Alison looked venomously at Nick. "I can't bear for strange men to touch me. Let go!"
He released her and she sagged. Lily came forward to help. Remarkably, Alison draped an arm over her shoulder as her eyes began to glaze. Mentally, she was no longer with them.
Three minutes later Nick and Natalie stood alone in the room. Lily had helped Viveca get control of Alison, who had begun to scream methodically and tonelessly. They led her out to Viveca's car. Oliver had tottered out behind them looking like a man in shock. Natalie felt chilled to the bone by the awful scene. She stared at Nick. "What in the name of God was all that about?"
"I don't know," Nick said slowly, "but I'm afraid if Alison Cosgrove isn't our killer, she just signed her own death warrant."
14
THURSDAY NIGHT
Nick pressed the doorbell for the second time. A lamp burned in the living room and another in an upstairs room. He heard faint sounds of a television rattling on. He looked at his watch. 9:05. Too early for most people to be in bed. He raised his hand to ring the bell again when the door flew open. A hawk-faced woman with white hair in pin curls glared at him. "Yeah? What is it?"
"Mrs. Fisher?"
"What if I am?"
"I'm Nick Meredith, the sheriff, and-"
"I knew it! What's she done now!" the woman demanded fiercely. "As if I don't have enough to worry about!"
"Ma'am, I wonder if I might come in and speak with you."
"You can talk from out there on the porch."
Mosquitoes and moths floated and fluttered around the porch light next to Nick's head. Besides, the woman looked ill and not too steady on her feet. He thought she needed to sit down. "Please, ma'am, I think we'd both be more comfortable inside-"
She began to cough violently. He reached forward, not knowing what to do besides pat her on the back, but she smacked his hand. "Night air," she choked out.
"Do you need a doctor?"
"I'm sick of doctors. I.D."
"What?"
"Show me some I.D. and you can come in."
Nick flashed his badge and photo identification. She nod ded and allowed him inside. She clutched a worn flannel robe around her scrawny body with one hand and coughed into the other. Nick stood watching, feeling alarmed and utterly useless. "Mrs. Fisher-"
She glowered him into silence. He watched uncertainly as she hacked for another minute, then trailed off into a series of gulps and snorts. Finally she slammed the front door behind him and motioned him into the living room. "You can sit down but I'm not turnin' off the TV," she announced in a grating, truculent voice. "This is my favorite show. It's a rerun of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. This channel shows all reruns. I don't like modern shows. They don't make any damned sense. What about you?"
"What do I like to watch?"
"Wo! What about you being' here? It's about Dee, right?"
"Yes, Mrs. Fisher."
The woman had sat down on the ratty armchair directly in front of the television. Nick started to sit on the plastic covered couch when she yelped, "Stop!" He halted halfway down. "While you're up, get me a beer. I drink right out of the can. No use dirtyin' glasses if you don't have to. Get yourself one, too. I don't care if you're on duty. I won't tell no one."
"I'm not on duty and I'd like a beer."
"Yeah, whatever," Mrs. Fisher said absently, transfixed by the character of Mary Richards wailing "Mr. Grant.' Nick went in the kitchen with its worn linoleum and myriad of handicrafts hanging on every available wall space. The entire lower shelf of the refrigerator held a cheap brand of canned beer. Nick removed two cans and carried them back to the living room. Mrs. Fisher took hers without looking at him. "Thanks. Nothing like a cold beer before bed, I always say."
"Yes, I enjoy an occasional beer in the evening myself." Nick wasn't sure why he sounded so prissy, but Mrs. Fisher cast him a suspicious look from behind her bifocals. To make up for it he took a hearty swallow and let out a loud, appreciative sigh. "Damned good!" Well, that was even worse. Mrs. Fisher cast him another dubious look. So far he wasn't off to a good start with her. It would be better to forge ahead bluntly rather than keep trying to play up to her. At this rate she'd throw him out.
"Mrs. Fisher, your daughter Dee lives here, doesn't she?"
"You know that or you wouldn't be here. What's she done?"
"Nothing." Mrs. Fisher emitted something between a burp and a disbelieving grunt. "I'm telling you the truth, ma'am."
"If she hasn't done nothin' then why're you here interruptin' my show?"
"I'm sorry about my timing. Dee isn't here now, is she?"
"What makes you think so?"
"Because I know you're not well but you came to the door."
Mrs. Fisher's thin mouth twisted. "Not well. That's a good one. Lung cancer. I'm dyin'. I got four months, tops."
"I'm sorry."
"My doctor bitches at me 'cause I smoked all those years. Well, I'll tell you same as I tell him. Them cigarettes was about the only joy in my life. Them and my beer."
"Not your family?"
"I had two husbands run out on me. Left me all alone with three kids, Dee being' the youngest by the last no-good. I tried with them three, but not a damned one turned out worth a grain of salt."
" Dee is a nurse. She takes care of you."
"For free room and board. She doesn't fool me none. That's all she hangs around for, though sometimes she tries to be nice. Tells me she appreciates all I went through for her. But it's pure bullshit1"
"Are you sure about that, Mrs. Fisher?"
"Yes, I am sure, Mr. Policeman who comes in here drinkin' my beer, interruptin' my TV, and doesn't know nothin' about me!" She stared at the television hard for a moment, then let out a cackle as the character Ted Baxter bumbled through the newscast. "I swear he's a case!"
"Yes, the show is a classic," Nick said vaguely. He'd made her mad, temporarily losing her. Maybe the way to get her back was through the sitcom. "Who do you like best? Mary or Rhoda?"
"Mary! Rhoda wears gaudy clothes and those silly scarves on her head." She looked at him. "Why? Is Rhoda your favorite?" It wasn't a question-it was an accusation.
"Oh, no." Actually, when he was young Rhoda had been his favorite. She seemed like more fun. "Mary is so…"
"Perfect." Mrs. Fisher smiled in approval. "I hoped Dee would grow up to be like her, but Dee has a bad streak like her daddy."
"A bad streak?"
"Well, don't tell me you haven't heard about her stealin' them drugs from the hospital. Lord, was I embarrassed when she got caught! Everyone knew. Then she started raisin' hell about Dr. St. John. That's 'cause he's the one blew the whistle on her." Her voice softened slightly. "She was off her head about that Farley boy dyin'."
"Eugene Farley?"
"Yeah. I met him once. Handsome as the devil. Manners like you've never seen. Treated me like a real lady. He had class." She shook her small head with its helmet of pin curls. "I knew he'd never stay with Dee. She was way outta her league. I told her over and over."
I'll bet that did a lot for her ego, Nick mused with a twinge of sympathy for Dee.
"When he gave her the heave-ho, I thought she'd lose her mind," Mrs. Fisher went on. "Like to scared me to death 'cause I was already gettin' sick, and if Dee went to pieces, who'd look after me? Gave me quite a few sleepless nights, I can tell you."
Because you were worried about yourself, not your daughter, Nick thought scornfully. If Paige had been on the verge of a breakdown, the last thing her mother would have been worried about was her own welfare. He forced himself to sound polite. "But everything turned out all right and Dee is taking good care of you."
"Good care? Hah!"
"She's not taking good care of you?"
"If she was, would I be sittin' here all by myself at night? She's always out lately."
"With Hysell?"
"Who? Oh, that deputy. He won't marry her either. I told her. But she's not with him. I know 'cause he called here for
her not half an hour ago. There've been other times he's called when she's out."
"You don't know where she goes at night?"
"No. She makes up excuses, but I can always tell when she's lyin'."
"How long has this been going on?"
"A week. Maybe two. She's been havin' lots of hush-hush conversations on the phone, too, and they ain't with that deputy."
"Then who?"
Mrs. Fisher shrugged. "Beats me." She pointed at the television. "There's Rhoda in one of them scarves! Can't she see herself in a mirror? Doesn't she know how stupid it makes her look?"
And don't you know this is a TV character from almost thirty years ago, not a real person? Nick thought. How reliable was anything she said if she couldn't distinguish fiction from reality? "Mrs. Fisher, do you think your daughter is going off at night to meet a man?"
"How should I know? Seems like the kind of trashy thing she'd do, though. Be just like her to start seem' someone respectable like the deputy and then sneak around behind his back." Her face contorted and she fell into another coughing fit. Nick rose nervously as she convulsed forward, sounding as if she were going to spew forth her lungs.
"Mrs. Fisher, please let me call the E.M.S."
"Wo!" she choked. "My show's on!"
"You're turning blue! I am calling the emergency squad."
Her tear-filled eyes looked huge as she glared through her bifocals. "You do and I'll tell 'em you broke in here and tried to rape me!" she snarled in a cough-ragged voice. "They'll believe me, young feller out prowlin' late at night, me here all alone and barely dressed!"
Good God, Nick thought. What was wrong with the women in this town? First Alison demanding he not touch her, now the irresistible Mrs. Fisher in her faded flannel and pin curls threatening to yell rape. She was spluttering to a halt. "All right, ma'am," he said in a placating voice. "I was just worried about you. I didn't mean any harm."
"You're gettin' on my nerves."
"I'm sorry. I'll leave now."
"Good," she rasped. "You got a cigarette on you?"
Nick looked at her, astonished. "No. I don't smoke."
"Well, hell." She sighed as if at the general unfairness of life. "Even if you had one, you probably wouldn't give it to me, like it would make any difference." Nick gazed at her silently. "All right. Before you go, Mr. Policeman, the least you can do is get me a beer."
Obediently Nick fetched a cold can of the cheap beer and popped the top. When he placed it in Mrs. Fisher's heavily veined hand, she didn't glance at him or the beer. She was smiling happily at the imaginary world on her television.
Paige hung off the bottom branch of the oak tree, then dropped. "You're getting better at climbing," Jimmy said.
Paige blushed with embarrassment, both from the compliment and from the memory of the first time she'd tried it and fallen on her head at Jimmy's feet, promptly bursting into tears. "Thanks. What's the big emergency?"
"We were going back to the Saunders house and take a picture of the serial killer. I got my Dad's Polaroid." He held it up proudly.
"You want to go tonight!"
"Sure. We can't wait forever. He could kill more people."
"Well, yeah, but…"
"But what?" Jimmy asked impatiently. "Your dad's car isn't here, so you don't have to worry about him."
"He called and said he'd be late. Mrs. Collins got all huffy. Not to him, but she called one of her friends and went on about how she can't spend so much time here because she's got all this church work. They're getting a new preacher and there's gonna big this big dinner for him-"
"I don't care about the church party!" Jimmy turned his head. "Oh, great," he moaned as headlights flashed across the yard. "Duck!"
They both hit the dirt. "It's my dad," Paige hissed. "He'll come right upstairs to check on me."
"Then climb up the tree and get in bed. I'll wait for a while."
"And if I don't come down you'll go without me?"
"I'll have to think about it," Jimmy said importantly. Ac tually he had no desire to revisit the creepy Saunders house by himself, but he'd never admit it. "Hurry. Your dad's going in the house."
Paige jumped, grabbed the low branch, and began a quick ascent. She'd come a long way since she first started climbing the tree, Jimmy thought proudly as if he'd had something to do with her progress. He sat down in the shadow of a tree to wait.
Paige was clambering over the window sill when she heard her father explode, "Dammit, Ripley!"
She tore across her room and down the hall. "What's wrong, Daddy?"
Nick rubbed his neck while Ripley sat in humped, green eyed wariness halfway up the stairs. "Your pain-in-the-ass cat jumped off the newel post onto my back."
"Daddy, he is not a pain in the ass, and Mommy used to tell you not to say things like that around me." She rushed to Ripley and cuddled his stiff black body. "You've hurt his feelings."
"His claws hurt my back."
"He's sorry, but it's his favorite trick."
Nick looked at his daughter's beautiful, distressed little face and melted. "Okay, I'm sorry I yelled. But I wish he'd find another trick."
"We'll work on one," Paige assured him earnestly.
Mrs. Collins hovered near the door. "I guess I'll be on my way, Sheriff. It's very late-" She was warming up to complain, but Nick's stormy face stopped her cold. "I'll see you tomorrow, Paige."
"Yeah, bye," Paige said absently as her father closed the door behind the woman. "You look awful tired, Daddy. Are you going to bed?"
"It's not ten o'clock yet." Nick's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why the rush to get me out of the way?"
"It was just a question."
"Yeah, sure." Nick rubbed his neck again. "I'm staying up. I have some things to think over. It's time for you to get ready for bed, though. I'll be up in a little while to tuck you in."
Fabulous, Paige thought dismally. How long was "a little while"? Paige slumped up the stairs holding a reluctant Ripley. Shortly after eleven Nick gave his sleeping daughter a kiss as Jimmy Jenkins crept silently from the lawn and began pedaling for home.
There would be no trip to the Saunders house tonight.
At the clinic Natalie often put in eighteen-hour shifts that included performing three or four surgeries. Even after one of these days, she did not feel as tired as she did when she and Lily said good night to the last of the mourners, finished cleaning up the kitchen, coaxed a silent Oliver away from the stereo and into bed, and fixed a pitcher of martinis to take to the big, old-fashioned back porch.
They both kicked off their shoes and relaxed on old, slightly musty chaise longues. "This is the only place in the house Viveca hasn't remodeled," Lily said, wiggling her toes. "I remember when Mom bought this furniture for the porch. Ten matching pieces! She was horrified by her extravagance but at the same time so excited. That wasn't too long before she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis." Lily took a deep breath and added fiercely, "I will never allow Viveca to get rid of this stuff, even if I have to pile it all up in my basement."
"I'm sure Viveca wouldn't trash it if she knew how much the furniture means to you."
Lily gave her a long look. "I asked you not to be sweet and reasonable."
"I thought I'd give it a try." Natalie took a sip of the chilled gin and vermouth. "Okay. If she even attempts to remove it, I promise to come and lash myself to this chaise longue. If it goes to the dump, so do I. How's that?"
Lily burst into laughter. "I appreciate the passion, but it might be wasted. Viveca would have you both hauled off. She doesn't like you any better than she does me."
"Does she like any females besides Alison?"
"I think she liked Tam."
"Really? Did she know Tam didn't like her?"
"I don't know. Tam was always polite. Too polite. Viveca had begun to push her around. I wish Tam hadn't been so gentle. If she'd had more spirit, she would have left Warren and she wouldn't be dead."
Natalie tensed slightly bu
t forced herself to sound casual. "I thought you were considering that Alison might have killed Tam."
"If she did, it was because of Warren. But Dad won't even consider the idea that she's guilty. He's convinced Warren murdered Tam."
Natalie let silence spin out for a few moments while she and Lily each sipped their drinks and looked at the fireflies glittering around the large lawn. "What do you suppose Alison meant when she said she knew things?" Natalie asked finally.
"Nothing. Alison is crazy."
"But your father looked so upset."
Lily flashed her a stormy look. "Of course he was upset! He's cut to pieces over Tam. Then the day of Tam's funeral here's Alison making a scene, trying to kill herself!"
"That suicide attempt was nothing but melodrama."
"Probably. But she would have hurt herself and she's Viveca's daughter and Dad loves Viveca, although why in God's name I'll never know and…" Lily wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand like a child. "Tam's murder did something to Dad, Natalie. I mean, of course he's devastated with grief, but he's also just different. I can't explain how. I do know he'll never be the same."
"No one is the same after suffering a tragedy."
"You don't understand what I mean."
But Natalie did understand. Tamara had not died in a car wreck or of a disease. She had been viciously murdered, causing something fundamental in Oliver Peyton to change. Was he now capable of murder, too? Is that what Lily was saying?
Lily swiped at more tears. Natalie believed if she pushed her any further, she would fall apart. "I hope you're not going in to work tomorrow, Lily."
"I am. I can't bear sitting around by myself all day."
"We could do something."
"I need to go back to the store, Natalie. I need my routine."
"You look exhausted, but I won't argue with you. Work is the best panacea for some people." Lily didn't answer, her mind clearly elsewhere. "I think I'll go home now. I'm tired."
Lily forced a wan smile. "Thanks for your help today and all through this."
Don Page 24
