When she got off the phone, she checked her watch—plenty of time to drive to Peter’s apartment.
CHAPTER 18
Rhetta groaned in dismay as she inched her way along an overly crowded Main Street. She forgot about the three-day Rivers West Music Festival due to start later that evening. She found herself smack in the midst of music lovers scouring the streets for curbside parking near the venues. Every bar, eatery, and gallery was prepped for the occasion with most hosting a singer or a band. Every kind of music would be represented, from gospel to rock ’n’ roll, and everything in between. There would be individual contests for bluegrass, gospel, rock, and jazz. All events were touted on brightly colored posters that papered every post or pole in the entire downtown.
After circling the six-block area twice, Rhetta eased Cami into a parking space in front of a bistro three blocks from Peter’s apartment. She ignored the finger salutations and horn honking from a pair of festival fans who had unsuccessfully jockeyed their Dodge Neon on their first attempt into that same space. She stole the space when they pulled ahead to reposition. She didn’t have time to apologize. Besides, she wasn’t the least bit sorry.
The humid air crackled with strains of music seeping from every building on the street. Food and beverage vendors lined their carts up along the sidewalk. The mingling smells of cotton candy, corn dogs, and fried shaved potatoes assaulted her nostrils. Walking three blocks, Rhetta elbowed her way through the crowds and finally located Peter’s building, only to discover that the stairs to his apartment were in the rear. All the walking had caused her to perspire heavily. Her hair was plastered to her skull. Instead of hoofing it another crowded block to get around to the back, she squeezed into the narrow alley between Peter’s building, which housed a cannabis collectors store on the ground floor and the boutique floral shop next to it. The distance between the two old buildings was scarcely wide enough for her to pass. The stench of stale urine grew stronger the farther she ventured. She carefully eyed where she placed her feet, mindful of what she could be stepping in.
She made a mental note to visit the cannabis store someday. What could they possibly sell there? Isn’t marijuana illegal?
Arriving at the rear of the building, she eventually spotted the steep wooden staircase leading up to Peter’s apartment. Rhetta peered skyward, took a deep breath, and began the climb. The hundred-year-old building still had the original steps, and the spacing between the narrow treads was uncomfortably steep. She was reminded of the time she and Randolph tried to climb the narrow steps to the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, near Mexico City.
At the top, she stepped onto the wooden porch and paused to catch her breath. She gazed around at the many back lots. She identified the building’s parking lot with Peter’s Taurus parked against the back fence. The car had been hidden from view until she’d reached the porch. If she had chosen to walk around the block instead of squeezing between the buildings, she’d have passed right by the parking lot and seen Peter’s car. She prayed Peter was at home and hadn’t left to join the revelers.
Near his front door, an old-fashioned white rattan rocker and glass top side table sat crowded together on the porch, which scarcely measured six feet square. Above the table, a hanging basket planter spilled brightly colored trailing petunias. Several magazines lay spread out on the table. Sighing with relief, she rang the doorbell.
No answer. She tried again. Still no one responded to her insistent ringing. Rhetta thought she spied a table lamp glowing inside the apartment when she peered through the glass panel on the side of the door. Using her knuckles, she rapped loudly on the white wooden door. No one appeared. Shielding her eyes with both hands, she squinted again through the window. She knocked even harder and was about to give up, thinking that perhaps Peter had walked downtown, when she impulsively tried the door. It opened readily. She pushed it open all the way, stuck her head in, and called out, “Peter, are you home?”
In spite of the sweltering heat of the day, Rhetta shivered. She didn’t like surprising people in their own homes. She stepped slowly across the threshold, continuing to shout Peter’s name. She was assaulted by the reek of rotting meat. Not much of a housekeeper, our Peter.
“Hello? Peter, are you here?” She took in the modestly furnished apartment and the hundreds of books stacked everywhere—on the floor, the coffee table and on a kitchen table in a narrow alcove off to the side. The cramped living room held a green plaid sofa, two TV tables, and a plasma television screen that covered the entire wall opposite the sofa. Every available space on every table also held a stack of books. She picked her way through the cluttered living room toward the hall. The stench increased.
All the window blinds were closed. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. She called out again. “Peter? It’s Rhetta McCarter.”
Passing alongside the sofa, she noticed an open book lying face down on the arm. Twisting to get a better look, she identified the volume—an English-Arabic, Arabic-English dictionary.
The temperature in the apartment had to be nearly a hundred. Why hasn’t Peter turned on the air? Her initial shivering gave way to fat sweat droplets dripping off her nose. She swatted them away. She heard a low buzzing noise, but the louder hum of a noisy refrigerator drowned it out. If the refrigerator was still running, then the rotting meat smell couldn’t be coming from the kitchen. She threaded her way down a short hallway crowded with stacks of books. The sickening odor intensified the closer she got to a door that she suspected led into a bedroom. She buried her nose in the crook of her elbow in an effort to avoid the stink.
Again she called out, “Peter.” Her voice cracked. Fear clutched her senses, commanding her to turn around and run. Instead, she took a deep breath and gagged at the foul odor that engulfed her when she pushed open the door. She was immediately beset by swarms of bottle green flies, their buzzing deafening.
She found Peter.
He wouldn’t need air conditioning.
CHAPTER 19
Rhetta’s stomach revolted at the sight of the bloated body lying face down on the floor alongside the bed, nearly hidden under a cloud of flies. She was thankful she couldn’t see his face. She assumed it was Peter, given the body’s slender build along with what she could see of grayish, sandy colored hair.
She gagged, swallowed, and gagged again. Unable to stop her body’s reflex from the overpowering stench, she bolted from the room. She barely made it into the hallway before throwing up the remnants of whatever she ate last. Stupidly, she identified it as a Snickers bar. And coffee.
Breathing rapidly, her head drenched with sweat, it took a few minutes before she finally stopped heaving. She made her way down the hall, and back to the door. Outside, she finally inhaled, clearing the stench. Judging from his appearance along with the terrible decay odor that invaded her nostrils, poor Peter had not just died. She was unable to tell what caused his death.
She glanced around as she groped in her bag for her phone. Was someone watching Peter’s apartment? Her stomach began to clench again. Peter was dead. Oh, God. She felt her hand tremble as she dialed.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” asked a crisp female voice.
Rhetta sucked a breath in. She didn’t know where to start.
“9-1-1, please state your emergency,” the dispatcher ordered, more sharply this time.
“I…I… My name is Rhetta McCarter,” she began, stammering, trying desperately to remember the protocol for reporting finding a body. Then she remembered she never learned any protocol for reporting a dead body. She blurted, “I just found a dead man.”
A momentary beat, then the dispatcher asked, “Are you sure he’s dead? Do you need an ambulance?”
She nodded, even though the emergency dispatcher couldn’t see her. “It’s Doctor Peter LaRose. He’s a professor at the university, and I’m sure he’s quite dead.” Rhetta finally gained some control of her wits.
“Address?”
&
nbsp; Address? I know where to tell her to come. I don’t know the address!
“Sorry, I’m not sure of the exact street number. It’s the apartment above the cannabis store on Main Street,” Rhetta said, and paced on the small porch. She didn’t want to be so visible in case anyone was watching, but she wasn’t about to go back into the apartment. She sat down on one of Peter’s chairs. “The entrance is up the stairs in back. I’ll wait outside for the officers.”
Rhetta lowered her head between her knees and gagged again.
* * *
It took an Age of Aquarius to come and go before she heard sirens. Wasn’t that one of her oldies songs? She felt like she’d been catapulted into a nightmare. How did Peter die? Was it because of the schematic? Bad things were piling up faster and faster, eliminating coincidences. Did those things indicate there was a plot to kill everyone who’d seen the schematic? She tried to convince herself it made no sense. She didn’t succeed. Something most definitely was going on. But, what?
She needed to call Woody and tell him. He could be in danger, too. However, she knew she had to tell Randolph about Peter in person. Peter was his friend. Her call to Woody went to voice mail. “Woody, it’s Rhetta. Peter is….” Before she could continue, her cell beeped and a “call failed” message flashed across the screen. She stared at the screen as tears filled her eyes. Her hand shook. What was going on? Who killed Peter? She choked back a sob as she heard distant sirens.
The rising and falling wailing intensified as the vehicles neared the building. In a whirl of dusty red and blue lights, two Cape police cars skidded to a stop next to Peter’s Taurus in the gravel parking lot. The sirens powered down. Two officers from each car, with weapons drawn, rushed toward the stairs.
An orange and white county ambulance, with lights swirling, materialized next to the police cars.
Radios clipped to blue uniformed shoulders crackled as the officers clambered up the stairs. Rhetta stood and fished for her wallet and driver’s license, knowing she would have to offer some identification. She handed the license holder to a young officer whose pink sweating scalp glistened through a blond crew cut, and whose badge identified read R. Germuth.
Germuth asked her to remove her license from the plastic holder in her wallet. When she did, he took it from her, stepped away, tipped his head sideways, and spoke to his shoulder. She heard him read off her name and license number.
Two uniformed officers rushed past her into the apartment without introducing themselves. She hadn’t caught any names on their badges.
A fourth officer, Sergeant Abel Risko, according to the stenciled name badge above his left breast, removed a small spiral notebook from a shirt pocket and began interviewing her. Risko was a burly man with a gravel pit voice. She guessed him to be in his early thirties. Clearly, he was the man in charge.
The two ambulance drivers wearing khakis and white uniform shirts, who had followed the officers inside, returned quickly, advised Germuth to call the coroner, and then left.
I told the dispatcher he was dead. Calling the ambulance had to be protocol for the 9-1-1 operator. She nodded absently.
“You knew the deceased?” Sergeant Risko asked.
He must have thought my nodding meant I know Peter. She focused on Risko.
“Yes, I knew Doctor LaRose.” She coughed in an attempt to clear her throat, hoping she could discharge the vile odor, which by now she could taste. She plunged her hand into her purse and came out with a single piece of gum. Quickly she unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, grateful for the burst of spearmint.
“What were you doing here?” he asked.
She hadn’t thought about how to answer any questions. “I, uh, wanted to see if he was still in town,” she said.
“Why didn’t you call him?” The officer’s pen stayed poised over the notebook, ready to jot down her answer.
“I did call, but didn’t get any answer.” She inhaled again, the nausea threatening a return.
“Why did you need to know if he was staying in town? Why was it so important that you had to come over here in person to find out?”
She had no idea how to answer. Shaking her head both from confusion and a desire to rid her nostrils of the stench, she said, “I wanted to tell him about my husband being in a car accident.” Why hadn’t she said that first?
“Why do you say ‘still in town?’ Was he planning a trip?”
He’s interrogating me as if he’s the Gestapo. “No, I don’t know about any trip. It’s just that when school is out, Peter has been known to travel, sometimes to Saudi Arabia.” Why did I say that? I’m so nervous I’m letting my mouth overload my ass.
Doing her best to get her nerves under control, Rhetta continued. “He and my husband, Judge Randolph McCarter, are good friends, and I wanted to tell him about Randolph’s accident.”
Upon hearing that, the officer snapped the notebook closed. His tone softened. “How is your husband doing, Mrs. McCarter?”
Rhetta noticed an improvement in Risko’s demeanor when he found out she was Judge McCarter’s wife. Did that mean he felt better about her finding Peter’s body?
“I have your statement,” Risko continued, patting his shirt pocket. “You’re free to leave. However, I’d like you to come by the station sometime Monday to review and sign your official statement.”
“Of course.” She licked her dry lips. Bile rose in her throat again and she swallowed it back. The spearmint flavor from the gum was already gone.
Officer Germuth handed Rhetta her license, which she dropped into her purse. She’d return it to her wallet later. She had to get away from Peter’s apartment as soon as possible. The coroner’s van had arrived. She had no desire to see the body bag being carried away.
Sliding her purse up her shoulder, Rhetta grasped the handrail, and hurried down the steps as fast as she dared. She had no desire to break her neck.
She had to call Woody. Peter’s sudden death had to be connected to the schematic. After Al-Serafi’s death in the Diversion Channel, we find out that Agent Cooper is dead. Then Randolph has a near fatal accident, and now Peter’s dead. Someone believes that we know something that we shouldn’t. It has to be linked to that schematic.
Woody could be next, and Randolph had met with Billy Dan. They could all be in jeopardy.
She had to call and warn them.
After jogging back to her car, she beeped open the door, and slid behind the wheel, grateful that Randolph had surprised her on her birthday with a keyless entry/remote start device for Cami. Cars didn’t come with keyless entry back in the Middle Car Ages. She was certain that the feature began showing up only in the 80s. She seldom started Cami remotely, but it was great to be able to unlock the car without standing at the door, groping for her keys.
She turned the AC up to its highest setting. She rested her forehead on the hard metal steering wheel and briefly closed her eyes. Peter is dead. He saw that schematic, and now he’s dead.
She reached up to adjust the mirror before backing up. A pair of dull green eyes in her own ashen face stared back at her.
In spite of the heat, another chill rolled down her spine.
I saw the schematic, too.
CHAPTER 20
It took forty-five minutes for Rhetta to escape from the craziness of the festival. People walked along the streets oblivious to the throngs of cars trying to crawl through the traffic. Most of the pedestrians carried large white plastic cups bearing the festival’s logo. She suspected the cups contained fermented beverages.
Once she managed to turn north on Kingshighway, the traffic improved. However, she still managed to catch every red light between downtown and her office.
Woody was on the phone taking an application when she pushed open the door, and a young couple was on the sofa waiting to meet with him. That meant she couldn’t tell him about Peter just yet.
He implored her with his eyes and by jutting his chin toward the couple. She tucked her
purse into her bottom desk drawer, took a deep breath, and approached the customers on the sofa. She hoped that the smell of death hadn’t permeated her clothes. She could still taste the vile smell in her nostrils.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, she’d taken their application and pulled their credit. Finally, Woody finished up and came to her desk. After introductions, Woody guided them to his desk to continue the process.
Folding her arms across her desk, Rhetta lay her head on her arms and closed her eyes. When she looked up a few minutes later, Woody was eyeing her and furrowing his brow. She snatched a note pad and scribbled, Got lots to tell you. She walked to his desk, handed him the folded note, and went on to the kitchen. She glanced back at him in time to see him open it, read and nod.
Rhetta reached into the refrigerator, snatched a cold bottle of water, twisted off the top, and downed the entire contents in two swallows.
Gulping ice-cold water brought a wave of protest from her already irritated stomach. She dashed to the bathroom. After losing the water she just gulped, she bent over the sink and splashed cool water on her face.
Dabbing her face with a damp paper towel helped compose her. Rhetta returned to the kitchen where she plucked another bottle of water from the refrigerator. This time she sipped slowly. The water stayed down. She carried the bottle back to her desk.
She stared blankly at the manila folders standing neatly in her upright file holder. With everything that had happened, she hadn’t had time to come into the office and work on any of her customers’ files. Although she wasn’t sure that she could concentrate on them now, she reached for the closest folder. She owed it to her customers to make sure their applications were going smoothly.
Opening it, she blinked, confused. A printed sheet of notes was stapled to the inside cover. Woody had gone through the file and updated it.
She reached for another and found similar notes. One by one, each of the files contained Woody’s precise notes. He had taken care of all her customers.