Authors: Jean Lorrah
Today, of course, Carrie was filming a wedding, not a documentary on addiction or domestic violence. Having fun with her new toy, Carrie made Melody and Harry a lovely present at the same time. Brandy saw her showing off the small lightweight camera to Dan. “State of the art, digital recording,” she was explaining as Brandy passed by, refilling glasses. Dan asked something concerning focus and tracking that was beyond Brandy's comprehension—except to reassure her that he was more interested in the camera than the operator.
Brandy had to stay at her mother's house—her house, now—until the last guest had departed, but Dan Martin stuck it out with her, even though a couple of her mother's women friends tried very hard to be the last to leave. Carrie helped to shoo them out, then turned to Brandy. “You did a great job, Hon."
“Thanks,” said Brandy. “I'm just glad it's over."
“Do you need help cleaning up?” Carrie asked. “Jack Crenshaw promised to help me edit this tape tonight so the bride and groom can have it before they leave town, but if you need me—"
“We can handle it,” said Dan. “Thanks for the offer."
As Dan carried the remains of the wedding cake into the kitchen, Carrie hugged Brandy and said, “That is a really nice guy—and great looking, too. I like him—for you!"
The last guest out the door, Dan helped Brandy scout for everything that had to be refrigerated or otherwise stored away. Brandy had heard the “tsk-tsking” of Mrs. McCuiston and her ilk at the paper plates and plastic champagne glasses, but in ten minutes two people had all that stuffed into garbage bags and set outside for collection. The silverware, platters, and chafing dishes went into the dishwasher, Brandy turned it on, and she and Dan went out onto the back porch while it ran its cycle.
The moon rode above the trees, glorious in a cloudless sky. It had turned from gold to silver, painting the landscape in black and white, no mitigating shades of gray.
The old porch swing still hung where Brandy's father had installed it. How many high school and college dates had she sat with on this swing? How many summer evenings had she and her parents carried their supper out here, or her father barbecued on the grill he had built, now sitting unused at the far end of the porch?
“When are you moving in?” asked Dan.
“Next weekend, probably,” she replied, surprising herself. Well, it didn't make sense to stay in the apartment. Renting the house out had crossed her mind, as she certainly didn't need all this room, but the thought of strangers in her home made her uneasy. “I'll be on call even when I'm off duty, though, after all the time I've taken the past two weeks."
“You need some help?” he asked.
“Every strong back will be welcome,” Brandy replied. “Church has already volunteered his pickup, so it's just a matter of boxing up my stuff, and finding a time we can all agree on. And deciding which of my furniture to keep, and which of Mom's,” she added with a yawn.
“I can't help you with those decisions,” Dan said, “but let me know once they're made."
He moved closer, an arm around her shoulders. The last crickets chirped loudly in the back yard. Inside, the dishwasher rumbled as it changed cycles. Dan drew Brandy into his arms, kissed her lips tenderly, almost lazily.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “There was a full moon the night we met,” she remembered.
“Yes,” was all he replied.
“So we've known each other for a month now."
“Not quite."
Well, this conversation was going nowhere—at least not where Brandy wanted it to go. “You've been very patient with me,” she tried.
“Weddings don't happen every day."
“But it's over now,” she said, nibbling kisses across his cheek. He hadn't shaved since morning, and a stubble of beard scratched Brandy's face. She liked the sensation, pleased to find another flaw in his annoying perfection.
She kissed him gently, then ran her tongue across his lips, seeking entrance. Stubbornly, his lips remained closed. Brandy drew back, puzzled. “What's wrong?"
“Nothing."
“Dan..."
The dishwasher turned itself off with a loud snap.
Dan got up. “Come on. We'll finish up here and I'll take you home."
“Dan, what did I do?” she asked. “If you're afraid I've got marriage on my mind, forget it. But—don't you think it's time we made love?” she said bluntly, horrified the moment the words were out. God, she was ruining it!
His face was in shadow, but the moonlight lit his eyes, hiding his expression behind silver like the mirrored sunglasses hoods used for that very purpose. “Don't shut me out, please,” she whispered in panic. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to push you into something you don't want."
“Don't want? Brandy, I do want to make love with you—but not tonight. It can't be tonight. Not under the full moon."
The words seemed to choke him. He hadn't been himself since they had come out into the moonlight. And he had become reticent from the moment she mentioned the moon.
What if he had met the woman he loved and lost at the full moon? What if it had been shining the first time he made love to her? It could be simply painful memory, or it could be the fear of jinxing what he had with Brandy.
“You don't have to explain."
“Yes, I do,” he said tightly. “I have to explain it all to you.” He shook his head. “But I don't know how. I just don't know how."
* * * *
If she had not been physically and emotionally exhausted after the wedding, Brandy would probably not have slept. As it was, despite this new and very important mystery, she returned to her apartment, practically fell into bed, and dropped into oblivion.
She was wakened by the telephone at 8:23am Sunday. It was Church. “Up and at ’em, Kid. We're on call, and they've called us."
“On Sunday morning?” she protested blearily.
“It's another murder, an ugly, nasty, bloody one. In the city park.” Hence the call for detectives.
Church picked Brandy up, and they drove to the crime scene. Murphy's park was in general a safe place. There had certainly been some rapes committed there, of the “victim knew perp” variety, undoubtedly some drug sales, and some citizens were annoyed about its occasional use as a rendezvous point for local gays, but there had never been a murder in the park before.
Church was ahead of Brandy, and therefore saw the victim before she did. He turned, grabbing her arms and turning her away, his face stiff with shock. “Church! What is it?” Then she realized, “Who is it?” She tried to see past him, but he held her.
“Brandy, it's your friend,” he said softly, trying to prepare her.
Dan!
her mind screamed, and she broke from her partner and dashed to look.
It wasn't Dan.
The victim was Carrie Wyman. Her throat had been cut. Dr. Sanford looked up as Brandy and Church approached. “I'm sorry,” he said. He knew Carrie, too, of course; everybody who worked with the police did. “I'll have to do an autopsy, but the cause of death is obvious."
Carrie still wore her blue silk dress, the bodice stained with blood. Her throat had been slashed, not once, but a number of times—hacked until the flesh was ragged.
Rigor mortis held her in the position in which she had died: arms folded, head resting on the root of a tree—and on her face a smile of utter serenity.
Chapter Seven—The Smile on a Dead Man's Face
Church took over the investigation. Brandy had the terrible job of breaking the news to Carrie's parents. She didn't go as a police officer, but as a friend, free to break down and cry. Her best friend's death meant a void in Brandy's life almost as great as the one in theirs.
When she was back in her car afterward, Brandy started for her apartment—and suddenly realized that any time she had felt this bad, her instinct was to call Carrie.
Her mother—
Melody Mather would understand. But Brandy's mother was Melody Davis now, and would hear the dreadful news soon enough. Her daughter had no right to ruin the first morning of her honeymoon.
It was 11:02am on Sunday. Brandy sat at a stop sign, tears dribbling down her face, until a pickup truck pulled up behind her. The driver blew his horn.
Brandy turned right, and drove aimlessly—until she found herself in front of Dan Martin's apartment building.
She should telephone, be as polite as he always was.
But her heart ached, and she needed strong arms around her. Defiantly, she parked in the visitor's spot, walked to Dan's door, and rang the bell. There was no response. Perhaps he was at church, although he had never brought up the subject of religion.
Dan's car was in its parking space, but she knew that he often left it and walked—one of the things that set him apart from typical West Kentuckians. He could have gone for a paper or to work in his office at the university. Damn.
Frustrated, she rang again, pressing for a good ten seconds before she let go. This time there were soft noises from inside, and then Dan's voice: “Just a moment!"
She had wakened him. The stubble on his jaw was even darker than last night, his hair was disheveled, and he wore a bathrobe. When the morning sunlight hit his face, he winced. “Brandy,” he said in obvious surprise.
She felt horribly embarrassed, and would have turned to leave except that he took one look at her and asked, “What's wrong? Come in and sit down. I'll make coffee."
Brandy found herself on Dan's couch, a box of tissues on the table at her elbow, and Dan seated beside her to lend support as he said, “Tell me what's happened."
Her years on the street might never have been. The moment she said, “Carrie,” her tears started to flow again.
“Carrie?” Dan prompted.
“Carrie's—dead. Murdered."
He went pale. “Oh, God.” He was tense and silent for a few moments, then asked, “How did it happen?"
“In the park. Someone—slashed her throat."
“What was she doing in the park?” Dan began to ask, but as Brandy sobbed at the memory of her best friend's body covered in blood, he stopped himself. “That doesn't matter. You've lost a friend.” He took her in his arms, where she sobbed like a child—until a new awareness intruded on her grief.
Dan Martin was unfailingly polite—the nicest man she had ever met. His good manners seemed effortless—until today. Now he offered comfort because Brandy needed it, but men disliked the open expression of grief. He would hold her for as long as she needed to cry, but the tension in his body told her it was out of duty.
Dan Martin was the last person Brandy wanted to hold her from duty. Distracted by her thoughts, she blew her nose and said, “You were going to make coffee?"
Clearly he was glad of something to do. He excused himself while the coffee perked, returning in jeans and sweatshirt, his hair combed, and smelling of toothpaste. He didn't take time to shave, though, so was back by the time the coffeepot gave its last huffing sighs. He poured two cups and brought them to the couch.
“I know it's hard on you,” Dan said. “Carrie was your friend. Will you be allowed to work on the case?"
“Everyone will work on it,” she replied—but stopped herself before she mentioned the expression that tied Carrie's death to five others in the past few weeks.
“Do you have any suspects?"
“She was going to meet Jack Crenshaw. We'll also question Carrie's ex-husband, but he was unfaithful, not violent.” She took a shaky breath. “There will probably be others. We won't have the forensic reports until tomorrow."
On Monday morning they had a full report. Carrie Wyman had died at approximately midnight. There was no sign of a struggle. Her purse had been found at the scene, everything including money and car keys intact. Her locked car was in the parking lot of the city park. There were no footprints, no fingerprints, no handily dropped matches or handkerchiefs or coins.
And no murder weapon.
Jack Crenshaw, an engineer at the cable company, was one of the last to see Carrie alive. He had helped her edit her videotape. She had left after eleven. Fortunately for him, when he was walking Carrie out to her car they met one of the other engineers. He invited them to drive “down south” to Tennessee for a few drinks. Carrie refused, but Jack went. The men thus alibied each other.
After preliminary reports, the police adjourned to the morgue. Doc Sanford, too, had been friends with Carrie—had known her longer than Brandy had, in fact. Although his eyes were red and puffy, his report was purely professional.
No skin or blood under the victim's fingernails. No fibers or hairs or other foreign objects on her person. She had not been sexually assaulted, nor had she recently had sex. There was a trace of alcohol in her system—wedding champagne—and no drugs except an antihistamine that matched allergy pills found in her purse.
Dr. Sanford was obviously angry, and his assistant cringed at the tension in his voice as he said, “Uncover the body. Let the detectives see what we've found."
The coroner's assistant clumsily removed the covering. Brandy didn't want to look into her best friend's dead face again, so she watched the assistant—and recognized him.
It was Rory Sanford, paroled from Eddyville last week. Brandy hadn't gone through Carrie's appointment book yet, but it was almost certain he would be among her clients.
Rory was around Brandy's age, but had the haggard look of someone who had been through an ordeal. He had never admitted to the crime that ended his teaching career. He had been a middle school math and science teacher before he was charged with embezzling from the booster club fund.
The bookkeeping for the fund was onerous, and there were always inaccuracies. Some contributors wanted to remain anonymous while others gave supplies or equipment rather than money. Rory Sanford had reported the discrepancies, only to be charged with theft! Then he had agreed to the fatal plea of misfeasance, which Judge Callahan had taken as a plea of guilty on all counts. It had gone hard for the young man, because he could not return the money—he claimed he didn't have it because he never took it.
Apparently the only employment he could get now was as an assistant in his grandfather's morgue. Rory looked sick this morning. Little wonder. Brandy had found it hard not to get sick the first few times she had viewed bodies. It was worse when she knew the victim. Rory didn't merely have to view; he had to assist in the autopsy, and clean up afterward.