See No Evil

by Gayle Roper

  Gray paused with a hand on the doorknob. “He doesn’t want me.”

  “Oh. Right.” How could I forget that little difference in our situations?

  When he drove away, I locked the front door and leaned against it. I shuddered as I heard the drip, drip again and saw the bright pool of blood in the beam of Gray’s penlight. I tried to imagine how a man could shoot someone willfully and in cold blood.

  Life was precious, not something to be done away with at whim. As long as life continued, a connection with God the Father might be made through Jesus the Son. Then when life ended, there was heaven. Snuff out a life prematurely, and a person might never have the opportunity to make that choice for God.

  I wondered about Dorothy Ryder. Had she known God? Had she even thought about Him? Not that anything could be changed now. Her opportunity to decide for God was gone. She’d either made that decision previously, or she’d never make it.

  Lord, take care of Mr. Ryder. Comfort him. And help the authorities find the guy who did it—without me getting killed, too, okay?

  Maybe I should call Sergeant Poole and ask the police to assign someone to guard me. I shook my head. Amhearst didn’t have a big force, and I suspected there weren’t extra cops lying around to take on a duty like that.

  I went to my room rather than down to the cellar to work. As I walked in, my eyes were drawn to the fabric mosaic over the bed, and I smiled. It was a three-foot-by-four-foot whimsical depiction of the Ark with its animals, sewn from hundreds of little pieces of material of different hues, textures and patterns to get the shadings of color I wanted. It had taken me a year to finish it, but every time I looked at it, I felt better, no matter how bad my day had been.

  A pair of giraffes held their heads high, each spot several tiny scraps of rusts or ecrus, their manes brown embroidery floss. The smiling lion’s mane was several shades of gold and bronze yarn packed tight and cut into eighth- to quarter-inch lengths. His lioness was a tawny collage of beige and amber calicos. The elephants were strips of varying shades of gray, gathered to create their wrinkles. The porcupines squatting on the roof had their laid-back quills made from the straws of a new broom.

  Meg kept urging me to take part in high-end craft shows or at least sell my mosaics on eBay. “You could make a fortune, Anna. Your stuff is so beautiful.”

  “I just do this for fun,” I always answered.

  Last Christmas I’d given Meg a mosaic of a single rose in myriad shades of pink, rose and crimson, the leaves made up of more greens than a spring meadow. I’d made Lucy a whimsical red-headed cat, its color slowly darkening until its tail was a deep, almost black crimson. Two years ago I’d given my father a pair of cardinals, male and female, sitting on a snow-laden pine bough. I’d loved the challenge of the slender needles and the fluffy snow, the subtle shading of the feathers.

  I turned from my masterpiece-to-date and settled myself against the headboard of my bed. I reached for my Bible. I wanted the comfort of others who had lived through danger and adversity and had written about God’s faithfulness in their dark nights. I wanted to be reminded that God was ever faithful. I turned to Psalm 66, one of Mom’s favorite passages during her illness.

  You let men ride over our heads;

  We went through fire and water,

  But you brought us to a place of abundance.

  I put the Bible back on the bedside table.

  Lord, not too much fire and water? Not too many men riding over my head? But I’ll take that place of abundance whenever You send it my way.

  SEVEN

  Thursday morning Dar walked in the back door of his home on the beach. A grocery bag crackled in his arms. Freshly ground coffee, half and half, a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread and a beautiful, thick filet mignon to grill for tonight’s dinner. This afternoon he’d run up the road to a produce stand for some fresh Jersey beefsteak tomatoes. He’d grill them with the steak. He’d also get some fresh peaches, sweet and succulent, for dessert with some of the vanilla ice cream stashed in the freezer.

  He stretched, pleasantly tired after a night in Atlantic City celebrating his kill. And what a lovely celebration she had been. What was her name? Kimba? Nola? Some cartoon animal thing. Bambi! That was it. Not that it mattered. He’d never see her again.

  He wandered into his bedroom and stripped off his black T-shirt and black slacks. The bed looked very welcoming. A few hours sleep, and he’d be as good as new. He took a quick shower to wash Bambi away, and as he lay down, he still felt the satisfied afterglow of a hit well done. It was wonderful to love your work this much.

  Four hours later he pulled on a pair of black shorts and a black T-shirt. He straightened his black sheets and summer-weight blanket and pulled up the black comforter. He padded barefoot into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. As he leaned against the black granite countertop waiting for the brew to drip through the machine, he saw yesterday’s newspaper lying on the kitchen table.

  He pulled it over. Day-old news wasn’t usually all that interesting, but maybe there would be something about the Amhearst job. Granted the Atlantic City Press didn’t carry much Philadelphia area news, but you never knew.

  He flipped the paper open and blinked. There he was on the front page, staring up from a pair of drawings, one full face, bushy mustache carefully in place, the other profile. He wasn’t nervous that anyone would recognize him from the drawing. Between the wrong hair and the mustache, he was unidentifiable.

  But whoever had done these drawings had gotten the nose. Not good. He ran a finger over the prominent bump. He studied the drawings some more. They were very good and had the words “Do you know this man?” beneath. They were no IdentiKit things either. They were closer to portraits.

  He swore. It was that girl. It had to be her. No one else had seen him.

  And there she was in the photo. He read the caption. Anna Volente. It said she was a friend of the victim’s husband, she and that guy beside her.

  Huh.

  He filled his coffee mug and walked out onto the deck overlooking the beach and the Atlantic. A slight breeze blew off the water, rumpling his uncombed hair. He sat on the rail and thought.

  When he came back in an hour later, he pulled the filet from the refrigerator and slid it in the freezer next to the vanilla. He had some important things to attend to, and with the trip to Tuckahoe for the Taurus, he doubted he’d be back in time for dinner.

  EIGHT

  “Dad.” As I heard his voice over the phone Thursday morning, I felt the familiar mix of love and frustration. “How are you?” I tried to sound bright and perky. Not a care in the world.

  Lucy sat at the red table downing an alarming number of Lorna Doones, grinning as she unabashedly eavesdropped. She and Meg still hadn’t left for the shore which surprised me.

  “Who cares how I am?” Dad thundered. “How are you, and how did you get mixed up in a murder?”

  “Um, what do you mean?” How did he know anything about the killing? I hadn’t planned to tell him about it until the murderer was behind bars, and I could make the whole thing a big joke. He had hovered over me, “my little chick in a barn full of strutting roosters,” my whole life. After Mom died, he’d been worse than ever. If he knew I’d actually seen the murderer, he’d have apoplexy.

  “I read about you in the paper.”

  “I was in the Ohio papers?” Who would have thought?

  “Page six,” said the man who only read the headlines and the sports section with occasional glances at the comics. “I missed it myself, but I go to work this morning, and the guys say, hey, Anna was in the paper yesterday. Then they show me. I mean, wouldn’t you think my girl would tell me about something so important?”

  I heard the disappointment in his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t want to worry you.” Or have you drive down here and sit on my front porch with your loaded hunting rifle. “Um, what’s the newspaper say?” Hopefully no more than the News.

&nb
sp; I heard him rattle the paper.

  “There’s a picture of this guy who’s the killer, and there’s a picture of you and two guys, one the husband of the murdered lady. How do you know people that get themselves murdered?”

  Like it was Dorothy’s fault?

  “I don’t. I was putting up some treatments in the model house and I just saw—” I caught myself before I spat out the part about seeing the killer. “—I saw all the emergency vehicles, you know?”

  Lucy’s grin widened at my evasion. Well, I did see them. I wasn’t saying anything untrue. I was just bending the time frame a bit. I scrunched up my shoulders, waiting for the providential lightning bolt to strike me for my semi-prevarication.

  “Who’s the other guy?” Dad demanded. “This Grayson Edwards person?”

  “He’s the contractor in the development where I was working and the woman was killed.”

  Dad grunted. “Sounds like a man you should avoid if things like that happen on his job sites.”

  “He’s a nice man, Dad.”

  “Is he ever,” Lucy muttered.

  I rolled my eyes at her. “He had nothing to do with Dorothy’s death.”

  “And you somehow know this for sure?”

  “I know this for sure.”

  Dad grunted, clearly reserving judgment. “And you’re certain you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, Dad.” Lord, may that continue. And please don’t let him come here. We made it safely through last night, and I’m sure we’ll be fine tonight, too.

  “You want I should come?”

  I heard the worry in his voice. “Dad, I’m okay. Really. You don’t have to come.”

  “I will, baby. In a moment if you need me.”

  “I know.”

  “And the boys, too.”

  “I know.” My eyes filled. He might drive me crazy at times, but I never doubted he loved me.

  “Or you can come here. Just until they catch this guy,” he said quickly, like he knew I was going to protest.

  “Thanks, Dad, but I can’t. I’m going to Seaside with Lucy and Meg for the weekend, and school starts on Monday.”

  “Already? What’s with this starting before Labor Day? They never used to start before Labor Day.”

  “They do now, and I need to be there.”

  “It makes no sense. The kids go to school for a coupla days, and then they got a three-day weekend.”

  Reprieve! He was off on another topic. But my relief was short-lived.

  “If you’re scared this guy might come back, you can miss a few days of school. I’ll even write you a note.” I had to smile at his attempt at humor. “Dear Mr. Principal, Anna missed school this week because her father didn’t want her in the same town as a killer. I’m sure you understand, probably having a daughter of your own who hardly ever listens to your advice.”

  “Oh, Dad.” My rebuke was mild.

  “Are you still painting?” he asked, jumping topics faster than I could blink.

  Here we go. “Of course.”

  “Are you still planning to be a famous artist, lauded by the world for your extraordinary talent?”

  Hardly, though I’d never admit it to him. Still, I had to keep trying.

  “Anna, you are an artist. Don’t ever forget that. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Not that Dad knew about Mom’s final words or the pact I’d made with her. They were too precious, too personal to share with anyone, even this man who loved me so. “My World-Famous Artist certificate comes in the mail next week.”

  “Smart aleck. But you’re still sewing?”

  “You should see the fabulous fabric I’m working with on this job. It costs three hundred dollars and more a yard.”

  “Some people have more money than brains. But that’s not what I meant. Are you sewing?”

  I knew very well what he meant. Was I doing my fabric mosaics? “I’m working on one for a gift.” If I didn’t fall in love with it and keep it myself.

  “Anna, work on them all as your gift from God.”

  “Yes, Dad.” I put my hand over the mouth of the phone and hissed, “Lucy, go ring the doorbell nice and loud and long.”

  Shaking her head in laughing sympathy, Lucy headed for the front door.

  Dad sighed. “Is it that you love painting even though you’re not so good at it, or that you won’t admit that your father has been right all these years?”

  The doorbell sounded, and I heard voices in the front hall. Meg was home—unless Lucy was having a conversation with herself in different voices. With her anything was possible.

  “Whoops, the doorbell’s ringing. I’ve got to go, Dad. Thanks for calling. I’m fine and I love you. Don’t worry.” I hung up.

  I stood with my forehead against the wall. He did it to me every time. Every time. I knew he meant well, but the questions always left me feeling inadequate, as if I were disappointing not only Dad, but Mom as well. I pictured her in her radiant robe, one among thousands sitting at Jesus’ feet, shaking her head. I knew theologically that there was no sorrow in Heaven, but I still saw Mom looking distressed.

  I took a deep breath and straightened as Lucy and Meg walked into the kitchen.

  “Guess what?” Lucy said as she grabbed a couple of more Lorna Doones from the almost empty wrapper. “We aren’t going to the shore today. We decided to wait until you can come with us.” She waved a cookie at me. “We don’t think you should be alone.”

  I looked from one woman to the other. “You’re missing two days at the beach for me?” Can you say friends?

  Meg shrugged. “We’re not completely altruistic. We’ve got stuff to do to get ready for next week.”

  “Besides, how often do we get to play bodyguard?” Lucy offered her depleted cookie bag first to Meg, then me. “Your father might not realize you saw the killer, but we do.”

  Meg poured some lemonade into a glass. “Not that we’re likely to scare anyone away, but being alone when things are hard is the pits.”

  I saw, as I often did, that shadow in Meg’s eyes. Some time, somewhere, she had been in trouble alone, and the experience still haunted her. But close as we three were, she never alluded to whatever had happened. Lucy and I had speculated a time or two, but all we knew for sure was that whatever it was, it had occurred before we knew her.

  “You guys are the greatest.” I hugged Meg, then Lucy. I hesitated a minute, then said, “Gray and I had an idea.”

  Lucy all but clapped her hands. “You two? This is bound to be good.”

  “A dog.”

  Meg and Lucy looked at each other and grinned.

  “Big?” Meg asked.

  Lucy nodded. “With lots of teeth.”

  “We were going to suggest it to you.” Meg rinsed the empty lemonade pitcher.

  I laughed. “You sure you don’t mind, Meg? It’s your house, after all.”

  “Don’t think twice about it.” Meg sliced a lemon to float in the new pitcher of lemonade she was making. “You’re much more important than unscratched doors or hairless clothes.”

  “Hairless clothes we never have anyway, courtesy of Tipsy,” I pointed out helpfully.

  “What do you think about a Doberman?” Lucy asked, ignoring the slur on her cat’s grooming. “They snarl really well.”

  “This is going to upset Tipsy,” I warned. Personally, I suspected the spoiled thing could stand being upset a bit.

  “Some things are even more important than Tipsy.” Lucy gave me a teary smile.

  I smiled back, touched. “I have to take some more stuff to the model this afternoon. The police called and told me it was okay. Maybe we can meet at the pound at four-thirty, and both of you can help me pick our dog?”

  “Will you be at the model alone?” Lucy asked.

  “I’ll be all right. It shouldn’t take me long. I just need to unpin and arrange the drapes, cover the table, and put out the pillows I’ve finished. Then I need to take some pix for my portfolio.”


  “I think we should keep you company.” Meg poured us each a glass of lemonade. Lucy nodded. “We can unpin stuff for you. That doesn’t take much talent.”

  I looked at them with affection.

  “Let us know when you’re ready to leave,” Meg said, “and we’ll go along.”

  “We could take Tipsy as our attack cat.” Lucy picked up the black beast who had been rubbing against her ankles with exactly that hope.

  “Puh-lease.” I reached out and scratched his ears. He blinked at me. “I don’t think he even knows how to growl, let alone attack. All he ever does is show his fangs.”

  Meg put the new lemonade in the fridge. “I vote we let Tips have one more afternoon of peace before the attack dog arrives. Drink up and let’s go.”

  I went down to my basement workshop, taking care to close the door at the top of the stairs. We’d discovered to my chagrin that while Tipsy didn’t particularly like me, he loved my sewing projects. He’d climb onto them and sleep, leaving his long, silky, black hairs behind. Sometimes he’d burrow into the material, wrinkling it and forcing me to iron all over again. Fortunately, as an indoor cat, he was declawed, or I’d shudder to think of the damage he could do. Solution: keep him upstairs.

  I gathered the pillows and tablecloth I’d finished. I had four sewing machines down here, a Pfaff that had cost me more than fifteen hundred and could do everything but stand on its head, two heavy-duty industrial machines I’d bought at a great price when a clothing factory in Philadelphia closed down, and a machine for serging. Each was a far cry from the Singer most women owned.

  For my cutting surface I had taken over the Ping-Pong table that came with the house when Meg bought it. I’d sanded the edges myself and refinished it with several coats of urethane to make certain there wasn’t any possibility of splinters catching in the material I placed on it. The last thing a client wants is pulls in her drapes.

  As I gathered the pillows and fabric, I looked with longing at the mosaic I was working on. It was going to be a diptych of a breaking wave. I’d been inspired during that longer-than-planned shore visit with Meg and Luce a couple of weeks ago, and if truth be told, this fabric wave was as responsible for my last-minute rush on things for the model as was my extended stay.