"I'd kill for one," I answered, startled by the change of subject, and then thought there might have been more tactful ways to phrase that. "Er, yes, please. It's a really hot day."
Julie grinned and May headed for the fridge. "Cutting June off may have been a mistake," she said over her shoulder. "It might have been better to just keep paying the rent. June started showing up at our house drunk or stoned, sometimes with one or more of her so-called friends. They were loud. June always wanted to 'borrow' money and picked arguments with anybody—her friends or us. The neighbors began to give us funny looks. We got her into a rehab, but that didn't take. Finally, we told her if she came back, we'd call the police. That got to her. She stopped coming. We lived in glorious peace." She smiled wistfully and set the drinks on the table.
"But not for long?" I guessed.
"Bingo." Julie took a healthy swallow. "One night we came home from a movie, and there was June on the chaise on the front porch, passed out."
"Alone?" I asked.
"Yes. I shook her and called her name, but no results. Finally, I gently slapped her and she raised her hands as if to protect herself. That's when I saw both her hands were bloody."
"My God!" I exclaimed. "Shock time. What did you do?" I found myself lighting another cigarette and grimaced.
"I ripped her blouse open, but there was no wound. Not there. Not anyplace on her body. We practically stripped her right on the porch. We were debating what to do when she halfway came to. She muttered something like, 'Bastard tried to get me with bad stuff. Well, maybe he did, but I got him first. I got the bastard.' Then she passed out again, and it dawned on us that the blood wasn't hers. She must have been in a fight and had cut or stabbed or even shot someone." Without asking, she stood and went for refills.
"This may sound cold and callous," May put in. "But when we thought of calling 911, we suddenly pictured an ambulance and police cars and flashing lights and a lot of questions we couldn't possibly answer. I mean, what if there was a body somewhere? Then we thought of newspapers and TV cameras . . . the neighbors and our jobs. What if people thought we were involved? Or worse, what if one of the stabbed person's friends thought I was June and killed me in some kind of revenge?" May's voice had become shrill and loud with remembered fear.
"So what did you do?" I asked quietly.
Julie answered for her. "We decided to drive her down to a park near the hospital, put her on a bench and call 911 anonymously. Okay, we were not thinking too straight, but it might have worked. We half-carried, half-walked her to the car. May got in the back with her and I drove. Just as we reached the park, June made this funny noise . . . like a car revving its motor sort of. And then May yelled that she couldn't find a pulse."
"What the hell did you do next?" They must have been approaching hysteria by then.
"We just kept driving," May answered. "Past the park, on by the hospital. We knew she was beyond help. I can't even remember what we talked about, if anything. Finally, I realized we were way out on Route Ninety, but we still just drove. It was like, if we didn't stop, we didn't have to decide anything. God knows where we would have ended up. Baton Rouge, I guess. But finally, of all the mundane things, I had to go to the bathroom. So Julie turned off onto this little dinky road and we ended up by the water. We both got out and peed, and I noticed a dilapidated old dock nearby." She paused and took a shaky breath.
"I knew what we had to do. You know, I'm still not sure we said anything. But we got out the spare and took the tire off the wheel. There was some plastic clothesline in the trunk and we tied June to the wheel and the jack and a bag of pebbles for my plants. And we just eased her off the end of the dock. And she was gone." May began to cry, and I felt like putting my arms around her.
"To wrap this up," Julie said harshly. "We found a motel out near Morgan City. Next morning we saw a notice in a cafe that the fishing camp in Haute Bayou was for sale at a good price. The owner was unwell. We bought it, sold my house in New Orleans, and that was that. We made a new life, and I don't believe we did anything wrong." She raised her chin defiantly.
Frankly, I agreed with her. They'd been through hell with June. She was beyond human help, and my not entirely impious thought was that God could find her in a bayou as easily as a hospital morgue. I took an oblique approach.
"Why did you later sell the fishing camp?"
Julie looked startled at the change of topic, but answered easily. "It was a big rambling place, as you saw. Lots of work, indoors and out, for two women. And no great income. You can't charge much in the boonies. To top it off, the man who ran our dock and took care of the boats announced he was going to retire soon. We saw this place advertised in a trade magazine, and it seemed perfect."
I nodded, and May solved another little mystery I'd been contemplating. "Another thing appealed to us," she said. "There's a fairly active gay community here. We're actually making a few friends. We'd spent over fifteen years in isolation in Haute Bayou, infrequent trips to New Orleans was about it."
I nodded again. "So June's ... uh, body was never located?"
"No. Alex, it's been so long. Who would care anymore? I mean, I will always care, in a way, but couldn't we just forget this whole sad mess? I mean, we virtually had forgotten it." May sounded plaintive.
I sighed and took a sip of beer to gain a moment. I was about to ruin their day. And mine. I felt terrible for them. In my mind they were probably at least as much victimized as June had been. Certainly, they had not harmed her. She would doubtless have died anyway, if not that night, then another one soon, and possibly in a truly horrible way. On the other hand, they'd broken a handful of laws, a couple of them serious ones. It wasn't like I could pretend I never saw the fireplug they had parked beside.
"I'm afraid not. There are laws about reporting deaths and the ... ah, disposition of bodies. There's the blood on June's hands. It could have been evidence in another crime. And, we want you to get what's coming from Erno's estate. For that we need a death certificate, so you will get June's share." I didn't even want to think how complicated that had become.
May let out a sigh that moved the kitchen curtains. "So now what?"
"A good criminal lawyer," I replied. "Hopefully, the State of Louisiana will give you a little wrist slap and that will be it. Some kind of fine and maybe some community service to be performed here in Florida. With any luck, they'll figure the blood is too long gone to matter. Get the Haute Bayou sheriff in on this, he likes you both. I'm sorry, I really can't ignore this. And God knows my boss wouldn't."
We chatted quite awhile longer, but nothing changed, and finally I left.
I was having another lukewarm room service dinner and making myself eat slowly. Neither May nor the lawyer had called, and I was wondering if I was going to have to call the Bradenton cops and be stuck at least one more day in their charming environs. I had told myself the phone would ring before I finished dinner and was now reluctantly dipping the next-to-last fried shrimp in the sauce. It rang.
A soft, deep-pitched southern voice inquired, "Is this Miz Alex Peres?"
"Yes, it is."
A deep sigh. Relief? Despair? Resignation? "Lordy, ma'am, what a can of worms you have gone and opened up!"
Chapter 22
Even at 1500 feet the air was warm in the lovely little Beechcraft, and we had the side vents open. Warm or not, the air had the clean, salty smell of the North Atlantic in it, with none of the fecund, slightly overripe heaviness I'd been getting used to. I sniffed appreciatively and Cassie laughed.
"Smell like home?"
"Yeah. And I'm ready for it. I've flown and driven a million miles. I've slept about fifteen hours in four nights. And John Frost will be in cardiac arrest this time tomorrow when he sees my expenses."
I'd given Cassie a brief recap of my trip as we flew toward Provincetown Airport. Like May and Julie, she couldn't understand why I didn't just develop sudden acute myopia and "believe" the two women were twins. Obviously everybody
's sympathy was going to be with them, and I just hoped it carried over to a New Orleans prosecutor. It would not carry over to John Frost.
I sighed and changed the subject. "Anything new here at home?"
"Nah. We're tripping over tourists. It's going to be a good season. Oh . .. yes ... I almost forgot. Lainey has a big, important case for you."
Cassie's lips were twitching, and I went along with whatever the joke was going to be. "Oh. I'll get right on it. What's up?"
Cassie cut the throttles slightly and began to lose altitude. "Well, it seems Lainey walked down the ER corridor the other night and saw a laundry cart parked there, with some soiled linen in it. Not sanitary, not good for the morale of incoming ER patients. So she told an aide to take it to the laundry room."
"And the aide tried to kill her and then disappeared?"
"Close. A little later, Lainey saw the cart was gone and thanked the aide for acting promptly. The aide replied she hadn't moved it at all, that it was already gone when she got to it. But..." Cassie waggled her finger to indicate more mystery. "Just before quitting time one of the laundry workers reported that the inventory check indicated a couple of sheets and pillow cases, a blanket and one of the new laundry carts were missing! No one can account for them. So, Sherlock, get with it!"
"You might remind Lainey I'm not the one she wants snooping around looking for a bunch of icky sheets. When it comes to hospitals, I'm the one who gets sick while I'm still in the parking lot."
"I know. Well, I tried."
Fargo managed to knock me down in Mom's backyard and then nearly licked me to death. I was never so glad to be attacked. When I managed to get inside the house, Mom's greeting was more restrained, but equally welcoming. So was her question, "Have you had lunch?"
When I told her I'd had a doughnut about five a.m. and a sausage sandwich about nine, she gave me a raised eyebrow look and turned to the fridge. While she fixed a plate of cold sliced chicken, tomatoes with oil and bleu cheese and got out some potato salad, I called Cindy. She was delighted I was safely home and would see me at the house as soon as she could wrap up her business day.
I ate quickly, interrupted by frequent begging nudges from Fargo, to let me know he had been cruelly starved in my absence. Between bites, I told Mom of my trip and got the expected response.
"Those poor women! Really, dear, it would have been so much simpler just to let those birth certificates do their job. John Frost will have a fit."
"Mom," I yawned. "You can't just pop the odd body into the bayou for convenience, and apparently she had been in some sort of stabbing party, and John will just have to be brave."
"Yes, well, I hope you can work it out so you don't have to go back."
"Oh, God, I hadn't thought of that." I yawned again. "Sorry. Not much sleep."
"Go home and get some rest, dear. You look exhausted. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
"Yeah. Thanks for everything, Mom. Sorry to be so deadbeat."
Fargo almost knocked me down again, jumping into the car. I was glad he didn't. I think I would just have gone to sleep there in the yard.
Pulling into my driveway moments later, I clicked the garage door opener on the visor. As the door went up, I pulled forward and immediately stomped the brakes. Something was blocking the entrance.
I got out and Fargo ran past me, sniffing and whuffling excitedly. I grinned as I walked toward the object and wondered what joke Cassie and Lainey were pulling on me. It looked suspiciously like a laundry cart.
I heard a faint, low hum, like some low-powered electrical appliance. As Fargo circled the cart, his shoulder bumped its corner, and at least a thousand flies swarmed upward in a buzzing cloud so black, at first I thought it was smoke. Before I could turn away, I glimpsed a yellow-green, bloated face, with one eye half closed in a grotesque leer and the other wearing some kind of outre monocle with red and green trim.
Screaming, "Run, Fargo, run.'" I pelted down the driveway, slapping and brushing at the flies I was sure were all over me. "Run ... run ... run!" I panted with every footstep. I made it to the end of the drive before my stomach gave a horrendous wrench, and I bent over, grabbed the corner of the front wall, and lost my lunch. I crept along, leaning against the wall, to the end of my property. I had to get far away, I thought, far away. But I didn't think I could walk much farther, so I sat down on the last large flat stone, and Fargo jumped up beside me.
I shivered and brushed my hair, certain there were flies in it. There were not. Fargo and I held no interest for them, they had immediately returned to their feast. I put my arms around the dog. He felt wonderfully warm and real. Help, I had to get us help. I had called Cindy on my cell phone . . . had I put it in my shirt pocket? Yes! Thank God. No way could I have returned to the car for my handbag, or gone into the house.
I flicked it open and called 911. Twice I hit wrong numbers. Finally, I propped it on Fargo's sturdy, steady back and managed to punch in the correct call. I must have been coherent in whatever I said, for it seemed only seconds before I heard the approaching whoop of sirens.
Sonny was in the first car, and was out of it before it stopped. I felt his very welcome arms go around me and started to cry. "It's okay," he said. "It's okay. I'm here, I'm here."
"You're being repetitive," I hiccupped.
"Well," he managed a small smile, "I guess you're going to live if you can bitch about my speaking style."
"I'm freezing. It's boiling hot and I'm freezing."
"I see that." He turned away and called, "Medic! Medic, please bring some oxygen and a blanket here. The garage can wait."
One of the EMTs trotted down with the items, tucking the blanket around me and handing me the oxygen cone.
Sonny asked, "Will you be all right? We need to see what's going on up there." He jerked his chin toward the garage.
"It's a body, an awful body, with this crazy monocle. And flies, Sonny, you've got to do something with the flies."
About that time I heard some sort of ruckus out in the street and looked up to see Cindy out of her car and actually wrestling with some young cop who was trying to stop her. Sonny yelled, "Let her through, she lives here!"
She ran over and pulled me almost roughly to her breast. "Are you hurt? Darling, what happened? Tell me! Tell me what's wrong!" I couldn't. She was pressing my mouth and the oxygen cone so tightly to her, I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe much either. Finally, she let me go.
"I'm okay," I managed. At least I had quit crying and shaking, though I was still weak and my stomach was far from settled. The EMTs came out rolling a gurney with a body bag on it. I looked away, although there was nothing to see, except Pete Santos throwing up in the gutter.
Fargo moved to go investigate, and Cindy grabbed his collar. She turned to me, shocked. "A body? You found a body? Good God, who is it?"
"Who knows? I'm not sure if it was male or female. I'm barely sure it was even human."
"I'm almost certain I know who it is." Sonny had rejoined us, looking pale himself. "Grace Sanhope disappeared Friday night. I think she was your weekend visitor."
Chapter 23
The sound of voices outside the window woke me. It took me a minute to remember where I was. Too many strange beds lately. Then I reached out and felt Fargo and remembered. I was at the cottage in the familiar bed, sheets smelling faintly of the fresh lavender Cindy always kept in the linen closet. Home ... or the next thing to it.
Slowly I identified the speakers: Mom, Sonny, Trish . . . then Aunt Mae and Cindy. The family had gathered, I grinned, to support the shell-shocked cub . . . who had slept soundly through most of their rescue mission. I felt much better, I realized, having had a shower and a long nap. It was after six as I got up and doused my face in cold water and swished some Listerine around.
Going out on the deck, I was greeted by hugs and commiserations on my horrible experience. I appreciated them, all of them, and the fact that they cared. As I accepted a beer from Sonny, I couldn't wait. "Well
, was it Grace?"
"Yes. Her grandson Richard came down to ID her. Poor bastard almost fainted. Fortunately we convinced Lillian to wait outside."
"Good. Nobody should have to look at that. Er .. . Sonny . . ." I couldn't think of a casual way to bring up what was bothering me. "Uh, well, those flies .. . my garage ..."
"No flies within a mile. Garage and driveway are all disinfected, hosed down and there's a big fan blowing in the garage to discourage any strays. You're okay."
"Thanks, I think that was the worst of all. But what happened? Did you say she went missing Friday? Was it kidnap?" I lit a cigarette, surely I was still under five for the day ... in a pig's ear.
"She went missing sometime Friday between five and nine p.m. Right now we know very little. We aren't sure whether it was a kidnapping, although no one called or left a note that we know of. It could be she was murdered at home. Or she could have left under her own steam. Her car is missing. There's jewelry and cash missing, lots of jewelry, everything but some really valuable pieces kept in the bank, plus five hundred to a thousand dollars she kept in the jewelry box. And Richard told us that an opal ring she usually wore, was missing from her finger. Strangely, the thief left a gold locket and her diamond wedding ring on her body." He put out his hands in a who knows? gesture.
"Sentiment," Aunt Mae stated firmly. "Whoever did it knows her and respected the sanctity of the ring and emotional importance of the locket."
Trish nodded her approval. "Good point."
"Yeah," Sonny admitted, as he reached across the table for my cigarettes. "And we can use all the points we can get. They didn't report her missing until late Saturday morning, when her maid finally got worried that she hadn't rung for her breakfast and entered her bedroom to find the bed had not been slept in. Frankly, we're still trying to sort out their cars and who was in which one, when."
The Weekend Visitor Page 14
