“Why did you think I lived there?” she asked, pointing to the hedged property.
I shrugged. “I saw you go in there once.”
“It belongs to a good friend of ours, a pilot. I take in his mail and water his plants while he’s gone. In return, he looks in on Charlie when I have to travel.”
Does he know he hosts your trysts? I wanted to ask. But now I wanted to know just how mobile Charlie was in his wheelchair. Could he have been the photographer?
“I’m not the person to speak to if you’ve come here to lobby for the play.” Sibyl folded her arms across her chest.
It wasn’t what I wanted to talk about, but as a stalking horse, it had promise. “Why? You’re the director of the library system.”
She looked past her house to the valley beyond, and the towering white clouds on the horizon. She fingered an earring, a gold hoop that pierced and held three small gold coins.
“I leave the running of the branch libraries to the librarians as much as possible.”
That’s not what I’d heard.
She turned away.
“But building a new library involves the whole system.”
She sighed and turned back. “The trouble is—well, frankly, Liz, I think that after what happened the play should never be performed.” Her hand went to her earring again. “The people of Warfield can’t help but connect the murder of one of their citizens to the play.”
I stood silently as if my heart were broken.
She continued, “However, Laurel insists that we would garner more ill-will if we didn’t hold the play.”
“Will you be in it?”
“I’m willing to let Laurel go ahead if that’s what she wishes, but frankly, Liz, I feel that it would be unwise for me to participate.”
Unexpectedly, I was offended. My stomach tightened, my nails dug into my palms. I decided to go with the flow. I sniffed. “Well, frankly, Sibyl, I think the friends of the Warfield library deserve your support. We’ve done a lot of work in a cause that makes you look good.”
“It’s just scheduling,” she said. “I’d blocked out these two evenings for your play, and, frankly, that’s all I had to give.”
She took a couple of steps toward the porch. “I’m booked solid through the election. In fact, that’s how I’ve spent my day, at a district meeting. It’s not as though I wouldn’t like to be out riding a bike and enjoying the afternoon the way you are.”
I felt guilty. Boy, she was good.
“The election must be important to you,” I said.
“Not just to me. A lot of people have invested time and money to help me.” She tapped her foot.
I was losing her, and I couldn’t think how to approach the photographs. Why had it seemed so easy on the ride up here?
A man’s deep voice called from the porch, “Is everything all right, Sib?”
“Yes, Charlie,” she called back. “Go inside, I’ll be there in a minute.” She spoke as she might to a worrisome child, with patience a transparent veil over irritation.
He lingered, a thin, bearded, dark-haired man hunched in a wheelchair that inched forward, then backwards, then forward.
Briskly I walked past Sibyl to the wooden ramp up to the porch. As I neared him, I held out my hand. “Hi, I’m Liz Macrae.”
His grey eyes were anxious, his long fingers cool, his grip almost painful, as we shook hands. “Charlie Aynesworth,” he said in a magnificent baritone.
“Wow! Our church choir needs you,” I said. “You do sing, don’t you?”
“Not any more.”
“That’s a shame. Our choir is heavy on sopranos and tenors and has little else to say for itself.”
He grinned, sitting straighter in the chair, “You’d be taking quite a risk. It’s been a long time since I’ve darkened a church door.”
“The prodigal son got the fatted calf,” I said. “You might do even better.”
He laughed, the sound rich, an overwhelming reward for such a feeble jest. “What do you think, Sib?”
Sibyl had come up on the porch, but she kept her distance. “If you want,” she said, no trace of interest in her voice.
He began to slump. His voice less resonant, he said, “Sib keeps me pretty close to home … ”
The change from slumped-over hopelessness to animation and back was astonishing. I looked toward Sibyl. She gazed across the lawn at the view.
This woman was not getting my vote!
“Well, I interrupted you two,” he said, beginning to back away. “You’re campaigning with Sib?”
“No,” I said, “I was just passing on my bike.” Immediately I was horrified at drawing attention to something I could do that he couldn’t, and added the first thing that popped into my head, “My best friend died today, and I was upset.”
Oh, great, I thought, talk about dying to a man who’s lost two sons, but he said “I’m sorry. That’s very—”
Sibyl’s voice overrode his as she said, “Fran Egan?”
“I heard about it on the radio,” Charlie said. “They suggested it might be murder. I hope that’s not true.”
“I wonder if it has anything to do with her disappearing after Andre’s body was discovered,” mused Sibyl. “I overheard her on the phone that night, just a snatch of conversation as we all rushed past.”
“What did she say?”
Sybil’s eyes narrowed. “She said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get them.’ She sounded irritated.”
I sagged against the thick, rough log that formed the railing of the porch.
Sibyl fixed me with her large, dark eyes, “What do you suppose she was talking about?”
Was she testing me to see if I knew about the photos? “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you have any idea who she was talking to?”
“How would I know?” She paused. “But hadn’t she said she was going to phone that little reporter of hers?”
I nearly snapped my fingers as things fell into place. Of course. Fran couldn’t have taken those pictures—they’d have been out of focus or she’d have left the lens cap on or something. But Max, Max was a pro.
A lazy smile settled on her lips. “Frankly, Liz, I don’t approve of gossip, but if you’re searching for clues, you should try Victor’s wife. Who knows more about dirty linen than the maid?”
Charlie’s big voice, harsh now, cut through her laugh. “Leave Jennifer out of this. She’s got trouble enough.”
Sibyl made a shushing gesture with her hand. Charlie’s chair rolled backwards as if wafted by the breeze she’d created.
The two of them glared at each other. The silence was so intense I heard the cries of two small birds chivvying a crow above the river. I studied the spreading clouds.
Sibyl’s shoe scraped against the porch. “Liz is looking for information, Charlie. I was just trying to help.” She turned her back on him and continued, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have masses of calls to make.” Her high heels were loud against the porch. She turned in the open doorway, “Jennifer lives two houses down on the other side of the road.”
Charlie sighed deeply as her footsteps receded.
I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
His grey eyes met mine. A small, rueful smile crooked his mouth. “Trouble’s always waiting just around the corner, don’t you know that?”
I sighed. “Some days it sure feels like it.”
“I’m sorry about your friend. What do you suppose will happen to the paper now?”
“Technically, I’ll own it.”
“Really!?”
I shrugged. “But I don’t know anything about running one.”
“Maybe I could help.” He ducked his head and color spread up his sunken cheeks. “Sorry, you probably don’t feel up to talking about it.”
I didn’t, but I was curious about what he’d meant. “How is it you could help?”
“I was City Editor back in Omaha, pretty good, too, once upon a time.”
I smiled at him. “I bet you were.”
“I’d just fill in till you found someone.” His head cocked, he looked at me like a puppy hoping for a walk. He hurried on, “Just because I haven’t been off this porch in a couple of years—hasn’t seemed any point, and Sib doesn’t like—” His voice died away.
I liked the eagerness that had shone so briefly in his eyes. This man needed to get out from under Sibyl’s thumb.
“Two things,” I said. “Even though you don’t want me to bother Jennifer, I absolutely have to talk to her.”
He frowned.
I hurried on, “I can’t stand back and hope justice will be done, I have to do something.”
He nodded. “Just—be nice to Jen no matter how she acts. She’s a little—testy sometimes—” his voice faded.
“All right. The other thing is, it’s possible Fran’s family will contest the will—I wouldn’t fight it if they did.”
“Many a slip twixt cup and lip,” he said. His gaze swept the yard, the tall hedge that separated him from his neighbor, the river valley, but he wasn’t seeing an expensive view, he was surveying his prison.
“Charlie, if things work out so I’m in charge of the paper, I’ll come back to talk with you. I promise.”
“All right,” he said in his beautiful, deep voice, lifting his hand for a high-five.
My palm stinging, I collected Squeaky and went on my way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I paused to look at the area around the Chinese-red gate. The photographer had to have hidden in the thicket of alders, maples, and pines across the street.
Charlie said he hadn’t been off the porch in nearly two years. Remembering the way he’d said it, I believed him.
I walked Squeaky slowly, scuffing through the pine needles that lay deep at the side of the road.
Why had the photographs been taken? To topple Sibyl from her secure seat as the Democratic candidate? If so, the Republicans, Andre and his rival, one of whom would face her in November, had a motive. But why would Fran be involved?
If Charlie never left the porch, he wouldn’t be able to see over the hedge, so with the neighbor gone, Sibyl had a convenient, discreet place to meet a lover. Did someone tip Max off?
I arrived at Victor’s driveway and walked up the narrow, shaded lane. Gravel crunched beneath my feet. Trees trembled in the breeze. I shivered and glanced at my watch. Nearly 2:30 and cooling rapidly. Just a few patches of blue sky still showed.
A small, weathered cabin, its shake roof covered in moss and pine needles, came into view. As I put the kick stand down, three black-haired boys charged out the front door and went running off helter-skelter into the woods.
The metal door knocker, formed in the shape of the masks of comedy and tragedy, was not as heavy as it looked and made a tinny sound.
Moments later the door was opened by a woman in her late 20’s, whose fine, light blonde hair immediately prompted the thought “gossamer.” She had pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a lush mouth.
“Are you Jennifer?” I asked.
“Yes.” She frowned as if suspecting me of hiding a copy of The Watchtower behind my back.
“I’m Liz Macrae.”
Her full lips curved in a smile. “You wrote that cute melodrama.”
“Yes,” I said, wondering why on earth Victor would go chasing after Fran and Laurel who were nowhere near as beautiful as his wife.
“If you’re here to see Victor, you’re out of luck,” she said.
“No, I’m here to see you on a—well—frankly—” Darn Sibyl, I’d never get that word out of my vocabulary.
Jennifer’s mouth tightened, her eyes narrowed, but she said, “Why don’t you come in?”
She led me to the kitchen, a tiny dark room into which they’d crammed a maple trestle table. The fragrance of chocolate wafted from two small pans of brownies on the counter. A bouquet of crocuses, daffodil buds and weeds, undoubtedly picked by the boys, was stuffed into a water glass in the center of the table. The benches were covered with school work, sweatshirts, and a pair of small, blue briefs.
She swept an area clear. “I was just pouring some coffee. Would you like some?”
“Yes, very much, but I’d better tell you why I’m here first.”
Her voice turned harsh and her eyes icy as she said, “If Victor made a pass at you, I don’t want to hear about it.” She glared at me.
“No, n—not at all,” I stammered, a bit frightened by her expression. If she’d known about Fran’s growing interest in Victor—
She grabbed a mug out of the drainer. “You’d be surprised how many old biddies come pounding that fucking knocker to tell me Victor’s unzipped his pants again.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“Okay. Go ahead,” she said.
“It’s about Fran Egan.”
She turned, elegant eyebrows arched, but no sign of wariness or fear on her face.
“Did you know she was found dead this morning?”
She slapped the counter. “Shit! Just what I need. Now I’ll have to find some other lazy bitch to clean for.”
“She was my best friend,” I said, my lips stiff.
She ran her hands like a rake through her hair. Even in the dim kitchen, it shimmered as it fell back into place. “Sorry.”
I hadn’t realized she was Fran’s cleaning lady until Sibyl told me. Fran had never referred to her by name. How had Fran dared think of an affair with Victor?
Jennifer brought two mugs of coffee to the table. She went back for teaspoons, sugar and milk.
My stomach growled loudly. I pressed my hand to it. “Excuse me,” I said.
She hesitated over the brownie pans.
“It wasn’t a hint,” I said hastily.
She shrugged, amusement lighting her eyes. “I was just wondering if they were cool enough to cut,” she said. She cut four small squares. “Help yourself.” She sat and shoved my mug across the table.
I took a brownie. “Um, good,” I said, though the texture was strange.
She swallowed one of the small brownies in a single gulp. “Look, I’m not going to pretend to be sad. Fran Egan was a bitch.”
I sighed and rubbed the broken stone in my lapis bracelet. “Frankly—” Darn that woman!
We sipped. How quiet it was so far from town, no cars, no people. “Can you tell me why you don’t like Fran?” I prodded.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
I felt my face twisting from one expression to another as though it were made of silly putty. My voice squeaked when I said, “No.” We both giggled. I felt as though the world had tilted. I cleared my throat. “But I believe that knowing’s better than not knowing.” The words had been hard to form, but I thought I’d expressed my feeling rather well. I took a second brownie.
She held up one finger. “First, she and Victor were sleeping together.” I hadn’t been aware that I’d shaken my head until she stopped and shrugged. “If they weren’t yet, they would have any day. Believe me, I know the symptoms.”
She held up a second finger. “She was feeding his fantasies about running off to Hollywood and being a star. Such crap! And after a few months, she’d have gone on to someone else while I have to deal with—” She sighed. “And, to top it off, she was going to fire me.”
“Did she—”
“No, she didn’t tell me. A friend who does cleaning said Fran had phoned to ask about her rates, tried to make a deal trading advertising for services. So I pulled what one of my brothers calls a preemptive strike. I went through her desk.
“I’d always wondered why she was so cheap. I mean, there she was with a medical alert bracelet made of sterling silver rather than steel, and some weeks she wouldn’t pay me, she’d say come back tomorrow and even then she might not have it.”
“Her husband gave her that silver bracelet because she wouldn’t wear the other kind.”
“See what I mean? A spoiled bitch!”
“No.
She just liked nice things.”
“You want to defend her or you want to listen?” She glared at me.
I picked up the mug and swirled what was left of my coffee.
“She counted my time down to minutes so she could save a few pennies! But she’d go off on trips and she had that brand-new Mustang and new clothes all the time. Do you know she sent a bag of clothes to Goodwill every single month? Some things she’d never worn at all?”
She took a deep breath. “So I thought she had money somewhere, but you know what? She really was broke. All her credit cards were maxed. The telephone and PUD were threatening her. She was in bad shape.”
Jennifer’s words buzzed, hardly making sense. I remembered yesterday, Fran asking me to lend her the money for New Zealand. I would have loaned her the money, of course, but I’d also have given it to her just to help with her bills. Why hadn’t she asked?
I took a deep breath. “Anything else?”
Raking her hand through her hair again, she said, “One time, before a party, her place was a sty, and she wanted me to come in even though I’d promised the day to someone else. When I said I wouldn’t, she said wouldn’t it be a shame if Victor’s bad habits made it into the news.”
My head was moving back and forth, disagreeing all on its own. I put my hands up to stop it.
Smiling genially, Jennifer asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, thank you,” I replied with dignity. What had we been talking about? I looked around the kitchen. There weren’t any brownies left on the plate. I forced my mind to the issue at hand. “What did she mean? About the news?”
“What do you think? Haven’t you noticed how the paper’s changed since her husband died?” She grabbed a spoon and began stabbing the crust that had formed at the top of the sugar bowl. Chop-chop-chop. “Have you paid attention to her editorial page? Or to the front page? To the benefits that get a big splash and those that barely make the back page? She can make or break an organization’s fund-raiser.”
Under James’s rule, the Warbler had attacked or exposed everyone impartially. His aim had been to report the news and arouse controversy. He stirred things up until he got a heated debate going on the letters-to-the-editor page. People couldn’t wait to see what each side said to the other.
Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly Page 17
