Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  Lou Pirelli came out of his crouch, stared. “Janey? Janey Wilson?”

  She squinted to see. Her face changed. “Is it Lou? Angie’s big brother?”

  He hurried to her, putting his gun in his holster. “Yeah. I’m Lou.”

  Billy Cameron was directing officers. “Sweep the area. Be careful not to mess up any footprints. The call came in twelve minutes ago. It looks like the shooter got away.”

  Annie opened the car door, jumped out. Max was right behind her as they crossed the street. She stopped on the sidewalk.

  “Lou.” Jane wavered unsteadily.

  Without fanfare, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he spread an arm around her shoulders. “You’re safe now.”

  A barefoot man in a Braves sweatshirt and gym shorts stood on the opposite curb. “Somebody shot a gun. Eight past nine. I called 911. I looked out and didn’t see anybody.”

  Billy joined Jane and Lou, spoke to her quietly. “Are you hurt?”

  “I tried to duck and fell. I hit my face on something.” She began to shake, perhaps a delayed reaction to shock, lifted a trembling hand to the bruised portion of her face.

  Lou tightened his grasp. “Don’t worry. We’re here. I’ll take care of you. What happened?”

  She looked up at him. “I was late getting home. I usually get home before dark. But I owed some hours at the store so I stayed late.”

  Billy was encouraging. “You arrived here a few minutes after nine. What happened?”

  Her blue eyes were huge. She took a deep breath, tried to stop trembling.

  Maglites swung back and forth across the yard, around the house, into the woods. Officers moved cautiously, shouting, “Police. Come out with your hands up. Police.”

  The neighbor joined Annie and Max and Marian on the sidewalk. “I thought she was a goner after I heard the shots. I knew they were across the street. Had to be her house. The Jenkinses”—he jerked a thumb to his left—“are out of town, and”—he pointed to his right—“that house is empty.”

  “How many shots?” Marian held her pen over a sheaf of folded copy paper.

  His red face was pugnacious. “Three. Three for sure. After I called 911, I got my gun out. But when I snuck out on the porch, I didn’t see a soul. Not anywhere.”

  Jane’s voice was thin but steady. “It happened so fast. I parked in the drive and got out. I walked across the yard and started up the steps, and all of a sudden there were shots. I knew what they were. I tried to get out of the way, and that’s when I fell.” She reached down, touched an ankle. “I twisted my ankle and my head hit something. There’s a wisteria bush next to the fern with knobby branches and that’s how I hurt my face. I stayed really still and burrowed down behind the fern. I was afraid whoever shot at me would come and find me.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  She looked at Billy blankly. “The shots.”

  “After the shots.”

  She clasped her hands tightly together. “I don’t know.”

  The neighbor took a couple of steps forward. “Hey, Billy. Joe Mackey here. I heard the shots, came out right after I called 911. I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t hear a car. I was on the porch soon enough to hear a motor and see taillights.”

  An engine gunned and a rusted black pickup squealed to a stop. The cab door opened and Tim Holt was out and running toward the house. “What the hell’s going on here?” He hurtled toward Jane and Lou, glaring at Lou. “Get your damn hands off her. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Tim.” Jane slipped free of Lou’s support, stepped forward, one hand outstretched in front of Lou. “Someone shot at me a little while ago and they came to help.”

  Tim checked himself midstride, looked like he’d been body slammed. “Shot at you?”

  Billy Cameron moved closer. “Miss Wilson is unharmed. She sustained a bruise when she took cover behind a fern. She’s safe now.”

  Tim’s face twisted in fury. “I told everybody she could be in danger. Like the others are. I called you this afternoon, told you people you needed to get this thing solved. So now somebody’s shot at her. No thanks to you she isn’t dead.” His head swung around. “Where is he? I’ll kill the—”

  Billy’s tone was sharp. “The shooter escaped before we arrived. You are impeding our investigation.”

  “‘Impeding our investigation.’” Tim’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “What investigation? Now they say somebody pushed poor old Fred off the pier and Ves Roundtree’s dead somewhere and Mr. Nash is on a slab. What investigation?”

  “Tim, hush.” Jane was angry. “It doesn’t help to come here and act ugly. Please be quiet.” She turned back to Billy. “I didn’t hear a car. I didn’t hear anything but the shots.”

  On the front steps, Hyla Harrison aimed a Maglite at the clapboard siding to the right of the front door. “Bullet holes here, Chief. Estimate six feet from the ground. If I stand on the second step, it looks like the shots were just above and to the right of the target. Maybe not a real good shot. Or shot from a pistol, not a rifle.”

  Billy nodded. “Get photos. Mavis can remove the slugs after you’ve measured.” He turned back to Jane. “Would you like for a paramedic to check you?” He gestured at the flashing light of an ambulance that had pulled up behind the police cars.

  Jane touched the bruise. “I’m not really hurt.”

  Only hurt emotionally, Annie thought. Jane could no longer go in or come out without a flicker of fear. To know another person deliberately aimed a gun at you, intended to take away your life, was as devastating as solid earth turning to quicksand beneath your feet, sucking you to oblivion.

  “We will complete our search. You may wish to go inside.”

  Jane’s eyes slid toward the door, where Hyla was photographing the evidence of metal tearing into wood.

  Tim bulled forward. “No two ways about it. Thank God I decided to check on you. I’ll go get my gear.”

  Annie saw the recoil in her eyes. Jane didn’t want him to stay all night. She’d promised her mom. Jane wanted love, if that’s what they had, to bloom in happy times, not when death lurked. Annie rushed forward. “Come home with us.” She looked at Billy. “She will be much safer. No one can get at her at our house.”

  • • •

  Annie reached sleepily for the phone on her bedside table. “Hello.”

  “Annie, my dear. Still in bed.” Laurel’s husky voice faintly accusing. “On such a troubled Friday morning. But that suggests all is well. Or as well as it can be. I just heard about the shots at Jane Wilson. We need to rally round to keep her safe. I’ve texted Emma and Henny. Both are quite bright and shining in the morning.”

  Annie decided it would not be a good start to her day to take umbrage at the implication that she and Max were derelict as adults to still be in bed at, she squinted at the clock, six A.M. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Good for them.” She managed to sound cheery.

  Max rolled up on one elbow, hair mussed, expression muzzy.

  She mouthed, “Your mother. Worried about Jane.”

  Laurel’s tone was a shade stiff. “To think of that young woman all alone.”

  Annie said quickly, “She’s here. We brought her home with us.”

  “Splendid. That’s the very best solution. I’ll let Henny and Emma know all is well. Call us if there is anything we can offer, though it does seem now that Billy is best equipped to discover what happened.” The call ended.

  • • •

  Annie knocked gently on the guest room door, spoke loud enough to be heard. “Breakfast will be ready in half an hour. Come down whenever you wish.” Max was already downstairs, cleaning strawberries.

  The door opened. Jane looked out shyly. “I hope I’m not a huge bother.” Although Jane had taken only a few minutes last night to pack a bag, sh
e was certainly lovely this morning in a beige Windsor plaid sheath dress and double strap bronze heels. A necklace with several strands of amber, black, and crystal beads sparkled.

  Annie smiled. “You’re no bother. Max loves to cook and he especially loves to cook for guests. He’s already in the kitchen.”

  Annie led the way downstairs and they settled at the kitchen table.

  Max brought coffee and orange juice, served bowls with freshly sliced strawberries. “The quiche will be ready in a moment.” He turned back to the stove.

  Annie offered sour cream and brown sugar to Jane, who chose sour cream.

  As they ate, Annie carefully avoided any reference to murder and gunshots, talked brightly about the latest Hannah Dennison book. “Her characters are fabulous. I love”—she took a bite of a succulent strawberry, savored the sprinkle of brown sugar—“the way a really good book could only have been written by that particular author. Good books are never copycat.” She chattered on as Max brought them each a plate with a generous slice of quiche. She wished she could do something to erase the dark smudges beneath Jane’s eyes, restore an eager bloom to her rounded face, remove the memory of shots in the darkness.

  As Max replenished their coffee cups, a knock sounded at the back door.

  He looked surprised, walked to the door, opened it. “Hey, Lou. Come in.”

  Jane twisted a little in her chair. She looked pleased, surprised, uncertain.

  Lou Pirelli stepped into the kitchen, looked immediately toward the table. “Morning.” His gaze settled on Jane. “I wanted to check in with you. I’ll be going to work with you. We thought it would be a good idea for someone to be on hand for a while.” Lou spoke with the easy drawl of a native islander. He wasn’t in uniform today. He wore a soft blue polo and khaki slacks and tasseled loafers. A uniform tended to create a sameness in appearance. In civvies, Lou’s curly dark hair, handsome face, and athletic build made him distinctive. “If you don’t mind.”

  Annie saw relief in Jane’s rounded face. And pleasure. How nice for Jane. She looked at Lou. Oh. And oh.

  • • •

  Annie felt restless, popping up and down every few minutes to check her e-mails, to place orders, to make phone calls for a committee meeting for Friends of the Library. When the radio news announcer led the top of the hour with a breathless description of a shooting on Bluefish Road, she switched to a cool jazz station.

  Agatha watched with glowing green eyes and a tail that flicked irritably.

  Annie returned to the table determined to focus on the chapbooks. She picked up Laurel’s Merry Musings. She smiled in agreement as she read: If an elephant’s in the way, find another path. Excellent advice. Her present elephant was her inability to immerse herself in the ordinary life of the store and her job and committees and volunteering and tennis and—

  “Happy Days Are Here Again” rang.

  Annie answered. “Is everything okay?” So much had not been okay in recent days.

  Marian spoke in a staccato rush. “Heads-up. Bob Farley just thumped into the station, told Mavis he was turning himself in. I was there, checking the overnights, everything from the shooting on Bluefish Road to a stolen chicken coop out on Bidwell Lane. The TV reporter from Savannah was refreshing her makeup, waiting to see Billy. I swung around to be sure I’d heard right. It was Bob Farley. Not the man he once was, too thin now, but impressive, thick sandy hair, chiseled features, would still look good on a GQ cover even though he’s too gaunt. There’s an air about Bob. He was dressed like a GQ guy, blue blazer, a triple-stripe dress shirt, no tie, chinos, loafers. I guess you dress up to go to jail. He said, ‘I killed Fred Butler, Ves Roundtree, and Adam Nash. I tried to kill Jane Wilson.’ He was composed, but his face had an empty look. I whipped out my Leica. The TV blonde moved like a tigress, motioning her camera guy to whir. I was shooting photos of Bob. The door to the offices opened and Billy walked out. Mavis must have buzzed him the minute Bob started talking. The TV gal yelled at Bob, pushed a mic in his face. ‘Statement for the press.’ Bob ignored her. Billy came up to the counter. Bob said it all again, same words, nothing more, nothing less. The TV gal’s mic was right in his face. Bob wasn’t emotional. His voice was kind of tired. Billy never changed expression. The TV gal’s yelling like a banshee at this point. ‘Are the murders solved? Three crimes? Bob what? What’s your last name?’ Bob half turned, said formally, ‘Robert J. Farley,’ turned back to Billy. Billy said, ‘Come this way,’ and held the gate open. I called out, ‘Where’s Ves Roundtree’s body?’ No answer. Billy yanked open the door to the back. They started down the corridor and the door shut. I was going nuts. I kept pestering Mavis. I wanted a statement. Finally the printer started clacking. She went over to check, picked up a sheet, handed one copy to me, one to the TV reporter, who moved so the light was better, and started talking as her cameraman filmed. ‘A reign of terror ended shockingly this morning on Broward’s Rock, a sleepy resort island off the coast of South Carolina, when . . .’”

  Marian took a breath. “Probably been picked up coast to coast at this point. Murder with your morning coffee. Here’s the statement: Broward’s Rock police announced that Robert J. Farley is a person of interest in the deaths of Fred Butler and Adam Nash and in the disappearance of Vesta Roundtree. Farley was taken into custody when he claimed to be responsible for the crimes. He’s being held on suspicion of murder. That’s it. Nada mas. Nothing about an arraignment.”

  Marian cleared her throat. “Talk about dancing on the head of a pin. I don’t get what Billy’s doing. Why wasn’t Bob arrested for murder, plain and simple? If murder is ever plain and simple. Anyway, I used my cell to record Bob’s repeat. TV will run with the film, which also got him admitting to the murders. I know Billy doesn’t like to show his hand but this time I don’t see where he’s going. I wrote the story, pulled up the stuff on all the deaths. But I had a couple of hours before my deadline. I knew what I had to do. I went out to the studio. Katherine was working on a watercolor. When I walked in, she turned and smiled. She’s truly beautiful, that sleek dark hair and classic features. Or maybe I should say she would be beautiful if she didn’t sag like she’d been pressed through a wringer. She looks haunted. Not even the smile hid her stress. I know her fairly well because she teaches classes at the Haven. David’s taken oil painting from her and she’s encouraged him.”

  Marian’s son was gifted, loved art, planned to be an artist.

  “Anyway, Katherine gave me a sweet smile, asked, ‘How’s my favorite young painter?’

  “I said, ‘He’s doing fine and working hard.’ I felt like a rat dripping slime. I walked up, stopped a foot away from the easel. She looked at me and knew I had bad news. Her face went blank. I saw terror in her eyes. I said, ‘Billy Cameron issued a statement announcing Bob is a person of interest in three murders. Bob’s being held on suspicion of murder.’ It was like watching a hurricane surge destroy dunes. One minute everything is beautiful. The next, the sea oats are a memory and the dune isn’t there. She gave a low moan and she was running past me, the brush flung on the floor, still wearing her painting smock. The door slammed and she was gone.” A pause. “I’d imagine she’s at the station.”

  • • •

  Annie drove too fast, made it to the station in just under four minutes. She slammed out of her car, yanked out her cell phone. Max was likely on the back nine. He’d insisted today was a day to enjoy living, and he lived to golf. She texted: At police station. Bob Farley confessed, arrested. Will try to help Katherine.

  Annie hurried up the path, stopped by a young palmetto palm a half dozen yards from the station. Katherine Farley stood next to the trunk with its jagged thatched covering, the remnants of dead fronds. The wind rippled her paint-spattered smock. Her face was white as alabaster. A faint tracery of veins was apparent on one temple. Katherine held out a hand. “You heard?” Her voice was dull, defeated. Agonized.

&n
bsp; “Marian called. She thought”—it had not been said but Annie knew it was so—“you needed someone.”

  “I need Bob.” Katherine shivered. “Bob didn’t kill anyone.” She spoke with the intonation of a child repeating words she doesn’t understand. “They were nice to me. Billy took me into his office and he told me what Bob said. I told him it couldn’t be true, wasn’t true, Bob would never hurt any living thing. He wouldn’t.” Her luminous brown eyes brimmed with tears. “Billy was nice to me. He said he was sorry. I told him I had to talk to Bob. He said he’d go see. It seemed to me he was gone such a long time, and when he came back inside the office, he stood with his back to the door and I knew he didn’t want to tell me.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Bob won’t see me. But I know Bob was at home that Thursday when someone tried to kill Ves. I was gone then. I told Bob I was delivering a watercolor across the island. When I got home, his car was exactly where it was when I left.” She spoke emphatically, trying to convince Annie. “I know that’s so because there was a huge pinecone by the back right wheel when I left. The pinecone was lying in the same place when I got home. It would have been smashed if he’d gone anywhere.”

  Annie said nothing, but her face must have revealed her thought.

  “You think he wouldn’t confess to murders he didn’t commit. But he did. He lied. I know why.” Now her eyes were dry, her face drawn. “He’s lying to protect me. Bob thinks I killed them.”

  The sea breeze was picking up. Katherine’s smock billowed. She brushed back a dark tangle of curls, stirred by the wind from the harbor. “I told him I was delivering a watercolor I’d just finished, an alligator on the bank. But he came down to the studio and saw the painting was still there. I knew he was puzzled. He looked at the watercolor, then at me. I started talking about something else. He didn’t ask me. But he was right. I didn’t make a delivery that Thursday. I went to Ves’s house.” She took a deep breath. “I have to tell Billy. Will you come with me?”