She'll Never Tell

by Hunter Morgan

  "Yes, Jewel, put Ashley through."

  The light on the phone blinked again. Claire picked up the receiver. "Hey. What's up?"

  "I've been trying to call you," her daughter said tersely.

  No hi, Mom, how are you? How's your day going? Claire noted.

  "You tell me you want me to let you know what I'm doing," Ashley continued, "and then I can't get through to you."

  Claire's gaze strayed to the photo in front of her of Patti's pale body sprawled on the grass next to the galvanized drum in the state park. Completely clothed; denim miniskirt, bare midriff tee, high-heeled sandals, purse on her shoulder. She was practically dressed like a hooker, but there had been no sexual assault. Strange.

  Claire sighed, looking away to a blank spot on the wall of her office. "You're right. I'm sorry."

  "An apology. That's a first," her daughter quipped.

  Claire forced herself to take a deep breath, to not reply with one of the many retorts that played on the end of her tongue. "What do you need, hon?"

  "I'm getting off work in a few minutes, and I wanted to make sure it was okay if I went to the boardwalk with a friend."

  "This friend have a name?"

  No answer on the other end.

  "Ashley?"

  There was a big sigh on the other end of the phone. "Chain."

  "What?" Claire reached for her Diet Coke and took a sip.

  "You asked me what my friend's name was. It's Chain," Ashley repeated.

  Claire swallowed the soda. Flat. "Your friend was baptized Chain?"

  "I don't know," Ashley snapped. "No, of course not. Look, Mom, is it okay or not if I go to the boardwalk? April and Shawna are going, too. And some others. I think I'm pretty safe from the waitress killer, in a group. You can pick me up on your way home from work or... just let Chain bring me home."

  "Or not." Claire dropped the soda can into her garbage can under her desk. "Okay, you can go, but you be on the designated corner at eight-thirty, or I'm coming with handcuffs and leg irons, looking for Chain."

  "I'll be there."

  Ashley hung up without a proper good-bye, or a chuckle over her mother's joke and Claire dropped the receiver onto its cradle. "God save me from teenagers," she muttered aloud.

  There was a knock at her door.

  "What happened to not disturbing me?" Claire called out.

  The door opened a crack. Jewel didn't stick her head inside. Probably afraid Claire would throw something at her. "I told him you were busy," she whispered loudly. "He wouldn't take no for an answer."

  "Who?" Claire asked the door.

  "Claire," a male voice bellowed.

  The door swung open.

  Claire forced her grimace into an adequate smile. "Mayor."

  Jewel stuck her head around the corner of the door. Mayor Rug Man, she mouthed silently. Sorry.

  "Thank you, Jewel." Claire rose, offering her hand to Morris. "Good to see you."

  He clasped her hand. His was warm and damp with perspiration.

  "Sit down." She gestured to the chair in front of her desk and then discreetly wiped her hand on her pant leg. Still standing, she began to collect the crime scene photos spread in front of her.

  The mayor peered down at her desk. "Those pictures of the waitress?"

  "Yes, but you know, I can't share them. Evidence." She glanced up. Smiled. Returned to what she was doing. "I'm just going over some details."

  "I heard you found the bum. You lock him up?"

  Claire eased back into her leather executive chair, stuffing the eight-by-tens into a manila envelope. "Now, Morris, you know very well I can't walk up to some guy and just arrest him because he doesn't live in a half-million dollar house like some of us."

  Either he didn't catch the reference to his nineteenth-century Victorian house, or he didn't care. "He was seen at the diner," Morris said. "Seen talking to her."

  "So were you."

  He looked away quickly. "That isn't even funny, Claire!"

  Her father was always telling her she had to be more political in this job. This was probably the kind of thing he was talking about. She took a second to collect her thoughts and contain her sarcasm. "Morris, my point is that Patti had contact with a lot of people. Without any obvious evidence, this isn't going to be as easy as you might think. As for the transient who'd been seen at the diner talking to Patti, we found him in Rehoboth. Joseph Caterman. But he didn't kill Patti."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because a local church had put him up the night she disappeared and the following two following nights. He was having dinner with the pastor the evening her body was dumped and then he got a ride to the hotel because he doesn't have a car. He couldn't have walked all the seven miles here with Patti thrown over his shoulder, disposed of her body, and then walked back." She picked up a sheet of paper she'd been doodling on. "What I did find out interesting is that, according to preliminary reports from the ME's office, Patti died only a short time before she was dumped. Close to twenty-four hours after we think she disappeared."

  Morris's plump face grew flushed. "You... you mean he picked her up one night, killed her the next? You can tell that from the body?"

  Claire nodded, then lifted a finger in warning. "But don't you tell anyone that detail. Not even your wife."

  "I don't tell her anything," he snorted.

  "First it goes around the beauty parlor," Claire warned, "the next thing we know, it's in the newspapers."

  "Well, she's in Florida visiting her sister." Morris pulled a white handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts and wiped his mouth. "You're sure this Joe fellow couldn't have gotten to her?"

  "I'm telling you, his alibi is airtight."

  Morris thought for a moment. "And you checked that boyfriend of hers again?"

  "They weren't living together anymore. He said it was over, but yes, I checked into him. He was at work both nights. I saw the timecard."

  "So two weeks after the murder and we're still no closer to figuring out who the hell dumped that girl in our park?" the mayor demanded.

  Claire stared at him from across her desk. "No, sir, we're not."

  "So what happens?" He rose from the chair. He was sweating profusely despite the cool air pumped in from the air-conditioning unit. "We just close the case?"

  "It goes unsolved for the present, but we don't close it. Sometimes evidence pops up in the weeks to come, months, sometimes even years. Killers usually talk, Morris. It's the way most of them get caught. They get drunk, brag to a buddy. Happens all the time."

  "So now you're the expert?" He wiped his sunburned forehead with the already sweat-soaked handkerchief. "One unsolved murder case and you're an expert on solving them?"

  She bit back another imprudent reply. "Morris, let me do my job. I'll find out who killed Patti Lome."

  "So do it," he barked. "We're already up to twenty-five percent summer occupation. We don't need a murder keeping tourists away." He started for the door, then turned back. "So if it's not solved now, maybe the investigation ought to be tabled... 'til fall."

  Claire couldn't believe what she was hearing. One minute the mayor was shouting at her to find the killer, and the next minute he was suggesting she "table" the investigation. She paused before she replied, keeping her father's advice in mind. "I'm still piecing together the evidence. I'm going back to Patti's place again, just in case we missed something. The landlord wants to clean it up, get her stuff out of there so he can rent it again."

  She didn't tell Morris that she didn't think that was where the killer had taken Patti from, but she kept it to herself. The mayor didn't care how the murder had taken place, anyway. And he didn't care about Patti either. Just the town revenue.

  "I'll keep you updated." Claire opened her office door.

  "You better."

  After he was gone, she sat a full five minutes in her chair staring at the wall. She'd stared at that spot so long in the last two weeks that it was a wonder she'd not bur
ned a hole in it. After a quick argument with herself, she picked up the phone and dialed the number on the pink slip of paper she'd tucked in her ink blotter. She got Kurt's work voicemail.

  "Cutting out early again?" she quipped into the phone. "It's Claire. Call me, will you?"

  She hung up the phone, gathered the envelope of photos of Patti and all her notes, and stuffed them into a briefcase. If Kurt could do it, she could do it.

  She had two and a half hours before she had to pick up Ashley, and she was already well over the hours the city would pay her for the week. Maybe she'd go home and get a shower. Sit out on the deck and stare at something besides the wall in her office for a while. Maybe something would come to her on this investigation, something she missed. Maybe Patti's photos would talk to her.

  * * *

  Marcy saw the headlights and moved over to the side of the road, trying to pick up her pace. It was later than she realized, and she knew the country road her development was located on wasn't the safest to be running on this time of evening. Dusk was a difficult time of day for drivers, especially ones who had worked all day and were tired. Their vision wasn't as sharp, and neither was their reaction time.

  She realized now that she shouldn't have started out so late. But she'd been busy all day. She'd met with Seth again to look at two more properties. He'd asked her out to dinner, but she'd declined. She wasn't sure she was ready for dating, and if she was, if Seth was someone she'd be interested in. So far, the professional services he had provided had been stellar, but she couldn't shake the feeling that his delivery was something akin to a used car salesman's.

  After meeting with Seth, Marcy had gone to the bank for an appointment with a loan officer. She'd also spent several hours on the Internet investigating the distributors she would want to do business with if she opened the bistro.

  In between all that, she'd picked Katie up from her babysitting job, dropped her off at a friend's to work on a dance routine for her church youth group, and taken Ben to the library so he could do some more research on carbon dioxide detectors for home use. After taking him to the Big-Mart after lunch with his father the other day, her son had decided to hold off buying until he was sure which model he wanted. When she had time, she thought she might spend some of it worrying about his fixation with safety, but it would have to wait. She was too tired tonight.

  The car headlights behind her grew brighter, and Marcy scooted over into the grass a little farther. Phoebe was taking the kids out for pizza and a movie, so the house would be quiet when she got home. All she wanted right now was a shower, a pair of comfy knit shorts, and a glass of wine. Microwave popcorn was on the menu for dinner. Definitely not bistro fare.

  The car was still behind her and Marcy glanced over her shoulder nervously. It had slowed down. The same thing had happened to her a couple of nights ago. A car had slowed down behind her, seeming to follow her through the one lonely stretch of the road, through a woods, but then it had sped up, whizzing by her, heading west. She had tried to make out the car, but had been unable to.

  Was it her imagination, or had someone been following her that night? Was someone following her again?

  She jogged faster.

  She heard the car draw closer. She heard loose pebbles off the pavement shoot out from under the tires, and she glanced off to her left. The woods were dense, tangled with briars and ground cover. Even if she wanted to dart in, hide until the car had passed, she didn't think she could get through the trees.

  A trickle of sweat ran down her back beneath her athletic tank, along her spine. She realized that she was afraid.

  She threw another quick look over her shoulder. The car was definitely slowing down; it wasn't her imagination.

  A sense of panic rose in her chest What if it stopped? What would she do? She wished now that she'd gotten a can of pepper spray. Ben recommended she carry some in her little fanny pack, along with spare change for a phone call and an extra water bottle and a properly filled-out identification card that included her medical history.

  Sweat ran in her eyes, stinging them, and she wiped her face with her hand. She was breathing hard now, pumping her arms, lifting her legs. Heel toe, heel toe, echoed in her head. Push.

  Like she could outrun a car...

  The vehicle was almost on her now. Drifting across the road toward her. On the wrong side, into oncoming traffic.

  She thought of Phoebe's night stalker again. Of the dead waitress. Maybe she'd get lucky and a car coming from the other way would appear and save her.

  She heard the hum of an automatic car window go down.

  "Hey, it's dark out. Want a ride?"

  For a moment, the identity of the male voice didn't register. Then she snapped around, slamming her hand on the car door. "Damn it, Jake, you scared me half to death!"

  "Sorry. It's awfully late to be out on this road jogging. I can hardly see you. Didn't Ben tell you you ought to wear one of those reflective vests if you're going to do this?"

  She walked around the front of the car, ignoring him, and bent over, panting hard. She climbed into the passenger's side and slammed the door. "Would you please get over?" She motioned to the correct side of the road. "Before someone hits you head-on?"

  "You all right, Marcy?" Jake eased the car back into his lane and sped up. "I really did scare you, didn't I? I'm sorry."

  "It's all right," she panted, chugging down the last of her water from her fanny pack. It was lukewarm, but she didn't care. It was wet. "I scared myself." She reached over and gave him a push on the arm. He smelled good, and she knew she smelled awful. "What are you doing following me?"

  "I wasn't following you."

  "Yes, you were. Wasn't that you behind me on Main Street?"

  He glanced at her, then back at the road. They were almost to the development now. "Okay, I was following you. But I saw you jogging down the road and it was late. I wanted to make sure you got home safely. I'm sorry, damn it, for caring about whether or not you get hit by a car!"

  Strangely, his raised voice didn't upset her. She actually kind of liked the idea that he could express a strong opinion. She screwed the lid back on the water bottle, her heart finally slowing to an acceptable pace. "So I suppose it was you the other night, too?"

  He frowned. "What other night?"

  "Tuesday. I was out about this time again. You followed me all the way to the entrance to the neighborhood, then kept going."

  "No." He signaled and turned onto their street.

  "No?" she demanded.

  "I worked late Tuesday."

  She glared at him.

  "Marcy. I'm not a stalker. I'm your husband. I'm telling you, I didn't follow you home Tuesday night." He pulled into the driveway, and the front light over the garage popped on, illuminating the driveway and the interior of the car. She could see the concern plain on his face. "You really think someone was following you the other night?"

  She hesitated. "No," she said quickly. "Of course not." She got out of the car, fumbling for her key in her fanny pack.

  "Because you know they haven't found Patti Lome's killer yet." He was out of the, a step behind her on the sidewalk that led up to the house.

  "Jake, a killer was not following me." She opened the front door and stepped into the hallway.

  He remained on the white-trimmed porch, hands stuffed in the pockets of his tropical-weight gray trousers.

  Marcy glanced into the house, then back at Jake. Unsure of herself. She knew what he wanted; she just wasn't sure what she wanted. After a second, she said, "You want to come in?"

  "I'd like to," he responded quietly. "If you want me to."

  "Jake." Now she was exasperated with him and herself. "I'm inviting you in. Take it or leave it. I'm going up for a shower. The kids went out with Phoebe, so there's no dinner, but there's probably better leftovers in my fridge than yours."

  "How do you know? Maybe I have leftover shrimp scampi and chilled butternut squash soup in my refrigerator." He
followed her in, closing the door behind him.

  He knew both were her favorites.

  She stopped halfway up the staircase. "I know because Ben and Katie told on you. A jar of mustard, a bottle of ketchup, some half-and-half for your coffee, and a banana." She ticked the items off on her fingers, surprised she had turned so playful with him. It was probably just her relief at not being followed by some mysterious would-be killer.

  "How about if I make us scrambled eggs?" Jake said, laughing as he disappeared down the hall.

  "Anything you make would be fine," she hollered back, already peeling off her sticky, perspiration-soaked clothes as she went down the upstairs hall. The nice thing was, she meant it.

  By the time Marcy came downstairs half an hour later, Jake had scrambled up some eggs with green pepper and cheddar cheese just the way she liked it. He was just sliding the eggs onto a plate when she walked into the kitchen, barefoot, in gym shorts she'd borrowed from Katie, with a towel tied around her head.

  "I thought we'd sit out on the back porch. It's nice out there tonight." He cut through the kitchen.

  Marcy hesitated. Ever since that night on the porch when she had felt that someone was watching her, she'd been uncomfortable out there. She hadn't sat out there since.

  "You coming?"Jake called.

  She pulled the towel off her head, giving her wet hair a shake. She knew her fear was irrational. This paranoia had to have something to do with her brain injury that had caused the coma. She'd been dragging her heels, but maybe she did need to see Dr. Larson or the psychiatrist, or both. "I'm coming," she called.

  Marcy was pleasantly surprised to discover that Jake had found a candle and lit it, setting it on the middle of the table. He'd also dug up a bottle of Australian chardonnay that she liked and poured them each a glass.

  "Wine and scrambled eggs?" she asked, slipping into her chair.

  "Sure. Why not?"

  He grinned, and for a moment Marcy caught a glimpse of the man she had fallen in love with in college. All those years ago there had been something about him that made her smile. The very same thing that was making her smile now.

  * * *

  The phone rang and Claire picked it up. She was sitting on her back deck, enjoying the early evening sounds of the woods that surrounded her. Her father had thought the cabin she bought after her divorce was too isolated. Even though she was only five miles from town, it was two miles to the nearest neighbor. This was precisely why she had fallen in love with the place.