Chapter Twenty-Nine
I tell Isabel about Muriel. When I finish—both the story and my mocktail—she says, “Well, she’s lying, obviously.”
I adjust Rory, who has drifted off. “I know, but I feel like I got angry and overreacted. Her story checks out. If she’s meeting someone, he’s almost certainly a resident, and they’re having a fling. Her stonewalling and outright lying pissed me off, so I punished her.”
“You really think that’s why you did it? Because that doesn’t seem like you.”
I sigh. “I keep thinking that this could be the guy we’re looking for in the forest. The guy who staked out Lilith’s cabin. But why would he be meeting Muriel?”
“You said you found boot prints.”
I nod. “We also have prints for the person hanging around Lilith’s.”
“Do they match?”
“They don’t not match. The ones at Muriel’s spot are partials, lacking a full tread. What we have is very roughly a match, which I think is why I’m going so hard on this. But, honestly, the partial print also matches our men’s standard boots. It’s not exactly unique.”
“If her guy is a resident, they broke curfew for sex, but there’s no reason for that.
We aren’t telling residents they need to sleep in their own bed.
The walls are soundproofed for a reason.
They deliberately ignored curfew without cause.
I can see Muriel refusing to name him and taking the fall for both of them, but she’s telling you there is no man.
Blatantly lying. I’d have locked her up, too. ”
“For that? Or for actual cause?”
She takes my glass. “You have cause. If she won’t admit to it and give his name, then he could be your killer.” She studies my expression. “You don’t think that’s a possibility.”
“I’m not sure how it would be. He kills two people, stalks the wife of one victim … and he’s also sneaking around with Muriel?”
“Two people? I thought we had one dead body.”
“Long story. The second seems to be a miner who was poisoned.”
“What? How does that connect to your hiker?”
I throw up my hands. “This is the problem. We have one poisoned miner. One strangled hiker who may have known the original prospector. And an unidentified man secretly meeting with a seemingly unconnected resident.”
“I’m very confused.”
I exhale. “Join the club. I think, for now, I need to leave Muriel under guard and not feel guilty about it.”
“Agreed.”
“Give her time to stew, while I pursue my murder cases.”
“And care for a baby, nurse your injured dog, and keep a town under curfew.”
“At least I have help. With all that.”
She reaches to squeeze my hand. “You do. I know Phil and I haven’t been pulling our weight with the patrols and curfew enforcement. We’re not militia material. But feel free to drop Rory off anytime.”
Phil appears from the stockroom. “I could watch Muriel.”
I smile. “Better than watching a six-month-old?”
“Er…”
“Yes, please. If you could take over Muriel duty, that would help a lot. Thank you.”
As I take Rory to Dalton, I am very aware that I’m on a deadline. One more day to solve this, or at least get Gretchen to the point where she’ll cancel her pick up. I can’t help feeling that she holds the key. If she didn’t kill her husband, then she knows more than she’s telling.
I need to question her about a connection between Blake and Mark.
I cannot question her about that until I know who the hell Mark was.
An interview fishing expedition is a last resort. I need facts.
I can’t rush émilie. I can’t push Gretchen. While I told Isabel that I was dropping the Muriel thing, that’s really the only avenue I can pursue tonight. Not talking to her but doing exactly what I plan to do with Gretchen. Get more ammunition.
Time to search Muriel’s apartment.
Muriel’s apartment is clean. Ridiculously clean.
I consider myself a tidy person. Or at least I was before I had a baby, which made me accept a whole other standard, one with dirty dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, baby blankets everywhere …
But even at my best, my place never looked this immaculate.
Those in the single residences share bathrooms and common areas. It’s like a midrange dorm, where you have a room to yourself, but it’s little more than sleeping space. A twin bed, a dresser, a small desk, and a chair.
We don’t offer many luxuries in Haven’s Rock—it’s as all-inclusive as possible.
But for people who spent their lives in a capitalist society, if all their needs are covered, they see their labor as unpaid.
So we still have the credit system for true extras.
In furnishings, some remove the desk and chair and upgrade to a double bed.
A more popular option is giving up the desk and ordering a more comfortable chair from Kenny.
That was Muriel’s choice, which fits with her claim of being an introvert.
She has a gorgeous rocker-recliner, complete with cushions, which would have been purchased separately.
I spend a few minutes wondering what she does in that chair, when there’s no sign of any leisure activities. Then I find her book stash—three in her dresser drawer, all library borrows from the past week.
So her introvert story checks out. She saved up for the best chair possible and is an ardent reader. She also must spend time cleaning her apartment, given the state of it. Or, maybe, if she’s in this small space most of the time, she needs it this tidy. I get that.
What I don’t get are any clues. There are absolutely no signs of a woman having a fling.
I hate to stereotype, but usually, when someone goes from single to not, there’s evidence.
I remember shortly after I arrived in Rockton, Dalton started shaving his beard, and apparently, it was his way of sprucing up for me.
Shave. Wear your most flattering clothes.
Use more mouthwash. Manicure, pedicure, new underwear …
There’s nothing of that here. No sign that she used credits to buy new clothing. Her underwear all comes from home, and it’s well-worn, as are her bras.
Could I have been wrong?
No, but clearly I am stereotyping. There must be an affair; she just isn’t changing anything for it.
I’d asked Isabel whether she’d seen Muriel in the Roc more often, and the answer was that she rarely showed up there at all, and when she did, she was with women. That was definitely a man’s voice we’d heard.
I pace around the tiny room, every surface clear and dusted, the bed made, not even a sweater lying out.
I open the drawers of her dresser again.
Every piece of clothing is folded, right down to her underwear.
Her toiletries are in a bag, which I already checked.
Hell, even the books in a drawer are stacked by size.
Nothing to see here.
That’s what the room screams, what it had screamed from the moment I walked in and screamed louder when I opened the drawers.
It’s easy to hide things in a mess. My first reaction had been that this might be the easiest search job ever.
I only had to look under the bed, and flip through stacks of clothing.
Nothing to see here.
Is that intentional? Or am I projecting, unable to imagine this degree of cleanliness. Surely people leave something out when they live alone.
Fine, yes, I’m projecting. This seems suspicious because I don’t know anyone who keeps their space this perfect before hurrying off to work. But still, it nags at me, that little voice whispering “nothing to see.”
I take a deep breath, and then I start with the bed.
I’d already checked under the coverlet. Now I dismantle it and shake out everything.
I crawl under the bed with my flashlight, and I don’t even need to cringe or hold my breath—there’s not a dust speck, let alone a dust bunny.
I check the frame. I lift the mattress and look there.
I look under the chair and squeeze the cushions, all the while feeling like I’m being ridiculous. It’s a single woman having a fling, not a murder suspect. Am I angry because she stonewalled me? Lied to me? Is my frustration over this case bleeding into an overreaction?
It hits then. A memory. Last week, going into the greenhouse for mint leaves. I’ve been drinking a lot of herbal tea, and I’ve started getting fresh herbs.
“Mint,” Muriel said, scanning the rows. “Oh, yes. Down on the left. Bottom row. Don’t mind the mess. That’s mine. I’m getting to it.”
I’d had to pick my way through a row littered with fertilizer and half-filled pots. I’d presumed she was in the middle of a planting, but when I came back two days later, it wasn’t much better. Not a mess, per se, but certainly not the pristine condition of this apartment.
This tidiness is intentional.
Nothing to see here.
I dive into a full-on search, and I finally find my clue taped to the bottom of a drawer.
A key.
I’m in the clinic. Dalton was spending a few minutes with Storm, and I find him there with my sister.
April wants to keep our dog for another night, and Dalton was halfheartedly objecting.
Halfheartedly because he knows she’s right.
We’re too busy with this case to give our injured dog the attention she needs.
The objection, I know, is guilt, which I share.
“She should stay,” I say. “One more night. I want Storm home tomorrow night, and if we’re called out in the night again, only one of us responds.”
I sit on a stool and take Rory from Dalton. “I searched Muriel’s apartment, which was even tidier than April’s.”
“Impossible.” April sounds offended.
I point at the counter, where she’s left a pen and a mug.
Her hackles almost visibly rise. “Those are items of convenience, left there temporarily.”
“Right. Everyone does that. Unless you’re expecting guests, you leave things out. A sweater. A water glass. A pen. There was none of that, which I found suspicious.”
April’s snort clearly states that this is a “me” problem.
I continue, “So I searched and found this.” I set the key on the counter as I bounce Rory on my knee.
“I stopped by the town hall and opened the key locker. It doesn’t match any in there.
Staff are allowed to bring lockboxes, but residents aren’t.
This key’s brand-new.” I turn the shiny key over.
“I know Mathias and Isabel have locked boxes for case files, Sebastian has them for his medication, April has them here for medication. Phil mentioned having one for his records. I ran this by all of them, and I know it’s not for the med cabinet here. ”
“It is not,” she says.
“So while it’s possible Muriel stole the key to a staff member’s personal lockbox, I don’t think that’s the answer. It’s too new, and they’d have reported it missing. It does look like one for a box, though, or a cabinet.”
“Small.” April picks it up and turns it over. “Too small for a cabinet.”
“So likely a locked box, which Muriel is not supposed to have. We must have missed it in her belongings.”
Dalton grunts. It’s always awkward searching a new resident’s luggage. We have to, of course, to look for weapons or drugs, but if we’d found a box of mementos, we might not have looked closely enough to realize it had a lock.
“Whatever this opens, it’s not in her apartment,” I say. “I hate to suggest we head back to her clearing. We will, obviously, if we need to—tomorrow, in daylight—but I’m not convinced it’s there.”
“Buried if it is,” Dalton says. “There was nothing lying around.”
“On the topic of buried treasure, there is a place I consider more likely. I just wanted to be sure you didn’t recognize the key, Eric, before I go digging much closer to home.”
“The greenhouse,” he says.