Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  He knew they should talk. Mac tried to find the right words, but his disappointment was too great. He had failed. He turned away from her and hid the source of his agony. He wanted to be alone in his misery.

  “Mac, please!” Debra tried to put her arms around him, but he pushed her back. Her pity was the last thing he wanted. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? It was clear the whole thing was over between them.

  He heard her start to cry, but he was powerless to comfort her. There were no magic words to bridge this gulf. He could not give her what she needed. It was as simple as that. Now she would leave him and he couldn’t blame her.

  It took a long time before he was able to speak again. His voice was flat and emotionless. “I’ll help you move back home in the morning, Debbie. There’s nothing for you here. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then she started to sob again. “I don’t want to go, Mac. I . . . I love you! I’ll sleep in the other room. Or out on the couch. But please, Mac, let me stay!”

  Mac rolled over to look at her. She was serious. She really wanted to stay. And she loved him!

  “I love you, too, Debbie.” He reached out to hold her. “I just thought you wouldn’t want to stay after—”

  “Oh, God, Mac. That was all my fault!” Debra’s voice was shaking. “I made a terrible mistake. I was Maggie the Cat and I should have been Doris Day!”

  Suddenly Mac laughed. Everything was clear now. Debra had been nervous and scared, too.

  “You should have been Debbie,” he corrected her gently. “I don’t want Doris Day or Elizabeth Taylor. I just want you.”

  Mac held her tightly then. They rocked back and forth, laughing and crying.

  What they had between them was stronger than this crushing disappointment. It was going to be all right.

  “Mac?” Her voice was small and tentative. “This might sound unromantic, but I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too.” Mac grinned and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go make triple-decker sandwiches. There’s a robe in the bathroom you can wear. That nightgown’s gorgeous, but it can’t be very warm.”

  Debra grabbed Mac’s terrycloth robe and slipped it on. She tied it tightly around the waist and turned up the collar. She felt better now, almost her old normal self. She was not cut out to be a seductress. There was no use in pretending. She’d throw the negligee in the garbage tomorrow and concentrate on being just herself.

  Mac was working at the butcher block table when she got to the kitchen. Jars of mayonnaise, mustard, and plum jam stood open on the counter. There were three kinds of bread stacked on the table and Debra watched, wide eyed, as he opened a can of sardines.

  “Ham? Peanut butter? And sardines?” She shook her head and shuddered.

  “Hey! Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” Mac grinned and slapped a sandwich together. He put it on a paper plate and handed it to her with a flourish. “‘Years from now, when they talk about this—and they will—remember to tell them it was my idea.’ Faye Dunaway. The Towering Inferno. Nineteen seventy-four.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Father Marx knew he should stay away from the meeting. Old habits were strong and he would be tempted to blurt out his problems. When he answered the phone he firmly intended to make some excuse, but Kay’s voice was too familiar and comforting to resist.

  “I’ll be a little late,” he heard himself say. “The statue of the Virgin Mary was smashed last night. I’ll have to take care of it before I can leave.”

  “Oh, Father! What a shame! Was it vandalism?”

  For a moment he hesitated, but Kay had provided the answer. “Yes. Vandalism.”

  Father Marx sighed as he hung up the phone. He didn’t like to lie, but it was important that none of them guess the truth. They had enough on their minds right now. He couldn’t add to their burden.

  He found Thomas McCrea in the front of the church. The old man had swept the plaster into a neat pile.

  “It’s a sad day, Father.” Thomas stepped back and crossed himself. “Did you call the police?”

  “No, Thomas. The Lord will deal with it. Divine justice is surer than any law made by man.”

  They worked in silence, pushing the rubble into trash bags and carrying it out to the street. Finally it was done, and there was a large empty spot where the statue had been.

  “Here’s something for your trouble.” Father Marx pressed money into the old man’s hand. Thomas lived on a pitifully small pension and picked up odd jobs in the neighborhood. He was always on hand when there was work to be done.

  “Will we be locking the doors now, Father, to protect our holy saints?”

  It was an old argument and Father Marx was weary of it. Thomas had been trying to get him to lock the church doors for years.

  “No, Thomas. We must put our trust in the Lord and not in locks and bolts.”

  There was disapproval in Thomas’s eyes, but Father Marx refused to back down. It was true that other churches were locked at night. Most priests thought it was a necessary precaution. Locks kept the vagrants out and made the church less vulnerable to vandals and thieves. But Father Marx knew locks barred the parishioners as well as the criminals. They were denied a refuge in time of trouble. And trouble could come at any time, not just in the daylight hours. As long as he was the priest at St. Steven’s, the doors would remain open.

  “Whatever you say, Father.” Thomas gave a curt nod. “I’ll be leaving you then, until the evening Mass.”

  The old man grumbled to himself as he walked off. Thomas had been a member of the parish for so long that sometimes he felt he had the right to dictate church policy.

  Father Marx rushed to his office to call a taxi. He pulled off his work boots and replaced them with a dress pair. Then he took his heavy camel’s-hair coat from the closet. It was cold today. The thermometer outside the window was stuck at five degrees below zero.

  It took a long time for the cab to come. Father Marx watched the street so he would be ready. He could see the green plastic trash bags by the curb, waiting for the afternoon pickup. The Virgin Mary lay crumbled inside. Would Thomas change his mind about locking the church doors if he knew that vandals were not to blame?

  The taxi driver pulled up and beeped his horn. Father Marx clamped his hat on his head and rushed out into the cold. Now he must think only of the group. His own guilty secret would remain in the hands of the Lord.

  They sat in a tight circle around the coffee table. There were only five of them now. Mac noticed that they unconsciously drew together, as if for protection. They reminded him of frightened deer, forming a circle to fend off the wolves.

  “What next?” Nora shook her head sadly. “Our group has been haunted by tragedy since Dr. Elias had to leave us.”

  Kay shivered. “It’s frightening. Another one of us is dead. I know this is going to sound crazy, but it . . . it’s almost like someone is killing us off.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel!” Debra clasped her hands together nervously. “First Doug. Then Jerry. And now Greg. I keep wondering if I’m going to be next!”

  Nora slipped a cigarette into her holder and laughed. “You two make it sound like a production of Ten Little Indians. You’re just letting your imaginations run away with you.”

  “That’s probably true.” Mac nodded. “But three fatalities out of a group of eight is really unusual. I think we should check in with each other every night. It’ll make us feel more secure. You three call me at my house. If I’m not home, Debbie’ll be there.”

  “Mac! You got it up!”

  There was a shocked silence, and they all turned to stare at Nora. She had the grace to blush.

  “I’m sorry. It just slipped out. Vinnie, darling? I need your help. My tongue is possessed by the Devil.”

  Debra couldn’t help it. She started to laugh. Nora was so outrageous.

  “An exorcism?” Father Marx chuckled. “Nora, my child, if I took away your devilment you�
�d have no personality left.”

  “Back to the telephone calls.” Mac grinned sheepishly. “Call me any time. I mean that. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Like a paranoids’ hotline?” Kay gave a nervous laugh. “You’re right, Mac. That would help. I get awfully nervous when I’m here all alone.”

  “You’re never alone, Kay.” Father Marx reached out to pat her hand. “God is always with you. And He doesn’t charge long-distance rates.”

  Kay gave him a tentative smile. Father Marx was doing his best to cheer her even though he had troubles of his own.

  “Thank you, Father. I know you must be terribly upset about your church being vandalized, but still you haven’t lost your sense of humor. I wish I could be like that.”

  “What happened to your church, Father Marx?” Debra leaned forward.

  “The statue of the Virgin Mary was smashed last night.” Father Marx looked down at the table so he wouldn’t have to meet their eyes. He would have to be very careful not to slip up now.

  “People don’t have respect for anything anymore!” Nora frowned. “It takes a real sicko to vandalize a church!”

  “Did you call the police, Father?” Mac was concerned. “If you request extra surveillance, they’ll keep an eye on the church.”

  “I think I know who did it, Mac. Believe me, it’s not a matter for the police. I’ll have to handle this my own way.”

  Mac nodded, but he watched Father Marx closely. The priest was hiding something. His hands were folded together so tightly that his knuckles were white, and he stared down at the table, visibly upset. His jocularity had vanished the moment they’d started to talk about the statue, and he acted almost guilty. It wasn’t like Father Marx to be secretive about anything.

  “I wish I could help.” Debra sighed deeply. “There must be something we can do.”

  Nora reached into her purse. “You know I’m not a religious person, Vinnie, but I’d like to start a fund for replacing your statue.”

  “Nora?” Father Marx looked up in surprise. “That’s very kind.”

  “Just don’t start trying to save my soul.” Nora laughed. “I want to help you, that’s all. If we don’t help each other, we’ll all go down the tubes.”

  “Count me in.” Kay nodded emphatically. “Our accountant said we needed a tax write-off. Charles doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just made a big healthy contribution.”

  Debra stopped at Byerly’s when she got through at the paper. Mac was working until eight and she had plenty of time to get home and fix dinner. Home? Fix dinner? Debra laughed out loud as she pushed her cart to the meat case. She was thinking the thoughts of a suburban housewife and she didn’t even know how to cook!

  The cuts of meats in the case were a mystery. Debra had no idea what to do with a rolled rump or a boneless blade Boston. She’d probably be safer with hamburger or hot dogs, but she wanted to make a special dinner for Mac tonight. It was her way of saying thank you for being there when she needed him.

  A Strauss waltz was playing on the store’s music system and Debra danced down the aisle to the cookbook section. She picked out an illustrated Betty Crocker edition and put it in her basket. Several people stared at her as she went back to the meat case. For the first time in years, Debra didn’t care what they thought. She was happy and that was what counted.

  Debra stood at the meat case and paged through the cookbook. There was a complete menu for a family dinner that looked delicious in the illustration. She rang the bell and asked the butcher for the right cut of beef to make a Yankee pot roast. If it didn’t turn out like the picture, she’d do an exposé on the General Mills test kitchens!

  She found fresh carrots and russet potatoes in the produce section. The book said to arrange them around the meat. The celery was expensive, over a dollar a bunch. No wonder people bought canned vegetables in the winter.

  Betty Crocker suggested apple pie for dessert, but Debra didn’t feel confident enough to tackle a pie crust. She settled for a gallon of Lady Kemps French vanilla ice cream and a Swanson frozen pie. At least she could claim she baked it herself.

  Byerly’s bakery was crowded, but Debra took a number and stood in line. She wanted the very best rye bread for Mac. The cinnamon rolls were lying in state at the front of the glass display case. Éclairs dripping with rich glazed chocolate tried to seduce her. The aroma of warm doughnuts did foolish things to her head and suddenly Debra was starving. She’d never be able to hold out until Mac got home.

  “A loaf of dark rye, one of those gorgeous éclairs, two great big cinnamon rolls, and . . . that’s enough.” Debra laughed along with the girls at the counter. “Put the éclair and the rolls in a separate bag, please. They’re not going to make it home.”

  Debra checked out and took her plastic claim tag. She started her car and drove to the pickup area. There she had to wait again, in a long line of cars. The new Cadillac in front of her sent up towering plumes of white exhaust in the freezing air.

  “I’d better put these in the backseat.” The pickup boy grinned as he brought out her groceries. “Your milk’ll freeze in the trunk. Cans even burst when it gets this cold. One of our new guys loaded up a trunk last week and the customer had two cases of popped Diet Pepsi by the time she got home.”

  Debra tipped the boy a dollar and smiled at his amazed reaction. She reached into the white bakery bag and took a huge bite of the éclair. She finished it before she got out of the parking lot.

  It was rush hour, but Debra didn’t mind. She was grinning as she got on the crowded freeway and headed toward Mac’s house. It was wonderful to be alive.

  It hit her with the force of a physical blow. Greg was dead. Debra’s smile vanished and she was suddenly contrite. It wasn’t right to feel joyous. She should be mourning for Greg.

  Debra shivered. It was growing dark and she snapped on her headlights. The yellow beams picked up the high snowbanks on the side of the road and she felt very alone in the cocoon of her car. Where was Greg now? Did he know she cared? Was he glad she was denying her happiness in honor of his death?

  She thought deeply through four miles of traffic. Greg had believed in happiness. He had actively pursued it in his own brief life. Debra reached out to turn on the radio. Then she started to sing at the top of her lungs. She didn’t know the song, but that didn’t matter. Greg would definitely approve.

  CHAPTER 13

  When Nora opened the door to the loft, the first thing she saw was the tree. It was a huge spruce, six feet tall, flocked in pastel pink. It had pink twinkling lights and pink satin balls. Little pink birds perched on the branches, and a huge rose-colored star glowed at the very top.

  Nora clamped her hand over her mouth and shook with silent laughter. Elena had decorated while she’d been gone.

  “Elena?” Nora called out, but there was no answer. The stereo played soft Christmas music and two wineglasses sat on the ivory table in front of the couch. The ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, Eve 120’s with little flowers on the filters. They were Hope’s brand. Hope had been here, visiting Elena.

  “Elena?” Nora called out again, a little louder this time. She walked over to the alcove that served as their bedroom, but it was deserted. Elena’s tote bag lay in a heap on the floor. The toe of one dance shoe stuck out the top. Her black leotard was draped carelessly over the bathroom door and her scarf was tossed on the dresser. Elena must have brought Hope home with her after dance class.

  Nora tried to think positive thoughts. Elena loved her. She had decorated their loft for Christmas. Hope had merely come along to help her with the surprise. Nora knew she should be grateful, not jealous.

  Even though she tried not to give in, Nora’s eyes were drawn to the bed. It was unmussed. Of course they could have straightened it, after.

  Nora went back to the living room. She did her best to ignore the pink atrocity as she picked up the ashtray and emptied it. Where was Elena? She was always home on Wednesday afternoons.<
br />
  Elena’s sheared beaver coat was on a chair in the living room. That meant she was probably downstairs in the workshop. Elena never went outside without her coat. She’d probably insist on wearing it in the middle of August.

  Nora hung the coat on a padded hanger in the closet and sighed. Elena never picked up her clothes, and half the time Nora felt like a mother instead of a lover. In some ways Elena was still a child. She was half Nora’s age, only twenty-three.

  The coat had been a birthday present. Elena had squealed in rapture when she’d opened the box. Her first fur coat! Wasn’t Nora a darling to buy it for her? She had worn it through the whole party and she’d kept it by the bed that night. Nora knew it was well worth the money she had spent.

  Nora rinsed out the two wineglasses and made a cup of tea for herself. When it was ready, she carried it down the stairs to the workshop.

  The stage lights were on and Nora tiptoed to a seat in the back row. They were near the apron, going over a scene. Elena’s long black hair fell over her face in a shining wave as she leaned forward and laughed. Her arm was around Hope’s shoulders as she led the girl back to center stage and gave her a cue.

  Nora gasped with shock as she realized what they were rehearsing. It was her play, The Heretic Mother! She was opening in the lead role at the Guthrie on Friday. Elena must have given Hope the script.

  There was no way she could control her jealousy as Nora heard Hope deliver the lines that she had rehearsed for so many months. Her hands started to shake and she clenched her fingers around the arms of the seat.

  It took every ounce of self-control she had to sit quietly in the darkened theater. She wanted to jump up from her seat and kill that blond bitch on the stage. And Elena! Elena had betrayed her! Everything was perfectly clear now. Hope was trying to steal her role and Elena was helping her!

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Hope. You owe me five bucks. I told you that scene was too difficult for you.”