"What do you think? Of course I was, but ..." He shrugged. "I probably wouldn't have made much of a husband. My old man drank and so did I. I guess that's what they didn't like about me. I didn't have good breeding-but I haven't had a drink in six years."
Lindsay was silent a moment. "When Shirley had the auto accident that caused the LeFort fracture, you were involved, weren't you?"
Will looked stunned for a moment. "You're quick. Nobody knew that but me and Shirley."
"Her accident was six years ago, and you stopped drinking six years ago. What happened?"
"I didn't leave her there, needing help and taking the blame, if that's what you're thinking," he said, frowning at Lindsay. "I was driving her little Mercedes convertible. I was drunk, but like a lot of drunks, I was good at hiding it. We were driving out near Cherokee Corner. I guess I lost control. I don't remember. We weren't wearing seat belts and both of us were thrown out of the car. I rolled down the embankment into some bushes. They found the car turned over and Shirley on the side of the road, thought she was the only one in the car, and took her to the hospital. When I came to a few hours later, I didn't know what had happened. The car had been towed away, and there was no sign that an accident ever happened. I didn't know how I got in the bushes, but that wasn't an unfamiliar experience for me. Anyway, I hitched a ride back to town to my office and spent the rest of the night in the apartment."
"You didn't remember what happened at all?"
"Not then. When I heard about Shirley the next day, I started remembering us being together, but I still didn't remember what happened. Shirley didn't either. She didn't even remember us being together. Later, I studied the accident report-you know, direction the car was headed, tire marks, which sides we must have been thrown from. I figured out I must have been driving. I told Shirley. She was still in the hospital all bandaged up from them having to . . ." He stopped for a moment, unable to finish. "I sat on the side of her bed and cried. Told her what happened. She got all agitated and I figured she hated me."
He shook his head, and Lindsay thought he would cry again at the memory. "She couldn't talk, but she could write. She told me not to tell anyone, broke the pencil writing exclamation points. I kept my mouth shut, but when she was better I talked to her about it again. She said that it was something between the two of us and it was nobody else's business."
Will Patterson looked straight into Lindsay's eyes. "She was terrified her parents would do something to me if the truth came out, and she made me promise never to tell, and that's the only reason I didn't."
The tension slowly eased from his face. "I started AA after that and haven't had a drink since. Not even when she disappeared ... not even now."
"Why do you think Tom Foster may have killed her?"
"The usual-inheritance and life insurance-that was my thought in the beginning when she disappeared. But if he was going to collect, her body would have to be found, and it wasn't. After a while, I thought maybe some stranger kidnapped her. I tried everything I knew to find her. It wasn't until the Pryors hired me that I discovered that if she died, he got very little in her will, but if she disappeared, he got the use of all her money. It made sense to me that he killed her. I knew the two of them had argued a lot."
"Was there really an anonymous telephone call?"
Will stared hard at her for several seconds. "No," he said.
"It was just a wild guess, then, that her body was buried on the old Foster farm?"
"During my search for her, the only clue I uncovered was from a trucker on Highway 78 who saw her Jaguar go by. You get to the Foster farm by taking 78. Yeah, I know, that was slim, but I had nothing else, absolutely nothing. And if he buried her anywhere, it would probably be out there, and I thought a good archaeologist could find her. I was right."
"Were you surprised she was there?" Lindsay didn't know why she asked that question, perhaps to gauge the depth of Will's belief that Tom Foster killed his wife.
"Surprised? Yes. I realized that, until I saw the dome of skull uncovered, I had hoped that she was still alive and, for some reason of her own, had left all of us."
"I'm sorry."
"My hypothesis was born out. She was there on Tom Foster's land. Isn't that what you scientists use as proof of a theory-its predictability? It looks like Tom Foster's guilty."
Lindsay shook her head. "Wrong theories can still predict. The theory that the earth was the center of the universe allowed the prediction of planetary movement for a very long time. Just her body being on Tom's family farm doesn't tell us who killed Shirley Foster."
Lindsay left Will Patterson's office after agreeing to continue her investigation into Shirley Foster's death. She gave her consent for two reasons. One was the uneasy feeling she had about Will's intentions toward the person he might ultimately believe to be Shirley's murderer. She felt a responsibility toward Luke, Tom, and even Will himself to try to get to the bottom of Shirley's death before Will did something they would all regret. The second reason was that she felt as though the solution was close, hanging out there like the objects of the fictional detectives in Will's office, waiting for that one bit of information that would make everything fall into place.
Luke's family was having supper when Lindsay arrived, and everyone but Luke was glad to see her. She could see that he didn't want to talk to her, but she virtually marched him out to the gazebo and sat him down. She sat across from him and leaned forward, close, almost eye to eye.
"Luke, I want the truth. What happened that night at the lake with Shirley Foster?"
"I told you the truth," he said.
Lindsay was shaking her head even before he got the words out. "No, you didn't. I know you didn't, and the sheriff knows you didn't tell her the truth, either. Now, tell me."
"You won't believe me," he said almost in a whisper, turning his eyes from Lindsay's steady gaze.
"I don't believe you now, so you have nothing to lose."
Luke sat there a moment. As before, he looked in every direction but Lindsay's. "I did get a note from her, asking me to come to the lake."
"I know you did."
He looked at her, surprised. "You do?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Tell me the truth, Luke. Now."
He took a deep breath, and the story began to flow out of him like a flood that had been dammed up inside him. "I drove out there. It was getting dark, but there was still some light. My car lights were on, and I could see into the woods. Shirley was standing looking at the lake. She turned and walked toward me. She smiled and held out her arms. Then she stopped and looked surprised, and I think she said my name. I got to within fifteen feet of her, I guess. I started to say something when she ... she just ..."
Luke rose from his seat and strode over to lean against the post of the gazebo. He had his head down and was rubbing his eyes.
"Tell me what happened," said Lindsay.
"She just burst into flames." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that, she was suddenly on fire and screaming. I didn't believe what I was seeing. I didn't know what to do. She started running toward the lake. The only thing I could think was what the firemen said when they visited my class as a kid. I screamed at her, `drop and roll, drop and roll.' I know that sounds stupid."
"No. That's what she should have done," Lindsay said, gently.
Luke looked at her. "You believe me?"
"Finish your story."
"She jumped into the lake and-I swear to you that this is the truth-she burned faster. The water was boiling and bubbling with it. God, I didn't know what to do. I thought maybe there was a gasoline slick by the bank, you know, from a motorboat or something. I found a tree limb and tried to fish her out. I finally got the fork of the limb around her neck and pulled her onto the bank. I was afraid to touch her. She was still on fire. I took off my jacket and shirt and began beating her. Finally, the fire went out."
"What did you do then?"
"Pretty much what I
told you before. I just left. There wasn't anything I could have done. She couldn't have been alive." Luke sat down across from Lindsay and met her eyes. "I swear I didn't kill her. I don't know what killed her."
"Did you see anyone else there?"
Luke shook his head and lowered it. "There wasn't anyone else there."
"There was. The sheriff found a witness."
He jerked his head up. "She did? Then they must have seen the same thing. Who was it?"
"Someone fishing. That's the same story they told."
"Then the sheriff will have to let me go!"
"The sheriff thinks you may have thrown something on Foster to set her on fire."
"No. No, I didn't. I swear."
"Did you see anything that might have been thrown on her?"
Luke's shoulders slumped. "She just caught on fire." He paused and looked up at Lindsay. "You believe me, don't you?"
"I want to. Didn't you used to set things on fire?" she said quietly.
"How ... ?" he whispered. "No ... I ... when I was a kid. A few times. It was just a stage I went through."
Lindsay raised her eyebrows. "A stage?"
"I used to burn things in the yard. I never hurt anybody. Who told you? Liza?"
"No. What kinds of things?"
"Old papers, clothes, some toys. Nothing really valuable. I was a kid. I liked to watch the flames."
"How about the gazebo?" asked Lindsay.
"I ... How did you know? Who told you? My family are the only ones who knew."
"Never mind that. What about it?"
"I was fifteen. I'd been smoking pot and I was mad at my folks and, I don't know, I just wanted to see something big burn. But I don't do that anymore. I started going to a therapist-hey, he didn't tell you, did he? He's not supposed to."
"No, my brother suggested it."
"Your brother? I don't even know him."
"He's a firefighter. It's one of those things firefighters notice," said Lindsay, with a wave of her hand. "The point is: Do you see what the sheriff could make of it?"
Luke put his hands to his face. "God, yes. But I didn't kill her. What I told you is the truth. There's a witness. Surely, that means something."
"Yes, I think it will mean a whole lot, but we'll have to find out what made her burst into flames."
"I've heard some people just do that. I read up on it after after that night. Something about body chemistry?"
"My brother says that doesn't happen."
"Well, is he the last word on fire or something?"
Lindsay smiled. "No, but he has a point. Think back. Can you remember anything about what happened right before she burst into flames?"
"I've thought about it-replayed the scene over and over. She walked toward me. Held out her hands to meand they were empty. She wasn't carrying anything. When she got close, she dropped her hands and called my name. Then it happened."
"You didn't see the witness, you may not have seen someone else there. You didn't see anything, any object hurled at her? Think."
Luke shook his head back and forth. "I saw her clearly, and there was nothing but what I told you. Nobody threw anything at her."
"Thanks for telling me the truth," said Lindsay.
"I only lied before because it's such a fantastic story, I didn't think anybody would believe me. What did you mean before, when you said you knew about the note?"
"An old friend of hers got a note asking him to pick up some copies from Kinko's. She wrote two notes, one for you and one for her friend, and I believe she accidentally switched the notes."
"So, it's looking better for me?"
"I don't know. I think a little better."
Lindsay drove back to campus. The lot behind Baldwin was almost full, and she had to park in one of the spaces next to the cemetery. As she got out of her vehicle, she saw someone sitting on a bench on the far side of the graves. It looked like Shirley Foster's mother, Evelyn Pryor. Lindsay walked through the gate of the old, rusted iron fence and among the moss-covered brick sepulchers and gray granite tombstones to where she was sitting.
"Mrs. Pryor?" said Lindsay. "I thought that was you." There were dark circles under the older woman's eyes. She looked small, sitting there on the wrought-iron bench, holding a thin blue sweater around her to shield her from the cool breeze.
Evelyn looked up, puzzled for a moment. "This is-was -one of Shirley's favorite places to just sit and think."
"That's right, her office was in the Visual Arts Building." Lindsay glanced at the building that sat on the other side of the cemetery from Baldwin.
"I thought it was strange, at first, to sit in a cemetery, but it is nice and quiet," Evelyn said.
Lindsay took a seat on a nearby gneiss ledge over a grave. "I imagine the people buried here are accustomed to visitors." She rubbed the faded inscription with her fingertips. "I've always felt comfortable here."
Evelyn smiled. "I sometimes go to places Shirley liked. It helps." They both were silent for a while. If Evelyn minded Lindsay being there, she didn't indicate it. "Do you think this Luke Ferris did it?" she asked after a while.
"No, I don't. But I may be wrong. It just doesn't feel right," Lindsay said.
"Who does feel right?"
"I don't know."
"We should have allowed her to marry Will Patterson. I think she would have been happy with him. Shirley had to work hard at being happy." Mrs. Pryor fell silent and shivered. "Tom told us the children were adopted," she said unexpectedly. Her eyes glistened with tears. "I don't know why Shirley was afraid to tell us. I look back and try to think if we were too hard on her. I told Tom I love them anyway, and I hope he won't keep them away from us. This is so hard. Do you think Tom could have killed Shirley? Stewart is convinced he did. I can't bear the thought of it."
"As far as I know, the only thing implicating Tom is that she was buried on his property. I understand that Tom had control over her money while she was missing but would lose it after she was pronounced dead?"
Evelyn nodded. "In the event of her death, her money was to be left in trust to her children. Her father and I are the trustees. She left a sum to Chris but not to Will. That surprised me. Of course, her father didn't want her to leave her money to Will, but she didn't always do what her father wanted, and I know she still felt something for Will."
"Why didn't she leave any to Tom?" asked Lindsay.
"He didn't need it. We wanted to make sure the children would get it," she said.
Lindsay considered telling her about the switched notes and that she suspected that the missing $100,000 was meant for Will Patterson, but she decided against it.
"Stewart is not having an easy time," said Evelyn. "He and Shirley quarreled before she disappeared, and it eats at him."
"What did they quarrel about?"
"It was my fault. Chris needed money to keep his art gallery going. His father and I hadn't wanted him to go into business for himself. Art is good as a hobby or if he was going to be a professor like Shirley, but it's not a good career. We wanted him to work at the family business. But his shop seemed to mean so much to him. I gave in and loaned him the money. It wasn't much money. That little business didn't take much, and he did seem happy doing what he was doing. When Stewart found out that Chris had gotten a loan, he hit the roof. To protect me, Shirley told Stewart that it was she who had loaned Chris the money. She never liked it when Stewart and I quarreled. They argued. Shirley told him Chris would be better off if Stewart would let him find his own path." Evelyn sighed. "It wasn't a bad argument. We are not a family who yell at one another. But Stewart hates it that that was the last conversation he had with her."
"I know that must be hard. You seem like a close family."
Evelyn smiled. "We are."
"I'm sure your husband had many more good conversations with Shirley."
"Oh, they would talk for hours in front of the fire in the winter or out on the deck in the summer. Yes, there were many, many good conversati
ons between them. I told Stewart that, but," she wiped away a tear, "we loved her so, and her absence is so ... so relentless."
"I'll try to find out who did this," said Lindsay.
"I hope you will. I don't want to blame it on this boy if he didn't do it, but if he did, I don't want him to get away with it."
"I'll find out the truth." She rose and left Mrs. Pryor sitting alone in the cemetery.
Lindsay sat at her desk wondering how she would discover the truth about what happened to Shirley Foster. She reached for the phone and dialed Sheriff Varnadore.
"You work late," Lindsay said when Irene answered.
"So do you," she responded. "Probably why we are both still single."
"Possibly," Lindsay said, then told Irene her theory about the switched notes.
"Interesting," the sheriff said. "I think you're probably right. That may mean Ferris was frustrated when Shirl rebuffed him."
"Maybe, but it also means he was telling the truth about the note."
"True," she said.
"Surely, the evidence against Luke is weak now that there is a witness."
"The D.A. thinks otherwise, and he's the one who has to put it before a jury," said Irene.
"Was there anything in the car?"
"Not really, just what you saw in the trunk, and the regular kind of stuff in the glove box."
"Thanks for sharing," said Lindsay.
"If you find out anything else, let me know."
Lindsay hung up the phone. She liked Irene Varnadore, but that didn't stop her from wondering if maybe she had killed Shirley. Irene had a cousin who was a hotshot. She could find out about how to set fires. She didn't seem capable of murder, but she lived in Shirley's shadow for a long time, and Shirley was many things that Irene was not. Still, Lindsay thought, death by fire? Whoever killed Shirley Foster hated her, or they liked to watch people burn. She shivered. Why else would anyone kill in such a gruesome manner? But whoever buried Shirley seemed to care for her. They placed her in the ground carefully, with her hands on her body, as if placing her in a casket. Two people, then? One who killed her and one who found and buried her? Could Lila Poole have buried her? Why would she?
Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel Page 24
