Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  “Davis. Okay. Good. You got the sister’s number and address? Okay.” He hung up. “The maid’s okay. She was at the Miller house, but she’s going to stay with a sister.” He looked away. “Look, don’t repeat that. Not to, well, not to anybody. I don’t think you’ve murdered two people in the last few weeks. I’m not too sure about anybody else.”

  “Sure.”

  “I, uh, this was great, and I’m sorry that I was so late, but I think I’d better head on home,” Sam said.

  “Sure. I know you must be tired.”

  “Yeah, I am. Uh, thanks for supper. It was nice. Would you like to try it again sometime when I’m not in the middle of a murder?” He checked his gun, a reflex, then collected his holster and jacket. Armed again, he was ready to go.

  “Yeah. That would be nice.”

  He started out but turned back. “Listen, I was serious when I told you to be careful. Don’t open your door to a stranger. Don’t go out at night by yourself. Call your friend. Be real careful.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  This bottle won’t judge me; it won’t criticize;

  It listens to whatever I say.

  This bottle won’t leave me; it won’t break my heart;

  It waits for me here every day.

  You say that you love me;

  I know that it’s true.

  We’ve been through so much for so long.

  You’ve been here beside me;

  You’ve tried hard to save me;

  You’re the best friend that I’ve ever known

  Except for this bottle right here.

  —Jake Miller, “The Best Friend That I’ve Ever Known”

  Monday morning I woke to rain on the skylight, a wonderful sound if only I could stay in bed an extra hour or so. Unfortunately, I had to go to work. I reminded myself to be grateful that I had a job I had to get out of bed for. It almost worked.

  Nashville is a bad town for driving, and bad weather seems to bring out the aggression in us. We drive too fast and too close. I try to leave a little extra space when it rains, but invariably someone cuts in front of me, signaling only after he’s changed lanes to announce his accomplishment instead of his intent and halving the space. That often makes the twenty-five-minute drive twice as long and twice as stressful. So I got to work tense and late with too many messages already in my voice mail.

  It was going to be a long day. I called Doug’s office. He was back but “in a meeting,” so I left a message on his voice mail: “Why would Hazel Miller leave her art collection to Kenneth?” I worked through lunch, wolfing a sandwich at my desk, a pizza sub that Anna brought me when she went out. I made time to call the state health department board’s office. Yes, a Ms. McMillan admitted, her office did oversee health-care workers who had had treatment for substance abuse problems, and no, she could not give me any information on any physician. That information was confidential. Then I had to finalize my group itinerary and get it to the printer. And I wanted to leave work in time to go home and change before I met Randy at Jimmy Kelly’s at seven.

  Doug finally called. “It doesn’t matter why Hazel left Kenneth her art collection, not that there’s much of it. Some people leave their estates to pets. And I can’t talk about it to you anyway because Kenneth’s my client.”

  Brick wall. “Didn’t you tell me that Kenneth doesn’t paint anymore?”

  “Far as I know, but if he does, it’s none of your business.” Doug sounded mad.

  So I didn’t even go into the whole painting-in-the-closet thing.

  I double-checked the hotels where I had blocked space for the art tour, driving times, and menus. I went ahead and included the Smith Logan museum and St. Louis overnight in the itinerary. I decided it might not be a great idea to try to consult with Kenneth Elliott on that museum anymore.

  The house was chilly when I got home; the temperature was definitely dropping. I lit the gas logs in the fireplace and stood in front of it to warm up. I was supposed to meet Randy at Jimmy Kelly’s in an hour, and I wanted to change, wash my face, put on fresh makeup. I wished I had time for a shower, but then my hair would go limp, and I’d have to do something with it. I didn’t have time for that.

  * * *

  In the bathroom, I pulled my hair up into an elastic band and washed my face. The phone rang, but the water was running, so I didn’t hear it in time to catch it. No message: an uncommitted caller. Caller ID showed a number I didn’t recognize, but no name. I put hot rollers in my hair while I applied makeup. It didn’t take long: concealer, blush, a little eye shadow and mascara. I’m blond. If I don’t wear mascara I look like I have no eyelashes. But I didn’t have the time to do much else with my makeup—or my hair, for that matter. I felt thrown together.

  I pulled the curlers out and changed clothes. I thought about a dress, but decided on pants because of the possible snow. Gray slacks, the new gray silk blouse I had just bought at Off 5th, and a pink cashmere sweater. I looked in the mirror. Not bad. Pink’s a good color for my skin. I brushed my hair, found my long, navy wool coat, and headed out. Gloves, I always forget gloves. I went back to the closet and found them. I turned off the gas logs, checked to make sure all the doors were locked, and turned on all the outside lights.

  Outside, I could tell that it had gotten colder, even in the short time I’d been home. I turned on the car radio to hear a weather report. For once, nothing but music, Gary Lewis & the Playboys. I sang along and cranked up the heat.

  I took I-40 to the Church Street exit, then drove out past Baptist Hospital to Elliston Place and right on Louise. It was cold and I was driving alone, so I decided to valet park. Randy was waiting just inside the door.

  “Hey. I’m glad you’re here.” He leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Nice. “It’ll just be a few minutes. Want something to drink?”

  We went into the bar, dark with Southeastern Conference school banners all around, and I had a club soda with lemon and lime. I love Jimmy Kelly’s in the winter. It’s always just a little overheated, probably because it’s an old house and not terribly well insulated. If you sit by a window on a cold night, you can tell. But the atmosphere is warm and comfortable. The food—steaks are the specialty—and service are wonderful but unpretentious. I was thinking of the smaller filet or rib eye and salad with the house Roquefort dressing. I’d been thinking of it all day.

  When our table was ready, we were seated in the front room near the fireplace, just where I like to sit. The rooms are small, and so are the tables. The lights are dim and forgiving, hiding your imperfections as well as those of the old house with its slightly uneven floors and wide wooden banister. It’s a place to talk and linger. I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks. Our waiter, a charming older man in a crisply starched white jacket, knew Randy and treated him like a nephew. He brought out Jimmy Kelly’s signature hot corn cakes with butter. They’re addictive. I was disciplined, pacing myself for what was to come.

  Maybe it was the comfort food; maybe it was the warm fire on a cold night. Maybe it was a really nice man who seemed to like being with me, but I had a great time. It was the first time I’d been with Randy without Stick. We talked and laughed, getting to know each other, and it seemed that the food came too soon. We dawdled over coffee; then, finally, it was getting late and there was no more reason to stay.

  Randy helped me into my coat and kept his arm around my shoulders as we walked down the short brick walk and waited for my car. It was sleeting.

  “I could follow you home,” he offered.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what he was offering.

  “Thanks. That’s sweet, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Be careful. I’ll call to make sure you get home, okay?” He tipped the valet, then, again, kissed my cheek, and closed my car door. I drove away smiling to myself. I’d had a wonderful time with a wonderful man. Then I frowned. So why was I thinking about a lanky, annoying detective, wondering what he was doing tonight?

  Chapter Seventeen<
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  As I drove away from Jimmy Kelly’s, a car pulled out a few spaces back and was behind me on Louise. It was still with me as I turned left onto Church. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had been following me, but I decided I really did have to stop all this amateur detecting. I was beginning to get paranoid. Then I remembered an old saying from the sixties: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  I hadn’t gotten to the interstate when my cell phone rang.

  “Miss Hale?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Franklin Polk.”

  Franklin Polk? How had he gotten my cell-phone number?

  “You’ve been asking a lot of questions, Miss Hale. Questions that have nothing to do with you, of course, but they’re inconvenient for some good people. Let’s meet. I think I can explain things to your satisfaction. Come to my house.”

  I stammered. “I’d like to talk to you, of course, but it’s late and the roads are bad tonight.” If he was willing to talk, maybe I could figure some things out now. “If Hazel Miller resented you so badly, why did she choose you to be the executor of her estate?”

  “Miss Hale.”

  “And was she in the car with Jake in Louisville?”

  “I’m not going to talk with you about anything on the phone. I’m leaving town in the morning,” he said. “I’m afraid this is it. If you have any legitimate interest in this, you can come now. Otherwise, I’d advise you to desist. One of my clients has already mentioned a suit for harassment.”

  Harassment? Who were his clients? I thought he was retired. But if he was leaving town, this might be my only chance for some real answers. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

  He gave an address and hung up.

  I really wanted to be home. The roads were beginning to get slick, and it was already late. I swallowed my fear and took the I-65 fork to the south. It was, after all, a nice, very upscale neighborhood. I wished I had the museum brochure or the note card with me. I’d left them all at home.

  I thought of Doug. Kenneth was his brother, after all. And Doug was my friend.

  I tried Doug’s home number, but there was no answer. I had Doug’s cell-phone number in my phone address book, but I didn’t have it memorized. The roads were too slick for me to look down at the display, and I didn’t think it wise to pull over to the side of a highway in this weather, so I left a message. Of course, that wouldn’t help much if Doug was already asleep or back in Boston or just out for the night.

  “Doug, this is Campbell. I know it’s late, but I really need to talk to you. I won’t ask questions; I’ll just tell you some things I think you need to know. It’s eleven. If you get this message in the next fifteen minutes, would you call me?” I knew he had my cell number, but I left the number anyway. “I’m on my way to Franklin Polk’s house—at his request.” I gave the address on Otter Creek Road. “Thanks.”

  The road was icy. My Spider is usually pretty good in bad weather, but I could feel my tires slip occasionally. The contented glow in which I had left Jimmy Kelly’s was fading quickly. I wanted to be home and warm. And safe.

  Otter Creek Road curves and hugs a steep hill above Radnor Lake, a small lake and park between Granny White Pike and Franklin Road south of downtown. I drove out I-65 to the Harding Place exit and went right to Franklin Road. A couple of miles south, I turned right onto Otter Creek Road and began to climb.

  I was near the address Polk had given me, but it was hard to see. The windows of the houses were all dark, and the houses were set back from the road in treed lots. Great. The constant clicking sound of the sleet hitting my windows punctuated the darkness. I drove slowly, looking for the right number, but not all the addresses were marked at the street. Small numbers on mailboxes were virtually invisible in the dark, the icy glare of sleet blurring them further. The car was finally beginning to get warm, and the windows were fogging.

  The road was too narrow to turn around, and the grade was steep. When I tried to pull to the side a little to orient myself, my headlights hit a bronze plaque on the side of a stone mailbox several yards in front of me. Polk.

  From behind me and uphill, I heard an engine. Suddenly headlights filled my car and reflected in my rearview mirror. I couldn’t see a thing. The guy must have his lights on bright; surely he could see me now.

  The car still came toward me in the middle of the narrow road. I tried to wipe from the inside, but the back window was fogged, too. I decided the driver either couldn’t or wasn’t going to stop in time, so I started downhill, the gears grinding as I shifted, too nervous to do it smoothly. I tried to watch the icy road and the idiot in my mirror at the same time. I was trying to drive carefully on the ice, but he seemed to be coming faster. I speeded up as much as I thought I should under the circumstances, but he kept coming, accelerating faster than I was, gaining on me.

  The Spider was slipping. Black ice. Legendary around here because you couldn’t distinguish it until you started sliding. Like now. Then a dry patch. Traction. For a minute.

  I thought about what my mother would say. I shouldn’t have been out on a night like this. I shouldn’t have been out here by myself. I shouldn’t have been out where no one knew where I was except an idiot out-of-control driver, a guy who had rudely demanded my presence this late on a night with horrible weather, and an answering machine whose owner was probably asleep.

  The car kept coming, and I was driving faster and faster, the Spider slipping and sliding around the icy curves. I was proud of her, but I was terrified. How old were my tires? I should have checked the tread before this kind of weather started. Then I remembered. They were almost brand-new. I’d had them replaced after they were slit. That made me feel better for about half a second. Maybe my slit tires hadn’t been random vandalism.

  Trees loomed briefly in my line of vision at the edge of the shoulderless road. I looked for a driveway I could swing into and get out of the guy’s way, but the few I saw turned too sharply for me to make at this speed.

  The car edged to the left, and I thought, Great, it’s going to pass me. I don’t know how, but it’s going to pass me. I pulled as far as I could to the right to give him as much room as possible, but I couldn’t get too close to the edge at this speed and with these curves.

  Then I realized the idiot wasn’t trying to pass me. And he wasn’t out of control. He was getting closer and trying to run me off the road, down the side of the hill and into the trees and the lake beyond. Was he trying to kill me? He? She? Who was it?

  The sound of the engine penetrated my fear, loud and angry. Why was someone trying to run me off the road? And how could I keep him—her?—from succeeding? Where was that detective who had been around so much lately?

  I pulled back to the middle of the road. I tried to speed up, but he kept coming, trying to force me to the right. Then he hit me. He hit my left rear bumper! The Spider bumped and skidded to the right. I got her back under control inches from a tree and pulled back to the middle of the road. Then he hit me again. I skidded to the right again. A tire spun in mud, but I managed to pull back. I tried going faster, but I was skidding all over the road, sliding across patches of ice. My cell phone started ringing, but there was no way I could answer it.

  How high was this hill anyway? I was just thinking there couldn’t be too much farther to go before the road leveled out when I saw headlights approaching. I was meeting a car, snow chains on, carefully navigating the steep incline. The driver behind me backed off. I kept moving to the bottom of the hill, but he wasn’t following me anymore. I turned right on Granny White, toward town and people.

  I was shaking now but afraid to stop, continuously checking my mirrors to see if anyone was following me. No sign of him. The streets were deserted—except for the cars that had slid into ditches.

  I was afraid to go home. Afraid whoever it was knew where I lived and wasn’t behind me now because he was already on his way there. Waiting for me.

  I dr
eaded calling Detective Davis. He would say he’d told me to stay out of this. So I went to MaryNell’s.

  * * *

  “Campbell! What’s wrong? What are you doing out on a night like this?”

  I was still shaking. I couldn’t answer.

  “Well, get in here! Come on. I’ll fix us some hot tea.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  MaryNell’s husband, Richard, was stretched out on the couch watching basketball. Richard waved as we passed through.

  In the kitchen, MaryNell put water on to boil, pulled mugs from a cabinet and tea bags from a glass container. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re not okay. I can see that for myself. What happened?”

  I took a deep, shuddering breath. “This sounds crazy.” I stopped. It did sound crazy. “I think someone just tried to kill me.”

  MaryNell splashed hot water as she filled the mugs, causing the gas flame on the stove to flare up. She turned to me. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

  I tried to tell her. I started with Franklin Polk’s call. I watched her face change from alarm to indulgence. “Campbell, cars are running, sliding off the road all over town. I’d be the first to tell you to be more careful, but, honey! The roads have turned to ice in the last couple of hours. I know it must have been awful, but the guy probably couldn’t help it. “

  “MaryNell, the guy hit me! He wasn’t even trying to miss me or slow down or go around me. He wanted me to go off the side of that hill!” It was beginning to sound foolish even to me. But I was sure I was right. I was sure he had driven toward me when he could have gone around me. I was positive. I thought.

  “Here. Drink this. You’ll feel better. Put some honey in it.”

  Was I crazy? Was I imagining people were trying to kill me now? I drank my tea, scalding my tongue so it didn’t matter how it tasted. But it brought me back to reality. People didn’t kill people in my world, did they? People had accidents and messed up their cars, especially on nights like tonight. Somewhere some poor guy was probably telling his wife about how his brakes wouldn’t work and he’d almost hit some car, how he’d tried to steer in the other direction but he’d just kept sliding toward the car, relieved at the near miss.…