by Sherry Lewis
Grateful for the change of subject, he lifted a shoulder. “I get along with her as well as anybody could, I expect.”
“What does that mean?”
“Kate’s a hard one to figure out. She’s unemotional. It’s like she doesn’t really care what happened to Joan. But, then, I guess if she could go ten years without speaking to her sister . . .”
Margaret measured coffee into the coffeemaker. “She’s just a different kind of woman than you’re used to. Women are different now. They have careers. They don’t just stay at home all their lives washing dishes and cleaning up after men and babies. You’ve never known anyone like that, have you?”
“I’ve known plenty of women who worked for a living,” Fred reminded her.
“I suppose.” Margaret poured water into reservoir and turned on the machine. “Sometimes I wonder what I’d be like if I lived somewhere else or if I hadn’t gotten married so young. Or even if I hadn’t started having kids right off.”
“It’s not too late,” Fred pointed out. “The kids are all in school. You could get a job now.”
“Maybe,” she said, but she meant that Webb wouldn’t like it. She began slicing potatoes and looked at Fred thoughtfully. “I wonder what Sarah and Deborah will do with their lives.”
“They’re good girls,” he reassured her. “You’ve got fine kids, all three of them.”
She smiled, but she looked distracted. “Deborah’s twelve this year. Sarah’s off to college—at least, I hope she is—in another year. What am I going to do when they’re gone?”
“What do you want to do? It’s up to you.”
“No, it isn’t.” She shook her head and looked away. When she spoke again, her voice sounded wistful. “You know, in some ways I envy Kate.”
Fred knew why she was talking that way, but he also knew that dwelling on what might have been was a sure way to create problems. “What’s to envy? She’s alone. No family, no children—”
“Nothing tying her down. Nothing keeping her—” she shook her head and smiled. “Never mind.”
Nothing keeping her chained to a sour marriage. Fred didn’t believe in divorce—under most circumstances. When his youngest son, Douglas, divorced his wife last year, Fred had been bitterly disappointed. He’d thought they should have stuck by each other and given themselves more time. But he didn’t feel the same way when it came to Webster Templeton and Margaret. In fact, he often had to bite his tongue to keep himself from urging her to end the marriage. But that was something he’d never do. Not unless things got worse. Ripping apart the family might cure one set of problems but it would only create new ones.
He forced a smile onto his face and a bright tone into his voice. “How’s Ben coming on cleaning out that shed for what’s her name?”
“Summer? It’s slow. Of course anything Ben does goes slow. He spends more time daydreaming than actually working.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea to let him go over there?”
“Do you think I could stop him even if I didn’t? It’s okay, Dad. Summer’s a little odd, but she’s not dangerous.”
With all his heart, Fred hoped she was right.
Margaret scrambled eggs and lined a skillet with bacon. She diced an onion into the skillet with the potatoes and soon the rich aroma of old fashioned breakfast, the kind everyone ate before all the excitement about cholesterol and fiber, filled the air.
“Are you hungry?”
Though still pleasantly full from his contraband oyster stew, the meal smelled good enough to entice him. He nearly said yes when he saw her reaching for a box of the cardboard-tasting cereal she expected him to eat at home. Foul stuff. Fred predicted that in ten years, some scientist would announce that fiber caused cancer and everyone would abandon their cereal boxes in panic. He just hoped he’d live long enough to see it happen.
He waved away the cereal. “Why don’t people just eat the way God intended them to in the first place?” he grumbled.
“God didn’t intend for you to eat a gallon of ice cream a week.”
He refused to grant that comment the dignity of a reply.
Margaret put the cereal back on the shelf. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing up here?”
“I told you.”
“No, you didn’t. Not the truth anyway. You’re still trying to get someone to believe that Joan was murdered, aren’t you?”
He thought about denying it, but decided against it. She’d never believe him anyway.
She wiped her hands on a towel. “Were you asking questions about it when I got here?”
He ignored her and looked around the room. She kept it neat as a pin, just like she did her own kitchen. Everything in its place.
“You were! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe Brandon and Tony didn’t kick you out of here! What were you thinking?”
Shadows from the half-light of morning haunted the room. She shouldn’t be trying to cook in a dark room. He flipped the wall switch, but nothing happened.
“How long has that light been burned out?”
Margaret raised her eyes to the light fixture. “Since yesterday, but don’t change the subject.”
“The subject is closed. I’ll put a new bulb in it for you.”
“Forget the light bulb, I’ll do it later.”
“You shouldn’t be the one changing it.” Fred looked at the vaulted ceiling with dismay. Just like with Webb, Margaret would end up practically breaking her neck trying to do everything while Brandon soaked up his booze and Tony…did whatever Tony did. “Where does Brandon keep his ladder?”
“You’re not changing it for me.”
From the back window, he could see a corner of the garage, which must be where he’d find the ladder.
He only got about halfway to the door before Margaret guessed where he was headed. “No! You stay here. Watch breakfast for me and I’ll go get it.”
He ignored her. But in that bullheaded way she’d developed over the years, she dashed past him and out the door. Now she’d strain her back trying to carry in a heavy ladder for him because she thought he was too old to do it himself. He crossed to the stove and gave everything a quick stir.
Potatoes and bacon sizzled happily and the eggs began to gather substance. He stirred again and studied the view from the kitchen windows. It wouldn’t kill him to carry the ladder, no matter what she said. And to leave him in here stirring breakfast while she did the heavy work—well, he just couldn’t stand it.
He turned the heat down on everything and followed her. Rounding the corner of the garage, he ran head-long into her. Her eyes were wide, her face pale.
“Call Enos,” she whispered.
She looked so frightened, Fred’s pulse stuttered. “What happened?”
She didn’t speak, but pointed behind her with a trembling hand and tugged him into the garage behind her. In the corner, a ladder leaned against the wall. Behind it Fred saw something dark.
He looked at Margaret, silently asking for an explanation, but she only pointed. “There. Look.”
By this time, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. With difficulty, he squatted near the ladder. At first he saw only the blanket. It had once been folded neatly, but now its top layer had been pulled back to expose a broken table lamp. The lamp looked new and expensive, but the blanket itself held his attention. He looked up at Margaret, scarcely daring to believe what he saw.
The blanket was smeared with blood.
fourteen
“I’m going to call Enos,” Margaret said, and this time her voice carried more conviction.
Fred shook his head. “Not from here.”
“But he needs to see this.”
“Yes he does, but I don’t think we ought to take a chance on calling from the house. What if Brandon hears us?”
“I can’t remember the last time Brandon came into the kitchen,” Margaret said. “Or Tony either, for that matter. They’re not very domestic.”
“The
phone in the kitchen can’t be the only extension in the house,” Fred reasoned. “They could listen in. Can they see the garage from upstairs?”
Margaret shook her head. “Their bedrooms are in the back. Unless Madison woke up and one of them is in her room—”
Fred hoped they weren’t. At last he had a clue. Something concrete. He wouldn’t risk Brandon overhearing him talking to Enos about it. He didn’t want Brandon to move the blanket before Enos could see it. “I’ll go back into town and get Enos. You come with me.”
Margaret gave her head another shake. “I can’t, Dad.”
“Well I’m not going to leave you up here by yourself. Don’t you realize what this means?”
“I realize what it might mean, but I’m here to take care of Madison. If you’re right, I can’t leave her alone with them.”
“How can you ask me to drive away and leave you—and the child—here with a murderer wandering around the house?”
She stared at him, her mouth stretched in a firm line, her eyes dark. She wore an expression he’d seen many times in forty-seven years of marriage—a reminder that she’d inherited Phoebe’s stubborn streak. At this moment, Margaret looked so much like her mother it hurt. “And what excuse would I give Brandon and Tony for rushing in there and hustling Madison out of the house?”
Much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. Fred asked himself whether there would really be any danger to her if he left her here. Reluctantly, he admitted there probably wouldn’t be as long as Brandon and Tony didn’t know they’d found the bloody blanket. It might even be safe to call Enos from inside the house, but Enos had been so testy lately, Fred would need to be awfully convincing to get him up here. Fred knew he could be much more convincing in person.
He had to go and, since Margaret wouldn’t budge, he had no choice but to leave her behind. But if anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. “Get back inside,” he said firmly. “Don’t let them know that you’ve been in the garage.”
She gave a solemn nod. “I don’t want you coming back up here with Enos. Go home and rest, all right? I can show Enos everything he needs to see.”
Fred made a noise in his throat and let Margaret read into it what she wanted. He wasn’t about to make a promise he knew he wouldn’t keep. After giving her a kiss on the cheek, he hurried back through the house and out to the Buick.
He’d only gone about a mile when Mother Nature unleashed the storm she’d been holding in check all morning. Within minutes, snow covered the hood of his car and the roads iced over enough to make driving treacherous.
He touched the brakes once or twice, but the slight pressure he applied sent the car sliding toward the edge of the road. If he slid off the road now, he’d never make it to town and no one would come along this road in a storm.
He downshifted into second gear and felt the car jerk a little as it settled into the lower speed. The trees flanking the road served as a barrier to the wind, giving him a little visibility. Even so, he could only see a few feet in front of him.
Chafing at the delay, he crept down the mountain and kicked himself for leaving Margaret and Madison behind. After what seemed like forever, he reached Bergen’s Meadow, a stretch of more than two miles through fields of grass. No trees lined the highway to deflect the wind. There was nothing to protect him from the elements.
He gripped the steering wheel so hard, his fingers ached from the effort, His eyes remained riveted on the swirling white fields ahead. He set the windshield wipers on high and they zinged back and forth with enthusiasm but without results. Wind buffeted the car, sliding it like a toy toward the edge of the road. Tall metal poles topped with red flags gave him only occasional reassurance that he hadn’t left the road.
He tried to strike a bargain with God. If he made it down the mountain safely, he’d . . . he’d . . .Well, damn! He couldn’t think of a promise he’d be able to keep. He begged God silently to help him. If he got into trouble here, he might not be found for a long time. He begged God to help Margaret and the little girl, to keep them safe until he could get help back up the mountain for them.
After a long time, the first dim street light in town glimmered the promise of safety and Fred felt almost weak with relief. Within minutes, signs of habitation appeared regularly; a parked car, a front porch light burning feebly behind the snow, someone huddled into a coat moving toward home.
Enos’s truck was still in front of his office, its body outlined under a mound of fresh powder. A cheerful welcome glowed from the office windows and promised him warmth. Fred parked and hurried up the steps, bursting through the door with the news about the bloody blanket halfway out of his mouth.
But Enos was not alone. Doc Huggins sat across the desk from him, deep in conversation. Both men looked up, impatient with Fred’s interruption.
Enos’s broad face puckered into a frown. “Fred? What the hell are you doing out in this storm?”
“The old fool never listens to a thing I say,” Doc muttered.
Fred ignored Doc and got right to the point. “I need you to come with me up to Cavanaugh’s place.”
Enos shoved out of his chair, his face red, his jaw clenched. “Cavanaugh’s? Don’t tell me you’ve been up there.”
“Margaret’s found something I think you need to see.”
That took some of the wind out of his sails. “Maggie? What—”
“You know she’s been helping out with Madison since Joan died. Well, while I was up there with her this morning, she found a blanket in the garage—covered with blood.”
Doc’s eyes burned bright with curiosity. “Blood? Whose blood?”
“I’m guessing it’s Joan’s,” Fred told him, and to Enos, “Margaret’s up there now. You’ve got to come with me.”
Doc slumped back down in his chair and Enos sank back into his. “Not in this storm.”
“What? Margaret’s up there alone with a killer. And don’t argue with me, you know it’s true. You’ve got to come.”
“Fred, whatever you found on that blanket, it’s not a clue to Joan Cavanaugh’s death.”
Fred stared at Enos, open-mouthed. The man had lost his ever-loving mind. He glanced at Doc, hoping for support or at least a rational reaction, but Doc looked away, studied his fingers and dug dirt from under one fingernail.
“We got the results of the autopsy back today,” Enos said. “Even though I don’t like to admit it, you were right. Joan was murdered.”
Fred’s heart began to pound and he dropped into the chair next to Doc. “It’s official?”
Doc nodded. “Just came in a few minutes ago.” His brows knit and the expression on his wrinkled face grew grave. “Listen here, Fred, you’ve got to calm down a little. You’re way too wound up.” He reached beneath his seat, drew out his black bag and proceeded to make a nuisance of himself trying to take Fred’s blood pressure.
No time to worry about that now. Margaret’s safety was the only thing on his mind. He shoved Doc away and struggled to his feet. If neither of these two fools would help, he’d just have to go back up the mountain himself. But as he stood, his knees buckled and an angry protest arose from deep within his joints.
“Sit down, Fred,” Enos commanded.
Fred ignored him and pulled his gloves back on over stiff, resisting fingers. “You just told me that Joan was murdered,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit here waiting for the snow to stop.”
Enos got to his feet and came around the desk quickly. Taking Fred by his shoulders, he gently pressed him back into his seat. “Maggie’s all right. I’ll call her right now and set her mind at ease. Just calm down.” He looked at Doc. “What should I tell her?”
“Nothing more than you have to. We ought to break the news to Brandon first.”
“I was planning to go as soon as the storm’s over and the roads have been cleared,” Enos agreed. When he moved toward the telephone, Doc took his place and kept the pressure on Fred’s shoulders.
Fred wanted to fight off Doc’s hands and storm out the door, but the day’s excitement had taken a toll on him. His legs ached and it was hard to catch his breath. Like it or not—and he didn’t like it one bit—he needed a few minutes to pull himself together.
But Enos had a lot of explaining to do. Fred had never known him to act so irresponsibly. The autopsy had come back and he knew Joan was murdered, so why didn’t he show an interest in viewing a piece of the evidence? And why didn’t he care about Margaret?
Enos connected with Margaret, his voice carried across the room. “Maggie? Your dad’s here. Look, he told us what you found, but don’t worry. It’s nothing to worry about. No …” Something she said drew a chuckle from him. “Believe it or not, he was right. No, it’s not.” Enos listened a moment and his face lit, as it always did when he talked to Margaret. “I’ll make sure he does.”
Enos broke the connection and Fred watched his face compose itself. But for the first time in years, Fred didn’t care about Margaret and Enos. “How’d Joan die?”
Enos pushed the telephone back into a corner of his desk. “She was suffocated. The coroner’s office fixed the time of death just about when I thought—somewhere between nine and eleven that night. Not a drop of water in her lungs, no sleeping pills in her system. Contusions on her skull. That bruise on her neck and a small cut on one arm. There was even some skin under her fingernails, but there was no significant blood loss. Am I forgetting anything, Doc?”
Doc shook his head. “I think you got it all. But you understand, Fred, that if there was no significant blood loss, that blanket isn’t connected to her death.”
Fred stared blankly until the import hit. “So the blood on the blanket isn’t Joan’s?”
“It might be,” Enos said. “There’s no telling without checking it out—which we will—but if there was a lot of blood it probably didn’t get there the night Joan died.”
“So you really don’t think Margaret’s in danger?”
“I really don’t,” Enos assured him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d feel a lot better if she wasn’t up there just now, but I don’t think you and I need to risk life and limb in this storm.”
