Act of Betrayal

by Shirley Kennett

  He was starting to spook her. It had occurred to her that talking to Darla could be dangerous. She knew little about the woman, except that Darla would almost certainly be upset right off the bat that someone had been able to find her. The news reporter spiel probably wouldn’t work.

  “Okay. Got it,” PJ said, building up her own confidence. She left the car and walked down the block. She had a momentary panic when Rob passed her in the car and didn’t even glance her way. She’d thought he was going to remain where he was, but he’d driven off to park somewhere less obvious.

  Doubts built, and she slowed her pace, so it seemed that even the dense, humid air was keeping her from reaching the house. What made her think she could do this? Why hadn’t Wall sent someone more experienced? Someone who wasn’t thrown off balance by the weight of the gun in her purse?

  Because I can do it. Because I should be the one to do this, for Leo Schultz.

  She squared her shoulders and went to the front door. There was no doorbell in sight, so she knocked with all the confidence she could muster. Not long ago she had been standing on Libby Ramsey’s front steps, and that had turned out well enough.

  The door opened. A thrill went through PJ when she recognized Darla. The years hadn’t treated her well, though. She was as slight as a bird, in contrast to her well-muscled mother. Thin legs stuck out from bright yellow oversize shorts. A T-shirt with an eye-catching stain in the region of Darla’s navel covered sagging breasts that swung gently without the support of a bra. She had short hair in a choppy cut that hugged her skull. Watery gray eyes peered at PJ from a face that was sunken on the lower half, the lips formless and wrinkled. She had no teeth.

  PJ had to remind herself that Darla was only four years older than her own age. The woman could have passed for sixty-five or more, except for the startling bottled red color of her hair.

  PJ put a welcoming smile on her face. “Mrs. Archer? Nadine Archer?” She figured she’d start out with the name Darla had assumed.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” the woman answered hesitantly. Her voice was slurred, and her chin flapped almost comically as she spoke. “You’re not selling anything, are you? If you are, I’m not interested.”

  The door began to close. PJ had only moments to read the situation, and she determined that the best approach was a direct one. She stuck her foot in the rapidly narrowing space and was rewarded with a sharp pinch. The woman pushed a little harder, and seemed perplexed that her door wouldn’t close.

  “My name is Penelope Lakeland. I want to talk about your brother Jeremiah,” PJ said. “May I come in?”

  There was a soft intake of breath. The woman’s eyes darted across PJ’s face like the hummingbirds she’d seen that morning at the Botanical Garden. Had that been only a few hours ago? Everything was moving so fast, sliding loose like an avalanche, and Schultz was in its path.

  “Did Libby send you?” Her voice was barely audible.

  “No.”

  The gray eyes slid shut. PJ was reminded of a rabbit pinned down by the shadow of a bird of prey.

  “Come in,” she said. “Give me a few minutes to make myself presentable. You can wait inside out of the heat, though.”

  “Thank you.” PJ tried to make her voice warm and supportive, and her presence in Darla’s front room nonthreatening. The gun in her purse swung against her hip as she moved, and PJ nearly yelped at the sudden surprising feel of it.

  The house was stuffy, and not much cooler than the outdoors. The air-conditioner was running, because she could feel air moving, but it was just barely cool on her skin. The living room smelled sharply of cigarette smoke, even with the air-conditioning circulating the air. It reminded her of a tobacco shop PJ had once ventured into to buy a pipe for a friend from her old life in Denver. In fact, the tobacco shop had smelled better.

  She gingerly seated herself on a green velvet upholstered couch. Everything in the room—the couch, the draperies, the carpet—had absorbed the smell, and there was a dirty brown film on the walls, which might have originally been white. Even the lampshade was tinted brown. There was an oil painting on one wall behind PJ, a tapestry with a Chinese scene on the adjacent wall, and a simple wooden cross hanging over the doorway to the kitchen. The painting and tapestry would have been attractive, but the colors were dulled from the smoke film. An overflowing ashtray sat on an end table next to a recliner chair that faced a small TV. Although the room was dusted, vacuumed, and uncluttered except for the ashtray, the smoky overlay gave the impression it hadn’t been cleaned in years. By the time the woman returned almost fifteen minutes later, PJ’s eyes were burning, and she was certain her clothing and hair had taken on the smell.

  The personal transformation was remarkable. “Mrs. Archer” had put on beige tailored slacks and a short-sleeved blouse in crisp white. A gold cross nestled at the base of her throat. Her lower face was filled out and defined by her dentures, her short hair neatly combed, and lipstick added a little color to her face. She smiled, showing the tips of clean white teeth with no smoker’s stain. PJ registered that she was a woman who cared about her appearance even though she didn’t have much to work with. That was something PJ could relate to.

  She settled into the recliner across the room and shook out a cigarette from a pack for PJ, who politely declined. Shrugging, she took the cigarette herself and lit it. She inhaled deeply and sent the smoke out her nostrils. She slid the lighter back into her pants pocket and placed the pack of cigarettes close at hand on an end table.

  “Would you like something to drink? I usually have a beer after lunch.”

  PJ shook her head no, then regretted it. The woman’s face flashed disappointment. PJ had missed an opportunity to connect with her.

  “Well, then, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Darla Ramsey,” PJ said. The direct approach had gotten her in the door, so there was no reason to change. “I have reason to believe that’s you.”

  A thin stream of smoke traveled up toward the ceiling. Tension grew as PJ held onto eyes that showed no trace of the earlier indecision. PJ had indeed caught her off guard, but now all the sentries were on duty. Probably PJ had been let in the front door so that the woman could determine just how much the brash intruder knew.

  “Nope,” she said with a face as closed as a turtle inside its shell. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

  PJ unzipped her purse, and saw the woman tense out of the corner of her eyes. While reaching for the copy of the fax Cracker had sent, she switched on her tape recorder. She read the fax aloud. The woman smoked impassively during the recitation of bare facts about Darla’s life, then stubbed out her cigarette.

  “Darla and I used to be friends,” she said. “She lived here for a while, but we had a disagreement and she moved out. I haven’t seen her in a couple of years.”

  “I don’t believe you,” PJ said. “Why did you ask if Libby sent me?”

  “She told me that someone named Libby might come after her some day, and if I knew what was good for me, I’d shoot her on sight.”

  The words were said in a matter-of-fact way that sent shivers racing down PJ’s arms to her fingertips. She thought about the gun in her purse, and she wondered if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped, because goosebumps were forming on her arms.

  “I have Darla’s picture,” PJ said. “It’s you. There’s no doubt. I just want to talk to you. I mean you no harm.”

  “You by yourself?”

  “No.” And if I was, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.

  “Sure I can’t get you a beer or something?”

  “No.” There were knives in the kitchen, at the very least.

  Realization burst on PJ during the awkward moment that followed. It was the thing she’d been missing during the simulation. Her mind had been working on it as background processing, and had finally come up with an answer to the question that had bothered her. When PJ had played the role of Jeremiah in the simulation, the vi
ctim, Eleanor, used her balled-up fists to strike Jeremiah’s arm to get him to drop the baseball bat. The computer developed that physical action based on the postmortem injuries to Eleanor’s hands, data that PJ had entered.

  Balled fists. Yet there was blood on the victim’s hands.

  There were scratches on Jeremiah’s left shoulder, photographed, measured, and described in the case file. The blood clearly came from the scratches, because he had no other breaks in his skin at the time he confessed and submitted to a physical exam.

  But there had been no mention of skin and blood cells under Eleanor’s fingernails. Her nails were short and very clean. That was a fact of the postmortem exam. How did the girl draw blood with her closed fists?

  She could have caused bruises, certainly. But deep scratches? Impossible.

  Involuntarily, PJ looked down at the fingernails of the woman across from her. They were long, well-cared-for, and painted with a clear polish. They took on the look of talons.

  “Jeremiah didn’t kill Eleanor, did he?” PJ asked, her voice trembling.

  “Haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I think you’d better leave.”

  “Did you kill her? Or was it Libby or Elijah?”

  The woman reached for another cigarette and then slipped her hand into her pocket.

  PJ reacted to the movement as a threat. She reached into her open purse and drew out the gun. Gripping it tightly in both hands, she pointed it at the woman.

  “You are Darla, aren’t you? You might as well admit it.”

  “Yes, damn it. How the hell did you find me?” The cold eyes flared with a hateful light.

  The presence of the gun seemed to make Darla angry, not fearful. PJ’s own fear skyrocketed, and her finger started to squeeze the trigger. It seemed as though her body wanted to fire the gun and call for help. She pictured Rob circling the block outside, and another officer watching the back door. The images of police presence calmed her down and stopped the motion of her finger. She took a couple of deep breaths, and her rationality returned from its brief vacation.

  “It wasn’t easy,” PJ said. “You did a good job of disappearing.”

  “You a reporter, then? I wish that child had never been born.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m with the police in St. Louis.” She saw Darla stiffen. “People are dying, Darla, and there’s a connection to your brother’s execution. I need to know the truth to stop the killing.”

  “Can I light my cigarette now?”

  “Sure,” PJ said. “Slowly.”

  Darla’s hand slowly withdrew the lighter from her pocket. She pressed the cigarette to the flame and sucked in gratefully. PJ tensed, half expecting Darla to toss the cigarette lighter at her as a distraction. Instead, the woman placed it in easy reach next to the pack of cigarettes on the end table.

  “What the hell do I care about the truth?” Darla said. “It’s over and done with as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Maybe you should care, because I’m holding this gun on you, and I’m prepared to use it.”

  There was a short bark of a laugh. Darla smiled grimly and locked her eyes onto PJ’s.

  PJ felt the challenge as a physical force, stabbing out and pinning her to the couch cushions. If she relented, she’d get nothing from Darla. She thought about Schultz and the others that might still die, and then gave as good as she got.

  Darla was the first to look away. “So what do you want to know, anyhow?”

  On the offensive, PJ leaned forward, still keeping the gun aimed at Darla’s midsection. “Everything,” she said. “I want to know everything, starting with which one of you killed Eleanor.”

  “Wasn’t me. I had no reason to.”

  “Maybe you should go back to the beginning.”

  Darla puffed and thought. “I suppose the beginning,” she said, “was back when Jeremiah grew some hair on his balls.”

  It took a lot of self-control not to react to the odd statement. Darla showed no sign of continuing, so PJ raised the tip of the muzzle so that it pointed at Darla’s head.

  “I think it started when he was fifteen. Yeah, right about then. He’d go to Mama’s room at night, and it wasn’t to fluff her pillow or take her a glass of milk, like she said. She must have thought I was plumb ignorant. Good God, I was thirteen then myself. I’d had a boy’s hands on me.”

  “You mean Libby and Jeremiah were lovers?” PJ’s eyes were wide.

  “Well, I’m not sure Mama had love on the brain, but Jeremiah, he was like a puppy, following her around. The fool thought he was in love with her, and she encouraged him. Later on, she just came right out with it. She said Pop was away all the time and she needed a man in her bed. Should have looked around down at the bowling alley. Could have had her pick there, but she wanted something a little closer to home.”

  “Then Eleanor wasn’t Jeremiah’s sister,” PJ said, following the train of thought that was chugging through her mind. “She was his daughter by Libby.”

  “Say, you catch on fast,” Darla said. Her mouth twisted into a sarcastic grin. “They must be getting a better grade of police officer these days than when Eleanor got killed. Anyway, I guess Mama was just carrying on her family tradition. Pop told me once that she’d spent a lot of time squirming underneath her own old man since she was ten years old.”

  “Who knew about it? Did Elijah know?” PJ pictured Elijah in a towering rage, cuckolded by his own son, and taking out his anger on the product of that incestuous union.

  “Pop didn’t know who the father was, but he knew it wasn’t him. He was overseas when the seed was planted. Mama told him she’d had an affair and dared him to make anything of it.”

  “So Eleanor was raised as Elijah’s daughter. That’s why she was so much younger than the other two children in the family.”

  Darla’s face softened. “You’d think Pop would have hated her, the way she was brought into the world. But he loved that girl like his own. I guess he figured it wasn’t her fault who her mama spread her legs for.”

  “So he wouldn’t have killed her.”

  “She grew up fiery, that girl,” Darla said, evading the question. “Certainly didn’t get it from Jeremiah. It got even worse when she found out her true beginnings.”

  PJ lowered the gun and put it in her lap. She didn’t want to stop the flow of words. Once Darla got started, it seemed she wanted to tell the story. There had been no one to tell for years. No one safe to tell, at least. Anyway, she was across the room from Darla. Even if Darla made a sudden lunge for the weapon, PJ would have time to raise it and fire.

  “Who told her? Did you?”

  “I didn’t think it would be good for her to know. Some things just ought to be left on the inside. But Mama and Pop got into a fight one night, and they were yelling about it. I think it started over money. They didn’t fight about much else, ’cause Pop just gave in on everything else. But he couldn’t stand to see a penny spent when it could have been saved. It came out that Mama and Jeremiah were still doing it, even though Pop was home more and more. I don’t think Jeremiah was the one asking for it, but he just couldn’t say no even though he was torn up about it. Eleanor heard everything. She was thirteen or fourteen then. Hell of a thing to find out.”

  “Jeremiah never married,” PJ said. “At least not that the police know about.”

  Darla snorted. “Nope, he didn’t. I see what you’re getting at. If he’d gotten married, maybe he could have broken away. I think he was too ashamed about what he’d done to look at other women. Guess he figured he was ruined that way.”

  Darla stabbed her cigarette into the ashtray and stood up. Alarmed, PJ grabbed for the gun.

  “I’m going in the kitchen to get me a beer,” Darla said. “You can follow along waving that gun, or you can sit here. Suit yourself.”

  PJ nodded toward the kitchen. It was a risk, but also a way to express confidence that she and Darla were working together. Darla was back in less than a minu
te. She had three cans of beer. She offered one to PJ, and PJ took it. She popped the top and tipped back the can for a big swallow, turning her head to keep an eye on Darla, who was watching critically. The psychologist in her said that she was building a trusting relationship with her client. The rest of her simply wanted a beer. She hadn’t had a beer in years, and the taste hit her strongly, like the first time she’d gulped a beer down as an eager thirteen year old—the same age as her son was now.

  She wondered if Thomas had ever had a beer.

  “Thanks,” PJ said, and meant it.

  Darla plopped back down in the recliner and opened one of the two beers she’d fetched for herself.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she said. “I guess it’s because it can’t do any harm after all this time. Eleanor’s long in her grave, Jeremiah’s gone, Mama and Pop don’t live together anymore, and I haven’t heard my real name spoken in years.”

  There was nothing PJ could say to that, so she nodded and took another swallow of beer.

  “It’s my turn to ask a question now,” Darla said. “You said at the beginning that people were dying and there was a connection to Jeremiah’s execution. Care to explain that?”

  Darla looked at her shrewdly, and PJ knew that there was a keen intelligence behind those gray eyes, no matter what outward appearance Darla might make or how casually she might ask questions.

  “You don’t watch the news much, do you?”

  Darla shrugged.

  “Jeremiah’s sentence was carried out in July a year ago. On the very same day this year, at least we think it was the same day, the son of the detective on that case was killed in a way that simulated a gas chamber execution. Since then, the prosecuting attorney and the judge have been killed. A four-year-old girl who had nothing to do with the original case is also dead, her life tossed away in an attempt to frame the detective. A man who works for me was shot twice while trying to protect the judge. Jeremiah’s lawyer might be next. The detective is certainly on the list.”

  PJ stopped to take a few calming breaths. “It looks to us like Elijah is the killer. I’m here to learn anything I can about the Ramsey family that will help us stop the killing.”