Crack Of Death (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 3) Read online

  He handed me a sheet with the names and addresses of the three people I would be visiting, and I tucked it under my arm. I said goodbye and headed out to my car.

  Once I’d set the bag lunches down and turned the car on to get the AC going, I studied the addresses. Declan had mentioned where everyone lived, but I wanted to make sure I knew where I was going.

  I made mental notes of the general vicinity of each house and decided it made the most sense to start with Calvin. I could visit him, then Eleanor, and then Greta before making a quick stop into the bank for some cash. I always liked to have some on hand, which usually required a visit every two weeks.

  I mulled over Declan’s description of Calvin as I made my way to his place. A former performer. A character. And Declan’s insistence that he was harmless.

  I was immediately suspicious.

  His apartment was easy to find, right behind the hardware store as Declan had said. There was a stand-alone garage behind the store, a white, two-story clapboard building with steps leading to an upstairs door. Calvin’s apartment.

  I parked on the side of the road and grabbed one of the bag lunches.

  I was a little winded after climbing the rickety steps so I took a moment to catch my breath before ringing the doorbell.

  Before I could press the button the door flew open and a rotund, white-haired Robin Hood answered the door.

  “Are…are you Calvin?” I asked.

  The man peered at me through thick bifocals. “That’s me. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Rainy,” I said. “I’m volunteering for Simon Says this week.”

  His smile was instantaneous, and I was blinded by a row of shiny white dentures. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He flung the door wide and motioned me inside. “Come on in!”

  I hesitated, remembering Declan’s words. Simon Says did more than deliver meals: they delivered friendly visits. Even to senior citizens dressed like folk tale characters.

  I tried not to stare at Calvin’s very snug, ill-fitting green tights as I stepped into his apartment. And once inside, I managed to keep my mouth shut as I surveyed the living room area. It had been turned into a makeshift stage. The furniture—a small plaid loveseat and a coffee table—had been shoved into the dining room of the small apartment, and the living space was filled with what looked to be every houseplant Calvin owned. I was pretty sure he was going for a forest look, but the potted palms and flowering hibiscus made it look more like he’d taken refuge on a tropical island. Well, except for the six-foot cardboard cutout of a castle that was propped against the wall.

  “I have your lunch,” I said, holding up the bag. “Is there any particular place you’d like for me to put it?”

  Calvin pointed to the kitchen counter. “Somewhere over there is fine.” He was focused on the ‘set,’ his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side.

  I set the bag down and then just stood there, wondering what I should do. I was supposed to be a ‘friendly face’ and do some visiting, but how?

  “So,” I said, looking around. Calvin was still studying the converted living room, scratching his head as he did so. The tunic he’d fashioned out of a burlap sack jutted out over his round tummy and he tugged at it as he twisted back and forth, looking around. “Are you practicing for a play or something?”

  “No.” He looked at me. “A movie.”

  “A movie?”

  He pointed to a video camera. It was a small, hand-held device that was sitting on a tripod by the window. “Recording it myself,” he said proudly.

  “Is it a one-man show?”

  Calvin nodded. “Yes, but with several characters. I play all the parts. This here is Robin Hood,” he said, motioning at his costume. “I’ll be him, of course, but I’ll also play the role of the Sheriff of Nottingham and Little John and Friar Tuck.” His eyes lit up. “Say, do you have any acting experience? I could use a Maid Marion.”

  My eyes widened and I quickly started shaking my head. “No, no I don’t.”

  His face fell. “Well, I guess I’ll play her then, too. I was planning on it anyway. Can’t seem to find anyone in town who’d like to do movies.”

  Considering Latney only had two thousand people, and considering his ideas of movies were productions slapped together in his apartment’s living room, this bit of information did not surprise me.

  “How many, um, movies have you done?” I asked. I was trying to be friendly, to fulfill the responsibilities of a Simon Says representative.

  “Oh, going on a hundred,” Calvin told me. He pointed to a bookcase in the hallway and I could see it was loaded with DVD cases. He looked at me hopefully. “Would you like to watch one?”

  Watching a home movie felt like a much bigger obligation than I was prepared for. I knew I was supposed to be friendly and visit, but I didn’t think that extended to watching homemade movies featuring a singular cast of one senior citizen.

  Thankfully, I had an excuse.

  “I’d love to,” I said, “but I have a few more visits to make today.”

  “You could always come back?”

  The guilt-o-meter was kicking into gear. “Maybe,” I told him, offering a smile. “Not today, but perhaps another day.”

  Calvin waddled over to the bookshelf and started inspecting the cases. “Do you like Star Trek? Star Wars? Or maybe you’re a classics fan. Gone With the Wind? Casablanca?”

  I had no idea how he’d managed to do one-man movies out of all of the ones he’d just rattled off, and I had to admit a part of me was deeply intrigued.

  But I hadn’t been lying to him. I did have other people to visit.

  “I’ll come up with a list,” Calvin said as I made my way back to the front door. There were cords taped to the carpet that I hadn’t noticed when I arrived, and I stepped over them, careful not to disturb them. A quick glance confirmed that these led to a series of lights, all of which were hastily mounted to the side walls.

  I said goodbye to Calvin and clunked down the stairs. Declan had been right; he was definitely a character.

  Straight out of Sherwood Forest.

  Eleanor’s house was next, and it was just as easy to find as Calvin’s. She answered the door immediately and ushered me inside. Like Declan said, she was tall, with bright red curly hair. She also wore matching lipstick, which made for a passing resemblance to Ronald McDonald. But she was sweet and harmless and after chatting for a few minutes, I bid her goodbye and set out for my last stop of the day.

  I checked my watch as I pulled up next to Greta Hedley’s house. It was a small blue house with white trim, and a white picket fence ran the perimeter of her front yard. The lawn had been overtaken by clover but it was green and clipped short, and a border of pink zinnias and yellow snapdragons provided a pretty burst of color.

  I held her bag lunch in one hand and pressed the doorbell with the other and waited.

  When no one answered, I rang it again. Declan had said she was hard of hearing, but I wanted to at least give her the chance to answer before I just pushed the door open myself.

  After a couple of minutes, I decided she probably wasn’t going to answer. I took a deep breath and reached out for the door handle. I hated just walking in unannounced, and I tried to remember that this was par for the course for her. Greta wouldn’t be startled; in fact, she would be expecting me.

  The doorknob turned and I opened it slowly. It creaked in response and I winced at the sound before realizing that if she couldn’t hear the doorbell, she probably couldn’t hear that, either.

  “Hello?” I said.

  The house was quiet. It was warm, a little stuffy, and the smell of pine cleaner and fabric softener were heavy in the air. It reminded me of my own grandmother’s house. She’d always been cleaning, it seemed, and always doing laundry or cooking or baking. If the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies had been thrown into the mix, I would have felt like I’d stepped into a time machine.

  “Hello?” I said again
, louder this time as I walked from the entrance and down the short hallway to the living room. The thick brown carpet absorbed the sound of my footsteps.

  I rounded the corner and spotted Greta sitting in a recliner in the living room. A quilt was positioned across her lap, an autumn-themed one with beautiful orange and red leaves on a buttery yellow background. There was a large spool of thread and a pair of scissors sitting on the table next to her, and I assumed the quilt in her lap was one she was working on.

  “Greta?” I stepped closer.

  She had fallen asleep. Her soft white curls partially hid her face, but her head was tilted, as if she’d nodded off while working, I smiled. I’d been known to do that while reading in bed. Until the book landed on my forehead, that is.

  “Greta?” I repeated, louder this time. I didn’t want to yell and startle her awake, but I also didn’t want her to wake up disoriented, wondering who was silently walking around her apartment.

  She didn’t move.

  I was a few feet away and I could see her clearly now. She wore glasses, delicate wire frames that were perched on her nose. They were dangerously close to slipping off. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was slightly open, as if she were snoring.

  But there was no sound.

  I said her name as I touched her shoulder.

  She didn’t move.

  A chill ran down my spine.

  “Greta?” Louder this time, and a firmer shake.

  She remained still.

  Nothing.

  My knees were shaking as I crouched down to get a better look. I stared at her for a second, wondering why she wasn’t responding.

  A fly flew out of her mouth and landed on the tip of her nose.

  And I screamed.

  THREE

  I had never seen a dead body before.

  Sure, there had been a pile of bones in my bungalow, but that was just it: a pile of old bones.

  This was a real, live human being.

  Except it wasn’t a real, live human being. It was a real, dead human being.

  And I had no idea what to do.

  I leaped to my feet as soon as the fly appeared, covering my mouth as much in horror as to keep it from flying into my own.

  “Oh my god,” I said. My voice was muffled, my eyes like saucers. “What am I going to do?”

  Greta Hedley was dead.

  At least, I thought she was.

  A fly had flown out of her mouth.

  But maybe she was a super deep sleeper. Maybe she just hadn’t felt the fly in her mouth.

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing pulse. I had to touch her. I had to check to see if she had a pulse.

  My hand was shaking as I reached out to touch her hand. I knew there was a pulse point at the wrist. I’d have to lift the sleeve of her sweater to find it, but I was hoping my touch would startle her awake. At this point, I didn’t care if she screamed bloody murder or not. At least she would be alive.

  The second my finger touched her hand and encountered cold skin, I knew.

  And I screamed again.

  “She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead,” I muttered after I’d pulled my hand back and launched myself as far away from her as I could.

  I paced the living room, trying to figure out what to do.

  There was a dead woman in a living room.

  I had to call it in.

  But to whom?

  911, of course.

  But who would respond?

  Sheriff Donny Lewis, that’s who.

  I stopped pacing and cradled my head in my hands. How was this happening to me? I’d volunteered out of the goodness of my heart to help out a friend. And what had happened? I’d stumbled into a house with a dead woman inside.

  Of course I felt bad for her. I felt horrible for whatever had happened to Greta Hedley that had made her take her last breath as she sat quilting in her recliner.

  But I was also feeling pretty bad for me.

  I swallowed a couple of times, trying to get my emotions under control. I had to take charge of the situation. Yes, calling it in would be hard, especially considering who would be responding on the scene, but there was no other choice. I couldn’t just walk out of the house and pretend it hadn’t happened. I owed it to Greta and Declan and yes, even the sheriff, to call it in.

  But I needed to make another call first.

  “Rainy Day to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I almost cried at the sound of Mack Mercy’s voice.

  “Mack, I need help.”

  “Help?” he repeated. “I’m not cheap. You know that.”

  “No, listen,” I said. He must have heard the panic in my voice because he remained quiet, waiting. “I just found a dead body.”

  He let out a chuckle. “Another one? What is it with you and dead people, Rainy?”

  “Mack, I’m serious. I was doing some volunteering, delivering meals to shut-ins, and one of the women is…dead. Sitting in her recliner. Dead.”

  “Okay.” He sounded puzzled, like he couldn’t quite understand why I was calling him. “Did you report it?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “I…I don’t know. I’m just freaked out. Tell me what to do, Mack.”

  “Uh, report it?”

  “But what if something happens?”

  “Rainy, you aren’t making any sense. Do you have reason to believe she was murdered?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head as I surveyed the room. I tried to avoid looking at Greta, but it was like she was a piece of metal and my eyes were magnets. She was right where I’d left her—obviously. And there were no signs of injury, no signs of forced entry or foul play.

  “So the cause of death was probably natural. Heart attack, something along those lines, correct?”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped. “I’m not a doctor.”

  “Well, neither am I,” Mack responded lightly, “but if she’s a shut-in, I’m assuming she’s old. If you’re not seeing any visible signs of trauma, her death is probably due to natural causes.”

  His calm, nonchalant tone was doing exactly what I needed it to do: reassure me and calm me down.

  “Okay,” I said, taking another deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Just call it in,” he urged. “The sooner you get it over with, the better you’ll feel. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

  Mack was wrong.

  “A what?” the 911 dispatcher shrieked after I'd hung up with him and called the emergency line.

  “A dead woman,” I repeated. My voice wavered a little as I explained. “I…I was volunteering for Simon Says and stopped by Greta Hedley’s to deliver her lunch. She didn’t answer the door and when I walked in, I found her dead.”

  “Oh my word,” the woman murmured. I could hear her fingers tapping on a keyboard. “Dead, you say? Did you try to administer CPR?”

  “Well, no. She didn’t have a pulse.”

  “You checked for a pulse?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you refused to perform CPR?”

  I frowned. “I didn’t refuse. She was already dead. Cold to the touch.” I shivered at the memory of her ice-cold skin.

  “And your name?”

  “Rainy. Rainy Day.”

  The tapping continued. “Your relation to the deceased?”

  “I don’t have any relation to her,” I said, feeling a little exasperated. “I told you, I was just dropping off a meal. I’ve never even met the woman.”

  “So the deceased is not known to you?”

  “No.”

  “Officers have already been dispatched to the scene, ma’am. Please stay on the line with me while you wait for them to arrive.”

  I swallowed. “Um, do you know who is responding? To the scene, I mean?”

  “Well, of course,” the woman responded. “Sheriff Lewis is on his way. Who else would it be?”

  I didn’t respond.

  Who els
e, indeed?

  FOUR

  The sirens were what did me in.

  A few minutes passed in relative silence, and I had somehow managed to calm my racing heart. I’d closed my eyes and taken several deep, steadying breaths, drawing on memories of a meditation class I’d taken years ago. Surprisingly, the methods still worked.

  Of course, refusing to look at Greta Hedley’s dead body didn’t hurt, either.

  But then the sirens became audible. Faintly in the distance, at first, then growing louder. I wondered what they were for: was there a fire? An accident? The sound of sirens, a constant sound when I’d lived near Washington DC, were a rarity in Latney. Something big must have happened, and pondering this provided a much-needed distraction.

  Until the sound grew louder, and louder, and I realized they were racing down the street I was on, toward the house I was in.

  The sirens were for me.

  My pulse ratcheted up and goose bumps popped on my arms.

  The sirens were for me.

  “Calm down,” I told myself, out loud and in a firm voice. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  My voice dropped to a whisper as car doors slammed and footsteps sounded on the sidewalk. There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by a series of persistent knocks.

  My feet felt as though they were glued to the carpet but I managed to pick them up and force myself in the direction of the door. My hand shook as I gripped the doorknob and pulled it open.

  Sheriff Donny Lewis did not look happy to see me. “What in tarnation is going on?”

  “I…I found Greta Hedley.”

  I moved aside and he swept past me, his black dress shoes clicking as he stepped over the metal threshold. A younger man followed behind him, also dressed in what appeared to be standard issue khakis and a white button-down. He made eye contact with me and offered a brief, apologetic smile as he brushed by.

  “I was delivering a meal,” I said as I followed after them, down the hallway and into the living room. “And I found her in her chair.”

  The sheriff had come to a dead stop in the living room, and the officer trailing behind bumped into him. The sheriff didn’t even flinch; he just stood there, his body stiff as he surveyed the scene in front of him.