I'd Kill For That

by Marcia Talley

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What about being stood up? Do you like being stood up?”

  Toni paused for the second time. She still couldn’t follow the line of questioning, but once again she could sense a trap. Do you like being stood up? Something about that phrase bothered her. And then she got it. The second fax that had arrived first thing this morning. I don’t like being stood up. You’ll hear from me.

  Toni stared at Captain Robards and was suddenly very sorry she had let this woman into her home.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Toni said, but she knew she must look stricken now, and her tone didn’t even convince herself.

  “Were you sleeping with him? Is that what this was all about?”

  “Who?” Toni cried. “What? I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Lance McClintock. Were you sleeping with him?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel McClintock? He’s sixty if he’s a day. Besides, Camille would kill me.”

  “Lance is dead,” Captain Robards said matter-of-factly. “Someone caved in his skull earlier this evening.”

  Toni felt all the oxygen escape from her lungs. One moment she was a perfectly fine single mother, the next she couldn’t even draw a breath of air. Lance. Killed. I don’t like being stood up. The room was spinning away from her. She had to grip the arms of her chair. “But Lance,” she murmured weakly. “Lance was a former marine, strong as an ox. Who could attack, who would attack…”

  Captain Robards leaned forward. “We found the fax folded up in his inside jacket pocket. ’I don’t like being stood up. You’ll hear from me.’ You know that phrase, don’t you, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “No, no, why would—”

  “You sent that fax, didn’t you, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “No! I liked Lance. He was a good man, even if he wanted to shoot deer!”

  “But you know about the fax,” Captain Robards pounced. “You know that phrase!”

  Toni couldn’t talk anymore. She stared at Captain Robards mutely while the policewoman slowly smiled in triumph.

  “Where were you after eight P.M. this evening, Mrs. Sinclair? And what did you do to Lt. Col. Lance McClintock?”

  5

  TONI SINCLAIR WATCHED FROM inside her foyer as Captain Robards tried to stare down the ten-point buck that stood on the walkway between her house and the Gryphon Gate patrol car. Toni had been smart to remember what the lawyer had told her after Lincoln’s fatal accident. She simply took all the insults that Robards spit out at her, but didn’t answer any more of those ridiculous questions.

  The buck won. Hoping for a nocturnal feeding opportunity, he stood his ground and forced Robards onto the lawn. He would be rewarded for his tenacity.

  “Shit.”

  You said it, Officer. Toni smiled for the first time in an hour as she peeked from behind the French lace runners bordering the front door and saw Diane Robards sink into piles of deer droppings that had been deposited all over the yard these past few days. Step after sloppy step, the officer made her way to the pavement. It was slippery stuff, and would take hours to dig out of the pleated rubber soles of those shiny patent leather lace-ups that set off her uniform so smartly.

  Toni waited until the taillights of Robards’s car disappeared from the quiet cul-de-sac. She needed to calm down before she placed the call.

  She made her way to the mudroom, exchanging her bunny slippers for gardening clogs. She unlocked the garage door and headed for the corner where half a dozen bags of grain and four of Purina Deer Chow were lined up. She scooped a few helpings of deer chow into a pail and went out onto the lawn, where the buck still waited, trailed by a small army of followers.

  Toni held out her hand, and the deer approached, nudging each other to get at the food. She patted the side of a small doe. “So I lied to the captain. Lance wasn’t a nice man at all. I didn’t kill him, but I’d rather see a mean old fool like him dead than any of you with an arrow between your eyes.”

  It calmed her to be among the gentle brown animals. She tossed the chow across the lawn and went back inside, stopping to replace the clogs and snuggle back into her bunny slippers.

  Toni stood at the bottom of the staircase and listened for movement from above, but Miranda seemed to have slept through Diane Robards’s visit. She returned to the den and shut the heavy cherry doors behind her again. Ignoring the lukewarm Evian, she reached into the wine cooler and searched the labels for a bottle she wanted.

  This wouldn’t be an easy phone call to make. Something rich, something smooth. She had to sound relaxed and in control. The wine would help to soothe her. Corton Charlemagne, Grand Cru. She uncorked the fine burgundy and braced herself with a glassful.

  Funny, Toni thought, that there are some telephone numbers you just never seem to forget, no matter how long it’s been since the last call.

  The phone rang three times as she continued to sip the cold wine. A mechanical voice grated against her ear. “The number you have reached is no longer in service. If you think you have reached this recording in error, please…”

  Toni pressed the receiver and dialed information. Now she was guzzling the wine. After ten or twelve rings, an operator got on the line. Probably one of only three live bodies working for any of the phone companies in the entire country.

  “Salinger,” she asked the operator. “Jason Salinger.”

  “Checking for you.”

  Toni swiveled on the bar stool at the sound of something brushing against the window behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a shadow, the shape of a man, gliding out of sight into the bushes.

  “Probably just Roman Gervase, baying at the moon,” she mumbled to herself as she took another swig.

  She turned back to the bar to pick up a pen as the operator spoke to her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that residence is an unlisted number.”

  “This is an emergency. There’s been a death. A—a—murder—I need to get in touch.…”

  “I’ll connect you to 911 immediately, ma’am.”

  Toni dropped the receiver back in the cradle. “That’s the last thing I want right now, you nitwit.”

  A tapping noise again, and Toni turned to the window. Maybe it was just the branches scratching against the glass, the light from the moon dancing off the leaves.

  She dialed information a second time. “A business listing, in Chesapeake County. Salinger. Jason Salinger.”

  “Nothing for Jason. I have a Salinger Solutions. Could that be it?”

  “I thought it was a solution at the time,” Toni mumbled.

  “Excuse me? Do you want me to connect you to that number?”

  “Please.”

  Toni listened as the automated menu at Salinger Solutions gave the list of options, then she pressed the number eight. Jason’s deep, velvet-toned voice suggested that she leave a message.

  She started to record but realized that she had better be cautious. The little upstart had his own business now, and if the menu was any indication, he had at least seven employees. Maybe he had a secretary who screened the calls and passed the information on to him. Or a wife who worked in the office with him.

  “Mr. Salinger? This is Antoinette.” He was the only one who called me that, Toni thought to herself. It was their own private joke. Marie Antoinette is what he dubbed her, in fact. Except, this queen was unhappily married to the Dot.Com King, as Jason was among the first to observe, and when devoted employees were kept out of the lucrative deal that took the company public, it was Toni who whispered to Jason, “Let them eat cake.”

  “You did some work for me a few years back, Mr. Salinger. I’m sure you remember.” It was work that had profited both of them handsomely. “I’ve got a new project for you. I’d like to install a new system. It’s Friday morning, about two A.M. Sorry to call at this hour, but I’m having trouble sleeping. I expect you’ll get this message when you get into the office later today. I’m hoping you c
an put this on the front burner. Get out to me immediately. I think you know where I live.”

  Toni was about to hang up, but then she had a better idea. “Not to the house actually. I’d like you to do some work on my boat.” She thought quickly, timing the appointment for after Miranda left for school and before the S.O.S. planning session at the club at noon. “Can you meet me at the marina at ten? Can’t miss her. It’s a forty-foot sloop. Only one that big.”

  She hung up the phone and emptied her wineglass in one long swallow. This time when she heard the tapping at the window, she spun around quickly. Dozens of pairs of eyes crowded around the bay window. Deer everywhere. They seemed jumpy and skittish. She had that creepy feeling that someone had been watching her the entire time. Was it Roman? Or was there someone else secreted in the bushes? This was not just about their hunger. Something—or someone—must have spooked the animals.

  Toni poured another glass of wine. After several minutes she walked to the window, but the deer had gone back to quietly grazing. She drew the curtains closed and reclined on the sofa, stretching out and leaning her head back against the pillow. Jason Salinger. She hadn’t thought the sound of his voice would arouse her again after almost five years, but it was working its old magic. She kicked off the bunny slippers and ran the toes of her right foot up and down the inside of her left knee, remembering the spot where Jason used to kiss her so tenderly.

  Toni wondered if he had outgrown that grad student look that had so endeared him to Lincoln in the early days, when the business was just taking off. He had seemed so earnest when he showed up at the house that first time, at his boss’s insistence, to personalize Toni’s system.

  Jason was a few years younger than she. He had a shock of long, straight, dark brown hair that she used to brush off his forehead whenever he leaned over her to pull her close. He had a total geek affect, from the wire-rimmed glasses to the plaid flannel shirt to the ripped jeans. He looked so meek and harmless that even she was shocked when he suggested a solution—both for her unhappiness and his ambition.

  Lincoln had been unfaithful to Toni before she became pregnant with Miranda, but he had sworn off teenaged girls after the first Lamaze class. When she caught him surfing the Britney Spears Web site and answering E-mails from fifteen-year-olds while pretending to be a cheerleading coach, she knew he was incorrigible.

  Perhaps Jason was being blackmailed now, too. Why else would his name have been mentioned? There must be a Salinger solution to this mess.

  Leave it to Lincoln to find the smartest guy in the field. And leave it to Jason to find the foolproof way to hot-wire that stereo system, to convince the other employees that the mean bastard deserved a birthday present from all of them, and to sell Lincoln on the fact that the stainless steel toilet seat was state-of-the-art. They don’t come any more brilliant than Salinger.

  * * *

  The Reverend Dr. Peter Armbruster pulled into his garage shortly after 2 a.m. He had been so surprised when he passed Diane Robards parked on the side of the road, barefoot and scraping something off the soles of her shoes, that he didn’t even notice that the light was on in his own kitchen.

  Peter felt absurdly grateful that Vanessa had made a pot of coffee to sober him up before sending him on his way. No point making good on his threat to kill her as long as she still had a copy of the videotape.

  Peter eased himself out of the driver’s seat and braced himself unsteadily against his John Deere riding mower. He was fumbling for his house key when Laura’s voice cut through the quiet night air like a carving knife. “Get in here fast,” was all he heard, after she screamed out something to him about Mignon.

  Not another confrontation tonight! He moaned at the thought. His head ached as he stalled, trying to think of answers to the questions she had so obviously waited up to have answered. How could she possibly know about Mignon? Had Vanessa called Laura after Peter left her?

  His hand tightened on the grip of the pistol for the second time. He repeated each of the Ten Commandments to himself over and over again—lingering on the most relevant ones—as he let himself into the mudroom and made his way to the kitchen, about to come face-to-face with the tight features on his wife’s screwed-up little face. He was sweating now, formulating his own question to try to deflect his wife’s palpable anger.

  “What a surprise to see you up so late, my dear,” Peter said. “Is everything all right?”

  Laura looked up from a yellow legal pad she’d been scribbling on. “Lance died tonight, at the club.”

  “He what?”

  “Dropped dead. They’re not sure how.”

  Peter was dumbfounded. It was hard to think of the mortality of his poor friends as Laura Armbruster rose to her feet and pointed a long metal barbecue fork at him. He flinched and covered his face with his hands. “Another death in our little village. Now I’ll have two memorial services to write. They’ve asked for me, haven’t they?”

  “They were certainly asking for you last night. Everyone wanted to know where you were. I told them you had an important meeting, but I don’t know myself what you were doing, and it’s time I did.”

  “How in the Lord’s name can I show my respect for the dead while you’re waving that tool of the devil at me? It looks like a pitchfork, for goodness sake.”

  It was clear she had found out about his affair and was ready to skewer him.

  He tried to pull the gun out of his pocket, but it snagged and ripped the lining. “I can explain it all,” he pleaded. “You don’t need to scream. All the neighbors will hear you.”

  “Stop whining, Peter. I was just trying to get you in here so I could shove this in the microwave and get to bed.” She turned to the counter and stuck the fork in a prime piece of beef. “Filet mignon. They had some leftover at the club tonight so I brought a few steaks home. I was afraid you missed dinner and I didn’t want you to go hungry.”

  Peter collapsed onto a kitchen chair and removed his hand from his pocket, resting his elbows on the table and wiping his brow with a checkered blue napkin. Laura didn’t know a thing. “Bless you, my dear.”

  There was a place setting ready for Peter, and Laura cleared her papers from the rest of the tabletop.

  “What are you working on at this late hour?” Peter asked, his breathing growing steadier.

  “An article for the Gryphon Gazette. The deadline’s tomorrow. I promised to get a piece together about Sigmond. About his—um…”

  “His passing. About his passing, my angel. Still no word on what it was?”

  “Not that we’ve been told. And now there’s poor Lance, too. That’s why everybody wondered where you were.”

  “God’s work, my dear, God’s work. Better that you don’t put yourself in the middle. If my parishioners wish me to tell the police anything more than that I was doing God’s work, I’m sure I’ll be able to get their permission.”

  Laura leaned to put the plate down in front of him, then handed him a printout of her story. THE GRYPHON GRIEVES, the banner headline began.

  Peter sliced his filet and started to read aloud. “’Tears streaked down the eagle’s beak and the lion’s roar softened to a whimper as the Gryphon, guardian of all treasures within its gates, mourned the loss of two longtime residents, Sigmond Vormeister and Lance McClintock.’ Lovely, my dear, lovely image.”

  “Well, someone has to protect us,” Laura sniffed. “The Washington Post will be on doorsteps all over town in a few hours, talking about murder in our little community. We’ve got to keep this in perspective. So far as I know, nothing’s to say Sigmond didn’t have a heart attack and Lance didn’t trip and fall.”

  “To everything there is a season, my beloved. You’re absolutely right. The bible tells us so.” Peter pushed the meat around on his plate, barely able to think about eating.

  “We’ve got so many big events coming up this month. Here I am, the club manager, with our first national golf tournament scheduled for the end of May,” Laura’s lip
s pulled down in a tight frown and her nose pinched in even further. “What if Tiger Woods cancels on me, just because someone uses the word ’murder’ around here?”

  “Frightful.” The Reverend Doctor Armbruster put Laura’s story down on the table. He pushed away the filet and let his thoughts return to Mignon. Laura could babble on all she wanted. How foolish he had been just fifteen minutes earlier to think she was worried about his affair. Now he had something more serious to consume him. How could he go about regaining his lover’s affection?

  “Don’t you think we need more diversity here, Peter?” Laura planted herself in the chair next to him and tried to get his undivided attention. “Everyone else gets to tell you things in confidence. I might as well do the same.”

  “What’s that, my sweet?” It would be too perfect if Laura were about to confess an affair of her own, he mused. Maybe she had fallen for the mad Roman Gervase. The reverend could simply perform a series of divorces and remarriages at St. Francis of Assisi Interfaith Chapel. Later today. Screw civil law. His fantasies carried him off in Mignon’s arms and planted Laura squarely against Roman’s hairy chest.

  “That American Medical Union Awards Dinner at the clubhouse next week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I tell you who’s getting the award?”

  “Afraid I don’t recall if you did.”

  “Jefferson, Dr. Charles Jefferson. You know, the famous obstetrician and fertility expert? He’s done so much amazing work with artificial insemination. He’s actually helped all these families in Gryphon Gate—the Upshaws, the Lynches…”

  “Then he deserves the award,” Peter interrupted, “and you’ll be there to cheer him on, I’m sure of it.” Peter was delighted. It would provide another evening’s opportunity for him to slip away and try to patch things up with Mignon Gervase. “What night did you say that would be?”

  “Next Wednesday. But here’s what I have to tell you. I confided in Sigmond, but now that he’s gone…”

  “What ever possessed you to tell Sigmond anything? The man was constantly making notes and writing things down. You might as well have told the town crier. Some people around here think he was going to expose all the dirty little secrets he knew about.”