Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8)

by P. M. Carlson

  Clint’s hand on her arm helped Rina. She went on levelly, “We talked for a minute, and she decided to go out for a while. She took the cat with her.”

  “Before Mr. Spencer left?”

  “Oh, yes. It was barely four-thirty. She said she was going to the library.”

  Carmody glanced at Trainer, whose gaze sharpened as he said, “I see. With the cat, you said?”

  “She’s made a sort of carrier for him, from her backpack. With the flap down no one can see him.”

  “Okay. And when did she return?”

  “Well, she’s not back yet,” admitted Rina.

  “In fact, when we arrived, you were afraid something had happened to her?”

  “I was getting worried. I expected her back an hour ago.”

  “Does she often return later than expected?”

  “Not often. Sometimes.”

  “Well, we would like to talk to your daughter when she gets back.” He turned back to Mamma. “You mentioned Miss Marshall’s boyfriend.”

  Mamma’s nostrils flared. “Boyfriend! He’s more of an animal than that cat! That girl’s life is going right down the toilet because of him!”

  “Now, Mamma, don’t exaggerate,” said Rina. “He’s just a high-spirited boy.” Not strictly true. Hadn’t she been upset enough herself today to vow that he wouldn’t set foot in this house again?

  “Buck is rude,” said Mamma bluntly. “And he was drunk. And he bumped into Mr. Spencer. I don’t know what Ginny sees in him! Not that she wasn’t yelling at Mr. Spencer too. Poor man. What a visit!”

  “This boy had an argument with Mr. Spencer too?”

  Rina said hastily, “Buck came to see Ginny. I told him she’d gone to the library, and he left right away to look for her.”

  “Buck. Last name?”

  “Landon. He lives over on Monroe Boulevard. Dr. Landon’s son.”

  “What happened between him and Mr. Spencer?”

  Rina noticed that her hands were clenched together. She relaxed them and said, “It was just an accident.”

  “Accident!” snorted Mamma. “Being drunk is an accident?”

  “Rina, is that right? Buck was drunk?” Clint demanded.

  “He didn’t mean to bump him!” Rina said, evading his question. “Mamma’s friends were all down in the entry hall, saying good-bye, when he got here. Mamma opened the door. She told him Ginny was gone, but he wanted to see for himself, and went to look in Ginny’s room.”

  “Pushed right in like I was the doormat!” said Mamma.

  “He forced his way in?” asked Clint.

  “Sir, please let us ask the questions,” said Sergeant Trainer mildly. Clint nodded and subsided into a glower. The sergeant turned back to Rina. “You saw him, then, Mrs. Marshall?”

  “Yes, I’d come into the bedroom hall when the doorbell rang.”

  “And he was drunk?”

  “Definitely!” said Mamma, and Rina nodded slowly. Better for Ginny if her boyfriend was reported drunk instead of high on ludes. So high he couldn’t walk straight, or talk without slurring his words. Seeing him, Rina had resolved not to let the boy in the house again. There was no way to stop Ginny from seeing him at school, and she certainly didn’t want to turn him into some kind of romantic martyr in her daughter’s eyes. But it was important to underline her disapproval, somehow. Not that Buck had been unpleasant. He had smiled good-naturedly at Ginny’s empty room, then turned back and launched himself toward the front door. He would have gotten there all right, lurching a little maybe, if Mr. Spencer hadn’t inadvertently stepped into his way.

  Clint was still frowning.

  Rina said, “He was a little unsteady, and he did bump into Mr. Spencer. But he was perfectly friendly.”

  “There was no argument?” Trainer pursued.

  “Well, Mamma and Mr. Spencer both spoke to him sharply. As though he was a little boy. At that age, you know, it can be very irritating.”

  “Well, he was acting like a little boy!” exclaimed Mamma indignantly. “What do you expect me to do, compliment him? He was the one bumping into people! And his big mouth! He told us to watchour step! Well, Mr. Spencer naturally told him to mind his tongue. Wouldn’t you, Sergeant Trainer?”

  Trainer didn’t respond except to ask, “Were those Mr. Spencer’s exact words? ‘Mind your tongue?’”

  “Pretty much.”

  Rina nodded agreement. “He said, ‘They tell me your father is Dr. Landon. Fine man. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you behaving this way. You must mind your tongue.’”

  “And what did this Buck Landon say?”

  Rina remembered the flicker of unease that disrupted Buck’s happy expression, but before she could comment, her mother was answering the sergeant. “He said, ‘I’ll mind mine and you mind yours,’ and then threw back his head and laughed as though he thought he was the world’s biggest comedian.” Mamma sniffed. “He’s the world’s biggest mouth, that’s what he is.”

  “Is he a violent boy? Impulsive?” asked Trainer.

  “No,” said Rina hastily, before Mamma could answer. “He’s active. On the football team, that sort of thing. But just a normal boisterous boy, not violent. And he was very—drunk.” She heard an almost inaudible snort from Clint beside her.

  “Okay. And after his joke about minding his tongue, he left to look for your daughter in the library?”

  “That was my impression, yes,” said Rina.

  “Do you know if he found her?”

  “I don’t know. But his mother called here an hour ago asking for him. Maybe she saw them together.”

  Sergeant Trainer rubbed his burlappy chin. “But your daughter isn’t back yet.”

  “Not yet,” said Rina. She tried to stop squeezing the arms of her chair.

  “Did Mr. Spencer say anything about his plans for the evening?”

  Mamma said, “Delores and I were talking about a movie that’s going to be on TV tonight. He said he might watch it too.”

  “That’s right, I remember,” said Rina. “And Mrs. Deaver said she wanted to watch it too, but she’d have to hurry because she had to go to Eastland to pick up some groceries first. And then they all left.”

  “Did Mrs. Gallagher drive Mr. Spencer home?”

  “Yes. Her apartment isn’t far from his street.”

  “And after that? What did you all do?”

  “Us?” Rina was surprised at the question. “We straightened up. Put away the card table. Then Mamma went out to buy dinner.”

  “That’s right,” said Mamma. “And some tuna for tomorrow.” Mamma still observed meatless Fridays, no matter what the Vatican said. “I got back about six-thirty, and Clint a couple of minutes later.”

  Clint, still leaning back in his chair, said, “Sergeant Trainer, you’re very interested in where we were. Was Mr. Spencer killed near here?”

  Trainer hesitated, then said, “Well, I suppose you’ll see it on TV tonight. The body was found three blocks away. Just outside the public library.”

  “Library!” The word rang like a gong in Rina’s frightened ears. “But that’s where Ginny was!”

  “Yes, ma’am. A lot of people were there,” said Trainer soothingly.

  “But she might have—” She stopped, half out of her chair. Clint’s hand was on her arm, restraining her.

  “A lot of people were there, Rina,” he said gently. “But you can see why Sergeant Trainer wants to talk to her.”

  Mamma’s forehead was pleated in confusion. “But John Spencer went home with Delores!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Now, can you think of anything else that might tell us something about his death?”

  They all looked at each other. Rina remained silent, and Mamma said, “I can’t think of anything else. I can’t believe this!”

  “Well, call us if anything occurs to you.” Trainer stood, and Carmody followed suit, pocketing his little notebook. “Please tell your daughter to contact us when she gets back.”

  “All right
, Sergeant Trainer.” Clint showed them to the door.

  Mamma hurried downstairs to her own telephone to tell Marie and Delores the incredible news, but Rina remained in her chair, leaning forward, hands clasped, studying the shaggy hearth rug without seeing it. A killer at the library! Oh, God, Ginny, please be all right!

  Buck had gone to the library too. Maybe she’d left with him and would be back soon. He was a strapping boy, he’d protect her.

  If he wasn’t stoned.

  Clint came striding back up the stairs. “That does it, Rina! She’s got to stop seeing that Landon kid!”

  “Clint! Her life is in danger, and you’re worried about Buck?”

  “Her life?” He looked at her in astonishment, then picked up her hand in his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Oh, God, Rina, don’t frighten yourself! There were a lot of people there when Ginny was. Muggers look for people who are alone. That poor old man! No, I agree with your mother. Ginny’s problem is that no-good boyfriend of hers.”

  Rina held his hand gratefully. Maybe Clint was right, maybe Ginny wasn’t alone at the library. Buck had been looking for her. Though that was a problem too. “About Buck. We can keep him out of the house, Clint, and I will. But we can’t stop her from seeing him.”

  “Why not? We could take away—oh, hell.” Clint ran a hand angrily through his hair. “You’re right, Rina, we can’t lock her up. But it’s so damn frustrating! We can’t let her throw away her life like this. There must be an answer somewhere!”

  “I guess we could change her to another school.”

  “Oh, they’d defy us.” Clint gloomed. “Meet in secret.”

  “I know.” Rina was glad he understood. “They’d think they were Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Anyway, we’ve already got her in the so-called best school in the area! Well, she’s not stupid. We’ll just have to hope she comes to her senses.” Clint stamped across to his chair and hid behind the Washington Post.

  “Yes, she’ll settle down soon,” Rina murmured to the newspaper.

  Still, she worried. Poor Mr. Spencer. She knew him so slightly. His death shocked her without quite seeming real. Ginny’s problems, on the other hand, were vivid. She’d been at the library with a killer loose! And Buck, on drugs, what kind of company did he keep? Her daughter was not a drug user, not really, not often. Ginny was confused right now, maybe, but weren’t most teenagers confused?

  But then Rina hurried to the phone to try to call Buck and Ginny’s other friends. She had to find her. Because another frightening thought had suddenly surfaced. Muggers wanted money. And Ginny might have some. Rina had glanced through their strongbox as she put it away. The papers were there, the wills, the medical records from Dr. Panolous, the agency letter from Mrs. Farnham, the passports they’d used for the Mexican vacation, the insurance.

  But Ginny’s bankbook, the one she could sign for herself, was gone.

  Friday

  September 14, 1979

  III

  Nick O’Connor’s shoes gurgled as he crossed Flatbush Avenue. The rain had begun in earnest before he’d caught the bus at La Guardia, and by now was streaming down here in Brooklyn. You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout till you have drench’d our steeples. He hoped Julia’s flight wouldn’t be delayed. His neighbor was on her way to Seattle to take part in a children’s book conference at the University of Washington, and to see her daughter. It would be a shame if the weather interfered. Well, Julia could take it, she was as tough as they came. It had been all he could do to get her to consent to his help getting her suitcases to the airport.

  Horrendous rain. He adjusted the cap on his bald head and huddled into his raincoat, turning from Flatbush to hurry down Eighth Avenue to Garfield. The young trees on his block shimmered behind gauzy veils of rain. Nick ran up the steps of the brownstone to his front door, fumbling for his keys. The rain was relentless, and the stoop offered little shelter from the wind-driven gusts. Poor Nick’s a-cold.

  He had the key in the lock when he became aware that someone had been waiting, had climbed the steps behind him. He glanced around in mild surprise and found himself gazing into a pair of blue eyes.

  It was like being slammed by a baseball bat.

  She was young, still in her teens, and very wet. Rain dribbled off her black fedora, down long strands of black hair, down the folds of a poncho. She stood stiffly, almost belligerently, and he realized she was frightened and struggling to be dignified. She said, “Please, does Margaret Mary Ryan live here?”

  For a wild instant Nick wanted to say no, to send her away, to banish this disturbing person from his life before the inevitable trouble followed. But he knew that the forces at work here could not be denied. He said politely, “She should be back soon. Would you like to come in and wait?”

  She leaned dizzily against the stone balustrade, blinking, as though she hadn’t really expected this answer. She said, “Yes, please.”

  They went together into the hall, and he took her streaming hat and poncho and hung them with his raincoat on the brass coat tree. She was wearing jeans, a flame-red cabled sweater, a man’s black vest, and she held a backpack in her arms. There was a faint stench about her, as though she’d been sick, but she looked healthy enough, surveying every detail of the hall with fascination. He rubbed his wet hands on his jeans and said, “I’m Nick O’Connor.”

  Those amazing eyes settled on him again, checking his black turtleneck, his bulky frame, his bald head and homely face. “My business is with Margaret Mary Ryan.”

  “Okay. Maggie will be here soon. Why don’t you sit down in here a moment and dry off? I’ll go get us both some coffee, if you want some too.”

  “Yes, please.”

  He indicated the door at the back of the hall and they went into the big dining room. Again, she looked hungrily around the room, wordlessly inspecting the round oak table, the baby grand piano, the fireplace, the French windows, the little cocker spaniel that Nick had scooped up at the door. “Have a seat. I’ll put the dog out in our backyard and be right back,” he said. “It’s a raw day, isn’t it?”

  “For sure.” She chose a chair that faced out into the room and put the backpack carefully under it.

  Nick carried the spaniel to the back door. “It’s all right, Zelle,” he murmured to her as he put her on the porch; then, with a deep breath, “at least I hope so.” He fixed the coffee, trying to get his dismay under control. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Look, Nick old man, he told himself, you’ve weathered tougher storms than this. But he wasn’t sure that it was true.

  She was up looking at the framed theatrical posters on the wall when he pushed open the swinging door to bring in the coffee. “Cream and sugar?” he asked.

  She jerked around, that frightened look again, that endearing struggle for dignity. “Yes, please.” She sat down.

  He handed her a mug and placed the cream and sugar before her. “There you are.”

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “You’re welcome.” How inanely mannerly they were. Practically Victorian. Diplomacy across an unbridgeable gulf. He sipped his coffee black while she carefully measured the cream and sugar and stirred her mug. Then he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  But the busy young mind was pursuing its own concerns. She asked, “Is Margaret Mary Ryan your—” Then she stopped, confused.

  He smiled. “We’re married, yes. She kept her own name.”

  “I see.” He could almost see the chaotic thoughts tumbling after each other behind her guarded face. She drank some more coffee, hiding behind the mug just as he was doing, then began, “How long—”

  There was a noise. “What was that?” asked Nick, grateful for the distraction.

  “Just Kakiy. My cat.” Nonchalantly, she reached down and flipped open the top of the backpack. Golden eyes looked out at them.

  Nick squatted on the floor. “Does she want to come out?”

  “He’s been out. He
’s okay.”

  “But maybe he’d like to look around. It’s okay, I put our dog outside.”

  She shrugged. “Okay.” She opened the top. A beautiful orange cat hopped out and strolled over to Nick.

  “Hello, fellow,” he said, and tickled him behind the ears. In a minute the cat decided to tour the room and ambled away toward the piano.

  “He’s nice,” said Nick, returning to his chair. “You said his name was Cocky?”

  “Spelled K-A-K-I-Y. Short for Akakiy Akakiyevich.”

  Nick laughed. “Because his overcoat is cat fur!”

  Her astounded eyes fastened on Nick again. “You know Gogol?” she blurted.

  “Sure. I like him.” He would have gone on, but realized suddenly how upset she was. Until now he’d been only a means to an end, like a gatekeeper or porter. Suddenly she had seen him as a person too, and was rethinking her position.

  She was very young.

  She lurched to her feet, looking queasy. “Maybe I’d better come back later.”

  He wanted to say, yes, it would be better. But he knew he couldn’t let this beautiful, wet, smelly child get away now. “No, no,” he said, “it won’t be long. Finish your coffee, at least. Maybe the rain will let up.”

  Still clutching the back of her chair, she looked down at her mug. “No, really, I just wanted to sell her a magazine subscription. I’d better—”

  “Just a minute.” Nick had heard the scrape of a key in the door. He bolted for the hall before she could stop him.

  Maggie left her cardinal-red umbrella open in the tiled vestibule and breezed in, still dripping. “Hello, love. Horrendous storm! I feel like a—”

  “Maggie, you’ve got a visitor.”

  Her vivid energy condensed, focussed on him, and she paused halfway out of her raincoat. “Who is it?”

  “She hasn’t told me her name.”

  He took her raincoat and hung it up, then followed her into the dining room. Just inside the door Maggie halted, one hand gripping the door frame for support.

  The two stared at each other. Maggie was taller and more angular than the girl, with heavier bones, a blue plaid suit instead of damp jeans, black curls instead of straight wet hair. But the two pleasant squared faces were similar, and the two pairs of intense blue eyes locked on each other now were identical.