Bluff

None of this would have happened if only Abigail had been wearing her glasses. Ever since she was diagnosed with myopia in the third grade, she had resisted wearing them. It wasn’t due to vanity or unkind teasing as a child; she simply couldn’t be bothered. They slid down her nose when she sweat, fogged up in rainy weather, and her long eyelashes brushed annoyingly against the lenses whenever she blinked. And contact lenses? Just the thought of sticking a foreign object in her eye gave Abby the willies. Since she could see fine without them in most situations and just needed them for distance, she had taken to wearing her glasses only when driving or watching movies.

On this particular Saturday, that one small act set off a chain of events that would change everything…

It was shaping up to be a glorious day, the perfect kick-off to the Memorial Day weekend. As usual, Abby began the day with a 4-mile run. She swung onto Bonnie Branch Road at an easy jog and headed down the winding hill toward the state park. This was one of her favorite routes, especially in the summer months, since the road followed a trickling stream and was shaded by a high canopy of leafy trees.

Lower Bonnie Branch was one of the few areas left untouched by the urban sprawl that was changing the face of historic Ellicott City—and Howard County, Maryland, in general. The neighborhood was full of older homes that had been passed down for generations, including a quaint stone cottage that was once a 19th-century gristmill. Pockets like this were in stark contrast to the developments of McMansions that had sprouted up across the county over the last ten years to accommodate the influx of young professionals to the bustling Baltimore-Washington corridor. Perhaps that was the price you paid for living in an area consistently named one of the Top Ten Best Places to Live in the U.S.

Abby loved being out early; the fresh smell of the new day, the cool air on her bare arms and legs, and the birds twittering in the treetops put her in a cheerful mood. A sudden rustle as she passed a pile of leaves startled her. Swinging her head around, she saw a fuzzy flash of gray dart up a nearby tree at the base of a long, steep driveway. As her gaze followed the squirrel, a splotch of red, near the top of the driveway where it curved out of sight, caught her eye. The red shape moved and, squinting, she made out a man wearing a red shirt. She lifted a hand in a neighborly wave. Clearly she wasn’t the only Ellicott City resident enjoying the early morning quiet. He appeared to be crouched over something lumpy in the middle of the driveway – a load of mulch, probably, she thought.

She continued down the hill, wistfully admiring a shiny silver BMW convertible parked on the shoulder. Someday she’d be able to afford a nice car like that, but not now, not on her massage therapist’s salary. Of course, her father would buy her one in a heartbeat if she let him, but she was determined to make it on her own.

At the bottom of the hill she crossed the road into the state park. She followed the bike path along the river until she reached the swinging bridge that led to picnic areas on the opposite shore. By the time she had doubled back, the path along the river was fairly well populated. Cyclists were out in full force this morning, getting an early start to avoid the heat of the day, and a few families toting coolers were headed for the picnic areas to snag the prime spots.

Halfway up Bonnie Branch Road Abby slowed to a walk to cool down, curious about two police cruisers parked in one of the driveways. Nearing the scene, she saw it was the steep driveway she’d passed earlier, the one with the man who was out early. A small cluster of neighbors stood by the cruisers, outside a line of crime scene tape stretched between two trees.

What happened? Abby asked, stopping next to a paunchy middle-aged man in a Baltimore Ravens jersey.

Dead body. Mary Lou come home, almost run over him. He was just lying in the driveway, wrapped up like a burrito.

Who is it?

Don’t know.

Any idea how he died?

Nope.

Abby was taken aback. She had only been gone about thirty minutes. Could the man in the red shirt have had a heart attack from over-zealous mulch spreading? But why would he be wrapped up like a burrito, she wondered. It just didn’t make any sense. Unless…

A prickle ran down her spine.

Unless the load of mulch was the dead body and the red-shirted man was the burrito maker.

She ducked under the tape, heart pounding, and approached the nearest uniformed officer. Excuse me, I may have some information that might be useful. Who should I talk to?

The officer lifted his sunglasses and gave her a long, assessing stare before steering her toward a man wearing a faded Van Halen T-shirt and gray sweatpants. This is the detective in charge, he said, leaving her with the man.

Abby eyed the detective with skepticism. He looked to her more like a collegiate soccer player than someone running a murder investigation. The man was lean and compact - not much taller than she, and appeared to be of Mediterranean descent, with dark coloring and a heavy five o’clock shadow.

Detective Santavillaggio, he said. How can I help you?

I think I may have seen something. Abby bit her lower lip as she thought, Maybe even the killer.

Start at the beginning, please. He pulled out a notepad and pencil. Thick brows knit over his dark eyes and he pinned her with an intense gaze.

Abby explained that she’d been out for a run and described what she’d seen. It looked like when they drop a load of mulch in the driveway and cover it with a tarp so it doesn’t get wet. I thought he was the homeowner getting ready to do some yard work.

Can you describe this guy?

Uh, well…no, not really. Other than he was a male wearing a red shirt. Abby felt herself flush under his eagle eye. And his hair looked grayish. But it could have been light brown, I suppose. I’m not a hundred percent sure. She shifted uncomfortably and then added in a lower voice, I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

So you’re nearsighted.

Mmm yes. I know it’s not much, but it helps, right?

The detective drew a deep breath and released it in a long exhale. It might, but right now it’s not enough to go on.

But the red shirt’s a good lead, isn’t it?

Miss…?

Ford. Abigail Ford.

Miss Ford, it’s a patriotic holiday. Half the men in this town are probably wearing red shirts. His face softened. What else did you notice? he asked a bit more gently. Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Any other people in the area? Maybe another witness will be able to ID him.

Staring off into space, she thought back. No…no other people were out. I expected to see someone walking a dog, but didn’t.

What do you mean?

Well, there was a car on the shoulder where the dog walkers usually park. Right over there. She pointed to a spot about fifty yards away.

Show me, he said, heading in the direction she had indicated.

As they walked the few yards in silence Abby surreptitiously checked him out in her peripheral vision. The bottom half of him moved like a cat, silent and fluid, but he held his upper body a little stiffly, like a weight lifter. She could tell those shoulder muscles were way too tight. He could use a good massage, she thought.

This is it, she said, stopping. The car was right here.

He crouched down, his gaze raking the area. Spying something in the dirt, he called out, Forensics! and waved the technician over. Get a picture of that button and bag it.

Do you think that belongs to the killer? Abby asked, crouching next to him.

He seemed startled that she was there. Standing, he asked, What kind of car was it? Did you happen to get the tag number?

It was a sporty little BMW - a silver convertible. And no, she said, getting to her feet, I didn’t get the license plate. The car didn’t seem suspicious at the time. I didn’t even connect it with the man.

Were there any bumper stickers, scratches, anything else you remember about it?

She shook her head. It looked new, in excellent condition.

He wrote in his notepad again. Well, thanks for the information. Let me get your address and phone number in case we need to ask you any more questions.

After taking down all her particulars, he tapped his pencil absently against the notepad. You live on College Avenue - that’s just around the corner. He took out a business card and handed it to her. Give me a call if you see that convertible again.

Abby turned to leave.

Oh, and Miss Ford…

She glanced back at him expectantly.

…it might be a good idea if you wore your glasses more often.

Back to the top

Chapter 2

Abby pulled onto the tree-lined street and squeezed her 1998 Honda Accord into the only remaining spot. She rolled up the windows and stowed her keys and glasses in her purse. Then she got out of the car and hiked the block and a half to her parents’ house. From the looks of things, she was the last to arrive at the annual Ford Family summer kick-off barbecue. Despite the number of cars, no one was visible because in this affluent section of Columbia, Maryland, the homes were set far back from the road on large, well-manicured lots.

A rude car-horn blast followed by a catcall made her jump as a Jeep with four teenage boys barreled past her through the quiet neighborhood. Apparently she was still a little on edge from the morning’s events.

Jerks, she muttered under her breath, consciously slowing her breathing in an attempt to return her heartbeat to normal.

Another 27-year-old woman might have been secretly pleased by the attention, even from teenage boys with raging hormones, but Abigail considered her looks more an inconvenience than an asset. She had inherited good genes from her mother’s side of the family and would always look younger than her real age. At five foot eight with an athletic build, long blonde hair and dark-lashed brown eyes, she tended to downplay her natural beauty - perhaps because she grew up the only girl in a family of four boys and had always been considered one of the guys. Despite her feminine appearance she was more likely to be found playing a pickup game of touch football than getting a manicure.

The clink of horseshoes greeted her as she rounded the house and caught sight of the mass of people.

Crabby! Her youngest brother Peter looked up from the cooler he had been digging in, a big smile spreading across his face. We were beginning to think you weren’t coming. He popped the top on a cold beer and handed it to her.

Thanks, Petey. Abby took several long swallows and wiped away a stray drop at the corner of her lips. Ahhh. I needed that.

Mom and Dad have been asking about you. You should let them know you’re here. He hooked an elbow around her neck and led her across the lawn.

Did the latest love of your life come with you today? You’ve been seeing her since—what, New Year’s? And I still haven’t met her.

About every six months Pete fell madly in love with a new woman and they were a serious item until, without warning, he fell madly in love with someone else. This usually resulted in a flood of the jilted girl’s tears, incessant phone calls to his family members, and him seeking the occasional restraining order.

Melissa’s over there. He gestured to an attractive brunette who sat several yards away on a lounge chair in the shade of a mimosa tree. Stop by after you check in with Mom and Dad and get something to eat. I’ll introduce you.

As they neared the slate patio area, Abby spotted her dad at his super-deluxe gas grill – a shiny domed contraption with attached shelves that looked like a spaceship with wings had landed in the Fords’ backyard. He was wearing a chef’s hat and white apron over casual slacks and a golf shirt. It was one of the few times a year she saw him in something other than his uniform of dark suit, white shirt, and conservative print tie.

Hi Dad. She gave him a peck on the cheek. Mmmm, smells good.

Although CJ and Joanna Ford always hired a caterer for their Memorial Day barbecue, CJ felt it his patriotic duty to man the grill – at least for part of the time.

Abby’s mother came out of the house and walked towards them with a relieved look on her face.

Hi, Mom. Sorry I’m so late. She gave her mother a hug, the familiar scent of White Linen enveloping her. There was a bit of excitement in the neighborhood today when I went for my run. You won’t believe what—

Oh look - your brother’s here with your grandfather.

Abby followed the direction of her mother’s gaze and saw her oldest brother Jamie and his family crossing the lawn. Charles Jameson Ford, Sr. stumped after them on his walker. Charlie, as he was known to his friends, resided in an independent living community in Silver Spring, about half an hour south of Columbia. Once the children had grown and moved out, CJ and Joanna encouraged him to come live with them in their large home; but Charlie insisted on moving to the senior community.

There’s at least four babes to each geezer, he told CJ and Joanna excitedly after their tour of the facility. And true to his prediction, well-preserved widows knocked on his apartment door almost daily with homemade prune Danishes and bran muffins. I see more action these days than a restroom on a seniors’ bus trip, he’d confided to Abby with a wink. She really hoped he was referring to Wii bowling with the other residents, because she just didn’t want to imagine the alternative.

Joanna turned back to Abby. I almost forgot - a work friend of yours is here somewhere.

Abby brightened. That must be Harmony.

Well, it’s a good thing you finally arrived. Joanna looked concerned. I wasn’t sure what to do with her. She wouldn’t eat any of your father’s hamburgers or grilled chicken—

Harmony’s a vegetarian, Abby interjected.

—and when I offered her a drink she asked if we had any carrot juice. We only have sodas and beer. I’m afraid she’s not having a very good time.

Abby looked around and spotted Harmony sitting by a large rhododendron, apart from the crowd. She stood out like a colorful pennant in the backyard sea of her parents’ neutral, tailored friends. Harmony was holding court cross-legged on the grass amid a cloud of gauzy, multi-colored fabric. The Fords’ three Jack Russell terriers sat attentively facing her, ears forward and eyes unblinking.

Oh I think she’s having a fine time, Mom. Don’t worry about her.

Well, I’d like to meet her, CJ said. This is the first friend you’ve brought home since you started working at that hippie hangout. He handed the tongs to a nearby member of the catering staff.

Dad, Abby rolled her eyes, it’s not a hippie hangout. It’s a mind-body-spirit wellness center, she said as the three of them crossed the lawn toward the rhododendron.

Seeing them approach, Harmony got to her feet, the gauzy material falling in tiers from her waist to her ankles. She was tall and willowy, with bright green eyes and a mass of curly auburn hair that reached her waist. It looked like she was wearing every piece of jewelry she owned, and when she moved she sounded like a wind chime.

Harmony, I’m so glad you made it. Abby rushed forward and the two women embraced. Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, but I see you’ve made some friends. She nodded toward the Jack Russells who were still sitting like statues at Harmony’s bare feet.

What have you done to my Jacks? CJ asked, eyes bulging. The three dogs were usually running underfoot and yipping incessantly when guests were over.

We were just having a chat, said Harmony.

Harmony’s an animal communicator, among other things, Abby explained.

My specialty is cats. I’m a cat whisperer. But I work with all species.

Is that so? Joanna looked slightly confused. How wonderful. Isn’t that wonderful, dear? she said, turning to her husband.

Yeah, it’s just great. What the hell is wrong with my dogs? Did you hypnotize them?

A hint of a smile played at Harmony’s lips. No, I didn’t hypnotize them. Don’t worry - nothing’s wrong with them. They were just telling me they’d like to get out more, that’s all.

They’re outside every day, snorted CJ. They have this whole big yard to run around in. I should have it so good.

Calm down, dear. Joanna put her hand on his arm.

Well actually, Harmony hesitated, looking from CJ to Abby, they’d like to go some places in the car, see new sights. Maybe go for walks around the neighborhood. She lifted one finely-arched eyebrow. They tell me there’s a poodle who lives a few houses away they’d like to meet.

Abby glanced worriedly at her father, who had begun sputtering like a pressure cooker. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the full Harmony experience yet. Uh, Mom, I think I saw the Huffingtons arrive. You and Daddy should probably say hello.

Yes, good idea, her mother quickly agreed. It was nice meeting you, Melody.

Harmony, Abby corrected.

You take that spell off my Jacks, CJ called over his shoulder as Joanna dragged him away by the arm. Put ’em back the way they were!

When her parents were out of earshot, Abby and Harmony looked at each other and simultaneously broke into giggles.

Come on, Abby said, linking her arm through Harmony’s. I think I saw the caterer putting out some salad.

Back to the top

Chapter 3

Detective Salvatore Santavillaggio sat at the dented metal desk filling out paperwork from the morning’s call. His cubicle was devoid of any personal photos, plants, or knickknacks. The only adornment was a 12x12-inch paper target from his last visit to the firing range, showing a tight cluster in the center of the silhouette’s forehead. He didn’t hang it on the wall to brag about his marksmanship; he found it effective at keeping overly-friendly co-workers from parking in his cubicle to chew the fat.

The department secretary poked her head around the corner and cleared her throat to get his attention. Detective, I’m calling in an order. You want anything from Subway?

No thanks, Janet. I’ve got something in my desk, he answered without looking up. The only things in his desk were a granola bar and a pack of gum, but she didn’t have to know that.

Okay, maybe next time. A slight frown appeared on her weary face. He had been working in the Criminal Investigations Division for a week, but had rebuffed every overture she had made to include him in the office routine. She started to leave, and then thought better of it. Excuse me…

He looked up from his paperwork.

I may be out of line, but Northern District’s a close-knit group. The officers don’t have to like each other, but they have to trust each other. Socializing is an important part of the job here. I know you’ve only been here a short time, but we try to make newcomers part of the team quickly, to keep things running smooth. You know what I’m trying to say?

The detective looked at her thoughtfully. Yes, I do. And you’re right. You are out of line.

If he hadn’t turned back to his paperwork just then, he would have witnessed something few people have ever seen: Janet, with her mouth hanging open, at a loss for words.

Santavillaggio regretted his remark almost immediately. Fatigue had stripped away any censoring of his thoughts, and he wasn’t the most tactful person to begin with. His tough exterior usually served him well; it afforded him instant respect at work and also made people leave him alone. The last thing he wanted was well-meaning acquaintances prying into his personal life. He turned back around to mumble sorry to Janet, but she was already gone.

Santavillaggio dropped his forehead onto his folded arms, unable to shake off his foul mood. It was bad enough he had to be on call on a holiday weekend, now his secretary was telling him how to behave. And today’s call hadn’t even been for his section. He was assigned to Property Crimes. It was just his luck the Violent Crimes detective on call was summoned to an assault case shortly before the homicide was phoned in. Santavillaggio had been at the gym when Dispatch contacted him, and had gone directly to the scene. He was still in the same sweaty workout clothes nine hours later, and the only thing in his stomach all day had been Janet’s noxious coffee.

On the other hand, this could be the opportunity of a lifetime. Howard County only had a handful of homicides in a year, and he was the lead investigator for this one. It was a chance to prove himself. With the thrill of the challenge came the usual doubts about whether he was up to the task; but he pushed those aside and sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face.

He pulled out photocopies of the documents found in the victim’s wallet that morning. A driver’s license had identified him as Gary Hathaway of Catonsville, age forty-two, and a faculty ID card showed him to be a professor of environmental studies at a local community college. Searching online, the detective came up with some hits on Hathaway involving a protest at the site of a proposed shopping mall that would eliminate a wetlands habitat, but there was no mention of him in the National Crimes Information Center database.

His desk phone rang and he snatched it up. It was the forensic tech calling from the autopsy.

Was the M.E. able to determine cause of death? Santavillagio asked. As he listened he wrote COD = asphyxiation on the notepad, and then white fibers, underlining it. Hmm, interesting. Any idea what they were? … Sure, I know, I just thought you might have a theory. How about time of death? He made another note. Anything else? He listened for a bit more and requested an expedite on the fibers before hanging up.

Santavillaggio looked up with a scowl at the sound of someone behind him, but this time it wasn’t Janet. Officer Mackenzie’s large frame filled the opening to his cubicle. Mackenzie had been one of the uniforms at the scene that morning.

You learn anything interesting about this morning’s vic? Mackenzie asked. Santavillaggio thought he detected the trace of a Boston accent in the officer’s voice.

The deceased was a professor at Catonsville Community College. Involved in some local eco protests, but he’s clean in the system. Cause of death was strangulation using something that left white fibers on his neck. The M.E. put time of death between six and nine a.m.

Homeowner probably scared the perp off before he could get rid of the body.

Or else the jogger did. The detective did a mental eye roll when he thought about her vague description of what she saw. Little did he know he had nothing to worry about. It was just his luck he got a nearsighted eyewitness for his first homicide case as a detective.

Mackenzie leaned against the opening to the cubicle and shoved his hands into his pockets. Did the vic’s family have anything helpful to say about who might have done this?

I wasn’t able to talk to them yet. Next of kin is a live-in girlfriend. Name’s Regina Anderson. I stopped by the house but no one was home. Neighbor said she was working and would be back about seven. I’ll stop by again on my way home.

Mackenzie nodded. After a short silence he said, Some of us play poker every Thursday night. The guy you replaced was a regular. I thought since you took over his job, you might want to take his place at the table, too.

I don’t play poker.

You ever play cards?

Pinochle.

Who plays Pinochle? Mackenzie looked at him as if the detective had admitted to wearing ladies’ underwear.

My family. We’re Italian, he added by way of explanation.

Mackenzie shrugged. Cards is cards. We can teach you the rules. Next week we’re at Wanda’s house. She’s always got good food. Game starts at seven thirty. He sucked on his teeth. You in?

Nah, I don’t think so.

What, you got something better to do? A hot date, maybe?

No…

Then why not come? You don’t like it, you don’t have to come back. What do you say?

Santavillaggio thought about what Janet had said. In police work being able to depend on your co-workers could mean the difference between life and death. He preferred to keep his work life separate from his personal life, but he also really wanted to make a name for himself as a detective. If getting the cooperation of his fellow officers would get him there, he’d play along.

What kind of food?

You know, the filling kind. None of that rabbit food. And she doesn’t just open a bag of chips, either, like when we play at my place. Meat, grease, salt—all the major food groups, and plenty of beer.

After a long pause, Santavillaggio said, Sure. I’ll come.

Good, Mackenzie said and left.

Santavillaggio heaved a tired sigh. He couldn’t avoid it any longer. This was the part of the job he hated most – notifying the next of kin. He grabbed the paper with Hathaway’s address, dropped the granola bar and gum into the pocket of his sweat pants, and locked up his desk. He’d shower and change downstairs, then pick up a member of the Mobile Crisis Team—counselors to the bereaved—and do the death notification.

On the way out he stopped by Janet’s cubicle. He stood there massaging the back of his neck until she looked up.