Blessed Is the Busybody (12 page)

I locked up behind me and took the steps down to the yard.

Somebody stepped from behind the nearest shrub and grabbed my arm.

The sound I made should have shattered the parish house windows.

“Hey, cut it out!” The voice was menacing. The man was Rico Marina.

I shook loose, although more accurately I shook and he finally let me go. I took two steps backwards, unfortunately out of the direct light cast by the security lamppost at the parking lot’s edge.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. “You scared me to death.”

The last part didn’t seem to bother him. “I’ve been following you.”

“Well, that’s reassuring. Now I feel a lot better about this.” I looked around. The car that had been parked there was gone, and the lot was completely deserted. Worse, from this angle, all I could see of the parsonage was a row of overgrown lilacs.

I thrust my shoulders back and glared. “My husband knows where I am, and if I don’t get home in a minute or two, he’s going to come looking for me.”

“Well, if you don’t answer my questions, he’s not going to find you.” He snarled the words with finesse, as if he’d been practicing.

I should have been more scared than I was. For all I knew, this man might have murdered his wife and left her for me to find. But Rico seemed more angry than menacing. And unless he was the oddest kind of serial killer, there seemed very little to gain from murdering me when he was probably a suspect in Jennifer’s murder.

“What kind of questions?” My knees were shaking, but I straightened even more and locked them in place. “And why stalk me? Why didn’t you simply use the telephone or knock on my door?”

Rico was dressed in black again. I wondered if he’d had his colors done and someone had told him he was a “winter.” I wished I could remind him that red or royal blue were good choices, as well, if less intimidating.

My question seemed to perplex him, as if approaching this in such a normal way was completely out of his frame of reference. “You wouldn’t talk to me,” he said at last.

“I’m talking to you now when I could be screaming for help. What’s on your mind?”

“Jenny’s body was found on your porch, right?”

“ ’Fraid so. I was the one who found her.”

“Why you?”

“Because I was the first one to go to the door after somebody dropped her there.”

“You’re saying you don’t know anything about it but that?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“You must have an opinion.”

“Not yet.”

“So why were you nosing around Don’t Go There? Keely says you were asking questions. You showed up at the funeral.”

“A dead woman turned up on my porch. Try to put yourself in my position. I’d like to know why. I’d like to be sure nobody else ends up there. I’d like to be sure my family is safe. Is this making sense to you?”

“So what did Jenny tell you?”

For a moment I just stared at him, although I was sure that was not the best of approaches. His scowl deepened as I gazed at him. I shook my head. “I never spoke to your wife. The only time I ever saw Jennifer Marina was when she was already dead.”

“I don’t believe that. I want to know what she told you.”

“She wasn’t exactly talking, Rico. She . . . was . . . dead. And you won’t find one person anywhere in this town who ever saw me talking to her because I never did.”

He stepped closer. I had to steel myself not to step back farther into the shadows. “She told you about her family, didn’t she?”

“Dead,” I repeated. “She was
dead.
And that’s the first time anyone has mentioned her family to me. What family?”

He cocked his head. “I’m not getting the answers I want, lady.”

His brows had knit into one angry line. I felt a thrill of alarm. “I’m a really rotten liar. Nobody tells lies worse than I do. I could try lying to you now, if that’s what you want, but you’d see right through me.”

He took another step and I held up my hand. “One step closer, buster, and I’m going to scream loud enough to bring everybody in the neighborhood running.”

“That won’t be necessary.” A man stepped out from the side of the building. “Get away from her, Marina. Now.”

I darted a glance in the newcomer’s direction. Detective Sergeant Roussos. Under any circumstances he would be a pleasure to behold. Under these, something of a miracle.

My knees unfolded and began to knock.

“I want to know what happened to my wife,” Rico said. The menace in his voice had cranked down to a whine. “I thought maybe, you know, she knows more than she’s saying.”

“Do you want to swear out a complaint?” Roussos asked me. “Harassment for starters?”

I looked at Rico and felt some distant cousin of compassion. From all accounts, Rico Marina had abused his wife and lost custody of children he didn’t want. But I had sensed—call me an optimist—a nugget of concern for Jennifer in his questions. Sure, he was a bully, and not a very smart bully at that, but somewhere deep in this man’s psyche was a flicker of love for the woman who had died.

“No,” I said. “Of course if he ever comes within ten feet of me again, I’ll be at the station in a heartbeat.”

Roussos grimaced and shook his head. “Bleeding heart liberals.”

“Nope. First sign of blood I’ll swear out a warrant.”

Roussos fingered the lapel of Rico’s jacket. “We’re looking at you for the murder, Marina. I’d be careful. I’d be on my best behavior.” He released him.

I knew Marina was about to take off. “What family were you talking about?” I asked him.

Now Roussos was scowling at me, but I ignored him. “If you’re talking about your kids, Keely told me they’re in Pennsylvania.” My maternal genes were in an uproar. “If they’re here, who’s taking care of them?”

Rico looked confused, but he covered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You asked me if Jennifer had told me about her family.”

Roussos was the one to answer. “He’s talking about the Cobras,” he said. “They call themselves a family. A real perversion of the word.”

“The Cobras?”

Rico rose to the bait. “Yeah, the Cobras. You got a problem with that? Jenny rode with them. And that lowlife Sax Dubinsky, too.”

I was trying to imagine how a gang of thugs had ever represented family to Jennifer Marina. Had her life been so sad, so devoid of love, that she had settled for this?

“
Lowlife
is the right word for all of them,” Roussos said.

“Yeah? Well, they’re everywhere you look. No town in America they haven’t invaded. Hell, I hear your mayor’s brother rode with them for a while. Nobody’s safe who gets in their way. Look behind you, there’s a Cobra standing there. That’s where you should be looking for her murderer.”

Roussos didn’t look impressed. “Tell you what, I’m going to look behind me, and when I turn my head again, you’d better be gone. Got it?”

Rico shrugged and took off around the building.

“The mayor’s brother?” I asked, once Rico was well and truly gone.

“Half brother.”

I struggled to recall why the mention of Browning Kefauver’s half brother rang a bell. Then I remembered. Lucy had told me that Brownie’s half brother had rented the house across the street while he was waiting to move to Dallas.

The house where Jennifer had been murdered or at least taken afterwards.

Half bro had been a Cobra. The Cobras were a family, dysfunctional as all get-out, but still with strong ties. Lucy had said half bro had given his key to our uptight mayor to oversee the moving of his furniture, but who was to say that he hadn’t made a copy first and passed it on to one of his Cobra buddies? Maybe somebody had needed a place to crash, or hold orgies. Someone like Sax Dubinsky.

“You know,” I started, “the mayor’s half brother—”

“Lived in the house across the street for a few months. I get it. We’ve already checked. He claims he never gave out a copy of the key to his motorcycle pals. Said they would have trashed the place. Besides, nothing hinges on a key.”

“According to a friend who, umm, knows about these things, locks are the only things the owners have spent any money on. She says the backdoor is like Fort Knox. And the front is in plain view of Church Street. There wasn’t any sign of forced entry, was there?”

Roussos ran a hand through his mop of dark curls. “You are thinking too much. With thinking comes action. No more action, okay? Wasn’t tonight enough?”

“Hey, I didn’t ask Rico to stalk me. I was over here getting a power strip for my daughter’s computer.” I held it up as evidence.

“And I suppose you were at Don’t Go There the other night to convert sinners?”

I bristled. “Can you think of a better place?”

“Mrs. Wilcox, back off. We’ll find out who murdered Jennifer Marina. But it will be easier if you stay away and let us do our job. I don’t want to worry about protecting you.”

“What were you doing here tonight, anyway? I’m fairly sure you’re not following
me,
waiting to play guardian angel.”

He didn’t answer. I answered for him. “You were following Rico, weren’t you? You think he’s the murderer.”

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“There are no laws against using my brain, are there?”

I could swear there was the faintest glint of approval in his eyes, although his words belied it. “Stay out of this. I can’t say it any more clearly.”

I was sure this was good advice. I was equally sure I wasn’t going to take it.

8

The first time I saw Emerald Springs I had a moment of recognition, a déjà vu experience, if you will. As a child following Junie coast to coast from craft show to Renaissance Fair, Emerald Springs was the kind of town where I always dreamed we would put down roots.

We weren’t on the move every day. There were lengthy sojourns in cities from Maine to California while Junie worked on her inventory. Junie has been married five times, and although I’ve forgotten some of the names of my stepfathers, I’ve never forgotten the states where we lived with them. Sid’s dad was Georgia. The next stepfather was Iowa—a particularly short-lived relationship since Junie missed hills and mountains. My mother’s standards are her own.

Now, of course, I see the benefit of all this travel. Junie is a good mother, although completely unorthodox. The husbands were decent men. Whatever trauma we suffered each time we were uprooted was balanced somewhat by Junie’s ability to make a home anywhere, her desire to give us the broadest education possible, her genuine love for each of us.

Still, to offset all those moves and parading stepfathers, I dreamed of a town like the one where I am now—at least temporarily—planted.

In some ways, Emerald Springs is the American Dream. Population: just large enough for decent schools and small enough for individual attention for our children. Climate: too cold for killer bees but warm enough to swim in surrounding lakes in July. Geography: sky, old hardwood trees, and at the outskirts, the beginning of rolling hills that eventually give way to picturesque Amish farms. Location: close enough to both Cleveland and Columbus for culture, shopping, and glimpses of diversity. Special Attractions: warm mineral springs discovered in the early nineteenth century with a sprawling old hotel and spa that attracts small conferences and tourists who trickle in to spend a dime or two in our fair city. Also a small liberal arts college with an excellent reputation. Economy: not so great, but the citizens of Emerald Springs make an attempt to take care of their own. Politics . . .

Well, no town is perfect.

The citizens of Emerald Springs are suspicious of strangers, of new ideas, of progress in almost any form. At the same time they are generous, ardent about the things they believe, and, reluctantly, capable of change. The result is a local government run by officials who must carefully analyze cultural standards and gently, slowly nudge to get things done. The good officials make an art form of nudging. The bad ones only analyze and regurgitate whatever they think the voters want to hear.

Browning Kefauver epitomizes the worst of these. When the stork dropped the infant Brownie into the Kefauver chimney, Baby Brownie probably measured the width, the buildup of soot, and whether the bricks had been recently repointed so he would know, without a doubt, where he had landed and what angle to play. Since that historic moment, Brownie has never stopped trying to figure out what to say to keep everybody happy.

Today, on my first morning at Book Gems, Brownie, a small, balding man with protruding ears, had decided that giving interviews to the media outside the bookstore’s front entrance was the best way to go.

I had walked to work, one of the charms of this job. In a move to make Emerald Springs even more attractive and quaint, the city council spent big bucks this summer tearing up our concrete sidewalks and paving them with bricks. New planters, recently sown with chrysanthemums and pansies, dot the curb and sturdy saplings divide each block into thirds. I had enjoyed my stroll right up until the moment I heard chanting around the next corner.

I did not kid myself that the Hare Krishnas had invaded.

I made the turn and saw Brownie waxing profoundly for WQFT, the college radio station. Behind him were half a dozen picketers with signs and half a dozen more marching beside them. Having witnessed any number of protests on Washington’s Mall or the steps of the Capitol, I’m a connoisseur of protest signs. These were pathetic. No rhyme, no play on words, no interesting fonts or graphics. Just Ban Pornography and Save Our Children, hand-lettered on poster board and taped hurriedly on yardsticks. I was tempted to organize an adult ed class right there on the spot.

One of the picketers spotted me, and broke ranks to come and greet me. “Mrs. Wilcox. You’ve come to join us?”

The man holding out his hand to me was the minister of an independent church half a mile from ours. The Reverend Cal Perkins was far more conservative than Ed, but I never would have expected to find him picketing a bookstore.

“Umm . . .” I took his hand. “I work here. It’s my first day.”

Cal’s eyes widened. He has a scrawny build, prominent bulbous nose, and a thick head of hair combed straight back from a widow’s peak, televangelist style. I’ve heard that his sermons last an hour and get steadily louder until his closing words can be heard on the next block.

“You work here?” Cal sounded stunned.

“Well, I will if your good friends let me through the front door.”

“Do you kn-ow what kind of lit-er-at-ure you will be selling?”

“Sure.” I left it at that.

“Do you understand the evils of pornography?”

I was beginning to get ticked. “Do you understand the evils of suppressing the First Amendment?”

“Surely you don’t advocate the kind of filth for sale in there. You have children!”

“And my children won’t be allowed in the adult section any more than yours will be. For Pete’s sake, the bookstores you shop in offer the same stuff, just not in a separate room. We’re not talking hardcore. You’ve heard of D. H. Lawrence?” When he looked blank I tried again. “Are you planning to ban Harlequin Romances next? How about the Song of Solomon? That’s pretty hot stuff. Do you let your children read the Bible?”

“I can see talking to you won’t make a difference.”

“You’re a man of some judgment after all.” I moved past him and toward the door. I am not a fan of pornography, but by the standards of almost any community this was not what Bob was selling. Racy, yes. Too explicit for many tastes. Certainly not appropriate for children. But wasn’t that the point of separating the sexy stuff from everything else?

I passed Brownie and the young reporter getting the interview. The girl, twenty at most, looked as if she needed a nap. Brownie’s signature bow tie was bobbing to the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple.

I’m not sure what came over me. I leaned over her shoulder as I passed. “Ask him if he’s ever ridden with the Cobras,” I whispered in the direction of her ear. Then, smiling my way past the chanting protestors, I made it through the front door.

I had stopped by Book Gems for a tour two days ago. The store was small but impressive. Bob and two other employees had stocked most of the shelves, arranged easy chairs at the ends of rows, designated a children’s corner, and set up four round tables in another corner beside a tiny coffee bar. The infamous room in the back was only about eight by eight feet, with narrow shelves hanging from three walls. It was sparsely stocked. There were no Nazis, naked teenagers, or Great Danes haunting magazine covers. I had noticed the newly revised
The Joy of Sex
and had to laugh. I had bought my own copy years ago at a chain bookstore.

Now Bob was behind the cash register with the wooden shades fronting Sparrow Street drawn tight. For once, the smoke wreathing his head was not from a cigarette. He was furious.

“I’ll have them arrested.”

“Can’t,” I pointed out. “Free speech, remember?”

“It’s restraint of trade. No one can get through the door.”

“I just did. They didn’t try to stop me.”

“Did you see our mayor out there?”

“I didn’t vote for him.”

“I’m ruined.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” I looked at my watch. “That’s WQFT out there interviewing him for their morning show. Everybody I know listens to it on their way to work or while they’re doing car pool or taking their morning jog.”

“So?”

“I believe they’ll come by to see what the excitement is all about. Free coffee for the opening makes sense to me. What do you think? And I suggest we make some and take it outside to the protestors, too, as a goodwill gesture.”

Bob looked as if he was trying to remember why he had hired me. Then slowly, as all the ramifications occurred to him, a smile bloomed. “Let me show you how to use the cappuccino machine.”

“Oh, that’s not a cappuccino crowd. The cappuccino folks will be here in about . . .” I glanced at my watch again. “Say thirty or forty minutes?”

“Plain old Colombian, then. Watered down. And flip the sign to Open.”

I won’t say the day was a roaring success. But neither was it the unqualified disaster we had feared. At any given time once we opened our doors—but not our blinds—there were as many people inside buying books as there were outside picketing.

I actually felt almost smug until lunchtime, when I was preparing to eat a veggie sausage sandwich. Bob had put me in charge of the children’s corner, and I had spent most of my time stocking and arranging books for the underage crowd. I’d made a list of more furnishings and props we needed, as well as gift items like stuffed animals and toys to go with the most popular picture books.

At noon, Bob pulled me into the stockroom and pointed to a television set in the corner. A stream of profanity followed. Bob can swear as well as read, I’ll give him that.

It took me a moment to figure out what the problem was. Then I realized I was watching State Senator Carlisle in front of the Emerald Springs Hotel and Spa.

“What’s he saying?” I leaned forward.

“He’s here for some conference. Listen.”

The interview was almost over, but I caught the gist of it. The senator was still a handsome man. Silver hair, olive skin, features that hadn’t blurred with age, in particular a strong Roman nose. He was waxing enthusiastically against the evils of pornography and the creeping tide of permissiveness in our society. A little sermon on school prayer. A diatribe against gay marriage. An esoteric quote from Revelations. A warning that we must all be vigilant.

“Sodom and Gomorrah started with less,” he finished. “We will not have Sodom and Gomorrah here.”

Bob strode to the television and flicked it off.

“Sodom and Gomorrah? Give me a break.” I couldn’t believe what I’d heard.

“You missed the part about murderers in our streets.”

Suddenly this was getting personal.

“It’s kind of a strange time for an interview,” I pointed out. “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“He gave it this morning! This is the second time it’s been aired. That damned interview will be on every local news program for the rest of the night.”

“Not so good.” I turned up my hands. “But now everyone who thinks the senator is a pompous, well, you know, will show up and buy books. We’ll be okay. You just have to tough it out until the excitement dies down.”

“Sodom and Gomorrah.” He shook his head. He looked like a man with a dying dream.

There are many fine vegetarian food products. I had not chosen one of them. The sandwich went in the garbage and I made do with a crumbling granola bar from the nether regions of my purse.

Apparently protestors need to eat, as well, because the noise from out front began to falter. Fewer voices yelled “Go back where you came from,” and “
Hell
is a four-letter word.” That last slogan actually made me smile. At least somebody out there had a sense of humor.

At one the chanting escalated with a vengeance. When Bob tried to show me yet again how to use the register and had to shout, I knew something had changed besides recently ingested carbohydrates.

“Shall I stick my head outside and see what’s up?” I asked. “Maybe they’re hoping for more coffee.”

Bob was so angry his hands were shaking. There’s nothing like shared misery to develop a friendship. I was beginning to like the guy, and I definitely felt sorry for him.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“Not a good idea. You’re too upset.”

“My store.”

“Maybe it will just die down. Why don’t we wait and see?”

But Bob was already halfway to the door, leaving me with a register that swore I had grossed half a million dollars on my last sale.

Bob was an adult, and I was fairly sure the chanters were harmless. Nevertheless, I followed unobtrusively. The moment he opened the door we were hit by a wall of sound. I had a flashback. I was walking up Pennsylvania Avenue in the Million Moms march.

I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me that Senator Carlisle would join forces with Brownie and Cal and all the local citizens who were sure that the existence of Book Gems portended a storm of fire and brimstone or maybe even the Rapture. But there he was, flanked by four men in dark suits, chanting with the rest of the crew as a reporter from the
Flow
snapped his photograph.

I wasn’t close enough on Bob’s heels to stop him. He charged through the crowd and grabbed the senator by the arm before the suits could intervene.

“What in the hell are you hoping to accomplish?” Bob demanded. “You’re supposed to be a representative of the law, and there’s nothing illegal in my store! You’re a damned politician, as corrupt as they come. What gives you the right to pass judgment on me?”