by Gregg Olsen
I was left to wonder who would want to frame me? And why? And when did they have the opportunity to do so? Why kill Mrs. Parker? I had plenty to think about and very little time.
A killer who wanted to frame me and do me irreparable harm was on the loose.
Chapter Thirty
Wednesday, September 4
I HAD SO MUCH ON MY MIND THAT at first I didn't see her. I tried to bolster my shattered emotions after the meeting with Martin Raines with some overbearing self-talk. I am fine. I am going to get to the bottom of this. I'm a survivor! But no matter what I told myself, I felt sick inside. I could not imagine that someone would want to set me up for some woman's murder. My hands shook on the wheel of the LUV as I turned into the Columbia Mall parking lot. I knew it wasn't because of the lack of caffeine. It went deeper than that. The part I kept trying to stop myself from thinking was that Mrs. Parker had been killed to frame me. So that meant, in some way, I was responsible for her death. It had not been a crime of passion. It had been planned. It had been cleverly planned. I held my face in my hands. I would not cry.
Jett Carter stood in front of the kiosk as if she was waiting for a bus, her clear plastic purse over her shoulder. Her gaze was steady toward the mall's west entrance. She was a small figure with short, dark hair and pale skin even as the summer came to a close. She wore a lime and pink retro dress that I assumed was the spoils of an employee discount from her job at Ho!
She smiled and waved when I came into view.
“Your shoes are great,” I said desperately, observing her thick-soled black stompers.
“Doc Martens?”
“Mock Martens, $28.95 at—”
“Ho!?”
“Yeah, how'd ya guess?”
“Just a hunch.”
We chatted about Janet and Connie. Both remained miserable and frustrated that as the months passed since their appearance on Rita Adams no one seemed to care about them. Inside Edition sent Janet a letter, saying that her story simply wasn't for them.
“We're getting away from your sort of thing....”
Jett was shocked. She felt the story deserved to be on television. She was certain it was better than half the stuff the networks put on every day.
“I guess I'm a little surprised, too,” I said. “The other night they had a story about a woman who gave birth to triplets, each with a different father—two white and one black.”
“I didn't see that,” Jett said. “What's really eating at Janet is that she was promised a trailer visit with Deke, but the prison won't let her have one. They say she needs to be in the system for two years before she can be a trailer trustee.”
“Two years? That's a long time.” I changed the subject. “How's your mom?”
“I'm not talking to her—”
Just then, a familiar face moved toward us. It belonged to a hulking woman, with heavy foundation and bubble hair. The gold bus and #1 earrings jogged my memory of the failed interview at Dairy Queen. She recognized me long before it registered in my mind that she was Anna Cameron, Deke's mother.
“Too bad they let you out of jail,” she spat at me.
“Excuse me?”
Jett took a few steps back. I tried to ignore the vitriolic remark. After the meeting with Raines, I needed no more trouble that day.
“Hello, Mrs. Cameron. How are you?” I asked.
“Fine, until you came into my life.”
“I've hardly come into your life. I've stayed away, respected your wishes.”
“My boy told me you stood up for him and Janet at their little prison wedding. What kind of idiot are you? Apparently you have no regard for anyone. Everything you do is colored by your own ambitions.”
“That's not fair. I went because they asked me,” I said. “They had been counseled. Your son knew what he was doing.”
“My son's a victim.” She leaned so close I could smell her hazelnut latte breath. “Do you get that? He's a victim of that woman and he can't see straight. He loves her... it's like a victim of abuse who keeps coming back for more.”
“She's not an abuser!” Jett cut in.
“Who are you?” Anna Cameron grimaced at the girl she apparently believed was some mall-shopping bystander.
“I'm Janet's sister. Connie's my mother. If you think either one of them is capable of murder, or attempted murder—”
Anna Cameron laughed. “I didn't know there were any more at home like Janet and Connie Carter. Good Lord, Timberlake's not safe.”
“Mrs. Cameron, please. Leave her alone.” I lowered my voice after noticing a small group of shoppers congregating nearby to listen to the school district's top bus driver read me the riot act.
“You make me sick!” Anna Cameron said loudly as she turned around to leave. Her Kohl's bag clipped my side. I didn't react. I chose to believe that she hadn't meant to hit me. It was an accident.
“You people will do anything to make a dollar,” she went on. “I'm smarter than June Parker, because I'll have nothing to do with you...and you know what? I'll live longer.”
I was sure she sneered as she walked away. The small crowd shook their heads in horrified unison. I wanted to crawl behind the kiosk. I wanted to give back the money my publisher was advancing. I wanted to work at McDonalds.
You'll do anything to make a dollar.
♦
IF I THOUGHT THE DAY MY FRIEND Marty Raines had questioned me for murder was bad, the day officer Moan-a-lot inked my fingers and took my mug shot, I hadn't been able to compare it to the day Raines told me someone had attempted to frame me for murder—the day the world's greatest bus driver told me to kiss off. I drove north on the interstate until I found a gas station with a grocery. I bought two rolls of Rolaids and a bottle of diet peach tea Snapple. I had wanted Tums, but that was the way the day was going. By the time I approached Port Gamble, I was ready to throw up the chalk I was certain was the main ingredient of the antacid remedy.
Taylor ran out to the LUV beaming when I arrived home. I slapped a smile on my face and took a deep breath and told myself to relax, to set aside Timberlake.
“Daddy,” she said, nearly jumping with enthusiasm. “Guess what?”
I climbed out of the truck and hugged her. “I can't. How was your first day?”
“Mine couldn't have been better... Hayley's, I don't think, was quite so good.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Renny Ann Quinn transferred into Hayley's class! Mrs. Alexander seats her kids alphabetically. Alphabetical order for the whole year!”
I knew where she was going with it, but as long as Hayley wasn't around I could prolong the joy her sister was so obviously reveling in.
“Any kids with B last names?” I asked.
Taylor let out a surprisingly wicked little laugh. “Nope...Ryan falls right after Quinn. Right after! Booger-eater is sitting next to Hayley!”
We went inside. On anyone's scale of reality, I knew that my day had been far worse than Hayley's. Yet when I saw her sullen little face, framed by an unraveling ponytail, I set aside my own troubles. If there were any justice on God's green earth, the murder frame-up that had sent my heart pounding and stomach turning would be sorted out soon enough. I had faith that Raines would figure it out and put it all to rest. There would be an end.
Hayley's sentence, however, was nine grueling months. Renny Ann Quinn was going nowhere until June.
♦
I CALLED MARTIN RAINES AT HIS HOUSE every night for a week. I wanted to know if any more information had come in that might provide a clue to the identity of the killer. The first conversations brought the usual response: They were “working” on it. The only good news was that the lab tech that had botched the fingerprints and nearly sent me to prison was on unpaid leave pending an internal investigation on negligence. I hadn't even considered a lawsuit, but in the event that Love You to Death tanked, I was relieved that there was something to fall back on.
By the last conversation, the investigat
ion had sputtered once more. It was time to rehash what we knew.
Raines, I learned, was good at rehashing.
“We know that whoever tried to set you up is someone who knows you well. He's aware of your schedule,” he said. “He's read your books. I talked to the boys at the university and they are going to profile the perp. It is possible he is a fan. He's strong, too. Think about it? Any weirdos write to you? Hang out at your book signings?”
I laughed into the phone and waved to Valerie as she came into the room carrying a bouquet of yellow roses.
“I'm beginning to think it's only weirdos who go to my signings, period,” I said. “And, Martin, let's face it...if it was a fan, you won't have to go through too many names to talk to them all. I don't exactly have a huge following.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said.
“And why do you keep saying it was a man? The woman was poisoned first and poisonings are almost the exclusive domain of female killers. The killer could have cut Mrs. Parker up when she was half-dead.”
We talked a bit longer, and I made an excuse to hang up. I promised to call him back
later.
Valerie cleared a spot on the mantel by shoving aside a clay figure that Hayley had made in first grade. It was an animal of some sort; she told us it was an elephant, but if indeed that was true, it was the first elephant without a trunk. Val fanned out the dozen long-stems while I wrapped up the conversation with Raines.
“Secret admirer?” I asked, finally hanging up the phone.
“Actually,” she said, handing me a small white envelope, “they're for you.”
“Me?” I was amazed. I had never received flowers before. I expected that the only time I ever would was when they were sent to my own funeral. Of course, I wouldn't know about them, for certain, but I was sure someone would send something. I ripped open the little flap and read the message written by some clerk at the florist.
Sorry for the misunderstanding! My best to you, Valerie, and those pretty Ryan girls.
It was signed with Monica Maleng's name.
“God, Val, they're from Monica!”
Valerie laughed out loud. A good hearty laugh, like one I hadn't heard come from her in weeks. It brought an instant smile to my face.
“Green Light must need your rights, after all, honey. No public domain for your story!” she said.
“I'll let her stew for a day or two, and then I'll check in.”
“Good idea. Say we were out of town and found the wilted roses on our doorstep. We're sure they were absolutely lovely. Monica, it's the thought that counts, you know.”
I gave Valerie a hug and we held each other for a long time. She seemed so happy. Mid-September's cooler weather brought an end to the need for an air conditioning unit in the Honda and it obviously agreed with her. As I held her close it was abundantly clear that she still deserved those highlights for her hair.
Chapter Thirty-one
Friday, September 13
AFTER DROPPING THE GIRLS OFF at school, I drove down to the library in West Bremerton on Sylvan Way (which might have been sylvan at one time, but was now a dreary stretch of former fast food franchise restaurants that had been converted into restaurants that looked like a Taco Bell but weren't). I had called ahead to make sure Kate O'Brien would be working. Kate worked in the reference section and had been a friend since the day I walked in to the research the product tampering killings for Over the Counter Murder. I wanted to know everything I could about Weasel-Die and cyanide and Google could only do so much. Wikipedia was even worse. In the quiet of the library, Kate, a woman with a lean figure and gorgeous dark eyes that screamed “sexy librarian,” piled up one reference after another. By the end of my work there, I felt I easily could have called the company and hired out my services to write Weasel-Die's annual report. And for my knowledge of cyanide? I could have killed anyone and gotten away with it.
“What can we find out about Kubuta International Paper?” I asked when she looked up from her work.
Kate gave me her “I won't be Googled out of a job” grin. She knew that when I arrived for help, it was usually more interesting than the run-of-the-mill requests she endured on a daily basis. Even if it sounded like a run-of-the-mill request.
“Plenty. What exactly are you after?” she asked.
“Product lines mostly. Availability of products in this country, that sort of stuff.”
“It will be more available. I can tell you that.”
“How so?”
Kate tapped out some characters on her paid-database-rich library computer terminal and started reading.
“Kubuta bought the old Western Paper Company plant on the bay six months ago. The EPA has been fiddling around with their land use application. Because it was an existing plant, there seems no doubt they will get approval.”
Noticing the blank look on my face, she stopped.
“There's been nothing much about it in the papers, so don't feel so in the dark. Kubuta's filing indicated they had no plans for the site in several years. They are just increasing their presence in the U.S.”
I asked if she could find anything about their product line, especially papers with a silk content.
“That's an interesting request,” she said, once more playing the keys on her terminal's keyboard. “Let's see. Artist Today has a fairly comprehensive review on silk impregnated papers, in its 50th anniversary issue. Kubuta is mentioned.” Another ten seconds or so passed as she scanned the dark surface of her computer screen. “We have it. I'll go to the stacks in the back and find the issue.”
I devoured the article in less than five minutes. Several products were featured in a photo layout and I considered it a major folly for an art director to show the papers and rave about their textures when the photo was on the surface of a 60-lb. enamel web stock. Kubuta's label, featured on the layout, was a bright orange sun against a midnight blue rectangle.
Kubuta's eight percent silk paper was called Shantung Rag. It was, in fact, used by graphic artists that preferred a traditional inking process over spewing something computer-generated from their laser printers. A reader response card offered free samples of each of the papers shown in the magazine.
On the second half of the card, the company solicited the occupation of the reader for its database. It listed the following as options: professional fine artist; graphic arts manager; paper supplier; graphic artist; designer; retailer; educator.
Chapter Thirty-two
Monday, September 16
JETT CARTER STOPPED BY after another marathon visit with her mother and sister at the Riverstone prison. It was obvious that the encounter had not gone particularly well. She was pale as chalk and the short hair on the nape of her neck stuck in patches against her skin. Even the skin on her toes through her open sandals seem to give off a ghostly glow. Our hearts went out to her. Jett had been dragged down into a mire that seemed to be swallowing her up. She was reaching out from the quicksand for Connie and Janet and they—or at least their circumstances—were pulling her under.
“Not so good at Riverstone?” I asked, sensing the answer. I led her into the house, to the kitchen, where Valerie and I had been spending a few quiet moments before dinner. Taylor and Hayley were in their respective rooms finishing up their homework.
Jett said nothing and sat at the table. Valerie poured her a cup of licorice tea, which we now purchased solely for her visits. Licorice was her favorite and no one in the family could stand the stuff. Everyone in the Ryan household hoped that the friendship with Jett Carter lasted beyond the publication of Love You to Death. There was no way that we'd be able to consume the mega box of Elegant Herbals we bought at Costco.
Jett looked as though she was going to cry. She told us that she didn't think she could bear coming to Riverstone much more. It hurt too much.
“I'm not worried about Janet, she's a fighter,” she began. “But Mom... I keep thinking that my mother is going to die in prison. She's weak and she can'
t sleep and her heart is bad....”
Her voice trailed off and the tears came.
“She hasn't put up a single picture I sent her because she says she doesn't want any reminders of what she's missing. She stopped wearing makeup. She cries almost the whole time when I talk to her. And I cried all the way driving straight here. I'm surprised I didn't crash.”
Something about what she said twigged a nerve in the back of my brain, but whatever it was, was lost as I watched Valerie put her hand on Jett's shoulder. The young woman tilted her head to embrace my wife's gesture.
“You know,” she continued, “I understand that she did something wrong, at least probably did, but I don't think she would have really paid someone to kill anybody. My mom isn't that way. If she wanted someone dead, she'd have shot him herself. My mom isn't as bad as they say.”
“Maybe she just got caught up in something,” Val said.
“I guess so. I guess that's what I think now.”
“And Janet?” I asked.
“Jan is a different story. Jan has always considered herself first. She always got her way.”
I leaned a bit closer. “So now you are believing she did set up Danny and plot to kill Paul and Deke?”
Jett wiped her red eyes on her arm. “She never was a saint. She tried once in a while to do nice things for me as a kid, but she was always more concerned about herself and what she wanted.”
“Most big sisters are,” Val offered.
“Yeah, but I bet yours never dumped you the minute you got into trouble. I was only eleven. The second I was in that foster home, my sister never called. Never wrote. When she had her baby, I didn't even know about it. Lindy's my niece and I didn't even get a baby picture.”
Taylor and Hayley lingered by the kitchen entry. I knew that they were as mesmerized by Jett's life as they could be. She was not Wanda-Lou. She was not any of the other goofballs that had passed through their lives because of my work. She was more like them than the others.
