“Who doctored it?” I said.
“My nephew, Andy,” said Joan. “He’s a whiz. He’s a technological genius. Of course, that can backfire. If he hadn’t downloaded an app that tells him where the free first-name deals are, he wouldn’t have ended up with the kilt in the wrong dry cleaner.”
“I don’t raise my voice much,” said Della. “Even when my son put his bunny rabbit in the tank to play with his clownfish I didn’t raise my voice, but if we don’t stop talking about yearbooks and nephews and start talking about who is in the morgue and who killed him, I am going to blow the glass out of the WINDOWS.”
And just from the decibels she reached in that one word, we believed her.
“Sit down,” said Patti. “Mamá will make more coffee and I will tell you a tale.”
It was irresistible.
Mrs. Ortiz got some extra chairs from deep in the back regions of the house and made some ferociously strong noninstant coffee that nearly cut through the sweetness of the little blue cakes.
“Graduation night, 1968,” Patti said. “I went to the dance with my three girlfriends. We were ahead of our time. And then we went to the after-party at the old Armour homestead. And …” She took a breath. “Tam Shatner raped me. And John Worth didn’t stop him.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I stopped him,” said Patti. “I killed him. Hit him on the back of his head with a rock and killed him stone dead. Then Papá put him in the lye pit at work so no one would ever find out. And I went to Florida and stayed there. The story that got around town was pretty similar.”
“Except the other way round?” I said, and Patti nodded, smiling.
“If Tam had ever come back, the cops would have wanted to ask him about me; and if I had ever come back, the cops would have wanted to ask me about him. But as long as we both stayed away, it was a stalemate. Mamá put on a show of looking for me, but it all died down pretty quick actually.”
“I see,” said Della.
“And I could have stayed away,” Patti said. “But two things happened. It was lovely when my mother and father came to visit, but when my father died, he died here and I wasn’t beside him. And now my mother is getting older and … I don’t want to say it, but I need to be here at home.”
“What’s the other thing?” Kathi said.
“Howie Baumgarten,” Patti said. “Head of the chess club, winner of the debate team challenge, player of the bass drum in the marching band. He retired a little early due to ill health. And he moved to a small beach town in southern Florida. And I discovered that he had always carried a torch for me. He recognized me. Forty years later, he recognized me.”
“Forty years?” said Todd.
“Yes,” said Patti. “This has been ten years in the planning. Howie’s cancers didn’t progress as quickly as we feared. It took ten years until he was ready to go. Ten years of changing all the yearbooks.”
“Did you Photoshop the smiles off the girls?” said Kathi.
“No,” Patti said. “We weren’t smiling. Because Tam really was there. He took the photographs and when it was just girls, he was nasty.”
“So,” I said. “Ten years?”
“Ten years of making a false history of Tam Shatner in Florida. He was ready a year ago, but the fiftieth reunion seemed like it was meant to be.”
“So it really was suicide?” I said.
“It really was suicide,” said Patti.
“He drank lye?”
Patti bowed her head and when she raised it again her eyes had filled with tears. “For me,” she said. “For what I went through. To thumb his nose one final time at Thomas Shatner and so I could come home, Howie drank lye. It never occurred to him, I don’t think, that it would point back to me, and to my father. He died alone in his hotel room—booked under the name of Shatner—which was what he wanted. And then we put him on John Worth’s porch, as he had agreed. So far it had all gone according to plan, we thought. But then everything went wrong. Everything. Blood on the cutty sark, no costume on Mama Cuento, John putting the corpse in the slough, no class ring, Joan dry cleaning her ex-husband’s family’s kilt, John’s heart attack, some mysterious stranger calling the cat memorial numbers. Everything. And most especially you.”
“Me?” I said.
“All of you,” said Della. “Investigating, interfering, working things out, getting things wrong.”
“Yeah, how in the name of the Goddess did you get it into your skulls that Tam Shatner was gay?” said Mo Tafoya.
“Ummmm,” I said. It was a good question. How did we?
“We should never have pounced on that and tried to work it into the story,” said Mo Heedles.
“I panicked,” said Joan. “I messed that up big-time.”
“But,” said Patti, glaring at me, “even though you got that wrong, you got plenty right. And you had a dose of luck. Offering cleaning to Andys on exactly the wrong day. Comparing stories, coming to speak to my mother. Even—now you’re telling me—getting insider information on the autopsy.”
“Are we in danger?” said Della. “Are you threatening us?”
“No,” said Patti. “We’re trying to persuade you. It was suicide. And the death of Tam Shatner was manslaughter and I’d do it again today. I’d happily take out a rapist with a rock to the back of the head. Wouldn’t you?”
“But do you really think you’ll get away with it?” Todd said. “Don’t you think if all of this is bothering us, it’s going to be bothering the cops too?”
“The case is closed,” said Patti firmly. “John Worth is recovering. I’m here with my mamá in the twilight of her life.”
“I’m not threatening you,” said Todd. “I’m trying to advise you. Cases can reopen.”
“I’m not worried,” Patti said. Then she cocked her head.
We could all hear feet coming up the front path outside and we all saw the front door open.
“Mom?” came a voice. “I see you finally took those dumb decals off your—”
Mike stopped talking and stood in the doorway. It was bar-room stand-off time again.
“Mom?” I said, looking round the room and wondering.
“I’m just going to go ahead and rewind,” said Mike. She held my gaze. “I didn’t come here. You didn’t see me. You’re not going to take my badge and ruin nine lives over nothing, right?”
“Nine?” I said. I ticked them off on my fingers. “Yours, Mike. Patti and Mrs. Ortiz, Joan, Mo Heedles, Mo Tafoya, and John Worth. That’s seven. Who are the other two?”
“Diego and me,” Della said. “Right, Mike? ICE, ICE, baby?”
“What?” I said.
“Educate yourself, Lexy,” said Mike. “If you’re going to stay here, for God’s sake, get a clue.”
“I would,” I said. “If someone would tell me to. But there’s no one here telling me to. At least no one I can hear. No one I can see. The door’s blown open, but maybe it’ll just blow shut again.”
Mike pulled the door towards her and it latched with a soft click as her footsteps began to recede back down the path.
It’s what passes for a happy ending round here these days. It was going to have to do.
Facts and Fictions
Beteo County and the town of Cuento are fictional and none of the residents, streets, houses, landmarks, or businesses depicted here are real, except that: Evangeline’s Costume Mansion in Old Sacramento is exactly as amazing and outlandish as I’ve suggested, only with much better staff; and Mo Heedles won a character name with an incredibly generous donation at Malice Domestic 30.
About the Author
Catriona McPherson was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, and is the author of multi-award-winning standalones for Midnight Ink, including the Edgar-shortlisted, Anthony-winning The Day She Died and the Mary Higgins Clark finalists Quiet Neigh
bours and The Child Garden. She also writes the Agatha-winning Dandy Gilver historical mystery series (Minotaur/Thomas Dunne Books). McPherson is the past president of Sisters in Crime and a member of Mystery Writers of America. You can visit her online at CatrionaMcPherson.com.
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