Dead Over Heels

by Charlaine Harris

Chapter Nine

  I woke in the morning to a warm bed, Martin still asleep beside me, and rain lashing around the house outside. I peeked at the clock on my bed table; only seven-thirty. Plenty of time to get ready for church at nine-thirty. I squirmed over to press against Martin.

  He's a quick waker. As soon as I heard his breathing change he turned over and put an arm around me.

  "Martin, about last night," I said, my voice still heavy with sleep.

  "Not right now," he whispered, his hands beginning to travel.

  "Ummmm," was the next thing I said, and then I didn't say any more for a good few minutes.

  In fact, I didn't say one coherent word until Martin was coming out of the shower I'd previously vacated. As I was tucking my beige-and-black silk blouse into my long beige skirt, I gave him an exaggerated leer. He held up a hand in protest, which caused the bath towel to droop interestingly.

  "Don't even think of it," he said. "Remember my advanced age. "

  I laughed, and began brushing my hair. "I'm pretty sure I could overcome your feebleness," I said. "But I don't want to be late for church. Of course, there's all afternoon . . . "

  "So you're not going to the funeral?"

  "Oh, shoot. " I put my brush down and made a face into the mirror. "I wish you hadn't reminded me. I guess I could think of an excuse, but I really ought to go. After all, he fell into our yard. I think that obliges me. "

  "You Southerners have the strangest sense of obligation," Martin observed.

  He didn't often begin a sentence that way, so I forgave him.

  "I know you have to go get Shelby, so you won't be thinking about going to church," I said carefully. "Do you think you'll be home in time for the funeral? Do you even want to go?"

  "I should go out to the plant for a while," he said, pulling on his left sock, "especially since I was gone for a couple of days this week. " I tried not to let my face fall. Martin felt he had to go in to work most weekends.

  "I'll try not to stay long," he continued.

  I made a resigned face at my reflection and rummaged among the lipstick tubes in my dressing table drawer. But I wouldn't change the sheets; I still had a faint hope that later in the day it would prove to have been wasted effort. Actually, I'd settle for sitting in the same room while we read. Though our sex life was often wonderful, our "together" time was minimal. I scanned the closet for my black pumps and slid my bare feet into them.

  "No hose?" Martin said as he zipped up his blue jeans. He reached in a drawer to pull out a T-shirt. He seldom got to dress this casually.

  "My knees have scabs from hitting the sidewalk last night, in case you didn't notice. And they're pretty sore. "

  "Oh, honey, did I hurt you? Earlier?"

  "If you did I didn't notice! But now that I'm up and around, I can tell I hit the pavement. " I flexed my leg and winced.

  "Maybe while I'm at the hospital I'll check to see how Arthur Smith is," Martin said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  "That would probably be good for appearances, anyway," I said. "Thank God you were holding my hand when he was stabbed . . . or whatever happened to him. "

  Martin stood behind me and bent to kiss my neck at the spot that always makes me gasp. "Some people that you dated, being around them doesn't bother me. But being around Arthur does, not because I think you have feelings for him but because he must still have some for you. He always gives me this look, `I had her first, I know all about the mole on her back,' crap like that. And once Lynn and he have separated, what does he do? Puts himself right in your line of vision and looks at you as if he was a painter and you were the Mona Lisa. "

  "And gets stabbed," I said, to point out that Arthur's evening hadn't ended well, however much staring he'd done. I polished my black oblong-framed glasses, the ones I almost always wore to church, since they made me look serious. I peered into the mirror to check my makeup and decided I was entirely too pale. Maybe this year, for the first time since I was a teenager, I'd try to get a tan. If I went about it carefully, perhaps the sun wouldn't hurt my skin too badly. "You know, Martin, I'd think I had it worked out if it wasn't for Arthur," I said, pulling a Kleenex out of its box to blot my lipstick.

  Martin, bent over to tie his Avias, said, "What? You worked out what?" "All this violence. "

  "What's your theory?" Martin leaned his elbows on his knees to listen.

  "I think it's because of Angel. "

  Martin was astonished. "How do you figure that?"

  "Okay," I said, holding up my fingers. "Jack Burns's body was dropped in the yard while she was out mowing. "

  Martin nodded cautiously.

  "Then Beverly was rude to Angel in the library, and Beverly got attacked. "

  I was busy folding fingers down and Martin was nodding.

  "Then Beverly's purse was found on Angel's car. "

  "What does that mean?"

  "Whoever did it was saying to Angel, `Look what I did for you!' Like Jack's body falling in her yard. Just like Madeleine. "

  Martin raised his eyebrows, as if to say "Explicate. "

  "I was watching Madeleine the other day as she was hunting, and I was thinking how yucky it was to have to clean her kills off the doormat. Then I realized that she brought them as an offering to me: like, `I'm a useful cat. See what I did?' "

  Martin was looking a little dazed by my excursion into cat psychology.

  "So, Jack was an offering. Like a dead mouse. `See what I did for you? He gave you a parking ticket, so here he is, delivered to your doorstep. ' "

  "You think someone is in love with Angel and is showing her that by hurting people who upset her?" Martin raised his eyebrows, the picture of skepticism.

  "It makes a perverted kind of sense," I said stoutly. "And poor Beverly's purse being put on the hood of Angel's car. To underline the fact that the attack was--in Angel's honor. "

  "So, Shelby was hit on the head because he's her husband?"

  "Right. "

  "Why wasn't he killed?"

  "Maybe because I turned on the downstairs light?"

  Martin nodded slowly, not as if he was in love with my theory, but to indicate he was giving it consideration.

  "But what about Arthur?" he asked. "That won't wash, with Arthur. I don't think he and Angel have exchanged two words since she moved here. "

  "That's where you're wrong," I said smugly, having that instant figured out where Arthur might tie in. "Remember, Arthur had called her in to the police station before he questioned me. "

  "So this hypothetical admirer just decided he'd given Angel a hard time?"

  "I guess. Actually, Faron Henske interviewed her, not Arthur. "

  "Angel," Martin said slowly, doubt in his voice. "I don't know, Roe. Angel's not the stuff dreams are made of. "

  "Not your dreams. But I've seen men just about hang their tongues out when she walks down the street," I said. "It's because she's so strong and sleek, I expect. "

  "Hmmm. That's an interesting theory . . . "

  He didn't believe it for a minute.

  "And," I added, having had a few more thoughts, "the police won't think of it, I bet, because they're seeing this as attacks on two policemen. Beverly could've been mugged and Shelby could've heard a prowler. "

  "Roe, the police could be right. "

  "Well. . . maybe. But I think I am. I just can't understand," I added, as I slid the beige-and-gold- enamel barrette into my hair to hold the waves off my face, "why the police couldn't find the knife Arthur was stabbed with. "

  "They certainly searched us all thoroughly," Martin said, his voice dry. "Perry Allison had a pocketknife, but it was perfectly clean. I don't think the wound could have been deep at all, if they suspected a pocketknife could've don
e it. "

  "No blood on anyone . . . "

  We shook our heads simultaneously at the opacity of the mystery surrounding the parking-lot stabbing of Arthur Smith, police detective.

  Martin gave me a kiss and left to go to the hospital, and I finished preparing for church.

  As I started a load of clothes in the washer on my way out the door, I reflected that this had been the best morning Martin and I had had in a while; longer than I liked to count up. For the past few months, Martin had been traveling more, had stayed in the office longer hours, had never let more than a day pass without going into the plant. Outside of work hours, the Athletic Club took up more time, and the meetings of all the boards and clubs he'd been asked to join--Community Charity Concern, Rotary, and so on and so on--ate into his lunchtimes and his evenings. I'd been increasingly on my own or thrown into the company of Angel and Shelby, with whom I had little in common, fond as I was of both of them.

  As I retrieved my car keys from the hook by the south kitchen door, I realized Martin and I hadn't gone out together at night, except for four community functions, in maybe three months.

  This was not the life the young wife of a handsome, older, wealthy man was supposed to lead, right? He should be hitting all the nightspots flaunting me, right?

  I'd heard the stupid phrase "trophy wife" behind my back on more than one occasion, and I thought it offensive and absurd. Of course I was quite a bit younger than Martin, and I was his second wife; but I was no voluptuous bimbo who'd married Martin for money and security. When Martin wanted to establish himself as the alpha male, he tended to challenge another man to racquetball rather than encourage me to wear low-cut dresses.

  It might seem--to an outsider--that Martin, to some extent, had lost his taste for me. That our honeymoon was so far over that I was housekeeper and occasional companion to Martin, only. That I'd gone back to work because I was bored and unfulfilled as full-time wife. Or that my married life was sterile because I'd found out I was.

  Well, I'd certainly succeeded in ruining my morning, all by myself.

  I yanked open the garage door and backed out my lowly car, blotting my tears and listening to country and western music all the way to St. James's. I pulled into the parking lot at nine-thirty on the dot. Aubrey, our rector, to whom I'd once been nearly engaged, conducted another service in a nearby town at eleven, so we were his early Eucharist.

  My eyes were still red, but I powdered over my makeup again to look passable. I could hear the organ playing, so I stuffed my handkerchief and compact back into my purse and slid out of my car. As I slammed the door behind me and began trotting to the church, I heard another car door slam and registered that someone else was even later than I.

  Standing at the back of the church, I spotted a familiar head of carefully styled Clairol-brown hair. My mother and John Queensland were ensconced in their usual pew in front of the pulpit (John had been having hearing difficulties the past two years). Aubrey, the lay reader, the chalice bearer, and two acolytes were already lined up behind the choir for the procession to the altar. Aubrey and I exchanged fleeting smiles as I scooted past to duck into the next-to-the-back pew, which happened to be empty.

  I had no sooner pulled down the kneeler and slid to my sore knees, grimacing with the discomfort, than I became aware of a man falling to his knees beside me.

  I finished my belated prayer, shot to my feet, grabbed the hymnbook, and began trying to find my place in the song all the rest of the congregation was singing as the procession went down the central aisle. Suddenly, a hymnbook was thrust in front of my face, open to the correct page. I took it automatically and glanced up.

  Dryden was looking down at me, his face unreadable, his eyes expressionless behind his heavy glasses. We exchanged a long look, searching on his part, quite blank on mine, since I hadn't a thought in my head as to why Dryden would be here in my church juggling a prayer book with a hymnbook in the Episcopalian shuffle. He did not make the mistake of trying to establish a bogus rapport by sharing the hymnbook; but he pulled another one from the rack and joined in the singing with a great deal of enthusiasm.

  Was this man everywhere? I couldn't throw a stick without hitting him.

  As we were preparing to listen to the First Reading, he whispered, "I put the Andersons on a plane this morning. "

  I nodded curtly and kept my eyes straight forward. I couldn't think of any good reason why I should be the recipient of this information.

  "She said to tell you good-bye, that she appreciated you listening. "

  I gave him a quelling look, the look I saved for teenage boys cutting up in the library.

  It seemed to work pretty well on Dryden, because he sat through the rest of the service in silence, affording me some much-needed peace. I wondered if he would follow me up the aisle to take communion, but he stayed in the pew.

  As we pushed the kneeler up after the final "Amen," Dryden said quietly, "They're not coming back. After the incident last night, she's too afraid. " I nodded acknowledgment. People were chatting all around us, and so far we weren't attracting too much attention. I tucked my purse under my arm and opened my mouth to say a firm good-bye.

  "I kind of like you," he said suddenly.

  I wondered if the steam coming out of my ears was visible. I took a deep breath to suck my temper back in. "I don't care," I said in a low, deadly voice, goaded into absolutely sincere rudeness. I was furious, and I was also terrified that any moment a curious churchgoer would wander up to be introduced.

  Luckily, the rest of the congregation was in line to shake hands with Aubrey, all anxious to get out into the beautiful weather and go home to prepare Sunday dinner. They were also providing a welcome cover of conversational buzz.

  My mother was talking to Patty Cloud. The detestable Patty was looking absolutely appropriate, as always. By a remarkable coincidence Patty had begun attending St. James's soon after Mother married John Queensland, who was a lifelong communicant. John was having a back- slapping conversation with one of his golfing cronies.

  So I was safe for the moment; but any second now, Mother'd look around and then the questions would begin when she called me later, about why I was sharing a pew with one of the objectionable men she'd met at Bess Burns's house, and what he was saying to me.

  "I got the punching bag out of the airplane for you," was what he was saying.

  I gaped at him.

  I finally managed to say, "How did you know?"

  "I was watching. With binoculars. From the top of that ridge between the airport and the road. An experiment your reporter friend thought of, huh? Incidentally, we think she's right; that's probably how Jack Burns landed in your yard. In that little plane, all the pilot had to do was lean over, open the passenger's door, bank the plane, and out he went. "

  "You were watching," I said, unable to believe my ears. I recalled my long struggle with the bag going down the hill, the grueling process of getting it into the hangar and up into the plane, how I'd sworn and sweated.

  "Yep. That was my job, till my bosses decided Jack's landing in your yard was incidental. After that they withdrew O'Riley and put me watching the Andersons. But I liked watching you better; I never know what you're going to do. Getting that bag down the hill was pretty hard. "

  "Then why the hell didn't you come help me?"

  It was the only thing I could think of to say, and I spun on my heel and stalked off down the aisle, the last to shake Aubrey's hand. He looked surprised at my expression, which must have been a picture. I said good-bye hastily and hurried out to my car, praying Mother wasn't waiting for me in the parking lot. I love my mother, but I just wasn't up to her today.

  Somehow Dryden had gotten to his car quicker than I had, and he was pulling out of the parking lot as I unlocked the driver's door. The car felt oppressively warm and damp inside; I stood by the open door for
a minute or two to let the atmosphere clear out.

  I needed the time myself. I was stunned and shaken by Dryden's revelation. The thought of being watched when I thought myself unobserved gave me the cold creeps and a hot anger. Dryden must be good; I could believe I'd never spotted I was being followed, but I could scarcely believe Sally hadn't suspected.

  But then, why on earth would she?

  I quickly considered Dryden cast in the role of Angel's crazy admirer. I had to discard him, though only with great reluctance, after a little reasoning. But Dryden hadn't met Angel until he'd come out to the house to "interview" me.

  At least as far as I knew.

  Angel's past was largely unknown territory to me. Angel was not a great one for talking about herself. I knew she'd grown up in Florida, that she'd met Shelby when he paid a condolence call to her folks. Shelby had been a Vietnam pal not only of Martin, but also of Angel's much older brother Jimmy Dell. Jimmy Dell had met his Maker after the war and far away from Vietnam, in the mountains of Central America.

  Shelby had waited a few years for Angel to grow up, then he'd married her. They'd always been happy together, as far as I could see. Even the day or two Shelby had doubted Angel's pregnancy was his work had not, in the end, disrupted their relationship.

  Maybe somewhere along the way she'd met Dryden. Maybe they'd both been acting cleverly the day I introduced them. But what would have been the point in that?

  Oh, this was all so confusing.

  I looked at my watch. Martin had had plenty of time to pack up the invalid and take both Youngbloods home. The funeral wasn't until two. I turned the key in the ignition and put the car into drive.

  Automatically, I turned toward home as I left the parking lot. But after a block, I realized I really didn't feel like seeing anyone right now. Perhaps I wanted to sulk awhile; maybe roll in a little self-pity. Sometimes I surfaced from my life to look at it in wonderment and irritation and also a certain amount of bafflement. I should have ended up in a house like my mother's, married to someone like Charlie Gorman, a perfectly nice boy I'd dated in high school. Charlie had always made class vice president; he was the salutatorian; he just missed being handsome. He would have been a good father for, say, two little girls; he'd done well in computers since he'd graduated from college. If I'd married Charlie, I would never have known anyone who died of murder; I would never have seen a dead person. We'd go to Walt Disney World, I dreamed, and we'd camp out. . .

  Well, maybe that was going a little far.

  But I still didn't feel like seeing anyone I knew, just at the moment.

  I went where I often go when human companionship seems undesirable; to the Lawrenceton cemetery. I always park by my great-grandmother.

  A narrow gravel driveway makes a figure eight inside the cemetery fence, to allow for parking at funerals and for easier access to the graves. My great-grandmother is one of the few people buried between the encircling driveway and the fence. She was from a farming family; maybe she wanted to be close to the surrounding fields.

  Shady Rest is an old cemetery, maintained by a coalition of Lawrenceton's white churches. The segregation of death is much stricter than segregation is in life, now. The black cemetery, Mount Zion, is on the southern edge of town, while Shady Rest is a little out in the country on the west.

  Shady Rest is a very ordinary cemetery, traditional, none of this flush-with-the-lawn marker stuff. The earliest tombstones date about twenty years before the Civil War, when Lawrenceton became more than a tiny settlement. There are live oaks and other hardwoods, there is close-clipped grass covering the gently rolling ground. Tiny iron fences interrupted by little gates surround some of the older family plots. There is a high, fancy, ironwork fence enclosing the whole cemetery; but there is no gate to close over the main entrance, though the two other back entrances are gated and usually locked, except during a funeral. There has never been vandalism at Shady Rest, though I'm sure some day there will be. Every now and then, someone donates a cement bench to sit beside one of the two narrow drives that cross through the graves, though I don't believe I've ever seen anyone sit on them but me.

  After nodding to my great-grandmother, I go sit by Mr. Early Lawrence, most times. Naturally, he was the man Lawrenceton was named after, and he earned it by hustle; an early entrepreneur, was Mr. Early Lawrence. Though his descendants don't like to talk about it, somehow Early held on to his money and increased it after the War. Even today, none of the Lawrences are poor folks.

  Early Lawrence had a magnificent tombstone, perhaps ten feet tall because it was topped with a stone angel whose hands were outstretched, palms up, pleading--perhaps urging passersby to feel sorry for Early? To remember to mow the grass? I had never quite understood that beseeching gesture, and I often pondered it when more immediate things gave me pain or anxiety.

  After the heavy rain of the morning, the ground was soggy. I pulled out the old towel I kept in the trunk of my car, since the bench had a damp look. I picked my way to my chosen spot, spread my flowered towel, and sat down with a sigh.

  Close to the center of the cemetery, the green tent was set up over the hole dug to receive Jack Burns, I noted approvingly; Jasper Funeral Home was on the ball. The chairs for the family were unfolded and ready with green covers slipped on. Artificial turf discreetly covered the mound of dirt at the back of the tent. The artificial green was gleaming with water droplets.

  I wandered over to have a closer look, and found that the lowering device was in place over the grave, the green webbing stretched across to receive the casket. I wondered which of the levers on the side released the webbing to let the casket descend, but I was certainly not about to experiment. Sheer interest in the mechanism kept me there for a few moments, until I recollected that into this hole would descend the body of a man I knew, and I beat a shamefaced retreat to Early Lawrence.

  I looked up at the angel, again studying that calm face for some trace of a clue as to its intent. I wondered who had sculpted it; did he churn them out, or make each one as it was commissioned? He'd enjoyed doing the wings, I could tell . . . they were full and beautiful, as feathery as stone could look.

  I thought the usual thoughts--what would they say, all these dead Lawrencetonians, if they could see the town now, look over the horizon and see Atlanta approaching, encroaching? What if my maternal grandmother, whom I could faintly remember (she was over there close to Great- grandmother, but within the driveway), could give judgment on her daughter's successes and her grandaughter's peculiar life?

  We were not a fertile family; I was the only child of an only child, and according to the specialist, I could not even have that one my mother and grandmother had been granted. I'd known now for two months; but sometimes I still cried when I thought about it. I had to get over that. I began counting my breaths, slow and even; in, out, one, two, three, four. . . self-pity was a drug. I must not become addicted. Self-pity is like chocolate; as you get older, you can only afford a little bit.

  I heard a robin, then a mockingbird. Bees did their thing among all the flowering bushes and a few premature Easter lilies, set by gravestones. Here and there was a red foil-covered pot filled with shriveled remains of poinsettias, but on the whole folks took better care of their dead than that.

  So peaceful. I deliberately took off my watch and dropped it in my purse. After a while, my tears dried and I cut loose from my worries, letting my mind drift. It was as though the countless religious ceremonies held here had drenched the soil not with anguish, but with calm detachment, thoughts of eternity. Every now and then I'd see a car go by; Shady Rest was perilously close to one of the new housing developments.

  When at last I rose I'd achieved peace, or at least calm.

  I really wouldn't have had Charlie Gorman on a platter.

  I was making my way back to my car, taking my time and reading headstones, when I actually began to think. It
seemed to me I hadn't been asking the right questions. I'd been asking why these bizarre things were happening, who could be doing them, instead of how.

  I was convinced that all the events of the past couple of weeks were related: the murders of Jack Burns and Beverly Rillington, the murderous attacks on Shelby and Arthur Smith.

  Jack Burns had been dumped from an airplane, so the killer had to know how to fly. Jack had been killed by a blow to the head (last night's local paper had said), as had Beverly Rillington, so the killer was strong and not afraid of violence.

  Since somehow the killer had approached Shelby, who still had no memory of the attack, either (for convenience's sake I'd term the killer male) he was someone known to Shelby, someone Shelby had no reason to fear; or he was used to stealth.

  And if the stabbing of Arthur in the middle of a crowd was any indication, this person was getting increasingly reckless. The stabbing had to have been impulsive; the weapon was probably a lowly pocketknife, if the gossip I'd heard had been correct. So someone in the crowd around Arthur had been overwhelmed with fury so sudden and devastating that he'd risked all to injure Arthur.

  And somehow, somewhere, he'd concealed the weapon so that none of the police on the scene had been able to find a trace of it. Could a pocketknife be swallowed? I wondered wildly. We'd all been searched. Where the hell could it be? This was a crucial how. How had it been concealed?

  It was the sort of puzzle that I eagerly moved on to find the answer to in every fictional mystery I read. I never tried to figure it out myself when I knew the writer would supply the solution in a page or two. But I couldn't flip to the end of the book now . . .

  I rolled down the car window, letting the cool breeze toss my hair. I looked at the proper green tent-roof over Jack Burns's grave. On its surface I replayed the banquet's ending.

  Martin and I walked out the door, and he took my hand. Arthur and his date were behind us. I remembered how irritated I'd been with Arthur; how he'd eyed me.

  And when I remembered that, a little cold trickle started down my spine.

  But I ignored it with a great effort of will. I was going to track this memory.

  The cool, sweet evening. The parking lot. The little knot of people on the sidewalk. The quiet voices exchanging pleasantries. Jesse Prentiss introducing Verna, a stout sixty-year-old with a narrow mouth and a tight perm, to the anxious Andersons, who wanted only to be gone. Perry asking Jenny Tankersley if she wanted to go to his place for a drink . . . Paul with his hand in his pocket to retrieve his car keys, his date standing with her arms crossed on her chest; probably having circulation problems because her blue jeans were acting as tourniquets. Who else? Marnie Sands, groping in her purse, looking annoyed. I remembered thinking she couldn't find her keys. We'd moved to the right, facing out into the parking lot, preparing to cross to Martin's Mercedes. The dog and the cat had provided the diversion necessary for the attacker to make up his mind; he'd try for Arthur . . . the idea of what extreme anger must be necessary to prompt such risk- taking made me shiver.

  Then, of course, my fall to the pavement. I touched my bruised face; I had a blue bump on my right forehead, and a little scrape on my right cheek. I'd been lucky.

  The confusion, the screaming, the moan and curse from Arthur. Martin helping me up, trying to find out where I'd been hurt. Jesse Prentiss, unexpectedly authoritative, telling Perry to run inside to call the ambulance . . . the sound of Perry taking off. There'd been running feet to and from the scene on the sidewalk: Dryden had run up to us, and Perry had run away.

  Paul Allison had said, too late, that he'd called it in from his car already; Perry had been in the building by the time Paul had told us. Perry had had a perfect opportunity to get rid of the knife.

  Okay, what about Dryden? His presence at the end of the parking lot was explainable; he was guarding the Andersons. But could he have thrown a knife, somehow? No, I decided reluctantly. Arthur had been facing Dryden's car, and the wound had been in the back of Arthur's shoulder.

  Arthur's date, the little gal with the ponytail? Nope. Not only did it not ring true, but she'd been searched. So had Deena Cotton, who hadn't been carrying a purse; and if she'd had a gnat in the pocket of those jeans, I would've been able to count its legs. Jesse and Verna Prentiss had been standing too far away to reach Arthur, by any stretch of their arms or my imagination. Martin and I had been holding hands and had been in front of Arthur. Marnie Sands had been in the right position and had had her hand in her huge shoulder bag . . . but how could she have gotten through the search?

  Paul had watched us every minute until his fellow officers had arrived, unless . . . yes, there'd been the seconds he'd knelt beside Arthur, his hand supporting Arthur's head; he'd been staring down at his wounded colleague. There'd been seconds, then.

  But as I'd left the community center, I'd seen the police officers examining the area where Arthur had been stabbed. If the knife had been there--and it could only have been concealed hastily--they would've found it.

  No. Somehow, some way, Perry had concealed the knife on his way into the community center. Had to be Perry.

  I thought of my friend Sally, about how cheerful she'd been the day we took the punching bag to the airport. She'd already been through so much with Perry, his bouts with depression and his run-in with drugs; the prospect of Jenny Tankersley as a daughter-in-law had to look like Easy Street in comparison. It was inescapable, though, that Perry looked like the best bet for this series of horrible events. He'd looked at Angel with wanting eyes; he'd had a chance to hide the knife.

  But that wasn't enough, even close to enough, evidence for an arrest.

  I started the car and drove out of the cemetery slowly, not having the slightest idea of where I was going. It was noon, lunchtime. I bought a sandwich from our local barbecue place and ate it sitting in the car, a practice I normally detest. Maybe I should have called Martin. I thought of doing it, then I remembered the day before when I'd had to track him down, and I childishly thought it might do him good to wonder where I was for a while. But those were surface thoughts, ideas that just skated through the front of my brain.

  I had the feeling you get when everyone begins roaring with laughter at a joke, and you sit anxiously waiting for the punch line to make sense. There was something big and obvious right in front of me, and I couldn't see it. It was like there was a hole in my glasses. In that spot, I was blind, though I could see clearly all around it.