Unoccupied~2

I waited a few days before going back to the crime scene. I called Herbert on the way to the house and he told me basic things that I could’ve guessed. “Death due to blood loss, internal injuries, no fingerprints on the knife or around the house. Doors locked, nothing broken. Husband is staying with a friend.”

“Husband’s alibi checks out?”

“Yeah, he was painting a town over, I have the address.”

“I’ll take it.” I said.

I could hear the frown over the phone. “I already cleared it with the homeowner.”

“You called me.” I said with a shrug that I knew he could hear.

He rattled off the address and I wrote it on a Walgreens receipt.

*

I stopped at a Home Depot and stood in front of the paint chip wall. I stared at the colors, the Very Berri purple and Derbyshire green. I took out the carpet clippings and held them up over the grays.

The carpet color was Rock Candy.

*

I was at a shabby, buttercup-yellow, run-down house that had not been painted in a long time.

An old man in an old red sweater answered the door. He was hard of hearing and his eyes were swallowed up so far into his face that I figured he couldn’t see well either. I told who I was, Alma Savage, Private Investigator, and asked if he had made an appointment to have his house painted. He talked about how this nice fellow had painted his house, how they had drunk beer and talked about baseball. I was confused for only a moment before a young woman with a pixie face and curly hair interrupted us.

“My father has Alzheimer’s.” She explained. “The house was painted a long time ago.”

I asked her if either of them had talked to the police. She looked confused. The old man had been the one on the phone with Herbert.

*

I parked in front of the Sharp house and called people again and asked them to tell me things they remembered about Noelle and Magnus. Memories were precious and often wrong, but sometimes they were the only clues one had to go on.

Cathy Green was Noelle’s best friend. She hadn’t been able to talk to me the first time I called. Now she was somber, and her voice wobbled, but she talked to me.

“I had dinner with them every month. Magnus cooked the best meals.”

“Magnus.” I repeated. “What about Noelle?”

“Nope. Noelle didn’t like cooking. Whenever we were alone, we always ate out.”

Cathy kept talking, clearly happy to have someone to talk to. “They wanted kids so bad, but Noelle had a miscarriage and they never tried again. Magnus couldn’t bear it. Had a vasectomy.”

I asked her when this happened. She said four or five years ago. I hung up and went back into the house, walking into the guest room and staring at it, realizing it was perfect size for a nursery.

The Schooner Blue walls that had been painted over with Acadia White.

The missing pictures.

Rock Candy carpet.

*

I lay on the couch in the living room and determined it was too uncomfortable for someone to sleep on overnight. No one stayed with the Sharps.

I called Herbert, still lying on the lumpy couch. “I need you to check something for me.”

“Alma?”

“Yes. I need you to tell me if she was pregnant.”

“Noelle?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you back.”

*

I went into the main bedroom and looked over the dresser, where receipts and change and dollar bills and earrings lay. I looked in their closet at all of Noelle’s comfortable writing clothes and Magnus’ paint-covered clothes.

I found photo albums and thumbed through them. Nothing but happy smiles. I looked for medication in the bathroom – nothing.

I dug into drawers and looked through the cabinets.

Finally, in the garage, I found boxes – unlabeled. I knew it was what I was looking for.

I opened them. There were seven boxes, none matching, all different sizes. Each one had bright pink or bright blue toys, blankets, onesies, pacifiers. Each one contained a cross-stitched rectangle, homemade.

Flora Sharp.

Theodore Sharp.

Maisey, Cooper, Rachel, Kevin.

There were photos of the finished rooms. Walls different each time. Pinks named Azalea Flower, Teaberry; blues named Gentle Aquamarine and Breathtaking.

I looked down at the boxes, at all the attempts. All the miscarriages. Cathy Green didn’t know about this. Her best friend status was weak, watered down because Noelle was too broken, or embarrassed, or just didn’t think it was anyone’s business. No one slept on the couch. No one slept in the guest room.

I surveyed the rest of the garage, and saw some large framed photos shoved in the corner, behind a lawnmower that was covered with a tarp. I went over and pushed the lawnmower away. They were prints of Noelle’s book covers. The missing pictures. And there was a bloody thumbprint on the edge of one, her third book, Dangerous Illusion.

My phone rang. I answered it, hands shaking. “Was she?” I asked, throat dry.

“She was pregnant.”

“Fuck.” I muttered.

“What?”

“Magnus had a vasectomy a few years ago.”

“We’ll confirm that on our end.”

“And if you do?” I asked.

We both knew the answer. If he’d had the operation, it meant Noelle had cheated.

It was the motive.

*

I found Leonard’s apartment the next day. When he opened the door, he was in a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. His eyes were red, and his hair was unkempt.

I told him who I was, and he let me in. He gave me a beer. It was warm. I chugged half of it in one gulp.

When I swallowed, I asked, “So how long were you sleeping with her?”

Leonard pretended to look confused. I waited. Then, after four and half minutes of silence, he put his face in his hands and started crying.

“I loved her. So much. Magnus was always complaining and I – she would come over and vent, and we’d drink, and – we never meant to – ”

“Noelle was pregnant.” I told him.

His teary eyes grew smaller, beadier.

“Noelle had found out, that day.” I pushed on. “She left the pregnancy test in the trash and Magnus found it. You know he had a vasectomy – ” I didn’t wait for him to confirm. “ – Noelle was in the guest room, looking at the nursery she never got, hoping it would work this time. It could be you. And Magnus found her, killed her, and took down the photos of her books, couldn’t bear to see them, all her accomplishments. She had money, her name meant something, and now his own brother was fucking his wife.”

“How did you know that… that we – ”

“Magnus isn’t staying with you; he’s staying with a friend. He hates you.”

“No.” He choked out, shaking his head like that would shake the words out.

“She only cooked for you. When she came over here to vent and drink and fuck, she’d cook for you. She never did that with him.”

“What do I do?” He asked, drowning in how much he hated himself.

I looked around the drab apartment before turning my eyes back to him, shrugging. “Ever thought about painting the place?”