Read Online Dead Head: A Dirty Business Mystery by Rosemary Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosemary Harris
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meeting. I was leaning toward Caroline’s side of the fence now and wanted a base in my stomach just in case Caroline decided to seal our partnership with a toast or three.
Babe hadn’t seen Caroline for days. I tried her again on my cell and I got the same message I’d gotten the previous week—disconnected.
“What’s the matter?” Babe asked.
“Her home phone’s disconnected. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“Plenty of people are dropping their landlines and just going with cells,” Babe said. “It’s the economy. Don’t you have her cell number?”
“I do but her house is in a dead zone. She never uses it at home. Besides, I don’t see Caroline and Grant belt-tightening in that way. I’m going to go see what’s up.” We had a date and Caroline was so anxious to talk to me; it wasn’t like her to disappear without leaving me a message. I finished breakfast and headed for the Sturgis house. Halfway to Caroline’s I thought perhaps I had screwed up the days. Was this the day she was accompanying one of her friends to the doctor’s on a bizarre mission to see whether or not the friend’s three-year-old was biologically suited to be the next Roger Federer? What the hell. I’d go anyway. If I had the date wrong, I’d leave a note. When she got home, she’d be thrilled that Iwas more interested in her proposal than I’d been when we last spoke. And I was. Between losing the real estate gigs and being sent home with hand-me-down clothing, I was a lot more inclined to consider her offer than I thought I’d be. I hadn’t seen her business plan yet, but she was a smart woman. And so was I.
When I pulled into the Sturgises’ driveway, Caroline’s silver Land Rover sat at the entrance of the house. The driver’s side door was wide open. I parked behind it. I took my time walking up the front steps and rang the doorbell, expecting to see Caroline, perfectly coiffed, perfectly clad, and given the early hour, holding the perfect Bloody Mary in a lead crystal glass. There was no answer, so I rang again. This time I noticed a sliver of light between the door and the jamb. It wasn’t latched. I gave it a gentle push and it creaked open.
“Caroline? Caroline, are you here?” The vestibule was empty. Entering her house uninvited was a breach of suburban etiquette and I wasn’t sure I should. Then I heard a sound coming from the family room—a gasping or choking sound.
“It’s Paula. Are you okay? Can I come in?” I waited for an answer, then tiptoed into the cathedral-ceilinged room, not knowing what I’d be interrupting.
Caroline wasn’t there, but her husband, Grant, was. He was on the sofa, clutching a huge pillow to his chest and mouth and rocking back and forth. Tears were streaming down his face, and his eyeglasses were fogged and slightly askew.
“Where’s Caroline?” I asked. I was afraid to know the answer. “Is she all right?” He didn’t seem surprised to see me. He took the corner of the pillow out of his mouth.
“Caroline’s not here. They’ve arrested her. They say she’s…she’s not Caroline Beecham Sturgis. I don’t know who she is, but she’s not Caroline Sturgis. My wife is a stranger.”
Eight
When you’re my
age, it’s easy to look back and say I should have done this or shouldn’t have done that. It’s like the aerial view of a garden maze. From above it looks easy. The pathways are clear and it’s obvious which way you should go. When you’re on the ground, of course, it’s much easier to make a wrong turn.
If I’d had that nice clean aerial view when I was nineteen, I wouldn’t be walking through O’Hare Airport with two federal marshals, a barn jacket thrown over my handcuffed wrists, rushing to catch a flight to Detroit, back to the city and state I hadn’t even wanted to fly over for as long as I could remember.
I’d thought about this moment every day for the last—what is it—twenty years? Twenty-five? Who remembered? Early on, I
Babe hadn’t seen Caroline for days. I tried her again on my cell and I got the same message I’d gotten the previous week—disconnected.
“What’s the matter?” Babe asked.
“Her home phone’s disconnected. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“Plenty of people are dropping their landlines and just going with cells,” Babe said. “It’s the economy. Don’t you have her cell number?”
“I do but her house is in a dead zone. She never uses it at home. Besides, I don’t see Caroline and Grant belt-tightening in that way. I’m going to go see what’s up.” We had a date and Caroline was so anxious to talk to me; it wasn’t like her to disappear without leaving me a message. I finished breakfast and headed for the Sturgis house. Halfway to Caroline’s I thought perhaps I had screwed up the days. Was this the day she was accompanying one of her friends to the doctor’s on a bizarre mission to see whether or not the friend’s three-year-old was biologically suited to be the next Roger Federer? What the hell. I’d go anyway. If I had the date wrong, I’d leave a note. When she got home, she’d be thrilled that Iwas more interested in her proposal than I’d been when we last spoke. And I was. Between losing the real estate gigs and being sent home with hand-me-down clothing, I was a lot more inclined to consider her offer than I thought I’d be. I hadn’t seen her business plan yet, but she was a smart woman. And so was I.
When I pulled into the Sturgises’ driveway, Caroline’s silver Land Rover sat at the entrance of the house. The driver’s side door was wide open. I parked behind it. I took my time walking up the front steps and rang the doorbell, expecting to see Caroline, perfectly coiffed, perfectly clad, and given the early hour, holding the perfect Bloody Mary in a lead crystal glass. There was no answer, so I rang again. This time I noticed a sliver of light between the door and the jamb. It wasn’t latched. I gave it a gentle push and it creaked open.
“Caroline? Caroline, are you here?” The vestibule was empty. Entering her house uninvited was a breach of suburban etiquette and I wasn’t sure I should. Then I heard a sound coming from the family room—a gasping or choking sound.
“It’s Paula. Are you okay? Can I come in?” I waited for an answer, then tiptoed into the cathedral-ceilinged room, not knowing what I’d be interrupting.
Caroline wasn’t there, but her husband, Grant, was. He was on the sofa, clutching a huge pillow to his chest and mouth and rocking back and forth. Tears were streaming down his face, and his eyeglasses were fogged and slightly askew.
“Where’s Caroline?” I asked. I was afraid to know the answer. “Is she all right?” He didn’t seem surprised to see me. He took the corner of the pillow out of his mouth.
“Caroline’s not here. They’ve arrested her. They say she’s…she’s not Caroline Beecham Sturgis. I don’t know who she is, but she’s not Caroline Sturgis. My wife is a stranger.”
Eight
When you’re my
age, it’s easy to look back and say I should have done this or shouldn’t have done that. It’s like the aerial view of a garden maze. From above it looks easy. The pathways are clear and it’s obvious which way you should go. When you’re on the ground, of course, it’s much easier to make a wrong turn.
If I’d had that nice clean aerial view when I was nineteen, I wouldn’t be walking through O’Hare Airport with two federal marshals, a barn jacket thrown over my handcuffed wrists, rushing to catch a flight to Detroit, back to the city and state I hadn’t even wanted to fly over for as long as I could remember.
I’d thought about this moment every day for the last—what is it—twenty years? Twenty-five? Who remembered? Early on, I
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