Final Appeal

by Joanne Fluke

  There were more shadows, but she recognized them. Her exercise bicycle was draped with a sheet to keep off the dust. She really ought to have someone carry it in. Her thighs could use a little work. And just beyond the bicycle were the bags of leaves and cuttings that the gardener had stored for mulch. They made the garage smell as musty as an old basement. She’d catch him on Friday and tell him to move them to the patio.

  She was almost there when she heard a small noise. What was it? Bugs? Or something bigger? Something more dangerous?

  Margo froze, only inches from the light and comfort of her kitchen. Had some animal dashed into the garage when the door was open? They had opossums in this area, ugly gray animals with beady little eyes and pink, fleshy tails. And squirrels. And all kinds of rodents, but she didn’t want to think about it now. Not while she was still out in the dark.

  Deliberately, Margo forced herself to concentrate on finding the doorknob. She was almost there now. Only a few steps to go. All she had to do was keep her hand on the wall and follow it to the door.

  Her hand grasped the knob and turned it. There! She’d made it! There was a relieved smile on her face when something heavy and sharp punctured the top of her skull, resulting in her death with one well-placed blow.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was 10 a.m. and Toni was sitting at the table in Doris’s kitchen. A mouth-watering aroma was coming from the oven. Doris was baking.

  “How much longer, Doris?”

  “Just a couple of minutes. Relax, Toni. Munch on one of those cookies while you’re waiting.”

  Toni took a cookie from the jar and chewed thoughtfully. “I think I know why you can’t lose weight, Doris. There’s got to be a pound of chocolate chips in these.”

  “Twelve ounces. And six ounces of chopped macadamia nuts. Harry likes them better than walnuts. And a half pound of butter.”

  “Stop! No wonder you can’t lose weight. Maybe you should try eating my cooking for a change. I can’t even make instant soup without something going wrong.”

  Doris sighted. “Look, Toni. Anyone can cook. You’re a bright woman, and you can follow directions. You just have a block that’s all.”

  “Some block! I tried to make your never-fail biscuit recipe, and they turned out like paperweights.”

  The stove timer buzzed, and Doris tossed Toni a pair of kitchen mitts. “Take those out for me, will you?”

  “Sure.” Toni got up and took the pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. “Where do I put them?”

  Doris gestured toward the cooling rack on the kitchen counter. “Now see that plate? Put six rolls on it, and cover it with aluminum foil. It’s the third drawer down to the right of the sink.”

  Toni put six rolls on the plate and covered it with foil. “Now what?”

  Now march up to Mike’s apartment and tell him you just took these out of the oven and you wanted to share them with him.”

  “But he’s going to think I baked them!”

  Doris laughed. “That’s the general idea. But remember, Toni, you’re not lying. You did take them out of the oven. He’ll offer to make you some coffee, and you say fine, that would be lovely. And after you’re all finished socializing, you come back here and tell me everything he said. That’s step one.”

  Toni frowned. “What’s step two?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Now get out of here before those rolls get cold.”

  “You’re positive the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

  “I’m positive.”

  Toni swallowed hard and picked up the plate of rolls. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I’m warning you, Doris . . . if this whole thing backfires, I’m going to tell Harry exactly how much you spent on his birthday present.”

  Michael groaned as he stepped out of the shower. He’d turned up the water as hot as he could stand it, but it hadn’t done any good. Every muscle in his body still ached. This was his second shower of the morning. He’d taken the first when he’d crawled out of bed at eight, hobbling into the bathroom in an attempt to look presentable before he met Toni and Doris for their morning run.

  It had been bad enough yesterday, trying to keep up with the pace, but this morning it had been pure agony. He must be in much worse condition than he’d thought. But all his aches and pains hadn’t been as painful as his loss of pride. Doris had noticed his discomfort and suggested they skip the stairs and take the elevator.

  He stopped to sneeze twice as he was dressing. Somehow, he’d caught a cold. That wasn’t surprising. Now that he thought about it, he’d lived in a protected environment for ten years; and he hadn’t been exposed to viruses outside Oakdale’s locked doors. He would probably come down with every bug in town before his immune system caught up with the times.

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and Michael frowned as he went to the kitchen to scare up some breakfast. He was in the process of reading the directions on a box of Instant Cream of Wheat that didn’t seem to be so instant after all, when the doorbell rang.

  Should he answer it? Michael hesitated, his fingers on the knob. It couldn’t be a salesman. The outside door was kept locked and door-to-door salesmen couldn’t get in. And it certainly wasn’t Stan. When Stan had called last night, he’d stressed again that they couldn’t meet face-to-face until things calmed down. It had to be either Toni or Doris. They were the only people he knew inside the building.

  “Just a second,” Michael released the chain and started to open the door, but he stopped abruptly as he realized that there was one other person he knew. Captain Harry Evans. What if someone had come up with a new picture, a photo that had been taken after the surgeries?

  “Who is it?” Michael felt like a fool shouting through the door, but what else could he do? Actually, he might as well go ahead and open it. There was no way to back out now, and no place to run. If Doris’s husband had come to arrest him, there was no other option but to go along quietly.

  “It’s me! Toni! If you’re busy, I can come back later!”

  Michael pulled open the door and gave her a broad smile. Now she probably thought he was crazy. “Sorry Toni, come in. I . . . uh . . . I wanted to make sure who it was.”

  Toni smiled, but she seemed nervous as she handed him a plate covered with aluminum foil. “Why didn’t you just peek through the fisheye?”

  Michael felt like an idiot as he noticed the peephole in the door. There were no peepholes at Oakdale, just grates with mesh over them so the nurses could keep eyes on the patients. He’d forgotten that fisheyes existed.

  “To tell the truth, I forgot it was there. My last place didn’t have one. Come in, Toni. I don’t bite.”

  Toni walked in and perched gingerly on the arm of the couch. “Those are cinnamon rolls that I just took out of the oven. I figured they’d get your mind off your sore muscles. You haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?”

  “Not yet.” Michael lifted up the foil and inhaled deeply. They smelled delicious. Toni was sitting there expectantly, and suddenly he remembered his manners.

  “Why don’t you join me? I can make some coffee, but it’ll have to be instant.”

  “Decaf?”

  “No, it’s the regular kind.”

  “Oh good.” Toni sighed. “I could use the caffeine.” Michael knew he looked surprised. “But, Toni, I thought you were big on physical fitness with the jogging and all.”

  “Oh, I am.” Toni nodded. “But I don’t believe in going overboard. I jog because I sit behind a desk all day, and it’s the only exercise I get. As far as the rest of it goes, I’m certainly not one of those health food fanatics with all the fiber and gluten-free things. My favorite ingredients are cream, butter, and sugar.”

  “But don’t you believe in watching your diet? You are what you eat? That kind of thing?”

  “Heavens no! I eat exactly what I want, anytime I want it. And if my clothes get too tight, I just eat less for a couple of weeks. I know they say you can add ten years to your life by watching what
you eat, but they don’t mention it’s the last ten years of your life they’re talking about. I’m not sure that I want to stick around just so I can drool on myself.”

  “I see what you mean.” Michael bit back a smile and nodded. “Maybe these all-natural foods aren’t good for you. After all, people die of natural causes all the time.”

  Toni blinked and then she laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that made Michael feel he’d said something wonderful. She was beginning to relax around him, and that was good.

  “Can I use your phone for a minute, Mike? I finished a report last night, and I wanted to tell my client it’s ready.”

  “Sure. It’s right there by the couch. And the book’s around here someplace. I’ll go start the coffee.”

  An expression of surprise crossed Michael’s face as he spotted the phone book. It was lying open on the coffee table. That was strange. He hadn’t made any calls. He was frowning as he went into the kitchen. There was something about the nightmare, something that had been different last night. The jury box had been empty, so he’d looked up the name of a juror in the phone book. Had he actually done it? Gotten out of bed and opened the phone book? He must have.

  There was something else, too. It had been raining, and he had forgotten to take his jacket. Had he really gone outside in the rain? He wasn’t sure.

  Michael sighed and filled two cups with water. It really didn’t matter. After all, it was only a dream. But he was still frowning as he put the cups in the microwave and watched them go around on the carousel. When Toni left, he’d check the clothes in his closet to see if anything was damp. The sensation of cold rain hitting his face had been very real. He sure hoped he hadn’t been sleepwalking again.

  Lenny closed the door to his tiny office and poured himself a cup of coffee. Ten o’clock. Time for his mid-morning break. The bozos out there could handle the customers while he read his morning paper.

  Trouble with the Arabs again. And the Israelis. Too bad we didn’t have a president with muscle enough to straighten them out. If JFK were alive, he could do it. He was the only president Lenny could remember who hadn’t taken lip from anybody.

  Lenny blinked hard as he thought about Kennedy. It was the first time and only time he’d cried. All those years ago, and he still remembered where he’d been and exactly what he’d been doing when he’d heard the news.

  He had been five years old, riding in a truck with his father. His father was a pickup man back then, running loads from Miami to Chicago. The boss had told his father to drive straight through, so they’d been on the road all night with the radio on for company. They’d been on a clear stretch of highway just outside of Atlanta when the announcer had said the president was dead. Lenny’s father had pulled over to the side of the road and bawled like a baby, and Lenny had cried, too. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he hadn’t liked seeing his father cry. His father was a tough guy, a careful guy who’d never been in trouble, but that morning he hadn’t even cared that the Georgia cops might stop to ask what was wrong and search the truck.

  Lenny sighed as he turned to the sports section and flipped to the scores. He added up his winnings and losses and shrugged. He’d broken even today and he guessed that was better than losing. He didn’t bet that much anyway, never more than he could afford. He just did it to make the games more interesting. It was like going to the track and betting on a horse because you like the color the jockey was wearing. Sometimes you won and sometimes you lost, but it all evened out in the end.

  The comics were next, but they weren’t very funny today. Lenny read them all, but he didn’t find anything to make him laugh out loud. They used to be better. He was sure of that. This political correctness thing was ruining everybody’s sense of humor.

  Lenny flipped to the obituaries, and he read each one carefully. Then he gave a relieved sigh. No one he knew had died. That was great. And almost everyone who’d died, with the exception of a kid on a motorcycle who was probably high on something or other, had been older than he was. That made Lenny feel good.

  One quick glance at the weather and he was through. The weather guys in the paper were the worst of the lot. Lenny wasn’t even sure why he bothered to look. He shoved the paper to the back of his desk and got up to go back to work when an article in the Metro section caught his eye. Some woman had been murdered last night in Westwood. That was where Margo lived. Too bad it wasn’t her.

  Lenny’s mouth dropped open as he read the name of the victim. It was Margo! There it was in black and white. Margo Jantzen on Morningside Drive. And he’d been talking about killing her just last night. He was sure glad he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone but Eddie!

  It took a second to sink in, but then Lenny began to sweat. He’d laid out the whole thing, and Eddie’d said he knew the right guy for the job. And when Lenny had given him those tickets, Eddie had promised to do him a favor. They’d been sitting there talking when Eddie had jumped up to make a phone call, one he didn’t want to make from Lenny’s apartment. It didn’t take a lot of brains to figure it out. That stupid little scum had put out a hit on Margo!

  Michael unlocked his apartment door and ducked inside. His heart was racing, although he was almost certain no one had seen him dash out to get a newspaper from the dispenser in front of the apartment building.

  The paper listed a number on the front for people who wanted to subscribe. Michael dialed it and made arrangements to have the paper delivered to Mike Kruger’s apartment every morning. Even though Stan had told him to ask for anything he wanted. Michael didn’t see anything wrong with taking a little initiative. Then he hung up and stared down at today’s newspaper, almost afraid to open it and find out what was inside.

  After Toni had left, he’d discovered a damp pair of jeans and shirt in his closet. It was clear he’d been sleepwalking in the rain last night, just as he had feared. Now he wanted to find out where he’d gone and what he’d done.

  Michael’s hands were trembling as he paged through the paper. The world news could wait, and so could the sports and the business section. If he’d actually done what he feared, it would be in the Metro.

  There was an article about a woman who’d been murdered in Westwood, and Michael shuddered. As he read the name of the victim, his face turned white.

  The phone book was still open on the coffee table, and Michael forced himself to look at it. Margo Jantzen’s name and address were right there in the middle of the page.

  It was like the nightmare was happening again, except this time it was real. Michael sank down on the couch and held his head in his hands. The psychiatrist had told him that his nightmare was caused by the hatred he felt for the jurors who’d convicted him. The whole idea had seemed ridiculous, but he’d promised the doctor he’d think about it.

  At his next session Michael had told the psychiatrist he was wrong. He didn’t hate the jurors. It was true they’d made a mistake, but people weren’t infallible, and you couldn’t blame them for an honest error. After all, the body of evidence against him had been overwhelming.

  The psychiatrist had made one of those nonjudgmental comments like, “I see,” or, “Oh,” and Michael had gone on to explain. It was true that he’d shouted at Carole. And he’d told the bartender at Barney’s Beanery that she’d be sorry that she ever left him.

  Of course, he hadn’t meant that he was going to go back and kill her, but how were the jurors supposed to know that? And the gun, Michael’s gun with his fingerprints on the cylinder, had been in the dumpster outside his apartment building. Didn’t the doctor agree that all these facts were pretty incriminating? And to make it worse, he had no alibi, none at all. He still couldn’t remember where he’d gone after he left the bar. All he knew was that he hadn’t killed Carole, but it sure as hell looked as if he had. It wasn’t the jurors fault he’d been convicted. It was reasonable for them to reach that conclusion even though it wasn’t true.

  The psychiatrist had smiled and nodded. They always smiled an
d nodded when they were about to knock your props out from under you. And then he’d asked a question. What was the dream if not tangible proof of the animosity Michael was harboring toward the jurors?

  Michael had sighed and given in. It did no good to argue. But he hadn’t believed it. He hadn’t believed it at all until now.

  “I don’t believe it!” Doris reached across the table to pour Toni another cup of coffee. “That’s three cinnamon rolls you’ve eaten in less than five minutes. Didn’t you have any with Mike?”

  Toni shook her head. “Mike ate. I was too nervous.”

  “You were too nervous to eat? This is serious, Toni. I think you’re in love.”

  “Really?” Toni raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know about the love part, but I do like him, Doris. He’s got a good sense of humor. Did I tell you what he said about natural foods?”

  Doris nodded. “You also told me that his favorite color is blue, he enjoys old movies, his favorite musical is West Side Story, and his hobby is reading Shakespeare. It sounds like a line in a high school yearbook. Did he say anything personal at all? Or ask you for a date?”

  “No. But he seemed glad to see me. And he asked me in right away.”

  “Okay, that’s something.” Doris sighed. “Did you wear your cute little yellow sundress?”

  Toni put her fourth roll down with a thump. “I’m sorry, Doris. I knew I forgot to do something.”

  “You wore that?” Doris pointed to Toni’s jeans and T-shirt, and she groaned when Toni nodded. “Well, that explains it. I think it’s definitely time for step two, if you remembered to get his phone number.”

  “I remembered that. I asked to use his phone and I memorized the number. “What’s step two?”

  “Dinner at your place. Honey-cured ham, sweet potatoes, spinach soufflé. And lemon meringue pie for desert. He won’t be able to resist.”