by Jan Gleiter
“What did she leave?” Suspicion was replaced by a glimmer of interest.
Meg gritted her teeth. “Well,” she said brightly, “a really lovely bracelet and the pretty little velvet box it’s in. It was tucked at the back of a drawer, and she must have missed it while she was packing.” The bracelet story was proving quite useful.
“Valuable?”
Why else would it have come in a velvet box? thought Meg. “Gosh, I think so! I’m sure she’d want it. If I just had her address, I could send it to her right away. Or even her phone number. Then I could call her, see, and—”
“You better just send it here.”
Yeah, right, thought Meg. “Oh! You mean she’s there? Great! Could I talk to her?”
“No, she’s not here. But she’ll show up sometime. When she wants something.”
“But where is she, Mrs. Morrison? Where is she now?”
Mrs. Morrison didn’t know. Michelle had been bothering her for weeks about it. Michelle thought there was something fishy going on, but that was just plain silly, because Angie was terrible about keeping in touch with the folks at home.
“Who’s Michelle?” asked Meg.
“My other daughter,” said Angie’s mother. “In Tulsa.”
Meg had to promise to send the bracelet to Mrs. Morrison if Michelle didn’t know where Angie was—which of course, she wouldn’t, or why would she have been carrying on about it?—before she got a telephone number.
Michelle wasn’t home. Her yawning husband was annoyed, both about being awakened and about the fact that his wife was at the store. She returned Meg’s call, collect, a half hour later.
“No, I don’t know where she is!” said Michelle. She sounded harried but, at least, was not dismissive. “She was supposed to call me from Boston, because…” She lowered her voice. “Because I was going to try to get out to Atlantic City this summer.” There was the sound of water being turned on. “But she never called. I’m about worried sick, and—I’m doing it as fast as I can, damn it!—she was all excited about moving the last time I talked to her. But Boston Information doesn’t have a number, and I don’t know any of her friends where you are. I was hoping you were one of them, when Wayne told me to call Harrison.”
“Sure,” said Meg. “I can see why you’d be frustrated. But she’s probably just busy. Moving is such a hassle. Anyway, I’ll see what I can find out, and if I find a number for her or an address or something, I’ll let you know, okay? And will you do the same?”
Michelle promised and hung up, and Meg sat looking at the phone for several minutes. Then she picked it up and called Christine.
“At church,” said Dan. “Late service. I begged off, but she took Janie to the bus, and then she and Teddy were going to church. You want her to call? It’ll be a while.”
“The minute she walks in,” said Meg. “The minute. Okay?”
* * *
Attached to Meg with her dog’s sturdy leash, Harding was doing well, really too well, his right shoulder often bumping her thigh. She decided to work on sharp left turns. Running into him a few times would remind him to keep a slight distance and be prepared for shifts in direction. She turned off the path onto the grass and collided with the dog, who stumbled and glanced up at her in surprise. Two right turns were no challenge for him; he did not exhaust the slight play in the leash in the instant it took him to adjust. Another sharp left—he did better at it—and they were back on the path.
Working with Harding was the only thing Meg could think of to do. She needed to be busy, needed a simple task that would engage her physically but leave her mind free to go over its obsessive and cyclical thoughts.
Christine wouldn’t be home until well after noon. Meg had filled the first ten minutes of her impatient wait by calling nurseries. Two had been too busy to answer detailed questions on the phone, but the last had been staffed by a harried man who seemed glad for the relative relaxation provided by a phone call and who responded with enthusiasm to questions about spring bulbs.
“Ah, yes!” he said. “That one’s brand-new.” He knew all about it and confirmed what she had thought.
She halted abruptly. Harding stopped with her, lowering his haunches to the ground and holding the “sit” position. “Good dog!” said Meg, dropping her left hand to rest on the top of his head. His tail wagged across the ground.
She put her hand, spread out and flat, a few inches in front of his nose. Would he obey the hand signal without the verbal? She moved away. He looked doubtful, began to rise. “No! Sit!” She repeated the hand signal for “stay” and again moved away. This time he held his position, looking interestedly at her. She dropped the leash and jumped up and down, spun in a circle and waved her arms. He’d been through this before and wasn’t fooled. He didn’t move, except to open his mouth and let his tongue loll from the side.
“Harding! Come!” she said. He moved eagerly to her and sat again, facing her. “Good dog!” She dropped to her knees and hugged him.
“Just a little more practice, you beautiful guy,” she said. “You can win Janie that ribbon, can’t you?”
Harding heeled perfectly the rest of the way to the creek and twice obeyed the hand signal for “stay.” Meg unhooked the lead, and he bounded out into the water, splashing about, his tail wagging vigorously.
She sat on the ground, listening to birds nearby and her own dog barking in the distance, and watched Harding frolic. What was she going to do? She knew, now, not only how Hannah Ehrlich had died and why, but also at whose hands, but she couldn’t prove it. The logic that told her what had happened was merely that—logic.
The method was perfect: simple and evidence-free. Mrs. Ehrlich’s body could be exhumed and autopsied, but it would reveal nothing. The only drugs it would contain would be those that were prescribed for her. There were no forged prescription blanks. There were no missing drugs. There was no evidence.
Harding emerged from the creek and found an interesting place to dig, both front paws scrabbling wildly at the dirt. Within a moment, a chipmunk’s bold descent from a nearby tree distracted him, and he lunged after it. The chipmunk had a change in plans and retreated. Frustrated, the dog circled the tree, then bounded back toward Meg and attempted to sit in her lap.
“Just wet would be one thing,” she said, shoving him away, “but you are muddy.”
He sat down facing her, his eyes merry.
“Yeah, you’re a good dog,” she said, holding his head and touching his forehead with her own. She straightened and scratched under his chin. “And at least you’re not tracking all that into the kitchen like some dog I could mention.”
Her dog, having been abandoned to allow Harding to concentrate on his work, was probably trying to dig her way out of the front yard at this very moment. If so, she would be filthy. With a dog, it was just as well that the kitchen had an easy-to-clean floor. The bare, worn sections of wood that the linoleum covered would have soaked up anything that spilled or got tracked in …
Meg’s back went rigid, and her hand, clenched into a fist, slammed against the ground. The stains under the neatly tiled floor. Why hadn’t she put them together with the stains behind the cabinet? How could she have been so slow?
Harding ran barking up the path. Meg jumped and whirled. Christine was being greeted with wild enthusiasm by the big yellow dog. She pushed past him, not urgently, and hurried toward Meg.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m so glad it’s you,” said Meg, panting a little. “Gosh, you scared me. I thought you were at church.”
“The bus was late, so we were late, so we came home instead. I called right away, like Dan said, but you weren’t home. I got scared and changed clothes and came over. If you’d let me drive over, I’d have been here sooner. What is it?”
She leaned against a tree, while Meg sank back down on the ground. “They found Angie’s car, and then I found Angie’s sister. Listen.” Meg explained.
Christine slid down the tree an
d Harding tried to climb onto her lap. “Does that all sound to you like it does to me?”
Meg nodded. “And I should have figured it out days ago. She is dead. And she died right here, in my kitchen.”
Christine listened, her blue eyes narrowing, as Meg told her about the floor. “He didn’t realize that blood had dripped behind the counter. He did know the stain on the floor was a problem, but he didn’t have time to get it out. So he covered it up. That’s probably one of the reasons he tried to burn down the house. Christine…”
The muscles in Meg’s legs were jumping under the skin. She made a determined effort to relax. “Christine,” she said again, “that means the man who watched my house, who knew when I was gone, who had a way to get in whenever he wanted … has already killed two people. Maybe he’s been in the house lately. Maybe he’s seen my notes about arrhythmia and Norpace capsules. Maybe he’s noticed that some of the floor tiles aren’t stuck down so tight anymore. Maybe…”
Harding stood up, his ears pricked.
The blood had drained from Christine’s face, and her voice was gruff and unnatural. “But who is ‘he’?”
“Don’t say anything.” Meg’s voice was low and she looked at the creek instead of at her friend. “Somebody’s coming. Can you crawl from that side of the tree back behind those bushes ahead of you? Don’t say anything.”
Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw Christine nod.
“Then do it. Now!”
Meg stood up. “Harding! Come!” she said. The dog, who had started up the path, wheeled and returned, and Meg told him how good he was as she affixed the leash to his collar. She turned and started up the path. She stopped, a look of pleased surprise on her face. Jack, ten yards away, adjusted the knapsack he was carrying over his left shoulder and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Jack! Hey!” she said. “How nice! Did you bring the painting?”
He crossed the last few yards from the trees and hugged her to him.
“I was worried when you weren’t at the house,” he said softly, pressing her head against his chest. “Your car was there, but you weren’t. Yes, I brought the painting, all done up in a plain brown wrapper, though it’s not what usually comes in a plain brown wrapper. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the requisite knowledge for that particular painting.”
The flannel of his shirt was soft and smooth against her face. She rubbed her cheek gently against it and moved her arms to encircle him. With her right hand, she stroked his side.
“Worried?” she said. “Why?”
He released her and stepped back slightly to look down at her. “Because I don’t like not knowing if you’re okay. Does that make you nervous?”
Meg looked at him. “No,” she said. “That doesn’t make me nervous.”
He pulled her to him again. Meg stretched up her hand to cup the back of his neck. Harding pulled at the leash, trying to get to the bushes, and whined. Meg drew in her breath.
“What?” asked Jack, smoothing her hair with gentle fingers. “Let’s walk along the creek, and you can tell me what makes you breathe like that. I brought sandwiches, hoping I’d find you here.”
Meg put her hand against his chest and pushed gently. “Jack,” she said. “Jack, I … I’m afraid I’ve done something really stupid, something I need to tell you about.”
He gazed at her, his eyes soft with concern. “So tell me. There isn’t anything you can’t tell me.”
She turned away from him and looked across the creek at the tangled growth on the far side. Harding danced around her feet, lunging against the leash and barking. Meg thrust her right hand through the loop of the leash, grabbed the leather strap, and yanked him toward her sternly.
“Harding! Quiet! Heel!” Meg’s voice was annoyed. The dog moved to her left side and sat grudgingly.
She sighed and turned her head, looking up at Jack and dropping her left hand, spread out and flat, in front of Harding’s nose.
“I … I was talking about you to…” She broke off. “Look, Jack, I don’t know how to say this. Just listen for a minute without reacting. Please?” She moved her shoulders nervously. “I shouldn’t be so jumpy … I should just flat-out confess.”
“Meg! What is it? Just tell me. Please!” His eyes were beseeching. “What stupid thing could you possibly have done?”
She moved behind him, putting her left hand against his back and rubbing between his shoulder blades. “I think you’ll understand. You just have to understand.”
She stepped to his right side and out in front of him. Turning slowly to face him, she opened her mouth to speak. “I…”
She yanked the leash toward her as hard as she could. It caught Jack at the back of his knees and pulled them forward. He landed heavily on the ground, letting out a whoosh of breath.
Harding, taken by surprise by the unjustified wrench to his neck, looked reproachfully at Meg as she landed on Jack’s chest, grabbing for the knapsack and trying to pull it from his shoulder. Christine ran from behind the shrubs, determination if not comprehension in her eyes, and pulled at his arms as he clawed at Meg’s face.
“Fuck you,” he breathed softly, his eyes furious. He pulled his arms from Christine’s grip and closed his hands around Meg’s neck. Christine rose, stepped back slightly and drew back her right foot. She kicked the side of his jaw, and his head rocked to one side as he grunted, letting go of Meg and struggling to roll over and rise.
Harding tried to pull away, barking frantically with fear and confusion, but his leash was taut, caught between Jack and Meg. The man kicked out blindly, one foot landing sharply against the big dog’s ribs. That was too much for Harding, who sank his teeth into Jack’s calf.
Christine unsnapped the leash from Harding’s collar, and he pulled away from the thrashing humans. He ran around them crazily, trying to adjust his youthful sense of the order of things and a dog’s place in it.
Jack bucked and rose, throwing Meg to the ground, her head by the edge of the water. She bent her knees and kicked up with both legs as he reached down, the knapsack falling from his shoulder. The blow caught him in the stomach, pushing him back, and Meg scrambled to her feet. He made a grab for the knapsack, but Meg took a step and kicked it as hard as she could. It landed in the creek near the opposite bank.
Christine drove into him from behind and he stumbled, then got an arm around her, lifted and threw her down, landing on top of her.
Meg looked around wildly for a weapon. The only rocks by the edge of the creek were small; there were no sturdy branches on the ground nearby. There was, however, a leash. She gathered it and looped it over Jack’s head, pulling it tightly around his neck. She lifted, straining, and Christine squirmed out from under him.
Jack grabbed for the leather strap and tried to pull it away from his neck. He maneuvered onto his knees, got one foot under him, and attempted to stand, to allow his greater height to break Meg’s hold. He couldn’t stand. A small brown creature had dashed from the path and sunk her teeth into his other ankle. She pulled backward with thirty pounds of fury. Jack fell forward onto his chest, his hands still grasping at the leash.
“The knapsack,” said Meg. “Look in the knapsack.”
Christine splashed into the creek, snatched the knapsack, opened it, and reached inside. She took long strides back through the water. Her eyes were hard and determined, but her voice was light.
“Oh, goodie,” she said, taking out an object. “He brought a gun.”
* * *
Detective Stanley put her hand on top of Jack’s head as he slid into the backseat of the squad car and then walked over to Meg.
“We’re not going to be able to hold him long on an unregistered, concealed weapons charge,” she said.
“I know,” said Meg. “And the DA probably won’t care that he lied to a lady about having sandwiches in his knapsack, either. I should have let him shoot me.”
The policewoman smiled ruefully. “You want to answer the charge that you attacked
him—that his, shall we say, ‘tussle’ with you two was self-defense?”
“If it will help you hold him longer,” said Meg. “While we were sharing a tender moment, I couldn’t help but wonder why his knapsack contained such a small lunch, and why the sandwiches felt so solid and heavy against the back of my hand.”
“Did he, by any chance, make an overt threat?”
“No,” said Meg. “But I’d be curious to know why he has a key to the padlock on my cellar doors—a lock I don’t have a key to but which is, right now, unlocked. Before he came down to the creek, he’d been in the house.”
She looked over at the police car and raised her voice. “Did you find my notes? Did you wonder about the floor? And did you really think I’d fall for that romantic crap?”
She handed the officer a set of keys. “He lost this while he was trying to throttle either me or Christine,” she said. “It answers the question I had about how he was able to get into my house anytime he liked. That small key there with the rounded top is the one I’ve been looking for. When he cut off the old lock and put on a new one, he kept the only key.”
She glanced again at the police car. “When you’ve got him tucked away, see if you can find a bloodhound.”
The woman frowned. “What for?”
Meg tipped her head in the direction of the creek. “Well, it wouldn’t have to be a bloodhound, but it has to be trained. I’m willing to bet that someone Jack did overtly threaten is buried in those woods.”
* * *
“Now that the wretched brute can get into and out of the yard,” said Mike, “I’m glad she’s decided I’m not a sociopath.”
It was early evening, and they were sitting on the porch waiting for the search to be over. The subject of Mike’s comment lay at their feet. Meg patted her fondly.
“She did a good job of digging her way out from the fenced yard,” she said. “I hope the dog the police found is as good at his job as she was at hers.”
“Cadaver-trained,” said Mike, grimacing. “Everybody’s a specialist.”
