Design on a Crime

by Ginny Aiken

  Penny gave me one of her poisonous looks. "Marge wasn't much better herself."

  My temper did a rapid boil. "Watch what you say about a woman who can't defend herself anymore."

  "She couldn't have defended herself," Penny shot back. "She didn't have the gall to complain about that gigolo she married, not without coming across as the biggest hypocrite of all time."

  She'd gone too far. "How can you say that? Marge was no hypocrite."

  "Maybe," Penny conceded, "but she would've been if she'd complained about her husband's flings. She had no room to talk."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Are you accusing Marge of adultery?"

  Penny smiled her smarmy, pompous grimace and crossed her arms. "She was what she was."

  I didn't know what to say. I'd never known Marge to be anything but devoted to Steve, and I said so to Penny.

  "Oh no," she answered. "Marge didn't cheat on Steve, at least not that I know-"

  "Me neither," Carla cut in.

  I frowned. "Then why ... ?"

  "You knew her now," Penny said with an expansive gesture. "It was a while back when she was up to her tricks. For a while there, it seemed there wasn't an adult male in Wilmont who she hadn't ... shall we say, sampled?"

  Carla chuckled. "Some women even started to drive their husbands to work, and then they'd pick them up in the evening. That way they were sure the men weren't going off with Marge."

  "That's crazy," I said. "You're so off base-"

  "Carla might have exaggerated a bit," Penny said, "but Marge had a terrible reputation. No one understood why your sainted mother wanted to have anything to do with the woman."

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  "Haley," Bella said, her hand on my forearm. "It's pretty hard to hear bad stuff about people you love, but Marge did some crummy things back then. I never understood why she messed around with married men, but that's the truth."

  "But-"

  "That doesn't mean you shouldn't have loved her," Bella added. "And it doesn't give these two snakes the right to go smarmy just days after the woman died."

  "Give me a break, Bella." Penny huffed and puffed a bit, then said, "You probably did the same, back when you looked better than what passes for high-priced models these days."

  Bella snorted. "Thanks for the weird compliment, but I don't paint myself holier than thou like you two. Marge had flaws. We all do. Christ's the perfect one, and God forgives us thanks to him."

  'Amen," Ina said, joining the conversation. "And what you two were just doing is just as sinful, in its way, as what Marge did."

  Carla narrowed her brown eyes. "Fine. If you feel better calling me a sinner, then fine. But I'll have you know that Marge was up to her old stuff again."

  "No, she wasn't!" I cried before I could stop myself.

  "Sure, she was," Carla argued. "My niece said Marge was getting phone calls from some man at weird hours, times when Steve wasn't around or else had gone to sleep. Always the same man. And I'll have you know Marge's housekeeper is my baby sister, Molly. So you can trust everything I say."

  "That's it," I said. "I've had it. And besides, I adjourned this meeting a while back. You'd all better go home. That's where I'm going. I can't stand any more slander from anyone else."

  Bella ran up as I reached the door. "I'm sorry, Haley. I wouldn't have said anything about it. They're sort of right. At least, they're right about Marge's past. It's gonna be hard for you to accept, but at least people do change when they get older. We do-sometimes-grow wiser."

  I sighed. "Thanks, Bella. I'll keep that in mind."

  I did. So much so that I couldn't think of much besides Marge, the allegations of promiscuity, and Noreen and Steve.

  Had either of them killed Marge?

  If Steve wasn't willing to give up Marge's generosity, he might have been driven to murder if Marge found out about the affair and threatened to kick him out. At the same time, Noreen might have wanted Steve so much, an obsessive thing, that jealousy might have driven her to kill her rival.

  On my way back to the manse, I remembered the woman with the endless patience for a wounded soul. Marge hadn't been the religious kind like Penny and Carla, but I'd always thought she was a good person. Now, in the last two days, I'd learned things about her that made me wonder about my mentor. There was that business with Ozzie, and now all this stuff about adultery too.

  Who had Marge really been? And was that what I had to know to find out who'd killed her?

  Who knew?

  Not me. I only knew that the more I tried to learn about the woman I'd admired, the less I seemed to know her. And the more questions I had. Was I going to have any answers before it was too late? Before Detective Tsu locked me up?

  I felt iced, numb, scared.

  Only time would tell.

  Later that evening I followed through on my promise to check up on Gussie. But rather than telephone, I decided to drive over. Even if she was still too medicated for a visitor, I could at least keep Tom company for a while. He always seemed lost when Gussie wasn't around.

  He opened the door at my first ring. "Haley! Gussie said you might call to see how she was doing, but this is unexpected."

  "I figured you could put up with me for a bit even if she was too sleepy for a visitor."

  "Well, of course I can." He stepped aside. "Come on in."

  Even though his words were welcoming, something about the way he wouldn't meet my gaze told me things weren't kosher with him. Once I stood in the living room I was redecorating, I faced him.

  "What's wrong, Tom? Is it Gussie? Is she worse? Is there anything I can do to help?"

  He turned away. "You're right. Gussie's not well, not a lot better than this morning. But that's pretty typical. When these flare-ups hit, it takes her days to get over them."

  I watched him fold the day's newspaper into precise rectangles. Then he slipped the bundle into a rack that already had its share of newsprint, and then some. But when he folded the quilted throw Gussie used on her legs to keep away even the hint of a chill, I'd had enough.

  "What is it, Tom? Please tell me."

  When he faced me, I realized he looked awful. His words confirmed that he felt as bad as he looked.

  "Detective Tsu stopped by earlier today. She had a number of questions for me, and I hated to answer them."

  That sick feeling in the pit of my stomach took hold of me again. "Why is that? What did she want to know?"

  Tom fisted his hands at his sides. "She wanted to know what I saw the day of the auction."

  My flaky stomach was up to its tricks again. I wondered if I'd make it to the toilet if it turned itself inside out. Still, I had to know what had upset this kind man.

  "What did you tell her?"

  He took a deep breath, and only then did he look me in the eye. "I told her I saw you leave the parlor right after Marge did, and that not long after that I saw you behind the house, near the portable toilets, close to where you found Marge."

  I gasped but couldn't talk.

  Tom went on. "She wanted to know if I ever saw you again-before you screamed for help when you found Marge's body, that is."

  "Wha ... what did you tell her?"

  "I couldn't lie, Haley. I had to tell her I didn't see you again. Not until I saw you on the ground by Marge's body. I had to tell her you were holding the rock she says killed Marge."

  How do I always wind up in this kind of mess? Here, the man tells me he's practically sealed my fate-a lousy one-and I have to reassure him that he's done the right thing, that I don't hold it against him.

  Truth is, I don't. How's that for insane?

  "Don't let it upset you so much, Tom," I said for about the zillionth time. "I did leave the parlor right after Marge announced the intermission, and I left because I had to use the toilet. You did see me back there by the port-a-potties."

  "But the policewoman seemed to think that proved you killed Marge."

  "She's been tryin
g to prove it from the start. I didn't do it, and I'm just going to have to show her."

  How? I didn't have a clue.

  A clue? You bet I didn't-have one, that is. Was I in trouble or what?

  I went on. "That's up to me, you know. You did the right thing. You had to tell the truth. Someone else will have to do the same and remember me at the catering tent. In fact, I should find the guy who sliced my turkey and the girl who served my pasta salad. They'll remember me."

  Tom smiled, with way too much relief. "Oh yes! Of course," he said. "I'm sure you'll jog their memories. You're a memorable young woman. I feel so much better now. I couldn't live with the knowledge that I'd consigned you to jail just because you went to the bathroom."

  Yep, that'd be me, all right. The woman convicted of peeing at the wrong time.

  A hysterical giggle burst out, and Tom took that to mean that I was just peachy dandy.

  "I'm so glad to see how well you take even this kind of thing. It's a tribute to your parents and the faith they shared with you. No wonder Gussie loves you so much. You're an outstanding young Christian, Haley."

  I wasn't. Anything but, really, but I couldn't explain it to Tom. Besides, panic rumbled in my gut, and I knew I had to run.

  "Ah ... well, thanks for the compliment, and it's too bad that Gussie's not better yet. I'll call her tomorrow ... see how she's doing. Give her my love."

  With the brass doorknob in my hand, I felt a hair better. "Gotta go." I shot him a grimace that posed as a smile, then ran as if the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.

  Well, if you asked Dad, my apostasy was a lot like that kind of chase. He'd said any number of times that no matter how fast and how long I ran, God wouldn't give up on me. From where I stood-or ran-he'd given up four years ago. The hounds of hell? I wasn't sure about them. I figured if God could dump me, then somewhere along the line all the horror that seemed determined to catch up and devour me would sooner or later give up too.

  I hoped.

  When I got home, I found a note from Dad on the kitchen table. He'd gone for a lecture at Seattle Pacific University, some theologian from England or Scotland or somewhere abroad. He'd talked about it for a couple of days.

  Good. I wouldn't have to dance around the trouble I was in. I didn't want to tell my father any more half truths or babble gobbledygook at him. I just wanted to camp out in my room and not show my face again until someone fixed everything that was so screwed up.

  Since that wasn't about to happen any time soon, I went to sleep instead.

  I didn't have anything to do the next day. My Sundays were usually quiet and peaceful, especially since Dad spent most of the day at church. It was his busiest day. I needed time alone to think things through, maybe even piece together some of the chunks of the puzzle of Marge's death.

  But that's not what I got.

  At nine thirty, well after Dad left for the morning's first service-he did two each Sunday-the doorbell rang. Midas, of course, went nuts.

  "Give me a break." I threw on a ratty old terry-cloth robe. "Don't people sleep or go to church anymore?"

  I opened the door and had my answer. Detective Tsu and a couple of her giant Smurfs stood there, more grim faced than I'd ever seen them.

  "This doesn't look good," I said.

  Detective Tsu shook her head. Her smooth hairstyle made me reach up for my wild mop. Any effort to control my hair was wasted; the stuff flew out in all directions, headed off where no woman's hair had gone before.

  "I left the parlor at the beginning of the intermission," I said to stem the interrogation I knew was coming, "and I did go to the port-a-potty. Then I went to the catering tent, asked the big bald guy to slice some turkey breast for me, and had the blond girl serve me pasta. I sat at a corner table-by myself-to eat. Then I headed back to the house, and Ozzie Krieger ran up to me. He asked me to help him look for Marge, and you know the rest."

  The detective's lips were tight, and her nostrils flared ever so slightly. "Ms. Farrell-"

  "You know all this, because I gave you guys this same statement that afternoon, and I've answered questions about my whereabouts around a dozen times already. My answers are the same, since that's exactly what I did. According to the TV, you guys are big on consistent answers. How's that for consistency?"

  "It's fine, but that's not why we're here."

  "Oh." Her expression sent me reeling back into that black hole I knew so well. "I really don't want to know why you're here, then, but I've a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

  Something softened the look she gave me. "I'm afraid I am." She slipped a hand into her ultrachic purse and withdrew a couple of sheets of paper. Her hazel eyes met mine. She swallowed, and her smooth throat rippled.

  I leaned against the door frame for support. Ablack cloud congealed at the edge of my awareness.

  "This is a warrant for your arrest, Ms. Farrell. You have to come with us to the station."

  Darkness rushed in. I fought against it. I couldn't let it win. Not this time. I scrabbled for logical thought, some perspective, but it didn't come. I floundered in my thoughts; desperation seized me. My warm, cozy bed sang a siren song, but there'd be no escape this time.

  Shudders shook me. I forced my eyes open, but my vision blurred. The urge to scream overtook me, but I refused to indulge it. "I didn't do it." My voice came out in a croak. My throat tightened; my lungs strained for air. "You have to find out who did. Don't let them get away with it."

  Proclaiming my innocence did no good. I'd been blaring it to anyone I got to listen right from the get-go. This time I said it for myself. I couldn't lose sight of reality no matter how surreal things got.

  Detective Tsu nodded to one of her officers. He stepped forward, a pair of handcuffs in hand.

  Bile seared my throat. I gagged. "Do ... do you really have to do that? I'll go to the car with you." My teeth chattered so hard I almost couldn't speak. "Sooner or later ... later now ... you'll figure out who killed Marge. I get nothing out of resisting you."

  "It's police procedure," Detective Tsu said. "I'm sorry."

  "Are you really?" I shouldn't have said it, but she'd made me crazy from the moment I met her. My hands clenched; the skin on my knuckles turned white. "I would think, since you've been so determined to prove me guilty, that you'd be jumping up for joy right now."

  "I regret the opinion you've formed of me." Although her speech was squeaky proper and I'd never heard her use any real slang, this statement came with a bucketful of starch.

  She went on. "I put this off as long as I could, but after a witness not only placed you in the vicinity of the murder but also saw your hand on the murder weapon, it became difficult to explain my delay. My minor doubt as to your guilt does nothing to counter those fingerprints and your inheritance. My chief would never understand a draw in a sparring match, much less a martial arts instructor's tribute."

  So Tyler's words had counted for something.

  "You do know I passed out when I found Marge," I said. "I fell, and that's probably when my hand landed on that miserable rock."

  "Your hand wasn't laying on the rock, Ms. Farrell. Two witnesses confirm this. You held that bloody rock in your hand, tight. That's why we found your prints all over it."

  I sucked in air. My hands hurt, and I concentrated on unfurling each finger. My nails left crescent marks on my palms. "Who besides Tom Stoker could say that?"

  Detective Tsu shrugged. "It can't hurt to tell you that Dutch Merrill said the same thing that afternoon. He hasn't changed his story yet."

  That miserable cheat. Again.

  A ripping surge of anger grabbed me, and I welcomed it. "Didn't I tell you he's everywhere I go? He even found me. Don't you think he could've stuffed the rock in my hand when he got there?"

  "That's a bit far-fetched." Ms. Tsu looked at me from head to toe. "Don't you want to get dressed?"

  I remembered my ancient robe. "Do the Smurfs have to keep me company while I do?"

&
nbsp; She smiled. "No. One will take the side of the house where your room's located, and I'll stand by your door until you're ready. It's police procedure, even though I doubt you'll try to run. You seem to prefer to meet challenges head-on."

  To my surprise, that last comment came with a drop of admiration. I didn't know how much truth there was to her assumption, but I wasn't about to change her opinion. It might count for something down the road.

  "You're right. I'll fight this all the way." There was one more thing. "I have a favor to ask. My dad's not very young, and we lost my mother about a year ago now. He took it hard." So did I, but that had no place in this mess, aside from the ravening loneliness her loss left behind. "He was also a good friend to Marge. I ... I'd rather he didn't have to see me handcuffed, and I'd also prefer to tell him what's about to happen."

  I swallowed hard, tried to swallow the lump from my throat. Nothing happened, so I blinked against the tears. "I couldn't stand it if he walked out of church and saw you drag me away. And I don't want him to hear about it from a parishioner, see it on the news, or read it in the paper."

  "I do understand, Haley."

  The warmth in Detective Tsu's voice almost did me in. I nodded and went upstairs. She didn't follow, and I appreciated what that said. I did, though, check outside my window. One of her Smurfs paced up and down the yard on that side of the house.

  I sighed. How did one dress for jail? That had to rank right up there as the number one advice no fashionista ever gave.

  Certain that whatever I wore would be taken away, I rooted around my dresser for comfortable clothes. A soft, long cotton skirt and a white T-shirt seemed best-not too ratty, in case some stupid photographer decided to snap a shot of the accused killer, but not too funky or dressy either.

  Again hysteria threatened. An inappropriate giggle slipped out. At the same time, the tears I'd fought downstairs ran down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. A sob wracked me. I didn't think I'd make it through the next minute, much less the rest of the day.

  I reached for the anger that had seen me through so much, the anger that just minutes ago had surfaced at the thought of Dutch, but it seemed to have skittered just beyond my grasp. I had to do something. I wasn't going to just roll over and give in. Then the church bells rang.