Fall From Grace Read online

  Yoda zigzagged around the room, nose to the floor, then turned and let out a sharp bark. Then he ran past her and down the stairs to the back door. It was a miracle he didn’t cut his paws on the broken glass in the hallway. Zoe heard the sound of the clip of the leash on Yoda’s collar, then Mrs. Worthen opening the back door.

  Once they were gone, Zoe went down to the kitchen and phoned Jen, her best friend. Jennifer Wang lived off a dirt road near the veteransʼ cemetery in an old farmhouse with five goats, a flock of chickens, and one of those old metal windmills—like the kind you see in cowboy movies.

  Zoe sat down at the table and waited through six rings. Then she remembered Jen and her family were away on some sort of weirdo retreat. Zoe left a short message about her aunt being taken to the hospital and asked Jen to call her back as soon as they got home.

  Jen and her family were the only people Zoe knew who had only one phone and did not own a television or a computer.

  Of course, Zoe did not have it much better. Her parents would not let her have a cell phone or her own computer until she was thirteen. It was just not fair. In fact, Aunt Grace had offered just last week to pay for a cell phone for Zoe, an offer that did not sit well with her parents.

  Zoe hung up the phone. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her chest. She hoped with all her heart and soul that her aunt was okay. She thought about calling Billy, but he was probably already on his way to meet the school bus. He was always the first one there at the bus stop. She sighed. Pushing her chair back, she rested her head on her folded arms.

  After a few moments, she sat up and stared out the kitchen window. Yoda and Mrs. Worthen were already out of sight. Everything had happened so fast Zoe’s head was spinning.

  After a few moments, she headed back upstairs to get ready for school.

  As she passed her Aunt Grace’s room, she hesitated. She stood in the doorway, trying to make sense out of what had happened. She remembered the EMT had said to stay out of the room, but told herself she would be careful. Besides, how would they ever know?

  She cautiously stepped into the room. A pillow lay propped against the headboard as if her Aunt Grace had just gotten up to get something and would be coming right back. A second pillow, the one she used for reading in bed, was on the floor amongst pieces of glass and pills.

  Taking care not to disturb anything, Zoe tiptoed across the room.

  A writing desk stood in front of one of the windows that faced the front yard. The Stephen King novel Desperation lay open on the desk next to a laptop computer and a pile of unopened mail. On the other side of the computer was a dog-eared copy of Ethics for Life, the textbook her Aunt Grace used in her classes.

  Zoe picked up the textbook and flipped through the pages. She paused to study some images of the skull of Phineas P. Gage that showed how a metal rod had passed through his brain and out the other side as the result of a railroad explosion in 1848. Amazingly, he survived. According to the caption, following the accident he became “crude and untrustworthy, unable to make even the simplest moral decisions.”

  Zoe frowned and closed the book. As she was about to put it back, she noticed a newspaper clipping on the desk under the spot where the book had been. The headline read “Gypsies Arrested in Murder of FBI Investigator.” Zoe picked it up. It was about the murder of Grace’s husband Luke. According to the article, two Romani gypsies had been arrested in Spain for the murder of Special Agent Lucian “Lukeˮ Esposito. The article went on to say that the gypsies may have killed Luke for his wallet and passport, and the police suspected they had an unidentified accomplice who got away with the passport since it was nowhere to be found.

  Zoe shook her head. How could anyone just kill someone—murder them in cold blood—for something as stupid as a wallet and passport?

  The back door slammed.

  Zoe heard Yoda running up the stairs.

  “Are you ready for school yet?” Mrs. Worthen called out.

  “Umm—I’m just getting ready to go out to meet the bus,” Zoe called back. She held her breath, hoping Mrs. Worthen did not notice her voice was coming from Grace’s room.

  “I have to run. Let me know if you need anything,” Mrs. Worthen replied. Then she was gone.

  Yoda suddenly reappeared and flopped down beside the bed and began licking an ugly scar on one hindquarter. Yoda had been Aunt Grace’s dog when he had run into a burning house several months ago and gotten trapped inside. During his recovery, Yoda had come to live with Zoe and her family and had just stayed on.

  Zoe set the clipping on the bed and went over to a bookcase tucked under the other window. A vase of freshly cut gold and white chrysanthemums sat on the bookcase next to a telephone and a small black address book. Several novels, mostly mysteries and suspense thrillers, filled the two lower shelves along with a few old Sherlock Holmes novels Aunt Grace had loaned to Zoe to read.

  Zoe ran her fingers across the spines of the books. Aunt Grace loved to read, just like Zoe. She was also a writer. In fact, her first novel—a mystery novel—had just been accepted by a big New York publishing company—Simon’s Shoes or something like that. Zoe had not read it yet—Grace said it was bad luck to let a person read their book before it was published.

  Remembering from reading Sherlock Holmes not to touch anything with your bare fingers because it would leave fingerprints for the police to find, Zoe took a tissue from her pocket, and wrapped it over her fingers, first wiping off the spines of the books she had just touched. Then she carefully pulled open the drawers of the desk, looking for the manuscript. But there were only some scattered pens and highlighters, a book of stamps, and other office supplies in the top drawer.

  The other drawers were empty except for a few loose stones that looked like rhinestones—which clattered across the bottom of the drawer as Zoe pulled it open. She straightened up and looked around. Where else could her aunt have put the manuscript for her novel?

  The sound of an engine interrupted her thoughts.

  The school bus!

  Zoe froze. She heard the school bus come to a stop and the sound of voices as the kids in her part of the neighborhood got on the bus.

  Then the door hissed shut.

  She let out a breath as she heard the bus pull away. She was so in trouble now.

  Just then Yoda began whining and scratching at something under the bed.

  “What is it, Yoda?” Zoe asked, going over and kneeling down beside him. Peering under the bed, she spotted one of Yoda’s squeaky toys. Beside it was a large book with a leather cover and the gold Cross pen Aunt Grace always kept by her bed.

  Zoe reached under the bed, pulled out the book, and took it over to the armchair. It was Aunt Grace’s journal. The early entries were in her aunt’s usual neat handwriting, but as the journal went on the handwriting became sloppier and a few times almost impossible to read. News clippings were taped to some of the pages.

  Zoe turned to the last entry of the journal. It had today’s date on it and was all gibberish—or so it seemed. Zoe stared at it. Was it some sort of secret handwriting?

  She was about to close the journal and put it back under the bed where she had found it when something fell out onto the floor. She leaned over and picked it up. It was a small blue book with a picture of a gold eagle on the front. On the inside of the cover was a photo of Grace’s husband Luke. A chill crept up Zoe’s spine.

  The missing passport.

  Chapter Three

  Yoda jerked to attention as a car pulled into the driveway. Zoe jumped up and ran to the window. It was her parents. A black police car pulled in behind them.

  Zoe stepped away from the window, clutching the passport in her hand. The police would certainly want to know about it. Maybe the sounds—the thumps she had heard earlier that morning—had been the “unidentified accomplice” mentioned in the newspaper article. And maybe he—or she—had come to the house to plant the passport and whacked Aunt Grace on the head when she caught him in the a
ct!

  Suddenly a horrible thought struck Zoe. What if the police thought her aunt had something to do with the murder of her husband—maybe even thought she was the unidentified accomplice? Zoe had seen enough police shows on television to know they always suspect the husband or wife when someone is murdered.

  She stood in the doorway, uncertain of what to do. But Aunt Grace would never hurt anyone. Zoe felt sure about that. Her aunt hated any kind of violence. She was even against killing animals—that was until recently when she finally gave up this “vegetarian nonsense,” as Zoe’s dad jokingly put it, and “started behaving like a normal person.”

  Besides, why would Aunt Grace want to steal her husband’s passport? It didn’t add up. This had to be some sort of set up. Zoe’s jaw clenched. Obviously, someone was trying to frame her aunt.

  A car door slammed. Zoe jammed the passport and article into the journal and slipped it under her shirt and ran out of the room just as the back door opened. She would put everything back later.

  “Zoe?” Mom called. “Is that you?”

  “I’m up here,” Zoe answered from the top of the stairs.

  “Are you okay? You haven’t been…?”

  “No! I mean, I’ve been in my room reading.” Zoe flushed. She never lied to her parents. But she also knew that if they found out she had been in Aunt Grace’s room after being told to stay out she might be in even bigger trouble—especially with Dad.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” Mom asked.

  “I—I missed the bus.”

  Mom sighed. “Well, it’s probably for the best. I’ll call the school and tell them you won’t be in today.”

  “Come on down,” Dad called. “We need to talk to you.”

  “Okay. Just give me a minute.” Zoe backed up, almost tripping over Yoda, who was standing behind her, barking.

  The back door opened again, and Zoe heard the voices of a man and a woman talking to her parents. Someone started up the stairs. Zoe gasped and ducked into her room and shoved the journal under her pillow. Her heart pounding like a big bass drum, she sat on her bed until she felt calm again.

  When she peered out a few minutes later, a yellow crime scene tape stretched across the door to Aunt Grace’s room. As she stepped into the hall, she saw a man in a gray suit and white gloves snapping pictures of the mess on the floor beside her auntʼs bed.

  A knot formed in the pit of Zoe’s stomach. How was she going to get the journal back now? Stupid! She could not believe how stupid she had been to take the journal and passport from her aunt’s room in the first place. It could be important evidence in finding the person who had attacked her aunt.

  “Zoe? Are you coming?” Dad called impatiently from downstairs.

  “Coming!” she answered.

  Mom stood beside the kitchen counter cradling a Styrofoam cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. A woman with black wavy hair fastened at the back of her neck with a large silver barrette stood beside her. Zoe noticed a police badge pinned to the pocket of her blue pantsuit.

  “I understand Grace had some enemies in the neighborhood,” the woman was saying to Zoe’s parents.

  “Enemies? Grace?” Mom said. “But everyone loved her.”

  The woman in the blue pantsuit handed Dad some papers.

  He glanced at the first page and shook his head. “Muriel Spitz? You gotta be kidding.”

  “The woman’s a harmless crank, not a murderer,” Mom said, setting down her coffee cup. “She’s made a career out of complaining about the neighbors.”

  They stopped talking when they noticed Zoe standing in the doorway.

  “What’s happening?” Zoe asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Mom said, standing up. “We were just chatting.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “We need to talk to you, Zoe,” he said. “It’s about your Aunt Grace.” He began to say something else, but choked up.

  Mom reached out and squeezed Dad’s hand, then turned to Zoe. “Would you like some hot chocolate?” she asked. “Have you had any breakfast yet?”

  “I’m fine,” Zoe said, although she felt anything but fine. She could see something was not right. She sat down at the table. From where she sat, she could see the driveway through the wide doorway that led into the dining room. “I just want to know when Aunt Grace will be coming home,” Zoe said.

  Mom sat down beside her and put her arm around Zoe’s shoulder but said nothing.

  “She won’t be coming home,” Dad said in a quiet voice.

  “Why not?” Zoe asked. She looked down at her hands. Please, let Aunt Grace be okay. Please let her…

  “Grace,” Dad said, his voice trembling. “Your Aunt Grace passed away shortly after we arrived at the hospital.”

  Zoe felt numb, like this was all a bad dream. The air suddenly felt heavy. The smell of Mom’s coffee, a smell she had always loved, now made her feel ill. She swallowed, trying to hold back the nausea.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Mom said. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved your aunt. We all loved her, and we’ll miss her so much.”

  “But… How? How did she…?”

  Dad let out a long breath. “We’re not exactly sure yet. They’ve scheduled an autopsy.”

  “An autopsy?” Zoe felt her eyes tear up.

  Mom drew Zoe closer and glanced up at the detective. “Detective Kate Tasca and her partner are here to investigate,” she said. “But they can talk to you later if you want—if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “No, I’d rather talk about it now,” Zoe said. “Please, someone tell me what’s going on.”

  Dad sighed. “They think her death may have been caused by some sort of a blow to her head,” he said.

  “A blow to the head? Like she was murdered?”

  “No, not exactly…” Dad paused. “It looks like she died of…” He shook his head and leaned against the counter as though it was too hard for him to talk about it.

  Detective Tasca took a step forward.

  Mom stood up and motioned for the detective to take a seat.

  “Hello, Zoe,” Detective Tasca said. “We’re here to find out what we can about your aunt’s death.” She sat down at the table across from Zoe. “I’ve already read the paramedic’s report and talked to your parents,” she said, looking Zoe directly in the eyes. “Is there anything else you can add that might help us?”

  Zoe fidgeted in her chair.

  “I need you to tell me everything,” Detective Tasca said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Zoe felt like she was being suffocated by a tangle of emotions—confusion, grief, fear—or something worse—guilt. She wished she had not taken the journal with her Uncle Luke’s passport in it from under the bed—that she had just left the journal where she had found it.

  She looked down at her hands. She could feel the detective’s dark eyes boring into her, as if she could read her thoughts. Good detectives were like that. They could smell treachery from a mile away—you couldn’t put anything over on them.

  Zoe swallowed. Her throat felt dry. She tried to speak but no words came.

  “Tell me about the noise you heard this morning,” Detective Tasca said gently, “the one that woke you up.”

  “It…it was like a thump,” Zoe replied in a whisper, tears once again welling in her eyes.

  “Go ahead,” Detective Tasca said, handing Zoe a tissue.

  Zoe blew her nose then described the noise in more detail.

  “Anything else that may help us determine the cause of death?” Detective Tasca asked once Zoe had finished. “Anything at all?”

  There was that word again—anything. Zoe bit her lower lip. She felt ashamed of her deception—for leaving out important information. She took a deep breath. She was about to tell the detective about the journal when a white truck pulled into the driveway and parked beside the police car. A small triangle on the front door read Medical Examiner Rhode Island. An older man wearing a wrinkled plaid suit jacket and carrying a black case got out.<
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  Detective Tasca closed up her pad. “Maybe we can talk more later, Zoe, if you or your parents can think of anything else.”

  Zoe nodded miserably. She could not believe her aunt was dead. She had to think of a way to get the journal back into her aunt’s bedroom so the police could find it. It might contain important clues to who killed her aunt.

  “Oh, and one other thing,” Detective Tasca said to Zoe’s parents as she prepared to leave. “The autopsy is scheduled for first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, we would like to secure the scene. So if you could find another place to stay for the rest of the day and tonight, we would really appreciate it. There’s no rush—we’ll be here for the next hour or so.”

  Dad looked at Mom. “We can go to Patrickʼs. Weʼll have things to discuss, anyway. Arrangements and all.ˮ

  Zoe stared out the kitchen window. Outside she could see Yoda digging in the garden, dirt flying, probably looking for a bone he had buried there.

  She thought back to yesterday evening, the last time she had seen her aunt alive. Aunt Grace had been sitting in her favorite armchair with her gold Cross pen in hand and her journal lying open in her lap, just staring out the window—a strange look on her face. Had she seen someone outside watching the house? Zoe had not thought much about it at the time.

  Aunt Grace had excused herself early from dinner. Afterward Zoe had gone up to her aunt’s room to see how she was doing. “Aunt Grace,” she had said, holding out a plate of double chocolate chip cookies with walnuts—her aunt’s favorite. “Would you like some cookies? Me and Mom made them this afternoon.”

  Aunt Grace, already dressed for bed, had just stared blankly at Zoe, as if seeing her for the first time.

  Zoe had felt unsettled by her behavior. Looking back on it, she remembered feeling that something was wrong—very wrong. What was it? Had something frightened her aunt? Something she didn’t want to share with the rest of the family?

  But then Aunt Grace had suddenly broken into a smile and it was like a dark cloud had lifted and everything was okay again. “No thank you, honey bunny,” she had said, raising her hand ever so slightly. “I’m not feeling very well.” And with that, she closed up her journal, pushed herself to a standing position, and walked unsteadily over to her bed. “I’m going to turn in early.” Her voice slurred slightly as she spoke. “I have a terrible headache,” she murmured as she lay down in her bed, her eyelids drooping like she was having trouble staying awake.