Читать книгу Murder in Mayberry - Jack Branson - Страница 20

Chapter 9

The Parade Begins

Midmorning Thursday, we drove Iva Ray to Ann’s house. By now, the snowstorm had arrived, blanketing the little town like a fresh coat of white paint and making it appear momentarily storybook exquisite.

“They’re releasing the body today,” said Iva Ray as we pulled into Ann’s driveway. “It looks like we’ll have the viewing tomorrow and the funeral Saturday.”

“Penny and Dave won’t be able to drive up now,” Jack told his mom. “Georgia and Tennessee have an ice storm, and it’s going to take a while to clear. They can’t even make it to the airport. Better not plan on Dave being a pallbearer.”

“Janet and David’s sons are flying in tomorrow, and we can use them,” continued Iva Ray. “Russell can serve, and maybe his sister’s boyfriend. Then you and Brenda’s brother.”

A marked car had stayed in the driveway all night, but the investigating police had not yet arrived. We pulled far back in the driveway to make room for the other cars.

Soon an unmarked police car pulled into the driveway. Out stepped four police detectives, all in black suits, all carrying black briefcases. Three men and one woman.

We followed the officers, the family and Judy into the house. But just after stepping inside, Jack leaned down and whispered to me, “I can’t do this. Let’s get out of here till the police leave.”

I understood Jack’s frustration. He knew how an investigation should be handled, and it was torture for him to be left out of this one.

We slipped outside and waited an hour and a half in the sub-freezing car. Then the police left, officially turning the house over to the family.

Entering Ann’s house was surreal. Everything was just as she’d left it. A magazine rested on the den sofa, half read. To-do lists and reminders were scattered on the desk where she conducted rent business. A hand towel in the bathroom outside the kitchen was comfortably crinkled where Ann had dried her hands for the last time. It was as though she’d stepped out to buy some milk and we were waiting for her return.

I felt that all these relatives were intruding on Ann’s privacy, picking up magazines, leafing through letters, opening drawers. I knew Jack was having the same reaction. We walked gingerly from room to room, respectfully refusing to touch the antiques and furnishings.

The police had taken all of Ann’s kitchen knives from the drawers, and they were laid in a row beside the sink. Ann’s purse was on the kitchen table.

“The police said her purse was stolen,” Judy told Jack. “They said they searched the house twice and couldn’t find it. I walked right into the kitchen, and there it was, on the same chair where she left it every night.”

Judy continued. “Whenever Miz Ann came back from church or a bridge party or from out shopping, she’d put her purse on the table, and she’d take all her rings off and dump them on the table. Then, when I come in, I’d separate the good jewelry from the cheap stuff. I’d put the cheap stuff in a cup in the kitchen cabinet, and I’d take the good stuff up to her dressing room.”

“Was there any jewelry on the table after Ann was murdered?” asked Jack.

“No,” replied Judy. “She must have still had her rings on.”

“I was upstairs when they was searching Miz Ann’s things,” Judy continued. “You should have seen them. They couldn’t have found anything the way they was searching. It was like they was afraid Miz Ann would come running in the room and tell them to stop messing up her things.

“They’d pull a drawer out just a tiny bit and barely raise up something and peek under it. I watch enough television to know the police are supposed to pull things out of drawers to search.”

“A good search can be done without messing up drawers,” smiled Jack.

Jack and I walked into the dining room. The black cape with the leopard skin collar was lying across a chair. Directly outside the dining room was a foyer, then the stairs leading to the second level of the house. Ann’s hunter green heels were on the bottom step, where she’d slipped them off Sunday night.

We pictured Ann’s last moments. She’d come in the front door, which was closest to the church. She’d taken off her shoes, then her cape. She’d walked into the kitchen and put her purse on the chair. Sometime after that, she’d been interrupted.

Jack and I stood motionless at the bottom of the staircase, dreading the climb. The upstairs was Ann’s inner sanctum, her personal space. We’d climbed the stairs many times, and we’d slept in Ann’s bedroom countless nights. She insisted we use her king bed when we stayed with her, so the room was familiar. But the upstairs was personal, and we dreaded the emotional connection we’d feel when we walked there.

We climbed the stairs one at a time, moving as if wearing those weighted boots astronauts use when gravity is sparse. Gravity and emotional heaviness partnered to make the climb an ordeal, and the effort was nearly unbearable.

At one point in what seemed an eternal climb, we laughed, remembering that Bob was not allowed on the second level of the house. Ann had problems with a faucet recently, and Bob offered to fix it. She’d refused, saying it was improper for him to be in her bedroom.

At the top of the landing was Ann’s dressing room, a generous room that consisted primarily of wigs, makeup and jewelry. I glanced in as we turned toward Ann’s bedroom. The dressing table was strewn with cosmetics and jewelry, and a light sprinkling of face powder covered the table’s surface, giving the impression that Ann was coming right back to remove her makeup and whisk away the dusting of powder with a Kleenex.

Even before entering Ann’s bedroom, we saw pictures of me and Jack, Penny and Dave as children and our grandchildren, Taylor and Elliott. The only pictures besides those of our family were a few studio shots of Ann and Carroll.

“We were her family,” I told Jack. “You were as close to her as any son could have been.”

We moved around the bedroom, lush with peach and gold window and bed dressings. Many times, we had sunk into the thick coverings of that bed after a long drive, falling effortlessly to sleep in its eloquent comfort. But today, we felt like intruders. We stood deliberately in the middle of the room, holding hands, being careful not to touch Ann’s personal belongings. We understood the officers’ hesitancy to disturb items in the drawers. Everything was so uniquely Ann’s, and she had not planned for company.

We paid our respects to the rest of the upstairs rooms. When we had surveyed every perfectly decorated room, we faced the inevitable.