“So you what? You just walked inside? Thought you could take a look around?” He offers this theory like it’s preposterous, even though it’s exactly what happened. “I want you to open the door and slowly step outside, do you understand?”
I realize there are two more cops at the edge of the yard, stretching long ribbons of yellow tape from tree to tree. Farther out, deeper in the forest, I can see flashes of movement, jackets with reflective surfaces. I can hear men shouting discoveries to each other.
“What’s going on?” Adrian asks.
“Hands on the wall,” the cop says.
“Are you serious?”
Adrian is shocked—clearly, this is his first experience being frisked.
“Just do it,” I tell him.
“This is bullshit, Mallory. You’re wearing gym shorts! You’re not concealing a weapon.”
But just the mention of the word “weapon” seems to escalate the confrontation. Now the two cops with the yellow tape are walking toward us with concerned expressions. I just follow the instructions and do what I’m told. I press my palms against the brick wall; I lower my head and stare down at the grass while the cop pats my waist with his hands.
Adrian grudgingly stands beside me and plants his palms on the wall. “Absolute bullshit.”
“Shut up,” the cop tells him.
And if I wasn’t afraid to speak, I would tell Adrian the cop is actually being nice—I’ve known cops in Philadelphia who would have you pinned, cuffed, and facedown in gravel in the time it takes to say hello. Adrian seems to think he doesn’t have to listen to them, that he’s somehow above the law.
Then a man and a woman come walking around the side of the house. The man is tall and white and the woman is short and black and they’re both a little pudgy and out of shape. They remind me of my high school guidance counselors. They’re dressed in business attire that’s straight off the racks at Marshalls or TJMaxx, and they both have detective shields hanging from their necks.
“Aw, Darnowsky, come on,” the man calls out. “What are you doin’ to that girl?”
“She was in the house! You said the victim lived alone.”
“Victim?” Adrian asks. “Is Mitzi okay?”
Instead of answering our questions, they separate us. The male detective leads Adrian across the yard while the woman encourages me to sit down at a rusty wrought-iron patio table. She unzips her fanny pack, removes a tin of Altoids, and pops one into her mouth. Then she offers me the open box, but I decline.
“I’m Detective Briggs and my partner is Detective Kohr. Our young associate with the circus tattoos is Officer Darnowsky. I apologize for his exuberance. This is our first dead body in a while, so everybody’s jumpy.”
“Mitzi’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so. Couple kids found her an hour ago. Lying in the woods.” She points to the forest. “You could see her from here, if these trees weren’t in the way.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s start with your name. Who are you, where do you live, and how do you know Mitzi?”
I spell my name and show her my driver’s license and then point across the yard to my cottage. I explain that I work for the family next door. “Ted and Caroline Maxwell. I’m their babysitter, and I live in their guest house.”
“Were you sleeping in the cottage last night?”
“I sleep there every night.”
“Did you hear anything unusual? Any noises?”
“No, but I went to bed early. And it was raining hard, I remember that much. With all the wind and thunder I couldn’t hear anything. When do you think Mitzi—” I can’t bring myself to say the word “died”; I still can’t believe Mitzi is actually dead.
“We’re just getting started here,” Briggs says. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Not yesterday but the day before. Thursday morning. She came to my cottage around eleven thirty.”
“What for?”
It sounds embarrassing when I say it out loud, but I tell her the truth, anyway. “Mitzi was a psychic. She had a theory my cottage was haunted. So she brought over her spirit board—it’s like a Ouija board? And we tried to make contact.”
Briggs seems amused. “Did it work?”
“I’m not sure. We got some letters but they don’t make a lot of sense.”
“Did she charge you?”
“No, she offered to help for free.”
“And what time did you finish?”
“One o’clock. I’m sure about that because Adrian was here, too. On his lunch break. He had to leave to get back to work. And that was the last time I saw her.”
“Do you remember what she was wearing?”
“Gray pants, purple top. Long sleeves. Everything very loose and flowy. And lots of jewelry—rings, necklaces, bracelets. Mitzi always wears lots of jewelry.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
Briggs shrugs. “She’s not wearing any now. She’s not even wearing shoes. Just a nightgown. Was Mitzi the sort of woman who’d go walking outside in her nightgown?”
“No, I’d actually say she’s the opposite. She put a lot of effort into her appearance. It was a weird look but it’s her look, if you know what I mean.”
“Could she have had dementia?”
“No. Mitzi worried about a lot of different things, but her mind was sharp.”
“So why were you inside her house just now?”
“Well, this will probably sound stupid, but I had a question about the séance. We wondered if maybe the spirit was using a different language, and that’s why the letters didn’t spell anything. We wanted to ask Mitzi if that was a possibility. The back door was open so I knew she had to be home. Adrian thought she might be hurt, so we went in the house to see if she was okay.”
“Did you touch anything? Did you handle any of her possessions?”
“I opened her bedroom door. To see if she was sleeping. And I guess I muted her TV. She had it going so loud, we couldn’t hear anything else.”
Briggs looks down to my waist, and I realize she’s studying my pockets. “Did you take anything from the house?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then would you mind turning your pockets inside out? I believe you’re telling the truth, but it’s better for everyone if I check.”
I’m glad that Adrian kept the notes from the séance, so I don’t have to lie about them.
“Those are all my questions right now,” she says. “Do you have any information that might help me?”
“I wish I did. Do you know what happened?”
She shrugs. “There’s no sign of injury. I don’t think anyone hurt her. And when you find the body of an old person outdoors? Dressed in their nightclothes? Usually it’s some kind of medication error. They mixed up their pills or took a double dose. Did she ever mention any prescriptions?”
“No,” I tell her, which is the honest answer. I’m tempted to mention the needle caps and the tourniquet and the pungent odor of burned rope that trailed Mitzi like a cloud. But surely Briggs will discover all these things on her own, after a short ′tour of the house.
“Well, I appreciate your time. And would you mind sending over the Maxwells? Ted and Caroline? I want to speak to all the neighbors.”