Slow Dancing

by Suzanne Jenkins

“No momma, you don’t have to worry about it, okay? Ever.” While Margo held her, she thought of those unconnected things, of her mother’s concern for her wellbeing, and then that her real father had lived with Mary for a few days. She shook her head.

  “Alan lived with Mary, did you know that?” Ellen asked, looking carefully at Margo, ready to judge her response.

  “He did,” she answered. “But just as a boarder.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ellen replied confidently. “They were together together.” Margo sensed that Ellen was more aware of what was going on than she was giving her credit for.

  “What makes you say that?” she asked, gently.

  “Mary. The way she acted when she came into the garage, all sugary. She was trying to make my dad jealous. ‘I’ve got a date tonight. A guy from Texas goes by the name of Alan,’ she said. ‘He’s lookin’ for work, if you know of anything. And I’d sure like to keep him in Seymour.’ My dad jumped at the chance to get her off his back.” Margo turned her head to smirk; Mary Cook was a piece of work.

  “Yes, well it does sound like they were dating.”

  “After a few days? She’d disgusting.”

  “It sounds like you have strong feelings about Mary,” Margo said.

  “My mother never really liked her, yet Mary pretended they were best of friends. She warned me to stay away from Mary. There’s something super creepy about her.” The hair on Margo’s arms stood up when Ellen spoke. There was something creepy about her. Margo remembered when they were growing up, bringing Mary home with her after school so she could get a decent meal, Mary asking if she could spend the night on school nights so she could bathe.

  “Our water’s shut off,” she’d say. “My ma won’t care if I stay here tonight or forever.” The truth was, Mary wanted to live with Margo’s family, but she was only tolerable in small doses, often opinionated and ungrateful. Margo’s mother and father opened the house to Mary, and she’d complain about the food she was served or stole Margo’s clothes. It was a no-win situation.

  “She visited your mother every week, didn’t she?”

  “Only because Margaret had no control over who saw her. She died after Mary’s last visit. That always bothered me, but I never said nothin’ to Frank. We saw her on Saturday and she was better, she’d made the effort to fix herself up for Frank and was talking to us. You know they were thinkin’ of releasing her. I know Frank had his hopes up, that maybe my mother was on the mend.

  “A few days later, Mary visited and came back to tell my dad she looked real bad, like she wasn’t going to last long. That night she died. They said she could have done it herself. But I don’t believe it for a minute.” Ellen bowed her head again, crying, expressing grief long overdue. Margo, trembling, put her arm around Ellen again, patting her hair. No one knew exactly what had happened to Margaret out at Hallowsbrook.

  “At her funeral, I heard Mary whispering to Frank, beggin’ him to give her a chance now that my momma was dead. She used that word; dead. Not gone, not passed away. Dead. We never even used it once. I saw Frank go pale when she as talkin’ to him. Of course, he never says nothin’ bad about anyone unless it’s in a teasin’ way. But Mary sets his teeth on edge. He never came out and said it, but I know him.” Margo didn’t know how to respond except to try to get her to continue to talk.

  “You don’t believe your mother died of natural causes.”

  “No mam, I do not. Not anymore.”

  “What do you think happened?” Her heart pounding, Margo didn’t want to plant idea.

  Ellen sat up straight and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I think Mary killed her.”

  “Why do you think Mary did it?” Margo asked, chills traveling up and down her arms.

  “She’s always after my dad like I said, even at the funeral.” Ellen had never called Frank her dad to Margo before. “He was embarrassed by it and tried to hide it from me. But I could see it, especially at the graduation dance last month.” Margo remembered Mary’s behavior that day. “She kept trying to break in, but Frank wouldn’t allow it and it made her angry.”

  “But wasn’t your mother gone already?”

  “Yes mam, but just since end of March. And she was flirtin’ with him in public at the dance. He almost caused a scene. Mary wanted my dad to herself. And he wasn’t cooperating.” Not knowing what to say, Mary was pushy and inappropriate in the best of times, but that hardly made her a murderer. Deciding to downplay what Ellen thought, she’d let Frank know and she’d legally have to tell Boyd. It wouldn’t look right otherwise. She knew Mary didn’t kill Margaret.

  ***

  Boyd Dalton was waiting for Frank’s questioning to begin, standing on the other side of the two-way glass. He looked at his watch as one of the detectives, Dave Madden came in. “What’s the hold up?”

  “Faye. She was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

  “She told me to bring him in right away, for Christ’s sake.” Seething, Boyd watched Frank sit with his legs crossed, tapping on the desk. He’d known Frank since kindergarten; the man was innocent of everything they’d accused him of, but it was his job to make sure the girl was safe. It was a contradiction. High-heeled footsteps in the hall signaled the arrival of Faye Baker.

  “Why are you in here?” Faye asked, annoyed, looking at Frank alone in the interrogation room. “Dave, are you questioning the man or not?”

  “I’ve been here for an hour waiting to do it, Faye.” She gave him a dirty look as he walked into the room where Frank was waiting. They listened for fifteen minutes as he questioned him about what the gossipers saw. Then, surprising the sheriff, Dave asked Frank about Alan Johnson. It was the same line of questioning they would ask every suspect; where were you, do you have anyone who can confirm it, what was your relationship to the deceased?

  Dave shook Frank’s hand and said he’d be back in a moment, returning to the two-way mirror room. “Unless you have anything else to ask him, I think we’re done with this guy,” he said. “It’s a damn shame someone from the community is as beleaguered by gossip as this man has been.”

  Faye shrugged her shoulders. “Do we have his prints on file? We should be hearing any second from CSI.”

  “Frank was in the Navy, so I’m sure his prints are in the system,” Boyd replied sarcastically.

  “Tell him to go home,” Faye said.

  Frank pulled in front of Margo’s house, surprised when Ellen came bounding down the steps, calling his name. “Frank! You’re back!” Getting out of the truck, she ran into the street to meet him, and jumped into his arms. He hugged her, holding her feet off the ground, smiling at Margo.

  “What’s this all about? I was only gone two hours.”

  “Two hours too long,” she said, near tears. “Let me get my stuff.” She smiled at Margo as she went back into the house for her book and bag.

  “Frank I need to tell you something quickly before Ellen comes back out. She said she believes Mary killed Margaret.”

  Frank yelled, “What?” But Margo put her fingers to her lips.

  “Shush, please. I don’t want her to think I betrayed her confidence. I just think you should know.” Frank was about to say something when Ellen came back out.

  “Let’s go home Frank. Thank you very much, Miss Portland. It was nice havin’ someone to talk to.” She smiled and got into the passenger side of the truck.

  Margo watched them drive off together, inexplicably saddened. So much pain in the world. She wondered how long it would take Frank to realize he was a free man, in every sense of the word.

  Chapter 23

  Investigators found a bloody knife in one of the trashcans behind the bus stop at the end of Towering Pines street. Forensics thought it was the weapon used to stab and murder Alan Johnson and would know for sure when his blood was found on it. Fingerprints in Alan’s room and on the knife handle didn’t match and weren’t in the system.

  After Frank’s questioning was over, Boyd Dalton went to th
e lab with Detective Madden to look at the knife. “Check this out,” Dave said. “There’s a very tiny engraving here at the side of the knife.” It was an expensive restaurant knife, a carving knife; not a hunting knife anyone could acquire easily from a hunting store.

  “I’m over forty,” Boyd replied squinting at the blade. “You want me to see something that small get a magnifying glass.” Dave rummaged through the drawers until he found a glass with a handle. They angled the glass until the inscription was clear.

  “Baker Forge, Professional Restaurant # 9490.” He got on the phone to talk to the investigative team who had already discovered the knife inscription.

  “The forge is located in New York,” he said after hanging up. “They’re waiting for a call back.”

  The case file open in front of Boyd, they slowly leafed through the paper. No one had talked to Mary Cook yet. “He was at Mary’s house before returning to Towering Pines,” Dave said. “At least that’s what it says here.”

  “Margo was there last night having dinner when he walked in. Mary wasn’t too happy about him being Ellen’s father, according to Johnson.”

  “How’s everything going with Margo?” Dave said changing the subject, concern for his friend.

  “Good. I’m leaving Carol, moving in to Margo’s cottage, so I guess I’ll be going to hell.”

  “You prepared for some other guy to come along and snatch up your ex? It’ll happen, and it’ll hurt,” Dave replied, frowning. “I’ve been there.”

  “I hope it does. I want her to be happy,” Boyd said confidently. “And the sooner she replaces me the better for her.”

  “Oh, don’t count on it buddy. You might regret it big time. Think about some greasy shmuck being with your children. Trust me, it’s all well and good to think Carol will be off your back, but what if the guy she picks doesn’t like your kids?”

  “Jesus, will you give it a rest? I haven’t even moved out yet.”

  “Okay, but take your time making any decisions.” Boyd didn’t reply, sorry he’d answered in the first place. Every man’s experience was different, wasn’t it?

  “I’m going over to Mary’s place,” he said, picking up his hat. As he drove through town, he imagined what it would be like when he moved into Margo’s cottage, Carol driving over to Family-Owned and slowing down as she passed the house, or if what Dave said came to pass, seeing her with another man. A light shiver went through his body at the image of her kissing someone else.

  Bombarded with thoughts of Carol and Margo, murder and child abuse, he arrived at Mary’s and started to pull into the driveway when her neighbor, Peter came dashing out, waving his arms and pointing to the concrete.

  “Don’t drive up here!” he yelled. Boyd put on his brakes and rolled down the window.

  “What’s going on Peter,” he said, annoyed. “I was already up this driveway today.”

  “Your girlfriend had a temper tantrum last night after her beau left in a huff. As you can see, she smashed a mug to smithereens. It wasn’t a pretty sight.” Boyd got out of the car and looked down at the pavement, a thin layer of glistening substance covering an area of the concrete.

  “Okay, thank you for warning me.”

  “My pleasure, don’t want an officer of the law gettin’ a flat tire. She was madder than hell. Run outta here half hour latter, crying and mumbling to herself.”

  “Did she come back? I was here earlier and there was no answer.”

  “She left for work with her uniform on about an hour ago.” Boyd tipped his hat in Peter’s direction.

  “By the way, she’s not my girlfriend. I’m here on business, not that it’s any of your business,” Boyd said.

  “You were a fine pair, back in the day,” Peter said. “She’d never give me the time of day.”

  “Maybe if you took a bath once in a while you’d have more luck with the ladies,” Boyd answered.” But Peter just laughed.

  “Take me as I am, that’s my motto.” Getting into the car, Boyd waved, thinking that Peter might have just provided some information they didn’t expect. He steered the patrol car toward Main Street and the café, fluttering in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t unusual for officers to come in for lunch so she wouldn’t suspect he was there for her. Not right away, anyway.

  A parking spot open in front of the beauty salon, Miss Logan saw him pull up, fueling her dialogue about the morning at Towering Pines, in spite of being asked not to talk about it. “Look, there he goes now. I bet you a hundred bucks he’s goin’ to talk to Miss Mary Quite Contrary about her late boyfriend.”

  Boyd removed his hat as he walked into the café and heads turned, looking on in admiration as they always did when he entered a room. Mary was standing at a table full of women with her order pad poised in the air, and he swore her face turned white when she saw him as he pulled a chair out to sit down. The women looked at him, church ladies from the area frowning, and he immediately thought they were thinking of Margo and him, having an affair.

  Get your head together, Dalton, he thought. Focus. Alan Johnson. Watching Mary walk to the kitchen to place the order on the raised counter window, she lingered there for a moment longer than she really needed to. Turning, she picked up a menu and walked stiltedly to him, he could see she was hesitating, that she was frightened.

  “Afternoon, sheriff,” she said, handing him the menu.

  “How’s it going?” he asked, watching her. “Any specials?”

  “Meatloaf or lake perch. Your choice of sides, same as always.”

  “What time you get off today, Mary? I was by the house earlier, but you didn’t answer. We need to talk.”

  “I get off at three, same as always,” she repeated. “You want to look at the menu a while longer or do you know what you’ll have?”

  “Patience, patience.” He looked around the dining room and it was emptying out. Saturdays in the summer, people went to the beach and had picnics on the riverbanks, not diner food in town. “What’d you do last night?”

  “Seriously? You’re gonna ask me that? What’s wrong? Margo give you the ax?” He wanted to say how’d you know about Margo, but it was obvious. Town gossip.

  Instead, he laughed out loud. “I wasn’t asking because I wanted a date, Mary. I’m asking because your boyfriend was found with a knife wound in his back, dead. You know anything about that?” He knew the timing was terrible here at her place of employment, but he wanted to see her response and it was about what he hoped it would be.

  “You’re lying,” she said, color draining from her face again, her hands gripping the pen and pad.

  “I am not, Mary. Flip the radio on. It’s all over the dial.”

  “Your timing sucks,” she replied. “I got orders to give out. If you aren’t going to order something get out.”

  “Ha! What’re you gonna do? Call the cops?” She sneered at him and he laughed again, opening the menu.

  Disbelieving, Mary couldn’t believe someone had murdered Alan. It was almost as though the last week had never happened, that he’d never come into the café, or moved into his house, or made love to her. Feeling as if she could throw up again, Mary passed out plates of food to the table of women, the smell of cabbage and fried onions wafting up to her nose, nauseating. When everyone had their food, she went back to get Boyd’s order, wishing she could slap his smug face.

  “Isn’t there a law against harassing a citizen at their place of business?”

  “I’ll take the steak and fries,” he said. “Coffee, if it’s fresh.”

  “I should piss in your cup,” Mary replied.

  “Peter tells me you had a little temper fit after lover boy left your place last night.” He ignored her gasp. “Rumor has it you weren’t too happy about his news. Not that it’s been confirmed yet. Don’t want that gettin’ around if it’s not true.”

  “What news are you referring to?”

  “That Mr. Johnson is, was Ellen Fisher’s real father,” Boyd said, smiling. “Rumor ha
s it that you were so upset, you smashed his mug in your driveway last night after he left your place.”

  “Your sources don’t know what they’re talking about,” she answered smugly. “Prove it, Dalton.”

  “You don’t seem very upset about his demise.”

  “Give me a moment or two to think about it, jerk. Now I’m putting your order in and if you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling the station.”

  “Why not come down after work, instead,” he replied. “Give us a chance to talk to you in front of a video camera.”

  “Why? Since when is it against the law to break up china in your own driveway?”

  “Oh! Is that what you were doing? Peter tells a different story.”

  “You goin’ around questioning my neighbors for no good reason is another form of harassment,” Mary said, disgusted. She walked away to put his order in and lingered behind the lunch counter for a while. Boyd was reading the paper, the morning edition left behind by an earlier patron. But he watched her over the paper’s edge from time to time, wondering. She was attractive, smart, funny. Why couldn’t she keep a man interested in her? He thought of his own relationship with her before he married Carol, how for a few short weeks he’d enjoyed being with her until her craziness made it unbearable.

  “Here’s your steak,” she said, putting down a platter of food in front of him, with a steak knife poised over the edge. She walked away before he could respond, but he was fixated on the knife. It was a smaller version of the knife covered in Alan Johnson’s blood. The bloody juices seeping out of the meat and the thought of the knife at the station, while it had been wiped clean by the time he saw it, made him queasy. He picked it up with a paper napkin and though he could barely see the engraving, since he’d already seen it once that day, the letters spelling Baker Forge jumped out at him. Heart thumping, appetite gone, he waved Mary over.

  “Can I have a takeout box? Our chat used up all my lunch time.” She didn’t reply, but retrieved a cardboard container for his food and went back to the counter without engaging him again. He left a twenty dollar bill on the table, a fifty percent tip for miserable service, but he had it coming.