Edge of Crime: A Collection of Crime Stories

by John Moralee

  “Well …” Cordy said. The thought was left uncompleted.

  “Can I –” he said, before the sentence faded. “Can I see you again?

  “I would … like that.”

  She would? Yes. He grinned. He leant forward, and she leant forward, the leather seats creaking, creaking, until their lips joined. It was a sweet, gentle kiss. Not too fast, not too slow. He looked at her eyes, so close, so deep. Her pupils looked like eclipses, with a slight orange corona. Soul to soul contact … He didn’t want it to end. But it did. She detached slowly, her lips slipping away, leaving his tingling with the memory. Flustered, she said goodnight and hurried to her door, waving as she went inside. He waved back.

  *

  Tommy called the next morning. Nolan was in bed, having a lie in. It was nearly noon. Tommy woke him up.

  “They’ve checked the crash site.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Those boys and gals are pros.”

  “Right. Thanks. I owe you one, buddy.”

  No sooner had he put down the phone, it rang again.

  “Hi.”

  “Cordy, how are you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that kiss.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah … What are you doing today?”

  He hadn’t thought about it. “Nothing yet. You have any ideas?”

  “I have,” she said coyly. “Alas, I’m working. Why don’t we do something tonight? I know a place we could shoot some pool, talk.”

  They arranged it. He was awake by then, which was when Judy phoned. Her first question was abrupt.

  “What’s the situation?”

  “The crash theory is a dead end.”

  A pause: “I see. This has nothing to do with the persuasive powers of Cordelia Harker, would it?” Icy.

  “No, Judy.”

  “So what can we do next?”

  Nolan squeezed his brow. “Did Ken keep an appointments diary?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s in his desk. You want it?”

  “I’ll come and get it right after I wake up, Judy.”

  “Is she there with you?”

  “Who?” he said. But he knew whom.

  “Cordelia Harker.”

  “I’m alone, Judy.” Not that it’s any of your business, he thought. “I swear I’ll be right over.”

  “Good.” She hung up.

  Like a vulture perched on his shoulder, Judy watched him reading the diary. Ken’s almost photographic recall had been an asset during his NASA training, but it meant he didn’t keep detailed notes. Nolan could see that Ken’s schedule had been frantic. One day he had been in New York at a trade conference; another, Paris; the next, London. Ken was more like an ambassador than a glorified sales rep. But on the Monday that had changed his behaviour, the page contained just one entry, unusually circled in red ink.

  13:00 Hrs - H.

  That was it. Brief. “What do you know that starts with a H that would mean anything to Ken?”

  Judy shrugged. “I can’t think of … well, there’s Harry Gallani, Hugh Jones, Mitch Harrison … that’s it, I think.” They were NASA guys, nothing to do with what Ken was doing, Nolan didn’t think. He would check, though. “Oh, Cordelia Harker, of course. But why would he have an appointment with her?”

  Nolan’s throat was dry. Cordy didn’t have an affair with Ken, did she? The H could have been anything. Anything. H for Howdie Doody.

  H for Cordelia Harker.

  To get his mind off it, he asked Judy for Ken’s phone records. Maybe the numbers called on the Monday would give a clue. Judy handed him the records, then she excused herself. He heard her in the kitchen, clanking bottles, starting early with the booze. He’d seen her refrigerator – it was like a bar for Oliver Reed. Earlier, he had been in the bathroom and noticed several bottles of Listerine on the shelves next to the Nurofen and Paracetamols. He had heard how some alcoholics resorted to drinking Listerine. He hoped Judy hadn’t descended that far.

  Ken had made dozens of long-distance calls that, starting with one at seven a.m. Nolan would have to go through them one by one. He didn’t look forward to the task.

  Judy returned with two orange juices with crushed ice. He accepted his warily.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Yours isn’t spiked.”

  “And yours?”

  “Let’s just say Mr Smirnhoff is swimming in it.” She laughed a cold, bitter laugh. It was the kind of laugh faded movie starlets made when thinking about their loss of beauty.

  He was afraid she was trying to drink herself to death.

  “Oh, Judy, you need to see someone. A counsellor. A therapist. Someone.”

  “I hate trick cyclists. Besides, if I want to drink, who has the right – the qualifications – to judge what I can and can’t do?” She gulped the drink, her mouth twisting as the vodka went down. “I’m going out to the shops. Shopping therapy. I’ll see you later, Moonwalker. Bye.” She put down her drained glass and strode away, shaking off his attempts to stop her. He didn’t want her driving in her condition. But then she elbowed him in the solar plexus – knocking the wind right out of him. She burst into tears. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” But she hurried out anyway. She was in her car accelerating away before he could catch up. In the blinding sunshine, staring at the receding vehicle, Nolan was left clutching the phone records, possibly the only solution to the entire mess that he’d somehow embroiled himself in.

  Feeling hungry – remembering he’d not had breakfast or lunch – he locked up Judy’s house and went to a McDonald’s. He sat at the window and called telephone numbers while eating lunch. Vapour trails crossed the sky throughout his meal. He thought about flying. At home he had a humble Cessna, but he hadn’t flown the baby for six months. He would like to take Cordy up; he was sure she’d love it. The cockpit of the Cessna provided an awesome view. Cordy … Why was he thinking about her when he should have been thinking about Ken? He pictured Ken and Cordy together. He didn’t like the image. Ken was charming. Cordy was beautiful. H for Cordelia Harker … He focussed on the calls. Time after time, he got nowhere. It was routine stuff. Work related. Innocent.

  But then –

  The ten-fifteen call.

  When Nolan hung up, he knew who Ken’s killer was and the reason why.

  He pushed his plate aside, feeling ill. He was in his car before he had formed the conscious decision to leave the diner – as if in his haste to move he’d transported himself directly behind the wheel. The engine was running. It was strange how he could do something like that and not remember doing it. He pulled out of the parking lot and froze, not knowing which direction he wanted to go. The front of his car was sticking out over the line. A passing driver in a rust-bucket Ford had to swerve around him. Nolan picked left just for the sake of it. On the highway, he gathered his thoughts into something approaching sense. One more call confirmed everything. He called Judy’s number. There was no answer. The answering machine switched on. He told her to call him back ASAP. Next, he called Cordy’s work number. Her secretary Phyllis answered. “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s not here. I think she’s at home.”

  Nolan looked at where he was. He was near her home, so he turned off the highway. He stopped at her house and approached the door. He rang the bell, but noticed the door wasn’t fully shut.

  “Cordy?” he called out.

  His voice sounded hollow, scared.

  He pushed the door with his foot.

  And a cat hissed and dashed between his legs … fleeing.

  He could see the other cat lapping at a red pool on the carpet. The blood was near some stairs going downwards. The cat stopped licking, ears bristling. Its eyes fixed on Nolan. Its fur was splashed with red. Its paws were soaked. It had left a trail of blood prints wherever it walked. Nolan walked over. The cat didn’t flinch. Nolan saw the body lying on the floor, its face turned away. There was a rock – no, a piece of cora
l used as a paperweight – beside her. Her hair was matted with blood. Her skull was too dented for there to be any doubt about her condition.

  He had to look. He had to confirm the worst.

  Dear Cordy …

  She was dead.

  And he’d never had time to say he loved her.

  There was something stuck to her blood. Something moving. Fluttering.

  It was a butterfly.

  *

  Nolan found Judy in the gazebo. Her eyes were half shut until she saw his shadow fall upon her, then she looked up. He could see the dark stains on her hands. Her hands clutched desperately to a Southern Comfort bottle. She tipped more whiskey into a glass, filling it to the brim and letting some spill onto the table.

  She was so drunk she was verging on catatonic.

  “Are the cops with you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I asked them to wait for a few minutes.” He wanted to hate her, but seeing her suffering with her guilt and loss, he couldn’t do it. “I wanted to talk to you first. I want you to tell me why you killed her.”

  “The little tramp seduced my husband. Then she tried to fool you into believing her lies. I couldn’t let her get away with it. So I asked her to see me at her home and when her back was turned, I killed her. I made sure it was quick. Quick and painless ... But it didn’t make me feel better. I just want to feel better, Geoff. I loved Ken so much …”

  “Judy, you made a mistake.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I found out what the H stood for.”

  “Yes, I know. Cordelia Harker.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It was short for ‘hospital’. Specifically, the oncology department at the John Hopkins. Ken had been getting bad headaches for weeks, Judy. I’ve seen the painkillers in your bathroom. Ken was taking them for his migraines. He made an appointment with a specialist. I called the number and his doctor told me that Ken had an inoperable brain tumour. He had less than three months to live. Three months of pain and suffering and madness. He didn’t want anyone to know or worry – especially you. That was why he kept it a secret. The knowledge must have been eating him up. He knew that if he killed himself then you wouldn’t be able to claim on his life insurance. I know that because I called the company. Suicide invalidates any claim. So Ken decided to make his suicide look like an accident. He knew exactly how to do it. There was nothing wrong with the plane that Ken didn’t make wrong. He deliberately crashed it so nobody else would suffer because of his illness.”

  “She had nothing to do with it …”

  “No,” he said. “She was innocent.”

  Judy put a hand to her mouth. She winced, making a whimper. “I’m sorry, Geoff. I’m sorry.”

  Nolan barely heard.

  “One last drink?” she said, pleading.

  “One last drink,” he murmured. “Make it a big one.”

  Diamond Pass

  Death and guilt brought Cal back to Diamond Pass. He could have driven faster, but he wanted to delay his arrival, and prepare his mind for what was ahead, by staying well below the speed limit on these rough and unpredictable mountain roads.

  Ten miles from the town, the black BMW passed over a precarious bridge of rust-red girders and wooden planks, the vehicle shaking as though frightened. His wife Heather woke up and looked around, blinking in the flickering sunlight. She gasped as she saw the river far below. The river was burgeoning with melted snow from the dark peaks of the Catskill Mountains, the water roaring over the engine noise.

  “Cal?” she said.

  “Nearly there,” he promised.

  When the car reached the other bank, it seemed to sigh with relief, though it was just the air-conditioning changing pace. Ahead, the road disappeared into the forest of spruce and balsam firs. Cal still did not recognise the scenery, but after another couple of miles a feeling of familiarity crept up, slowly, until he felt as if he had never left. Suddenly, the road plunged into a green valley filled with bright light and a river as shiny as spun glass. They were there: his childhood home, Diamond Pass.

  Not much had changed in fourteen years. Pushed to one side of Diamond Pass like the unwanted bastard child of a rich man, the Bradley and Sons trailer park where he had grown up sprawled alongside the riverbank for two depressing miles. It was hard to look at, so he looked instead at the town itself, which was much more appealing to the eye, the stores and hotels looked like an old frontier town prettified by a Norman Rockwell fan.

  Cal was coming back officially for his mother’s funeral. He had feared and hated her just as much as loved her while she was alive, and he felt pretty much the same about her now. Yet here he was. He did not even know why; it was as though a long and invisible umbilical cord had reeled him back against his will into the darkness of her womb.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  Heather knew he was lying but said nothing. They had been married seven years now, and she knew his moods better than he did. He felt ashamed. He felt like a criminal returning to the scene of a crime.

  Diamond Pass, the official town, was a small but affluent tourist town where many bright, young New Yorkers kept their second homes and spent their vacations. There were three large hotels, the best of which was the Grange Hotel at over two hundred dollars per night. Cal and Heather booked in at the Grange Hotel. Their suite was large and looked out on a perfect view: the Catskill Mountains, the peaks still heavy with snow, the huge blue sky hazed with heat.

  “It’s beautiful,” Heather said, hugging Cal from behind.

  He nodded, but inside he felt sick. He was still delaying his arrival. Heather sensed his tension and pulled away.

  “Do you want to see your family today or do you want to leave it until tomorrow?”

  “To –” He changed his mind mid-sentence. “- morrow.”

  For the rest of the day they did the usual tourist things, assiduously avoiding the trailer park for the sumptuous sights up among the mountains and reservoirs. In the Catskill Forest Preserve they stood beside lakes and waterfalls and ancient trees just enjoying the pure, sweet air. Then, that night, they made love as if for the first time. It would have been perfect – if Cal had not let his own thoughts wander to another time and another woman, Nadine.

  Nadine. She had been his first love, the girl he wished he’d married fourteen years ago. The last time he’d seen her she had been sixteen. Today Nadine would be thirty, he realised with shock. The big 3-0. In fact, it had been her birthday last week. He had forgotten until that moment. Since their last time together, Cal had been around the world as a soldier in the US Marines, gained a college education, achieved a degree in psychology, and married a brilliant woman. His life was good. Better than good – perfect. He wanted Nadine’s life to have been the same; she had been the only ray of light in his dark past. She had encouraged him to leave Diamond Pass even though he’d not wanted to leave her. She had understood that living there would have been the death of him. She had recognised something within him that he, as a teenager with little ambition and no dreams, had not. She had saved his soul by insisting he signed up for the Army, the hardest decision either of them had ever made. The Army had educated him, given him a sense of freedom that had opened his mind to new possibilities, new interests. It was his time to thank her in any way he could.

  As Heather slept, Cal lay awake, wondering if Nadine still lived in Diamond Pass. He had no illusions about them getting back together (he was very happily married to Heather) but he did need to know what had happened to her.

  Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would find out.

  *

  “I really think I should do this alone,” he told Heather, in the morning, as they ate eggs-benedict in the king size bed, taking turns to feed each other with the toasted muffins and ham dripping with fresh butter. He hoped to catch her with her mouth full, so she would not put up much of an argument.
Unfortunately, she held up a hand to her mouth, stopping him.

  “Cal, I want to meet your relatives.”

  “I don’t want you to meet my relatives,” he said. Seeing her expression, he needed to explain, “They’re crazy, some of them. Jimmy-Ray is about the best of them; he sent me the letter. The others never liked me. God knows what they’ll make of me for leaving here, never mind you coming back with me. If they hear your accent they are likely to spit in your face.”

  “They have something against New Yorkers?”

  “And anyone else. For your own sake, please stay out of it, okay? At least until I’ve made the funeral arrangements and tested the water.”

  “Anyone suspicious would think you didn’t want me with you. Like you’re embarrassed.”

  “That’s not it,” he said. “Well, a little – my family is embarrassing, not you. Look, why don’t you enjoy yourself at the mall or do some sight-seeing? Just a couple of hours? I know your mother would like a gift from the pottery store we saw.”

  Heather nodded, albeit reluctantly. “This doesn’t mean I don’t want to meet your relatives, Cal. You can’t hide them forever.”

  *

  Dreading what he would discover, Cal drove to the trailer park. As soon as it was within sight he could almost taste the poverty, and it made him ashamed to be an American. The hundred or so mobile homes looked as if they had been dropped from a great height and left broken and flattened. They were not going anywhere in a hurry. There were recreational vehicles up on cinder blocks, rats crawling around underneath. Huge satellite dishes poked up from dark niches like mushrooms. Garbage was everywhere, of all kinds, as if a tornado had ripped through the valley rearranging the furniture. It looked like a disaster zone. But it was always like this. The townspeople had tried their best to hide the trailer park behind a white picket fence and some recently planted firs, but it would take fifty years for the trees to thicken enough to block the view from the road. He passed dozens of parked cars not fit for scrap, then turned right, going a hundred yards to where an evil-looking trailer hid between two junk heaps of damp mattresses.