Too Far Gone

49

A crime-scene van and two Crown Vics were parked on the street in front of the Fugate house. A uniformed patrolman stood on the walkway smoking a cigarette. No crowd had gathered, but a couple walking a dog craned their necks as they strolled past. Of course, most of the residents had probably already left town or were packing to do so. Alexa looked at the neighbor’s house and saw the window curtain fall back into place.

Alexa was assaulted by the heat and humidity as she climbed from the Bucar. Purse over her shoulder, she approached the Cline house. She rang the bell and flashed a warm smile as she gazed through the sheer curtain behind the glass and saw a figure rapidly approaching the door.

An elderly, slightly stooped, and round-faced woman opened the door and stared at her through little reading glasses. The woman wore a rosy-cheeked smile and had a carefully trimmed helmet of white hair. The smell of cookies baking filtered out onto the porch.

“I’m FBI Special Agent Alexa Keen. Ms. Cline, is it?” Alexa held up her badge.

“Rosemary Cline.”

“I’m doing follow-up interviews, Ms. Cline.”

“The detective wouldn’t tell me what’s going on at Miss Fugate’s. But I know enough to know that’s a crime-scene van. If y’all don’t want to tell me what’s happened, that’s fine. I’m sorry, dear, but I’m very busy. My son is coming to get me in two hours to take me to DeRidder for the hurricane. I’ve got more packing to do after the cookies are done.” Rosemary Cline started to close the door.

“I noticed when I drove up earlier that you looked out the window.”

“I occasionally look out my windows,” Ms. Cline said. “That’s the value of having them. We have a neighborhood watch.”

“Did Dorothy Fugate attend watch meetings?”

“Goodness, no! She’s lived in that house for over twenty years now and I’ve spoken to her maybe a dozen times. She isn’t the outgoing type, you could say without telling a lie. She made it known as soon as she moved in that she had no interest in making friends or being involved with the neighbors. She was downright unpleasant, even for a Yankee, if you want to know the truth. Seven days a week, dressed in her uniform, going and coming at all hours. Until last year. She stopped going out in her uniform, moved in a roommate, and we all assumed she’d retired.”

“Can you describe the roommate?”

Ms. Cline smirked slightly. “She has the fairest complexion you’ll ever see and long gray hair. Heavyset, but not obese, by any means. I’ve only seen her a few times on the porch with Miss Fugate at night, getting fresh air, I suppose. Is she all right?”

“Far as we know.”

“She stays inside in the daytime, but when the weather’s nice she comes out at night sometimes, like I said, with Miss Fugate, and they sit on the porch swing and rock back and forth. Once I called out to them about how nice a night it was and they went inside like I’d shot at them. I don’t think she’s quite right. The roommate. Is that right? You know, some people thought she was, you know…”-she dropped her voice to a whisper-“…a lezbin.” She resumed a normal tone. “But I say, live and let live and so what if it’s true, and I don’t have the foggiest idea yes or no. Living alone is lonely sometimes. Especially so when you’re cold to your neighbors.”

You don’t know the half of it. “Did you happen to see the roommate leave this morning?”

“No, I didn’t. A few nights back there was an old truck parked there when I went to bed, and the next day her car was gone and hasn’t been back.”

“Nurse Fugate’s?”

“A small black one of some sort. I don’t know cars.”

“Did Nurse Fugate have any company over? Any friends or relatives?”

“Nobody ever spent the night that I recall. This man with white hair used to come by at night, parked in the back of the driveway. And years ago a young man used to visit her during the summers for a few days. He was a small boy when he started coming. Stayed inside mostly. Odd-looking child. He stopped coming years ago. The last time I saw him he was high-school or college age, and he hadn’t changed much. Still odd-looking. Miss Fugate never took a vacation, as far as I know. I don’t know which hospital she was affiliated with.”

“River Run. It’s a mental facility.”

“So, when can we know what’s happened over there?” The older woman crossed her arms under her breasts as though she were suddenly chilled.

“Nurse Fugate passed away,” Alexa said.

Ms. Cline shook her head sadly. “Heart attack?”

“We’re not sure as to cause of death yet,” Alexa replied. “We have to locate next of kin before we make any announcements.”

“We get mostly heart attacks, cancers, and strokes in this neighborhood. Mrs. Childs caught her robe on fire once. She has scars all over her legs and arms, poor thing. You were to see it, you’d just cry. All that exercising she has to do, but she never complains.”

“Can you remember when you last saw her?”

“Day before yesterday morning. I took her over some sugar cookies. She says I could sell them in grocery stores. I couldn’t make enough to do that.”

Alexa was confused. “You saw Dorothy Fugate day before yesterday morning?”

“Oh, no. I thought we were discussing Mrs. Childs. She doesn’t get out much, she’s eighty-one. All of her family’s left the area. My son offered to take her out of here, because of the hurricane, you know. She might go, but she’s stubborn.”

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Fugate?”

“Maybe Sunday. It was a few days back I saw her when she was taking groceries inside. Didn’t see her after that.” She shook her head. “Most of us are retired. Some young people have started moving in as some started dying or going to nursing homes.” Sadness crossed her eyes. “It’s not a real official neighborhood watch or anything. I had my lawn mower stolen and Mr. Hamilton saw the man and called the police. That was last summer. No, the summer before. He was a black man with pants falling down so his shorts showed plain as day. The police didn’t catch him, said he probably sold it and bought crack to put up his nose. I had a nephew who crushed up his father’s medicines and sniffed them. The police that took the report said I probably wouldn’t get the mower back and I didn’t. Then Mr. Hamilton had a big hanging plant taken right off his porch in broad daylight. A plant, can you imagine that? Why would anyone steal a fern and leave two beefsteak begonias sitting right there. He collects coins. His son’s a plumber, but I don’t use him because he charges way too much and gets the floor dirty and doesn’t clean up behind himself.”

Alexa had to let Ms. Cline talk because the woman might tell her something useful, but now she interrupted since she didn’t have time for the grand tour of the neighbors. “Nobody else coming or going lately?”

“Just you and the salesman this morning, and I thought how unusual it was to see visitors there in the daytime.”

“Salesman?”

“I was waiting on the mailman and I looked out the window and saw the salesman going to the door. That was a little while before you got there.”

“How long?”

Ms. Cline looked at Alexa as though she were an idiot. “Well, you two were inside together. He got there twenty minutes or so before you and came out after you were in there a few minutes.”

“How do you know he was a salesman?”

“Because he was carrying one of those little suitcases.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, not that I was paying attention or anything, but I noticed the suitcase. He was white. He seemed tall, but I’m not sure. He might have had a sports jacket on, or not. He didn’t look suspicious, so I didn’t look for specifics. You had to see him in there.”

“Did you see his car?” Alexa pressed.

“Come to think of it, he parked down the street. Salesmen do that, going from one house to the next. Like I said, I don’t know kinds of cars, but his looked new and was gray, or silver.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?”

Ms. Cline gazed at Alexa over her glasses. “I’d guess older than you. Are you sure you’re an FBI agent? You’re awfully young and pretty to be one.” She smiled, trying to please the agent.

“Did you see his hair?”

“Red. Oh! I forgot about my cookies!”

“Thank you,” Alexa began, but Ms. Cline had already locked the dead bolt and disappeared. Through the sheers she looked like a body sinking in water.

Kenneth Decell, Alexa thought. That son of a bitch could have broken my neck.

She strode to her car, dialing Manseur as she went.