When the same bored Fulton County desk sergeant came on the line, Maggie was brief. "Look, this is Margaret Newberry again--"
"Detectives Burton and Kazmaroff are not in, Miss Newberry. They have not seen your messages--"
"Do they call in for their messages from time to time, I wonder?"
"I will deliver your messages to them as soon as--"
"Look, forget it. I have a new message."
There was an audible sigh on the other line.
"Shoot," he said.
"Tell Burton this," Maggie licked her lips and watched the traveler's parade by her--nasty raincoats and broken-down umbrellas, patched-together satchels accented by the wicked slickness of leather micro-skirts and peeled-back hairlines. "Tell him the key is Gerry Parker. You got that?" Maggie turned away from the stream of airport travelers and faced the phone box. "All the victims are connected to him. Tell Burton that Maggie said 'Stump did it'."
4
A haphazardly taped flap of the box that held every piece of her wedding china began to slowly curl up as if repelled by its own adhesive powers. Darla watched it from the kitchen table where she was in the process of packing another box. She made a mental note to repair it later and turned back to the box on the table in front of her. Carefully, she placed a ten-inch ceramic Madonna-and-child, which she and Gerry had found on their honeymoon nine years ago, in a nest of tissue and newspaper. The Madonna's head was cocked as if questioning her. Are you really going through with this? it seemed to ask. Darla tried to imagine this box, with its fragile, hidden prize, in the bowels of some rusting tramp steamer making its tedious, laborious way across the Pacific Ocean, past atolls, uninhabited islands, radiation-cooked archipelagos, and ancient shipwrecks to the lonely little apostrophe of a country in the middle of the sea, at the bottom of the world. She looked around her kitchen and saw the boxes stacked against the counters, crowding the butcher's block table, obstructing nearly every passageway to and from the kitchen--normally the room with the highest traffic in the house.
Darla's kitchen--warm and country with its wooden spoons on the walls and beribboned, macraméd potholders--had been where the family congregrated for "comfort foods", for standing around and talking about what happened in school, at work. There was always a pot of coffee bubbling, a freshly-iced layer cake on the counter, the lovely, lilting aroma of something delicious just removed from the oven.
Gerry had even cleared the refrigerator of magnets.
The house was quiet this afternoon. Darla had allowed Haley to spend the night with a friend although she had been tempted to keep her daughter home for company. But the weeks were racing away when Haley would still be able to see her friends and Darla couldn't deny her much during these last hard weeks before the move.
"Your father and I would move without batting an eyelash." Her mother, the stereotypical Army wife, had called earlier in the day to see how the packing was coming. As Darla had expected, her mother could see no reason for Darla's reluctance, let alone resistance, to the idea of moving. "Guam, Germany, California..."
"I know, Mom, I know," Darla had argued, "but you and Dad did your moving before we kids were born."
"So? We certainly didn't plan it that way. The service won't let you, you know. You go when and where they tell you to go. And Gerry needs to do this for his career, and you, as a good--"
"It's not for his career, Mom!" Darla had wanted to rip the phone out of the wall. Was everyone ready to see her in a covered wagon, forging ahead to some primitive new land...at the bottom of the world? "He doesn't even have a job down there. He's just doing it out of fear."
"Darla, I don't like to hear you talk like that. A wife should support her husband. Not snipe behind his back, dear."
Darla wanted to weep, and she had already done plenty of that. She shoved another empty box onto the kitchen table and began rummaging around for more newspaper. Some days she thought she could really make it work, could stop fighting with Gerry about it and just get in step with him. Other days, she cried.
5
Maggie sat with her airline seat tray half-open and propped up against her knees, gazing blankly at the flight attendant as he methodically inflated life saver vests and indicated where to access oxygen masks.
It was pretty clear that Elise had died in Maggie's place. Mistaken identity had never occurred to her. To believe that some low-life scumball would want to kill her druggie sister was more acceptable than to believe that it had been Maggie all along that the killer had been after. Totally besotted with Gerry, Patti Stump had killed, or tried to kill, all women close to him.
Maggie tugged on her seat belt, although it was already fastened and tightened, and glanced at her seatmate. He looked a businessman. She was surprised that someone would travel transatlantic in a suit and tie. He smiled at her pleasantly and she returned the smile.
How many times had Patti seen Gerry smile jovially at Dierdre? Or seen him ask Dierds with real animation and pleasure how her weekend was? How many times did Patti watch Gerry laugh at one of Dierdre's silly--usually unintended--jokes, all the while plotting to kill her? Maggie shivered. The bitch had meant to kill Maggie as well.
She had killed Elise. She had wiped out Maggie’s only sister.
A flush of rage seared through Maggie at the thought. She tried to remember Stump's reaction the next day at work after Elise had died. All she could picture was the woman, in her psychedelic glad-rags sitting at the conference room table and tapping an impatient fountain pen against her spiral notebook. It was Stump who had run into Alfie in the apartment hall and ridiculed him. Stump had made the obscene phone call, and the threatening note. It was Stump who had attacked Maggie in the woods. When Maggie thought of the condolence card Patti had signed for Elise, she wanted to rip the woman's face from her skull.
"You okay?" Her seating companion cocked his head at her and smiled slightly. "Are you a little nervous about the flight?"
Maggie took a deep breath and nodded affirmatively. "Yes, I guess so," she lied. How else to explain the fact that she couldn't sit still and wanted to run up to the cockpit and jam her foot on the accelerator pedal? Get this crate moving!
"The statistics are in our favor, you know." He had a pleasant, English accent, and Maggie found herself wondering, for a moment, what his business in America might be. He vaguely reminded her of Roger.
"Although I know that's little comfort where hysteria's involved." He raised his hand as if to pat hers and then thought better of it. "We're quite safe, though, I must say. I shouldn't worry."
"Yeah, I know." She smiled at him. "Thanks."
"The drinkie's cart will put you right," her companion said affably, and Maggie nodded, then turned her head away.
All this time, sharing office space with the woman who murdered Elise--who would've murdered me as well if she could have. When her next thought hit her, it occurred so abruptly and with such certainty that she jerked upright against her seatbelt and gave out a sharp gasp that prompted her seatmate to wrap his hand around her wrist. And although she could hear him making soothing noises to her, she understood nothing of what he said.
My God, she thought, gripping the armrests.
Darla...
6
Jack Burton tossed the chalk lightly in his hand and stared at the blackboard facing his desk. He was tired and edgy and craving a ciGertte. This case felt like it was unraveling at his feet but with nothing at the end of the string.
Kazmaroff hit the door solidly with the palms of both hands as he walked through it and Burton jumped. Jerk-off! he thought, angrily. He's trying to rattle me.
"So, you gonna answer her messages?" Kazmaroff said as he settled himself, noisily, in his desk chair. He walked the chair out from behind his desk, the wheels squeaking annoyingly as he did so, until he too was facing the blackboard. "Still nothing, huh?" He nodded at the board.
"Unless you've thought of something between here and the can." Burton sneered.
"No, can't say that I have."
"And no, I am not calling Paris, France, if that's what you're asking."
"She's not in Paris now."
"Or wherever the hell she is."
"I imagine she's en route."
'En route?' Jack wanted to stuff the large stick of chalk down the smug bastard's mouth. 'En route?'
"I'm not calling her airplane, Dave," he said wearily, tossing the chalk onto the blackboard tray and returning to his desk.
"Well, then, what about this Stump business, huh?"
Jack tried to think if he knew any other adults who said "huh" the way Kazmaroff did. He leaned against the corner of his desk and watched both his partner and the blackboard.
"You tell me," he said.
"I think she's crazy," Kazmaroff said flatly, flicking a blond hair from his burgundy Gap blazer. "I think she's got some idea that she's a detective, like, you know...I don't know, Nancy Drew or something, and she's pulled together a story in her own mind that takes care of someone at her office she doesn't get on with. That's what I think."
"Have we questioned Patricia Stump?"
"We questioned everyone, Jack, right after the secretary got killed."
"The secretary didn't get killed. It was the traffic manager." Jack watched Kazmaroff closely.
Kazmaroff seemed to be inspecting his nails. "Yeah, okay, whatever," he said. And...wait a minute, which one's Stump, anyway?""
"Christ..."
"No, now, give me a minute." Dave jumped up and sorted through the pile of file folders scattered across his desk.
"You don't even know who you talked to?" Burton felt both pleased and disgusted at the way this conversation was evolving.
"Listen, I talk to a dozen people a day, give me a break, okay? Oh, yeah, hey that's interesting."
"What?" Burton forced himself not to go and look over the bastard's shoulder. "What does it say, man?"
Kazmaroff scrutinized the file folder contents. "I guess we didn't talk to her," he said.
"What?"
Kazmaroff cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably from his left foot to his right. "Well, she wasn't available the day we hit most of 'em at the office and when we went to the memorial service, she said she couldn't talk. Said she was too broken up, you know?"
Burton stared at him. "So we never got back to her?" he asked, finally.
Kazmaroff scratched his neck and continued to look at the file. "Doesn't look like it."
"I see. Perhaps we should talk to her now." Burton decided he felt a little better. Kazmaroff was actually reddening and Burton thought he could see a bare hint of sweat forming on his upper lip.
Dave was already dialing the phone.
"And perhaps a few of the others in the office?" Oh, yes, Jack was feeling much better now. "Why don't we give them a jingle and ask them about Miss Stump? Think we could do that, Dave?"
Kazmaroff wasn't looking at Burton, but concentrating on staring at the front of the blank file folder while he waited for a pick-up on the other end of the line.
"No answer," he muttered, still holding the phone.
"Call the others, Dave." Burton walked over to the blackboard and picked up the piece of chalk again. He heard Kazmaroff hang up and dial again and then begin speaking. Jack wrote at the top of the board: "Gerry Parker." Under that he wrote: "Maggie's sister, agency employee" He tapped the last name lightly with the tip of his chalk. What's the connection here? Carefully, he drew lines from all three categories and connected them with the circle he was drawing around Gerry's name. Coincidences can solve cases, he thought, still looking at Dierdre’s name.
"Okay, thanks, a lot, no, you've been a big help. We'll let you know."
Kazmaroff hung up the phone.
"Jack..." Kazmaroff clutched a small notebook in his hand and massaged it restlessly with his fingers.
Burton turned and looked at him. "You found out something?" he asked.
"I talked to a guy, Pokey Lane," Kazmaroff said quickly. "He's the art director at Selby and Parkers."
"Yeah, okay, so?"
"Lane said it was common knowledge that Patti Stump was in love with Parker."
7
Maggie dialed in her international credit card number on the airplane phone and then Gerry and Darla's number. She heard the busy signal and a wave of almost unbearable frustration came over her. She quickly hung up the phone and dialed a different number. The seconds were long and painful as she waited for Brownie to answer. She watched the wobbling backside of her irate businessman as he waddled down the airplane's center aisle. Please be home, Brownie. I can't think of anyone else who can help me now.
The phone rang on the other end. The answering machine did not even pick up. After ten rings, Maggie hung up and dialed Gerry’s house again. This time the phone rang but there was no answer.
She hung up and placed her head down on the tray in front of her.
"Miss?"
She turned to see a stern-faced flight attendant standing before her.
“All trays in their upright position for take-off, please,” she said.
8
Darla flicked off the television remote control and sat on the couch trying to savor the stillness of the house. It was no use. She missed her family. Her home felt strange and unfamiliar now, with boxes filling every room, obstructing every hallway. Already-packed pictures and photos left blank, uncomprehending walls where reassuring loved ones had stared down at her.
She considered calling her mother again but decided against it. The only thing on her mind tonight was the one thing that was bound to start another parental lecture. And she wasn't in the mood for it.
Getting up slowly from the couch, Darla pulled her cotton cardigan around her and slipped on her flat ballet shoes to pad into the kitchen and make a bowl of popcorn for dinner. She wondered why Gerry hadn't called yet. He had, she assumed, been in the hotel by now for hours. Sighing as she reached for the microwave popcorn packet, she had to admit that she hadn't exactly been acting like the kind of loving, understanding wife a husband would want to call. She braced herself against the urge to feel sorry for her current loneliness and tossed the popcorn bag into the microwave. She set the oven timer and stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
Moving away from a job she liked, from a school for Haley she was satisfied with, from friends she'd known since childhood, from a city she loved, and from family right around the corner. Moving away from a lifetime of comfort and familiarity to a land at the bottom of the world. A place that saluted a queen, not a president, that drank tea--but never iced, that revered windsurfing over tennis. A place she had never expected to visit, much less live.
The sound of the bell on the microwave ripped into her indulgent mood and she jumped a little. Must be spooked, she thought, mildly amused with herself. She had packed all the bowls already, so she just opened the steaming popcorn bag and ate a handful standing up in the kitchen.
What in the world is my life going to be like in Auckland, New Zealand? she wondered sadly. The dark windows of the kitchen reflected her own image back at her. Through them, she could see the bare branches of the trees behind her house, as they swayed gently, wickedly in the blackened windows.
Suddenly, she heard a different sound. Not a quiet creaking sound of the house settling down for the night, or a gentle whistling sound of the wind spinning leaves against the siding. Darla heard a crunching sound that shouldn't be. A sound of slow furtiveness. A sound from within the house.
Chapter 21
1
Gerry rotated his neck slowly, trying to work the strain out of his shoulders. He sat propped up on his Best Western double bed, fully clothed except for his shoes. He had arrived in Savannah nearly an hour ago and had gone immediately to bed for a brief nap--something he rarely did at home. The stress must be getting to me, he thought as he massaged his neck with inexpert, blunt fingers.
He had debated calling Darla as soon as he arrived but had decided a
gainst it. The seven hour drive had afforded him a peaceful respite that he wasn't willing to relinquish just yet. No sullen stares or recalcitrant answers in response to perfectly normal, even friendly, questions. Just a seven-hour stretch of road and radio. He wasn't willing to stir the numbness of his mind right now with the guilt and silent accusations Darla would certainly feel obliged to dish up over the phone.
Needless to say, he thought with a sigh, the frequency of sexual episodes had been a little low lately. He looked at the phone again. Soon enough to call her after he'd had dinner with the prospective buyer, he thought. If all went well, he'd be in a good mood and better armored to endure her unhappiness. He got up from the bed to put on a clean shirt.
2
Had these events always been on a collision course? Since when? Since Elise came back? Since Nicole was born? Since Elise was born? Maggie lifted the gin and tonic to her lips and smiled politely at her seatmate. He'd insisted on buying the drink for her. They were approaching Atlanta. Things could finally start to happen now once she got down. She pulled out the flight magazine and flipped through its well-flipped pages, not really seeing the pictures and advertisements. She found it impossible to concentrate on anything but the slow passage of time until the plane landed.
So, Elise hadn't died because of Gerard or because of a wicked, dirty part of Paris, or even because of drugs. She had died because of a sickness in her own, native country. And what about Nicole? The damaged, little waif belonging to no one? What's to become of her? Maggie thought of her parents experiencing one more loss, one more bone-crushing disappointment, and she took a long gulp of her drink.
"Plenty more where that came from." Her seatmate smiled over at her.
"You've been very nice to me," Maggie said.
"Ah, well, I've had a nervous flight here and there, myself."
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 29
