An Uninvited Quest: The Charlotte Anthony Mysteries, #5

By Meg Wolfe

An oddly dressed corpse turns up in an unexpected place, and Charlotte fears that the small midwestern town of Elm Grove has a much darker side than she had ever imagined.

Enter the Divine Wrath—who are certainly not to be taken lightly but are they really as frightening as their name suggests? Or are the residents of Elm Grove just an unwitting PR machine for the group?

Hypocrisy, both institutional and personal, comes under the microscope, forcing Charlotte to confront her own version of it when events start to hit all too close to home.

Charlotte and Detective Barnes, along with the usual assist from the ever-supportive Elm Grove community, work tirelessly to solve the mystery of the victim's death and the onslaught of crimes that follow it.

An Uninvited Quest is the fifth installment of the Charlotte Anthony Mystery series: An Uncollected Death, An Unexamined Wife, An Undisclosed Vocation, and An Uncharted Corpse.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meg Wolfe
• Release date: Dec 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393686934

Meg Wolfe

Meg Wolfe is the author of the Charlotte Anthony Mysteries and other fiction and creative nonfiction, having finally settled down after a lifetime of varied and interesting careers in garden design, cooking, and art. She lives in Northwest Indiana with her husband, photographer and artist Steve Johnson. Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

One

SUNDAY, JUNE 9th, well into the evening

I was a terrible person in those days.

Charlotte Kleid Anthony gaped in surprise. Her Aunt Catherine was not prone to remorse, even after a drink or two.

What do you mean?

You know, when you came to live with me. And before that, too, but— Catherine Kleid took another sip of her martini, then fished out one of the olives, and sighed. "A terrible person most of my life, really. So unaware. No boundaries. Just—everyone only existed in terms of who and what they were to me. I’d feel so confident that I knew what was best for them, that I’d try to make it happen. And then when I’d run into someone who was strong enough to stand their ground with me, even to the extent they’d slap me down, I’d hate them. Hate them for treating me so badly. I had nothing but good intentions—how could they be so cruel? My heart would turn to stone, and that was that."

Ah— Charlotte’s voice failed. The middle of an after-party for the community theater fund-raising gala was an odd time for such a conversation.

Some sort of reply felt necessary, but Catherine didn’t seem to notice, and continued. The miracle is that I ever realized other people’s reality was different than mine, as it should be. But I can see that now, and I’m so sorry for all the ways I screwed things up for you, and between us.

What brought this on?

Her aunt then looked at her directly, eyes perfectly clear, silvery-white cropped hair shimmering in the ambient light. The sense of time passing. Seeing you paint again, which makes me so glad. Spending time with—with really good people and getting my consciousness raised. Better late than never. I hope.

It’s all water under the bridge, Catherine. I’ve long since forgiven anything you—

I haven’t forgiven myself. Catherine continued to look Charlotte in the eye. Don’t know if I ever will.

Her expression instantly shifted from remorse to a pleasant smile as the mayor of Elm Grove approached her.

Mayor Schuster was nice enough—for a politician. Charlotte nodded hello, then quietly made her way toward the buffet, which had rather more sweets than savories. Perfect. Her aunt’s moods had long stopped determining her own, but she was intrigued by Catherine’s mention of spending time with really good people and getting her consciousness raised. Did she mean Jimmy Frobisher? They had been a couple for quite some time now. He was currently out of the country at a board meeting of his anti-human trafficking foundation, so he didn’t attend the gala, or the after-party, which was full of the town’s other movers and shakers. But Jimmy was good for clarity and Charlotte knew a lot of people he’d set on the right path.

The after-party was hosted by Catherine’s landlords, Rowan and Douglas Jackson. They’d only been in town a couple of years, but the Jacksons were clearly in their element as hosts. Rowan, an outgoing, sandy-haired block of energy crowding forty, was quick to smile and chat with every single person there. The slightly younger and more urbane Douglas, who seemed to prefer longer one-on-one conversations, was a little harder to get to know, but seemed as if he would be comfortable in his own skin no matter the circumstances. And what a skin, too—unblemished and smooth over a frame that hit the perfect medium between model slim and workout junkie.

Charlotte didn’t know them well, but enough to know they’d had a successful home-décor business in Michigan, which catered to the Chicago summer crowd, and relocated to Elm Grove when they had the opportunity to purchase the building that once housed The Good Stuff gift shop. Now the ground floor was home to Jackson’s, their new home-décor emporium. Catherine’s studio apartment was on the front half of the second floor, and this, their beautifully decorated penthouse, covered the entire third floor

Charlotte observed her aunt move with confidence around the party, helping in the kitchen, pointing out things for the servers to take care of, talking with guests about an antique or work of art on display, almost as if she were the hostess, as well. Maybe the Jacksons were the good people Catherine referred to during her uncharacteristic apology?

Right at the moment, Rowan and Douglas were moving a mid-century settee out of the way, while a couple of young men from the theater set up spotlights and a sound system nearby. Charlotte sighed, not in the mood for more show tunes, or any music at all. She killed time wandering around, looking out over the town from the bank of tall windows, getting a third glass of Prosecco, admiring the posh lavatory, and making small talk in passing with various acquaintances, several of whom asked after her daughter Ellis. All the while, she felt a little bit guilty that she wasn’t schmoozing and networking more, and a little bit defiant. It wasn’t her idea to attend the gala and the after-party on her own. Given a choice, she would have happily stayed home and worked on her painting while her fiancé Donovan O’Dair was handling the writer’s workshop at the bookstore, but he felt strongly that as local business owners they should be represented at the gala.

There was a time she wouldn’t have minded, but it had increasingly become the new norm over the past several months, as he struggled to finish his second book, Run Dog. His first novel, Girl Stop, published two years before, was an instant hit, and guaranteed him a contract for two more. But, as was often the case with writers, the second book was harder going. He adjusted and persevered; Charlotte adjusted with him, picking up the slack at the bookstore and around their apartment.

She was, in essence, working time-and-a-half at the bookstore, in addition to her regular stint as an editor-at-large for the local newspaper. And as his proofreader. He’d written a wonderful book, but it was losing some of its impact by the fourth round of edits. She found herself tired of words, spoken and written, and just wanted to immerse in a silent world of images, color, composition, and tone. She just wanted to paint, and then paint some more. And maybe, just maybe, work up enough nerve, enough confidence, to have a solo show. She was fifty-two. At the rate she was going, she would be the Grandma Moses of Elm Grove by the time the gallery doors opened.

Penny for them?

She spun about, expecting to see Donovan, who often asked her that very question. She stammered awkwardly, struggling to hide her disappointment as she tried to decide how to answer the pleasant-looking man in the round tortoise-shell glasses, close-cropped beard—and clerical collar.

Oh! Uh— She rubbed her right hand nervously down the side of her dress.

He winced apologetically. I’m so sorry! I should know better than to interrupt someone’s reverie—

Oh, no no, no problem, it’s been a long day, and I just spaced out.

He laughed. Well, thank goodness for that. He extended his hand. You’re Charlotte Anthony, right? I’m Ezekiel Thorne.

Nice to meet you, she replied, noting his handshake was firm and dry, quite businesslike. Her usual trepidation around clergy subsided. I’ve seen you before, around town. You’re the one called Reverend Zeke, aren’t you?

I am. Zeke bobbed his head in Catherine’s general direction. I know your Aunt Catherine.

Oh! Maybe he was one of Catherine’s good people? Catherine + religion? Had hell frozen over? Um, yes, Catherine’s my aunt. So—how do you know her?

Through the Jacksons. They have practically adopted her, or maybe it’s the other way around, hard to tell. He shrugged with a smile.

Rowan Jackson saw them and scuttled over from the buffet, his small plate loaded high, and spoke with a light Southern accent. Oh, good, Charlotte, you know our Rev. Zeke. He’s a big reason we came to Elm Grove in the first place.

Is that so? Charlotte waited for further explanation.

He married us back in Michigan, but then took a calling here.

Rev. Zeke was happy to explain. I’m the pastor at New Life Fellowship.

I’ve heard of it, but I know nothing about it. Um, Baptist, Unitarian—?

We’re non-denominational, and we welcome everyone, no matter their faith, culture, or orientation.

Rowan nodded and spoke as he chewed a stuffed mushroom. The gay church. You don’t have to be gay, though.

The bubbly she’d polished off spoke before she could stop herself. But it helps?

His shrug was affected and deliberate. Of course it does!

Rev. Zeke played along. Gay, straight, Catholic, Jew—we do everyone.

And that’s our creed! Rowan raised his glass to them and turned to join Douglas at the buffet.

Charlotte couldn’t help grumbling, however. Your church sounds a darn sight more reasonable than the local Episcopalian one.

Oh? Rev. Zeke tilted his head. Problems?

My fiancé goes to St. Bernard’s, and he wants a church wedding. But I’m not a member. It’s taking forever to get the bishop’s okay, and I’ve got a feeling it’s because I’m agnostic. And divorced.

Zeke groaned in sympathy. Just for being agnostic, and not atheist? Charlotte nodded, and he continued. "Well, it is a pretty conservative diocese. A different one might be more open. It’s too bad, but I’ve seen it happen time and again. Dogma is like the uninvited guest at a wedding. Everybody looks at it and wonders, What the hell?"

His exaggerated expression caused Charlotte to laugh, which in turn made her feel hungry again.

I need more food.

I need food, period, said Zeke.

As they made their way to join Rowan and Douglas at the buffet, Rev. Zeke explained that he had just been counseling inmates at the state prison in Michigan City, then had an extra session thrown in for an inmate having unusual difficulties. He thus missed out on the gala and arrived late for the after-party.

That must be very difficult, counseling prisoners, said Charlotte. Especially the murderers.

Zeke shrugged as he selected skewers of chicken satay and vegetables. Well, it depends on the person and the circumstances. The guy I dealt with this evening, though, is a real piece of work. He lured a young man into meeting him, but instead of hooking up with him, he kidnapped him and tortured him to death.

Douglas had stopped eating as he listened. Like what happened to Matthew Shepard?

Yeah, said Zeke. Very much so. Happened up by Notre Dame.

Ugh! Rowan shook his head and licked his fingers before using a napkin. I couldn’t counsel someone like that. I’d just tell him to go kill himself. He deserves to die.

"Well, he is on death row, so an Indiana jury agreed with you, said Zeke. But if he had committed the crime over the state line, say at the University of Chicago, the death penalty wouldn’t even have been on the table."

Quite a few of the surrounding guests were members of Rev. Zeke’s congregation. Some entered the capital punishment debate, while others chatted about the array of food before them.

Charlotte didn’t offer an opinion, preferring to listen to what others in the community had to say. But she was also tired, and thus alternated between listening to snatches of conversation and, to her surprise, a soothing stream of music performed by an acoustic guitarist.

Um, Charlotte? Aunt Catherine stepped unsteadily from a nearby group, her voice soft but her expression strained.

What’s the matter? Charlotte kept her own voice low, as well.

"My hip is giving me fits. I should get back to my apartment and off my feet, but those stairs, you know—?"

Catherine was in her early seventies, in great shape, and rarely asked for help. But she was clearly in pain, and getting her home was probably a good idea. There was an elevator down to the ground floor, in the back of the Jacksons’ store, but it did not serve the second-floor studio apartment at the front of the building. Catherine would have to go out the door to the parking lot, walk around the block to enter her foyer, then take a long and steep flight of stairs up to the apartment itself. Definitely not a safe trip alone in her current state.

Charlotte put a steadying hand on her aunt’s elbow as they slowly headed for the elevator.

Catherine! Rowan caught sight of them and hurried over. Douglas quickly joined him, followed by Rev. Zeke. What happened? Are you ill?

I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine, Catherine insisted. I partied like it’s 1999. Just a little arthritis. I want to get out of here before I make a spectacle out of myself.

Quite a few of the guests were already staring, but Charlotte resisted the temptation to point out that that particular horse had already left the barn. She joined the full escort to the elevator.

Nonsense, dear girl, said Rowan, putting his arm around Catherine’s shoulders, his southern twang more pronounced while he spoke assurances. You’re not just our tenant, you are our friend.

And you have our everlasting gratitude, added Douglas, who held open the elevator door, for making us feel welcome, and helping us meet all the right people.

Catherine lapped up the praise but made a fair protest. Actually, all I did was introduce you to Jimmy. Once you know Jimmy, all things are possible in Elm Grove.

"That’s the truth!" laughed Rowan, and Charlotte smiled in agreement. Jimmy owned the coffee shop, which was the information hub of downtown Elm Grove.

Rev. Zeke, who said little as the elevator reached the ground floor, went to open the steel door to the parking lot.

I’ll pull my car up, and drive Catherine around to her door.

Charlotte suddenly remembered a possible short cut. No need. She gestured to another steel door and turned to the Jacksons. Could we go through the shop? There’s a connecting door between Catherine’s foyer and your office. She wouldn’t have to go all that way around at all.

Douglas immediately understood. Of course! Good thinking, Charlotte. Catherine did say that you used to live in her apartment.

Oh, thank you so much! Catherine was truly relieved.

Charlotte supported her aunt on one side, and Zeke supported her on the other, as Douglas took a set of keys from his pocket and began to unlock the door to the shop.

But suddenly he stopped, turning sharply to Rowan.

It’s already unlocked. Did you forget again?

Rowan looked thoroughly annoyed at the accusation. No, I did not! Just because I forgot once last year, doesn’t mean I keep making the same mistake. Let’s get on with it, okay?

The shop was sparsely lit by several soft spotlights and uplights in each of the themed room areas. They made their way around a large marble-topped island in the kitchen display, past free-standing antique cupboards and a stainless-steel shelving unit featuring colorful pottery, both old and new. Charlotte was familiar with the store’s offerings, but had to pause before a new acquisition, a large ceramic black cat with white blaze and paws, which looked strikingly like her own cat, Shamus.

Isn’t it great? said Rowan, lifting up the cat’s head. It’s a cookie jar.

Adorable, Charlotte agreed, but said nothing more after a peek at the price. Yikes. But that was Jackson’s, very high-end.

Douglas paused to select a cane from several in a tall ceramic umbrella stand. Why don’t you borrow this, Catherine? Would it help?

Catherine took the cane from him and tried it out. Yes, it helps a lot. Thank you, Douglas.

Rowan pointed at the cane. If you’re in fear of your life, there’s a sword inside of it.

What? Catherine paused, then pulled at the cane’s handle to draw out the steel blade. She was standing directly beneath a spotlight, causing sparkles in both her short silvery hair and in the upraised sword.

You look like Joan of Arc, said Rev. Zeke.

Catherine replaced the sword in the cane. Well, I certainly don’t feel like a saint.

Zeke gestured for everyone to go forward. Onward and upward.

Douglas led the way through the bedroom area, with its trunks and bureaus of both elegant and homespun linens, and past a display bed with layers of coordinated quilts and pillows—

What the—

Stretched out on the bed, in a patch of shadows where neither spotlight nor uplight quite reached, were the bare legs of a young man.

Douglas pressed a floor dimmer switch to raise the light.

Rowan hurled a guttural NO! Catherine shrieked, Douglas gasped, and Rev. Zeke and Charlotte gaped in stunned silence at the nearly nude young man, whose kohl-smeared eyes stared up without seeing at the hand-scrawled sign propped against the headboard:

ABOMINATION

Rev. Zeke recovered first. He felt for a pulse, then shook his head. Douglas immediately pulled the stunned Rowan over to the checkout counter, holding him close, talking quickly and privately as Rowan kept shaking his head. Catherine seemed to have forgotten her pain and joined the Jacksons in commiseration. Zeke remained next to the body, head down, praying.

Charlotte steeled herself to look over the victim. A bit of dark blood at his mouth was the only wound she could see. He was nude except for a shiny black leather thong. The bedding was weirdly undisturbed, as smooth as if no one was laying on it at all. The victim was a man, but hardly more than a boy.

And a familiar boy. She stepped around Zeke to get a closer look at the victim’s face, and then she remembered where she knew him from—the grocery store, the produce section of the grocery store. This was the boy who had worked there for the past few years, a boy whose name was Aaron. Not someone she knew well, but who was a regular part of her normal routine. The one who neatly arranged and stacked the display of fruits and vegetables that awaited her selection for the meals she cooked. It wasn’t much of a connection, but it was surprisingly personal, and she couldn’t hold back her tears.

Do you think you could help us?

Catherine had appeared next to her, and Zeke had gone to talk with the Jacksons.

Charlotte wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. Well, I suppose, but in what way?

Catherine gestured toward Douglas and Rowan. They’re still sort of new in town—they don’t know if they can trust the cops.

"Well, they’re going to have to call the cops. I’m not sure what else anyone can do."

Catherine’s silvery hair darkened as her head dipped from a spotlight into the shadow.

Charlotte’s suspicions sprouted rapidly. "Catherine, what are you trying to ask me? To help you get rid of the body?"

Catherine’s head jerked up. Of course not! As if! I just thought you could maybe call your friend, that nice Detective Barnes—?

Charlotte sighed. It had been a while since she and Barnes had talked, and three years since the last time she’d worked with him in her occasional role as a citizen resource for the Indiana State Police.

It’s jurisdiction, Catherine. It’s a suspicious death in Elm Grove, and the local cops are the ones to call first. After that, there has to be a good reason to involve the state police.

Oh, but there’s a very good reason. Douglas Jackson smoothly pushed up his shirt sleeves as he approached, looking every lean inch of every hour spent at the gym.  This is obviously a hate crime. And hate crimes are investigated by the state police.

Okay. Charlotte sighed. Let’s back up a minute. I take it you know who he is?

Douglas looked sadly at the victim. A little. His name is Aaron, but he’s not really in our circle. And I don’t think he was involved with the theater, either.

So he wasn’t supposed to be here?

Douglas shook his head and the others joined them.

Rowan had calmed down enough to stop the uncontrollable shaking of his head, but his hands still shook. This is horrible. I don’t understand. I will never understand.

Douglas turned again to Charlotte. Catherine said you have a contact in the state police that you trust?

Charlotte thought about it for a moment. Yes, but I’m not aware that there’s any problem with the town cops.

Catherine looked at her sideways. Doesn’t mean there isn’t any.

I’ll grant you that, but surely we would have heard something, don’t you think?

Zeke raised a hand. I’m afraid those are the stories that don’t make the press as often as they should, Charlotte.

Look, said Douglas, stepping slightly closer. We’re gay, we’re married, and we’re not related to anybody in town. We don’t have a history yet of donating to the local K-9 fund or the mayor’s re-election campaign. We know from experience that a lot of cops still make assumptions based on stereotypes, and we’re afraid they’re only going to see a ‘gay crime,’ blame us, and throw away the key.

Catherine nodded emphatically. That sign alone—and the cruel makeup. ‘Abomination,’ my foot! It’s obviously deliberate. I mean, who else would do this but someone with a really bad attitude about gays? And then dump him in a gay-owned business?

Douglas looked at Charlotte again, his brow furrowed and his eyes sad but cold and certain.

It’s a hate crime. Trust me on this.

Two

ALSO SUNDAY, JUNE 9th, around midnight

Charlotte pressed 9 for Detective Barnes. No matter whose speed-dial number changed for whatever reason, Barnes was always 9, and if he wasn’t enough, she would add 1-1 for emergency.

Charlotte?

At the sound of his voice, the old sense of relief overcame her trepidation at calling his personal number late at night, especially after such a long time.

Hi, Detective. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but—

Barnes spared her the awkward social niceties. Tell me what and where.

She could hear him moving around as she explained the situation. Probably putting on his shoes—or getting his gun.

He spoke quietly. His wife must be sleeping. This is at the old Good Stuff building?

Yeah. The shop is called Jackson’s now. The back door to the parking lot is unlocked, but not the front door—

There was a commotion coming from the back of the store, and Charlotte saw a man in a tuxedo entering, frowning. It was Mayor Schuster.

The party! They’d forgotten about all those people at the party!

Catherine and the Jacksons scurried over to stop the mayor from seeing the victim, apologizing profusely.

Barnes’ voice cut in again. Charlotte? What’s going on?

Ugh! The Jacksons are having a fund-raising party upstairs in their apartment, and one of the guests came looking for them.

Tell them to lock that back door and stop anyone from leaving, now!

She waved frantically at anyone who happened to see her. Lock the back door! Don’t let anyone leave!

Zeke seemed to understand immediately what was needed. I’ll take care of it. He strode toward the mayor, placed a gentle but firm hand on his back, apparently engaging the mayor into helping out, too, as they went back to the elevator. The clerical collar wielded considerable authority.

Got it, Charlotte said to Barnes.

Good. Now secure the scene the best you can, and you know enough not to stay there alone. I’m on my way.

Charlotte rang off. He’ll be here very soon.

Catherine let out a breath of relief. Thank you so much for calling him.

I’m glad he’ll be here, too, Charlotte admitted. But I warn you, we’re probably in for a long night.

Coffee, said Rowan, who now appeared resigned to his immediate future. We should check on the refreshments and put on coffee for all our guests. I know I could use some.

Me too, said Catherine. I’ll help you. She began to head for the elevator with Rowan, without the cane.

Charlotte reached out and stopped her. What about your hip? She kept her voice low.

What hip? Catherine murmured. I think the shock scared the pain right out of me.

Adrenaline could do that. Charlotte nodded and let her go, then called out, Bring me a coffee, would you? I’ve gotta stay here and make sure no one disturbs—the scene.

Catherine stopped in alarm. Not alone with the body! What if the murderer comes back? Or is still here? She retrieved the sword cane from where she’d left it and shoved it into Charlotte’s hands. Take this. At least it looks scary.

Douglas hadn’t moved from where he was leaning, arms crossed, against a hand-painted armoire. He’ll also have me to deal with. Bring me a coffee, too.

Charlotte went to stand next to him as Rowan and Catherine went to the elevator. Thanks. I appreciate it.

"De nada. Not exactly how I envisioned wrapping up the evening, but then I’m sure that’s even more the case for young Aaron here."

She shook her head in commiseration but said nothing. As much as she wanted to talk about what had happened, to speculate on how the victim was killed and how he got there, she avoided giving her opinions and impressions, so as not to clutter Douglas’ thinking when Barnes interviewed him. It was bad enough that the Jacksons had discussed how to avoid calling the local police. She’d gotten into hot water with Barnes in the past by circumventing his preferred procedures, and deep down she feared that that was why he hadn’t brought her back in on a case in such a long time. She missed working with him, missed the camaraderie, missed the satisfaction of finding out the who, what, where, and why of a crime.

Thankfully, Douglas didn’t seem to feel the need to chat. Charlotte checked a text message from Donovan, which turned out to be a goofy selfie he took with the novelist Geoff Bower and a couple of the students in their writing workshop. The difference between his evening and her own created a moment of cognitive dissonance, leaving her unable to formulate a reply.

Rowan returned, with a carafe of coffee and several cups.

Catherine and Zeke have everything under control upstairs, but the guests are understandably upset. I think we can kiss the fund-raising goodbye.

Douglas looked at his partner with a mix of understanding and exasperation. I think we have bigger problems than the fund-raising, Rowan. Let’s just hope we get out of this without being suspects. Or worse.

Rowan sighed and finished pouring himself a coffee. I know, I know, but I don’t want to hear it right now. I just hope this situation doesn’t jinx everything for us, everything we were trying to get away from before—

He started at a rap on the front door of the shop, then recovered and went to unlock it. Detective Gordon Barnes entered, dark-suited and dark-eyed.

When Charlotte reached him, he put a reassuring hand on her arm. His eyes were kind but concerned.

You okay? When she nodded, he nodded as well, then looked straight ahead. Show me.

Back in the bedroom display area, she introduced Barnes to the Jacksons, then moved aside so he could have an unobstructed view of the crime scene.

Oh, geez, he muttered at the sight of the body on the bed, and began snapping pictures with his phone, observing every detail.  Called it in to the town cops, they’ll be here soon. What can you tell me?

Aaron. Last name unknown. Not a guest, not a friend, just an acquaintance. Grocery store produce section employee. Seen once or twice at local gay bars. Door to parking lot open for guests. Fire door to shop should have been dead-bolted, but it was unlocked. Might have been oversight. Discovered when the Jacksons and Rev. Zeke accompanied Charlotte and Catherine to Catherine’s apartment, but otherwise would not have been discovered until the shop was opened in the morning.

Barnes looked up at the mention of the accidental early discovery of the crime. He rose from where he had been examining the floor around and under the bed, looking grayer and somewhat thinner than Charlotte remembered. The word retirement flashed through her mind. We’re none of us getting any younger. Then the reflection of flashing red lights from the front of the store signaled the arrival of the town cops.

Barnes spoke quietly. Stick around for a bit, will you?

Missed me, huh?

Huh. He hoisted his trousers and strode toward the Jacksons, requesting them to unlock the front door.

The town cops entered and oozed territorial assertiveness as they addressed the detective. Nothing short of keeping his state cop nose out of it would have suited them. But Barnes’ own demeanor made it clear that he knew he had the upper hand. They knew it, too, but growled at him anyway even as they agreed to handle identifying and questioning the guests.

Charlotte wanted to get as far away from the pissing match as possible, but the only place to go was the living room display at the front of the store. There were several gawkers on the sidewalk, late-night passersby who were drawn by the presence of the ambulance and the three double-parked police cars with flashing lights. She chose an armchair that was screened from the street by the display window’s backdrop.

Delayed dead-body reaction caught up with her the moment she sat down, intensifying everything: the nubby weave of the area rug; the smell of the foam board of the backdrop; the suppleness of the chair’s yellow-dyed leather; the hum of the HVAC system; the sour aftertaste of the coffee.

Jackson’s reflected the dynamic of its proprietors. The ever-changing displays were a mix of new and old, art and craft, sleek and rustic—whatever caught their fancy. She ran her hand down the side of the chair, from the arm to the floor, and felt for the heavy paper tag. The price, of course, was high. It also said SOLD. The place attracted a different clientele than the old Good Stuff shop. She wondered what Larry, the former proprietor and her old landlord, would have made of this current retail incarnation.

He certainly would have been stunned by things as they were this evening. Aaron was still stretched out on a bed done up in greens and purples. A white cardboard sign above his head still said ABOMINATION.

How had Aaron died? Apart from the