Stalker (9780307823557)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  He left the room, and Jennifer stared down at Darryl. Any sympathy she might have felt for him was washed away by a rush of anger. “Lucas is going to call the police,” she said to Darryl, not caring that he couldn’t hear. “And you’re going to be arrested for killing Stella, and I’m glad it turned out to be you, because you’re a no-good junkie. You’re a filthy, stinking—”

  Darryl opened one eye, which rolled around crazily for a moment until it focused on Jennifer. He mumbled an obscenity.

  Jennifer jumped backward, banging an elbow against the wall.

  “I didn’t kill Stella.” The words oozed through his lips like soft butter through a cracked plate.

  Lucas stepped into the room. “He’s conscious?”

  “Yes,” Jennifer said.

  Lucas sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at Darryl. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

  “I didn’t kill Stella.”

  “No one’s accusing you.”

  Jennifer tried not to look guilty as Lucas gave her a quick glance and continued. “Someone beat you pretty badly. Who was it?”

  Darryl didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and groaned.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “What’s it to you? I live here.”

  “No, he doesn’t!” Jennifer interrupted, but Lucas frowned at her, shaking his head.

  Darryl groaned again. “I need a fix.”

  “Was someone here with you?” Lucas asked. “The person who beat you?”

  Darryl mumbled something to himself, then apparently decided for some reason to answer the question. “I came here to be by myself.” Tears rolled from his eyes, making paths down the scum on his face. “I need something bad,” he said.

  In the distance Jennifer could hear a siren. She hoped it was the ambulance. She was eager to get rid of Darryl and the smell and the horrible ugliness that made her want to gag.

  “Do you know who killed your mother?” Lucas asked. His voice was suddenly soft.

  “Stella—wasn’t—she was my stepmother, not my mother.”

  Lucas looked at Jennifer, who could only shrug in surprise.

  The siren was loud now. The ambulance was turning into their street. “Tell me who killed Stella,” Lucas said, but Darryl groaned and turned his head away.

  “Let them in the front door,” Lucas said to Jennifer. She could hear footsteps on the walk, so she hurried to the door and opened it as the men arrived on the front steps.

  It didn’t take long for the ambulance attendants to strap Darryl into their folding stretcher and carry him back to the ambulance.

  As the men left, Lucas followed them to the door, shutting it behind them.

  “Is Darryl going to die?” Jennifer asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s the doctor’s job, not mine.”

  “You don’t think he murdered Stella?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “So we cross him off the list.”

  “Wrong. We put him near the top of the list. Who beat him? Why? Did the person who beat him intend to kill him? Why? What was Darryl doing in Corpus Christi?”

  “Mrs. Aciddo said he was asking people for money to buy drugs.”

  “A side issue. What was he really doing here?”

  “You ask so many questions, and there aren’t any answers!”

  “There are answers if we find them.” He looked at his watch. “Your family will be worried about you if you don’t get home soon.”

  “Are we finished here?”

  “For the moment. We might come back.”

  Jennifer felt like crying. “We didn’t find anything that would help.”

  “Weren’t you paying attention?” he asked. “For one thing, you may have found the entry the killer used.”

  “Oh! The window.”

  “There were a few grains of dirt on the sofa, under the window. They could have been left by Darryl, but they could also have come from the shoes of the person who murdered Stella.”

  “Or the person who beat Darryl?”

  “He wasn’t beaten in this house. There were no signs of the kind of fight he’d have been in. No blood. It looks like he came here after his beating.” He glanced toward the grouping of photos on the wall. “You’re also forgetting the missing photographs.”

  “What good is something that isn’t there?”

  “If Bobbie can remember who was in the missing pictures, we might find out who didn’t want to be recognized.”

  “You mean it might be the killer? But with so many pictures missing he covered himself, didn’t he?”

  “You’d be surprised how these things add up,” Lucas said.

  “I just thought of something,” Jennifer said. “Didn’t you call the police? They didn’t come.”

  “That’s because I told them to meet Darryl at the emergency ward of the hospital.” He gave one last look around the room. “That’s where I’m going now. I’ll drop you off at home first.”

  He drove to her house as though he had been there before. Jennifer, wondering if he had checked her out and irritated because he must have done so, couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “You know everything, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said calmly. “For one thing, I don’t know the identity of Stella’s murderer. But if we both work hard at the job, we’ll find out.”

  “Sorry,” Jennifer mumbled. “I don’t mean to be rude. I just feel like—Oh, I don’t know how I feel!”

  “It’s stress,” he said, “and you’ve got to learn to handle it.”

  He got out of the car, and she fumbled with her books, trying to climb out quickly. “Where are you going?”

  “To meet your father.” Lucas started up the walk.

  “He’s not home yet. And anyhow—”

  “Then I’ll introduce myself to your grandmother.”

  Jennifer stopped in the middle of the walk, unable to catch up with him. “Oh, Lucas, maybe it would be better if you didn’t talk with Grannie.”

  He looked at her the way Miss Grabel in the fourth grade had looked when she discovered Jennifer was sneaking bites of her lunch instead of working on the history test. He turned and strode toward the front door.

  Without a word Jennifer hurried to join him. She opened the door and Grannie shouted from the kitchen, “Jennifer Lee Wilcox! Come on in here and tell me why you’re so late!”

  Jennifer sighed, then walked into the kitchen, dumping her books on the table. “I had stuff to do, Grannie,” she said.

  Grannie waved a potato peeler like a baton. A cigarette wobbled on her lower lip. “You could of remembered that I’ve got enough to do without fixin’ all the meals around here. At my age, I need your help, and it seems to me that—”

  Lucas came into the kitchen. Grannie squinted to peer at him, and Jennifer quickly said, “Grannie, I’d like you to meet Lucas Maldonaldo.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, ma’am,” Lucas said.

  “You from the school or what?” Grannie continued to study him.

  “I told you about him, Grannie,” Jennifer said.

  “I’m a retired policeman,” Lucas added. “Jennifer asked me to help her friend Bobbie Trax.”

  “How you goin’ to help her? Get her out of jail? Not much chance of that, far as I can see.”

  “Jennifer and I are trying to find the identity of the person who murdered Stella Trax, and I want to reassure you that Jennifer will only be doing research and investigation with me.”

  “You talk as stiff as you stand,” Grannie said. “My cousin Will stands like you do. Touch of arthritis. Right?” She didn’t pause for an answer, adding, “Just put all that in plain English so’s I can understand.”

  “I’m telling you that Jennifer shouldn’t be in any danger.”

  Grannie rubbed her chin, her eyes widening. “I didn’t like this in the first place. And now you’re talkin’ about danger.”

  “The work I’m giving her is routine. If I thought she’d be ex
posed to any danger I’d handle this myself. She’d be out of it.”

  “Wait a minute—” Jennifer interrupted, but Grannie held up a hand.

  “Hush up, Jennifer,” she said. “I need to find out more about this.”

  As though he was used to making clear-cut summaries, Lucas outlined what they had done and some of the things they planned to do.

  When he had finished, Grannie leaned back against the sink and sighed. “Sounds like too big a job to me. I don’t know why the police can’t handle it themselves.”

  “Sometimes another viewpoint helps,” Lucas said. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to meet a friend at the hospital. If you or Jennifer’s father have any questions, please call me.”

  “Don’t know what good it would do. When she gets her mind set—”

  Jennifer walked Lucas to the door as Grannie continued a muttered conversation with herself. “Are you going to Stella’s funeral tomorrow?” Jennifer asked him.

  “I’m not sure now. Probably. If you go, pay attention to who else is there. And afterward try to stop by the beauty parlor and find out if and when Stella quit her job there. I’ll get in touch with you late in the afternoon, and we can compare notes.”

  “Okay,” she said. “And thanks for coming in. You were right.”

  “No need for thanks,” Lucas answered. “We’ve got a job to do, and if you pay attention and learn what you need to learn, we’ll do it.”

  She didn’t watch him go down the walk to his car. She shut the door and leaned against it. Sometimes he made her so angry she wanted to yell at him. If there were anyone else who could help. But Lucas seemed to be the only one. She straightened and shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. The fingers on her right hand touched a piece of paper. She pulled it out, not remembering for a moment where it had come from. She studied it, wondering why she had taken it. It belonged in the drawer of Stella’s desk. Again, at the back of her mind came a prickling of something that had to be remembered. What was it?

  She tucked the paper under some T-shirts in her top dresser drawer.

  The telephone rang, and Grannie shouted, “You get it. I’ve got these potatoes to finish. Somebody’s got to do the kitchen work!”

  Jennifer ran to the kitchen and picked up the telephone receiver after the third ring. “Hello?”

  It sounded as though the voice were filtered through a thick cloth. “Watch out, little girl.”

  “What?” Jennifer’s mind was a blank, cold hollow. “What?” she repeated, as thoughts refused to form.

  The chuckle was so unexpected that Jennifer shivered. “Dead men tell no tales. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.”

  “Is this Elton?” But the voice was thick and soft. It didn’t sound like Elton.

  Jennifer took a long breath. Anger was chasing the fear from her mind. “What kind of a jerk are you?” she demanded. “All this dumb stuff isn’t funny! Are you playing some kind of a joke?”

  “No joke.” The voice was a whisper now, even more frightening than before. “Back off, Jennifer,” it said, “or else.”

  12

  Can she be warned off? Will that get rid of her? It’s worth a try. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. That was funny. At least it was funny to me. And it scared her. That’s what I wanted to do—scare her good. Maybe she’ll think a lunatic is after her. That’s funny, too.

  First Stella, then Darryl. What made him think I’d stand for blackmail? A punk like that cutting into my business!

  Jennifer could be third. Better scare off, kid, or you’ll be next in line.

  13

  “Who was that?” Grannie’s head was cocked on one side. She looked as wary as a plump hen with a stranger in the henhouse.

  Jennifer gripped her hands to keep them from trembling. She deliberately opened the cabinet over her head and, one by one, took down the plates to put on the table. “Just a prank call,” she said. “Some kid, I guess.”

  “You seemed kind of upset for just a prank call. Look at you now, holdin’ your back so funny and puttin’ spoons on instead of forks.”

  By now Jennifer knew that whatever Lucas said, he meant. He couldn’t find out about this call, or he wouldn’t let her help. She wouldn’t be able to stand being made to stay home like a protected little kid. Bobbie was her friend. She needed her.

  “I’m so tired, Grannie. And all this about Bobbie—it’s so hard.” She whirled to face her grandmother. “Don’t you understand?”

  Grannie’s face softened. “Look, why don’t you put your feet up and have a root beer or somethin’ and rest awhile?” She sighed. “It’s hard on my old feet, but it won’t kill me to finish makin’ supper by myself.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jennifer said. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a package of pork chops. “It will help if I can keep my mind busy with something else.”

  “If you say so.” She had already begun edging toward the door. “I just might go in and listen to the TV news.”

  Jennifer quickly put the rest of the meal together. The breaded chops sizzled in their pan, splattering tiny drops of hot grease against the walls of the oven. She opened a can of sliced apples, dumping them into a saucepan with margarine and brown sugar and cinnamon, stirring them until the kitchen was warm with the spicy fragrance.

  She knew about when to expect her father. His crew would work until daylight began to fade, then head back for the nursery. He’d carefully and slowly keep the day’s records, go over the stock to be used the next day, check the tools, and on and on until he felt the job had been properly taken care of. As the days grew shorter, he’d have more time to rest in the evenings at home. So supper was ready to put on the table as soon as her father had washed up and taken his place at the head of the table.

  Quickly, before Grannie had a chance to do so, Jennifer told her father about Lucas and his visit.

  “It seems to me you’re playin’ at bein’ the police,” Grannie mumbled around a mouthful of potatoes.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t leave it up to the police,” Jennifer’s father said.

  In her intensity she leaned across the table toward him, gripping her hands together. “Dad, it’s something I’ve got to do!”

  “Well,” he said. “Well, if you feel strongly about it, hon.”

  “I do,” she said.

  “All the time you’re gonna waste you could be studying more or get a part-time job or whatever,” Grannie said.

  “No,” Jennifer said.

  Her father looked at Grannie and shrugged. “You—uh—met this policeman. He seemed all right to you?”

  “He’s not with the police now,” Grannie said. “He’s retired. Beats me why someone who’s gettin’ paid to stay home and go fishin’ and whatever doesn’t want to just do that. Believe me, if somebody paid me to—” She took another bite of potatoes, mashing her words with the food, so Jennifer didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. It didn’t matter. She knew what she had to do.

  Soon after supper was over and the kitchen cleaned, Mark came.

  “Come on out and sit on the steps with me,” he said. “It’s a pretty night, and there’s hardly a mosquito around.”

  Jennifer sat on the steps, leaning into the support of Mark’s arm. The air was heavy with sugar-sweetness from the honeysuckle on the fence and salt-sharpness from the bay. For a while neither of them spoke, until Jennifer let out a long sigh.

  “Mrs. Trax’s funeral is tomorrow.”

  “I know,” Mark said. “You planning to go?”

  “Yes. I have to.”

  “I thought you’d want to. That’s one thing I came to tell you. I’ll go with you.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be awfully glad to have you there.”

  “Will they let Bobbie come? Do you know?”

  “Oh, I hope they will! They have to! Mark, I want to see her so much!”

  He nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. “I don’t think they’ll let yo
u talk to her.”

  Jennifer sat upright and whirled to stare at him. “Why not?”

  “Because she’s in custody. Because when people are arrested they either let them out on bail or keep them away from other people. That’s why.”

  She slumped against him. “It’s not fair.”

  “If you keep wanting things to be fair, Jen, you’re going to have a frustrating life.”

  Jennifer was silent for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do. Finally she said, “Mark, if Bobbie is there I’m going to do my best to try to talk to her.”

  “What will you say?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t know!” With a wail, Jennifer exploded into tears of tension against Mark’s shoulder.

  The funeral home was designed like a colonial plantation, and the small room to which Jennifer and Mark were directed was decorated with small Corinthian columns and a brightly hued stained-glass window that splashed garish colors across Estelle Trax’s closed coffin. A small spray of flowers lay limply across the top of the coffin, and a wreath of tired purple chrysanthemums rested on a stand at one side.

  As she stumbled into the back pew, pulling Mark with her, Jennifer noticed that they were the only young people in the room. Mrs. Aciddo sat near the front of the room. Her head tucked into her shoulders reminded Jennifer of a turtle peering out from the safety of its shell. Two women with bleached, teased, out-of-date hairstyles huddled together in a middle pew. One of them cleared her throat nervously and shot glances around the room as though hoping for a quick rescue.

  Bobbie wasn’t there.

  “They’ll let her come, won’t they?” she whispered to Mark.

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders straining the sports coat he rarely wore and had outgrown. He made a face and tugged at his collar and tie. “She’s not a kid. She’s eighteen. They’d treat her like any other adult.”

  “But this is her mother!”

  One of the blondes’ flickering glances shot at Jennifer. She glared at the woman and lowered her voice. “It’s not fair.”

  “You keep saying that. It doesn’t change things.”

  A middle-aged, neatly dressed couple strolled in and sat near the back. At the same time a slender man dressed in a business suit entered the room at a side door and fiddled with the microphone on the podium next to the coffin, snapping it with his fingernail a couple of times to test it.