Different Paths

by Judy Clemens

  I turned on the radio and got the herd in, Queenie nipping at the heels of the slowpokes. I’d put feed in the bowls and turned on the milker when Queenie ran out of the parlor, barking. I looked out, expecting to see Miranda’s Lexus. It wasn’t there. Instead, I saw an unfamiliar Buick LeSabre.

  I glanced down the aisle toward my rifle, where it was hidden behind a beam, and was moving toward it when I recognized the driver. She walked over and stopped in the door of the parlor.

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Tricia?”

  “Hi, Stella. Milking alone?”

  And suddenly it came to me. The shovel. I’d been to Alan and Katherine’s, where I’d taken the mulch and helped scoop it out. I’d left my shovel in the bed of my truck when I left their house, and parked right in front of the flowerbed at the church, where Tricia planted the geraniums. She’d stopped me as I was leaving the church, telling me she’d borrowed something, when Queenie went crazy, barking at the squirrel. I’d never heard what it was she’d borrowed.

  But now I knew.

  “I thought you went home to Lancaster.” I inched toward my rifle, but she matched my steps, coming closer.

  Queenie was tense, watching every move. Confused. But ready.

  I was kicking myself.

  Tricia had every connection the guys had had. Seeing Carla on moving day, knowing what doctors were on the list, visiting my farm when Patty drove the milk truck. The drug dealer at the gym. And most of the attacks were early in the morning. When David would’ve been out running and wouldn’t have noticed she’d left their bed.

  Tricia shrugged. Casual. “We were at home. But you know, when my husband is suspected of murdering someone, it makes me kind of crazy.”

  “He was?”

  She smiled. “Don’t play stupid, Stella. It was your shovel they were testing, after all.”

  Oh.

  “Yes, they told us. Once none of the guys’ fingerprints matched, the cop in Lancaster figured it didn’t matter anymore. Don’t blame him, though. He’s young and dumb.”

  “So you came back? David wanted to talk to the local cops himself?”

  “Oh, David’s not here. He’s in Lancaster, at work. Catching up on the last week of e-mails and office stuff. You know.”

  “Sure.” I held her gaze. “So what is it you want?”

  “What do I want? Now there’s an interesting question. What do I want? The problem is, no matter how I answer that, what I want isn’t going to happen, is it? I’m not going to see my daughters graduate, be at their weddings, grow old with David, or know my grandchildren. And as for the photography or interior design careers Katherine keeps pushing on me, they’re certainly not going to happen, either, are they?”

  So I was right. She really was dying.

  Down the row behind me I heard a cow shift, and a rush of urine hit the floor as she relieved herself. Tricia didn’t bat an eye.

  “So you’re here to…” I left it open-ended.

  For a moment she looked uncertain, but a shake of her head brought her back. “Get closure on some unfinished business.”

  She took a quick couple of steps to the side, grabbing the pitchfork that rested there, and was back at the end of the aisle, giving me no time to lunge for the rifle. She held up her weapon and came my way. I backed between the cows, watching her. With my foot in a cast there was no way I could outrun her, especially with the slippery floor covering left by the cows. I prayed desperately that Nick had gotten my voice mail and was on his way home.

  Queenie growled, a low, menacing sound. Tricia slid her eyes once toward her, but kept her attention on me.

  I held up my hands. “Tricia, think about what you’re doing.”

  “Think? You want me to think? I’m going to die sometime in the very near future, leaving everything important behind me, and you want me to think? About what?”

  “What this will do to your family. You don’t want to end up as a murderer, do you?” Even though she already was one. “Think of how this will affect your daughters.”

  “My daughters already think I’m a dud. At least, Sarah does. She thinks the only women who matter are the ones out doing their own thing. Some important career.”

  “All college kids think they know everything. You know that. They think they have the answer for changing the world. Sometime soon Sarah will look back and see you did the most important job of all when you stayed home to raise her.”

  Tricia shook her head. “Not in time for me to know about it.”

  “She might come around quickly. Especially if you tell her about being sick.”

  Her eyes sparked. “What would you know? You don’t have kids.”

  And never would, the way this was going. “No. But I know kids.”

  “So what? That makes you an expert?” Her nostrils flared, and the point of the pitchfork rose toward my neck. I hoped Queenie wouldn’t scare her now, or that dirty point would come right my way.

  “They’re all important.” Tricia sounded sad.

  “Who?”

  “Those women. You know. The vet, the doctor, the truck driver. They’re all out there getting the glory for their important jobs.”

  “So that’s why you attacked them? Killed Dr. Peterson?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” She sniffed, and wiped at her nose with her sleeve, not letting go of the pitchfork. “It just worked out that way, that they were all women. And I didn’t mean to kill that doctor. She wasn’t supposed to be there. She was supposed to be home. But no, she was working at an ungodly hour of the morning, when normal people are still home sleeping. She surprised me, and I… she wouldn’t help me. David had gone to talk to her about it earlier, try to get her on board with some alternative medicine, and she wouldn’t help him, either. So I…I pushed her. She hit the edge of the table, and…I thought, being a woman, she might see my side of things. Maybe it would’ve been better if it had been her dad.”

  She shook her head slowly. “If only one of them would’ve helped me…” She closed her eyes, but opened them before I could move. “The vet lady, what’s her name?”

  “Carla.”

  “Yeah, well, she didn’t really get a chance to help. I saw her truck when David and I went out for brunch.”

  I remembered Willard asking me about David’s whereabouts on Sunday, when Carla was car-jacked. I’d known he and Tricia didn’t go to church, but mistakenly had thought of Tricia as her husband’s alibi. I’d never considered that he would need to be hers.

  Tricia was still talking. “I recognized the truck from the day before, and knew there were drugs in it. When David went to the bathroom I grabbed his ball cap and slipped out to see if I could open the back of the truck. There could’ve been something helpful.”

  “But there wasn’t.”

  “She came out before I could check, so I took off with the truck.”

  “And when you checked later?”

  “Nothing but Ketamine. I thought that might come in handy later, when I need…sedation.”

  Queenie, in a crouch, slunk toward Tricia, her teeth bared. Tricia made a wild swing toward her with the pitchfork, and Queenie ducked out of the way, pivoting backward, behind Jasmine, who stood completely ignorant of the atmosphere, as did the rest of the herd. The pitchfork was back on me.

  I gestured to the parlor, keeping my movements small. “I don’t have any drugs here. Nothing that would help you, anyway.”

  She gave a short laugh. “Do you think being sick has made me ignorant? I know that.”

  “Then why—”

  “You’re the only one who can connect me to the shovel. No one else knows my fingerprints are on it, except that stupid Dorie woman at the church, and she doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on, does she? About my illness or the steroids or anything. No one did, until you opened your big mouth.”

  “I would’ve thought you’d tell Katherine yourself, since she’s also at risk from yo
ur mother taking DES.”

  She waved the pitchfork. “This cancer is rare. There’s no way she’d get it, too.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You had no right—”

  The phone split the air with its shrill jangling. Tricia jerked the pitchfork upward. “They’ll just have to leave a message.”

  “No problem.”

  I wondered who it was. Nick? Willard? A telemarketer who had no idea what she was interrupting?

  Queenie was peeking out from between Jasmine’s legs, her eyes trained on the pitchfork. If the tool made any movement toward me, Queenie would be on it in a heartbeat. I had to hope she would get the handle in her teeth, and not the tines in her face.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  “One question, Tricia.”

  She twisted the fork in answer.

  “If you’re the one who took Carla’s truck, who was the guy in Green Lane? The hitchhiker?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea. An angel sent to confuse the authorities?”

  “But he was wearing a ball cap.”

  “As do millions of other people.” She grinned. “And I wouldn’t abuse the Phillies that way. David’s hat was for a minor league team from Ohio.”

  Oh, much better.

  “Anyway, David saw me take off in the truck and followed me with our car. Picked me up after I crashed the truck into the side of that building. No one even thought about looking for a woman. The public service announcements on the radio were only asking about men.”

  “Because Carla was sure her attacker was a guy.”

  “She was sure?”

  I thought back. We’d always assumed it was a man, because Carla had assumed it. Babs was certain the person at the gym had been a guy, and I’d put it down to the same attacker. But Carla had said only that the person who stole her truck was tall, with a ball cap. That she’d gotten the impression it was a man.

  “Why didn’t your family realize you were gone the morning you killed Dr. Peterson?”

  She smiled weakly. “David was out running. The rest were still sleeping. Alan and Katherine have never been early risers, and the kids…well, you know how they are.”

  “But David knew?”

  “He got home before I did. And when he saw me…he knew something had happened. I told him.” She blinked hard, like she was trying to keep focused. “It was…he had a hard time with that.”

  “Did he have a hard time with Katherine’s office, too?”

  Tricia swallowed. “That was…I was just so angry. No one would help me. Mom took that drug and I’m the one who got sick. Katherine has her perfect life with her perfect family. Her perfect, meaningful career.”

  Perfect, if you consider the teen-age son who hates your guts, and the people who think you’re going against God’s will.

  “And the milk truck? Why vandalize that? There weren’t any drugs there.”

  Tricia’s eyes flicked to the side, and back. “That was just…that woman was so happy. Had that beautiful little girl, the rest of her life ahead of her…”

  Rapunzel, standing next to Tricia, raised her tail, and Tricia followed my eyes. It took only a split second for her to realize what was about to happen, and only a moment longer for Rapunzel to do her thing. Tricia raised her arms to her face as she spun away, and I lunged toward her, my face to the side to avoid the tines of the pitchfork. My hands found the handle as we crashed to the ground in the gush of urine, my elbow hitting the cement at the same time Tricia’s head made a hollow, smacking sound. She looked up at me, her eyes glazed, and shook her head, frantically trying to clear it.

  I blinked, trying to ease the sting of the ammonia in my eyes, and pulled the pitchfork from Tricia’s hands, throwing it to the side. She used that moment to go for my face with her nails. Grabbing her hand, I pushed it toward the floor while she kicked and squirmed, doing her best to wrench her other hand from my grasp.

  Queenie danced around us, whining and barking, unsure what she should do, waiting for an opening. Tricia’s arms and legs were so entwined with mine Queenie didn’t have much chance of seeing which part belonged to who.

  “Stop, Tricia,” I screamed. “Just stop!”

  She made a growling sound and flung herself sideways, pulling me over, my shoulder smashing onto the floor, sending shots of pain through my back. She scooted off of me, scrabbling toward the pitchfork. I turned over and crawled frantically down the aisle toward my rifle while Queenie snarled and held Tricia away from her weapon of choice.

  I reached the rifle and grabbed it, using the wall as leverage to get on my feet, and swung around just as Tricia made a final lunge toward the pitchfork. I held the rifle steadily, pointed right at her heart as she leaped upright.

  “Drop it, Tricia.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Drop it.”

  We stood, eyes locked, weapons pointed toward each other. A symphony played on the radio, melodic and aching, the strings crying out. The cows stood quietly, eating, drinking, waiting for their full udders to be relieved. Queenie, knowing a stalemate when she saw one, hunkered down in my sightlines to wait for an opening or an order.

  A bead of sweat rolled from my head and down my back, and I blinked away what dripped into my eyes. Tricia didn’t move except to breathe, her chest heaving with the effort to calm herself. The air around us hung heavy and still, seeping into my bones as I waited for whatever came next.

  Queenie’s head jerked up, and her ears rose to points.

  My eyes darted to hers. “Go, Queenie.”

  She jumped up and ran outside.

  “It’s over, Tricia.”

  Her face twitched as she held up the pitchfork.

  I took a step closer. “Put it down. Please.”

  “Stella, you still have things to lose. What do I have anymore?”

  “Stella?” It was Nick, in the doorway.

  Tricia’s eyes pleaded with me, but she didn’t relax her stance. I really didn’t want to shoot her, but one quick thrust from her, and I’d be skewered.

  “Nick,” I said. “Why don’t you go call the cops.”

  Tricia whimpered. “Please don’t, Stella. Please don’t do that.”

  “But Tricia. You’re not giving me much of a choice.”

  The fire grew in her eyes. “You had choices. You had them and you chose to turn me in. That’s why I can’t let you get away with any more!” She poised herself, ready to launch the pitchfork at my face.

  And Miranda snuck up behind her, and hit her over the head with a shovel.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The ambulance showed up with the cops and carried Tricia away. It took them only a few seconds to snip off the cable ties we had locked around her wrists and ankles. I wasn’t taking any chances—when she woke up I wanted her trussed up good and tight. She’d shown that even being sick she had the strength of a healthy woman, and if Doug trusted cable ties to protect his milk truck from saboteurs, I’d trust them to keep a crazy woman from impaling me with a pitchfork.

  The paramedics wanted to take me away, too, but I wasn’t about to go anywhere. My elbow and shoulder were sore, and they’d probably turn stiff and ugly by the next morning, but I hadn’t suffered anything time couldn’t heal. Tricia would have a good-sized lump on her head, with a headache to match, but Miranda’s not so strong she did any permanent damage.

  At least, permanent for as long as Tricia had left.

  I called Meadows, my new best friend, and he got to the scene before the ambulance left, rolling Tricia’s prints right there on her stretcher once the paramedics got her situated. This time I was sure he would get a match with the prints on the shovel. It was over. But for Tricia’s family, it was just starting.

  Meadows needed to process the scene, since violence did occur, and he did his best to work around the cows, who were finally in the process of being milked. Lucy had rushed
over as soon as Nick called, assuring me Lenny and Tess would forgive her for missing this family night out. Meadows took my pitchfork, but left my rifle with me, seeing how it hadn’t been fired and no one was sporting any bullet holes.

  Willard had shown up soon after Meadows, dressed casually for the birthday party, and followed Nick, Miranda, and me into the house, where I told my story, the other two filling in details of the last few minutes in the barn. Thank God they’d gotten my voice mail and had immediately come home, leaving their dinners on the table. Miranda was still a bit unnerved, but was feeling pretty proud of herself, too, the way she’d crept up on Tricia and taken her out.

  During the interview Willard never once rubbed it in that he’d been right all along—that it had been about the drugs, not about the women. The signs Tricia had made for Dr. Peterson and Katherine had been misleading. She really was mad that they were women, and that they weren’t on “her side.” But that hadn’t been the impetus for the attacks, no matter how the signs had made it look.

  Willard listened quietly while we talked, and wrote his notes with the pencil he pulled from his pocket. He didn’t bounce it, chew on it, or toss it in the air. Willard, my good buddy, had been shaken.

  When he finally left, squeezing my sore shoulders in a bear hug—despite the urine smell—and asking me to please stay home and not get into anymore trouble, ever, I stood in the middle of my living room, Nick and Miranda watching me.

  “I think,” I said, “that I need to take a long, hot shower.”

  So I did.

  ***

  The bonfire out back was blazing, and a pot of sausage and vegetables sat in the midst of it, the smell beginning to filter through the air, taking my salivary glands into overdrive. The past three days had been crammed with filling out police reports, fending off TV interviews, and attending Dr. Peterson’s viewing and funeral, where her husband had stood stoically, patting my back, as I’d cried on his shoulder. Katherine called once to apologize for her family’s violent intrusion into my life, and while I’d said I didn’t blame her, I hadn’t heard from her since. The last news I’d had from Ma was that Katherine was going to stick around, her congregation not willing to kick her out for her sister’s sins. How very progressive of them.