Caught Red-Handed

by Jan Burke

  For three or four seconds, I actually considered doing it. But whatever sense I still had allowed me to remain silent. “I thought I could depend on your help. Obviously, I was wrong. I’m leaving for the cabin and I’m leaving now.”

  “All right, all right,” Russo said in a peeved tone. “Let me call in.”

  He made the call while I got my coat and keys and purse. Chance disappeared for a while. I looked at Detective Russo, and realized he probably didn’t have more than his suitcoat to keep him warm. I hesitated only for a moment before going into David’s closet. “I know you don’t mind, David,” I said as I took a winter coat out, “but it bothers me.” Chance suddenly appeared next to me, motioning me to hurry. “I am hurrying!” I said.

  “Anna? Who are you talking to?” Detective Russo asked. He was standing at the bedroom door.

  “Oh . . . just talking to myself. I was getting one of my husband’s coats for you. I thought you might be cold up in the mountains. There’s snow up there now. He’s a little—he was a little taller than you, so it might be too big. But it will be better than nothing.”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking it from me. “Are you sure it won’t bother you to see me wear it?”

  I looked away from him and shook my head. “Let’s go.”

  Chance vanished. I figured he had his own means of transportation.

  * * *

  Detective Russo and I didn’t say anything to each other for about the first twenty minutes of the trip. Chance suddenly appeared as a reflection in the rearview mirror. I jumped a little, but fortunately, Russo didn’t see my reaction; he was looking out the passenger window.

  He turned to me. “It was your husband, wasn’t it?”

  “What?” I asked, puzzled.

  “When I came into the bedroom, you were talking to your husband, asking him if you could loan me the coat.”

  I colored, but didn’t answer.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I talked to my wife after she died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you had lost your wife.”

  “About four years ago now. But at first, I used to talk to her all the time. I learned to be careful—almost got a stress leave imposed on me when my lieutenant overheard me one day.”

  “Did your wife ever answer you?”

  He looked out the window, and for moment, I didn’t think he was going to reply. When he spoke, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. “In her own way, yes, she did,” he said.

  He laughed then, suddenly self-conscious. “You probably think the department sent you out with a nutcase.”

  “No, not at all. Until recently, if you had told me you talked to the dead, I might have questioned your sanity. But not now, Detective Russo.”

  “If you’re generous enough to loan me this coat, I suppose you might be willing to call me John,” he said.

  “Okay, John. Anyway, I doubt anything you could tell me about conversing with your wife would surprise me. These last few days . . .” I stopped, needing to steady myself.

  “Do you want me to drive?” he asked.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Chance was nodding.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it,” I said, and pulled off the freeway. “I’m a little shaky.”

  “I understand,” he said. “You’ve held up really well so far, all things considered.”

  I stopped the car and turned to look at him. “No, I haven’t. I just try not to make a public production out of it. It would seem to—I don’t know, cheapen his memory.”

  He didn’t say anything, just traded places with me, and we got back on the freeway. I positioned myself on the seat so that I could look at Chance without being too obvious. “Do you know Mrs. Devereaux?” Russo asked.

  “I met her for the first time at David’s funeral,” I said, looking back at Chance, who wore an angry expression.

  “At least the two of you will both benefit nicely from Emery & Walden’s employee life insurance program.”

  “We would have, but not now. I haven’t had a chance to get the details, but David told me that Mr. Emery was changing to a less expensive insurance, one that wouldn’t pay as much. But we’ve been in fairly good financial shape anyway, with no children and two incomes.”

  “The insurance hasn’t changed yet,” he said.

  “What?”

  He glanced over at me. “It doesn’t change until the end of the month.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “The interesting thing is, the current insurance not only pays higher than the new one, it also covers death for any reason.”

  “You mean, including suicide?”

  “Including suicide.”

  Chance was clenching his fists.

  “It wasn’t suicide,” I said, and both Chance and John Russo looked at me at once.

  “What’s your interest in Devereaux?”

  “I told you. David was concerned about him. He knew Chance Devereaux didn’t ignore the complaints about the tank. Devereaux felt bad about what happened, but he didn’t blame himself. He was a practicing Catholic. He wouldn’t have committed suicide.”

  “How do you know about his being Catholic?”

  I looked away. “David and I are Catholics. You know that from being at the funeral today if you didn’t know it before. David must have mentioned that Devereaux was Catholic, too.”

  He was silent for a while, and I thought he might not believe me. I was right. But I didn’t know how right until he spoke up again.

  “I don’t think you’re being honest with me,” he said. “I kept hoping you’d just tell me. I’m a cop, Dr. Blackburn. I’ve seen all kinds of things. It wouldn’t have surprised me.”

  I didn’t understand his harsh tone, nor did I believe for a moment that the police were accustomed to having people say they had received information from ghosts. Not sane people. I gave him directions to the turnoff for the cabin, then asked, “Just exactly what did you mean by that last remark?”

  He sighed. “I meant that a woman answering your description was seen keeping a regular weekly appointment with Mr. Devereaux. We got a tip from a clerk at the St. George Hotel. Said you registered as Mr. & Mrs. Devereaux, but he had been in the business long enough to know hanky-panky when he saw it. You were having an affair with Chance Devereaux, weren’t you?”

  I couldn’t help but look back at Chance. He was shaking his head, pointing to his ring finger again, then at me. “Mr. Devereaux and I were each married,” I said.

  Chance shook his head while I heard John Russo say, “To other people, yes. But you wouldn’t be the first married people on earth to look for greener pastures. Every Wednesday. What broke it off, Dr. Blackburn?”

  His words, combined with Chance’s gestures, brought it home to me. “Oh my God. My husband and your wife.”

  “Leave my wife out of this!” John Russo said angrily.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant,” I said, a numbness coming over me. I gave a questioning look at Chance, who nodded, then pointed at me and made the signs for ‘See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.’ His flippancy angered me, but I understood what he meant. I had avoided learning the details of David’s infidelity, shut myself off from it. Now both Chance and I might pay for it.

  I looked back at Russo. I took a deep breath. “That wasn’t me and it wasn’t Chance Devereaux, either. That was Louise Devereaux and my husband. Six months ago, David told me he was having an affair. He told me he met the woman every Wednesday night at the St. George Hotel. I taught a class that night. You can check that with the college. I never knew who it was. But Chance Devereaux and my husband look something alike, and Louise Devereaux and I both have blond hair and blue eyes. They must have used her name. I imagine if you look a little further, you’ll find that, like me, Chance Devereau
x had some standing appointment on Wednesday nights, some business or other engagement that allowed his wife to meet my husband without causing Mr. Devereaux to be suspicious.”

  Chance nodded in painful agreement, and made his “sorry” gesture again, as if feeling guilty for his earlier routine. The discovery of the details of the affair was too much for me. It was as if I were back in time, once again experiencing that moment when David admitted to the affair. The hurt and anger and humiliation started all over again, and now the police were privy to the whole awful business. I started crying again, wishing to God I could have kept my composure.

  “I’m sorry,” John said.

  “That doesn’t help a damn bit,” I answered, and kept crying.

  By then we had reached the cabin. Although it hadn’t snowed since Thursday, there was still plenty of it on the ground and the roof of the cabin. The snow was dirty by then. What must have been a pristine blanket two days before was now sullied and rumpled. The snowplows had been by, building up large drifts along the way. We parked on the roadside; the entrance to the drive was blocked by the snowdrift. Any other weekend, David would have cleared the drive while I went to work putting away groceries and building a fire . . . who’ll clear the driveway, now, David? I guessed it would be me.

  Russo held off getting out of the car. He reached over and took my hand. “I truly am sorry, Anna. I feel like an ass. I should have checked it out. I only got the information from the clerk today, and not ten minutes later, you were calling, asking about Devereaux. I jumped to a conclusion, and I had no right to do that. I did a lousy job of asking you about it anyway. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to scratch my eyes out.”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Please forgive me.”

  “It seems like men have been asking me to do that a lot lately,” I said.

  He let go of my hand and waited.

  I managed to pull myself together, somehow. “I’m sorry, John. I’m having a perfectly horrible day and I can’t seem to keep my balance. Just when I feel as if I’m steady on my feet, something knocks them out from under me. You’re not to blame for it.”

  “I don’t know about that, but like I said, I’m sorry. Feel up to going inside and looking for those documents?”

  “Why not? What more could go wrong today?”

  We got out of the car and started up the drive. John donned David’s coat, which was only a little too big for him. As we walked, I was fascinated by the fact that Chance, who walked next to me with a comforting arm around my shoulder, left no footprints. I was musing over the fact that his touch was as warm as any living person’s, when suddenly John stopped me from walking any farther. “Hold it. It snowed up here Thursday, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “David and I were looking forward to—never mind, that doesn’t do any good.”

  Chance gave my shoulder a little squeeze, as if to help me find my courage. Russo watched me for a moment, then asked, “Had you made any arrangements with anyone to come up here? Any other guests or a caretaker?”

  “No, no one.”

  I followed his gaze to where two pairs of footprints entered and left the cabin. Whoever had been to the cabin had cut across the woods, as if to avoid being seen.

  “Would you mind staying here for a moment?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why don’t you give me the key to the front door? I’ll just make sure it’s safe.”

  He walked to the cabin, careful not to disturb the prints. It gave me an opportunity to talk to Chance.

  “You knew someone was here, didn’t you?”

  Yes. He made the gesture for his wife.

  “Louise and who else?”

  He seemed stumped by this question, but then pantomimed filing his nails.

  “Emery?”

  He actually smiled, the first time I had seen him smile.

  “I don’t think Russo believes you killed yourself.”

  He patted me on the back.

  “No, I think he doubted it before I said anything.”

  He patted me again.

  “Well, thanks. Did they find what they were looking for when they came here?”

  He shook his head, smiling again, then suddenly laid a finger to his lips. I turned to see Russo coming out of the cabin. He was upset.

  “Someone has been here and ransacked the place. I called the sheriff; they’ll be out as soon as they can, but it may be a little while. I don’t know if you’ll want to go in there. They did a very thorough job of it, and I doubt they missed anything.”

  “I have a feeling they did,” I said. “I’ll be okay. Let’s take a look.”

  “Try not to touch anything if you can help it.”

  After everything else I had been through that day, seeing the cabin a complete wreck was only mildly unsettling. Russo was right; no piece of furniture was left in place, every drawer had been pulled out and dumped on the floor, pictures had been removed from their frames. I almost reached out and touched one of David and me, but Russo stopped me.

  “You’ll be able to fix it after they dust for prints,” he said.

  “I know who did this,” I said. “Louise Devereaux and Winslow Emery.”

  “How do you know?”

  “First, who else has any reason to search this cabin? Secondly, I’ll bet those footprints are those of a man and a woman. I can’t tell you the other reason.”

  “Your husband’s ghost tipped you off?”

  “Something like that.” I thought of David, having an affair with someone who was vicious enough to place a gun in her husband’s mouth and pull the trigger. It dawned on me then that she might have killed David as well. I shuddered. “Poor David.”

  “Maybe you’d trust me more if I told you something.” He paused. “I don’t tell many people about this.” Even Chance seemed curious.

  “It’s about my wife, Susan,” Russo said. “I told you she died. I didn’t tell you how.”

  I waited. He walked over to the empty fireplace and stared down into its charred hearth. “She was killed. Shot to death, like your husband. Only she was in another man’s arms when it happened. His wife caught on to what was happening before I did. She was waiting for them, I guess. Killed them both, then turned the gun on herself.”

  “John—”

  “Let me finish. I hated Susan for it at first. But I missed her, too. And I hated missing her. Then I started blaming myself. Homicide detective gets called out in the middle of the night all the time, doesn’t make for much of a home life.

  “Anyway, one night, she came back. Her ghost, I suppose. You think I’m crazy?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t scare easy, but that scared the living hell out me. She asked me to forgive her.”

  “She could talk?”

  “Yes, can’t your husband talk?”

  “It’s not my husband, John.” I turned to Chance. “Can I tell him?”

  Chance nodded.

  “He’s here, now?” Russo asked, startled.

  “Yes, he’s here. It’s Chance Devereaux. He started visiting me the night before the funeral. He wants to be buried in a Catholic cemetery, but as a suicide, they wouldn’t allow it.”

  “He told you it wasn’t suicide?”

  “Yes. He can’t talk; I think it has something to do with the way he died. But he isn’t so hard to understand once you get used to it. He made it clear that Louise drugged his drink, then shot him while he slept.”

  “We’ve suspected something like that,” John said. “He had enough barbiturates in his system to make it seem unlikely that he would have shot himself; but it was right on the borderline, nothing solid enough to convict. Still, I wondered why he would take sleeping pills if he planned on shooting himself that same night. What would the point be? Between tha
t and the insurance, she wasn’t completely in the clear.”

  I watched Chance walk over to the fireplace. John followed my gaze.

  “He walked over here?” he asked, taking a step back.

  “Yes. He wants us to look inside it, under the metal plate in the hearth. The one over the hole where you clean out the ashes.”

  Russo got down on all fours and lifted the plate. I wasn’t too surprised when he pulled out a sheaf of papers. Chance touched me on the shoulder, then disappeared.

  * * *

  The papers proved that Chance had warned Emery about the tank eight months before the disaster. One of Emery’s fingerprints had been left at the cabin, on the door to a storage shed. Facing prosecution in the deaths of the workers as well, Emery later broke down and confessed to helping Louise kill David, and told police that Louise had killed Chance. He had been having an affair with Louise Devereaux for the past six months. They met on Wednesdays. They were both convicted of murder.

  * * *

  I saw Chance one other time; when I signed the forms saying I would pay to have his body moved to the Catholic cemetery. He met me near his old grave, and hugged me. He was still warm.

  * * *

  John Russo and I married a year later. When the going gets rough, we tell each other ghost stories.

  WHITE TRASH

  The woman dressed in black ninja garb moved stealthily across the street, armed with a spray bottle of a popular herbicide purchased at her local hardware store. In the dim light of the streetlamp, she set the spray mechanism to “stream” and went to work. Quickly she moved the bottle in a graceful, sweeping motion. She left as furtively as she had arrived.

  Three weeks later, much to the horror of the jerks who lived across the street, a rather obscene directive appeared on their lawn, spelled out in dead grass letters. Alas for these evil neighbors, the Suburban Avenger had succeeded once again . . .

  I looked up from my bowl of cornflakes and glanced across the street, wondering—just wondering, mind you—if I could get away with it.