Skye, I noticed, was not in school.
“She’s not feeling well,” Yvonne told me when I ran into her by the copy machine.
“My mother-in-law had the flu last week. It must be going around.”
“I’m sure the anxiety of the weekend didn’t help.”
I nodded agreement. Skye tended toward emotional extremes under the best of circumstances.
I glanced across the breezeway toward Mr. Combs’s office and caught sight of a familiar form stepping into the entryway. “What the heck—”
Yvonne raised her eyes.
“It’s Michael,” I explained. “What’s he doing here?” And then I had the disturbing thought that maybe he’d come to find me, come because something dreadful had happened. I sprinted across the open corridor and into the principal’s office.
Michael was with another man from the department. He turned when he saw me. “Not now, Kate. I’m busy.”
“But what—”
Just then Marvin Melville came through the doorway in the company of Mr. Combs. Michael held out his badge and addressed Marvin.
“We’d like to talk with you about the death of Cindy Purcell,” he said.
Marvin stepped back as though he’d been slapped. “Before we begin, I need to advise you that you have the right to remain silent...”
Marvin didn’t protest. He didn’t ask what in the hell was going on or what they wanted with him. He didn’t even hear Michael out because he’d collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Chapter 32
Marvin had revived almost immediately, but his mutterings were those of a person whose mind was still befuddled. Not that I’d had an opportunity to listen to them for very long. He’d been whisked into Combs’s private office as soon as he was able to stand, and the door had been unceremoniously slammed shut.
When he’d emerged a short while later, he was no longer muttering. Hand-cuffed and sandwiched between Michael and the other officer, Marvin was forcefully escorted to the police car parked in front of the school.
They’d tried to handle the whole thing discreetly, waiting until classes had settled in before making the trek to the car. But I wasn’t the only one gawking. Within the hour, rumors were spreading like wildfire. Marvin Melville had been arrested for murder.
I spent the afternoon pacing around the house, reluctant to step beyond arm’s reach of the phone. I pounced on Michael the minute he came home.
“Is it true?” I asked, my voice charged with pent-up excitement. “Did Marvin kill Cindy Purcell?”
Michael loosened his tie, ran a hand through his hair, and dropped into the nearest available chair. “It’s true,” he said wearily. “The guy gave us a full confession.”
As the reality of his words hit, my excitement drained away, leaving me feeling as empty as a helium balloon gone flat. Mild-mannered Marvin Melville, a man I’d talked and laughed with, a murderer.
“Julie, too?” I asked.
Michael shook his head, pressed his fingertips against his temples. “He says not. Swears he had nothing to do with that.”
My stomach was churning. “What about the gifts to Libby?”
“Not that, either.” Michael looked up. “You want some wine? I’m going to have a glass, and maybe some cheese or something. I’m starved.” He started to stand.
“I’ll get it,” I told him. “You just sit and rest.” I opened a bottle of zinfandel, then set out cheese and crackers and olives. “Marvin really confessed?” I asked, returning to sit across from Michael.
“I think he was glad to get it off his chest. Besides, the evidence against him is fairly strong.”
“What evidence?”
“The e-mail messages he sent—”
“Marvin is Prince Charming?”
Michael nodded. “We were able to get his name and address through his on-line provider. When we showed Toby his picture, she recognized him as the man she’d set up a date with. The manager of the video store where Cindy worked recognized him, as well. Apparently Marvin had been in the store several times in the preceding week, chatting with Cindy.”
I slumped back in my chair, hugged my arms to my chest. “Did Marvin say why he killed her?”
“It was an accident. At least that’s the spin he’s put on it.” Michael cut a wedge of cheese. “The rest is pretty much the way we’d laid it out in theory. Toby, posturing as Cindy, connected with Marvin through an on-line bulletin board. They exchanged messages about sexual fantasies and preferences, as well as tidbits of personal background. Toby arranged a meeting and then didn’t show.”
“Just like with Frank Davis.”
“And a few others. But Marvin didn’t give up. From their earlier messages he knew where Cindy worked and he had a general description of her. He started going to the video store, joking around with her, thinking she was the same woman he’d been talking with on-line. But he never let on that he was the guy she’d been exchanging messages with. Got a real charge out of it because he knew things about her, he thought, that she didn’t know he knew.”
Michael paused to let me work through the forest of pronouns.
“Knowing her interest in acting, Marvin presented himself as a production scout, working on an assignment for an upcoming Kevin Costner film. He said he needed to take a quick look at a location out by the reservoir, but that his car was acting up. Cindy offered to drive him.”
“She actually volunteered?”
Michael shrugged. “Maybe he asked. In either case, he was someone she’d seen in the store. They’d probably had a couple of brief conversations. And the chance to get a behind-the-scenes look at film production ...” He held out his hands. “Her behavior doesn’t strike me as unusual.”
“I guess not, except in retrospect.”
“According to Marvin, all he wanted was a chance to talk to Cindy, time to connect in person. But things didn’t progress the way he expected.”
“So he killed her?” I was still having trouble relating the he of our conversation to Marvin.
“That’s where the guy’s story becomes less clear. I’m not sure even he knows at this point what happened.” Michael paused to refill his glass. I’d barely touched mine. My stomach had a sour, queasy feeling that wine would only make worse.
“I gather that once they were at the reservoir, Marvin started coming on to Cindy,” Michael continued. “Trying to play with her mind, among other things. All this stuff he supposedly knew about her, he thought it gave him the upper hand, but it was all wrong. She didn’t respond the way he expected, denied half of what she’d supposedly told him earlier via e-mail. The thing that really did it, though, was when she called him a pervert for some of the very stuff they’d enjoyed talking about before. He got angry and grabbed her. She screamed, and in the melee that followed, he ended up choking her. He claims he was only trying to get her to stop screaming.”
“And then?”
“And then, he panicked. He covered her body with leaves and walked away.”
“What about all the ritual stuff?” I asked. “The shoes, the hair, the plastic skeleton.”
“Melville took her shoes with him. He really does have a thing about feet, just as we surmised the killer did. That’s apparently what started their fight. He wanted to paint her toenails. The thing with the hair is similar.”
“And the skeleton?”
Michael rocked back in his chair. His laugh was clipped and humorless. “The skeleton was Cindy’s. She’d picked it up that afternoon at a card shop near campus. One of those places that sells novelty items and balloons as well as greeting cards.”
“Cindy’s? So it wasn’t a clue after all?”
“Right.”
I drew in a breath. “What’s going to happen to him now?”
“That depends on the lawyers.” Michael stretched. “Guess we should start dinner.”
We moved into the kitchen. Michael worked on the salad while I watched the pot of water work its way to a boil. “Do
you believe him when he says he had nothing to do with Julie’s death?” I asked.
“Hard to say. If he’s telling the truth about what happened with Cindy Purcell, it’s difficult to see why he’d go after another young woman, or why he’d try to scare Libby. But there are an uncanny number of similarities between the two murders.”
“Could it be a copycat?”
“Could be. But the stuff about the skeleton wasn’t ever made public. And don’t forget that Melville knew both Julie and Libby.”
“He knows Skye, too. Maybe she somehow found out what he’d done, and he broke into her house looking for the evidence she had.”
“Maybe,” Michael said with skepticism. “But things don’t usually wrap up quite so tidily.”
Libby came bounding through the front door just then and headed straight for the kitchen. “Is it true?” she asked Michael. “Was Mr. Melville arrested for murder?”
While he tore the lettuce into bite-sized pieces, Michael went through the whole story again, in abbreviated form, for Libby’s benefit.
Over dinner we talked of other things, but it was a halfhearted attempt at normality. Michael was tired, I was thinking, and Libby was clearly upset. Even Anna was subdued.
When the phone rang after dinner, I picked it up. Silence greeted me on the other end. And after several seconds, a faint click.
“Who was it?” Michael asked.
I shook my head. “No one. Must have been the wrong number.”
“That happened last night, too,” Libby said. “Twice.”
Michael and I exchanged glances. When we were alone, he said, “There’s something I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“The lock of hair Libby got in the mail—it’s Julie’s. The test results just came in this afternoon.”
Chapter 33
Tuesday, school was a buzz of rumor and gossip, some of it fairly outlandish. This despite the fact that the story of Marvin’s arrest had run in the morning paper.
Because the morning was devoted to an all-school assembly, which was an attempt by Combs to allow students to “process the recent traumas,” my art class didn’t meet until after lunch. The students were pretty much talked out by then, so they drew silently. And the lesson for the day, a still-life sketch of bananas and apples, didn’t do much to inspire conversation.
I was tidying up the room at the end of school when I discovered that Skye had left her math book in my classroom. I hurried down to the science lab to catch Yvonne, but she’d already left for the day.
When I got to my car, I dumped the math book on the back seat. I could ignore it and live with a guilty conscience (I knew there was a test the next day), or I could take it to her and feel deservedly peeved. I opted for peeved.
“You left your book in my classroom,” I told her when she’d unfastened the chain and opened the door.
“Oh.” Skye looked at the book and then at me. “Thanks.”
“Is your mom here?”
“She had to run to the store. She should be back any minute.” Skye tucked a strand of flyaway frizz behind her ear.
“Mind if I wait?” As long as I was already there, I figured I might as well talk about framing options for the lithograph she and Steve had purchased.
Skye shook her head. Her expression was tight, her coloring wan.
“Are you okay, Skye?”
“I’m fine.”
I handed her the book and we moved to the rear of the house. She’d been unusually quiet during class, but then so had the others. Now I wondered if there wasn’t something more troubling her.
“This has been a rough couple of weeks for you, hasn’t it? A teacher arrested, a friend murdered.”
She looked at me but didn’t acknowledge the words.
“Are you worried that maybe there’s some connection between those two events and the break-in at your house?”
Her eyes flickered to life. “That’s absurd. Why would there be a connection?”
I shrugged. I didn’t have an answer either.
“It’s spooky, that’s all. I mean, that it turned out to be someone I know.” Skye bit her bottom lip. “You want a soda or something?”
“Sure, thanks.”
She bolted for the kitchen. I heard the clatter of ice cubes and glass. “It’s diet,” she said when she returned. She handed me a tumbler of cola.
“This stuff about Mr. Melville,” I said sympathetically. “It’s upsetting for all of us.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
The phone rang and Skye leapt to her feet, brushing awkwardly against the sofa table. Her math book and soda toppled to the floor.
Ignoring the phone, she raced for paper towels. I began picking up the ice cubes and loose math papers that had fallen from the book.
Math papers—and a pink slip of paper stamped city of Berkeley. A slip of paper similar to the one I’d been awarded for speeding.
“Looks like you got tagged by the Berkeley police too,” I said.
I started to wipe the ticket dry when the date and time on the citation caught my eye. October 13, 7:30 PM—the evening Julie was killed. Skye had been speeding on San Pablo Avenue.
“Did you go to Berkeley with Julie?” I asked.
Skye snatched the envelope from my hand. Her face was the color of waxed paper.
“Were you there that night? Do you know who Julie was meeting?”
I heard a car door slam out front. I glanced through the window and saw Yvonne hoisting a bag of groceries from the back seat of their dark green Cherokee. Like an unexpected punch in the chest, it hit me.
“You were the one who picked Julie up on San Pablo, weren’t you?”
Yvonne came in through the side door and set the grocery sack on the counter. “Hi, Kate. I wasn’t expecting you. Sorry I had to run out for a minute.” She looked at the expression on Skye’s face. “What’s wrong? Was there another burglary?”
“Get out,” Skye screamed, her cheeks suddenly flushed. I couldn’t tell whether she was addressing me or her mother. Hysteria had taken hold and she looked at neither of us. “Just shut up and get out.”
“Skye,” Yvonne said sternly.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Skye said shrilly.
Yvonne tried again. “What is going on?”
“Skye was in Berkeley the Friday night Julie Harmon was killed,” I explained. “It was Skye who picked Julie up on San Pablo.” I turned to Skye. “Was it you who took her to Tilden Park?”
Skye’s face froze in terror, like an animal caught in the lights of an oncoming car. “I had to,” she said, in a voice so thin and high it sounded more like a yelp. “I had to. Julie would have ruined everything.”
Yvonne’s confusion gave way to horror. “Dear God, it’s not true. Tell me Kate, tell me she didn’t kill Julie.” Yvonne looked at her daughter. “Tell me, Skye, tell me you didn’t.”
“I was going to have to share my house with her. My things. My, my family. She’d be his favorite, his real...” Her voice broke, “His real little girl.”
Skye turned and ran for the stairs, charging up them like a frightened squirrel. We followed, several paces behind. She’d locked herself in the bathroom before we reached the top.
Yvonne pounded on the door. “Let me in, Skye. We need to talk. We’ll talk about what to do.”
From inside I heard the click of a cabinet, the groan of a drawer, and above all the sound of sobbing.
“You’re not alone, honey. I love you and I’ll help you.” Yvonne pressed herself against the door, frantically jiggling the knob. The door remained locked.
“Skye?”
Nothing but the keening of hopeless despair. The sobs rose from low in her chest and caught unevenly in her throat.
“Honey, please open the door.”
“Is there access from outside?” I asked.
“Just the window.”
“Call 911.”
“Sky
e? Honey?”
“Now,” I barked.
I dashed into the master bedroom and looked sideways out the window toward the bathroom window to the right. About five feet below, where the first floor roof angled upward, was a narrow overhang. It would be a tight approach, but it was probably doable.
I opened the bedroom window and slipped through. The flat, stucco siding provided nothing for me to grab hold of. I held on to the exterior sill for as long as I could, then slowly inched toward the bathroom window, keeping my weight forward. As long as I didn’t lose my balance, I’d be okay. As long as I could keep my eye on the window and not look down.
Finally, I reached around the drainpipe, caught hold of the window casing and pulled myself to it. The window was curtained and shut tight.
Inside, I could hear Yvonne, still pounding on the door. But nothing from inside the bathroom.
Flexing my knees, I lowered myself so that the gap at the bottom of the curtain was eye level. Because of the reflection I had trouble seeing into the bathroom, but by shielding the light with my free hand, I was able to make out a form sprawled on the floor near the tub. I couldn’t see Skye’s face, but I didn’t need to. The pool of blood near her wrists was enough.
“Skye!” I screamed her name and rapped hard on the window with my fist. Then I took off my shoe and rapped harder, beating at the glass until it shattered. Like shrapnel, small shards flew back and peppered my face and hands. My skin stung, and my right cheek felt as though it had been clawed by a tiger. But my mind had no room for pain.
I reached through the jagged frame and cranked the window open. Then I eased myself under and climbed through.
When I reached Skye she was unconscious, but breathing. I opened the bathroom door for Yvonne, then pressed towels hard against her wrists to stem the flow of blood.
In the distance I heard the wail of sirens. I hoped they made it in time.
Chapter 34
I opened the door to a skeleton.
He was about three feet tall, with wisps of blond hair.
“Trick or treat,” he said.
“Give us something good to eat,” chimed the pirate at his side.
Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery) Page 26
