Chapter Fifty-Four: Here We Go Again

It's two weeks since I heard back from Bart, and I start to wonder if I made a mistake in letting him help find Goldie’s killer. But this morning he contacts me and says he has a few leads, and could I meet with him. I tell him to meet me at Daniel’s Diner for lunch at 1:30 p.m. I don’t want it to be too crowded, so meeting a little later would mean construction workers and the like wouldn’t be there.

The doctor also calls and says my levels of arsenic are not bad, but I am definitely poisoned by it. Brock tells me he got the same result. As the crime novels also state, the plot thickens.

After taking a shower, I pull on a pair of jeans, noticing that I’m losing weight. It’s not a huge difference, but it’s enough that my jeans are a little loose. I put on some makeup and dry my hair. I contemplate whether to straighten it or let the natural curls come out with a touch of scrunching and hairspray for wavy hair. I decide to leave it be.

Brock is in the shop building who knows what. Not working is “driving me crazy,” he keeps saying. I had to remind him that he wanted to take the time off. Nothing has happened, and even the police stopped patrolling the area. He could go back to work, and we’d be fine. But I still want Goldie’s murder solved, and we’re not entirely safe until whoever did it has been arrested and justice served.

I feel somewhat anxious as I sit waiting in the booth at Daniel’s. My foot tapping on the floor and my heart rate accelerating doesn’t help. I look at the families around me, or single people at the bar. No one knows what is going on in other people’s lives. We all judge why someone acts the way they do, or if someone is introverted or extroverted, we think they’re either snobbish or stuck up. A server is pouring coffee into an older man’s cup as he reads a newspaper, which is rare these days.

A few minutes later, I see Bart walk towards the booth, and I exhale as I see him carrying a manila envelope close to his chest.

“Hi Patrice,” he says, sliding onto the bench opposite mine.

“Hi,” I say, looking around, almost feeling guilty for meeting him here. I wipe imaginary crumbs off the table.

“Thanks for meeting me here. So, I found something you may find not just interesting but a little odd.” He opens the envelope and spreads out some photos. At this time, a server comes to our table, and he gathers them up. A young woman with long blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail takes out her phone, which I thought was odd. Her red T-shirt fits like a glove over her tall frame, showing off her ample breasts. A white apron wrapped around her tiny waist hides her black yoga-like pants. Her blue eyes look like the ocean, her eyelashes long and thick with mascara. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle and sparkle as if she genuinely is happy. She is naturally beautiful, and I can see why Bart is staring at her. As an older woman, I can appreciate beauty when I see it and remember when I was that age how I looked before kids changed my body.

Aside from being short, I had long blonde hair, and my hazel eyes changed with my clothes and even my moods. My face was fair, but my skin took on more of an olive tone. I had several boyfriends before meeting Brock and went out every weekend. Sometimes, I miss those days.

“Hi, I’m Lisa, your server. Can I get you some coffee to start out with?”

“Yes, please,” I say, with Bart nodding. I pick up the menu and tell her we need a few minutes to look it over.

When she leaves, Bart hands me the photos. Three were at what looks to be Goldie’s funeral, and then a few more were at her gravesite. I remember that day. Several hundred people came to her funeral at the local LDS church in town. The place was filled with what looked to be her students, friends, and family. She had three children, and they were all there with their spouses and kids. She was a loved woman, and it makes me sick that someone would so callously murder her.

The day was cold and gray when we all stood at her gravesite; the beautiful cherry oak casket was adorned with her favorite white and yellow roses. Afterward, I approached one of her kids and gave her my condolences, announcing my name and that I was one of her students. I never said anything about our other relationship. What Goldie told me before she died was between her and me, except for the info on Troy’s death and burial.

A few birds were chirping, the wind started picking up, and leaves scattered about. Even though it was over two months ago, it still feels like yesterday. She died alone at age 69. Life isn’t fair, and I promised her at that gravesite that I would find her killer.

I stare at the photos, trying to understand. “Is there something I’m supposed to see here?” I ask Bart, picking them up one by one. I see her casket, her family in front of the casket, other people milling around, and some tall trees.

“Look at them again, and you will notice the same person in three pictures. He stood out, was quiet and kept to himself, and in this one,” he said, rifling through them and picking out one, “he was smiling. And in another, he's talking with a woman." Bart slides the photo over to me, and I pick it up. He’s right. A man who looked to be at least six feet tall with dark brown hair slicked to the side and green eyes was looking at something, grinning. I pick up another photo to see if I could place where he’s looking. I put the photos side-by-side. It was like piecing together a puzzle.

Then I see it.

One photo was of the man talking to someone, a woman; the next was him grinning, and the last was a photo of the same woman looking and smiling too, most likely at the man. They don’t look familiar, but immediately I wonder if it’s Greg and Petra. The woman looks tall, and her skin is almost porcelain, her eyes an icy blue. Her hair is practically white. Her smile, more like a smirk, gives me chills.

“The first one is a man and woman talking, and the other two are the same man and woman in separate photos, grinning at someone, probably at each other.” I throw down the photos in disgust. “I can’t believe they would go to her gravesite – sickening.”

“Yeah. I think you’re looking at her killers,” Bart whispers.

“How did you get these, and who took them?” Bart steels a look that tells me not to ask questions. “I see. Thank you for these. I need to show them to the Chief of Police.” Bart’s eyes widen, “But I promise your name won’t come up.” He sighs deeply.

“Thank you. I don’t want to get involved in another case, but I owe you this.

"I don’t know how much more I can do, but if this helps, it will be worth it.”

“You’ve done more than enough. If we can prove these two killed Goldie, it will be because of your work.”

Lisa brings us our coffee, and I order a pastrami sandwich and fries, and Bart orders a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and key lime pie. “Man, I miss real food. The crap they serve at the prison is horrible, not even fit for a dog,” Bart says.

“Well, it’s not supposed to be Hotel food. The whole point is not to end up there.”

“You’re right. I won’t make that mistake again.”

I believe him.

After saying goodbye to Bart and him saying he would try to get more information, I head straight to the police station. Gray needs to see these photos.

I pull into the parking lot and find a spot at the front. I swear this place has become my second home as many times as I have been here in the last year. In fact, most of the officers now greet me by name.

I walk in, and the place buzzes with officers chatting or on their computers. I see Gray in his office, the door closed. Officer Lopez sits, engrossed in staring at her computer, talking with another officer. I start back towards his office, and Officer Lopez stops and comes over. “Hey, Patrice, what’s up?”

“Hi. I need to give some photos to Gray. It may help with the investigation into Goldie’s murder.” Officer Lopez gives me a suspicious look, her eyes squinting.

“Photos?”

“Yes. Look, I can’t go into how I got these photos, but this could help solve her murder.” I can tell she’s not too happy with me, but I don’t care.

She sighs deeply and shakes her head. “Follow me.”

She knocks on the door and then slowly opens it. “Hey, you busy?”

Gray turns from his computer and sees me. “Hey, Trice. You, OK?”

“Yes, fine. But I have some photos you need to see that could help with Goldie’s murder investigation.” I retrieve the envelope from my purse and hand it to him.

“What is this?”

“Please, just look at them. Focus on two people, a man and woman, in three of them.”

I come over and sit down; Officer Lopez follows and sits in the adjacent chair. I watch him pull out the photos and stare at each one, his brows furrowing deeper as he goes through them.

“Where did you get these?”

“I – I can’t tell you.”

“Trice …”

“I promised the person who gave them to me that they would remain anonymous.”

“This doesn’t provide proof, you know?”

“Yes, but isn’t it odd that two people who shouldn’t be there are smiling at a funeral? This could be Petra and Greg. At least look into this, and since you now have photos, you can compare them against the database.”

Gray grins slightly. “Hell, Trice, you’re starting to sound like an investigator.”

“Haha, that’s what Brock says.”

“Did anyone see you with these photos?” It’s Officer Lopez speaking now.

“I don’t think so. I met the person at Daniel’s Diner, and he was very careful.” Shoot, I just revealed his gender, and my face shows it.

“So, this person who gave you the photos is a male.” It was a statement, not a question, and Gray sits back in his chair with one of the photos, looking at it again. “It does look like they could be the two we’re looking for.”

“But why go to her gravesite?” I say.

“It’s an act of control,” Officer Lopez says. “Most killers go to their victim’s funeral since it gives them an air of authority or a feeling that they got away with murder. It’s basically an F-you to the family and friends, and even the victim themselves.”

“How cruel,” is all I can say.

 "Okay, I'll put out a BOLO for these two. The least we can do is bring them in and question them. I don't like how or why you got these, but I'll take any lead I can get."

I leave the police station for the first time in months, feeling like we may finally get justice for Goldie.

On my way home, I see a car in the rearview mirror following quite close to me. It follows me to my neighborhood, and I start to feel uneasy. As I pull onto my street, so does the car. I keep looking in the mirror, my heart racing. The car is red and looks to be an older sedan. I struggle with pulling into my driveway or going right back out and to the police station again. I decide to pull up to my home, but before I do, I text Brock from Carplay and tell him someone is following me. I wait but don't see a reply message.

I go past my home and see the garage door open, Brock working in his shop. Damn, he needs to know what’s going on. When he's working, he rarely has his phone. He told me he wouldn't hear it anyway. I exit our street, leave the neighborhood, and return to the station. The car is hanging back now, and the driver probably knows I’m onto them.

When I pull into the station, the car flies by, and I flip my head back to see the license plate, but all I get is three letters: RMB. That might be enough, though. I text Gray, and seconds later, he throws up the door and comes to my car window.

“Did you get the plates?” He asks while searching the area.

“I only got three letters, RMB.”

“That’s enough to make an identification. Come in.” I get out and follow Brock inside.

Here we go again.