(1T) Real murders

by Harris, Charlaine

  I was down for Thursday night from six to nine, with Mr. Buckley penciled in tentatively as my volunteer; the volunteers hadn’t yet been asked individually if they were willing to work nights, though the volunteer president had agreed in principle. Mr. Clerrick was going to put an advertisement in the newspaper telling our patrons the exciting news. (He actually said that.)

  “Going out with our new resident writer tonight?” Perry inquired smoothly when I returned to the check-in desk.

  He took me by surprise; my mind had been firmly on work, for once.

  “Yes,” I said bluntly, without thought. “Why?”

  I’d let my distaste show; a mistake. I should have kept the surface of things amiable.

  “Oh, no reason,” Perry said airily, but he began to smile, a smile so false and disagreeable that for the first time I felt a little afraid.

  “I’ll take the desk now,” I said. “You can go back to your work.” I didn’t smile and my voice was flat; it was too late now to patch it up. For an awful minute I didn’t think he’d go, that the terrible gloom in Perry’s head made him utterly reckless of keeping the surface of his life sewn together.

  “See you later,” Perry said, with no smile at all.

  I watched him go with goose bumps on my arms.

  “Did he say something nasty to you, Roe?” asked Mr. Buckley. He looked as pugnacious as a tiny old man with white hair can look.

  “Not really. It’s the way he said it,” I answered, wanting to be truthful but not wanting to upset Lizanne’s father.

  “That boy’s got snakes in his head,” Mr. Buckley pronounced.

  “I think you must be right. Now about this new schedule…”

  We were soon busy again, and the surface of things was restored; but I thought Perry Allison did indeed have snakes in his head, and that his mother’s frequent calls at the library were monitoring visits. Sally Allison was aware of the snakes, frightened they might slither through the widening holes in Perry’s mental state.

  Mr. Buckley and I were kept busy until closing time, with a spate of “patrons” of all ages, coming in to do schoolwork, returning books after they’d left work. Being busy made me feel more like myself again, more like there was a point to what I was doing.

  Arthur Smith was waiting by my car. I was so intent on getting home to get ready, and was so short on time, that I was more miffed than glad to see him at first.

  “I hated to interrupt you at work unless I had to,” he said in his serious way.

  “It’s all right, Arthur. Do you have any news for me?” I thought perhaps the lab had analyzed whatever was in the chocolates.

  “No, the lab work hasn’t come back yet. Do you have any time?”

  “Um…well, a few minutes.”

  To my pleasure, he didn’t look surprised at my lack of time.

  “Well, come sit in my car, or walk with me down the block.”

  I elected to walk, not wanting Lillian Schmidt to see me in a car with a man in the parking lot, for some reason. So we strolled down the sidewalk in the cooling of the evening. I can’t keep up with some men since my legs are so short that they have to slow considerably but Arthur seemed to adapt well.

  “What did you expect of that meeting Sunday night?” he asked abruptly.

  “I don’t know what I expected. A miracle. I wanted someone to have an idea that would make the whole nightmare go away. Instead, someone went out and killed Morrison Pettigrue. My meeting really worked, huh?”

  “That death was planned before the meeting. What bites me is that I sat there in the same room with whoever killed that man, hours before he did it, and I didn’t feel a thing. Even knowing a murderer was in that room…” He stopped, shook his head violently, and kept walking.

  “Do the other police believe what you do, that one person is doing all this?”

  “I’m having a hard time convincing some of the other detectives about the similarities of these two cases to old murders. And since the Pettigrue murder, they’re even less inclined to listen, even though when I saw the scene I told them myself it was like the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat. They almost laughed. There are so many right-wing loonies who might want to kill an avowed Communist, only one or two of the other detectives are willing to accept that all these incidents are related.”

  “I saw Lynn Liggett at the library today. I guess she was checking up on me.”

  “We’re checking up on anyone remotely involved,” Arthur said flatly. “Liggett’s just doing her job. I’m supposed to find out where you were Sunday night.”

  “After the meeting?”

  He nodded.

  “At home. In bed. Alone. You know I didn’t have anything to do with Mamie’s death, or the chocolates, or Morrison Pettigrue’s murder.”

  “I know. I saw you when you found Mrs. Wright’s body.”

  I felt a ridiculous flood of warmth and gratitude at being believed.

  It was already late, and I did have to get ready, so I ventured, “Is there anything else you wanted to see me about?”

  “I’m a divorced man without any children,” Arthur said abruptly.

  Taken aback, I nodded. I tried to look intelligently inquiring.

  “One of the reasons I got divorced…my wife couldn’t stand the fact that in police work, sometimes things came up and I couldn’t make it on time for something we’d planned. Even in Lawrenceton, which is not New York or even Atlanta, right?”

  He paused for a response, so I said, “Right,” uncertainly.

  “So, I want to go out with you.” Those hard blue eyes turned on me with devastating effect. “But things will come up, and sometimes you’ll be disappointed. You’d have to understand beforehand, if you want to go out with me too. I don’t know if you do, but I wanted to get this all out front.”

  I thought: (a) this was admirably frank, (b) did this guy have an ego, or what?, (c) since he had said, “I don’t know if you do,” there was hope for him, though it had probably been just a sop thrown in my direction, and (d) I did want to go out with him, but not from a position of weakness. Arthur was a strength-respecter.

  It took me a few moments to work this through. A few days before, I would have said, “Okay,” meekly, but since then I had weathered a few storms and it seemed to me I could manage better for myself.

  I watched my feet pacing along the sidewalk as I said, “If you’re saying you want to go out with me, but that anything you’re doing is more important than plans we might make, I can’t agree to abide by such a lopsided—understanding.” I watched my feet move steadily. Arthur’s shoes were shiny and black and would last maybe twenty years. “Now, if you’re saying the police department has priority in a crisis, I can see that. If you’re not just providing a blanket excuse in advance to cover any time you just might feel like not showing up.” I took a deep breath. So far those shoes had not marched off in another direction. “Okay. Also, this is sounding very—exclusive, since we haven’t even been out yet. I would like to handle this one date at a time.”

  I’d underestimated Arthur.

  “I must have sounded too egotistical to swallow,” he said. “I’m sorry. Will you go out with me one time?”

  “Okay,” I said. Then I didn’t know what to do. I looked sideways at him and he was smiling. “What did I say ‘okay’ to?” I asked.

  “Unless I get assigned something I have to do, you have to remember this department is in the middle of a murder investigation…” As if I was going to forget! “…Saturday night? I’ve got a popcorn popper and a VCR.”

  No first dates at a man’s apartment. By God, he could take me out someplace the first time. I didn’t feel like wrestling right away. My experience was limited, but I knew that much. Besides, with Arthur I might not wrestle, and I didn’t want to start a relationship that way.

  “I want to go roller skating,” I said out of the blue.

  Arthur couldn’t have looked more stunned if I’d told him I wanted to jump off the l
ibrary roof. Why had I said that? I hadn’t gone skating in years. I’d be black and blue and make a klutz of myself in the bargain.

  But maybe he would too.

  “That’s original,” Arthur said slowly. “You really want to do that?”

  Stuck with it, I nodded grimly.

  “Okay,” he said firmly. “I’ll pick you up at six, Saturday night. If that’s all right. Then after we harm ourselves enough, we can go out to eat. All this is assuming I can have an evening off in the middle of three investigations. But maybe we’ll have it wrapped up by then.”

  “Fine,” I said. I could accept that.

  We’d circled the block, so we parted at our respective cars. I watched Arthur pull out of the parking lot, and saw he was shaking his head to himself. I laughed out loud.

  I hated being late and I was late for my date with Robin. I had to ask him to wait downstairs while I put on the finishing touches.

  I’d bought the shoes and I was enchanted with myself. Robin didn’t seem surprised or put out at having to wait; but I felt rude and at a disadvantage, as if I should have something better to show as the end result of all this preparation. However, as I looked in my full-length mirror before going down, I saw I hadn’t turned out badly. There hadn’t been time to put up my hair, so I wore it loose with the front held back with a cloisonne butterfly comb. The blue silk dress was sober but at least did emphasize my visible assets.

  I felt very unsure before I went down the stairs, very self-conscious when I saw Robin look up. But he seemed pleased, and said, “I like your dress.” In his gray suit he didn’t seem like the companionable person who’d drunk my wine, or the college professor I’d pelvically lusted after at the restaurant, but more like the fairly famous writer he really was.

  We discussed the Pettigrue murder at our table at the Carriage House, where the hostess seemed to recognize Robin’s name vaguely. Though maybe she was thinking of the book character. She pronounced it “Cur-so” and gave us a good table.

  I asked him to tell me about his job at the university and how it would jibe with his writing time, both questions he seemed to have answered before. I realized this man was used to being interviewed, used to being recognized. I only felt better when I recalled that Lizanne had “bequeathed” him to me, and right on the tail of that thought, Lizanne’s parents, Arnie and Elsa, were seated at the table opposite ours. The Crandalls, who had the townhouse to the right of mine, sat down with them.

  I had a social obligation here, so I identified them to Robin and went over to their table.

  Arnie Buckley jumped right up, and pumped Robin’s hand enthusiastically. “Our Lizanne told us all about you!” he said. “We’re proud a famous writer like you has come to live in Lawrenceton. Do you like it?” Mr. Buckley had always been a Chamber of Commerce member and unashamed Lawrenceton booster.

  “It’s an exciting place,” said Robin honestly.

  “Well, well, you’ll have to come by the library. Not as sophisticated as what you’ll find in the city, but we like it! Elsa and I are both volunteers. Get to give our time to something now that we’re retired!”

  “I mostly just help with the book sale,” Elsa said modestly.

  Elsa was Lizanne’s stepmother, but she had been as pretty as Lizanne’s mother must have been. Arnie Buckley was a lucky man when it came to pretty women. Now gray-haired and wrinkled, Elsa was still pleasant to look at and be with.

  I hadn’t known the Buckleys were friends of the Crandalls, but I could see where the attraction would lie. Jed Crandall, like Mr. Buckley, was no chair-bound retiree, but a pepper pot of a man, easily angered and easily appeased. His wife had always been called Teentsy, and was still, though now she certainly outweighed her husband by forty pounds or more.

  Teentsy and Jed now said the proper things to Robin about their being neighbors, asking him to drop in, Teentsy saying since he was a poor bachelor (and here she shot me a sly look) he might run short of food sometime, and if he did, just to knock on their door, they had a-plenty, as he could look at her and tell!

  “Are you at all interested in guns?” Jed asked eagerly.

  “Mr. Jed has quite a collection,” I told Robin hastily, thinking he might need to be forewarned.

  “Well, sometimes, from a professional standpoint. I’m a mystery writer,” he explained when the Crandalls looked blank, though the Buckleys were nodding with vigor, bless their hearts.

  “Come by then, don’t be a stranger!” Jed Crandall urged.

  “Thank you, nice meeting you,” Robin said to the table in general, and in a chorus of “see you soon’s” and “nice to’ve met you’s” we retired to our table.

  The meeting nudged Robin’s voracious curiosity, and in telling him about the Crandalls and the Buckleys I began to feel more comfortable. We talked about Robin’s new job, and then our food came, and by the time we began eating, I was ready to talk about the murders.

  “Jane Engle came by the library today with a pretty solid theory,” I began, and told Robin about the likeness of “our” case to that of Cordelia Botkin. He was intrigued.

  “I’ve never heard of anything quite like this,” he said after our salad had been served. “What a book this would make! Maybe I’ll write about it myself, my first nonfiction book.” He had more distance from the case; new in town, he didn’t know the victims personally (unless you could term Mother a victim) and probably he didn’t know the perpetrator either. I was surprised that the crimes were so exciting to him, until he said after he’d swallowed a mouthful of tomato, “You know, Roe, writing about crime doesn’t mean you have direct experience. This is the closest I’ve ever come to a real murder.”

  I could have said the same thing as a reader. I’d been an avid fan of both real and fictional crime for years, but this was my closest brush with violent death.

  “I hope I never come any closer,” I said abruptly.

  He reached across the table and took my hand. “It doesn’t seem too likely,” he said cautiously. “I know the poisoned candy—well, we don’t know yet if it was really poisoned or not, do we? That was scary. But it was impersonal, too, wasn’t it? Your mother’s situation vaguely fit the Botkin case, even if not as well as Mamie Wright fit Julia Wallace’s profile. That was why she was picked.”

  “But it was sent to my address,” I said, suddenly letting a fear overwhelm me that I thought I’d suppressed. “That was to involve me. My mother fit the pattern; though that wouldn’t have been any consolation to me if she’d died,” I added sharply. “But sending it to my place. That was a deliberate attempt to make me—die. Or at least a witness to my mother’s dying, or getting sick, depending on what was in the chocolates. That doesn’t fit any pattern. That’s about as personal as you can get.”

  “What kind of person could do that?” Robin asked.

  I met his eyes. “That’s the core, isn’t it,” I said. “That’s one reason we like old murders so much. At a safe remove, we can think about the kind of person who can ‘do that’ without remorse. Almost anyone could kill another person. I guess I could, if it came to being cornered. But I’m sure, I have to be sure, that not many people could sit back and plan other people dying as part of a game the killer decided to play. I have to believe that.”

  “I do too,” he said.

  “This really is someone who isn’t acting for any of the famous motives Tennyson Jessie wrote about,” I continued. “It must be someone acting out something he’s always wanted to do. For some reason, now he’s able to actually do it.”

  “A member of your club.”

  “A former member,” I said sadly, and told Robin about the Sunday night meeting.

  We had to talk about something else; didn’t we have anything to discuss besides murders? Robin, bless him, seemed to see I couldn’t take any more, and began telling me about his agent, and about the process of getting a book published. He kept me laughing with anecdotes about book signings he’d endured and I responded with stories ab
out people that came to the library and some of the wilder questions they’d asked. We actually had a cheerful evening, and we were still at our table when the Crandalls and the Buckleys paid their bill and left.

  Since the Carriage House was at the south end of town, we had to pass in front of our townhouses to turn into the driveway on the side. There was a man standing in front of the row of townhouses, on the sidewalk. As we went by, he turned his white face to us and by the light of the streetlamp, I thought I recognized Perry.

  I was distracted though by the kiss Robin gave me at my back door. It was unexpected and delicious, and the disparity in our heights was overcome quite satisfactorily. Maybe his asking me out hadn’t been quite so impersonal as I’d supposed; his side of the kiss was delivered with great enthusiasm.

  I went upstairs humming to myself and feeling very attractive; and when I slipped into my dark bedroom and peered out the window, the street was empty.

  That night it rained. I was wakened by the drops pelting against my window. I could see the lightning flicker through my curtains.

  I crept downstairs and rechecked my locks. I listened, and heard only the rain. I looked out all the windows and saw only the rain. By the streetlamp out front, I saw the water racing down the slight slope to the storm drain at the end of the block. Nothing else stirred.

  Chapter Eleven

  Getting up and going to work the next morning wasn’t too easy, but it was reassuring. I caught myself humming in the shower and I put on more eye shadow than usual, but my denim skirt, striped blouse, and braided hair felt like a comforting uniform. Lillian and I were mending books in a windowless back room all morning. We managed to get along by swapping recipes or discussing the academic prowess of Lillian’s seven-year-old. Though my part of this discussion consisted only of saying “Oh, my goodness,” or “Ooh,” at the appropriate moments, that suited me. I might have children myself one day—maybe stocky blond ones? Or big-nosed giants with flaming hair? And I would certainly tell everyone I met how wonderful they were.

  It was good to get up from the work table and stretch before going home for lunch. I’d been so slow getting up I’d had a scanty breakfast, so I was pretty hungry and trying to visualize what was in my refrigerator as I twisted my key in the lock. When a voice boomed out from behind me, I wasn’t frightened, just aggravated that I wasn’t going to get to eat.