The Girl in the Woods (19 page)

Next, she opened his clothes. It was as if she’d peeled an orange. Some of the tissue had stuck like a dried membrane onto the back of the fine cotton fabric of his shirt.

When Birdy made her way to his chest, she let out a gasp.

“Something’s wrong here,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Santos moved closer.

So did Anderson. She was disgusted by what she’d seen, but it was like a car accident. If someone was going to gasp at something, then she had to see too.

“Look at his chest,” she said.

The deputy and the funeral director hovered over the Castle Keep containing the body of Jennifer Roberts’s first husband.

“I don’t see anything. I mean, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be seeing,” Stephan said.

Birdy looked up at both observers.

“Exactly,” she said. “There isn’t anything to see.”

“I still don’t follow you, Dr. Waterman,” Lucy Anderson said.

“There’s no incision here,” Birdy said, locking eyes with the deputy, then the funeral director. “This man was not autopsied.”

“But he
was
,” Santos said. “I looked it up before you came. Dr. Drysdale did the autopsy. It was a heart attack.”

“Really?” Birdy asked.

“Well, that’s what I was told.”

“Do you have a saw?” she asked.

Stephan Santos didn’t like the sound of that one bit. He went pale.

“No,” he said. “Why in the world would we?”

Birdy persisted. “A good knife with a serrated blade?”

Deputy Anderson spoke up. “In the kitchen maybe. I saw some kitchen tools in there when I got the bottled water.”

“What are you going to do?” Santos asked.

“Deputy, go get the best knife you can find.”

Her mouth agape, Anderson hurried off.

“I have to cut him open,” Birdy said. “I have the authority to do that, though I was not thinking in terms of having to do so. I need to get samples of his organs for toxicology reports we’ll conduct back in Washington. You know that.”

Santos looked agitated. “Yes, but I expected you’d take . . .” His words trailed off. “I don’t know, maybe a finger or something.”

Even though she was going to have to use a cake knife to open up Donald Lake, she thought it sounded barbaric to suggest that she would remove a finger.

“I would never extricate a finger,” she said. “I had hoped to collect samples more discreetly from the body, but that’s not going to happen. I’m going to have to go inside.”

Birdy finished her work in less than an hour. She took her time, but there was little to be done other than collect the tissue samples to see if there were any traces of toxins—something that had never been done. If he had heart disease, that wouldn’t advance Kendall’s case. She thanked the deputy and the funeral director for all they had done. They had been helpful in a difficult situation.

If she’d ever taken a finger, however, she’d like to have given it to the cheap administrator, Richard Mundy.

He deserved it.

B
irdy ate alone after the tissue collection. Even though it was a barbecue place, she ordered a salad because the idea of any kind of meat turned her stomach. It had been that kind of a day. She’d wrestled with the desiccated insides of a man in the hopes of proving that he’d been murdered.

Kendall had told her what was going on back home, and she was sorry that she wasn’t there. The thought that Darby’s killer might be caught brought little comfort. Not when she still couldn’t testify in court as to the cause of the girl’s death. She hadn’t been shot or stabbed. Her eyes showed no signs of petechial hemorrhaging—the tiny spider web broken blood vessels—so it was doubtful she’d been strangled. In addition, there were no indicators that she’d been strangled by way of a broken hyoid or marks on her neck. She hadn’t been drugged. Tox screens were all clean. She just died.

The waitress returned with a dessert menu.

“No thanks,” Birdy said. “I’ve got to run.” She passed the young woman her Visa card.

While the waitress went off to run the card, Birdy turned her attention to Dr. Drysdale. She looked at the address. The doctor’s house was in a gated community not far from the barbecue place.

“You know how to get to Mesquite Heights?” she asked the waitress when she returned with the check. “My rental doesn’t have GPS.”

“Easy as pie,” the woman said. “You’ve got friends up there?”

Birdy signed the check. “No. Not really. Just someone that I need to see.”

“Take a right on Arroyo and go about five miles. The entrance is on your left. You can’t miss it. Big dumb fountain there.”

Birdy thanked her and went to her car and called Elan.

“Aunt Birdy, when you coming back? There’s nothing to eat here.”

“Is that all you care about?” she asked, turning the AC to a full, chilly blast.

“How did your day go?” he asked. “I already heard on the news you were down there poking into Ruby and Micah’s dad’s case. They are so pissed off at you.”

“It was on the news?” she asked.

“Yeah, the paper too. Hang on.”

She put the car in drive and turned right on Arroyo.

“Okay, I have it right here,” Elan said. “The headline is a classic.”

“Well what does it say?”

“Right, sorry. You’re breaking up a little.”

“As you would say, the cell service sucks here.”

“The headline says ‘Is Kitsap Woman a Black Widow?’ ”

“I guess that’s not so bad.”

She braked as a coyote ran across the road. The connection was poor and she was having a hard time hearing him. He, it seemed, was having the same problem.

“What?” he asked.

“It could be worse I guess. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, cutting out a little more. “Stuff happening with that Darby girl case too. You there?”

“I’m here.”

“Aunt Birdy?”

“Elan?”

Despite the fake saguaro cactus replica cell towers that dotted the area and fooled no one into thinking they were anything but cell towers, the cell service was abysmal.

An American Beauty red 7 series BMW darted in front of her, zipped up to the gate, and waited as the enormous steel partition slowly slid open. Birdy knew just what to do. As soon as the BMW passed through and made its turn, Birdy tucked in right behind. She agreed that the fountain had been dumb, but inside was impressive. Mesquite Heights was a neighborhood of mini and not-so-mini mansions that blended in to the desert landscape.

She looked down at the back of the DONDANS business card: 824 Candlewood Lane.

She was already there.

Just as Birdy got out of her rental car, a woman in a Lexus pulled in across the street. One of four garage doors went up, and the woman stepped out and went toward a garbage receptacle that stood near the curb like several others in the neighborhood.

It had been trash day. And as lovely as the homes were, not everyone had domestic help or were retired.

“Excuse me, is this Bobby Drysdale’s house?” Birdy said, indicating the house.

The woman, in a chic black and white skirt and expensive heels, looked at her and then went about her business.

“Excuse me,” Birdy said, raising her voice.

Again, no response.

Maybe she had earbuds in or something and was listening to music
.

Birdy walked toward her. “I’m looking for Bobby Drysdale,” she said. “Where I come from, you answer a question when one is politely asked.”

The woman slowed, then turned around and glared.

“Then maybe you should go back to Nogales and ask your questions there,” she said, cruel sarcasm dripping from her lips.

Birdy bristled. She’d been dismissed. That had never happened to her in her entire life. Yes, her complexion was dark and her hair black as a starless night.

“I’m not from Mexico,” she said.

The woman shrugged it off. “Sorry. Just thought you were looking for housekeeping work. No offense.”

“None taken,” Birdy said, lying. The woman’s attitude couldn’t have been more purposefully rude.

The waitress at the barbecue place had called the city Snobbsdale. Birdy understood that nickname completely.

“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care,” the woman went on, moving the receptacle to the open garage and dragging it between her BMW and some other fancy car that Birdy couldn’t identify. “But equally, I don’t know who lives across the street nor do I give it a second thought. We’re all very private people here in Mesquite Heights. That’s why we live here.”

The garage door went down like a guillotine, hard and decisive.

Birdy stood there.

“Nice meeting you,” she said loud enough for anyone to hear.

If only there was someone there to hear, that is.

While all of the houses in the neighborhood were massive, low slung to blend in with the landscape, they resembled something else. She couldn’t quite place it as she walked up to a courtyard planted with prickly pear, agave, and ocotillo. Then it finally dawned on her. She turned around and scanned the neighborhood. All the homes were built like fortresses with thick rounded-edged walls. Only tiny gunner windows were poked into the front of the massive front exteriors. Walls shrouded the front doors from the street. Cactus protruded over walkways in a way that instant-messaged visitors to back off.

She rang the bell and waited. Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck. A suit, even a lightweight one like the one she was wearing, was not the right attire for Arizona. She’d have given anything to be in shorts and a tank just then.

The door opened and a man with close-cropped white hair and designer glasses stood there in a silky T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.

“No soliciting,” he said right away. “Can’t you read?”

Birdy almost said, “si” but held her tongue.

“Dr. Drysdale, I’m Dr. Waterman, a forensic pathologist from Washington looking into one of your cases.”

He looked at her warily. “I’m no longer practicing medicine.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “May I come in?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said.

“I’m not used to this heat,” the forensic pathologist said, adding a quick, “please.”

Reluctantly, Bobby Drysdale led her inside. The room was enormous, cavernous really. Though the homeowner’s furnishings were massive, they still seemed dwarfed by the size of the space. There were dark leather couches, planked tables, and a kind of sterile look that indicated he lived alone.

“I was having a drink,” he said, still not smiling. “Want one?”

She shook her head. “Some water, please.”

Bobby flip-flopped over to the bar.

“I know why you’re here,” he said, handing her a glass of ice water with a lemon slice tucked between the cubes. “It’s about Jenny.”

Birdy took the water and sipped. It tasted so good. The lemon was a nice touch.

“I guess word travels fast,” she said.

“I have friends,” he said, as he led her to the Mexican tiled patio that surrounded an oblong, irregularly shaped pool. Unlike the house, the pool was small. More for dipping in on a hot day like the one they were experiencing than doing laps.

He indicated a couple of chairs and they both sat down.

“Marrying Jenny Lake was the biggest mistake of my life,” he said.

Birdy sipped her water as Bobby fidgeted a little.

“Maybe not the biggest,” she said, not spelling it all out, but knowing without a doubt that he understood the meaning of her comment.

Yet he let it pass.

“You know she’s been arrested for the murder of her third husband,” Birdy said.

Bobby swirled the ice cubes in his glass. “Doesn’t surprise me,” he answered.

Birdy was the one who was surprised. “Why not?”

Bobby took off his glasses and put on a pair of sunglasses. “Jenny was nothing but trouble. That’s why I divorced her. I actually caught her forging some documents. Look, I went to the police and filed a report. Go check. I didn’t press charges because, well, I felt sorry for those kids of hers. They didn’t deserve to be orphans while their mother went to jail.”

“What kind of documents?” Birdy asked. “What was she forging?”

“Checks,” he said. “Life insurance. You name it. If there was a place for her to sign my name and get something out of it, she was right there with a cheap-ass Bic pen. Jenny was a scammer. I was stupid. I was in my late forties, going nowhere, and I was ripe for the pickings for a girl like her.”

“A girl like
her
?”

He looked over at Birdy and took off his shades for a second.

“She was a total looker,” he said. “Hotter than a scotch bonnet chili. From what I can tell, she still is. I saw her picture on the Internet. Not bad for her age.”

“You know that I took tissue samples from Donald Lake’s body today.”

Sunglasses back on, Bobby Drysdale got up and went back to the bar inside the house. “I’m getting another drink,” he said. “And yes, I know.”

A coyote lumbered by on the other side of the jail-bars of the fence that separated the pool area from the arid magnificence of the desert. The coyote limped and kept his head down, sniffing for something along the path that he’d worn along the other side of the fence.

“You listed cause of death as a heart attack, Doctor,” she said when he returned to the chair next to hers.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “I was actually there when he died. Golfing with him when it happened on the thirteenth hole. It wasn’t that I just made it up. I tried to save the man. I think I know cardiac arrest when I see one.”

“Of course you do,” she said. “What was his medical history?”

“He had high blood pressure, but nothing completely off the charts. I expect it was living with Jenny that gave him HBP.”

Birdy was still on the hunt for answers, and she wasn’t getting many from the man who’d married Jennifer in Las Vegas.

“Had he been ill?” she asked. “Before he went golfing. Do you know?”

“Look, I wasn’t his doctor,” Drysdale said. “But, yeah, he’d been under the weather. Stress related. Jenny told me that he wasn’t taking care of himself and she was pretty sure that something like this would happen.”

Birdy took that last line in.

“Like she predicted it? Ahead of time?” she asked.

He scratched his paint-bristle white hair. “I don’t remember. I was drinking heavy back then. It might have been after, might have been before. She was a really emotional girl. Needy like. Confident too. Kind of all over the map.”

Birdy recalled the same description from the paramedic when they answered the call for help at the Roberts place.

“Your report indicated an autopsy was conducted,” she said. “I saw no evidence of one today. You probably know that already.”

Drysdale looked down at his glass. “That’s a mistake.”

He returned his gaze to her. Despite the ruddy complexion of a drinker and the sun of the desert, it was clear that he looked embarrassed. His face went a shade darker.

“Look, I was busy,” he said. “I had a lot of patients and I had what I thought was a grieving woman fighting over her husband’s body. She wanted everything expedited.”

“She was in a hurry?”

“Yeah. She didn’t want him buried in Star Valley. She said that he never, ever would want that. He hated where he’d come from. Just like Jenny. She did too.”

Birdy kept at him. “But what about the autopsy?”

“I had a friend do me a favor.”

Birdy was incredulous. “A falsified document? Do you realize that will cost you your medical license?”

“Dr. Waterman, you didn’t do all your homework before coming down here and digging up Don Lake.”

“I have your paperwork,” she said. “Right here.”

“That’s fine,” Drysdale said. “I expect you would. But you don’t have the rest of my story.”

Birdy looked at him. “No, I guess not.”

Over the next hour, Dr. Bobby Drysdale told the Kitsap County forensic pathologist that he’d willingly surrendered his medical license two years after Jenny Lake Drysdale left town. He was quietly let go for being drunk in the operating room.

“I thank God every single day that I didn’t kill anyone on the table or on the road, for that matter,” he said, dumping his ice cubes into a potted agave next to his chair.

“But you’re drinking now,” she said.

“Tonic,” he said, a little defensively. “
Diet
tonic. I haven’t had a drink in ten years.”

She looked around. “Somehow you’ve recovered. You must have had a major pension plan.”

Drysdale blinked. “I’ll ignore your tone, Doctor, but I had some investments, yes. But like most of the people in this neighborhood, I’m up to my eyeballs in debt over this house. If the market ever returns, I’m out of here.”