A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  My index finger rested on the town of Holland. “I think I already have.”

  Chapter 12

  “You want to what?”

  To say that Richard wasn’t enthusiastic about my plan was definitely an understatement.

  “I’m pretty sure I know where to find the rest of Sumner’s remains, but I need your help.”

  His eyebrows drew close in consternation.

  “Think of it as archeology, Rich.”

  “Do you realize how much it’s snowed in the past week?”

  “It’s in the country. Snow blows away in an open field. I’ll bet we can find it easy.”

  Skeptical doesn’t begin to describe the expression plastered across his features.

  I awoke early the next morning. Too psyched to eat breakfast, I wandered around the house, waiting for Richard and Brenda to get up. I dressed in my oldest jeans and sneakers. The only pair of boots I owned were more suited for line dancing than foraging through deep snow. With no heavy jacket, I dressed in layers—cotton, flannel, and wool—and hoped I wouldn’t freeze to death. That was unacceptable to Richard, who, when he finally got up, loaned me one of his jackets—easily two sizes too big. I talked him out of cashmere and into flannel, but when he reappeared in his grungies, he still looked like a walking advertisement for Neiman Marcus.

  By raiding Richard’s bar and the broom closet, I’d collected a plastic grocery bag filled with tools that might come in useful, and plunked them in the back of Brenda’s Ford Altima. I figured Richard wouldn’t want the back seat of his beautiful Lincoln cluttered with broom, shovel, and the like, and Brenda was accommodating, as usual. She informed us she intended to read up on frostbite remedies while we were gone. She had no desire to spend the better part of the day in sub-freezing temperatures.

  It was after eleven when we finally started out. The day was bright and sunny. As Maggie predicted, the snow was melting and the roads were clear and dry as we headed south. For the first time in what seemed like ages, I felt good. Useful. Richard drove the twenty-some miles in silence, making me glad to have the radio for company.

  We passed naked trees, closed ice-cream stands, and mile after mile of snow-covered fields. One thing was apparent: the road was not well-traveled.

  The perfect place for murder.

  The Holland town line sped past. “Slow down, will you? I’m not exactly sure where we’re going.”

  “Does anything look familiar?” Richard asked.

  I shook my head. “I’ve got no mental picture of our destination, just a funny feeling in my gut, which, I’ll admit seems pretty insubstantial.”

  Richard slowed the car. Instead of looking at the countryside, I concentrated on the thrumming inside me.

  “Stop!”

  “Here? It’s the middle of nowhere.”

  “We’re getting close.”

  Plow-piled mounds of dirty snow flanked the road. The shoulder was virtually nonexistent. Richard parked as close to the snow as possible before activating the hazard flashers.

  “If this car gets hit, you’re going to explain it to Brenda. Not me.”

  I closed my eyes and concentrated. That shaky feeling inside grew more pronounced.

  “What is it you feel, anyway?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it.” I frowned, thought about it for a moment. “It’s like being a Geiger counter. But instead of a noise, I have this tense feeling inside me. Like a guitar string tightened too much.” That didn’t come out exactly right, but he seemed to accept the explanation.

  I got out of the Altima, opened the rear door, and took out the grocery bag, shovel, and broom.

  Richard surveyed the waist-high snow. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “Of course it will. Beyond the road, the snow can only be a foot or so deep.” I knew I was being optimistic, but I didn’t want him to crap out on me before we even got started.

  We struggled over the snowbank, and I took the lead. The shoulder sloped into a gully and, because of the drifted snow, it was hard to tell where the terrain became level again. After only a couple of feet, I realized that thanks to my bum arm, my center of gravity was off. My foot caught in the crusty snow and I went down. I rolled onto my right side, protecting my already-broken left arm. The air turned blue and I’m sure Richard learned a few new curses to add to his growing repertoire.

  He crouched beside me. “Are you okay?”

  I glared at him. “That’s some great bedside manner.”

  He frowned, helped me to my feet, then thrust the broom at me. “Here, use this as a walking stick.”

  I jabbed the pole into the snow, taking a tentative step forward. I wished I’d thought to bring sunglasses; the glare was unrelenting. Shading my eyes, I looked around to get my bearings. “This way.”

  We started off to the southwest, and it was anything but easy going. Traffic passed behind us on the road, but the winter landscape before us was absolutely desolate. It took almost ten minutes to walk some twenty yards; my feet were wet in less time than that. The ice-crusted snow broke around the toes of my sneakers in jagged hunks. I looked back and saw that, instead of a straight line, we’d made an uneven path. No wonder people get lost in the desert.

  “Why I ever agreed to come along ...” Richard muttered behind me.

  “You won’t let me drive, remember.”

  “I could have stayed in my nice, warm house. But, no, I’m trudging through snow—”

  I listened to him gripe for the next five minutes. It took all my self-control not to turn around and clock him. As it was, if we found nothing, I was sure he’d start filling out the commitment papers for me when we returned home.

  That funny feeling vibrated right through me. I stopped, gazed around us at the crystalline snow. “This is a good place to start digging.” I nodded toward the shovel.

  “You want me to dig?” he asked, incredulous.

  I rubbed my broken arm. “Well, I can hardly do it.”

  If looks could kill, I’d have been as dead as the object of our search. Grumbling, Richard thrust the shovel into the snow. I watched as he cleared a one-foot square patch and found nothing. He started shoveling around that small area, pushing aside the snow until there was only flattened grass underfoot. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  Minutes later, he’d cleared an area about the size of a back yard pool.

  “Take a rest,” I said, and he gratefully leaned on the shovel. Although in good shape for his age, Richard was not used to physical labor. His flushed cheeks and labored breathing were accompanied by a thin film of sweat across his forehead.

  “This is useless,” he puffed. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack. A wild goose chase. A complete and utter waste of time.”

  “Can you come up with any other clichés?”

  I took the shovel from him. We were close to finding it—very close. Awkwardly, I tried to scoop away the snow, but it was just too heavy.

  “Don’t,” he told me, grabbing for the handle, which I held onto. “How’re your feet?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “They’re wet. It’s below freezing. You’ll get frostbite. Let’s call it quits.”

  “No.” Stubborn, I tried again. This time I managed to move some snow, but not enough to make a difference.

  “Stop.” He took the shovel from me. “I’ll give you five more minutes, then we’re heading back to the car.” He meant it. But I didn’t have to wait five minutes.

  Richard jabbed the snow and hit something solid. “What the hell?”

  “That’s it!” I fell to my knees, scooping away snow with my good hand. Fumbling with the grocery bag, I brought out the hand brush and removed the last of the snow from the dark, icy mass. Richard paled as I handed him an ice pick. “You can have the honors.”

  Richard knelt beside me in the snow, then carefully chipped away at the mound. He stopped after about a minute, studying it.

  “Well?”

  He pointed to an ice
-encrusted protrusion. “See this, it’s a pancreas.”

  “Human?”

  “It sure looks like it to me.” He straightened, looking at me expectantly.

  “I think I’m ready to warm up my feet now.”

  We gathered our things, all but the shovel. I rubbed it down with my snowy glove to remove any stray fingerprints. We left it standing in the snow to mark the spot, and trudged back to the car.

  I noted the odometer reading while Richard made a U-turn, then we headed back toward Holland. “Now what?” he asked.

  “I guess we report it.”

  “How do you report something like this?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Do you have a lawyer here in Buffalo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before we do anything, maybe you should call him. I don’t want to be interrogated by the cops without one. Hayden already warned me off. When he finds out what we’ve found—”

  “We?” Richard echoed.

  “You were there, too.”

  His expression was grim. “What if we reported this anonymously?”

  “Smart move. Otherwise how are we going to explain this? ‘Uh, hi, I’m a nut-case fresh from the Big Apple. I found these guts on the side of the road.’”

  He was not amused.

  “And I’ll tell you something else. Who do you think will be the prime suspect?”

  Richard stared at me. “You, of course.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not the expert on anatomy.”

  It took a moment for that statement to sink in. He blanched. “Jesus.”

  I consulted the atlas. “Take the next cutoff. We have to get out of the area fast. Someone might remember the car. Course the California plates will confuse the cops for a while,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “We are going to report it, aren’t we?”

  “Sure, but I’d rather wait until we get back to Buffalo. From a pay phone, if we can find one. Then we’ll hide Brenda’s car in the garage.” I stopped myself. “Do I sound paranoid?”

  “Just a little,” he said and smiled. He was quiet for a while. “I owe you an apology.”

  “What for?”

  “You knew where to find....” His words trailed off. “I didn’t want to believe you.”

  “Yeah, but you humored me.”

  “I was determined to prove you wrong once and for all. But this—this is creepy.”

  “Tell me about it. You’re not the one it’s happening to. But if you want the truth, I didn’t know if we’d find them. On a gut level, I trust these feelings, yet I’m afraid to. I’m afraid to look like a fool. I keep hoping this blasted insight will just go away.”

  It was after two when we returned to Amherst. I dialed 911 from a pay phone in the parking lot of a grocery store. Disguising my voice with a lousy Texas accent, I told them where to look, and hoped like hell they’d take me seriously. If not ... I suppose it wouldn’t matter; finding frozen viscera wasn’t going to solve the case. But it was a stepping stone for me. It was time to start adding things together.

  o0o

  I found Richard staring out his study window, sipping a dark Manhattan. Under my arm was the dog-eared kraft envelope.

  “Is the sun over the yardarm?” I asked.

  “It is for me. It’s not every day I find that kind of buried treasure.”

  “I can’t wait to see the six o’clock news.” I sat down behind his desk, moving his papers, books, and mementos aside. He watched as I spread out the newspaper clippings, my notes, and everything else I’d collected on the Sumner murder.

  “I’ve got some ideas on who the killer is, but I want to bounce them off a neutral party.”

  “I don’t know how neutral I can be, after this morning.”

  “Well, I figure we’re in this together now, right?” He didn’t say no, so I took that as assent. “You read the newspaper profile of the killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t have an opinion.”

  I handed him the clipping and he read parts of it aloud. “The assailant is probably between the ages of thirty-five to sixty, strong, an active outdoorsman or hunter. No known motive.”

  “I think they’re wrong. I think the killer is little Jackie’s mother.”

  “Which little Jackie? Which mother?”

  “Sharon Walker. I have this funny feeling ... and lately my funny feelings have been correct.”

  “What do you know about this woman?”

  “Virtually nothing. She had a child on January tenth four years ago. I know her father had business dealings with Sumner. I know her father’s company went bankrupt. That’s it.”

  “That’s what your friend, Maggie, told you, right?”

  I nodded.

  “How can you conclude she murdered him with just that?”

  “I can’t. That’s why I have to find a way to prove it.” I sat back in his chair. “Obviously there’s no paper trail to lead the police to her.”

  “You mean checks, love letters—that kind of thing?”

  I nodded. “That invitation I found in Sumner’s office may be the only thing he kept.”

  “Are you sure it came from her?”

  “Am I positive?” I thought about it for a moment. “No. But it seems likely.”

  “So what’s her motive for murder?”

  “I have no idea. But I’ll find out.”

  Richard took a deep swallow of his drink and pulled up a chair beside me. “Okay. What’ve you got in mind?”

  I savored the moment; he was hooked.

  “First of all, a trip to the library downtown. They should have all the newspapers on microfilm or CD-ROM for the time when Walker Construction went under. I can lift names and interview the former executives or employees. If I can get a fix on this woman without tipping my hand—”

  “But aren’t her former co-workers likely to go straight to her and warn her about you?”

  “Not if I can find a disgruntled employee or two. Someone with an ax to grind is likely to tell me the dirt that went on before the company collapsed.”

  Richard took another long pull on his drink. “This really is a nasty business you’re in.”

  “Murder is a nasty business, and I think Sharon Walker killed Matt Sumner. And she did it in front of her son.”

  “You said that before. How do you know?”

  “I kept getting all these feelings: fear, triumph, horror. It took me a week to sort it all out. The emotions came from all of them at the time of the murder. Somehow I got caught up in it. What’s weird is I started feeling all this before Sumner was murdered. And, let me tell you, it’s bad enough to have your own fears without experiencing somebody else’s.”

  Richard studied me. “I still think this would make a fascinating study. You really should let UB’s Psych Department—”

  “No way! I’m not going to be anyone’s guinea pig.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I keep thinking about my grandmother. What is it you sense upstairs? What is it of her that’s left up there? And why is it in my grandfather’s room?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that myself—trying to work up the courage to face it.”

  He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. “Well, I’m fortified. Let’s go.”

  This wasn’t how I’d planned to spend the rest of the afternoon. But I found myself following in his wake, glad it was still daylight. I didn’t think I could face the old lady in the dark of night.

  I started up the stairs, dread closing around my chest. Richard paused at the landing. As I topped the last step, he reached for my elbow to steady me. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” he said.

  Panic churned through me. I was tempted, really tempted, to run back down the stairs. But—

  “If not now, it’ll still be waiting for me tomorrow or next week.”

  My words sounded a w
hole lot braver than I felt.

  Richard opened the bedroom door. The sun had disappeared behind the trees, leaving the room gloomy with shadows. Because I was prepared, whatever loomed inside did not reach out for me. I took a steadying breath and entered. The furniture was mahogany, just as I remembered it from glimpses years before. A faint odor of fresh paint still clung to the off-white walls. The new carpet was beige wall-to-wall. The room was pleasant, neutral, with absolutely no soul of its own. I stood in the center and concentrated. Murmuring voices echoed. Something that wasn’t from the here and now?

  “Well?” Richard asked.

  I cocked my head, listening. “I hear something. Like voices behind a wall.” I walked around the room and paused at a highboy, ran my hand across the top. The dread grew stronger, threatening to choke me.

  Bright light flared behind me.

  I whirled to find the shadows replaced by morning sunlight flooding through the windows. The rose-colored cabbage-flowered wallpaper was back. Mrs. Alpert stood in the doorway where Richard had been only moments before. Dressed in a drab wool skirt, with a crisp white blouse under a navy sweater, she looked like an ancient, stern librarian. She leaned on the cane in her right hand; in her left she clutched a piece of paper. Her bloodshot eyes bulged in anger; her paper-white skin was wrinkled ten years beyond what I’d ever seen.

  “What is this?” she nearly screamed, her thin voice shrill in the virtual silence.

  I turned to see what she was looking at. Old Mr. Alpert stood in front of his closet, fastening a cardigan, his skeletal, heavily veined hands fumbling with the buttons.

  “None of your business,” he said, and closed the door.

  “You bought her flowers, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. It’s the least I can do for her now. Goodness knows I should’ve done more for her in life.”

  “How dare you say that to me? She took my boy. She stole him!”

  “And you stole her child.”

  Dizziness rolled over me as I realized who and what they were arguing about.

  The scene wavered, images colliding like a double-exposure. I could just make out Richard standing where I’d left him in the open doorway. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.