We were sitting on the porch in one of the chairs. I was folded up on Martin’s lap.
“Martin,” I whispered. “She still had on her wig. But there was just a skull underneath it.”
Everyone came. It was like a lawn party for law enforcement personnel in Spalding County.
Our house was just within the city limits, so the chief of police came first. Padgett Lanier was sharp-nosed, tall, with thinning blond hair and nearly invisible eyelashes and eyebrows. He had a paunch, and a mouth that was too small for his face. He had been chief of police of Lawrenceton for twenty years. I’d met him at various parties while I was dating Arthur Smith.
I was sitting in a separate chair by then, but still on the porch, hoping to keep everyone out of our home. Martin had pulled his chair over by mine and was holding my hand. Shelby and Angel were sitting on the porch itself, blocking the front door, watching the activity with impassive faces.
“Mrs. Bartell?” Lanier asked from the front lawn.
“Ms. Teagarden,” I said.
“You the one that found them?”
“Yes. They’re up on the roof. Under the plastic.”
“The picture man should be here in a minute,” he said. It sounded as though he were talking about Mr. Rogers; Padgett Lanier was one of those people who think because I’m small, I’m childlike. “I’d better let him go up first. Did you touch anything while you were up there, honey? How’d you happen to go up on the roof? Wait, here comes Jack; you might as well tell both of us at once.”
Detective Sergeant Jack Burns came next, and I heaved a sigh when I saw him emerge from his car. He hated my guts. On the other hand, he treated me like an adult. Burns was wearing one of his hideous suits, which he apparently bought at garage sales held on dark nights. He stood looking at the ladder with a face even grimmer than usual. He did not relish making the climb. His no-color hair was scantier than when I’d last seen him, and the flesh of his face was sagging.
Lynn Liggett Smith was right behind him, looking as slim, tall, and competent as ever, and she had the “picture man” with her. Several other cars pulled in after Lynn’s, and it began to seem that whoever was off duty or had decided they weren’t needed at the moment had driven out to the Julius place to see what was happening. It was the place to be if you were a cop.
Martin murmured, “Is there no other crime in this town that needs investigating? Surely somebody is running a stop sign somewhere.”
“Most of them, probably, were here six years ago,” I said.
After a thoughtful moment, he nodded.
Padgett Lanier conferred with Jack Burns, and the picture man was dispatched up the ladder first. Lynn went up after him to help carry his equipment. Fortunately, she was wearing slacks. She looked through the rungs at me on her way up. She shook her head slightly, as if I’d gotten up to another naughty trick.
The yard fell silent. All the policemen-and aside from Lynn, they were all male-looked up at the roof above our heads. I could hear the scrape of the photographer’s shoes as he scrambled up the roof; the pause as he reached the top, saw the tarp. He said something to Lynn; I heard her reply, “Here,” as she handed him his camera from her place on the ladder. I could only see her feet from my chair. Presumably he took a few pictures. I heard him say, “Lift the tarp for me, Detective,” and then Lynn’s progress across the roof. I swear I heard the rattle of the stiff, cracking plastic as Lynn raised it.
“They’re stacked on top of each other, Martin,” I murmured. “I guess it’s all three of them.”
“Mostly bones, Roe?” Martin asked. His face was calm, and I knew he was being matter-of-fact because he knew I needed it. And because he had seen death far more often than I.
“Yes… mostly. The wig is on her skull. I told you that. I don’t understand about the wig.”
“Probably a synthetic.”
“No, no. It’s the wrong wig.”
His eyes were questioning and he leaned closer, but at that moment Lynn came down the ladder, turned to her superiors, and nodded curtly.
“Three of them,” she said. “Three skulls, anyway.”
A collective sigh seemed to go up from the people on my front lawn.
“Jerry’s going to pass the tarp down,” she said. “Then he’ll take more pictures.” She went to her car and got a large plastic garbage bag. She beckoned to a patrolman. He sprang to help, and they spread the mouth of the garbage bag wide. There were a series of scraping sounds as the photographer/policeman removed the tarp.
“Need someone up here to pass it down!” he called.
Jack Burns shambled forward to the foot of the ladder and began to climb heavily. He had pulled on plastic gloves.
They made an effort to pass the tarp down folded, so nothing would spill from its surface, but it was cracking with age and a few pieces had to be retrieved from the bushes around the porch. Finally it was sealed in the garbage bag and placed in Lynn’s car.
“Get whoever’s on dispatch to call Morrilton Funeral Home to come out here. Tell them what to expect,” she told the patrolman who’d helped hold the bag. He nodded and went to his patrol car radio.
Some of the men approached Lynn with a request, and after a moment’s thought, she nodded. They converged at the foot of the ladder. One by one the men climbed up. We would hear the scrape of heavy official shoes, a silence as he peeked over the porch roof, then he would come down. The process would be repeated. While that was going on, Lynn and her two superiors congregated on the porch. Shelby got up and arranged three chairs facing ours. Angel took Martin’s chair. He and Shelby stood on the side of the porch, where Angel and I could see them. This did not suit Jack Burns, I could tell, but he could hardly tell our husbands to leave when Angel and I were innocent bystanders to another family’s tragedy.
“Could we move inside?” he asked, with as much geniality as he could muster.
Angel had actually shifted in her seat preparatory to rising when I said, “I’d really rather not.” She shot me a startled look and tried to settle back as though she’d never moved. I saw from the corner of my eye that Martin had blinked in surprise, and Shelby turned to one side to hide a grin.
Lynn, Lanier, and Jack Burns all looked surprised, too.
I didn’t want my house invaded.
“Well, it is a right nice day out here,” Lanier said smoothly.
“How did you come to go up on the roof, Roe?” Lynn asked.
“Angel and I were playing Frisbee.”
Lanier looked from Angel to me, comparing our sizes, and put his hand over his mouth to shield his smile.
“Angel threw the Frisbee, there was a gust of wind, and it ended up going up on the roof. I got the ladder, climbed up, got the Frisbee, and found-them.”
“You were there, Mrs. Youngblood?” Lynn asked politely.
“I was holding the ladder. I’m scared of heights.”
“What happened to your face, young lady?” Jack Burns asked, in tones of tender solicitousness.
“I fell on the gravel driveway, and I couldn’t catch myself in time,” Angel said. Her hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were perfectly relaxed.
“And you, Mr. Bartell?” Lynn asked suddenly, swinging around in her seat to look at Martin. “Where were you when your wife went up on the roof? And Mr. Young-blood?”
“I was driving in from the airport. I got here while my wife was up on the roof,” Martin responded. “I’ve been away on a business trip.”
“I was asleep,” Shelby said.
“You’re not working today?”
“I felt sick this morning, and didn’t go in. As a matter of fact, I started feeling real bad yesterday afternoon, all of a sudden. I came home from work then and haven’t been back since.”
Shelby had neatly covered his sudden departure from work yesterday afternoon after Angel had called him. A “just in case” move, I thought.
That was really all Lynn could ask us, given the circumstances. Perhaps it was even one or two questions more
