Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Call Page 6

  “I don’t know!” Emma screamed. The woman from Family Services had put an end to the interrogation. She took Emma back to her office until Aunt Gladys came to get her.

  This interrogation didn’t go much better, though Emma kept herself from crying. “For the record, give me your full name,” Donovan said.

  “Dr. Emma Jane Earl, PhD.”

  “Great. And what’s your position here?”

  “I’m a junior researcher in the exogeology division of the geology department.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I look at space junk through a microscope,” Emma said.

  “I see. How long have you been doing that?”

  “This is my fifth day.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s been an interesting week.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Did you have any prior contact with Dr. MacGregor?”

  “He conducted my second interview about a month ago.”

  “Did you ever see him outside of work?”

  “No.”

  “What about at work? You two get into any hanky panky?”

  “What? No!” Emma said. Her face burned with heat. “Of course not. Ian was—is—my supervisor. I would never do that.”

  “Did he make any advances towards you?”

  “No. He was very nice to me.”

  “I see,” Donovan said. She wrote something down in her notebook; Emma didn’t want to know what that something might be. “Did you ever meet Sarah MacGregor?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever mention her?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Did he ever mention anyone out to get him? Maybe some gambling debts?”

  “No. We talked about work. That’s all.”

  “Tell me, Dr. Earl, what did you think about Dr. MacGregor?”

  “I thought he was very nice.”

  “Did you think he was attractive?”

  “What?”

  “Did you ever think about jumping his bones?”

  What kind of interrogation was this? Emma thought of reaching for the cup of tea and throwing it in the detective’s face. “No, I never thought about Ian like that. Do you actually think I killed Ian’s wife? And his baby?” Emma bit down on her lip to keep herself from crying at this thought. How could this woman think such terrible things about her?

  “I don’t know what to think, Dr. Earl. I’m covering all the angles.”

  Emma said nothing. She took a long drink from her tea, which had gone cold. It was clear that Donovan was trying to make her into a suspect. Why, Emma didn’t know. She wondered if she should get a lawyer. How could she afford one? She hadn’t gotten her first check from the museum yet. Becky couldn’t afford one either and Emma didn’t want to try to ask Aunt Gladys.

  Donovan cleared her throat and then said, “Where were you on Thursday night, between nine and ten o’clock?”

  “I was at Marston’s, buying a dress.”

  “How long did this take?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Anyone see you there?”

  “My friend Becky. And the sales clerk. I probably have the receipt at home.”

  “Who’s your friend Becky?”

  “Rebecca Beech. She’s my roommate.”

  “I might have a couple questions for her too then.” Donovan wrote something in her notebook and then said, “I think that’s all for now, Dr. Earl. I’d suggest you don’t leave town.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Just a word of advice. You jet off to Mexico now and you’ll look guilty as hell.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Sure, kid.” As Emma stood to go, the detective held up a hand. “One last thing. What’s going on with you and Dr. Dreamboat there?”

  “Dr. Dreyfus?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “We’re just friends—colleagues. We go jogging at lunch. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  As Emma trudged away, she was sure Donovan didn’t believe her, that before long she would have police pounding on the door to her apartment and dragging her away. She imagined Becky would throw herself at the cops, to keep Emma from being arrested. They would both wind up in jail then, Becky for assaulting a police officer and Emma for murder. She shivered at this scenario. She hoped she was wrong.

  Chapter 8

  The funeral was held at the Grigsby Funeral Home in the historical district. Emma got off the bus about two blocks away and nearly walked past the funeral home; the Victorian house blended in seamlessly with the rest of the neighborhood. If not for the hearse out front she might have missed it.

  Ian stood on the front steps, as disheveled and reeking of alcohol as Dr. Brighton. He didn’t smile at her, but some of the sadness lifted from his face. “Hello, lass,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry, Ian. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Thank you for offering.”

  She looked down at her feet; she felt helpless. “If you need someone to talk to, call me,” she said. She fumbled around in her purse until she found a pencil and slip of paper.

  He took it from her and slipped it into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said.

  There were more mourners coming in, so Emma went into the house. She found Dr. Dreyfus in the parlor with a few other colleagues from the Plaine Museum. He turned away from these and motioned for her to come over. “It’s good you could make it,” he said.

  “You too,” she mumbled.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine. How about you?”

  “I guess I’m fine too.”

  There wasn’t much else to say at the moment, just the usual office chitchat. “We thought about trying to reschedule the presentation, but the invitations had all gone out and people had already RSVP’d,” Dr. Dreyfus said.

  “The director doesn’t want to waste money on more invitations,” Dr. Lemieux said.

  “She’s not that heartless,” Emma said. “Is she?”

  “No, just cheap,” Dr. Stevens said.

  Dr. Dreyfus nodded at this. “She made us write down how many rolls of toilet paper we used on our dig,” he said and then shook his head.

  “Come on, you’re scaring the new kid,” Dr. Lemieux said. “Between that and what happened to Ian, I wouldn’t blame you for quitting.”

  “I’m not going to quit,” Emma said. She wouldn’t give up her dream job that easily.

  “That’s the spirit,” Dr. Stevens said. “Did you ever find out what that weird black thing was?”

  “Not yet. I sent out what I have to some other institutions. One of them might come up with something.”

  Dr. Lemieux shook his head. “That was the damnedest thing I ever saw. Gave me the creeps.”

  “Me too,” Dr. Stevens said.

  “Like that thing from 2001,” Dr. Dreyfus added.

  “Maybe you should try knocking on it with a bone,” Dr. Stevens said. Emma didn’t join in the laughter.

  The funeral director appeared a few minutes later to open the door to the chapel. Emma stayed close to Dr. Dreyfus, or he stayed close to her since she was practically dragging herself into the room. As if he sensed this, Dr. Dreyfus took her arm, to help guide her into the chapel.

  It had probably been a dining room in another life. Now it had rows of folding chairs facing a raised stage, on which was a podium—and two coffins. The coffin for Ian’s wife was made of polished wood, probably walnut from the color. More heartbreaking was the miniature casket for the unborn child. Emma let out a sharp gasp at the sight of it and was grateful for Dr. Dreyfus’s arm at the moment.

  “Oh God,” she breathed.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “We don’t have to go up there if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I can do it,” she said. She was nearly twenty years old, not eight like the last time. She was an adult. She continued to repeat this to herself like a mantra as she press
ed ahead.

  For obvious reasons, both coffins were closed. At her last funeral the caskets had been closed as well. Neither of her parents had been in any condition to be displayed. “Can’t I see them?” she had asked Aunt Gladys.

  “No, sweetheart.”

  Though she knew better, she entertained the unrealistic thought they might not really be dead. They might have survived; the hospital might have switched the bodies. Her parents might be alive, maybe in a coma somewhere. There was only one way to make sure.

  Emma waited until Aunt Gladys got distracted by some of the mourners. Then she opened the casket to her left. Inside she saw her father. The mortician had done what he could, but the damage to her father had been so catastrophic that not much could really be done. The right side of Daddy’s face looked somewhat normal, though a little gray and waxy. It was the left side that no longer resembled her father or any human.

  Emma began to scream. She wanted to look away from the coffin, but she couldn’t make her muscles work. Aunt Gladys finally pulled her away; the lid slammed down with a sharp crack—like a gunshot. Emma continued to scream, even as Aunt Gladys pulled Emma’s head down into her breast. Her aunt carried her away, into the bathroom, where she let Emma sob against her for what must have been at least an hour. When Emma finally ran out of tears, Aunt Gladys said, “Are you ready to go back out there now?”

  “Yes,” Emma whispered, though she wasn’t.

  This time Emma didn’t scream. She pulled her hand away from Dr. Dreyfus’s arm and then took off.

  ***

  The bathroom had been converted for commercial use, with two stalls added. Emma bolted into a stall. She collapsed onto the toilet and then buried her head in her hands.

  The worst part was that she wasn’t crying for Ian’s wife or unborn son. She was crying for herself, for her own pain. How selfish was that? Ian had lost his wife and child and she could only cry for what she had lost.

  Still, the tears would not stop. She tried wiping at her eyes, but this didn’t help. She couldn’t stop. She should have stayed home. She wasn’t grown up enough for something like this.

  She heard a tap on the side of the stall wall. “Excuse me, dear,” an elderly woman’s voice said. “I don’t suppose you could spare some toilet paper? I’m afraid someone has neglected to put any in here.”

  “Oh, sure,” Emma said. She rolled down some paper and then tore it off. She slipped it underneath the stall. “Is that enough?”

  “That should do splendidly, dear. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Emma continued to cry throughout this conversation, the tears still dripping down her cheeks. When would it stop? She couldn’t spend the entire funeral in the ladies room.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but were you a friend of Dr. MacGregor?”

  “What? Oh, not really. I work with him. At the museum.”

  “It’s so terrible what happened. Especially that poor child.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible,” Emma said. She punctuated this with a sniffle.

  “It’s always terrible when someone dies. Even those who weren’t very nice,” the old woman said.

  “I suppose so.”

  “When my Alejandro died, I couldn’t get out of bed. I just lay there crying.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said.

  “I loved him so much. I didn’t know how my life would ever go on without him.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I finally got out of bed, with my sister’s help. She reminded me of all the good times I had with him, of the children we made together. She helped me remember all the people I still had to live for.”

  Emma thought about this for a moment. The old woman was right. She still had Becky and Aunt Gladys and Mr. Graves. She had her job at the museum. She had too many things in her life to sit in here feeling sorry for herself. That wasn’t what her parents would want. “Thank you,” Emma said.

  She opened the stall door and then went over to the sink to check her makeup. She didn’t look too bad, though her eyes were puffy and red from crying. But it was a funeral; she was supposed to cry.

  As she stared into the mirror, the other door opened. The old woman stepped out of the stall. She was probably in her sixties, with gray hair pulled into a bun. She had a few extra pounds, though not enough to make her overweight. Her eyes were what really struck Emma. They were blue like her own, but there was something commanding about them, as if she were a queen or duchess. “Hello, young lady,” the old woman said. “I’d shake your hand, but I haven’t washed yet.”

  Emma backed away from the sink so the old woman could wash her hands. She wanted to leave, but the old woman continued to talk. “I’m sorry if I pestered you in there. My sister says I talk too much. Sometimes I ramble on and on.”

  “No, it’s fine. What you said was just right.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, dear.” The old woman dried her hands on a towel and then stuck out her hand for Emma to shake. “My name is Agnes. Agnes Chiostro.”

  “Emma Earl.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Emma, though I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

  “So do I.”

  Mrs. Chiostro reached into her purse. She produced a business card with a roll of thread and a needle on it. The card gave Mrs. Chiostro’s title as, “Agnes Chiostro, Seamstress.” Mrs. Chiostro said, “If you ever need a dress or maybe if you want to talk some more, you give me a call, dear.”

  “I will,” Emma said. She tucked the card into her purse. Then she took Mrs. Chiostro’s arm, to help her back to the chapel.

  Chapter 9

  After the funeral, Emma met Dr. Dreyfus outside. Ian had requested no one go to the cemetery for the actual burial. There would be no funeral procession, which was good for her since she didn’t have a car and would have had to get a ride with someone.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Dreyfus asked.

  “I’m fine,” Emma whispered, though she still felt on the verge of breaking down. She felt someone touch her arm and turned to see Mrs. Chiostro there. Despite that they had met less than two hours ago, the old woman gave her a hug.

  “Goodbye, dear. You remember what I said.”

  “I will.” Before Mrs. Chiostro could go, Emma said, “Wait, do you need a ride home?”

  “I live down the road. I’ll be all right.” From the way Mrs. Chiostro walked, she certainly didn’t seem to need any help. She looked very spry for an old woman. Emma hoped she was still in that condition if she made it to her sixties.

  “Who was that?” Dr. Dreyfus asked.

  “Oh, she’s someone I met in the ladies room,” Emma said. “She’s a seamstress.”

  “Really? I didn’t think there were any seamstresses left. I thought the big designers had put them all out of business.”

  Emma shrugged. “It’s probably a hobby.”

  “I guess.” Dr. Dreyfus cleared his throat. “Speaking of dresses, this might be tactless of me to say, but are you ready for tonight?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “I think so.” He smiled at her. “I’m not nervous yet, but I’m sure by eight I’ll be a wreck. Good thing I’ll have a colleague there to support me.”

  Emma blushed at this; the way he said “colleague” was the same way Becky had insinuated this was a date. “I was thinking,” she began, “maybe we shouldn’t meet for dinner first.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I think given the circumstances, with the funeral and such, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Emma—”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be very hungry, or very good company tonight.”

  Dr. Dreyfus nodded slightly at this and then looked down at his feet. “I suppose you’re right.” His smile was a little too wide to be natural. “Truth be told, I’m not going to be very hungry either.”

  “I’m glad you understand.” Though from the look on his face, she doubted he did.
/>   ***

  A banner hanging on the façade of the museum announced the opening of the Karlak II exhibit. Emma saw couples in formal attire loitering at the top steps, most of them smoking. She thought of her encounter with Detective Donovan the day before and decided in this case to make an exception.

  Dan stood off to one side, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tuxedo pants. His face brightened with a smile when he saw her. “I was starting to think you’d changed your mind,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  He took her arm and then led her into the museum. As if in a nightmare, Emma and Dr. Dreyfus found the director staring right at them. Emma had not met the director personally, but recognized her face from the museum’s annual report. The director’s face contorted in a smile that nearly made Emma wince. “Good evening Dr. Dreyfus,” she said and then turned to Emma. “Good evening as well, Dr. Earl. What a lovely couple you two make.”

  “We’re not—”

  “I trust you’re ready for tonight’s festivities?” the director asked Dr. Dreyfus.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I’ll let you see to the final preparations then. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your date for a few minutes. There are some people I’d like Dr. Earl to meet.”

  “Not a problem,” Dr. Dreyfus said, though he gave Emma a worried glance. She tried not to look too terrified as the director led her away.

  “I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” Emma said. “I can explain—”

  “There’s no need to explain. You’re two attractive, intelligent young people. It’s only natural for you to become involved.”

  “But it’s not like that. We’re just colleagues.”

  “Such a pity,” the director said. She didn’t seem angry with them at all, which made Emma wonder if the director knew about the no fraternizing rule or if she chose to ignore it.

  The director led Emma over to a knot of guests. Emma already recognized Councilman Roy Lintner from the campaign literature Becky brought home with her, although in the brochures Lintner’s face wasn’t as red; Emma suspected he had drank more than one glass of champagne being circulated by the catering staff. “Councilman Lintner, this is Dr. Emma Earl. She’s the newest member of our team.”