Chapter 7
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
“Jason, are you okay?” I asked. I noticed blood pooling around his body and gagged. Had he tripped on the Persian rug runner and fallen? Had he struck his head? “Jason?”
“Duh …,” he rasped.
I shook my head. I didn’t understand.
“Duh … she …”
“Are you trying to say Delilah? Did she reach out to you? Is that why you needed to see me? You texted it was urgent.”
He inhaled sharply and wheezed.
“No, Jason. Stay with me!”
He slumped forward. I gasped when I saw a crystal quartz spearpoint jutting from his back. I grasped the butt of it before recalling that if someone pulled a knife from a wound, a victim might bleed out. I released it as if it was on fire.
“Oh, Jason.” Unable to roll him onto his back because of the spearpoint, I couldn’t administer mouth-to-mouth. Tears sluiced down my cheeks as I pressed 911 again on my phone. This time a dispatcher answered.
“What is your address?” she asked.
I provided it and gave her my cell phone number, in case we got disconnected.
“What is the nature of the emergency?”
Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I informed the woman that Jason Gardner was injured. “He’s been stabbed. Come quickly. We’re in the foyer. The door is open.”
“Did you see who stabbed him?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.” I could’ve sworn I’d heard a door close before I entered. Had his attacker stolen out the rear of the house? “Please hurry. I don’t want him to die. Please.”
I stared at Jason, and my chest tightened. His skin was ash gray, and there was no longer the rise and fall of his chest. Whatever I wanted, hoped for, was of no concern. More tears spilled down my cheeks.
The dispatcher warned me not to hang up and gave me instructions on how to proceed when help arrived.
Nodding mindlessly, I rose to my feet and surveyed the foyer.
I noticed small clumps of mud on Jason’s shoes as well as on the floor and runner.
Given the glorious evening weather, if he’d gone outside to view the night sky but spied a trespasser, he might have dashed through the recently watered gardens to escape.
Had the intruder followed Jason through the mud and tracked some in?
Could the remnants help the police discover the killer’s identity?
Though it creeped me out to do so, I began clicking photographs of the foyer with my cell phone.
I hadn’t documented the crime scene when Marigold died, and, though I had good visual recall, I had regretted it.
I started with Jason and the floor around him.
Then I aimed the lens at the oversized front door and sidelights.
The door had been ajar. Had the killer entered that way?
Would there be traces of footprints outside?
Might he, or she, I thought, revising myself, have clods of mud on the soles of his or her shoes?
I took pictures of the velvet bench to the right of the door, the Italianate foyer table to the left, the gilded mirror above the table, and the beautiful porcelain vase filled with fresh flowers resting on the table. The ornate chandelier provided ample light. The photos were crystal clear.
Squatting, I steadied the camera on the floor to snap photos beneath the scalloped lower edge of the foyer table.
I didn’t see any telltale clues. I swung around to capture the area under the bench, although I could clearly see it was bare.
The gaudy Art Deco piece of art on the right wall looked out of place.
The Miró on the left was more in keeping with the grandiose style of the house.
Idly, I wondered if the decorator Jason had hired would’ve chosen more contemporary furniture.
I refocused on him, and as gruesome as it sounded—and it was—I took photographs of the spearpoint in his back.
It seemed familiar. When I realized why, I moaned.
It was nearly identical to one of the spearheads the previous owners of my parents’ mountain retreat had ceded to them along with all the furniture.
A siren bleated. Tires screeched on the driveway.
Flashing red light pierced the sidelights and ricocheted off the chandelier and mirrors.
Two doors slammed. A second vehicle arrived, and two more doors closed.
I swiped the camera app to remove it from the screen and shoved my phone in the pocket of my pants.
I didn’t think the police would appreciate I’d taken pictures.
Seconds later Zach pushed open the door, announcing himself as he did.
His gun was drawn. Right behind him came Bates, also armed.
They were still in jeans and polos, but they hadn’t come from the Brewery.
I’d seen them leave minutes before Jason and I did.
I happened to know they regularly attended a poker game. Perhaps they’d gone together.
Two emergency medical techs paused in the doorway. “Sir, may we enter?”
Zach summoned them inside. They made a beeline for Jason.
“Sir,” the taller of the EMTs said, “permission to inspect the body?”
“Permission granted.” He eyed me. “Allie, what are you doing here?”
“Jason … I mean Mr. Gardner texted me.” I thrust my arm at Jason’s lifeless body.
“Use his first name. You had dinner with him.”
“A business dinner.” I wondered why I felt the need to clarify. “He wanted to hire me to cater a soiree. When we were done, I went home. I mean, first, we went to Dream Cuisine to taste some desserts he might want for the party. Then I went home. Alone.”
Zach shifted feet.
“A while later, he texted me. He said he needed to talk to me. I phoned him, but he didn’t answer. A second text came through. I replied that we’d meet in the morning. But then I received a third text. He said it was urgent. I worried he might be in trouble, so I—”
“Came on your own and didn’t call a friend to accompany you?”
“No, I—” My voice cracked. “When I got here, the door was ajar. I called his name. He didn’t answer.
Neither did the domestic helper. That’s because he …
or she … I don’t know which gender … I didn’t ask …
has the night off. I thought I heard a door close, but I didn’t detect footsteps.
It could have been the wind, or it could’ve been the killer fleeing.
I don’t know.” I hated that I was rambling, but I couldn’t help it.
I wrapped an arm around my torso to steady myself.
The taller EMT stood and nodded to Zach. “He’s dead.”
“Thank you.” Zach dismissed both EMTs and asked them to wait outside.
Bates slipped on latex gloves and crossed to Jason. He felt for a pulse, as the emergency technician had. “Definitely dead,” he said.
Hadn’t he believed the EMT?
Zach slipped on a pair of gloves. “Go on, Allie.”
My throat felt thick, like I’d swallowed talcum powder. “Then I heard someone moan, so I entered and found Jason like—” I shot out a hand.
Darcy yowled, reminding me he was in his carrier.
I cooed to him that everything was okay, even though it wasn’t, and said to Zach, “Jason … he wasn’t facedown when I entered.
He was on his side. And he was still alive.
I bent to help him. But he pitched forward, and I saw the spear. Actually, it’s a spearpoint.”
“A Clovis spearpoint, to be exact.” Bates rose and continued speaking while making his way around the foyer, snapping pictures with a cell phone, as I had. “It’s presumed Clovis points were first used over thirteen thousand years ago in Chatham County, outside of Raleigh.”
“And you know this how?” Zach asked.
“History buff.” In addition to reading thrillers and suspense, Bates was an avid nonfiction reader. Like Tegan, the more time I spent at Feast for the Eyes, the more I learned about the reading habits of the bookshop’s customers. “The Clovis culture hunted big game. They fancied crystal quartz.”
“Um, Zach—” A chill cut through me. “I touched the spearpoint.”
“You what?”
“I’m sorry, but Jason was alive. I thought if I pulled it out, I could roll him on his back and give him mouth-to-mouth, but then I remembered I shouldn’t remove it. He’d bleed out. My fingerprints—”
“Are on it.”
I felt my cheeks warm with embarrassment. “One other thing. The spearpoint. It looks like one from the plaque in my living room.” I explained how I’d inherited it.
Zach mumbled under his breath as he bent to study the weapon.
“Of course, it could be from the history museum,” I went on, “and I’m sure others in town have some.
They are collectibles. I haven’t paid attention to my collection in ages.
” Although my gaze had grazed over the array when I’d told my house I loved it.
Had the spearpoint been missing then? “If the weapon—” Saying the word made me gag.
Jason had been killed. Murdered! “If it is mine, someone stole it from me.”
“How? Aren’t you locking your door, even after what happened?”
“I do lock it. All the time.” I wasn’t stupid. In April somebody had entered the house without my knowledge and swiped a spare key to Dream Cuisine. Since then, I’d been diligent.
“Allie’s right,” Bates said. “It could be anyone’s. Amassing ancient relics like spearpoints from the area is a common hobby for North Carolinians. I have a few at my place.” He circled the area to document the scene.
“Zach …” My voice trailed off because my insides were quivering with anxiety. C’mon, Allie. Buck up. “Jason said something before he died. He said, ‘Duh,’ and he added the word she. He was engaged once. They broke up, and she married someone else. Apparently, he was heartbroken.”
“What’s her name?”
“Delilah Brenneman. She lives in California. Do you think he wanted me to call her for him? He was reaching for his cell phone, but it was too far away.” I motioned to where it rested on the floor.
“We’ll never know.”