Staying Home Is A Killer. Sara Rosett
she whispered, “Call me. I want to hear all about it.”
Mitch poured drinks and dispensed plates while I cut up a piece of pizza for Livvy. “This is nice of you.” I took a slice of pepperoni.
Thistlewait devoured a slice in three bites, then chugged his Dr Pepper. “No problem. The autopsy’s back on Follette.” He grabbed another slice, then seemed to realize he was talking about an autopsy at the dinner table. “Well, that can wait.”
I’d never been squeamish, so I said, “I don’t mind. I want to know what they found out.”
Mitch made a go-ahead motion with his hand while he chewed.
Thistlewait shrugged. “Okay. First, she was pregnant. Around four weeks and there’s evidence that her death wasn’t natural. Looks like she was suffocated, then someone cut her wrists.”
I managed to finish off my slice of pizza, but I knew I wouldn’t eat any more. Taking about the violent death of a friend was in a whole different league than talking about dissecting frogs at lunch after biology class.
“How could you tell?” Mitch asked.
Thistlewait studied Mitch for a moment, seeming to consider how much to tell us. When Thistlewait first showed up on our doorstep a year ago, I’d had the feeling that Mitch knew him, but Mitch would never say a word about Thistlewait. Maybe he did know Mitch and that is why he told us what he did, or maybe it’s hard to stay removed and uncommunicative when you’re sitting around a kitchen table eating pizza in your socks. He nodded slightly at Mitch and said, “Petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, capillaries that burst in the eye. It’s a sign of asphyxiation. And there aren’t any hesitation cuts.” My face must have looked puzzled. He explained, “Usually a person about to commit suicide makes a few shallow cuts, getting up the courage. Ms. Follette had only two cuts, one on each wrist. And the cuts on her wrists are too exact. She was right-handed?” He looked at me.
I thought a moment. “Yes. I remember her writing a note in there by the phone one day.”
“A right-handed person usually cuts the left wrist first and that’s the deepest cut. The cut on the right wrist may be shorter and shallower. The cuts on her wrists were almost exactly equal in depth and length. There was also some faint bruising on one shoulder. And then there was the amount of blood.”
I looked down at my plate, blinking hard. I missed the rest of what he said. Mitch reached across the table and squeezed my hand. When I looked up Thistlewait wiped his mouth, then crumpled his napkin. “This is strictly the Vernon PD’s case. They only shared that with me as a courtesy, so I don’t have any input on this, but it looks like they’re on the right track. I shared what I know with you, Mrs. Avery, so you’d know this is serious. Stay out of it.”
Normally, I’d have bristled at his fierce, commanding tone, but I was still immersed in thinking of how Penny died and what a useless waste it was. Thistlewait reached back to his overcoat that was draped over the back of his chair and pulled a folded newspaper out of the pocket. “Did you see this today?”
The headline under the fold read POLICE INVESTIGATE SUSPICIOUS DEATH. NEIGHBORHOOD STUNNED.
“No.” Mitch pulled the paper to him and I leaned over to scan the article over his shoulder.
Vernon resident Penny Follette was found dead in her Black Rock Hill home, 3407 West Nineteenth Avenue, on Monday afternoon. Initial reports indicated the death was a suicide, but police are now treating the death as a homicide, a source close to the investigation reported on Tuesday.
Police are tracing the movements of Follette on Monday, but there are few leads as to why Follette, a volunteer in the arts community and an archivist, died.
The quiet neighborhood of Windermere on Black Rock Hill is stunned. “She was very nice. I just can’t believe it,” said one neighbor, Reginald Baker. Other local news sources report that another neighbor, who asked not to be identified, saw Follette at another home in the neighborhood, 3415 West Nineteenth Avenue, shortly before Follette died. Mitch and Ellie Avery, residents at the home Follette reportedly visited shortly before her death, were unavailable for comment.
“What?” I said.
“A neighbor?” Mitch said. We looked at each other and then spoke at the same time. “Mabel.”
“Your unidentified neighbor?” Thistlewait asked.
“It has to be. She and her husband, Ed, watch everything that happens on this street,” I said.
Mitch put the paper down and reached for another pizza slice. “When I saw Ed this morning on my way to the base he said Mabel was in bed with that flu that’s going around.”
“And he didn’t ask you anything about Penny?” I felt my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. The Parsons always wanted to talk and ask questions.
“No, I was leaving for work, so I didn’t hang around to talk.”
“But, still, I can’t believe she’d tell a reporter that Penny was at our house. I saw Penny on base, but I wasn’t supposed to meet her until that afternoon, anyway. Why would Mabel say that? And why would Penny come over early? To tell me she was pregnant?”
Thistlewait shook his head. “There you go again. Leave it to the police, Mrs. Avery.”
“More pizza?” I tilted the box with the last piece toward Thistle-wait. I decided I’d better check on Mabel. To make sure she was recovering from the flu, of course.
After Thistlewait left, I pulled the wrinkled list of names out of my coat pocket and returned phone calls for Will. Besides Victor Roth I also needed to call Hetty Sullivan, a chairperson for Frost Fest. I dialed the home number she had left on the message.
“Hi. I’m Ellie Avery,” I said when she answered and identified herself. “I’m returning a few phone calls for Will Follette. You mentioned on your message that you need to pick up some photographs from Penny?”
“Yes.” Her rough voice scratched over the phone. Then she sighed. “Such a shame about Penny. I feel awful. I wish she had come to me or that I’d realized she had problems.”
“Me too.” I didn’t elaborate on how she died. I figured that Hetty would read about it in the paper soon enough. Talking about her death being a murder, not a suicide, over the phone to a stranger seemed too gossipy, so I stayed quiet.
“Well, we do have to move on.” Hetty cleared her throat, but it didn’t make her voice any smoother. “And Penny would want the exhibit to be ready for Frost Fest. She said she picked up, let me see, photographs and framed ink drawings of early military planes from General Bedford. She also had photos of Greenly from the 1940s. Do you have those?”
“Not with me, but Will said she had some things at their house. Do you want to meet me there?”
“I could be there tomorrow night after a meeting,” she said. “Around seven thirty?”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
I gave her directions and then dialed Victor Roth, thinking of when I’d met him briefly a few weeks ago. I was having lunch with Penny at Caliente, a trendy Mexican restaurant in a refurbished warehouse in Vernon’s downtown business district. Aqua, fuchsia, and canary murals celebrated chili peppers, parrots, and Mexican pottery. The murals fascinated Livvy. Music pulsated through the crowd of young professionals dressed in business casual, who swiveled from side to side with their phones pinned to their ears, looking for their lunch dates.
Victor Roth had spotted Penny from across the room and waved.
She said, “I think that’s Victor. I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Very Euro-looking,” I said as a man in his twenties wearing a tight gray shirt that showed off his squared shoulders made his way through the crowd. He had longish thick brown hair and a face with sharp planes. He looked like he’d just left the country club, or at least a photo shoot trying to replicate