Persimmon Crown Read online

  Persimmon Crown

  RJ Fournier

  Copyright © 2019 by Robert J. Fournier

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7988-5855-4

  Cover design by Ross Carron

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank all the people who have helped in the evolution of this book. In particular, the many people on Scribophile.com who read and critiqued early versions, especially the few who stuck with it to the final chapter. And Ross Carron, who helped create a professional-looking version, from cover design to final editing, and who supported and encouraged me through the l-o-n-g months of writing.

  ONE

  If it weren’t for Coco Chanel, Helen would not have found the body.

  Coco was Helen and Frank’s chocolate Lab. Usually an easy-going dog, who seldom barked except when defending her home territory from pesky deer, she surprised Helen by stopping in front of a neighbor’s house and baying like a bloodhound tracking a felon.

  Helen was anxious to get home. Sunset came early in December and clouds, scudding from the west, announced a fast approaching storm, the second that day.

  She assumed Coco was spooked by the wooden table in the drive with its clear-plastic bags of bright orange fruit and handwritten sign advertising Japanese Persimmons $3.00.

  “You know what that is,” she told the dog. “It’s been there for weeks.” She tugged on the leash. “Let’s go.”

  The dog refused to budge.

  “Miss Chanel, come!” As if formality would get the dog to obey.

  Oblivious to such nuances, Coco barked and resisted harder.

  The odd behavior piqued Helen’s curiosity. She slackened the tension on the leash. “What is it, girl?”

  The dog led her around the table and along a flagstone path wet from that morning’s rain. On one side wisteria reached gnarled, black branches over the run-down, shingled house. On the other, frost-damaged persimmons dangled from leafless trees like coppery shrunken heads hanging from skeletal arms. In the close space, the air grew heavy with the odor of damp earth and moldering leaves.

  “We probably shouldn’t be trespassing like this,” Helen told Coco. She’d only spoken with the woman who lived in the house a few times. She didn’t know much about her, other than that she had a strong French accent and sold persimmons each fall. “Hello?” Helen called out. “Anyone here?”

  By a side door to the house, Coco started sniffing the ground with an intensity that usually meant food. Suddenly the dog raised her head, her body still and ears forward. She gave a low growl.

  Helen thought the dog must have heard something in the shadows ahead. “Who’s there?” she called and held her breath to listen. All she heard was water dripping from the trees.

  “We’d better go,” Helen said. “Nobody’s home.” She gave a tug on the leash, but Coco pulled against it. “Come on. It’s getting cold out here.” Whining softly, the dog held her ground. For the first time, Helen thought something might be truly wrong. The French persimmon lady was old after all. As far as Helen knew, she lived alone. She could have fallen and needed help. Helen inched forward, following Coco’s lead.

  The path curved to a wooden shed behind the main house. The door was open. A lump lay across the threshold. Despite her presentiment that the old woman had fallen, Helen’s mind refused to make sense of what she saw as she approached—the bottoms of black rubber boots, a dusky green skirt pulled tight, two legs pointing at odd angles. Coco sniffed at the shape then looked up at Helen who took three steps and stood next to the dog. The lump was a woman. Helen couldn’t see her face, but was pretty sure who it was.

  “Are you okay?” Helen asked, but immediately checked herself. Of course she wasn’t okay! No one would lie on the cold, damp ground like that if nothing was wrong.

  Holding Coco’s leash, she stepped over the still form. The ground on the other side of the threshold was lower than she’d expected. She lurched forward dragging Coco with her.

  The shed smelled of over-ripe fruit. The woman’s head and shoulders rested inside the threshold, her arms stretched forward, one side of her face pressed into the dirt. A gloomy light reflected off a dozen or more persimmons scattered around her head like jewels in a crown. Kneeling to get a better look, Helen could see the woman’s profile. As she’d expected, it was the woman who lived there.

  Helen put the back of her hand close to the woman’s mouth, but could feel no breath. She searched her neck in vain for a carotid pulse. Desperate to find any sign of life no matter how elusive, she reached for the woman’s wrist. The hand was cool and flaccid. She let it drop.

  The woman was dead. Helen assumed it’d been a stroke or a heart attack. Even so, a visceral foreboding tensed her shoulders. She looked around as if expecting to catch someone lurking in the shadows. Coco pushed up against her. She put an arm around the dog’s neck more to calm herself than the dog.

  Looking at the body, she was confronted by the indignity of the poor woman lying face down in the mud. She should be brought inside, Helen thought, and shown the minimal respect of resting in her own bed. While she was aware of many other reasons to call the authorities, it was the desire to shield the body from further humiliation that felt most urgent. “We’ve got to get help,” she told the dog.

  She pulled out her cell phone. The house was in a low spot along the road. As she expected, her phone had no bars. “I really need to get a smarter phone.” Her next thought was to try to find a phone inside the house. She hurried along the flagstone path to a side entrance to the house. The windows were dark. She tried the knob. It was locked. She banged on the door. Inside a dog barked.

  Coco growled.

  “Shh, Coco,” Helen whispered. She tried looking through the window but it was too murky inside to see anything. Going around to the front of the house, she found the door locked as well. A distant bark was the only response to her trying the doorbell, followed by the skittering of nails across hard floors.

  “Let’s get out of the hollow,” she told Coco. “Maybe we can find a signal up the hill.”

  The sun was low and obscured by clouds. A car approached in the gathering dusk, its headlights shining on Helen and Coco at the side of the road. Helen tried waving it down, but the driver passed without slowing.

  The hill was too steep for Helen to take at a run. As it was, she was panting halfway to the top.

  Coco kept close to her side.

  Helen tried her phone again. Still no signal.

  She could see the Cuttleby's place at the end of a long drive winding through a newly planted vineyard. The house was dark, without even the blue flicker of television that usually lit a side window when Helen and Coco passed on their daily walks. It would take too long to go that far off the road only to confirm no one was there.

  She wished she’d gone the opposite direction where more people lived, instead of immediately heading for the top of the hill. Now that she was here, though, it didn’t make sense to retrace her steps. There was a light shining at the Vitkus’, the next house on the road, but by the time she got there she figured it was faster for her to go home than to try to explain what happened and why she needed to use the phone. Reminding herself that, sadly, the persimmon lady wasn’t going anywhere, she slowed her pace.

  ◆◆◆

  The 911-operator asked questions in a patronizing tone that irritated Helen. She was hardly h
ysterical; she’d provided all the pertinent information in a single sentence as soon as the operator answered. Yet the operator required the information in her own order starting with Helen’s name and address, even though she must have known it from the phone number.

  “Is that where you found the body?”

  “No, it’s at a neighbor’s house.”

  “And what’s that address?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How am I supposed to send someone if you don’t know the address?”

  “It’s the second house from mine heading into town. Don’t you have a map or something? There’s a table in front with bags of persimmons on it.”

  “You say the person is dead. How do you know?”

  “I felt for a pulse.”

  “And you didn’t find a pulse?”

  “That’s why I said she’s dead.”

  “Are you a medical professional?”

  “No.”

  “Then how can you be sure she’s dead?”

  “I thought she was dead. I didn’t find a pulse and she seemed dead.” But the question made her doubt herself, asking herself why she hadn’t tried CPR, hadn’t tried anything that might have saved her. She was sure the woman was dead, but what if…?

  “Did you observe any obvious cause of death? A wound or blow to the head?”

  “No, it was too dark. She was old. I figured she’d had a heart attack.” The operator had made Helen wonder if the old woman was still alive, yet all her questions were wasting valuable time. “Are you going to send someone or not?"

  "The police are already on the way. I’ve relayed the information to the squad car. ”

  “I’ll meet them there. I can show them where the body…the woman is.”

  Whatever the operator responded was lost as Helen replaced the handset on its base.

  Leaving Coco behind and grabbing a flashlight, she hurried out. She felt the chill of a light mist on her face. It obscured the lights of the Cuttleby’s house, making their glow seem remote and ethereal. She couldn’t believe they’d be home now, when she didn’t need them.

  Before she’d gotten far, Helen heard a siren approaching. At the bottom of the hill the mist pulsed red and blue. As she approached a spotlight was turned at her. She put up a hand to shield her eyes. The light snapped off. A man got out of the car.

  "Is that you, Mrs. Terfel?" the man asked. “The dispatcher said you were the one who called it in.”

  From his outline and the glint of auburn hair in the flashing lights, Helen guessed it was Dennis Tomalson; she’d taught him and all three of his children. After more than thirty years of teaching, her “kids” included many of the adults in town, and their children.

  “She’s out back,” she called as she walked toward him. “I’ll show you.”

  Another siren wailed close by.

  “It’ll be faster,” Dennis said, “if we wait for the fire guys. They’ve got an EMS bag. They were right behind me.”

  A fire truck pulled behind the sheriff’s car. A man jumped down. “Hey, Denny,” he called to the sheriff. “What we got going?”

  A second man opened a side compartment on the truck and retrieved a bag.

  “Not sure,” Dennis said.

  “She’s in the back,” Helen said and started to lead the way down the path. “We should hurry.”

  “Could you wait here, Mrs. T, and point the EMT to us?”

  Although she’d been trying—and succeeding, she thought—to deal with the situation rationally, Helen felt relieved not to have to see the body again. “Just follow the path. You’ll see her in the doorway to the shed.”

  She watched the bright beams of their flashlights bounce along the path. Soon an ambulance arrived. This time a woman was the first out. A man followed carrying an orange case. Helen pointed down the path.

  “Stay here,” the woman told her.

  All three vehicles had left their emergency lights on. Their unsynchronized flashing made Helen feel queasy. The mist turning heavier, she decided to take shelter on the front porch.

  Closer to the door, she heard the dog barking inside. “The poor thing,” she whispered, automatically trying the knob. To her surprise it turned and the door opened. She’d thought for sure it’d been locked, but she had something else to worry about and went in.

  As soon as she entered, a sulfuric odor accosted her. She groped for a light switch. A single overhead globe cast a weak blue glow revealing a somber and overstuffed room. Walls the color of wet bark, a sofa and chairs covered in dark brocade, drapes splattered with blowzy roses combined to press all joy from the air. A small, floppy-eared spaniel stood a few feet away wagging a fluffy white tail.

  “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?” Helen murmured. She knelt and held out a hand.

  The dog came close, sniffed at her then pressed its head against her leg.

  “We certainly can’t let you stay here by yourself. Let’s see if we can find your leash.”

  With the dog following close behind, she made her way to a small kitchen. A pot of cabbage on the stove explained the smell that permeated the house. Cooked to mush, it hadn’t yet burned. Helen turned off the range and moved the pot.

  “Most people keep a leash by the back door,” she told the dog. “Is that where your mommy keeps yours?” When she found it hanging on a peg, she asked, “Do you want to go for a walk? I bet you need one about now.” Without her asking, the dog sat for her to attach the leash.

  Outside the sheriff was standing in the road directing the fire truck as it backed out, its warning beeps muffled by the mist. “Stay there,” he called to her on the porch. Its emergency flashers off, the fire truck drove away.

  Helen stepped toward him intending to meet halfway, but she had to wait as the dog squatted over the first patch of dirt it found.

  “Where the hell were you?” Dennis demanded as soon as he reached her.

  “I heard the dog barking so thought I’d—”

  “You were in the house?”

  “Well, yes, the front door—”

  “You can’t enter a crime scene. You could’ve contaminated evidence.”

  “What crime scene? What crime?”

  “I’m pretty sure the old lady was murdered.”

  TWO

  Frank was especially attentive that night after she told him about finding the persimmon lady’s body. He fixed dinner. Something light would do her good, he’d said. He made a fire and insisted that she sit with her feet up and drink the brandy he brought her. She tried telling him she wasn’t in shock, that she was amazed herself at how coolly she’d reacted to stumbling on a murder, but the only thing that stopped him from flitting about her like an over-anxious nursemaid was asking him about his meeting with the gallery owner earlier in the afternoon.

  As part of his exhibit, opening later that month, the gallery had agreed to showcase his “Floating Ducks” that currently adorned their bathroom ceiling. It was a view of ducks from a fish’s perspective, four feathery bottoms with webbed feet hanging down and the head and upper torso of one duck that was diving for food, all against a blue-green background. Frank had stuck his head in a scummy pond to look up at the sky and get the glint of sunlight just right. What made the piece work for Helen was the look of sheer terror on the diving duck’s face. She had no idea how Frank managed to give wood and a little paint such clear and intense emotion. She would miss the ducks floating over her while she took a bath.

  “You really should take the day off tomorrow,” Frank told her as he handed her a second brandy.

  At first she didn’t want another drink and didn’t think she needed a day off. “She was an old woman. It’s sad, but it’s part of life,” she argued, forgetting for the moment that it was murder.

  Yet that night, despite feeling so fatigued she didn’t bother brushing her teeth in her rush to get into bed, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her neck and shoulders were as tight as if she’d been lifting fifty-pound bags of p
otatoes all evening. After two hours, she admitted defeat and that she needed a personal day. She rationalized her decision by reminding herself she had to give a statement to the police. Dennis had told her the sooner the better, while everything was still fresh in her mind. She got up, trying not to disturb Frank, and went into her small office. Online she let the system know she was going to take the next day off.

  Her principal called in the morning.

  “Oh, my dear. How dreadful! Take as much time as you need. What a terrible experience! Is there anything I can do?”

  Helen assured her that one day would suffice. She’d see her on Monday.

  She turned on the TV to check if the murder was on the news. It was, but it was overshadowed by more sensational items in the station’s usual catalog of death, fire and mayhem. They hadn’t even bothered to send a van to capture a video of police vehicles outside the murder scene.

  After a cup of coffee, she walked to the mailbox to retrieve the newspaper. The Redwood Post carried the story on the lower third of the first page under the headline: “Suspicious Death In Sullyton.” Helen was impressed with the reporter’s ability to write a lengthy column with virtually no facts. The victim had been killed by a blow to the back of the head, it said; the weapon, however, had not yet been discovered. The body was found by a neighbor. (Helen was glad it didn’t list her name.) Cécile DuQuenne had lived in the same house for over thirty years. The reporter somehow managed to give the impression that she’d been killed for the money from her persimmon stand, which Helen found unlikely. It ended with a quote from Freddie Olsen saying, “I really didn’t know her that well. Kept to herself. Quiet, you know? Not someone you’d expect to get herself murdered.” Helen wondered what type of person he expected to be murdered.

  After breakfast she drove into town to give her formal statement to Josh Griffin, the detective in charge of the case. His brusqueness when she’d called to make the appointment had suggested to Helen an older man, rumpled and overweight, sitting behind a cluttered desk. Instead, he was young and slender wearing a crisp white shirt. The only things on his desk were a phone, a slick laptop and a single manila folder.