Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Read online

  Mrs. Peck was perched on the edge of the sofa. As before, her hair had been strictly subdued into its round yellow mass, and she was wearing black. She wore a knee-length black skirt and a black turtleneck sweater. Despite her size, her clothes seemed too large and hung on her. She probably thought the largeness disguised her girth. She had on black crepe-soled shoes that were splattered with mud. I longed for the green rhinestone pin to break her stark widow’s attire.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Peck. I know this must be a difficult time for you and your family.” I was following the Jake Stevens technique, and I was beginning to sound like a funeral director.

  “Well, as I was telling Rob . . . he’s Sarah’s ex-husband. . .we all handle grief in our own way. 'Judge not lest ye be judged.'”

  “That’s true.” What can you say when someone starts quoting scripture? Amen to that? “What I wanted to discuss with you was your husband's autopsy.”

  She lowered her eyes and, for a moment, I thought she was going to cry. Instead she opened her purse and took out a sheet of paper, folded in half.

  “Is that the report?” I asked, pointing to the folded paper.

  “No. The Medical Examiner told me it’ll take a few days to write it up. Then he sends a copy to Doctor Porter. Which doesn’t seem right to me, since he’s the one that made the mistake. I told Rob that. But Rob said the Medical Examiner has to send Doctor Porter a copy, because he treated Carl. But it doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “I’m sure that’s standard procedure,” I reassured her. “Is he sending you a copy as well?”

  “I think so.” Her eyes darted around the room. “Oh, I don’t know for sure. But I have this paper here. Would you look at it?”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I wrote down some things the Medical Examiner said. He came out and talked to Sarah and me after the autopsy. But he was talking so fast, I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I asked him to write it down, but he wouldn’t. That’s when Sarah started yelling at me. Because I asked him to do that. She didn’t even want the autopsy.” Mrs. Peck started to cry.

  “I’m sure Sarah is as upset about this as you are.” Though for very different reasons, I thought, remembering Sarah’s hostility toward her father.

  Eva took out a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her face. “I don’t know. I don’t know. She won’t even talk to me now. And Rob, he always takes Sarah’s side. I can’t talk to him about the autopsy. He was so set against it, I don’t want to make him angry again.” She unfolded the paper and smoothed the crease with the back of her hand.

  “I thought maybe you could look at what he said and maybe explain it.” She leaned forward and handed me the paper.

  Why she wanted me to look at her notes was beyond me. Maybe some affirmation that she’d done the right thing. “Isn’t there someone else who can help you with this—another doctor, a lawyer?” I asked, looking over the paper. It was a heavy bond paper with the Peck Restoration letterhead. A few almost indecipherable sentences were scrawled across the middle.

  I read the words “Cirrhosis of the liver." Under that, several sentences additional sentences had been written, but the only words I could read were “fat in liver” and “fibrousness.”

  I looked up. “I can’t make much out of this, Mrs. Peck. Did the M. E. say what you husband died from?”

  “All the Medical Examiner would say was that he didn’t think Carl died of a heart attack. He said that he needed to send some blood and tissue slides to the crime laboratory in Indianapolis, something about it being quicker. He said that he didn’t want to make any guesses until he got a pathologist’s report. And . . .” she hesitated, “the results of the blood toxic . . .toxicolo . . .toxicology test.””

  Now that she said toxicology, I deciphered the words “Toxicology—blood, organs.” What I knew about medicine related to cancer. However, you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that a blood toxicology test indicated suspicion of some kind of toxic substance such as drugs. I wondered if Eva Peck knew that.

  “I can’t believe it. They think Carl was taking drugs. That he was a drug addict. ” She had wrapped her purse strap around her thumb so tightly it was stark white.

  “Not necessarily, Mrs. Peck. They’re just being thorough."

  “When I asked for the autopsy, I had no idea.” She shook her head. “It just made me suspicious, you know, how fast he went.”

  “When do you expect the results from Indianapolis?”

  “The Medical Examiner said maybe Monday, sometime Monday.”

  “I’m sure everything will turn out all right.”

  “You think so? I guess whatever’s meant to be is meant to be. It’s in the Lord’s hands now. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

  She was a muddle of philosophical adages and religious quotations. For any problem, apply one, or several. I envied the comfort that they brought her. Especially since I wasn't finished asking about her deceased husband. “Tell me, Mrs. Peck, what do you think caused your husband's death?”

  “If it wasn’t a heart attack, then it must have been cirrhosis of the liver.” She caught my surprised expression. “I know what I said to you. But I didn’t want you printing anything about the drinking. We live in a small community. People read things in the paper, and they never let you forget it. Carl drank too much, but not everyone knew. I have our name to protect.” She lifted herself off the sagging sofa with the grace of a much slighter woman. In her youth, she was probably as slim as her daughter, Sarah. She moved like a woman who still embodied that lithe, younger self.

  After she left, I opened the tin of cookies and sampled one. I know a store bought cookie when I taste one, and these weren’t remotely fresh. Mrs. Peck had all the marks of a woman who lived in a world of her own making.

  * * * * *

  Hoping to avoid Rob Martin, I came to the newspaper office on Sunday to finish Joyce Oleander’s obituary. I’d already stopped by the hospital looking for Lorraine Birch, who was on vacation and wouldn’t be back for a week.

  “What’re you doing here? ” Jake Stevens had sneaked up on me again.

  “How do you do that?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Appear out of nowhere?”

  “Practice.”

  I punched in the last line of text and pressed SAVE on the computer, trying to ignore his looming presence over my shoulder.

  “You did hear the part about no overtime?” he asked the back of my neck.

  “Just my agreed-upon pay at the end of the month would be fine, boss.” I didn’t want to discuss seeing him with Sarah Peck last night. “And I might ask you the same thing.”

  “Just doing some writing of my own.” Stevens leaned against the edge of my desk, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Marge had told me that he was a long-distance runner—ranked second in the Midwest in his age category, which explained his lanky yet muscular frame. As usual, his long hair was tied back in a low ponytail, and he was wearing a pair of rather tight jeans with tears in both knees. Today he had on a faded-blue work shirt. I wondered if he even owned a suit.

  I tilted my head in disbelief. “All this natural beauty and you come here to write. I thought you poetic types got off on nature.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Was that the Oleander obit you just punched in?”

  “Yup, all done.” I wondered what he really was doing here on a Sunday. He never passed up an opportunity to bore me with talk of poetics. Which reminded me . . . “Know anything about Sylvia Plath and her poem, ‘Lady Lazarus’?”

  He uncrossed his arms and stared at me. “So I finally get you to read some poetry, and you go for Plath? Didn’t figure you as the victim type.”

  “What can I say, she uses images I understand. My first requirement for a poet.” I had reread the poem late last night and was pretty sure I knew what it was about. But I wanted to hear a supposed expert’s interpretation. “So enlighten me.”r />
  “Didn’t you read this as an undergrad?” He looked at me skeptically.

  “Just wanted your take on it.”

  “Okay. She’s a confessional poet. That means she likes to write about herself. However, lately the term’s been used to refer to autobiographical or personal poetry in general."

  “Whoa.” I held up my hand. “Too much information, Teach. Give me the Cliff Notes version.”

  “You’re such a difficult student.” He patted me quickly on the head, like patting a dog.

  I held very still, as if he was performing a delicate procedure.

  “Okay, for the underachievers: the poem’s about Plath’s three suicide attempts, and how she keeps coming back from the dead. You know, like a resurrection, like Lazarus rising from the dead.” He moved his one hand upward. “There are lots of holocaust images—Nazi lampshade, gas chamber, that kind of stuff.”

  “So she keeps offing herself because she feels like such a victim?” So far, he’d confirmed what I figured out last night. And considering Joyce’s life, it wasn’t hard to see why she identified so strongly with the role of hapless victim.

  “Right. And, big surprise, men, or as you feminists like to say, 'the patriarchy', are the bad guys in her poems.”

  “If the boot fits,” I said, smiling. “What about the ending where she talks about rising from the ashes and eating men like air. What’s that about?”

  “What’d you think?”

  He was taking this teacher thing a bit far, but I played along. “Since my grade depends on it, I’d say in some weird way she gets power from each death and resurrection. And with that power, she can destroy these men.” I wondered if somehow Joyce saw her suicide in the same way? As an act of destructive power aimed against males.

  “Not bad for a novice.” He shifted his weight and moved closer. “So what’d you find out about Joyce Oleander that’s got you reading suicidal poems?”

  I moved the computer mouse back and forth on the pad, avoiding his intense scrutiny. “Her death was a suicide. Looks like she overdosed on a drug called Vicodin.” He wasn’t the only one with secrets to keep.

  “You didn’t put that in the obit?”

  “Duh.” I said, in my best valley girl voice.

  He grinned at me with that sardonic smile. “You know, it's hard to imagine you as a teacher, Girard.”

  “Speaking of strange things.” I said, inching my chair back a little. “I interviewed Mrs. Peck today.” I repeated what Eva Peck had told me.

  “A toxicology test, huh? Wonder what the M. E. found? Maybe old Eva was right to be suspicious.”

  “Looks that way. Except she thought he had a heart attack. Now she’s saying cirrhosis. We’re talking something completely different if the Path report comes back positive for drugs.”

  “Hard to believe, Carl Peck on drugs, other than alcohol, I mean. That leaves a host of other toxins and poisons. Even harder to believe.” He stood up. “If it comes up poison, the pathologist has to notify the sheriff’s office. Call the sheriff’s office Monday. See what they know. I want you to talk to Chet Jorgensen. Get the details from him. He’s a county deputy, and he owes me a favor. Depending on the results, we might want to do a follow-up story." All his playfulness had disappeared, and Jake seemed downright dour.

  So Jorgensen was indebted to Stevens for something. Well, that explained his letting me off so easy Friday when I was on the prowl in Joyce Oleander's townhouse.

  “And just so you know, Martin sometimes works on Sundays too.”

  I was about to respond when the phone rang. As I reached for it, Stevens put his hand over mine. “I’ll get it. You go on home.”

  I slipped my hand away and stood up. It wasn’t until I was out of the room that he answered the phone. As I reached the back door, I heard him say, “Yeah, I accept.”

  12

  Monday, November 6, Present day

  The rain had blown out to the east overnight, dropping temperatures into the 40s and leaving behind a bitter sun. For the third night, I hadn’t slept well. So I didn’t hear the alarm and was late for Joyce Oleander’s memorial service. I had decided to attend, but not because Ida Reeves had insisted. I couldn’t free myself of thoughts about Joyce’s suicide. It lingered like a heavy taste of garlic on the tongue. Freely chosen or not, the abbreviated life never made sense to me. Maybe because I’d struggled so hard to rid myself of the taint of death. It was a waste no matter how you looked at it. I didn’t see what power Joyce could possibly have gained by killing herself. And I also wanted to give Joe Stillwater a reason for the loss of his friend.

  I was too late for the funeral mass but not for the burial. As I slogged through the muddy graveyard, past the wet, grassy mounds and rain-stained headstones, I was thinking about the wisdom of wearing my old hiking boots and not about the sparse gathering I was about to join standing in the distance: Ida Reeves, Joe Stillwater, the priest, and Sarah Peck. What was Sarah Peck doing here?

  As I neared the graveyard service, Sarah Peck turned her head and glared at me, then looked away. I quietly slipped next to Joe Stillwater, who nodded and made a place for me. If Ida Reeves noticed my presence, she didn’t acknowledge it.

  The priest praying over the open grave had to be about six-foot-eight. His liturgical collar was frayed and there was a brown mole the size of a dime over his left eye. After studying the priest, I fixed my attention next on Sarah Peck; she was wearing a black leather jacket with five metal studs on each lapel, black leather mini skirt, also studded, and black tights. There were red streaks running through her black hair that could only have come from a bottle of Mercurochrome. Near her, Ida Reeves wore her usual predictable, non-descript uniform: navy wool coat, sensible shoes, and a matching navy hat. No red lipstick today.

  I couldn’t see Joe Stillwater without turning my head, so my eyes went back to the priest—anything to keep my mind from imagining Joyce Oleander inside that grey, shiny casket with the angels carved into each corner, her body already beginning its slow dissolution of flesh from bone. The priest ended the formal prayer with the sign of the cross, and cleared his throat. “For those left behind, death is never a happy occasion, especially in circumstances such as these. But none of can know the mind or soul of another, so we must show compassion and pray for our sister in Christ.”

  Apparently Fr. Lewis’s words were having little impact on Ida Reeves, whose face was pinched with disapproval.

  He cleared his throat again. “Would anyone here like to say a few words about Joyce?”

  “I would,” volunteered Joe Stillwater. He shifted his stance. “Joyce was one of the kindest people I ever knew. She loved children and . . .” His voice broke. “I’m going to miss her.” He looked at the priest. “That’s all, Father.”

  “Anyone else?” the priest asked.

  “Father Lewis,” Ida Reeves whispered. She bowed her head. “Joyce would have been pleased to be buried here, so near her parents.”

  For the first time, I noticed that the double headstone adjacent to Joyce’s grave bore the names of Frank and Helen Oleander.

  The priest waited for Ida to continue. When she didn’t, he looked expectantly at Sarah and me. Sarah Peck dug the toe of her stiletto-heeled boot into the mud, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket.

  “Then I commend the soul of Joyce Oleander to God and His mercy.” With those words, the priest turned and walked away from the grave.

  Joe shook my hand and said something about “Not able to talk right now,” and being late for work. When I turned to look for Ida, she was staring at the open grave with a look of anger.

  “Ms. Reeves,” I said moving closer to her. “I know how hard this must be for you, but if you have a moment I need to clarify something you told me.”

  She looked up at me with disdain. “What do you want?”

  “Are you absolutely sure Joyce was face up when you found her? It would be understandable if you turned her over. You were prob
ably in shock. Maybe you don’t remember doing it.” I was giving her the benefit of the doubt.

  “I told you what happened. Now if you don’t mind . . .” With that she turned and walked away.

  For an awkward moment, Sarah Peck and I stared at each other. I decided to break the ice. “Were you and Joyce friends?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” She kept her voice down but the tone was unmistakably hostile.

  I started to say that I was writing Joyce Oleander's obituary, but it was written, and Sarah's hostility was so raw that it demanded honesty. “The same as you,” I answered.

  “You didn’t even know her.” Her voice was as tight as her stare.

  Sunlight moved across the casket, blinding me for a second. “I knew about her,” I said lamely.

  “Yeah, like what?” She smirked and took a cigarette and lighter from her pocket.

  “Okay, I didn’t know her.” I was on the defensive, and I didn’t like it. “Why don’t you tell me about her?”

  She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Go away.” She blew smoke in my direction.

  “I don’t understand your hostility toward me.”

  “Well, understand it.” Sunlight washed over her face and seemed to erase her features. “I don’t like you. I don’t like the way you look or talk or even dress. You make my skin crawl. Now do you get it?”

  “I don’t know what your problem is, Sarah, but it isn’t me."

  “You’re probably right, but I still don’t like you,” she said, then turned and walked toward the casket.

  She had dismissed me. My face was throbbing with anger. “I know you and Joyce went to high school together." I threw the statement at her back. A wild guess, why didn't I just let it go for now?

  She took another drag on her cigarette. I watched the smoke slowly ascend. Then I left.

  As I neared the church, I looked back. Sarah Peck was bending toward the casket. There was a red flower in her hand.

  13