Design on a Crime (25 page)

When I got home, I was so deep in thought that I paid no
attention to what I was doing. I stabbed myself with my sewing scissors. Blood poured from the gash, and I realized how
deep and long the cut was.

It hurt.

I needed medical attention, but I hated hospitals with a
passion. I'd spent a miserable week in one after the rape, and
the memories were bleak and haunting.

No matter how I felt, I had to get to a doctor soon. And no
way could I drive like this. Dad's car wasn't in the driveway.
He wasn't at the church either.

I looked up and down the street. Pavarotti's distinctive
tenor soared from Bella's open windows. On my way over, I
wondered where her monster cat was.

She answered the doorbell on the second bong. "Haley!
What'd you do to yourself?"

"My scissors got me. I need a favor. Could you drive
me-"

"Awwwright! Always wanted to drive an ambulance. Get
in my car, and I'll get you there in a flash."

She wanted the hospital, but it was my hand, after all. I
won that battle, but she won the other one-as we burned
rubber out of her driveway, she clamped a magnetic cherry
light to the top of her 1965 vintage pink Caddy.

I clung to the door handle for dear life. When we hit a
straight stretch, I called old Doc Cowan, the man who had
delivered me. "Can you sew me up in the office?"

"How soon can you get here?"

"I'm a block away."

"I'll be waiting."

Bella pouted about the doctor's office. I knew she cared
about my hand, but I knew her too well. She wanted the
drama of the emergency room, the nurses and aides running
to my rescue, the rush of flying down the hall to a curtaindraped cubicle. Never mind that I wasn't anywhere near
death.

Doc Cowan shook his head when he saw my hand. "What
have you been up to, Haley girl?"

I told him about my day. But only the good parts. It helped
pass the time until the local anesthetic took hold. Then as he
embroidered my hand, I mentioned Gussie's miscarriage.

"That was sad," he said. "She was distraught. What's worse
is that she tore inside and nearly bled to death. Then she didn't
heal right. That's why she never had another child. It's common knowledge. Has been since it happened."

Another loss for Gussie, this one of a dream.

Doc shook his head. "I've wondered a time or two what
kind of results we might have had if today's technology had
been available."

"Do you think you could have saved the baby?"

"Maybe not the infant, but we might have preserved her
fertility. It affected her entire life, changed her completely.
She reacted with strange, unacceptable behavior for a while.
It nearly ruined her marriage too."

"But Tom's devoted to her!"

"True. But a man can only take so much trouble at one time.
He blamed himself for the miscarriage. Then too, Gussie's
antics reached the point where she had to come to her senses
or one of them was going to land in jail."

"Gussie took up a life of crime?"

'Ah ... listen to me. I'm running off at the mouth like
some old biddy who's got nothing better to do than gossip
her time away."

"No, really, Doc. Did Gussie break the law?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because it might explain how she understands my fears."
And more. "You know the police think I killed Marge, don't
you?"

"What a load of manure! I couldn't believe it when I read
the paper." Doc snipped the suture thread, tossed the needle
into a hazardous waste can, then stripped his gloves and did
the same. "Don't cops have more sense than that?"

"That's what I've said from the start." But the last few days
and two wily brunettes had taught me much. "Don't change
the subject, Doc. Did Gussie get in trouble with the law?"

"It was minor stuff, but yes. She had a brush with the law
at the time-you can go check old police records."

"Poor Gussie. But you know? She's done pretty well over
time."

Doc smiled. "You're right. And after the rheumatoid arthri tis hit, we've seen what she's really made of. She's become
an admirable woman."

At least I'd given her some measure of comfort. "Thanks,
Doc. I appreciate all you've done for me."

"No problem, Haley girl. Just be careful you don't soak
that hand for a couple of days. I want to see it again next
Thursday. And if it gets hot or-"

"If the skin around the wound turns red or gets hot, I need
to call you right away. You'll check it out, decide if it's infected
or not, and prescribe an antibiotic if it is. I know the drill.
Remember, Mom was a nurse."

"One of the best too." He handed me a prescription for a
painkiller, even though we both knew I wouldn't fill it. "Just
in case."

"See ya."

"Take better care of yourself, will you?"

"I'll try, Doc. I'll give it my best."

On the way home, I let Bella chatter. I offered an occasional
"Uh-huh" and a couple of "No way!"s and that did the job.
She was happy, and I got a chance to sift through the sludge
in my head.

I wasn't the only one with tragedy in my past. And I had
no more right to my pent-up rage than the next person did.

I was glad they'd made me see Tedd.

I don't do invalid. So while I channel surfed and found
nothing to watch, my mind did overtime on what I'd learned
so far. For the first time since the murder, something rivaled
it for first place in my thoughts.

What had Gussie done? I couldn't see her as a bank rob ber, cat burglar, or jaywalker, for goodness' sake. What law
had she broken?

No matter what loony scenario I cooked up, I couldn't fit
her in the starring role. Except for one. One I didn't like.

I'd have to ask Dad about it, and even though he'd balk at
discussing a parishioner's past, this could affect my future.

I've never been a patient woman, and today that failure made
me nuts. What was keeping Dad so late at church? Well, he
was actually five minutes late. I am impatient. When his steps
finally sounded on the porch, I rushed to open the door.

"Haley!" He saw the massive gauze mitt Doc had lashed
on me. "What happened?"

I'd almost forgotten my accident. "Oh, it's nothing. I cut
myself with some scissors, and you know Doc. He went to
town on the bandage thing."

Dad's eyes narrowed. "Yes, dear, I do know Doc. That looks
a lot like something to me. How many stitches?"

Since I hadn't asked, I couldn't answer. "Dunno. Some, but
it doesn't hurt." Much.

My father shook his head. "Is this why you felt the need
to greet me like that?"

I blushed. "Ah ... no."

How was I going to lead up to my questions without upsetting him again? After all, I'd done so spectacularly well with
the stolen statue bit.

"I have to talk to you, and it's important. I've learned some
things that might help clear me."

A frown lined his brow. "I don't like the sound of this."

'And you won't like my questions either, but I need the
answers, Dad. I'm not kidding around."

"Okay, Haley. At least let me sit down." He took his favorite
armchair, and I took Mom's rocker. "What's it about?"

"It's about Gussie, Dad." At his incredulous look, I hurried
to add, "It's not some crazy idea. Gussie said something today,
and then Doc added to it. They got me thinking."

"A dangerous proposition with you."

"Just tell me this. Did Gussie turn into a kleptomaniac after
she miscarried?"

My father looked as though I'd punched him. "You know I
can't break a parishioner's confidence. I'm Gussie's pastor."

"But you're my father, and I've a lot at stake."

"You think Gussie stole the statue."

"I don't know, but she could have."

"And if she did, what does it mean?"

"I don't know, Dad, but that statue gives me the willies.
I can't tell you more, because that's all I know. I just have a
strong feeling that Marge's murder and the statue are connected. I just don't know how."

"I've never done this, Haley. I'm only doing it because I'm
afraid of what you might do to get your answer."

I went to argue, but he stopped me.

"You wanted my answer, didn't you?" When I nodded,
he said, "Then, yes. Gussie stole little things here and there.
People grew suspicious, but because she's such a favorite,
they gave her the benefit of the doubt. Then she was caught
with a quart of cooking oil from the supermarket. The owner
agreed not to press charges if she got help."

"Cooking oil? That's crazy."

"No, it's typical. Kleptomaniacs don't steal out of need but
from an inner hunger. What they take isn't the issue."

"So did she? Get help, I mean."

"Yes, she chose to meet with me rather than a psychologist." Dad averted his gaze. "She knew only God could help
her heal."

His refusal to meet my gaze said more than a dictionary's
worth of words could. He felt I should do the same, turn to God,
but I wasn't Gussie, even though we both knew painful loss.

I stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked up.
Tears filled his eyes.

"Thanks, Dad," I choked out. Then I ran upstairs.

I didn't know what the new information meant.

"So stress can trigger kleptomania?" I said to Tedd three
days later.

"That's the usual trigger, yes."

"Any particular kind of stress?"

"Not really. Anything can trigger it in a person who's
predisposed."

"Tell me something else. Is it uncontrollable? Does the
person realize what they're doing is wrong and can't help
but steal? Or is the person so disturbed they no longer know
right from wrong?"

Tedd sighed. "It's not black and white. The answer lies
somewhere in the middle of all that. Most of the time, the
patient knows it's wrong, but the inner void hurts so much
that they go ahead and focus on the adrenaline rush that goes
with the theft to avoid the pain."

"So Gussie would have known what she did was wrong."

"Probably. Anyone with any conscience will struggle with
the compulsive aspect of kleptomania. In the end, though, they choose to commit the crime for the sake of the exhilaration that masks the pain for a while."

"But that means they'll wind up with a new kind of pain."

"We won't have to worry about kleptomania with you."
Tedd grinned. "That's the difference between you and someone in the grip of that problem."

"You mean Dad's right when he says that all crime-sin is
his preferred word-boils down to choice?"

"God's the one who said it. Your dad just repeated it."

"You don't give up, do you?"

"I'm not in the business of giving up."

"Okay, okay. I'm seeing a connection between Gussie's loss
and her lousy choice. Maybe what I need is to find someone
who blames a loss on Marge. Then I'll know who chose to
kill her."

"That's one possibility."

"Then that would point to either Ozzie or Dutch. But I
can't figure out how Dutch would blame Marge for the loss
of his reputation."

"Okay ...if

"I don't see where either Noreen or Steve would have blamed
Marge for any loss. Neither lost anything until after she died."

"Unless Steve was trying to end things with Noreen."

"I don't think Noreen's that much in love with Steve."

"Love might not have anything to do with it. Love doesn't
necessarily lead to possessiveness."

"But where would the statue come in if one of them did
it?"

"Where does the statue come in with Ozzie? Or don't you
think the statue's important anymore?"

I dropped my head back against the chair. "I don't know.
Every time I learn something new, everything else gets
muddier."

"Tell you what," Tedd said. I sat up, hungry for help. "Why
don't you talk to Ozzie? I don't think you ever did."

"You're right. The offices were vandalized when I got there.
I wonder if Karate Chop Cop found out who broke in."

"You might want to ask her."

I checked my watch. "Since my session's over, I think I'll head
to the warehouse. And maybe I'll give the detective a call."

"Sounds like a plan." Tedd walked me to the door. "But be
careful, Haley. This isn't a game."

A knot lodged in my throat. "I know, Tedd. I know too
well."

But that seemed about all I really knew. Odd snippets floated
in my thoughts, but there was nothing I could grab, nothing
that gelled. I gave up trying to chase them and thought about
the questions I had for Ozzie.

All I had to do, however, was mention the partnership to
him. Ozzie answered like a broken dam.

"It simply wasn't fair, Miss ... er ... Haley. I made a mistake-one mistake fifteen years ago. All that time Marge held
it over my head."

"That doesn't sound like Marge."

"Marge was many different women," Ozzie answered in an
angry voice. "She could hold a grudge forever, and she did."

"Why don't you tell me what you did? I won't discuss it
with anyone, but it's only fair that I know, since I'm supposed
to be the new owner of all this."

Ozzie came out from behind his desk, his face pale, his
expression strained. "You must understand what I was up
against. My wife's cancer had advanced to where she suffered unbearable pain. I had to give her the best I could.
And that kind of care cost more than I made working for
Marge."

Was this about yet another bad choice?

He gestured toward the door that led to the warehouse. "I
know a great deal about antiques. Anyone who does can doctor a piece to make it look authentic. The difference in price
between a good replica and the real thing is astounding, and
the work involved is minimal."

"Oh, Ozzie. You faked some pieces for the money."

"I'm not proud of it, but I also don't know that I would
act differently given the same circumstances. My desperation in the face of Laura's suffering was more than I can
describe."