Spirit Seeker Page 5

  “Robbery?” I asked. “Dad didn’t say anything about this being a robbery too.”

  Mom went to the table and flipped through the newspaper until she found the local-news section of the Post and handed it to me. “It’s in the newspapers. Mr. Garnett’s wallet is missing, and Mrs. Garnett’s purse and some of her jewelry.”

  A robbery! That proved it couldn’t have been Cody! Dad would have figured that out right away. That meant Cody really was being questioned only to help the police find the murderer, just as Bill had said. I dropped into the nearest chair, suddenly hungry and so relieved that I wanted to shout.

  Mom scrambled an egg for me and made some toast, and I downed a huge glass of orange juice, while I read what both newspapers had printed about the murder.

  Besides telling about the robbery, the articles had a brief mention of a neighbor discovering the bodies. Poor Mr. Arlington, I thought. He had been so afraid.

  I winced as I read that Mr. and Mrs. Garnett had died from multiple stab wounds. “It’s usually great anger or drugs behind this type of killing,” the crime scene investigator was quoted as saying.

  I knew the Homicide Division investigator, Luis Martinez, and, because of what Dad had explained to Mom and me, I knew how the system worked.

  The first officer to arrive on a murder scene secures the scene and calls in the report. Luis is then sent to the scene. He talks with the first officer, taking note of all the facts and the officer’s own opinions. Then, after Luis conducts a careful preliminary examination of the scene, he alerts the medical examiner’s office and calls the lieutenant in Homicide to tell him what he’s found. At that point at least one team of homicide detectives is dispatched to the scene. Sometimes more, depending on what they call “media elevation,” which means how big a story it’s going to be in the newspapers and on TV. In this case the primary homicide detectives were Dad and Bill Carlin.

  While Dad and Bill carry on their investigation, tracking down every lead and talking to witnesses, Luis takes measurements, draws sketches, gets fingerprints or even footprints, and collects fibers, hair, and any other items, no matter how tiny, that might have a significance. Luis told me once that sometimes he works for hours on his hands and knees, covering every square inch of a room. One tiny fleck of blue yarn, for instance, can match the sweater of a suspect and show that he was at the scene of the crime, no matter what he insists.

  I shivered as it dawned on me that Cody’s fingerprints, hair, and threads from his clothing would be all over the house because he lived there. What if the crime lab couldn’t find traces the murderer had unknowingly left behind in the Garnetts’ house?

  Stop thinking like that! I told myself. They have to!

  Chapter Five

  I finished reading the newspaper reports and pushed back my chair just as the back door opened and Dad came in. The circles under his eyes were deeper, and his entire body sagged like a leaking balloon.

  As he pulled out a chair, Mom asked, “Jake, you must be hungry. Would you like eggs and toast?” She glanced at the clock. “Or lunch. How about a sandwich?”

  Dad shook his head. “No thanks, Lynn. I had some coffee and doughnuts.”

  “Caffeine and sugar,” Mom said, the corners of her mouth turned down in disgust. “Let me make you something substantial.”

  “I said I don’t want anything!” He caught the sharpness in his own voice and mumbled, “Sorry. I guess what I need most is a bath and some sleep.”

  “Let’s hope they improve your disposition.”

  Mom’s lips became a thin line, drawn with a pencil, but before Dad could react, I quickly said, “I read about the robbery. You didn’t tell me that the Garnetts were robbed. The robbery is why they were murdered. Right?”

  Dad shook his head. “Money, credit cards, some jewelry? It wasn’t enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Among other things there were sterling silver candlesticks and a tea set on the sideboard, a framed coin collection that’s got to be valuable, and a computer and printer in Garnett’s office. Someone who’d kill in order to steal what he wanted would have gone after the big pieces.”

  Bewildered, I said, “I still don’t understand.”

  “I’m saying, Holly, that the so-called robbery could have been staged to make us think that a stranger had come into the house and committed the murder.”

  “You don’t think so.”

  “No, I don’t. There’d be no reason for a stranger to exhibit the anger that was shown in the multiple stabbings.”

  “You have the murder weapon. Don’t the prints tell you anything?”

  “Funny thing about that knife,” Dad said. “It’s from an expensive knife set, so I can’t imagine what it was doing buried in the backyard.”

  “Because it’s the murder weapon.”

  “No it isn’t,” Dad said.

  “It has to be. Just because the murderer wiped off the prints—”

  “Holly,” Dad interrupted, “the knife was wiped clean of prints, that’s true. But there was no blood on it.”

  “He would have wiped the blood off too.”

  “There’s no way he would have succeeded. The crime lab has chemicals now that can find the tiniest trace of blood caught in a crevice and even show where blood has once been. We’re looking for the real weapon right now in Dumpsters, ditches, alleys—anywhere from here to Lake Conroe, where the weapon might have been tossed.”

  “Dad!” I wailed, horrified at what he was saying. “You still think Cody had something to do with the murder! How could you?”

  “Because it fits the pattern we find in most cases like this,” he said.

  “This isn’t most cases!” Desperately I said, “And Cody isn’t the only surviving relative. What about his uncle, Frank?”

  “You’re reaching,” Dad said.

  “But it’s possible,” I insisted. “Cody told me that his uncle criticized his dad’s business investments.”

  Dad raised one eyebrow. “That’s a motive for murder?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m just trying to look at every possibility. You’ve told us more than once that a good investigator has to keep an open mind.”

  “That’s right, and I am keeping an open mind.”

  “No you’re not! You keep talking about usual cases. This isn’t a usual case. This is different.”

  Dad sighed and slid down in his chair, stretching out his legs and nudging off his shoes. “Right now I don’t want to talk about it,” he told me.

  “But I do!”

  “Holly …,” Mom said. “It’s obvious that your father’s in no mood to discuss this right now, and you didn’t get much sleep last night. Go upstairs to bed, turn off the phone in your room, and try to catch up.”

  I pushed back my chair and carried my dirty dishes to the sink. “You’re wrong about Cody, and I’m going to prove it, Dad,” I said before I left the kitchen.

  “Holly,” Dad said, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know the facts.”

  “I know that Cody is innocent, so I’m going to do what you should be doing—trying to prove it.”

  “That’s not my job,” Dad said. “My job is to investigate everyone and everything until I uncover the truth.”

  He put both hands over his face, his fingertips rubbing at his forehead as if it hurt and he could rub the pain away. Mom was right. There was no use trying to talk to Dad now.

  But as soon as I left the room, I heard Mom’s voice tighten. “Cody is Holly’s friend, Jake,” she said. “Naturally she’s frightened about what has happened, and she’s terribly worried about Cody. You could have given her some encouragement. She’s your daughter and needs your help. Or are you going to tell me that’s not your job either?”

  “Lynn, after all these years I’d expect you to understand something about the work I do and how I have to do it.”

  “Oh, I understand, all right. I understand that your job comes firs
t and your wife and daughter are either a far second or don’t make the list at all.”

  I didn’t hear what Dad said next. I ran up the stairs to my room, wishing with all my heart that things could be different, that all the happy years I knew when I was little could be stretched out to last forever.

  Instead, with their constant, painful jabs at each other, Mom and Dad were stabbing their marriage to death.

  Saturday. 2:15 P.M. I woke up from a heavy sleep, surprised that I’d been able to nap. I took a shower, dressed in blue shorts with a matching striped top, and came downstairs. I sat in a broad patch of late afternoon sunlight that poured through the west window of the den and brushed my hair dry in its warmth.

  Mom came into the room, stopped for just a moment, then smiled. “With the sun highlighting your hair, you look as though you’re wearing a halo of fire.”

  I put down my hairbrush, tucked my hair into my amber barrette, and looked up. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble, Mom. I didn’t mean to create problems between you and Dad.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She turned away to stare out the window.

  Before I’d fallen asleep, I’d thought of so many things I could say to my parents to convince Dad he should pay more attention to Mom and to show Mom how she could be more patient with Dad. But now my mind was as empty as a cereal bowl with only little crumbles of thoughts swimming around in the bottom. “Listen to me, Mom—” I began, hoping that if I just started talking, I’d remember what I’d planned to say.

  Mom interrupted. She spoke slowly, as though the words had a bad taste. “Before I forget, Cody telephoned, but you were in the shower. I talked to him, and I spoke with his uncle. I told Cody you’d call back.”

  “Oh!”

  She frowned and added, “He gave me his uncle’s telephone number and address. It’s written on the pad next to the kitchen phone. He asked if you’d call Cody as soon as possible, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  “Mom, you’re as bad as Dad, taking it for granted Cody’s guilty,” I cried. “I can talk to him, can’t I? Can’t I, please?”

  I waited agonies of time until Mom finally nodded agreement. I ran to the kitchen. My fingers trembled as I dialed the number.

  Cody’s uncle answered the phone, and we made polite remarks to each other before he called Cody to the phone.

  Cody’s voice was strained and shaky. “You said you’d come over,” he blurted out. “Did you mean it?”

  “I meant it.”

  “I can’t come to you. The police impounded my car so they can check it out.”

  I should have expected that. They’d look for the murder weapon, for traces of blood.… I shuddered. “Do you want me to come now?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I thought about Mom’s attitude. Would she let me visit Cody? I seriously doubted it, but I was determined to give it my best try. “I’ll check with Mom,” I told Cody. If she gives her okay, I’ll be at your uncle’s house within twenty minutes.”

  As I walked into the den, the phone rang again. Mom reached for it and said, “Hi, Sara. Yes, she’s right here,” and handed the receiver to me.

  Just the sound of Sara’s name brought the comfort I remembered from snuggling my old teddy bear. Sara Madison, my best friend, who’s two inches shorter than I am, at five feet four, and roundly plump in both the right and wrong places, wouldn’t like being compared to a teddy bear.

  Sara is one of four kids in a very busy, very noisy family. A lot of that noise comes from laughter. Sometimes, when I’m at the Madisons’ house for dinner, wrapped inside a tornado of teasing and joking, and shouts of “Hey, listen to me!” competing with the baby’s happy yells as she bangs on the high-chair tray, I get a little jealous. I’m not proud of being jealous of my best friend. Sometimes I hate myself for it. But even when one of the kids is getting scolded, there’s so much love in that house I can feel it, and I want that same kind of love to come back to my house again.

  As soon as I said hello, Sara cried out, “Holly. I read about it, and I’m so sorry! What can I do to help?”

  “I knew you’d say that,” I told her, so grateful that tears came to my eyes.

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  “Cody isn’t the murderer,” I said.

  Sara didn’t ask a lot of questions, and she didn’t argue with me. She just said, “Okay, so tell me. What can I do to help you?”

  “I need to talk,” I said. Mom was watching, and it made me uncomfortable, so I turned my back. “Later,” I told her. “Okay?”

  “Sure,” Sara said. “Just give me a call.”

  I hung up and turned to Mom. “May I use your car—just for a little while?”

  “Of course,” Mom said.

  She didn’t ask where I was going. I realized that she took it for granted I wanted to see Sara. If I told her I was going to Cody …? No. I couldn’t take the chance. I fought back a pang of guilt, snatched up Mom’s extra car keys, and dashed out the door.

  Frank Baker’s house wasn’t hard to find. It was in a quiet subdivision, which was bracketed by two sets of large, busy shopping centers. Light brick, with a beige-painted trim, the house blended in with its neighbors, probably all built at the same time with nearly identical floor plans. Same trees in front, same flower beds, same thick carpets of St. Augustine grass—each arranged just differently enough to stamp a slight individual touch.

  I was startled when Mr. Baker answered the door. I expected to see an older man, maybe dark haired, maybe balding; but Frank Baker looked as though he was in his mid-thirties. His blond hair had been bleached by the sun, and his tan was dusted with a light burn that gave it a reddish glow. Tall and good-looking, he wore a T-shirt and shorts, and was barefoot.

  “So you’re Holly,” he said and smiled warmly. “Cody has good taste.”

  Embarrassed, and puzzled because I expected soft words and an expression of mourning, I stammered, “I—I’m t-terribly sorry about your sister and … and …”

  My face must have mirrored my thoughts. My voice trailed away like a worn-out tape, but Mr. Baker nodded as though I’d said exactly the right thing and took my arm.

  “Nelda’s and Sam’s deaths are a terrible tragedy. An unbelievable tragedy,” he said. “But life has to go on. It’s Cody’s life that’s important now, and it wouldn’t help him a bit if I let go with all my own hurt and anger. Cody’s my nephew. I love him, and I’ve got to stay strong for him.”

  Mr. Baker led me into the house as he added, “Cody’s waiting for you in the den. I’m glad you could come. You can imagine how he’s feeling.”

  The wood-paneled den was dimly lit, its drapes across the sliding glass doors closed to keep out the hot sunlight. Cody, who was seated on a low sofa, raised his head from his hands. “Holly,” he said. “You came.”

  He unfolded himself from the sofa like an arthritic old man, and, as he walked toward me, I cringed at the pain in his eyes.

  “I told you I’d come.” Impulsively I stepped forward and hugged him, heedless of Mr. Baker, who dropped into a nearby easy chair.

  “How about a soft drink, Holly? Or orange juice? I’ve got a box of assorted English cookies, if you’d like.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Baker,” I said, wishing he would go away.

  “Call me Frank,” he told me and flashed his brilliant smile again.

  “I’d like some orange juice,” Cody said.

  “And something to eat, I hope,” Frank said.

  “No. I’m not hungry. I’m thirsty. I keep getting so thirsty.”

  I followed Cody to the kitchen, which was deadly dull in beige tile, beige counters, beige-painted cabinets—even beige curtains at the window. The only relief to this sea of blandness was a cluttered array of cooking tools hanging on the wall every which way, from ladles, spoons, a knife set, and sieves, to those copper-bottom pans that have to be polished. It looked as though Frank liked to cook, but his taste in decorating would give anyone
a headache.

  I didn’t like being in this room. Something about it—maybe all that disordered mess on the walls—made me uncomfortable, so I was glad when Cody finished pouring his glass of orange juice, then led me back to the den and to the sofa. He clutched my hand so tightly I felt nervous tremors tingle from his body into mine. “The police think I did it.” Cody’s voice was low.

  “No they don’t,” I lied. “Detectives keep their minds open to all possibilities. They look for the truth.”

  Cody didn’t answer, and Frank raised one eyebrow.

  “Okay,” I said. “I know it sounds nerdy, but that’s what my dad’s told me over and over. That’s what he does.”

  “In any case,” Frank said, “the three of us know that Cody didn’t commit the murders, so even though the circumstantial evidence looks bad, we’ll beat it.”

  “There’s not that much evidence against Cody, is there?” I could hear the hope in my voice. “Just because he came back to the house … well, he had a good reason. He’d forgotten the key to the lake house.”

  “I wish I’d told them about it in the first place,” Cody mumbled. “That and the argument.” His eyes scrunched up in torment. “I wish I’d had enough sense to have told them, myself, about the argument.”

  Chapter Six

  I twisted to face Cody. “What argument?”

  Frank leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He winced as he said, “Look, Cody, before we were interrogated, we’d said to each other, ‘Tell the truth, and we’ll have nothing to worry about.’ Right? So how’d I know that you hadn’t told the detectives about the argument with your parents? When they asked me what I knew about your relationship, I told them what Sam and Nelda told me.”

  I grew so cold and so scared it was hard to speak. “Tell me about the argument,” I said to Cody.

  Cody’s shoulders hunched around his ears as though he could hide inside them, like a turtle in his shell. When he didn’t answer immediately, Frank said, “It wasn’t anything special. It was the kind of argument about money kids often have with their parents.”