“Thanks.”
“And if you need me at any time, call, okay?” and off he went toward the rectory, whistling “Amazing Grace.”
Each step toward the door felt as though my feet were strapped to bricks. I locked the front door behind me.
Gene and Meg were making Mother’s bed up with fresh sheets while Bunny looked on. Meg was saying, “I don’t know how Andre got the sequins—”
I ran forward. “Meg! I told you not to—”
“Oh, Aunt Liz, back off. I’m just—”
“Should I cancel the APB for my gun now that you’ve returned?” Gene glared at me.
I patted my pocket. “It’s safe.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in guns.”
“I don’t.”
“Where were you?”
“Talking to Victor.”
“Godammit! I told you—”
“I’m back safe and sound, so don’t carry on,” I said.
He held his hand out.
“I’m going to keep it for tonight,” I said.
His hand dropped to his side. “You look like shit,” he said, “go to bed.”
“Do you want me to help you up the stairs?” Meg asked.
I laughed. “It hasn’t come to that.” Then I said, “Yes, I could use your help.”
She finished sliding a pillow into a fresh case, placed it on the bed, gave it a pat, and came to take my arm.
Upstairs, I insisted we move her mattress into my room so we could sleep together behind a locked door. After calling the hospital to check on Mother, I placed Gene’s gun on my bedside table, shed my clothes, and fell into bed.
When I woke, the clock said 1:17. I punched my pillow and tried to go back to sleep.
But then I remembered my conversation with Meg about her mother. And I wondered what she’d told Gene while I was gone. Didn’t she understand the danger? Thoughts tumbled through my head, worry over each issue building until I pulled on a robe. Bunny observed me from his comfortable curl at Meg’s neck. I tiptoed down the stairs, assaulted by the snores emanating from Mother’s room.
Some watchdog.
I turned on the broiler to heat the kitchen, made my tea and slumped at the table. The steam from the tea condensed on my folded hands, the too-sweet fragrance of chamomile caught at the back of my throat.
I wished I were asleep. Maybe I should give in and take the pills Kirk had given me. What if Kirk had told me only half the story? What if he’d waited until Victor left, what if he’d approached Fran with his helpful pills? What if he’d killed her?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I heard Mother’s bedroom door scrape softly, and then Gene padded into the kitchen. He wore only his wristwatch and the jeans he’d borrowed from Kirk. He looked remarkably like one of my book jacket heroes, broad chest tapering to a narrow waist, well-defined pectorals lightly covered with soft golden-red hair that arrowed downward into the unfastened jeans. When he saw me, he mumbled, “Oh. Sorry.”
He kept on going while I wondered whether an optimist would consider him half-dressed or half-naked?
I got up, squeezed lemon juice in a mug, poured in a slug of brandy, and added a teaspoon of honey. The toddy looked good so I made another for myself.
When he came back, the jeans were zipped.
I handed him his mug.
“Thanks.” He pulled out the chair next to me. “What’re you doing up?”
“Thinking horrid middle-of-the-night thoughts.”
“Like what?”
“You should go back to bed,” I said, “you don’t want to get chilled.”
“Not a chance. It’s like a sweat lodge in here.”
I said, “For what it’s worth, I’m sure Victor didn’t do it.” I told him the jist of my conversation with Victor. I added, “It gives Jennifer a motive.”
He shook his head, “She’s got an alibi.”
“What?”
“Can’t tell you, but it looks good.” He glanced at me, took a sip of his drink, then said, “I’m about ready to take Jared and Laurel off my list.”
“Why?”
“We checked Jared’s timetable for Thursday. He was with another student who drove him up from Portland and saw him walk into the front door. It’s pretty certain Jared was in sight from then until the body was discovered. And then he and Laurel were together last night at the time Fran died, so Jared’s probably clear, depending on what we find out about COD, and Laurel’s clear for Andre as well because she was always in the stage area.”
“Laurel and Jared could be alibiing each other.”
“Maybe.” He looked at me, his eyebrow quirked. “That was a big sigh.” Gene’s blue eyes bored into me. “Relieved because he’s Hugh’s son?”
I shrugged.
“And if you’d married Hugh, Jared could have been yours?”
“Stupid, isn’t it, but I’ve always felt attached. Even more since Hugh died.”
“Guess you really loved him.”
“Yeah. Every once in awhile it sneaks up on me. What if I hadn’t let Alisz have him? I was so afraid—afraid I’d make him unhappy.” I rubbed my eyes. “He never looked happy, anyway.” I glanced at him.
He looked melancholy.
“Sorry,” I said, “looks like I’m passing on my midnight-blues.”
He shrugged, half-smiled, “It’s funny, I thought—”
“What?”
“I remember seeing you after the break-up. You didn’t seem affected at all.”
“Pride, you know?” I sloshed the toddy around in the mug and took another sip. “Anyway, I’m surprised you noticed my emotional state. Wasn’t that the summer you got married?”
“Yeah.”
The room had become stifling. I leaned over and turned off the broiler.
He cleared his throat, and I realized his voice was no longer hoarse from an oncoming cold. He’d always had an amazing ability to throw off minor illnesses, and it looked as though his immune system had come through for him again. “So, what else is keeping you awake?” he asked.
I told him about my conversation with Meg, finishing, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Start the search for her mother. First thing in the morning.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Yes, it is. You didn’t know what was wrong with Meg. Now you do, so you help her.”
I stared at him.
He stared back. “What?”
“I can’t decide if you’re simple-minded or if the matter’s that uncomplicated.”
He sighed. “Your side of the family’s always had a talent for making mountains out of—” He stopped, looked down into his mug. “Anything else bothering you?”
“Fran told me I wasn’t in touch with real life, and I think talking to Victor’s made me face my inadequacies—”
“Don’t pay attention to that whiny bastard.”
“Remember that stuff Mr. Pfister used to talk about in English, that one’s reach should exceed one’s grasp? Victor reminded me. I’m tired of the books I’m writing.”
“Then why do it?”
“I got hooked on my success. And the money.” I rubbed at a spot on the table. “And having a secret.”
“I bought one of your books today. It’s pretty fantastic,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me.
I could feel myself blush. “But what I mean is—”
“‘To thine own self be true.’ See, I did listen to Mr. Pfister. So what’ve you got to lose? Write what you want.”
“It’s not as easy as—”
“Yes, it is.”
“People expect—”
“Screw ‘em.”
“You are simple-minded,” I snapped. “You don’t understand at all.”
“Don’t get mean, Liz.” He leaned toward me, his large hand resting on the table next to mine. “You saw Fran’s body today. Now you know your turn will come.” His forefinger caressed the back of my hand. “It brings home that we d
on’t have forever and we have to decide what’s important.” His finger tapped my hand, “In fact, you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m gonna drop out of the sheriff’s race. It’s making me miserable. I’m a small-town cop. I’ve got what I want—mostly, anyway.”
“What more do you—” I broke off as he leaned closer. My hand pressed against his shoulder, but my intention to push him away got lost as my hand slid down his long, muscled arm.
He smelled so good, a hint of musk, a hint of just-baked bread, the fading tang of aftershave.
His lips met mine.
My hand trailed across his shoulder to his neck and pulled him closer as my mouth opened under his.
Then the photographs of him with Sibyl flashed before my eyes as he pulled me into his lap.
I stiffened, struggling against the embrace.
“Jeez, Liz, what the hell’s the matter?” he grumbled, slowly loosening his grip.
I slithered from his lap and nearly fell, grabbing the table to catch my balance. “It just isn’t a good idea, that’s all,” I said, pulling my robe around me and tightening the belt.
“Because of the cousin thing? You said yourself there are so many generations between the great-greats and us that we’re hardly related at all.”
I stepped back. “Well, that’s a factor, and I just … “ I gestured vaguely at the air between us.
He waited, his head cocked. “And?” he prompted.
“Your thing with Sibyl.” I could feel the pursing of my lips, the small wagging of my head, the distaste I couldn’t dismiss.
His hands fisted, then pressed flat against the table. “What a small, inflexible mind you have, Liz.”
“You’d chase after anything in skirts, wouldn’t you, you pathetic, aging billy goat!”
He grinned at me, his lips tight over his teeth, his eyes glittering. “Granted you aren’t the freshest fish in the Warfield pond, you’re still being a little hard on yourself, aren’t you?”
“Get out,” I snarled. “Get out of my house this instant.”
He rose slowly, lifted his chair so it didn’t make a whisper of sound against the floor, and set it back in its place at the table. He turned and walked out of the kitchen. I heard the snap of the latch on the front door. I picked up his mug and threw it against the refrigerator.
It was only a crummy kiss. Part of me observed that it had actually been an excellent kiss. I threw my mug as well. Then I went out and locked the front door.
Realizing I’d sunk as far as I intended to go had a strangely energizing effect. Briskly, I cleaned up the kitchen and moved on to the bathroom where Gene’s clothes still lay on the floor. I carried them to the washer.
I never wasted water by washing less than a full load, so I crept up to my bedroom and gathered several pairs of jeans and a couple of shirts from my hamper and went back down to where the water was gushing into the machine. Out of habit, I felt in the pockets. In one pair of jeans, I encountered four scraps of paper. I recognized Fran’s handwriting on them, and held up the jeans, realizing they were the ones I’d pulled on the night of Andre’s murder.
The first piece of paper read, “Rocks—Dennis—prf?” The next said, “beauty sleep,” the next, “A.N. 5-4-9-0,” and the last said, “NZ-CC? $2,287 ATH $1,346 BRZ $954”
I spread them on the kitchen table. If I hadn’t walked off in her jeans, Fran would have pulled these notes to herself out on Thursday night, separated the personal ones from the ones she intended to follow up for The Bird, and then acted on them. I stood staring at them.
I’d bet the one about the rocks was for the paper—a lead on a weekly profile. Was Dennis a rock collector? A rock climber?
I bent over the notes again. “Beauty sleep.” What on earth? Had she not been sleeping well? Was this a reminder to get more sleep? The name of a book? I remembered the message she’d left, that she was getting her beauty sleep. Why the obsession with sleep?
“A.N. 5-4-9-0.” Andre Noire, the security code to his house? I was tempted to take a drive and find out, but recalling Officer Hicks’ attitude the other night, I decided that I’d wait until after church tomorrow.
I put that note in the pocket of my robe.
And the last note “NZ-CC? $2,287 ATH $1,346 BRZ $954” Air fares? Wondering which place she could afford? So she’d been thinking seriously about escape before she’d broached it to me on Friday.
The sloshing of water attracted my attention. The washer had filled. I picked up Gene’s clothes.
In his shirt pocket was a small square of folded paper. When I unfolded it, two sticky, half-melted capsules clung to the paper. I sniffed them. They smelled vaguely herbal, sort of like celery. I dumped the shirt in the washer and started on the pockets of his jeans.
The front right pocket held coins, a couple of dollar bills, and his keys. It wasn’t my fault he was so stupid that he left without his key—in his bare feet! The thought of him marching down the cold, wet street made me giggle nervously.
The only other thing in his jeans was his wallet. I dumped his jeans in after his shirt and shut the washer’s lid.
I went back into the bathroom and got his holster. I dropped all his possessions including his cell phone into a grocery bag. Meg could take his things to the station in the morning.
I picked one of the sticky capsules off the paper. I sniffed it again. How easy it would be to mix herbs and penicillin and convince Fran it was a health potion. But surely the taste and the smell—she was so allergic, she’d notice, wouldn’t she? I remembered how tipsy she’d sounded in that phone message.
I got a saucer, pried apart the capsule and dumped the powder onto it. It smelled like dried soup. I’d never know unless I had it tested at a lab. How did a private citizen get things tested? I’d have to call the library.
I rubbed my forehead. There were so many things to do. I went over to the recycling pile, flipped through the glossy catalogues until I found an envelope and made a list.
Then I stared at the plain brown bag holding Gene’s things. Ordinarily I’d never go through someone’s purse or wallet. But who was investigating the investigator? Clearly, it was up to me.
His wallet was plain brown leather. The money compartment held only a ten-dollar bill.
In the card-holding slots of the wallet, he had a couple of credit cards, a library card, a video rental club card, and his license. A plastic holder was tucked into a long slot. I pulled it out. On top was a picture of his parents taken for their 40th anniversary. Next was a snapshot of the whole extended family taken on that occasion, Mother and me among the tiny faces. Opposite that was his social security card. I flipped the plastic again and froze.
My own, much younger, face stared back at me. My own defaced face. My high school graduation picture, probably one Mother had given to Gene’s mother, because I hadn’t given him one. He’d drawn on devil’s horns and pointed teeth, and then had apparently tried to erase them, because the picture was smeared and slightly torn. Stupid man!
His wallet held nothing else.
Slightly dizzy with exhaustion, I made my way back upstairs. As I shed my robe, I noticed Gene’s gun on the nightstand. I should get it to him quietly first thing in the morning or his men would make fun of him for losing his gun.
Then, remembering my defaced portrait, I decided to let him beg for it. From a distance, of course, because he was never setting foot in this house again. Better yet, I would drop it off—at the front desk, Monday evening, just before the city council meeting when half the town milled around in the lobby.
It took me a few minutes to fall asleep, but I was smiling the whole time.
CHAPTER THIRTY
When the ringing phone dragged me to consciousness the next morning, I opened my eyes and stared down the barrel of Gene’s revolver lying on my nightstand.
I pushed the gun aside, grabbed the phone, and said, “Hello?” It came out croaky and mean.
The voice whisp
ered, “Who do you love most?”
Rage slashed through me. “Stop this! Stop it now, you coward!” I slammed the phone down.
I jumped out of bed and tripped over Meg’s empty mattress. I yelled, “Meg? Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.”
I ran downstairs.
Dressed in an oversized t-shirt, her hair held in a loose bun by a couple of pins, she turned, a loaf of bread in her hands, her voice sharp, “What’s the matter? Was that about Grandmo—”
The phone shrilled. My line was lighted. I grabbed it.
The voice said, “You should not say such things to me.”
“Do you think you’re anything but a coward? Twisting the knife from a safe distance—what is that but cowardly?” My hand hurt from gripping the phone so hard.
Harsh breathing filled the line.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” I yelled into the phone. “You’re perverted and disgusting, and if anyone deserves to die, it’s you.”
The caller hung up.
My rage drained away leaving me terrified. “Oh, God, Meg, now I’ve made the murderer mad!”
For a second we stared at each other, and then her eyes crinkled, her face scrunched, and she began to laugh.
“Meg, I’m not kidding.”
“I know, I know,” she managed to say, falling back against the counter, laughing.
“Well, for goodness’ sake.” I sniffed, and jammed two slices of bread into the toaster.
“Aunt Liz—” Meg’s face was red, her eyes streaming.
I got butter and blueberry jam from the refrigerator and set them on the table. I poured two mugs of coffee and added cream. “Sit down,” I said.
She collapsed into a chair.
I retrieved the toast and nearly dropped it, my hands were shaking so hard. I realized that once again I’d failed to listen carefully enough to identify the caller. And pain stabbed my heart as I realized, yet again, that Fran wasn’t here to talk things over with.
“Aunt Liz, I don’t think you have to worry about your phone manners. After all, how much madder can a murderer get? Isn’t he already pretty much maxed out?”
I shivered. “I have such a bad feeling.”
Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly Page 22
