Killing Cassidy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  There was more to come; I could feel it. At last he raised his head and turned his bright blue eyes on me. “No, I don’t see how his death could have been anything but natural. That’s why I haven’t been to the police. And yet, as I hope for heaven, I’m sure that it wasn’t. I firmly believe my old friend was murdered, and I’ll pray every day that you find out who did it.”

  14

  HE’S another one.”

  “Another what?” I grabbed Alan’s arm as I stumbled over an unexpected curb in the middle of the campus. “What are you talking about?”

  “Another of your ‘nice people.’ You assured me that most of the inhabitants of Hillsburg fell into that category, and I was a trifle skeptical at first. But Father Kennedy fits the description. And the police officer who took the time to make certain the cats were safe. And the young woman at the courthouse.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve found out lately that there are quite a few of the other kind, too. And one of them killed Kevin.”

  Alan cleared his throat, but I rushed on before he could say anything.

  “Oh, I know you’ll say we still don’t have any evidence, and we don’t. But we know now, for sure.”

  “Actually,” he said mildly, “what I was about to say was that we now have a good deal of evidence. We know that certain things happened. When we can determine exactly when and how they happened, we’ll be a good deal further on.”

  “But that’s just what we can’t do! We can’t go around asking people exactly when Kevin’s brakes failed, or when his tricycle was stolen. Those are police kinds of questions. And we can’t ask Darryl, because he might be the one.”

  I started waving my hands in the air. “Alan, this is so frustrating! I feel like Harriet Vane in Gaudy Night. She couldn’t investigate the Oxford mess properly, because any of the dons might have been the culprit.”

  “You’ll manage,” said Alan soothingly. “You’ve dealt with sticky situations before and learned the truth.”

  “But that was in England!” I was almost shouting. I looked around. No one was paying any attention to us, but I lowered my voice. “I’m a stranger there, or at least an eccentric American who doesn’t count. People will talk to me. It’s entirely different here! This is the town where I grew up, and most people know me. Even the ones who don’t can at least find out all about me if they want to, and they certainly won’t talk if they have anything to hide. Oh, Alan, it’s so stupid, but I can’t seem to accomplish anything here on my own turf. And Kevin was counting on me!”

  My voice had risen to a wail again. Alan steered me to a bench and sat down with me, his arm around my shoulders.

  “My dear, I think we need a little distance from all this. It’s not like you to lose your sense of proportion. Regardless of one’s belief system, it’s certain that Kevin is no longer troubled about who killed him. One way or the other, he’s beyond worry. The concern is ours now. Our sense of justice and your love for Kevin demand that we continue the pursuit. But not, I think, just now. It’s a splendid day. Haven’t you some favorite haunt we could explore, just for a treat?”

  I leaned back against his sturdy arm and sighed. “I’d feel like I was lying down on the job.”

  “Come, now. There’s no hurry, you know. Evidence isn’t going to vanish now. Most of it is already gone by this time. If Kevin’s death is to be solved, it will be solved not by the cigarette ash or the incriminating footprint but by”—he tapped his temple meaningfully—“the little gray cells.”

  I giggled. Alan wasn’t made to play Poirot; he’s way too big and way too British. “Oh, I suppose you’re right. And very good for me, my love. I do get carried away, don’t I?”

  “Just a trifle, now and again.”

  “Well, then. Let me think. Clifty Falls is only about half an hour away. That’s a state park just outside Madison that Frank and I used to love, especially in the fall. Or there’s Madison itself. It’s a beautiful little town with lots of nice old houses. Well, old by American standards. Victorian. They do a tour of them every year just about this time.”

  “Right.” He stood and pulled me up. “We’ll make a day of it. Do you want to change clothes?”

  We ended up in the tiger sweatshirts. They were just right for Clifty Falls, which was cool in the shade. The sun sifted down through russet and gold leaves, making dappled patterns on the forest floor. We wandered the trails almost alone, the heavy park traffic had vanished with the passing of summer. I kicked through drifts of fallen leaves, listening to the crackle and smelling the sharp, dry perfume. “I feel about ten years old,” I told Alan. “It’s all I can do not to run and jump in a big pile of them.”

  We eventually found most of the cataracts that give the park its name, climbing steep sets of wooden steps up or down to vista points. At last, tired and sated, we stopped for a rest.

  “It’s a lovely place, Dorothy. A bit like parts of Scotland.” Alan had found a patch of sunshine and was sitting in the cushiony fallen leaves, his back against an oak tree. “I can understand why it’s a favorite spot.”

  “Mmm. Funny you should mention Scotland. This place is entirely different from Iona, but it provides the same sort of solace to the spirit.”

  “It’s the quiet, I think.”

  A waterfall not far away provided a constant rush of background noise. A squirrel overhead in the oak tree chattered angrily at us, a blue jay jeered from the top of a white pine, and all the sparrows in the world, congregated in nearby bushes, tweeted and twittered their eternal soprano gossip. I smiled and agreed. “Nice and quiet.”

  We sat in the noisy quietness, occupied with our own thoughts. Mine inevitably turned to our puzzle, and my peace of mind began to seep away.

  “What is it, my dear?” asked Alan at last.

  “Hmm?”

  “You sighed.”

  “I did?”

  “Deeply. A long, gusty, nobody-knows-the-trouble-I’ve-seen sigh.”

  I did it again, resentfully. “I was thinking about Kevin.”

  Alan pushed himself away from the tree trunk and clasped his arms around his knees. “Feeling a bit sorry for yourself, are you?”

  “Alan!”

  “Dorothy, you’ve been moping about ever since we arrived in Hillsburg. Don’t you think it’s about time you told me about it?”

  “I have not been moping! Well, maybe a little, but …”

  Alan waited.

  My fingers found an acorn and began to peel off the close-fitting cap. “It’s childish, I suppose. I—this isn’t home anymore!” My chin quivered. I gave my serious attention to the acorn, peeling off one thin strip of papery cap, then another. “I thought,” I said when I was sure my vocal cords wouldn’t betray me, “that things would be the same, that people would be the same, that I would—would fit in here, the way I used to.” I threw away the acorn, now denuded, and started on another.

  “You also thought,” said Alan gently, “that you would dazzle your friends with your English husband and stories about your detective expertise. Instead you find yourself—what? Rejected?”

  “No,” I said shortly. Alan was trying to help. I would try to be fair. “Not rejected, exactly. Just—set aside. Unimportant. Not in the scheme of things anymore. And also—ineffectual would be the word, I suppose.”

  “You think you’ve accomplished nothing to solve Kevin’s murder?”

  “Well, have I?”

  “Of course you have, and if you’d let your mind dwell for five minutes on the case instead of on your hurt feelings, you’d know it.”

  I glared at him. He reached over and took my hand.

  “Put down that silly object you’re so busily shredding and listen to me. You’ve let your feelings overcome your good sense, my dear. You’ve been bombarded by conflicting emotions ever since you arrived in this country. Outrage at the physical changes in your old environment, shock at the changes others perceive in you, grief at Kevin’s death, frustration at your inability instantly to sol
ve a murky problem. I’ve watched your self-confidence erode, day by day, despite the fact that you’ve kept doggedly working away at your puzzle. Now, my love, it’s time you snapped out of it.

  “Let’s take a look at what we’ve learned. We know, with reasonable certainty, that Kevin was not suffering from paranoia. That string of accidents Father Kennedy related can’t be sheer coincidence.”

  “We can’t prove that.”

  “We can’t prove anything at this stage. But we have enough evidence to formulate a theory. Proof can come later. We also know a little, not enough but something, about Kevin’s life shortly before he was killed. We know he had sufficient patience to listen to the execrable Pastor Whatever-His-Name-Is, and the wit to give him money to get rid of him. We know how other people reacted to him. We’re building up a picture, and we know where the holes are in that picture. Furthermore, we have accomplished this in less than a week, working entirely alone, not only without official help but in the face of considerable official opposition.”

  He got to his feet and pulled me up after him. “Have I convinced you?”

  I smiled, somewhat ruefully. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll be buying medals next to pin on both of us. I’ve been acting like an idiot, haven’t I?”

  “Perhaps a bit overwrought at times, that’s all. Now, if you love me, tell me where we can find some lunch. I understand there’s a lodge in the park.”

  “There is, and it’s nice, too, but very popular. We probably couldn’t get in, and I have a better idea, anyway. You like seafood, and there’s a nice place in Madison down by the river. The Key West Shrimp House.”

  “Key West? Isn’t that in Florida?”

  “Yes. Don’t ask me why they call it that. But they have good shrimp, and terrific catfish, and a great salad bar with a mashed potato salad the like of which I’ve never tasted anywhere else.”

  Alan laughed. “Americans have the oddest ideas about food. Mashed potatoes do not comprise my idea of salad, but I’m always ready for a new experience. Lead on, MacDuff.”

  I was suddenly starved, too. It is extraordinary how heartening it can be to have the man you love give you a good talking-to. With rather overdone panache and at too great a speed, I drove the hilly, curvy road from the newer part of town on top of the bluff down to Madison proper. A few more blocks, and we were at the foot of Broadway. I pulled the car up and pointed, as proudly as if I’d invented it, at the great river a few feet away.

  “The Ohio.”

  Broad, beautiful, apparently placid, it flowed past the lovely little park that had graced the riverfront for the past few years. As we watched, a long string of barges moved slowly past, pushed by a tugboat that seemed much too small for the job.

  “I’ve loved this river all my life,” I said softly. “It’s one of the great rivers of this country, you know. Of the world, really. It flows from Pittsburgh down to the Mississippi, and then on down to the Gulf of Mexico. Navigable all the way. The big riverboats used to carry passengers and freight this way until the railroads came along. The barge traffic is still important, though, and there are two or three fancy pleasure boats still, the Delta Queen and the Mississippi Queen and one or two others. They call here in summer, right here at this landing. I’ve always wanted to take that trip, all the way down to the Gulf.”

  “Perhaps we will someday.” Alan took my hand and smiled, and we sat and watched the river flow past, jes’ rollin’ along.

  A big fish leaped out of the water and splashed back again. Alan laughed. “That big fellow looks good enough to eat. Which reminds me …”

  We walked back up Broadway to the Key West Shrimp House, and there we were immediately brought back to our problem. Straight in front of us sat Hannah Schneider with five or six other women. She was deep in conversation, but she looked up and waved at us.

  “Antimall committee?” I asked with a smile, gesturing to the group.

  She laughed. “No, but you’re close. I’m in Tri Kappa, you know, and they roped me into the Tour of Homes committee this year. It’s all in the interest of preservation. We’re just settling the last-minute details. It’s next weekend; are you and your husband coming?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it, would we, Alan?”

  “No, indeed. Where does one obtain tickets?”

  “At the Lanier mansion; that’s where the tour begins. Not this coming weekend, you know, but next—the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth, ten to four. Come early; the lines get long in the afternoon.”

  She turned back to her meeting, and we were shown to a table in a corner of the room. I tried to concentrate on my food, but I couldn’t help thinking about our problem.

  “What do you think is our next step?” I asked eagerly, once Alan had eaten enough to be interested in talking.

  He looked around cautiously, but the room was full of conversation to cover ours. “We’re planning to talk to Dr. Foley tomorrow.”

  “Yes, but until then!”

  “Unless inspiration strikes, we wait.”

  “But—but I thought it was important to act as quickly as possible in a murder case.”

  Alan nearly choked on his catfish. When he recovered, he spoke patiently. “The first twenty-four hours are critical, certainly, but once that’s past, as heaven knows it is in both these murders, one spends a good deal of time waiting. Waiting for the autopsy report, the other forensic reports. Waiting, for quite a long time, for the DNA analysis if one has been ordered. Waiting for informants to turn up. Waiting for an inspiration. As I’ve said before, except for the rare occasions when police work is all too exciting, it’s dull, Dorothy. It requires patience and perseverance.”

  “Well, patience may be a virtue,” I retorted, “but it has never been one of mine. I want to do things now.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said gently. “It’s not so long. Tomorrow we’ll talk to the doctor, and perhaps we can begin to make some progress.”

  Time does pass, of course, no matter how tedious the waiting. The pot does boil, no matter how assiduously it is watched. We got through the day, eventually. We spent the afternoon idly wandering around Madison, popping into antique and junk stores and looking at bits of history. We stopped at the historical society museum, bought a couple of books about Madison, and whiled away the evening reading them. Friday morning we packed up and took ourselves over to the Foleys’ house.

  Peggy welcomed us, settled us in our luxury suite in the guest cottage, and sat us down for lunch, chatting pleasantly. It wasn’t until after we’d finished our lunch and were drinking excellent coffee (“The real stuff, since Doc isn’t here”) that she stopped talking about nothing and put down her coffee cup. “All right,” she said quietly. “What are you really doing in Hillsburg?”

  15

  I let out a long sigh. “Peggy, I’m so glad you asked. We’re both dying to tell you all about it.”

  “It’s about Kevin, isn’t it?”

  I think I gasped. “How did you know?”

  “This is a small town, Dorothy. You’ve been talking to a lot of people. I hear Holy Bob tried to convert you from your sinful ways.”

  I shuddered at the memory. “That man is a menace. I’m afraid I don’t have much use for that particular brand of religion.”

  Peggy snorted. “Religion my hind foot! Commerce is what it is. Did you see the car he drives?”

  “No, but I can imagine. Cadillac?”

  “Lincoln. Huge. Looks like a hearse. And his congregation’s way too poor to keep him in that kind of luxury. But never mind him. Why are you asking questions about Kevin?”

  Alan and I looked at each other. Alan rolled his eyes, and I groaned. “Oh, Lord, and we thought we were being subtle about it. We could be in real trouble if people are beginning to speculate. You see, we think Kevin was murdered.”

  Peggy took that, and the lengthy explanation that followed, in stride. I suppose a doctor’s wife must hear a lot of peculiar things. “I thought it must be something like th
at,” she said when I’d finished. “I know your reputation, you see. But it just isn’t possible, is it? I mean, if Doc says he died of pneumonia, he died of pneumonia.”

  “I know. That’s why I want to talk to Doc about it. Because, Peggy, there just isn’t much doubt about it. We can’t prove it yet, but we’re reasonably certain in our own minds. Maybe there are ways to cause pneumonia?”

  Peggy shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose. Though why anyone would want to get Kevin out of the way—Kevin, of all people!”

  “I know,” I said again. “That’s what we thought at first. And the problem is—well, it sounds melodramatic, but one of the people we’ve talked to is probably … the one.”

  “Mmm. More coffee?”

  We declined, and sat for a moment in worried silence. Then Peggy sat up straighter. If we’d been in a comic strip, a lightbulb would have appeared above her head.

  “I’ve got it,” she said triumphantly. “You’re writing a book.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re doing research. For a book about—about health patterns of the elderly. Or, no. The relationships between geriatric illness and social interactions.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Kevin was an academic. This is a college town. Nobody’ll ask why. People around here go and write fool books every day. Maybe you’re doing some kind of postgraduate work in England. And you haven’t told anybody what you’re doing because … I know, because you didn’t want their responses to be conditioned by the fact that they might be used in a book.”

  I began to laugh. I couldn’t help it. Alan laughed with me, and we giggled and snorted until tears came to our eyes and we had to hit each other on the back. At one point I was sure I was going to get the hiccups. Peggy waited, bewildered, until we had wiped our eyes and she had administered restorative glasses of water.

  “All right,” she said patiently. “What did I say?”

  “I don’t think,” I gasped, still not fully in control of myself, “it was really what you said. We’re a little tired and strung out, and it doesn’t take much. The fact is, I told the police chief yesterday that I was writing a book. My version wasn’t nearly as good as yours, though.”