The Coroner, page 8
The two sat in silence for a moment. Eventually Cathy spoke. “I’m really happy to be a part of your family, and I hope you’ll accept that … accept me. Maybe this is part of a new start for all of us?”
Emily gulped back the lump in her throat. “Maybe. It’s just a lot to take in at five in the morning.”
“Understandably. It’s been a pretty full day, so I’ll let you get some rest. Welcome home, Emily. And happy birthday,” Cathy said.
Emily grabbed her bag, locked the car, and followed Cathy inside. By habit, she turned left once through the front doors and padded up the staircase to her old bedroom on the second floor. Plunking down her things on a chair, Emily dropped into bed. She was exhausted and overwhelmed by the events of the past twenty-four hours. Sleep would help. She would need a renewed state of mind for whatever was coming at her with the break of this new day. Thankfully, Cathy was now in play to make health decisions for Emily’s dad, and the Dobson autopsy was done. With any luck, she might be able to sail out of here in another twenty-four. She could be back in Chicago in time for Brandon’s weekend off. Her stomach growled, but she was too fatigued to get up and go to the kitchen. What was the last thing she’d eaten? Oh yes, frosting. And as Emily drifted asleep, she thought about that PB&J cupcake from Violet’s on the floor of the doctor’s lounge. Freeport didn’t have anything even close to Violet’s Cupcakery. Her drowsy brain resolved to remind Brandon that he owed her another one.
12
Emily rose around noon and found a note in the kitchen from Cathy, informing her that she was at the hospital. She grabbed a piece of fruit from the basket on the counter and made a cup of coffee while she flipped on the TV to see if news of Julie’s death had touched the noon news cycle. She caught the tail end of a local ABC affiliate broadcast from downtown Freeport last night, where they’d captured Nick leaving the hospital at midnight and giving a short statement saying the case was under investigation and “no further questions.” Emily could tell the woman was not satisfied with Nick’s answer, or maybe wanted to boost ratings, so the reporter interjected her own speculation that it was possible “Julie’s death might be more than just an unfortunate accident.” On that tag, the station went to commercial break, and Emily shut it off. She checked her phone. Nothing from Brandon. He was probably in surgery.
She finished her coffee and drove into Freeport to take a walk around and clear her head for the challenges of the afternoon ahead. Downtown Freeport was only three blocks in length, and the businesses were operating at their usual small-town pace. Emily snugged her sweater across her chest. She looked up at a gray sky that threatened storms. A light frost had tinged the tips of the grass and edges of the leaves. September 20. It seemed too early for frost, and she wondered if it were going to be an early autumn.
Emily walked one side of the street and then crossed it to cover the opposite side. She passed a total of three people. When in Chicago could she ever walk around a single city block and encounter so few people? Never.
Halfway down the block, Emily found herself standing in front of an odd window display in Glassner’s Sports Shop. Inside, a happy deer family grazed on fake turf, completely oblivious to a mannequin hunter pointing a shotgun behind them. Emily found it ironic that this hunter was hoping to feed his family with theirs. It was an odd juxtaposition, much like the one she had stepped into last night. Trouble brewing beneath the surface of her hometown, and no one knew it was there. Yet.
This little window dressing scene spoke deeply to Emily about the underlying condition of threats in the world. Aren’t we are all just trying to survive the best we can, but in the end, won’t we all succumb to some hunter not of our choosing?
Her thoughts turned to Julie. Who was hunting Julie? Who wanted her dead? Why did they want her dead? Why her? And why now?
It was the same set of questions Emily asked about any untimely death or disease. Especially her mom’s. When her mom left the house that long-ago morning, she was a perfectly healthy woman in her late thirties. Happy home. Happy marriage. There were no indications that the Grim Hunter was pointing his rifle her way that day. Emily had never believed the story the cops gave them that her mom was swerving to avoid hitting an animal. Her mom knew that stretch of road was treacherous, and she was a good driver. Her dad had impressed on both of them that hitting an animal on that dangerous section of curve was better than trying to swerve to miss it. Yes, it went contrary to instinct, but swerve and you’d end up over the embankment. Dead. Hit the animal: animal dies, but you live.
Emily left hunter and his prey and traveled down the sidewalk. Her phone buzzed as she passed Tina’s Hair & Nail Salon. Emily scrambled to find it in the bottom of her purse. Brandon’s name flashed across the screen. “Hey, you okay? I just got out of surgery and panicked when I saw you still hadn’t called,” he started.
He knew her so well. “Yeah, I’m so sorry. I’m fine.”
She had completely forgotten to call him last night and let him know how her dad was doing and that she had made it safely.
“What’s going on up there? I opened up MSN on the ‘L’ this morning and saw your picture on the regional news link. Did I see this right? You actually performed an autopsy?” he said with a touch of worry in his voice.
“What? You saw it where?” What else had Nick told those reporters? She wished she had seen the whole news report. “Ah, yeah, I did,” Emily said, her lips turning up at the sound of his voice. “You sound concerned?”
“Of course I’m concerned. What happened?
“I can’t really say over the phone because I haven’t released the autopsy reports yet. The victim is a state senator’s daughter and sort of a local equestrian celebrity,” said Emily. She moved from Tina’s and crossed at the stoplight. Across the street she could see Brown’s Bakery, where her mom used to take her after school for the bear claws and cinnamon rolls. All right, Brown’s. Let’s see how you stack up to Violet’s.
“So, I’m still a little fuzzy on something. How exactly did you end up doing an autopsy?”
“They suckered me in,” Emily said, realizing how all this must sound to him. Less than a day ago, he had been proposing to her. Now, her name was appearing on news reports, and she was becoming consumed in a drama completely contrary to her normal life.
“Who is they? And are you okay with this? It just sounds so … well, very surreal.”
Emily explained how it had all gone down, but left out the part about how Sheriff Larson was that one boyfriend she’d had in high school.
“Sounds like some odd but exciting stuff, I have to admit. All I did yesterday was a knee replacement,” said Brandon. “How are things with your dad?”
“He’s denying that there’s anything seriously wrong with him. But I’ll talk to the cardiologist today and see where we’re going from here. Will you be able to come up?”
“I should be able to make it up there by the weekend,” said Brandon.
“Meaning Saturday?”
“Probably Sunday. But only for a night.”
“Any chance you can get someone to switch shifts and come up sooner? Or stay longer?”
Brandon paused on the other end. “I don’t know, Em. I have four surgeries scheduled in the next three days.”
“I thought you wanted to meet my dad?”
“I do. I do. Especially since he’s going to be walking you down the aisle soon.”
“Who says I’m going to ask him to do that?”
“Em, come on. I don’t know everything that went down in the past between you two, but what are the chances you can patch things up while you’re there?” he coaxed.
He had no idea how deep this rift ran. And she couldn’t blame him. He had tried to pry it out of Emily several times during their dating life, but she wouldn’t let him. Her secrets were a sore spot between them. Brandon didn’t understand family secrets. Because she and he had none. They were transparent. They told each other everything.
“Em, are you there?” Brandon said.
“Dad married Cathy without telling me,” Emily blurted out, changing the subject.
“The Cathy Bishop? The family friend and mortician?”
“Yes. I haven’t talked with him about it yet,” Emily said. “She told me when I got to the house.”
“Wow. Big news. How do you feel about that?” he asked.
“I feel … I like Cathy.”
“But what?”
“I never pictured another woman in my mom’s home,” said Emily.
“I’m sorry, Em. Just try to be happy for them,” he said, but the tone of his voice dropped, and Emily could tell he was multitasking. “Hey, guess what? Dr. Claiborne asked me to cowrite a journal article and present it at the surgical convention next month.”
“Congratulations. What are you doing over there?”
“What? Nothing.”
“No, you’re looking at something. I can hear you clicking on the keyboard.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw a news van rolling onto Main Street. She checked her watch. 12:23 PM. The press were trolling town, no doubt waiting for the autopsy report to drop.
Emily gave in to her craving for a Brown’s bear claw. She crossed the street, not noticing a white van slowing up to the curb a few yards behind her.
“Brandon, are you there?”
The van was trailing Emily now, and she picked up the pace. Emily walked a few more paces, landing in front of Luisa’s Bridal Store.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Do you need to go?”
“You caught me. I’m looking at wedding venues online,” Brandon admitted as she glanced up at the towering white gowns on spindly mannequins in the window. “Have you thought about a wedding date?”
“I was hoping to bask in the glow of being newly engaged for at least another day or two,” she joked.
As Emily looked into the street display window, she saw the reflection of the van in the glass.
“It’s just … my mom’s already bugging me,” said Brandon “She has a venue picked out. She wants to reserve her country club.”
“In Rolling Hills? That’s the suburbs,” said Emily.
“Yeah. I know we always talked about a city wedding, but she can get a good deal, and all their friends are out there,” Brandon reasoned.
Emily picked up the pace and narrowed in on her escape route as a reporter and a cameraman got out of the van.
“But everyone we know is in the city,” she said.
“People like to get out of the city for something fun,” said Brandon.
Behind her Emily could hear the click-click of the reporter’s heels gaining ground. She was just feet away from the bakery.
“Excuse me, Dr. Emily Hartford?” said the voice on her tail.
She felt a hand touch her shoulder. Emily turned to face a leggy, bottle-blonde reporter with chalk-white teeth and black-cherry lipstick that made her look a little zombielike.
“Can I ask you a few questions about Julie Dobson’s death?” the woman pressed, sidestepping around Emily. Emily froze up.
“You are the doctor who performed the autopsy on Miss Dobson, right?”
Emily couldn’t get away now. As she glanced at the camera lens in her face, all she could think was how she hadn’t put on any makeup today. Not even a stroke of mascara.
“Brandon—hey, can I call you back?”
“Yeah, sure. Everything okay?” he said.
“Um, yeah. Call you later.”
“What should I tell my mom?” he said.
“I don’t know. Figure it out,” Emily said faintly and then slipped her phone into her purse, never letting her eyes off the microphone positioned six inches from her gaping mouth.
“How did Julie Dobson die? Was it accidental?” fired the reporter.
“I can’t comment on that right now. The report will be made public later today.”
“Are you taking over the ME position for your father? What are your plans for the ME office now that your father has stepped down?”
“What? No, he hasn’t stepped down. He’s in the hospital, recovering,” Emily said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw she was standing in front of the bakery door. She felt behind her for the door handle as the reporter loomed over her. If I go in there, will she follow me, or will I be trapped?
“Is it your opinion that Julie’s death was an accident?” pressed the blonde reporter.
“I-I cannot comment right now,” Emily stuttered.
Suddenly, the bakery door swung open, and a woman’s voice barked, “Back away. You’re interfering with an Official police investigation.” An FBI badge flashed and sent the reporter, bristling, to the edge of the sidewalk.
Emily, who had her back toward the door, couldn’t see who the woman was. She had no time to react as she felt a firm grip around her arm. Before she knew it, she was yanked inside and backed into a corner. The woman then hastily bolted the bakery door and drew the privacy shades over the storefront window.
13
“Now, what can I get you? Cinnamon roll or bear claw?” said the friendly kidnapper, turning to Emily with a huge smile. It took Emily a second.
“Delia?” Emily found herself staring at the petite, red-haired woman whom she now recognized with relief and great appreciation.
“That badge still comes in handy sometimes,” said Delia Andrews with a full-bellied laugh. “Oh my. Look at you. You’re the spitting image of your mother,” she continued, embracing Emily.
Emily was taken aback by mention of her mother but quickly brushed it off, as she knew Delia meant well. Delia was a close family friend and former FBI agent who had sometimes consulted on her father’s cases. Never married. No kids. Delia traveled the world with the FBI, always bringing Emily trinkets from exotic places like Malta, Mumbai, and Madagascar. Emily was pretty sure all of Delia’s international gifts were still in alphabetical order in shoe boxes in the back of her closet.
“So which is it?” said Delia, slipping behind the donut counter and grabbing a small plate and tongs. “Bear claw or cinnamon bun? Or both! Go crazy.”
“Bear claw?” Emily noticed that Delia was wearing a Brown’s Bakery apron. “Delia, do you work here now?”
Delia nodded. “Retirement was boring. People shouldn’t retire, Emily. Remember that. They should just move on to something new. Besides, this place gives me a chance to keep up on the local gossip and do a little sleuthing for the cops. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” Emily said, grinning with teeth full of pastry. Delia always had a plan up her sleeve.
“Shame on those media hounds, chasing you down on the street.”
“Thank you for rescuing me. I was really getting up a creek out there.” Emily sunk her teeth into the fresh, warm bear claw. She had forgotten how these melted in the mouth. Was there anywhere in Chicago that even came close? No. Not even Violet’s. Brown’s was still the best. She had just forgotten.
“Just sit for a spell. They’ll get tired of waiting. You want coffee with that?”
“I’d love some. I need some. I’ve only been up an hour.”
“Sit, sit. I’ll make you a latte.”
Emily sank into an uncomfortable wire chair and marveled at Delia’s tireless spirit. If only she had an ounce of Delia’s energy.
“When did you retire?”
“Last year,” Delia said. “Toward the end of my service with the FBI, I was away more than home. At first, it was nice to be home. I must have slept twelve hours a day, catching up for the past thirty years. Then, when my sleep pattern went back to normal, I burned through a hundred and seventy-two issues of Reader’s Digest and crocheted thirty-nine blankets for the neonatal unit. Finally, I landed here. But I admit, I have been struggling with wanderlust.”
“Is there anywhere you haven’t been?” said Emily as Delia set down a frothy latte in front of her.
“Can you believe, Fiji? Yes, Fiji. Not a lot of crime there.”
“Sounds perfect. Maybe you should plan a trip.” Emily brought her lips to the rim of the mug and inhaled the caffeinated aroma. She took a small sip.
“Ouch! Hot!” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“Let it cool a second. There’s no rush.”
Emily nodded and set the mug on the table. I’m always in such a hurry in Chicago. When was the last time I actually sat with a cup of coffee?
“I was sorry to hear about your dad. How is he?”
“I’ll soon find out. Cardiologist was stopping in about noon.” She checked her watch. “He should have already made his visit.”
“I suppose midnight autopsies with former sweethearts isn’t exactly what you thought you would be doing on your first Freeport visit in twelve years, is it?” Delia said.
Emily chuckled and shook her head. Small towns. There was no such thing as people minding their own business. She could get mugged in broad daylight on the South Loop, and maybe someone would stop to call 911. But here. You couldn’t so much as get a splinter removed without half the town speculating on the best way to take care of it. “Brown’s really is the perfect place for you, isn’t it? And Nick was never a sweetheart.”
“Oh, yes he was. You just couldn’t see it at the time, Em. With your mom …” She trailed off.
Emily tried her coffee again. This time it was cool enough to drink.
“I just think that destiny … fate, providence, kismet, karma, the universe—call it what you will—it comes for us and has its way with us.”
Emily wished to put a stop to all this speculative nonsense, so she elegantly held out her hand for Delia to see her diamond. “I’m engaged, Delia.”
“Well, I’ll be. You could knock a person out with that rock,” Delia gazed at the stone, turning it over in the light. “Lemme guess. He’s a doctor. Probably a surgeon. A few years your senior. Handsome, of course. Born and bred in Chicago. A good man with fine taste. The kind you don’t find around here. He has a family with pedigree.”
