Assassin's Blood (The Alan Graham Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  “I don’t know.”

  I tried to think back, but my mind was foggy from lack of sleep. “When we left the field, your group stopped at a grocery for Gatorade and Cokes, didn’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you talk about what you were doing in the field? Could anybody in the store have gotten the impression you’d found something valuable?”

  “I don’t think so. The storekeeper was busy talking to the mailman when we got there. He asked us what we were doing, and David said we were archaeologists. Somebody asked us if we were looking for Lee Oswald’s buried treasure and everybody laughed. David didn’t say anything about the site we found, and I remember him telling us afterward, on the way home, that you never want to give anybody the impression you found anything that would be worth their while to vandalize.”

  I nodded. “Well, maybe the cops will get to the bottom of this. I’ll come see you later.”

  “Thanks, Alan. You’re sweet. But you know, it really wasn’t your fault.”

  “I’m coming anyhow,” I said.

  When I got home, I fed Digger and fell onto my bed in my clothes. For a blessed instant I had the sensation I was floating just over the sheets and that there were other people in the house, aunts and uncles and cousins. The sounds of my parents’ voices … I was safe and protected and so was the world, because not only were my parents alive, but so was President Kennedy. Life was golden and things came out right …

  I must have slept hours, because it was dark outside when I awoke. The door chimes were ringing. At first I thought it was part of my dream, but then I realized there was someone outside.

  I forced myself up, found my shoes, and made my way through the hallway to the living room. I halted before the ornate door, suddenly terrified. What if something had happened to Meg? What if she’d taken a turn for the worse? Or even more terrible, what if the person who had assaulted her had snuck into her room and finished the job?

  It would be easy to ignore the chimes, just pretend no one was there, sink back into my comfortable cocoon …

  I reached for the knob, yanked the door open, and froze.

  The person on my doorstep was none other than Cynthia Jane Devlin, dressed like she was going to dinner.

  THIRTEEN

  “I’m sorry if I woke you up,” she said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “May I come in?”

  I stepped back, holding the door open for her. She entered cautiously, her eyes taking in the decor, and I wondered what she was thinking. She turned to face me.

  “About the other day,” she began, “I acted badly. You were right, of course: I did lie about Blake. But I had my reasons. I just didn’t expect you to see through me so easily.”

  If she had been attractive before, she was beautiful now, her hair a deep black that set off her features. She wore a gold cross, and her blouse dipped down to reveal her cleavage. I wondered if she had dressed especially for me, and if so, why?

  “How did you know where I lived?” I asked.

  “I went to your office. They told me about what happened last night and said you were trying to get some sleep. I started to leave, but one of your people—the pretty, little girl who seemed to be in charge—said it was all right, you’d be waking up soon. She gave me your address.”

  I made a mental note to talk to Marilyn.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Diet Coke, if you have it.”

  I went into the kitchen and came back with two cans, a Coke for her and a Dr. Pepper for myself.

  “I didn’t know you were an antiques collector,” she said. “Some of these pieces must be over a hundred years old.”

  “Sort of like a museum, huh?”

  Her face crinkled into a smile. “Why would you say that?”

  “No reason.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry about Blake. I hope you can understand. He’s a very shy man. He’s had his problems, and all he wants now is to be left alone. He’s got a little money from an injury settlement from Gulf States a few years ago and he just makes it on that and by doing a little handy work. I let him work at my place because he seems to enjoy it and I feel comfortable around him. Plus he provides some protection.”

  “And you thought I was going to upset him?”

  She held the smile. “You did go to his trailer yesterday. It upset him badly.”

  So that was it. Was she here to find out what I’d learned?

  “I’m sorry. But he was out poking around on site again. You have to admit it’s suspicious when you come up on somebody and they run.”

  She leaned back on the sofa. “That’s just his way. You have to get to know him before he’ll even communicate with you. He’s roamed these woods for the past forty years. He isn’t going to change now.”

  I thought about the photograph beside his bed.

  “He was friends with your husband and your father-in-law.”

  “Yes. Old Timothy let him have the run of the place.”

  “He must have had his speech then, because he was in the Marines.”

  She stiffened slightly. “You’ve done some digging.”

  “I’m an archaeologist,” I said, trying to pass it off as a joke.

  She exhaled. “There’s no sense being cagey. Yes, he was in the Marines. He served his time overseas before Vietnam.”

  “So something happened while he was in the Marines?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that when I came here as Doug’s bride in 1979, Blake was living here and he had a reputation as a heavy drinker. And he couldn’t talk, but Doug told me he used to be able to. He was working for Gulf States then and he had an accident on a power pole, fell down to the bottom and hurt his back. He got a worker’s comp settlement. After that, he just became more and more withdrawn. But he’s always been nice to me.”

  “What did your husband say about him? He must have known him all his life.”

  “He said some people were born shy and Blake was one of them.”

  I sipped my drink, trying to sort through my thoughts. I had to phrase my next question carefully.

  “Did your husband have him around as much as he is these days?”

  Her brows dipped in a frown. “Do you mean was Doug jealous? The answer is no. And I don’t think Blake had anything to do with his death.”

  I pictured Doug Devlin lying beside the creek, his blood oozing into the sand.

  “Suppose it wasn’t a poacher. Was there anybody who would’ve wanted your husband dead? Anybody he was crosswise with over a business deal, for instance?”

  She gave a little laugh. “Doug didn’t have any business sense. Our income was falling off back then. Oh, every once in a while there was some money—he’d sell some cattle or something—but toward the end things weren’t good. He was worried. I kept asking if he thought we ought to sell some land, but he didn’t want to.”

  “Your husband wasn’t trained in any profession?”

  “He had three years of college and dropped out. Why study when he could inherit Timothy’s money and land? And as long as Buck was in the Army, nobody would be looking over his shoulder.”

  “And since he’s died?”

  “Life is never easy,” she said.

  “No,” I agreed.

  Cyn Devlin leaned toward me. “Alan, I hope what happened to your friend last night wasn’t connected with anything you’re doing on the property.”

  “I do, too.” I shrugged. “But there isn’t any reason it should be, is there?”

  “No, just those damned stories about the cabin. I’m not superstitious, but it bothers me. It’s almost like anybody who sets foot there is risking some kind of supernatural curse.”

  I recalled Meg’s sensation that we were being watched. “I guess Curtin told you we were on the west side?”

  She nodded. “He went out there this morning and saw where your people had been digging.” She reached over and touched my a
rm. “Look, I know I was bitchy the other day, but you could have used my pasture to get back there.”

  “It seemed best not to raise your hackles.”

  She bent the can so it made a little pop, and for the first time I realized she was nervous.

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I just wanted to apologize. If there’s anything I can do …”

  She got up, setting the can on a coaster, and put her hand on the door.

  “Wait,” I heard myself say.

  She turned her head to face me. “Yes?”

  “There is something you could do.”

  “Oh?”

  “Take me to Blake Curtin. Tell him I just want to ask him some questions. Will you do that?”

  There was a second’s hesitation. “Now?”

  “Now or later.”

  “He may not be at his trailer.”

  “But he’ll go back there to sleep, won’t he?”

  She bowed her head. “Yes.”

  “Take me to him, and I’ll buy you the best steak in town.”

  She shrugged in defeat. “How can I resist a deal like that?”

  We ended up at Bear Corners, a restaurant on Highway 10 in downtown Jackson, a block from the post office.

  “I haven’t been here since Doug died,” she told me as she pulled her station wagon in at the curb. “Maybe it’s time to start again. Besides, it’ll give people something to talk about.”

  When we entered, there was the usual crowd of families, and I didn’t recognize any of them. She told me this was the first time she’d eaten out with a man since her husband had died, and then looked away, as if she was embarrassed. I told her archaeologists who lived in old houses and collected furniture were particularly dangerous, and she smiled. Then the smile died away, and I saw that she was staring at something over my shoulder. I glanced behind me and saw Sheriff Staples in the doorway, accompanied by a pretty, red-haired woman who must have been his wife, and a girl of eight or nine.

  I turned back around.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” She averted her eyes.

  When we left, she made sure she gave his table a wide berth. He looked up once and our eyes met, but he gave no sign that he recognized me. When we got out to the car, she opened her door and got in before I could move around to the passenger side.

  She sat behind the wheel, motionless, and I sensed that she was trembling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She started the car. “I just think we better hurry if we want to catch Blake.”

  It was twilight as we pulled into his yard. Curtin’s pickup was there, and there was a light in the trailer window. Cyn got out and I started to follow, but she held up her hand.

  “Better let me handle this. He knows me.”

  I waited while she went up to the door and knocked. There was no answer, and she opened it and I heard her call his name. A few seconds later she came back and got a piece of paper out of her purse.

  “He must have seen us coming up. He probably ran off. He’s like that. I’ll leave him a note telling him to come to my house in a little while. He trusts me.”

  I watched her scribble out a quick message and then go place it in the trailer door where Curtin would see it when he returned.

  So we were going to her house. I wondered if things had just fallen out that way or whether it was part of a plan that had begun when she’d knocked on my door. I felt uneasy, but there wasn’t much I could do. She had the transportation, and I could hardly wrestle the steering wheel away from her. Suddenly an unreasonable fear came into my mind: Suppose it was all a ploy to get me away from Meg? It had been Cyn’s idea to take her car, her idea to go to Bear Corners, twenty miles away from the city, and now her idea to get me to her house.

  What if at this very minute someone was headed for Meg’s room to silence her?

  But what could Meg possibly know that was worth taking those kinds of risks for? I was being paranoid. I was in the company of a beautiful woman, one with a few hangups, to be sure, but who among us didn’t have them? Why not put aside my suspicions and just enjoy the evening?

  The last filaments of sunlight were streaking the western sky as we slowed for her driveway. The old house squatted back from the road like an ailing creature, its window air-conditioning units poking out like so many sores. I wondered how it must be for a single woman to live out here by herself. She stopped at the side of the house and cut the ignition.

  “Well, we’re here,” she said.

  I followed her up the walk, my curiosity battling a sense of foreboding that was not likely to go away until I had a chance to use the telephone.

  “Make yourself at home,” she invited, opening the door and flipping on a light.

  I went in after her and glanced around.

  We were in a big room, with a dining table that had probably once seen formal dinners. Now it was bare, with a single candlestick holder in the middle and a stack of the day’s mail on the end. I recognized from the envelopes with windows that most of the day’s delivery was bills.

  She waved her hand at the peeling wallpaper. “I’m going to work on this room next week. I papered the sitting room last week. I figure with Blake helping me I’ll eventually catch up.”

  I nodded and she took a step forward, her eyes suddenly blazing.

  “I won’t sell it. I don’t care what they offer. I won’t sell this place, and you can tell them if they ask.”

  “Nobody’s asked,” I said quietly.

  The fight seemed to go out of her.

  “Of course not. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Look, can I use your phone?”

  “It’s in the parlor,” she said, pointing.

  I made my way over a rug mat had been new when Truman was in the White House and found the phone on the wall. The furniture was not as valuable as what was in my own house, but it was respectably old, nevertheless. Old Timothy’s, no doubt.

  I got the number of the hospital from Directory Assistance and then dialed the main number and asked for Meg’s room. My heart did a couple of hammer strokes while I waited, and then the line clicked and I heard her voice.

  “Meg, are you all right?”

  “Alan, is that you? Of course I am. I was just watching a rerun of All in the Family. The food here’s goopy, but I guess I’ll live. My shoulder’s starting to throb now, but the doctor said not to worry. He gave me some pills.”

  “Well, I meant to come visit …”

  “Don’t worry about it. David’s been here and Marilyn, too, and a couple of my college friends. We’re going to play Clue a little later.”

  “Well, hold tight, kid. I’ll be in to see you tomorrow, late probably.”

  “You’re going back to the field?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a silence, and then I heard her voice again, sounding small over the lines.

  “Alan, be careful. I have a bad feeling about this project.”

  We said goodbye, and I hung up in time to hear movement behind me.

  I turned and saw Cyn standing in the doorway, with a strange, almost hurt look on her face, but even as I watched, the look vanished and she nodded over her shoulder.

  “Blake Curtin’s here,” she said.

  FOURTEEN

  I walked into the living room and stopped.

  The man in front of me was an apparition.

  A tangle of gray hair nested on his shoulders, and black eyes regarded me nervously from deep-set sockets. His overalls were streaked with grease, and a gray stubble covered his cheeks. As I watched, his hands clawed up and down his pant legs as if he expected some terrible outcome. But above all, the impression he gave was of suffering.

  “Mr. Curtin,” I said, offering my hand.

  His eyes went to Cyn for approval, and then he wiped a hand on his pants and stuck it out for me to shake. As our hands touched, I felt callouses on his skin and knew he was used to hard work.
/>   “Thank you for coming,” I said. “I’m sorry if I startled you yesterday. I didn’t mean to.”

  His head made a token dip.

  “But a couple of times when I’ve been out on the McNair tract, I’ve seen you running away. You’ve got to admit that running away makes a fellow wonder what’s going on.”

  He gave a little shrug.

  “I wouldn’t be so concerned,” I said, “except that somebody’s slashed my tires and bashed my head. Then last night somebody broke into my office and almost killed an employee of mine.”

  Curtin’s eyes flew to the woman. He shook his head back and forth vigorously, and for an instant I thought he was going to bolt.

  But Cyn took his arm.

  “We know it wasn’t you,” she said. “Nobody’s saying it is. Are they?”

  I took the cue. “Of course not. But whatever’s going on out here, I had a feeling if I could talk to you, you might be able to give me some ideas. After all, nobody knows this area better than you do.”

  The scarecrow gave a fleeting smile and shifted from one foot to the other. He looked over at Cyn again and she nodded.

  “It’s okay, Blake.” She produced a pad and pencil, and he took up the writing instrument and wrote slowly on the paper, then handed it to her. She glanced down at it, then gave it to me.

  I don’t know anything, it said. I saw you with Mr. McNair and thought you were going to arrest me.

  “Arrest you? For what? Trespassing?”

  The grizzled head bobbed an affirmative.

  “Then what about the other day when you came up on the other side? You ran away then, too.”

  The pencil moved again on the paper.

  Curious, he wrote.

  “And today?” I asked.

  The same.

  It was my turn to shrug.

  “Have you ever seen or heard anything strange on the property?” I asked. “On either side of the creek?”

  His eyes darted to hers, alarmed. Then he raised his hands, palms upward, and shrugged.

  “No poachers? Trespassers?”

  Another hint of a smile, and he wrote:

  All the time.

  “You were friends with Doug Devlin, weren’t you?”