“I overheard them talking about looking for something. They said… Whatever Arty remembered, it couldn’t have been this house. They moved every single thing in the laundry and the pantry and searched every inch of the floor. ”
“Do you have any idea what they were referring to?”
“Since we’ve found the cellar outside, I think that’s what they were looking for. Why? I don’t know. The only thing odd is that a day after that burglary Simon Barker, the real estate agent, came to the door and asked if I would sell the house. He said he had a buyer who had shown interest.”
“I’ll make sure we talk to him.” DI Grogan makes a note in his book.
“Is there anything else you need to know?”
“That’s all for now. Are you around tomorrow when we come back?”
“I have no plans to go away anytime.”
“If you remember anything else, please make a note. It could be important.”
I’m glad when they leave.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elise: 20 March 2017, late morning, Port Somers
I want answers.
If nobody volunteers to give them to me, I just have to get them. As I leave home it starts to drizzle. Low hanging rain clouds cover everything and strip the coast of all colors. Even the exhaust fumes of the odd passing car crawling along State Highway six have nowhere to go but to hang around. I shiver and roll up my window.
By the time I reach the police station the slow, steady drizzle is showing no aspiration of becoming heavier. It’s too little to drive you back into the house, but too much to go without an umbrella. I left the umbrella at home, so I’m wet. It fits my current mood.
All-day yesterday police crawled all over our backyard and the cellar. The area is now cordoned off with yellow tape. It took Scott a diplomatic masterstroke to get us permission to access our water pump. Did the police tell me anything about what they did or didn’t find? Of course not. That would be too easy.
‘Sharing is caring’ doesn’t seem to apply to them. The culprit could get away if the police showed their cards and revealed their hand. Oops. What am I saying? He or she already did thirty years ago, I guess because back then the police were corrupt or stupid.
So, off to the police station I traipse, hoping to get answers. No luck there. Detective Smith stares at me as if I grew horns when I asked for an update on their progress.
“The team is not finished yet. They’re combing through every square inch of the property and the cellar. It’ll take at least another day—perhaps even two.”
I can tell she tries to be friendly and accommodating.
“Have they found anything yet?”
“We need to wait for the report from the ESR team. We don’t want to spread an unconfirmed rumor.”
What she says makes sense. I suspect that ‘waiting for the report’ is code for they didn’t find anything that points to my aunt’s killer. I’m not a police person, but I used to watch Midsomer Murders. The clues are often there from the beginning.
“What about my aunt’s letter? Doesn’t it show a convincing link from my parent’s so-called accident to Jesse’s accident to Thomas’ impending visit and my aunt’s murder?”
She looked at me as if I’m a half-baked fruit-cake.
“So far it’s only hearsay and there’s no hard evidence that connects those incidences. I understand you want to help and the team appreciates everything you can provide. It would be a great help if you could find your brother’s whereabouts. He could hold vital information given that he was the last one who saw your aunt alive. Other than that, I suggest you leave the detective work to the professionals.”
Ha! We know how that’s worked out in the past. I admit, she said that in the nicest and friendliest way, though not without tagging on a veiled warning not to interfere with the current police investigation.
No way we’ll become best buddies anytime soon, so much is clear.
“I wonder how my conclusion drawn from my aunt’s letter is inferior to you people digging in my garden after thirty years looking for clues.”
She looked at me tiredly, like a mother who has to answer the endless questions of her five-year-old who turned into one of these annoying Chihuahua dogs with their high-pitch bark. It’s safe to say that a career in the police force is not in my foreseeable future.
“Please, be patient. We still don’t know enough to connect the investigation to your case from last year and the burglaries.”
I gave them the notes and papers from last year’s court case but they weren’t impressed. They didn’t want to make the connection with auntie and our case, but there are still the burglaries. In my mind, it makes sense that they are related, but I have not the foggiest clue how. If someone wanted to kill me, they could do so with one of those sniper guns from among the trees. Bang, bang, and I would be history.
It’s all so confusing. In the Midsomer Murder stories, the criminals leave behind DNA or empty gun shells. Real-life scum, I guess, is not as accommodating as that. I leave the police station frustrated and with a headache from all the unanswered questions and the lack of solutions. By now the drizzle is soaking through my jacket. Could the day get any worse? Yes, it could.
I slip into the cozy Vanilla Bean. Not that I hope the rain will stop by the time I go home, but coffee might clear my head. A girl can hope, can’t she? I order a steaming cup of cappuccino and one of those sinful, delicious cinnamon buns with scrumptious icing. The waitress brings both to my table and for a wee while I’m in cinnamon bun heaven. It’s
