(3T)Three Bedrooms, One Corpse

by Charlaine Harris

  “Oh, did you get that newspaper article I sent you?” “Oh, shoot. I forgot to check my mail yesterday. I’ll bet it’s out there. I’ll go see.”

  “Okay. If you don’t get it, call me.”

  I reached in my mailbox eagerly and came out with

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  a handful. Yes, here was the article Sally had sent me as she’d promised. There was Martin’s picture. I sighed absurdly. Martin, I read, had a background in agricul- ture (I assumed that was his being raised on a farm); a distinguished service record, including two purple hearts (that explained the scars I hadn’t yet asked him about); and a long work history with Pan-Am Agra . . . a brief chronicle of his steady rise through the ranks followed . . . then a noncommital statement of Mar- tin’s, about his plans for the plant.

  There wasn’t anything much to it, really, but for some reason it was very exciting to read about my— well, whatever—in the paper. So I read it over. And over.

  “Isn’t that strange,” I said out loud.

  Martin had mentioned casually to me that he had gotten out of the Army in 1971. This article stated that he’d begun work at Pan-Am Agra in 1973. What had Martin been doing for those two years? I wondered.

  Chapter Twelve

  A

  Little tasks consumed the rest of my day. I had to stop by the dry cleaner’s and go to the grocery store with a list of ingredients for the supper I was going to cook Martin the next night. I did my laundry and a lit- tle ironing. I sent Amina and her husband a “congratu- lations” card and a copy of Dr. Spock’s famous book on baby care.

  And I went by the library to check out some books. Every time I went into my former place of employ- ment, I felt a pang of regret. There were so many things I missed about working there: seeing all the new books first (and free), having a chance to see and learn about so many people in the town I wouldn’t run across oth- erwise, the companionship among the librarians, just being in the presence of so many books. What I didn’t miss was the companionship of Lillian Schmidt. So of course it was Lillian who was at the ~ 16 9 ~

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  checkout desk today. I politely asked after Tonia Lee’s mother and got a blow-by-blow account of Mrs. Purdy’s collapse after the funeral and her continued de- pression, Mrs. Purdy’s relief on hearing there had been an arrest, Mrs. Purdy’s horror and disbelief on hearing who was being questioned, Mrs. Purdy’s confusion on hearing that there was no concrete proof against Jimmy Hunter.

  “Oh, that’s great!” I said involuntarily. Lillian was affronted. Her oversized bosom heaved under its striped polyester covering. “I just think it’s one of those technicalities,” she said. “I bet they’ll be sorry when some other woman gets killed in her bed.” I forbore remarking that the bed Tonia Lee had been killed in was not exactly her own. “If someone else does die, it won’t be because Jimmy Hunter wasn’t ar- rested,” I said firmly if confusingly, and picked up my books.

  By the time I got home and unloaded my car, it was a little after four, and becoming dark and colder. This was getting close to the time of day Tonia Lee had been killed. With no other car having been seen in the drive- way, the police had thought Mackie might be involved, since he ran every evening at this time. I thought the theory was sound, even though they’d had the wrong person. This evening, I’d walk myself. Just to see what could be seen.

  Twenty minutes later I was shaking my head and muttering to myself. The streets were practically teem- ing with walkers and joggers. I had had no idea that the residential areas of Lawrenceton were so busy at an hour I normally associated with winding down and

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  preparing supper. Every other block, it seemed, I passed another walker, or a runner, or a biker. Some- times two. Everyone in town was out in the streets! Arms swinging energetically, Walkmans (Walkmen?) fixed on ears, expensive athletic shoes pounding the pavement . . . it was amazing.

  I was heading toward the Anderton house, of course, walking at as swift a clip as I could manage. I passed Mackie, running in a sweatshirt and gym shorts, pouring sweat in the chilly air; he gave me the quick nod that was apparently all that was expected of runners. Next I saw Franklin Farrell, keeping trim for all those ladies, run- ning at a more moderate pace, his long legs muscular and lean. No wonder he seemed so much younger than I knew he must be. True to his nature, he managed an inti- mate smile even through his careful breathing. Eileen and Terry marched by together, weights on their ankles and wrists, arms swinging in unison, not talking, and keep- ing a pace I knew would have me panting in minutes. This was much more interesting than my exercise video. All these people, including half the real estate community, all out and about at the time the murderer must have arrived at the Anderton house. Even Mark Russell, the farm broker, strode by, in an expensive walking outfit from the Sports Kitter shop. And perfect Patty Cloud, bless my soul, in an even more expensive pale pink a silky-looking running suit, her hair drawn up and back into a perky ponytail with matching pink bow. Patty even jogged correctly.

  And here came Jimmy Hunter on a very fancy bike. “Jimmy!” I said happily. He pulled to a stop and shook my hand.

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  “Susu told me you came by yesterday when every- one else was staying away,” he said gruffly. “Thanks.” “Are you okay?” I asked inadequately. He’d been through such an ordeal.

  “I will be,” he said, shaking his head slightly as though a fly were circling it. “It’s going to be hard get- ting over this feeling that everyone was against me, that everyone believed I’d done it, right off the bat.” “Susu okay?”

  “She’s tired, but she’s regrouping. We have a lot to talk about. I think we’ll leave the kids with their aunt and uncle for a while.”

  “I hope everything—” I floundered. “I’m really glad you’re home,” I finally said.

  “Thanks again, Roe,” he said, and wheeled away. Seconds later I was in front of the Anderton house, its Select Realty sign still stuck forlornly in the yard, doomed to be frosted and snowed upon all winter and covered with the quick grass of spring and the weeds of summer, I was sure.

  I didn’t think the Anderton house, or the little ranch-style where we’d found Idella, would sell any- time soon.

  After all, these deaths hardly seemed to be the work of a random killer, striking where he could find a woman alone.

  I wondered if anyone had seen a car at the house where Idella’d been found.

  A client arriving by foot would have been unusual, even unnerving, especially to Idella, who’d already been made nervous by Tonia Lee’s death, who’d al- ready heard that the police suspected someone of arriv-

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  ing at the Anderton house on foot . . . surely she’d have run screaming from the house instantly? Yes, if it had been a random client who called to set up an appointment.

  But not if it had been someone she knew, someone who said, maybe, “My run (or my bike ride) takes me by there, so I’ll see you at the Westley house,” or some- thing of the sort. And what more impersonal place to kill than someone else’s empty house? You could just leave the body where it fell. The killer hadn’t had a chance to divert suspicion, hadn’t had the opportunity to move Idella’s car somewhere else; since it had been dusk, not dark, when Idella had been murdered, her car couldn’t have been moved without the driver being seen. Idella had had to be silenced quickly or she would have told what she knew . . . and Donnie Greenhouse thought she knew who’d killed his wife. There he was now, as if my thinking of him had conjured him up, alternately walking and jogging, dressed in ancient dark blue sweats. He was danger- ously hard to see in the gathering dark. I could just make out the features of his face.

  “Roe Teagarden,” he said by way of greeting. “What are you doing out tonight?”

  “Walking, like e
veryone else in Lawrenceton.” He laughed without humor. “Decided to join the crowd, huh? I come here every evening,” he said with an abrupt change in tone. “I come stand here while I’m out running. I think about Tonia Lee, about what she was like.”

  This was weird.

  A car went by, its headlights underlining the suddenly

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  increasing darkness. I had a rather long walk home. I be- gan to shift my feet uneasily.

  “She was quite a woman, Roe. But you knew her. She was one of a kind.”

  That was the absolute truth. I was able to nod em- phatically.

  “Everyone wanted her, and not just men, either; but she was my wife,” he told me proudly. His words had the feeling of a mantra he’d chanted over and over. My scalp began to crawl.

  “She’ll never cheat with anyone else again,” Donnie said with some satisfaction.

  “Um, Donnie? Do you think it’s really that good for you to keep on coming over here?”

  He turned to me, but I couldn’t see his face well enough to discern his expression.

  “Maybe not, Roe. You think I should resist the temp- tation?” His voice was mocking.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “I think so. Donnie, why didn’t you tell the police what you and Idella talked about that day at the restaurant?”

  “So that’s how they knew. Idella talked to you in the women’s room.”

  “She told me you were saying you saw her car come out of your office parking lot.”

  “Yeah. I was out looking for Tonia Lee. So I cruised by the office. Sometimes she would take people there if she couldn’t find anywhere else.”

  “Was Idella driving?”

  “I couldn’t tell. But it was her car. It had that my child is an honor student at lcs bumper sticker.” “You can’t believe that Idella killed Tonia Lee.”

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  “No, Roe, I’ve never believed that. But I think she gave a ride home to whomever left Tonia Lee’s car at the office. And I think I know who that was.” “You should tell the police, Donnie.”

  “No, Roe, this is mine. My vengeance. I may take my time about it. But Tonia Lee would have wanted me to avenge her.”

  I drew in a deep, cautious breath. The conversation could only go downhill from here. “It’s really dark, Donnie. I’d better go.”

  “Yes, don’t get caught alone with someone you don’t know very well.”

  I took a tiny step backward.

  “And don’t go into houses with strangers,” he added, and ran away, the measured thud of his Reeboks fading into the distance.

  I headed in the opposite direction. I would have gone that way even if it hadn’t been the way home. Iwalked back to the townhouse more quickly than I’d set forth. It was too dark to be out by now, and my brown coat rendered me invisible to cars. I hadn’t pre- pared very well for my walk, and I was unnerved by my encounter with Donnie. I pulled my keys out when I neared the back of my townhouse—I’d automatically walked into the parking lot instead of going to my closer but seldom-used front door. The lighting back here was good, but I glanced around carefully as I ap- proached my patio gate.

  I caught a little movement, from the corner of my eye, back by the dumpster in the far corner of the lot.

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  There weren’t any strange cars parked under the porte cochere. All the vehicles belonged to residents. I stared into the dark corner where the Dumpster squat- ted. Nothing moved.

  “Is anyone there?” I called, and my voice was dis- gracefully squeaky.

  Nothing happened.

  After a long moment I very reluctantly turned my back, and moving quicker than I had on my walk, I raced through my patio and turned the key in the back door, closing and shutting it behind me with even greater rapidity.

  The phone was ringing.

  If the caller had been Martin, I probably would have told him how scared I was. But it was my mother, wanting to know the news about the police questioning of Jimmy Hunter. I talked with her long enough to calm down, carefully not mentioning why I was so breathless. I hadn’t really seen anything, and if I possi- bly had seen just a tiny movement, what I’d glimpsed was a cat prowling around the Dumpster in search of mice or scraps. There was, it was true, a murderer at large in Lawrenceton, but there was no reason on earth to believe he or she was after me. I knew nothing, had seen nothing, and was not even in real estate. But the feeling of being observed would not leave, and I wandered restlessly around the ground floor of the townhouse, making sure everything was locked and all the curtains and shades were drawn tight. Finally, after telling myself several times in a rallying way that I was being ridiculous, I went upstairs to change. Even in the cold, I’d sweated during my walk.

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  Normally, I would have taken a shower, but this night, I could not bring myself to step in the tub and close the shower curtain. So I pulled on my ancient heavy bathrobe, a thick saddle blanket of a robe in green- and-blue plaid, the most comforting garment I have ever known.

  It didn’t work its magic. I found myself scared to turn on the television for fear the noise would block out the sounds of an intruder. But nothing happened, all eve- ning. I was caught up in some kind of siege mentality; I got a box of Cheez-Its and a diet Coke and holed up in my favorite chair, with a book I’d read many times, one of William Marshall’s Yellowthread Street series. But even his endearingly bizarre plotting could not relax me. I wondered if men had evenings like this. The time passed, somehow. I turned on my patio and front door lights, intending to leave them burning all night. I switched off the interior lights. I went from window to window, sitting in the dark and looking out. I never saw anything else; about one o’clock, I heard a car start up somewhere close and drive away. Though that could have signaled any number of things, perhaps none of them concerning me, I was able to sleep in fits and starts after that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A

  t was raining Friday evening when Martin came to Isupper. He had barely shed his raincoat when he gathered me up in his arms.

  “Martin,” I whispered, finally.

  “Humm?”

  “The water for the spaghetti is boiling over.” “What?”

  “Let me go put in the spaghetti so we can eat. After all, you need to build up your strength.” Which earned me a narrow-eyed look.

  I can never manage to get all the elements of a meal ready simultaneously, but we did eventually eat our salad and garlic bread and spaghetti with meat sauce. Martin seemed to enjoy them, to my relief. While we ate, he told me about his trip, which seemed to have consisted mainly of small enclosed spaces alternating with large enclosed ~ 178 ~

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  spaces: airplane, airport, meeting room, dining room, ho- tel room, airport, airplane.

  When he asked me what I’d been doing, I almost told him I’d sat up last night afraid of the bogey man. But I didn’t want Martin to think of me as a shaking, trembly kind of woman. Instead, I told him about my walk, about the people I’d seen.

  “And they all had a chance to kill Tonia Lee,” I said. “Any one of them could have walked up to the house in the dusk. Tonia Lee wouldn’t have been too sur- prised to see any one of them, at least initially.” “But it had to have been a man,” suggested Martin. “Don’t you think?”

  “We don’t know if she’d actually had sex,” I pointed out. “She was positioned to look like it, but we don’t have the postmortem report. Or she could have had sex, and then been killed by someone other than her sex partner.” Martin seemed to take this conversa- tion quite matter-of-factly.

  “That would assume a lot of traffic in and out of the Anderton house.”

  “Doesn’t seem too likely, does it? But it could be. After all, the presence of a woman wouldn’t scare
To- nia Lee at all. And Donnie Greenhouse said several very strange things last night.” I told Martin about Donnie’s remark that not only men had wanted Tonia Lee, and about his sighting of Idella’s car. But I didn’t say any- thing about Eileen and Terry; just because they were the only lesbians I knew about in Lawrenceton didn’t mean they were the only ones in town.

  Aubrey would have been nauseated by this time. “So what’s your assumption?” Martin asked.

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  “I think . . . I think Tonia Lee learned who was stealing those things from the houses for sale. I think she was having an affair with whoever it was, or he— or she—seduced her when she asked him to come to the Anderton house to talk about the thefts. Maybe he asked her to meet him under the guise of having a romp in the hay there, when he meant to finish her all along. So they romp or they don’t, but either way he fixes it to look as if they had. I’m sure he planned it be- forehand. He arrives by foot or bicycle, he kills Tonia Lee, he positions her sexually to make us think it’s just one of her paramours who got exasperated, he moves her car, he goes home, he somehow gets the key back to our key board. He thinks that that way no one will look for Tonia Lee for days, days during which all ali- bis will be blurred or forgotten or unverifiable. Maybe he returns the key in the few minutes Patty and Debbie are both out of the front room at the office.” Martin had been listening quietly, thinking along with me. Now he held up his hand.

  “No,” he said. “I think Idella must have put back the key.”

  “Oh, my God, yes. Idella,” I said slowly. “That’s why he killed her. She knew who had had the key. She got it from whoever was at Greenhouse Realty.” That made so much sense. Idella, crying at the staff meeting right after Tonia’s body was discovered. Idella, red-eyed and upset during the days after the killing. “It must have been someone she was incredibly loyal to,” I murmured. “Why wouldn’t she tell? It would have saved her life.”

  “She couldn’t believe it, she wouldn’t believe this

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  person did it,” Martin said practically. “She was in love.”