by Parnell Hall
Cora looked at him, smiled sadly. “No, Aaron, I’m not. Actually, it’ll probably be some time before I’m all right again.”
“You want some water or something? Anything I can do for you?”
“Be a friend to Sherry.”
“Besides that.”
“That’s a lot. But I think you’ll find it easy to do.”
Cora put her head in her hands, closed her eyes.
Aaron stopped himself from asking her again if she was all right. Instead, he sat there helplessly, wondering what to do.
Cora raised her head, opened her eyes. “Your source in San Diego. Can I talk to him?”
“Probably not a good idea—”
“Hey, I’m not going to hurt him. He’s in San Diego. I just wanna talk. On the phone.”
“It’s not gonna help you any. It will just make you feel worse.”
“How could I feel worse? Please.”
Aaron sighed. “Aw, hell.” He looked up the number, wrote it down. “Here you go. Anything else I can do?”
“No,” Cora said. She folded the paper, stuck it in her purse. “As a matter of fact, yes, there is something you could do. You got the whole town on your Rolodex?”
“Just about. Why?”
“Can you do me a big favor and look up the listings for the local real-estate agents?”
53
KNAUER REALTY WAS A ONE-WOMAN OPERATION, SO WHEN Judy Douglas Knauer was out showing a property, there was no one there. Cora arrived at the office to find the plastic hands of the clock on Judy’s BACK AT sign set for one-thirty. At least Cora didn’t have to wait outside. The BACK AT sign was not on the front door, but propped up on Judy’s desk. The door was unlocked. There were chairs and magazines. Visitors were clearly welcome to hang out and read.
As a New Yorker, Cora found this hard to relate to. When Judy came in the door, Cora had to resist the impulse to act casual, like she hadn’t jimmied the door open and broken in.
Judy wasn’t sure how to play it, either. Her sales pitch was generally chipper, as befitted a rental agent. In light of the terrible tragedy in Cora’s life, she knew that wouldn’t really do. Cora could practically see the poor woman’s mind whirling, trying to formulate an I’msorry -your-man’s-dead-would-you-like-to-rent-a-smaller-house-instead spiel.
Cora forestalled this with an allusion to the Daffodil Dirkson incident, and the two women were soon off happily discussing the second murder.
It was some time before Judy got around to asking, “Why are you here?”
“I was hoping you could help me,” wily Cora said.
Judy’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “How?”
“The B&B Dennis rented. Mrs. Trumble’s place. I wonder if that was through you.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact it was. Why?”
“Can you tell me about it?”
Judy grimaced. “I really hate to talk about a client. . . .”
“Of course,” Cora said. “But real-estate agents don’t have the same privileges as doctors and lawyers, do they? I mean, you can’t get on the witness stand and say ‘I’m sorry, I won’t answer that, I’m a real-estate agent.’ ”
“No, of course not,” Judy said. “Still . . .”
“If you don’t want to discuss it, I quite understand,” Cora said.
That did it. Judy fell all over herself trying to back-track.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t discuss it, of course, I’ll discuss it, I mean, it’s just you and me, and we’re not in court or anything. If we were in court, I guess it would be different, but that’s not what we’re talking about here, we’re just talking.”
“Yeah, we’re just talking,” Cora agreed, with astounding patience. “So tell me about Dennis.”
“Well, he said he was staying in town at a bed-and-breakfast, but he didn’t like it. He’d rented it through another agency.” Judy snorted. “Hillside Agency. I’m not at all surprised. Gave him a room that didn’t work out. Typical.” She flushed. “But don’t quote me on that.”
“What did he want from you?” Cora prompted.
“A room, of course. But not just any room. Once bitten, twice shy. The guy’s fussy beyond belief. Rejected offhand the first dozen places I showed him.”
“You took him to a dozen places?”
“No, no. In the catalogue. I’m showing him houses, and he finds something wrong with all of ’em. I show him one on Piper Street.”
“The one he rented?”
Judy shook her head. “No. He looked at the one I showed him, he said he liked the street but not the house, did I have any other houses on the street. I sure did. I mean, some of them are rented, some of them don’t rent rooms, some of them are for sale, some of them rent the entire house, which he didn’t want. I showed him on a Bakerhaven street map—this is rented, this is rented, this is a B&B. Then we looked ’em up, and came up with the one he’s staying in.”
“You took him to the B&B?”
“For a room rental? Not on your life. Not unless it’s a very slow day. I just book the room and take my commission.”
“This wasn’t a slow day?”
“It was, but I didn’t have to go. I called Mrs. Trumble and sent him over.”
“Dennis picked the B&B out of a catalogue?”
“No, like I say, he picked it off the map. I was pointing out houses, I said this one’s a B&B, he said do they have any rooms, so I called Mrs. Trumble.”
“Could I see the map?”
Judy frowned. “What for?”
Cora sighed, smiled. “Really, just to feel like I’m doing something. You know, life goes on, and all that. A lot of what I’m doing is just busywork, but it’s better than sitting on my duff.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Judy went to the bookcase, selected a huge album from the bottom shelf. She flopped it down on a table, began leafing through pages of street maps.
Cora, looking over her shoulder, saw each two-foot-square map covered about three blocks of a street. The houses were designated by perimeter line drawings containing the street numbers.
Judy hit a map for Piper Street, looked, turned another page, and referred to a master list. “There,” she said, pointing. “That’s the Trumble place. Right across the street from Raymond’s house. Of course, you know that.”
There was a pause. Judy cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know who to ask. If the police are finished with Raymond’s house now, what’s going to happen to it? I mean, you’re not actually staying there, are you?”
By the end of her spiel, Judy was blushing bright red.
It didn’t help when Cora peered at her sideways and asked, “You want to rent the house?”
“I don’t mean to be insensitive. I just have a business to run. And if the house is vacant . . . I know the owner will want to rent it out again.”
“That’s one of your houses?”
“Well, it’s not my house. I’m the broker for it.”
“Raymond rented it through you?”
“Of course he did.”
“You rented the house to Raymond and the room to Dennis?”
Judy seemed taken aback by the tone of the question. “I assure you, there’s nothing sinister about that. I rented both places. I also rented the Dirkson house. I broker most of the property on that street.”
“Oh, really?” Cora said. For the first time in a long while, her eyes were shining. “Tell me about it.”
54
CORA DROVE PAST THE CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH. THE yellow crime-scene ribbon was down, but the VW microbus was still parked in front. Apparently Jack Dirkson had no way to get it, and no one had thought to bring it to him.
Cora wondered if he cared.
There was a black circle drawn on the back of the microbus. As Cora drew near, she saw the circle had an upside-down Y inside, or rather a perpendicular diameter with two extra radii in an upside-down V. It was a peace sign, the black-and-white symbol college kids
in the ’60s had worn on buttons. Someone, Cora recalled, had come out with a gag button that looked like a peace sign, but had been subtly altered with little blips for engines to resemble a B-29 bomber, with the motto DROP IT. The emblem had enraged many of the hard-core peaceniks. At the time, Cora had merely found it funny.
It seemed strange to see a peace sign after all these years. Cora couldn’t recall the last time she had. But there it was, adorning the back of the Dirksons’ microbus as Cora drove by.
DROP IT.
Cora slammed on the brakes, fishtailed to a stop. The front of the microbus was in her rearview mirror. There was no peace sign there, just two huge sunflowers with headlights for centers. The VW emblem looked remarkably like a peace sign, but was merely the nucleus for a series of psychedelic sun effects.
Cora threw the Toyota into reverse, backed up past the microbus.
And there it was. The rear of the bus with the huge peace sign. It wasn’t a bomber. It didn’t say DROP IT. But if it had, Cora could have seen it.
Cora frowned.
She sat and stared, transfixed by the symbol from her distant youth.
55
JACK DIRKSON’S EYES WERE AS RED AS ROSES. CORA WONDERED if it was from grief or drugs. Jack had taken a long time to answer his door. He clung to it now as if for support, and made no move to invite Cora in.
“Yeah?” he demanded. His smoker’s rasp was more pronounced than usual. When he spoke, the odor of marijuana was overpowering.
“Sorry to bother you,” Cora said, “but I have your van.”
That seemed more than his brain could process. “My what?”
“Your microbus. I had the police bring it back.”
Cora stepped aside, gestured to the driveway where Dan Finley stood next to the VW microbus.
Jack Dirkson’s bloodshot eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the uniformed officer standing next to the psychedelic vehicle. “The cops!” he exclaimed.
“It’s all right,” Cora said. “Dan Finley just drove it over. I wanted to, but they wouldn’t release it to me. I followed Dan in my car. I’m driving him back. Anyway, here’s your keys.” Cora dangled them in front of his face. “I thought you’d rather I gave them to you than have a police officer knock on your door.”
Jack reached up, took the keys.
“And while you’re at it, take a look at this.” Cora shoved a metal clipboard into his hands.
Jack gawked at the clipboard. “What’s this?”
Cora pointed. “Look.”
There was an 8-x-10 color photograph attached to the clipboard. The picture was of five long-haired young men looking at the camera. All seemed self-conscious, in the manner of amateurs attempting a professional pose.
Jack frowned. “Who’s that?”
“Do you recognize any of those men?”
“No.”
Jack thrust the clipboard back at Cora. She made no move to take it.
“Look again. You know at least one of them. There. The one in the middle. Take a look at him.”
Jack shrugged helplessly. “Don’t know him.”
“Yes, you do. He just has shorter hair. That’s Dennis Pride. Our young murder suspect. That’s his band. You’ve seen them too. They were hanging around here the night Raymond was killed. The question is, have you ever seen any of them before? Not necessarily on the day of the murder, but anytime at all. Have you seen any of these guys prowling around?”
“Oh, wow.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
Jack shoved the clipboard back in Cora’s hands and slammed the door.
Cora stuck her foot in. Luckily, the door was not that solid, and her shoe was hard. The pain was tolerable.
“Hold on,” Cora said. “Look, I know how you feel. I’m probably the only one in town who does. We’ve both lost someone dear to us. I don’t know about you, but I intend to do something about it. I would think you’d want to do something about it too.”
Jack took a deep breath. He looked totally overwhelmed. “Aw, lady—”
“You say you never saw anyone in the photo. Maybe you didn’t. But maybe you did. Dennis was in the photo, and you didn’t know him.”
“He had long hair.”
“Right. And maybe you saw one of these other guys with his hair tucked up under a hat. The point is, it’s a lot different seeing someone in person and seeing him in a photo.”
“So?”
“Dennis is getting married this Saturday at the Congregational church. I need you to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Go to his wedding.”
56
IT WAS A GORGEOUS DAY. THE SUN WAS OUT, THE SKY WAS blue, with no threat of rain. The white fluffy clouds looked ornamental, like the frosting on a wedding cake.
The actual wedding cake was a sight to behold. It was not from Cushman’s Bake Shop, of course, but had been supplied by a specialty wedding shop in New York City. It was truly awesome. Ten tiers high on a three-foot stand, it dwarfed the bride and groom, and would have to be lowered before the bride cut the first slice.
The wedding cake was in the church, but would be served on the village green, where the caterers had set up a huge tent to house the wedding reception. The tables were set to feed five hundred, but there were more tables and settings on hand if needed.
Inside the church, only those with invitations were guaranteed a seat. Otherwise, it was catch-as-catch-can. Uninvited wedding guests spilled out the front doors and crowded together on the steps. Those who wanted to sit had come early. With the spectacular tragedies surrounding the proceeding, the wedding was the hottest ticket in town. As a result, it took only two ditzy women queuing up on the church steps the night before to trigger a stampede. At least a dozen townsfolk sat in line overnight, just as if they were teenagers and the church was showing a preview of the latest Star Wars movie. In return for their vigil, those zealots were seated in the third, fourth, and fifth rows, on the aisle, so as not to miss a thing.
The Reverend Kimble stood at the altar, checking the bookmarks in his Bible. Not that he hadn’t performed hundreds of wedding ceremonies—still, it would never do to lose his place.
To the left of the altar, Dennis Pride stood with his best man. Dennis looked quite handsome in his tux. Razor looked quite uncomfortable in his. Razor’s hair was tied back in a ponytail.
To the right of the altar, maid of honor Sherry Carter stood with the other bridesmaids, none of whom were Bakerhaven residents, and all of whom had been squeezed into sugar-pink gowns Brenda’s mother had supplied. The out-of-town bridesmaids were young, passably attractive, and having a great time.
Sherry Carter was gorgeous and very worried.
The bridegroom was paying far more attention to her than was appropriate. Nor could she imagine him letting a little thing like a wedding ring dissuade him. The idea he might be marrying her friend to get at her didn’t seem farfetched at all.
Sherry looked out over the pews.
Wendy Wallenstein sat in the first row. Her husband, of course, stood in the back of the church, waiting to escort the bride. Mrs. Wallenstein was dressed in a golden gown and more jewelry than you’d find in your average pawnshop. Sherry got the impression the woman lived to flash her wealth, and would have let her daughter marry almost anyone, just for the opportunity to show off her money.
Becky Baldwin, attorney for the groom, sat next to jilted puzzle constructor Harvey Beerbaum, whom Cora had unknowingly slighted. That seemed an unlikely pairing, particularly since Becky was unaware of just how valuable a witness Harvey might actually be.
Chief Harper, who no longer had the responsibility of giving Cora away, sat with his wife and daughter. The chief wore his best suit. His hair was slicked down, and his tie was crooked. He looked like he’d rather be practically anywhere else.
Officers Sam Brogan and Dan Finley, also out of uniform, sat on the aisle near the back. Sam looked cranky, but that was the way Sa
m always looked. Dan looked bright-eyed and eager.
Judy Douglas Knauer, rental agent of the crime scene, sat with her fellow former bridesmaids, Selectman Iris Cooper, general-store owner Lois Greely, and young housewife Amy Cox. The women, who had not been bridesmaids long enough to rate gowns, wore dresses of various pastel hues.
Jack Dirkson had come at Cora’s request. The aging hippie sat halfway back in the middle of a row between Mrs. Cushman of Cushman’s Bake Shop, and Mrs. Trumble of Trumble’s Bed-and-Breakfast. Jack’s wife’s violent demise was no protection from the two women, who jabbered back and forth across him as if he wasn’t even there.
Cora Felton, bride-not-to-be, sat on the aisle in the last pew in the very back of the church, next to best-man-not-to-be Aaron Grant.
Aaron was still rather testy. “You don’t have to sit with me,” he complained. “I’m quite all right.”
“I’m sure you are,” Cora told him. “That’s not why I had you sit here. I need your help.”
“What for?”
“To save my seat.”
Cora got up and slipped out the door. The anteroom was crowded with people, including the father of the bride. Mr. Wallenstein looked smart in his tux. He also looked rather nervous. Cora wondered if that was normal prewedding jitters, or due to the fact his daughter was marrying a murder suspect.
There was no sign of the bride-to-be. Brenda was holed up in the Reverend’s office, which had been designated as a changing room, and was either making last-minute preparations or having last-minute doubts. Whatever the case, Brenda wasn’t ready. Cora still had time. She pushed her way through the crowd out onto the front steps.
Rick Reed and his camera crew had been barred admission, and were set up on the lawn in order to record the departure of the bride and groom and shoot interviews of all concerned. Rick’s spirits brightened at the sight of Cora, then dampened again as she dredged a pack of cigarettes from her purse and proceeded to light up. Cora could practically see his mind racing, weighing his chances of fighting his way through the crowd to get an interview. It was clearly not to be.
