Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead Page 7

Within five minutes, the EMTs bustled in. They just happened to be nearby after finishing a call. Georgia walked into the office as Patrice was being rolled out on the ambulance cot.

  “This is ridiculous. Georgia, I’ll be right back. No siren,” she shouted at the EMTs.

  When they disappeared around the corner, Georgia asked, “What on earth happened?”

  I told her, then asked for Patrice’s husband’s cell phone number.

  He answered, “David Clinton.”

  “Hey, David, this is Cal Sheehan. I’m a deputy with Birch County.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Look, Patrice fainted in her office, and they took her to the hospital. She’s not very happy about it, but we thought she should be checked over.”

  “Absolutely. I’ve never known her to faint. It’s all this business with Sonya. She hasn’t been eating and sleeping properly.”

  “Well, I’d just delivered some startling news. Her friend Justine was shot and killed last night outside her home in Minneapolis.”

  “My God.”

  “Also, Justine’s daughter was wounded and taken to Abbott Northwestern Hospital. Anyway, Patrice is probably fine, but I knew you’d want to know.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  ON THE WAY BACK to the interview rooms, I pondered why David snapped at me when I told him who I was. When I returned to the office, Tamika was eating a Granny Smith apple. “After all those cinnamon rolls, I’m trying to eat healthier. So how did she take the news?”

  “Not so well. She fainted and was taken to the hospital.”

  Her eyes widened. “Well, the steely sheriff of Birch County is human after all. Geez, I wondered what was taking you so long. So what do we do now?”

  “We carry on. First, we interview the Moores, then we head to Minneapolis.”

  My cell phone rang. Patrice’s number.

  “Patrice?” I asked.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Zabrina needs to be protected. I want someone stationed outside her hospital room twenty-four/seven. She’s in danger.”

  “They think it’s a random drive-by.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. You need to guard her around the clock.”

  “Patrice, I have far too much to do to sit with Zabrina.”

  Big sigh. “All right. I’ll handle it.”

  I heard talking in the background, the phone being muffled. Then Patrice came back on and said, “They’re making way too much of a little fainting spell. They’re making me have an MRI, for God’s sake. What a waste of time and money.”

  “Just let them do what they need to.”

  “Damn it,” she said and hung up.

  I looked at Tamika and said, “She wanted me to guard Zabrina.”

  “I heard you. So who’s going to do it?”

  “She can hire someone.”

  “Do you think we’ll be in Minneapolis for more than two days?”

  “We’ll be there as long as it takes to talk to everyone we need to talk to.”

  “I checked out the Moores. I expected with their old-fashioned names, they’d be old peeps, but the DMV records indicate they’re only thirty-nine. They live in Dexter Lake, neither has a criminal history, not a single traffic violation between them.”

  “Weird, every time I turn around, someone from Dexter Lake is on the radar.”

  “Maybe it’s because your mama lives there now, and she’s stirring up the karma.”

  “Could well be.”

  I checked my emails. Leslie Rouch had sent one saying Sonya’s time of death was somewhere between two and four in the morning. The water collected from the pool contained coli form, and the pool filter and skimmer contained traces of feces, suggesting she expired in the pool.

  I signed out Sonya’s phone and Fitbit from the evidence room. If Sonya had been wearing her Fitbit watch at the time, I may be able to pinpoint the time. I tried the same passcode as her security system, and it opened right up. People foolishly use the same passcode for everything. I opened her Fitbit application on her phone and tapped “How did you sleep?” Low and behold, the last information recorded was for December 11. She had slept from approximately 11:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m., then nothing. The watch was either removed or hit the water at that time. The time of death just narrowed. Just then my phone rang. Della Moore, Sonya Donovan’s cleaning woman, had arrived for the interview.

  A DISMAL-LOOKING WOMAN stood in the lobby. She wore a long, gray, quilted coat, a brown knit hat pulled down low on her forehead, and a pair of old-fashioned brown moon boots, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I was a kid and had a similar pair.

  Her pale-blue eyes met mine, then bounced to the floor.

  “Mrs. Moore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cal Sheehan. Thanks for coming in this morning. How were the roads?”

  “Slippery.”

  “Glad you made it safely.”

  We walked the rest of the way to interview room number three in silence. It was one of two rooms with recording capabilities. I radioed Tamika to make sure she was in the observation room ready to film.

  Della looked about the room nervously. I helped her out of her coat, which I then placed over the back of her chair. When she pulled off her hat, a mane of long brown hair tumbled down to the small of her back. Two silver barrettes held the hair off her face, odd to see on a woman her age.

  I wanted to inquire how she managed all that hair when she used the bathroom or slept, but such a question was neither appropriate nor my business. I moved on, recited the case number, and gathered the pertinent information from Della: her name, address, phone number.

  “We don’t have a home phone, only cell phones we use for business.” She clutched one hand in the other, her fingers long and thin, the nails chewed to the quick. She swam in her beige sweater and blue jeans. Anorexia crossed my mind.

  With a voice as timid as her body language, she said, “Could you please tell me why I’m here?”

  “Oh, sorry. I assumed you’d heard the news that Sonya Donovan was found dead last Friday.”

  Her mouth gaped open, and her eyes widened. “No,” she whispered. She swallowed in slow motion as if what I had said was something she had to physically ingest. “What happened?”

  “The circumstances are suspicious.”

  She cocked her head as she waited for more. I let a couple seconds pass, then said, “Because you work for Mrs. Donovan, you may have information that could help us. I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything on the radio or television about it.”

  Her back stiffened as she placed her hands in her lap. “We don’t own a television.” It was a statement filled with self-righteousness, rather than “poor us, we can’t afford one.”

  “There’s more. Her daughter and her granddaughter were shot outside their home in Minneapolis. Her daughter did not survive.”

  “Oh, my goodness, how terrible.”

  “Did you know the daughter and granddaughter?”

  She shook her head in slow motion. “No, sir.”

  “Mrs. Moore, how long have you worked for Ms. Donovan?”

  She placed her hands back on the table. “Three years come January.”

  “How did you get the job?”

  Della rubbed her thumbs together. “One of my other clients had recommended me.”

  She’d look at me while I asked the questions, but when she answered them, her eyes diverted to her hands.

  “What are your duties?”

  “Before she arrives, I freshen up the house, stock the house with groceries and fresh flowers. Then after she’s left, I clean and do the laundry and ironing.”

  “Do you see her on these visits.”

  “No, only the first couple times I cleaned, so she could show me how she wanted things done.”

  “So you never saw her guests?”

  “No.”

  “And when did you know about her latest v
isit?”

  “She called a few days before her arrival.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She said she was coming up and to buy grocery list number three, but to add two T-bone steaks.”

  “She has different shopping lists?”

  “Yes. If she’s going to be alone, she wants list number one. It has fish and chicken, lots of vegetables, no red meat. List two has more snacks and frozen items, and list three has fancier items like artichokes and avocados. I have to drive to the Save-Rite in Prairie Falls to get those things.”

  “What if she needs additional items through the week?”

  “Then she buys them herself.”

  “How do you pay for her groceries?”

  “She gave us a credit card. Marvin uses it if he needs parts.”

  “I thought he just mowed and plowed.”

  “She’s asked him to do some repairs on occasion.”

  “Does he take care of the pool?”

  “No. The Pool Guys service it. I let them in.”

  “Do you clean around the pool area?”

  “As needed. I make sure the bath supplies are stocked.”

  “Everything looked particularly neat and orderly in the house.”

  “Yes. I’ve never worked for anyone quite so picky.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Food items in the refrigerator and cupboards had their specific place.”

  “How about the towels?”

  “They have to be folded in thirds and placed in even stacks of four.”

  “She’s that particular?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the towels were evenly stacked in the pool area as well?”

  “Yes, sir, in stacks of six.”

  “Did you check the pool towels the day you were there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were they evenly stacked?”

  “Yes, sir. Just how I left them after Thanksgiving.”

  “Where are the used pool towels placed?”

  “Sometimes they’d be hung on hooks or placed in a hamper in the pool area.”

  “So you would know if someone used towels?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how often did she stay at Dexter Lake?”

  “It varied. More often in the summer and on holidays.”

  “Do you keep track of these visits on a calendar?”

  “Yes. I recorded the grocery list for the visit so I wouldn’t forget which to buy.”

  “Do you have the calendar with you?”

  “Yes, in my purse in the car.”

  “May I copy it before you go today?”

  “Okay.”

  “At any point since you’ve been working for Mrs. Donovan, have you noticed anything that gave you pause?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  I remained purposefully quiet to see if she would come up with something. About a half minute passed before she asked, “How did she die?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Tell me, did you like her?”

  Della shrugged. “I guess so, but I didn’t know her well.”

  Again, I waited her out.

  “But she patronized me. She felt the need to teach me how to clean, as if I didn’t know how.”

  I nodded. “I see. Have you given any more thought to whether you saw or heard anything unusual before that visit?”

  “Not that I can think of.” Her eyes betrayed her.

  “Mrs. Moore. You have something to tell me, don’t you?”

  “Only that I shouldn’t have said anything bad about her.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Because she was very generous to us.”

  I nodded. “Did you know Mrs. Donovan had a radio show?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you listened to it?”

  “We only listen to spiritual programs or the weather.”

  Explains some things. As I took a minute to look over my notes, she asked, “Why would anyone want to kill Mrs. Donovan?”

  I gave her a small smile. “That’s my job to find out. I’ll be looking at every aspect of her life with a magnifying glass.”

  Her eyelids flickered. She didn’t like what I’d just said.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “No, sir.”

  I gave her a hard stare; she couldn’t maintain eye contact. I waited a few seconds—the quiet can be intolerable for some folks. Many begin to fill it by repeating themselves or with detailed explanations and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll hear an unexpected confession. But Della remained perfectly still, not that I expected her to have murdered her employer.

  “Since the Donovan house is a crime scene, you shouldn’t go back there unless contacted.”

  She nodded.

  “Also, I’ll need you to come with me to get fingerprinted and give a DNA sample to distinguish yours from others taken at the scene. First, let’s grab that calendar.”

  Her forehead became furrowed with concern, but she showed me to her rusty Dodge van. Duct tape held the rear bumper in place. When she handed me the paper pocket calendar, her hand was shaking. Was she hiding something? Or was hearing of the murder of her employer upsetting her? It would be a loss of income, after all. Or was she by nature a nervous Nellie?

  “May I have my fingerprints taken later? I need to catch up on my jobs from yesterday,” she said.

  “No, I need you to do it now.”

  I walked her through the tunnel to the jail. While her prints and DNA were taken, I used the jail’s copy machine. By the time she was done, I handed her calendar back to her, and she wasted no time leaving.

  Before Marvin Moore’s interview, Tamika and I discussed Della’s.

  “Did you pick up how nervous she was?” I asked.

  “Not really. Do you think Della and Marv killed Sonya?” Tamika asked.

  “I don’t know what their motive would be. The death means a loss of income for both. Anyway, I texted Crosby to tape Marvin’s interview. Do you want to join me as I question him?”

  She grinned. “You think you have to ask?”

  “His wife will have filled him in.”

  “As any good wife would. We should have brought them in together and separated them, so they couldn’t collaborate on their stories.”

  “If they’re responsible, they’ve already done so.”

  She shrugged.

  “We have time before he shows. I think I’ll make a few calls, set up some appointments.”

  Sonya’s cousin, Gary Williams, was first on my list. He said he’d heard about Sonya’s death on the news. No one had notified him.

  “They aren’t giving many details. What happened?” he asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say at this point. I’d like to ask you a few questions. Would you be available this evening?”

  “Where?”

  “How about your home?”

  “If it’s after eight.”

  Tamika found addresses and phone numbers for Sonya’s step-children, but Crosby called and said Marvin Moore was waiting in the interview room.

  When introductions were made, Marvin made a point of looking me in the eye as he shook my hand a little too vigorously. He only nodded at Tamika, however. He was an odd-looking man with widely spaced eyes, concave cheeks, and a haircut right out of the fifties.

  “Have a seat,” I said.

  He smiled widely. “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when the wife told me Mrs. Donovan had passed and her death was suspicious.” Smiling while talking about a suspicious death is, in my opinion, downright creepy. “It’s ironic,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “She had it all, ya know?”

  “Yes, it would seem so.”

  I nodded at Tamika. She began to solicit his personal information for the recording. While his wife appeared shy and reticent to answer our questions, Marvin’s eyes flashed with eagerness.

  “How well did yo
u know Mrs. Donovan?” Tamika asked.

  He looked to me when he answered her question. “Just as well as I know my other customers. When I’d see her, I’d make conversation. She’d tell me if she’d want something trimmed or even ask me about her plants at her Minneapolis place. She said I could take care of that place, too. I was even tempted to take her up on it, but that’s a lot of miles. She never told me how much she’d pay me. It could have been worth it if the price was right.” He winked. It made me want to cuff him and put a hood over his head.

  Tamika didn’t react to his lack of eye contact with her as she forged on with the interview questions. “How long have you worked for Mrs. Donovan?”

  He stopped grinning and put a finger to his temple. Must be his thinking pose.

  “Hmm. Della got a job cleaning for her first, then when Mrs. Donovan found out I did plowing, she hired me on. That was three winters ago, I believe. The next spring she asked me to do her yard work, too. She gave us more money than what we asked for and gave us a Christmas bonus every year . . . I s’pose this year that ain’t gonna happen, unless the daughter carries on the tradition.”

  “The daughter was shot and killed early this morning.”

  Marvin’s mouth stretched into a grimace. “No! Somebody kilt her, too? The devil is at work in this country. Good luck fightin’ him.”

  “What was Mrs. Donovan like?” I asked, attempting to push the devil from the interview.

  “She was real good to us. She was a fussy one, though—she wanted a showplace. She was the only customer who had me mow twice a week.”

  I nodded.

  “Did you ever witness any confrontations with anyone?” Tamika asked, retaking the interview.

  “Can’t say as I did, but I just did my job and didn’t pay much attention to her or her company.”

  “Did she have a lot of company when you were around?” she asked.

  “More in the summer. Mainly her daughter and granddaughter.

  “When was the last time you were on the property?”

  “I plowed this morning. I s’pose I won’t get paid for it.”

  Tamika crossed her eyes at me, so I said, “I’m sure they’ll settle her debts through the estate.”

  “Any men visitors?” Tamika asked.

  “Not that I saw. But I was only there twice a week and in the daytime.”

  “How were you paid?”

  “We sent a monthly invoice to Minneapolis and were sent a check within a few days.”