Guilt & Galaxy Cake

by Nancy McGovern

  Only one of the articles had a photo, and Rachel paused for a long time, looking at it. The photo showed the victim in the middle, a young, blue-eyed boy with a wide smile and a slightly arrogant air about him. Two boys stood flanking him, and the newspaper had made sure to have their faces blurred out. These two were apparently the murderers. Rachel shivered a little. They looked so normal; one had a mop of floppy hair, while the other, even as young as he was looked as though he would be bald one day. The boys were all wearing baseball jackets, and one of them had a fist up in victory. Rachel spotted a small tattoo shaped like a crab upon his wrist.

  "Why does this baffle you?" Rachel asked, looking up at Dorothy. "Seems like Stan was interested in the case and made a scrapbook."

  "Yes, but why keep the scrapbook in his bank locker?" Dorothy asked. "That's the part I don't understand."

  "Well, maybe it was research for a book he was planning to write?" Rachel said. "You mentioned Stan was born in Wyoming, right? Maybe he knew the murdered boy and was planning to include him in a biography or something."

  "Stan wrote sci-fi, not true crime," Dorothy pointed out. "And if he knew the murdered boy; if the case was important to him, why did he never mention it to me in twenty-five years?"

  "Did he talk much about his childhood?" Rachel asked.

  Dorothy sighed and shook her head. "No. He said he grew up in Wyoming, then moved out for college and never bothered going back. He said he hated the closed mentality of the small town he grew up in, said that he always felt like an outsider."

  "How about family? Was Stan in touch with anyone from back then?"

  "No. When he met me, he said that he was an orphan—his parents died when he was sixteen. I guess he didn't set much store by extended family either, because I never heard of them."

  "How about Kevin Johnson or Cody Halliday—did Stan ever talk about them?"

  "Never heard the names." Dorothy shook her head.

  "Did Stan ever talk to you about writing an autobiography?" Rachel asked. She wasn't sure how much—or how little—Dorothy knew about the missing manuscript.

  "An autobiography?" Dorothy considered this idea, chewing on it for a while. "No. Not really."

  So what was true? Rachel wondered. Was Brandon lying about the manuscript? Or had he and the killer really been the only ones to know about it? Or was Dorothy, in fact, the killer and pretending not to know? Rachel looked at Dorothy carefully, trying to imagine her sneaking up on Brandon and overpowering him. No, it really didn't seem possible. On the other hand, someone driven to murder might have reserves of strength that normal humans didn't believe possible . . .

  "All this has been really hard for me." Dorothy sighed, tapping the cover of the scrapbook. "Settling someone's estate is such an intimate job, you know? I had to look through all of Stan's notebooks, and stacks of his clothes. I found old ties I'd given him for his birthdays, and the suit he wore at our wedding. Calvin doesn't understand why I'm acting so weird about it. He's actually more jealous of Stan dead than Stan alive."

  "Calvin's married." Rachel pointed out, trying hard not to sound judgmental and failing.

  Dorothy waved that aside with a snort. "To Melina? She's been cheating on him with half the town since they got married. Poor Calvin decided to live with it until his daughters both grew up and got out of the house—a classic case of sticking together for the sake of the kids. He's an old-fashioned man that way. He and I only started our fling recently, and we haven't done anything more than holding hands. He deserves to be rid of that witch, honestly."

  Rachel bit her lip, but didn't comment. Personally, she was sure that Dorothy had heard all about Melina's evil ways from Calvin himself and being in love with Calvin made it easier for her to accept it. Rachel, on the other hand, knew full well that cheating husbands often invented a sob story and an impending divorce—that would never actually happen—when trying to seduce another woman.

  "How recently did you get together?" Rachel asked. "You and Calvin, I mean."

  "When I decided to divorce Stan, I moved into a new rental place," Dorothy said. "Calvin was my landlord. That's when we met."

  "And you say Calvin was jealous of Stan?"

  "Not when Stan was alive!" Dorothy exclaimed. "He knew I hated Stan. He's just been wary of my feelings since I started settling the estate. He got poor Wilbur to tag along everywhere just to help me out. Wilbur's fed up—but a loyal assistant."

  "I heard Calvin was pretty furious when Stan punched him," Rachel said mildly. "Did he hold a grudge against Stan?"

  "Oh no." Dorothy laughed. "He was angry with Stan, but he said that he understood. It can't have been easy for Stan, knowing I was with another man."

  "So you're very sure that Calvin wasn't jealous of Stan?"

  "Very." Dorothy looked at Rachel with narrowed eyes. "You don't think Calvin killed him, do you?"

  "I'm just . . . keeping an open mind," Rachel said.

  "Listen, dear, Calvin knew my feelings for Stan better than anyone else. After you spend years of your life entangled with someone, you can't just snap your fingers and forget about them. Stan was a huge influence on my life, and I'll always have a soft spot for him. But life is short, and at my age, you learn to live in the present, not the past. Calvin is my present and Stan was my past. That's all that matters in the end."

  Maybe that was all that mattered to Dorothy, but Rachel couldn't help but wonder if Calvin wasn't a lot more possessive about her than he let on. Had he really moved on after Stan had punched him? Or had he flown into a violent rage, and later on, killed Stan in the most brutal, humiliating manner possible? She didn't know. Something told her that it was essential to find out.

  *****

  Chapter 19

  Sneaking In, Sneaking Out

  Rachel came out of the study more confused than when she had gone in. Why had Stan been so obsessed with an old case? Perhaps he was related to the victim somehow? But even if he was, why hadn't he said anything to his wife for decades?

  She was standing near the galaxy cake, quietly brooding this, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw a woman whose face she couldn't place, and gave a startled, "Hello!"

  "I thought I recognized you." The woman smiled. "I'm Becky. Rebecca Shaw. I was the nurse for the young man who nearly drowned the other day. You remember me?"

  "Oh, yes. You were talking about how the hospital has terrible security."

  "Well, things improved. We've got all new security protocols now, mostly thanks to our amazing sheriff having a talk with management."

  "That's excellent." Rachel smiled. "So one good thing came out of that whole messy situation."

  Becky nodded. "So did you know Stan Stickman well?"

  "No, not really." Rachel shrugged. "You?"

  "I was his nurse when he came in last year with food poisoning," Becky said. "He was a really nice guy. He and Dorothy have been big donors to the hospital. Terrible way for him to die."

  "It really was." Rachel sighed.

  "Kind of tacky to have cake here after all that, isn't it?" Becky cocked a thumb at the cake. "Not that it isn't delicious. Have you tried some?"

  "I . . ." Rachel resisted the urge to tell her she was the baker, and instead said, "No."

  "You should, it's really tasty. The buttercream frosting is incredible."

  "Thanks," Rachel said out of reflex, leaving a confused look on the other woman's face. Across the room, Rachel spotted Scott talking to other guests, and began to head toward him. Halfway through, she froze. Through a doorway, she could see Tristan Shaw speaking to somebody. His face was animated, and his hands waving around. Whoever was speaking to him laid a hand on Tristan's chest to calm him down. Tristan shoved the hand off and leaned in, becoming more animated. Helplessly, Rachel changed course and began walking in Tristan's direction. She could see Scott raise his head and look at her out of the corner of her eye, but her entire focus was on Tristan. Two or three people moved in front of her, block
ing her way, and by the time she had bypassed them, Tristan was nowhere to be seen. Rachel gave a little groan. All her instincts were telling her that Tristan was involved somehow.

  She stepped forward, only to bump into Becky again.

  "Oh." Becky nearly spilled a drink onto herself, and gave Rachel a glare before recognizing her.

  "Sorry. I should have watched where I was going." Rachel sighed.

  "No problem. Were you looking for someone?" Becky asked, turning her neck to look in the direction Rachel was looking.

  "Tristan Shaw," Rachel said, "President of Stan Stickman's fan club. I'm not sure what he's doing here."

  "Tristan Shaw?" Becky gaped at Rachel. "Pimply guy, greasy hair? That Tristan Shaw?"

  "You know him?" Rachel looked up, surprised.

  "Sure I know him. He's my cousin's brother."

  Rachel laughed. Of course. She should have guessed—same last name, small town.

  Becky was now scanning the crowd too. "I'm really surprised he's here. I thought he'd sworn off Stickman."

  "Sworn off Stickman?"

  "Yes . . . well." Becky looked embarrassed. "I told you I was Stan's nurse last year when he had food poisoning. Well, Tristan found out and started pestering me. He said he had to meet his childhood hero, and I had to help. I refused to help, of course, and sneaky Tristan snuck into the hospital to meet Stan!"

  "Tristan broke into the hospital?"

  "You know how easy it is, after what happened the other day. Yes, Tristan just walked right into Stan's room. He knew some of my other friends and chatted them up till he figured out Stan's room number somehow. In any case, Stan threw a bedpan at Tristan. It wasn't pleasant."

  "Stan threw a bedpan at Tristan?"

  "Yep." Becky nodded. "I wish he'd left a dent in that boy's head. Tristan scooted on out of there. I knew who it was as soon as Stan described him to me, but luckily, the police never caught on. I stayed mum because I could have gotten fired if the hospital figured out Tristan was my cousin." She bit her lip. "Don't go around telling this to people, will you? In any case, Tristan's not been a fan of Stan Stickman after that. He swore never to read a book by him again."

  "So what's he doing here?" Rachel asked.

  "My question exactly," Becky chimed in. "Maybe Stan dying relit an old obsession of Tristan's? Who knows."

  Rachel grabbed Becky's shoulder and pushed her to the side a little as she thought she caught sight of Tristan again. In the distance, visible through the window, someone was walking on the edge of the cliff, and that someone looked like Tristan.

  "Gotta go," Rachel said. Ignoring the crowd around her, she bolted out of the house and ran around the side, hoping she'd catch up to Tristan. Her heels pinched her toes terribly as she ran, but Rachel ignored the pain. This couldn't be a coincidence—she was sure of it.

  "Hey!" she shouted. "Tristan!"

  Tristan didn't look back, but he stumbled a little as he walked.

  "Wait. I just want to talk to you!" Rachel yelled. She leaned down and wrestled with her heels, cursing them for being so stubbornly determined to stay on her feet. She wrested them off after a few moments, and tossed them to the side. Barefoot, she ran after Tristan, catching up with him in seconds.

  "Go away." He looked drunk. He was swaying a little on his feet, and his words were blurry.

  "I want to talk to you about Stan," Rachel said. Her breath was coming in heavy gasps, and she mentally scolded herself for not starting a fitness routine yet.

  Tristan tried to shoo her off, waving his hands. His face was looking a little green. "I don't wanna talk about Stan."

  "You were outside my friend's house the night before Stan died. The night Stan punched Calvin Donaldson. Do you remember that?" Rachel asked.

  "Go away," Tristan said again.

  "Look, I just want to talk. You were following Stan, weren't you? Maybe hoping for an autograph? You just wanted to talk to him, right? No harm done."

  "I just wanted to talk . . ." Tristan's voice was vague. "Just talk."

  "Right. Did you follow him back here that night?" Rachel asked. "Did you see someone—or something?"

  "I followed him alright, and I heard all of it. The entire conversation."

  Tristan's breathing was odd, almost like he'd been doing heavy running too. For the first time, Rachel noticed the odd greenish shade of his skin. Alarmed, she said, "Tristan are you feeling alright?"

  "Just need to sit down." Tristan gasped for air as he sat on the ground.

  "Who did you see?" Rachel asked.

  "Stan was doing all the talking," Tristan said. "Talked about crabs in a bucket."

  "What?" Rachel was confused. "Tristan, I can't understand what you're saying."

  Tristan couldn't even sit upright anymore. He lay down on the ground instead. His eyelids were slowly closing. Alarmed, Rachel slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Tristan!"

  "Just need to sleep," Tristan slurred. "Five minutes."

  "No. No. No. Keep your eyes open. You hear me? Hey! Help! I need help!" Rachel screamed as loud as she could, looking toward Stan's house. Just a few hundred feet away, people were walking around blissfully unaware of her, having gathered together to mourn Stan. She felt as though time had slowed down painfully, and yet was speeding by like a bullet.

  Tristan raised his head a little, blinking his eyes in confusion. "Meteor shower under the floorboards," he said, making no sense. "It's all there."

  "Somebody! Help me!" Rachel screamed again, waving her arms to attract attention. A few people seemed to notice her. She could see them point and then shake their heads in confusion. She saw one or two men begin to jog in her direction. Turning back to Tristan, she saw to her horror that his eyes were closed. She slapped him again, harder this time, hoping to wake him up.

  "Don't do this. Don't sleep." Instinctively, she knew that if he fell asleep, he wouldn't wake up again. Tristan knew who the killer was, and she suspected he'd tried to confront the killer on his own. A dangerous idea—he'd probably ended up poisoned.

  "Tristan. Who did this? Who killed Stan?" Rachel asked, shaking him.

  "Crabs in a bucket," Tristan whispered again. "Stan wanted him dead."

  "What?" Rachel's eyes widened. "Tristan, talk to me. What are you saying?"

  "Rachel!" Scott's voice was urgent as he ran toward her. "Everything okay?"

  "Call an ambulance!" Rachel cried, not even looking up. Scott was running so hard that he had to slide to a stop next to her, sending mud flying into the air as he fell to his knees.

  "What's happened?" Scott asked, sizing up the situation instantly. "How long has he been like this?"

  "Just a few seconds. Do something, Scott, please . . ."

  "Don't panic. I've called the ambulance already. You hear me buddy, you're going to be okay. Just stick with us, alright?"

  "Calvin Donaldson," Tristan managed to gulp out. "Calvin Donaldson. Stan wanted . . ." He put a hand to his throat, and began to choke. Scott immediately pushed Rachel aside, and began examining Tristan carefully. He tried everything he could do to save Tristan, but it was already too late. Tristan's face began turning purple, and with a sob, Rachel watched him take in one last breath before going still.

  "It's okay." Scott hugged Rachel to him, blocking her view of the dead body that now lie in front of them.

  "No," Rachel moaned into his shoulder. "No."

  "It's going to be okay," Scott said, again, though his voice was tight. "You did all you could, Rachel. We couldn't save him."

  Rachel pushed away from Scott, and her face was blank with fury. "We're going to catch that killer," she said, her voice hoarse. "Promise me, Scott. We're going to catch that son . . ."

  "Tristan!" Becky came running after them, tears streaming from her eyes. "My cousin! Someone told me . . . what's going on?"

  "An ambulance should be here soon." Scott sounded defeated. "I'm really sorry, Becky. We couldn't save him."

  "But how . . . why . . ."

  "My
best guess is that he's been poisoned," Scott said. "Someone might have slipped something into a drink. Would be easy enough in this crowd. It's too early to tell right now, though. We'll have to wait for the forensics report."

  Becky sank on the ground and began sobbing. Scott put a hand on her shoulder. "We're going to catch the killer," he said, his voice sharp as barbed wire. "I promise you that. I'm going to do everything humanly possible to get them."

  He looked straight at Rachel, and gave her a tight nod as he said this, and for a moment, Rachel felt relief. It might take time, but she had faith in Scott. The killer wasn't going to get away this time.

  The relief was overshadowed with despair as others from the house came running up to them. Truth was, the killer had already gotten away, and there seemed to be no more clues left to untangle.

  "Rachel!" Brandon was in the crowd, but instead of caring about Tristan, he ran straight to Rachel and enveloped her in a hug. Rachel pushed away from him and looked for Scott, but he was already in sheriff mode, and had his hands full trying to hold back the throng of people from getting too close to Tristan's body.

  "Rachel, I was so afraid when all the shouting started. I thought maybe you . . ." Brandon shivered. "Did he tell you something? Did he say anything at all?"

  Without answering, Rachel pushed him away and walked away from the crowd. She needed silence, and she needed to think. There had to be a way to get to the killer.

  *****

  Chapter 20

  Burning Up

  When Rachel awoke next morning, her entire body was aching, and she had a raging fever. She dragged herself out of bed, took her temperature, and gave a little gulp at how high it was. Her shoulders had knots in them, and her neck felt strained. Her eyes felt itchy and droopy too.

  She dragged herself to the kitchen, opened up a can of tomato soup and managed to keep it down. Scooter trembled as he watched her.

  "Sorry buddy," Rachel croaked. "I won't be able to walk you today. Maybe your Aunt Emily will help out." All she wanted to do was go to bed and not think a single thought. The sight of Tristan dying in her arms seemed to burn in her brain, setting off alarms and shame at once. She could have saved him. She should have saved him. If only she'd followed up that day when she saw him at Tricia's bookstore. If only she'd . . .