Page 15 of A Deeper Darkness
“Winter gloves. Not the kind you’re looking for, I expect.”
She’d diminished in the few moments Sam had spent staring at the note. Gone from a strong, self-assured mother to a frail old woman. As if she knew that she was right.
Sam laid the note on the counter carefully.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s not mine. Eddie brought it with him to lunch. ‘For safekeeping,’ he said. He wouldn’t tell me where he got it, or when, or what it meant, just asked that I keep it hidden. So you see, it couldn’t have been random. I know he was murdered.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No.”
Sam whirled on her.
“Why the hell not? They need this information. This creates more than reasonable doubt that this wasn’t a simple carjacking. You withholding the note…” She trailed off. She’d been about to say that withholding the note could have given Donovan’s killer time to get away, but laying that blame on Eleanor wouldn’t be fair. It was foolhardy, keeping the full truth from the police, but not life-ending.
Eleanor sat heavily on the stool. Her face was haggard.
“So hewasmurdered? It wasn’t random?”
“Eleanor, I don’t know. I can’t say right now. But I’d like to get a chance to look at the autopsy notes right away, see if there’s something they may have missed. What’s the name of the detective working the case?”
Eleanor had prepared a file folder that had all the information Sam would need stowed inside. The gesture made Sam sad. Eleanor had spent years on the Hill as the legislative director to several Virginia congressmen and had hated retiring.
Old habits die hard.
She handed the folder to Sam. A business card was paper-clipped to the front.
“Darren Fletcher. And he seemed none too happy to be dealing with the case.”
“Some cops aren’t the most friendly, that’s for sure. Tell me, what else did Eddie say about the note? Was he frightened? Annoyed? Secretive?”
“He just said he didn’t want Susan seeing it.”
“He didn’t want me seeingwhat?”
Eleanor and Sam both jumped. A petite blonde woman stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed defensively, staring at them both.
Sam had never met Eddie’s wife, nor seen pictures, but this had to be Susan Donovan.
“Grammy! Grammy! Grammy!” Two little girls ran into the room. Eleanor immediately dropped to her knees and gathered them to her bosom. Sam forced herself to swallow, stay still. Every muscle in her body fired. She wanted to run as far away from the girls as possible. She gritted her teeth and looked out the kitchen window so they wouldn’t see the sudden tears in her eyes.
The petite woman came all the way into the kitchen, removed her sunglasses. Sam gathered her self-control and met Susan’s eye. She could see why she wore the glasses, despite the fact there was no sun to be seen. The woman’s eyes were red and swollen, devoid of makeup, with dark circles underneath. On closer inspection, Sam saw her hair was dirty, unwashed for two, maybe three days.
“Who are you?” the woman asked.
“I’m Dr. Samantha Owens. I am so sorry for your loss.” Sam resisted the urge to stick out her hand, like they were at a social mixer.
She was glad she didn’t. The woman gave her a quick, hateful glance.
“Oh. It’syou.Ourloss, don’t you mean, Doctor? Considering how well you knew my husband.”
“Susan,” Eleanor cautioned. “Little pitchers.”
That was enough to stop the woman’s attack. She glanced at the girls. “Go watch TV in Grammy’s room, okay, chickens?”
In the weary way of children who know the adults need to converse, they detangled themselves from their grandmother’s loving arms and silently melted away. Sam had seen that resigned maturity happen with children forced to grow up too quickly many times before. It was as if Death knocked on their doors as he passed and told them to behave, or they’d be next.
