help but become immersed in the sad story of forty-nine-year-old Arlene Roberts of Broken Branch, a small town an hour from Mathias. She was referred to the clinic after visiting her regular doctor complaining of a fever, general malaise and an odd lump beneath her armpit. After taking a biopsy of the lump and sending it off to a lab for review, Dr. Huntley diagnosed Arlene with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Six months and upward of thirty chemo treatments later, Arlene Roberts was dead. Each visit and every symptom and complication was meticulously chronicled by Dr. Huntley.
I frown and flip back through the pages. Despite the comprehensive paperwork, I can’t seem to find the report that outlines the biopsy results. I’m sure it’s simply misplaced and I jot a reminder on a sticky note and affix it to the front of the file and then scan and upload the files I do have.
Several files later I look up at the clock. It’s well after four and I log off my computer and make a note of where I’ve left off in my filing. I close the file room door behind me. Down the long hallway I see Dr. Huntley pushing a man in a wheelchair toward an examining room. He leans over and says something into the man’s ear and both break into wide smiles. Again, I’m struck by the rapport Dr. Huntley has with his patients. Lori is busy on the phone so I give her a quick goodbye wave and head out to the parking lot with Stitch.