Dead Man Falls (29 page)

"Why, I can’t just run off and leave Jolene like this," Mother said, batting her eyes in my direction and not meaning a single word or flutter. "I’m sure this has all been real upsetting for her."

Oh, please. I wasn’t upset and she wouldn’t care if I were. All she wanted to do was wheedle me into giving her a graceful and expedient exit. She didn’t give a hoot about what was in the damn box or if it blew me to smithereens--good grief, now she had me saying it. Commingling with Fritz was the priority of the moment. Oh, fine. "Fritz is right, Mother. There’s nothing to worry about. You two go on." Run along. Bye-bye. Adios. "If we find out anything important," that concerns you even a little bit, "Jerry can let you know."

After Lucille and her beau flew--do not believe that seventy-year-olds cannot move like winged creatures when they want to--out the door, Jerry picked up the clock and held it out to me again, back side up. "Mean anything to you?"

A slip of paper with the words "Time to Face the Music" scrawled in blocky print was taped to the back. "Just the generic ‘time to pay’ connotation. And since it’s to me, I assume it’s time for me to pay for something I’ve done." A sick sort of feeling swished around in my stomach. "Well, I guess we can assume that our killer sent the box." Actually, that had been the assumption from the beginning, but I’d done a fine job of ignoring the realities of it. "Wonder if the other victims got a box?"

"Nothing like this was found at the houses," Rick said, matter-of-factly. He kept digging and pulling out packages. "We’ve got maybe a dozen wrapped items. All are wrapped in the Sunday comics except one."

Jerry set the clock back on the table and grabbed a brick-sized item wrapped in yellow tissue paper. Across the top, the same blocky print had inked out "JOLENE."

Seeing the writing sent another shiver through me, but, of course, I tried to pretend it hadn’t. "Time to face the music" sounded like a threat to me, and the yellow brick box would logically take things to the next level.

"Seriously, Jerry, maybe we shouldn’t open it. For all we know it really could explode or shoot something out at us. It might even be filled with poison tree frogs that would sweat us to death. Or do they spit? I don’t recall." He gave me "that look" again. "Hey, if I don’t think of these things, who will?"

Jerry did not answer, just slowly loosened pieces of masking tape from the sides and back of a package and slid the paper away until he had uncovered a black enamel box. The top of the shiny rectangular box was inlaid with pieces of mother-of-pearl in the shape of a rose.

"It’s beautiful," I murmured.

"That’ll hold finger prints we could read with our eyes," Rick said. "Open it, but go easy."

Jerry set the black box on the table and used the blade of his pocket knife to gently lift the lid. Tinny notes tinkled out, and it didn’t take long for the tune of "Feelings" to become recognizable.

We all groaned, but only for a second because that was about the time it took us to see there was a folded sheet of paper tucked in the bottom, again with my name on it.

Jerry lifted it out and handed it to Rick. I didn’t protest because I was busy shaking and trying not to look scared.

He unfolded the paper and read aloud:

"Dear Jolene,

If I am not dead by the time you receive this, I expect to be very shortly. Congestive heart failure. It’s hell getting old. I sent you this because no matter how much you hate me, you’ll do the right thing.

I sent letters to some of those that I wronged, but most of them came back, including yours, which is why this box went to your mother’s house.

For what it is worth, I never worked at another school after Kickapoo High. My wife divorced me right after your class graduated and I have not seen her since. We had no children so there was no reason.

I did have a child, though, with a friend of yours. I’m completely to blame. I’d have done the right thing if I’d known about it sooner. I tried to find her through the years, but no luck. There is an envelope for her.

Did find out that my ex-wife. Nadine took back her maiden name and is living in Redwater. Her letter never came back so I figure that slate’s clean. Same for Sharon Addleman. That was the woman for me, but I was too distracted by you girls to see it.

Please see that my son or daughter gets the enclosed packages.

Should you meet my friend Red White, please treat him kindly as he is trying to help me with this endeavor as well.

Regards,

Willard J. Pollock

P.S. I picked out the music box especially for you.

Pollock. Boom. Just like that he could make me furious and sick all at the same time. And there was no doubt that the letter was from him. The blocky bold script that had signed my graduation certificate and numerous other school things was hard to forget.

"Feelings," I sputtered. "He sent me a damn box that plays that stupid song. I’ll give him feelings, the sorry bastard."

I must have not looked so well because Rick shoved a chair back from the table with his knee and Jerry guided me to it with his elbows. I realized these little details only after I was sitting down and watching them hold their gloved hands in the air like surgeons.

Neither of the men knew what to say, and really what could they? Willard Pollock had once again left us speechless.

The arrogance. The nerve. Pollock admitted to fathering a child with "my friend." Rhonda was anything but my friend so he’d deliberately put that phrasing in there as another dig at me. "As if he hasn’t made enough people miserable already. What an ass."

The news that Sharon Addleman, the supposed English teacher, was "the one for him" was quite a shocker. Of course, that kind of explained why she couldn’t bother herself with lesson plans or actually teaching a class. Between getting herself worked up with romance novels and finding ways to play out her fantasies with the principal, there was darned little time for much else. It also explained why she didn’t get fired. I couldn’t help but wonder if the ex-Mrs. Pollock had known about that particular dalliance.

"Does this mean Pollock’s our killer?"

We all thought about that one for a few minutes, each of us running through the possibilities. Other than his old carnal activity with Rhonda and the immediate "time to face the music" thing with me, there didn’t seem to be much else.

Rick lifted a package from the box and peeled back the paper on a bright-red fire truck. "It looks like these are just what he said--toys for the kid." He dug around some more then came up with a white envelope. "Guess we better open this one."

I didn’t have on rubber gloves and I didn’t care. I snatched the envelope and turned it face up. "Rhonda."

Jerry pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the table. He used his pocket knife to slit open the envelope then tossed it back to me. "All yours."

The letter was, as expected, an apology--of sorts. He didn’t come right out and say "Sorry I got you pregnant and left you to deal with it alone," but he did emphasize he wished he’d have known about the pregnancy sooner so he could have helped her "fix" the problem. He wasn’t clear on when--or how--he’d learned of his fatherhood, but it was clear that Rhonda was long gone from Kickapoo. What else did he know, or not? Not the gender of the child, or so it seemed from his letter to me.

"Pollock just sent that box to annoy me," I said, frustrated with the addition of more tidbits that didn’t clarify anything. "He can’t really think I’ll try to track down his kid for him."

Rick pulled off his gloves and stood. "I’m going to call in and see if anything’s come back from the lab."

I didn’t know specifically what information Rick wanted from the lab, but that would just give me more details to confuse me. I couldn’t keep up with what we had. While Rick was in the living room making his call, I asked Jerry if he remembered what the note said that Calvin had supposedly given to Russell.

He nodded. "According to that note, Pollock wanted to settle up. That didn’t set well with Calvin. For one reason or another, he didn’t want Pollock to find out about Rhonda and her son."

"That’s what I thought. Boy. Rhonda and Pollock had a son?" "Or is Calvin referring to Harley?"

"Maybe." I pondered the significance of that for a moment. "She could have had a son with Pollock too. Did Calvin know Rhonda was pregnant in high school?"

"It’s possible," Jerry said. "But I don’t know how we’ll find out, unless maybe he said something to Russell."

"Russell is not particularly forthcoming with specifics." I did another quick run-through of details. "Calvin could have known. He and Rhonda were in the photography club together. Remember that photo?"

"The clubs weren’t much, that I recall," Jerry said. "I don’t know how often they even met. But if Calvin knew Rhonda was pregnant because they were in the club together, we have to say that Sharon Addleman could have been aware as well."

"And she’d have been really pissed about it if she knew Pollock was responsible." I ran my hands over my face. "If she knew."

"The guy at the morgue is Reddan White," Rick said, walking into the kitchen. "Not Willard Pollock. The address on White’s driver’s license is, however, the same as on this box."

"Pollock wrote the address on here," Jerry said, tapping the box. "We’re sure of that."

Rick nodded. "Right, the boxy script is nothing like the small, compact, loopy signature on Red White’s drivers license. Not the same guy."

Jerry strummed his hands on the table. "All we can say for certain is that Pollock used Red White’s return address when he shipped the box."

"I’ve got a guy on the phone with Abilene right now," Rick said. "We’re having a local unit check out the address, see if anyone’s there now."

Jerry and I both bobbed our heads hopefully, although I’m not sure what we were hoping for. We were also both looking at Detective Rick with a bit of apprehension.

Rick’s eyes darted around the room and his cheek twitched, giving the distinct impression that he had more to say--and we weren’t going to like it. As further confirmation, he slumped down in a chair, propped his chin in his hands and stared at the butcher-block Formica. "I have some bad news."

"Who’s dead now?" I said, with resignation rather than sarcasm, although I guess it sounded about the same.

"Nobody, that I know of." Rick sighed. "This sort of thing doesn’t normally happen in our department, in fact it’s never happened before." He shot me a little glare. "Despite what you think, Jolene, we really do have a highly trained and effective police force."

Had I said otherwise--lately? No, I had not, and I didn’t have to say it now either because Rick looked worried enough already. There had obviously been a screw-up--big one--and he fully expected me to make some snide remark about it. Imagine. Well, I’d try not to, really I would.

Beach Boy sighed again, hard, then finally said, "Somehow, in the confusion of finding another body and the call about the purported bomb, well, um, it seems that our, um, witness apparently left the station."

Witness? Left?

Jerry sighed heavily, but said nothing.

It took me a few seconds to figure out who the witness was, but when I did, I was not at a loss for words. "You lost Russell Clements! That’s too much, even for Redwater Falls. He had a dead man in his trunk, for godsakes!"

Jerry shifted in his chair and leaned toward me, ready to intervene if I decided to take my frustration out on Surfer Dude’s throat. It was a definite possibility. "It was a mistake, Jolene," he said evenly, trying not to sound as disgusted as I felt. "Things happen sometimes."

Yes, things happen, strange things, and with alarming regularity here in this particular part of the world. "So," I said, my sarcasm now fully in gear, "he just walked out of the police station and nobody said anything, except maybe ‘Have a nice day, Bubba’?"

"The best we can tell," Rick said, ignoring my clever remarks, "Russell had been sitting at a desk with one of the officers, going over his statement. A woman came in asking for him about the same time we got the calls on Red White and the box. Things got a little chaotic and the officer stepped away..." Rick shrunk down in the chair further and frowned. "Clements wasn’t under arrest or anything right then," he said, defensively. "He left before we even knew it was his car."

"Oh, sure, Rick, we understand," I said. "Jerry and I are the only ones left on the list to take a bullet between the eyes and the Redwater police department loses a guy who had a dead body in his trunk. No big deal."

Detective Rick just sat there with his lower lip stuck out in an "it wasn’t my fault" pose. The look was reminiscent of my kids during their unruly childhood when a piece of furniture had been mutilated beyond recognition, and yet no one at all was to blame. And yes, as ridiculous as it sounds, I considered Detective Rick a kid. In reality Surfer Dude was closer to my age than my children’s, but he was a still a kid, probably because he didn’t have any of his own. Makes a world of difference.

"Quit pouting, detective, before I’m tempted to ground you or take away your Nintendo or something."

He looked up at me with the appropriate adolescent scowl, then collected himself and tried to pretend he was an adult. I tried to do the same.

Jerry tapped his fingers on the table for a long moment. "Do we know if Clements actually left with the woman who came in?"

Rick nodded yes so I added my two cents. "Do we have a description?"

"About five-foot-eight, dark hair pulled up in a bun thing at the back." Rick sat up a little taller. "She was wearing an ankle-length floral dress and dark glasses. She did a lot of hand wringing and seemed real nervous. Good enough, Jolene?"

Darned good, in fact. I shrugged. "A name would be nice," I added--just because.

"Losing Clements was unfortunate," Jerry said, cutting me off from whatever tangent might have occurred to me next. "But if you look at what we have, there’s nothing that really points to him as the killer."