Eine Kleine Murder (15 page)

“I was sick for a minute, but it passed. I don't know what it is, but I've felt bad all day. Ever since, well, ever since I ate that cookie.”

“What cookie?”

“The woman next door gave me some cookies and I think there's something in them.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I'm sort of sick and there's a family with a bunch of little kids and all the kids are sick.”

“All of you from cookies?”

“Maybe.”

“I really am going to have to bring you some herbs.”

“Mr. Anders gave me some good tablets. I'm not actually throwing up anymore.”

“Who's Mr. Anders?”

“The druggist in Alpha. He's a good guy.”

“What do you think is in the cookies?”

“Eve, the neighbor who baked them, was chopping up rhubarb leaves in her kitchen. Some of them might have gotten into the cookies, and the leaves are poison.”

“Cressa, you should leave! Is someone trying to kill you?”

“No, she's just a crazy old lady, I think. Anyway, I have to stay here, police orders.”

“Maybe you should give some of Mr. Anders's medicine to those children.”

“Good idea.” I glanced at the clock. “They're probably in bed now, but I'll go over there tomorrow morning.”

“But that's bizarre, Cressa. If the leaves are poison, surely she'd be careful not to get them into anything.”

I was silent.

“You mean you think she did it on purpose?”

“She's very strange, Neek.”

“Could it be anything else? What else have you eaten?”

I thought back. “The only other thing that I didn't buy at the grocery store was a brownie that Grace made.”

“She's the other woman who drowned, right?”

“Yes, and I don't believe for a minute she gave me poison brownies. Hey, how's your back?”

“I'm still nearly paralyzed. I'll have to get out and buy some muscle relaxants tomorrow. Maybe some valerian.”

I glanced at the clock again. It was almost news time. “Neek, I didn't tell you what else happened today.” I took up the remote control and clicked on the TV.

“… at Crescent Lake near Alpha today. Our lead news story at ten. Stay tuned for ‘News of the Day,' as it happens.”

Shoot, I bet I had just missed a news teaser about “my” latest body.
I glanced at my watch. It was after nine-thirty.

“What else happened, Cressa?”

I choked up; didn't want to, couldn't talk about it. “Turn on the news at ten and you'll see. And take care of yourself.” We said our good-nights and I baited the traps again. It was somewhat easier this time. As I returned from putting one of the traps on the back porch, I heard the TV swinging into the news.

“… found today by Cressa Carraway at Crescent Lake, in a secluded area of the club complex.” I ran and snatched up the remote to raise the volume. I wanted to know who I had found.

Chapter 26

Counterpoint: 1. The art of polyphonic composition. 2. The art of adding
one or more parts (melodies) to a given part (melody) (Eng.)

With the dialogue, a brief picture flashed on the TV screen. It was a body bag being loaded into a coroner's van. The picture was followed by incongruous footage of the lake from the swimming area, taken on a different day.

“Cause of death has not been released, although reliable sources say the victim appears to have suffered stab wounds. Toombs's body was found in a remote, heavily wooded area, but it is not known whether or not he was killed there.”

Ohmygod. Toombs. It was his corpse that I'd uncovered.

The news continued. “Another source has told ‘News of the Day' that a weapon has been found, although it is not known whether it is in fact the murder weapon.

“The victim's wife declined to comment for our report this evening. No suspect is being held at this time. If anyone has any knowledge of events surrounding this crime, they are urged to contact the Henry County Sheriff's Office. We'll be bringing you more on this story as it develops.”

It was eerie hearing my name on the news. Did this make me a celebrity? Was this my fifteen minutes of fame? For a reason I'll never be able to understand, a couple of ideas for my composition popped into my head. My good old subconscious had been working behind the scenes for me.

I got out my keyboard and tried my ideas on it. They still sounded good. One sounded better than the others, so I worked on that one for awhile. I went back and forth, perfecting and rounding, filling out, becoming absorbed in my task. This is the most wonderful thing about music; it can make you forget everything and let you get lost in it.

The traps sprang, one after the other, heard only dimly beyond the keyboarding and occasional pencil scratchings.

I sat back, at last, after several hours, quite satisfied with my night's work. I was finally making progress. There was a chance this piece would become something I could be proud of. It wasn't there yet, but maybe…

Then I remembered Toombs had just died. And Grace, two days before that. And, of course, Gram. My face flushed with shame to think I had completely forgotten about the tragedies so fresh and so close at hand.

I saw the traps with their pitiful victims. Not wanting to empty them and spoil my glowing mood, I merely grabbed my spray for safety, dashed outside for one minute, and dumped them under the bottom branches of the blue spruce next to the door.

As I was pouring a glass of 7-Up to cool off, wishing I had gin to pour into it, a rap sounded on the door. I glanced at the clock.

One o'clock in the morning—who can it be?

Through the peephole I saw Daryl under the front porch light, travail twisting his freckled face. I cracked the door open on the chain latch.

“Cressa,” he said. “Forgive me for stopping by so late. I saw your light on. Can I come in?”

I unhooked the chain and opened the door. His copper-colored hair looked dark brown in the dim porch light. As he swept past me into the room, I second-guessed my decision. After all, someone connected with this lake was a murderer.

“Would you like some pop?”

“Sure.” He was distracted. “How are you holding up?”

“After finding three dead people, you mean?”

He nodded.

“I could be better, but I'm fine, really. I think I might be getting an ulcer or something from all this commotion. Are you all right?”

“I feel guilty as hell. The fact is, I'm glad Toombs is dead. I could never stand the guy.”

“You, too, huh? Join the extremely crowded club.”

“Well, I have my reasons.”

“I haven't washed your shirt yet.”

“What? Oh, my shirt. Fine. Keep it if you want.”

I stepped over to my tiny fridge, cautiously keeping a path clear to the front door, got another can out, and poured him a drink. As I handed him the fizzing glass I noticed his hand was shaking. There were a few light freckles on his knuckles to match the ones on his face.

“Why do you think you're getting an ulcer?” he asked.

“Oh, my stomach's been sour for a couple of days. I feel a lot better, though.” And, to my surprise, I really did. I'd have to remember to take those pills to the Fioris.

“Doc McPherson in Rock Island's pretty good. Maybe you should see him.”

“Maybe I will. What are you doing out here?”

“I've been with Mo and his mother. Hayley was over there, too. They're all really upset.”

Once again, shame flooded over me for having forgotten their whole tragedy in my enthusiasm for my work. Daryl sank onto the daybed. I perched on a wooden stool near the door.

“Does anyone have any idea what happened?” I asked.

“Not yet. Toombs left the house after dark last night. He and Martha had had another fight. She has a bruise on her cheek.”

“What sort of man do you think he was? How bad a person was he?” I had my own ideas, but wanted to hear Daryl's perspective.

“He wasn't good to Martha, or to Hayley. Hayley thinks he's been molesting her girls for awhile. Pat Fiori brought it up not too long ago. No one could get Hayley to do anything about it, though, except tangle with him every once in a while. Hayley was intimidated by Toombs.”

“Those poor little things.”

“The whole family makes me sick,” Daryl spat. “They're a pathetic bunch. Why they've put up with the old bastard all these years is beyond me.”

“You said Mo is there, too?”

“He's as bad as the old man, in my opinion. You know I don't usually see much of Mo, even though we're in the same duplex, but after what happened to you I've decided I'm moving out as soon as I can. The less I see of the Toombses, the better.”

“The old man who runs the Alpha drugstore said he didn't much care for Toombs, but that Mo was, I think, not too bad, or something like that.”

“Mr. Anders? He's a character, isn't he? I liked working for him. Almost everyone in town has worked summer jobs there.”

I scraped my shoes on the rung of the stool and my mind ran back to Len. When it was good, at the beginning, everything was intense and exciting. But even then we never sat around talking at one in the morning.

It's comfortable being with Daryl. Even under these strange circumstances, sharing our low opinions of the Toombses.

Daryl glanced at my keyboard and the papers that covered the breakfast bar in their disarray. “Are you writing music?”

“I'm working on a composition for my master's thesis.”

“So you're a musician. A music major?”

“Yep.”

“That's almost as bad as being an art major.” He smiled an easy smile. “I remember a quote I learned in one of my fine arts classes in college: ‘All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music.'”

“That's Walter Pater,” I chortled in glee that he knew the passage. “We had to learn that quote, too. What do you mean, art is ‘almost as bad'?”

“Well, there's not a whole lot you can do with it, is there? If you want to do serious work you have to figure out another way to support yourself.”

“That's true. There's always teaching.” I didn't feel ready to admit to him what I really wanted to do.

“I know. And that's how I pay the bills. Could I hear your stuff sometime? When it's ready, I mean?”

“Sure,” I beamed.
Imagine, he wants to hear my music.
My heart instantly warmed to him. Even though Len had been my theory instructor, he had never asked to hear my pieces. He said he had to work with students' compositions all day long and he didn't want to do it in his spare time, too.

It'll be fun playing my music for someone who is interested in it, not just grading it. Since Daryl is sensitive enough to understand it shouldn't be heard until it's ready, he'll probably be able to appreciate it.

I got up and set my empty glass in the sink. “Mr. Anders said you've had showings.”

“Nothing big so far. But a gallery in Chicago sounds interested in giving me a show this fall. I'm pinning a lot of hopes on that. Could be a big break.

“Oh yeah, that's the reason I came over here and I haven't even mentioned it. I want to apologize for not being at your grandmother's funeral today. I got a call from that Chicago gallery as I was about to leave. The guy took forever. Did you notice I wasn't there?”

“I did, actually.”

“What sort of piece are you working on?”

“It started as a concerto, but I think now it's a symphony. I know it's an old art form, but one I love. A major composition is required for my degree, which is required for the job I'm hoping for.” Maybe I could trust him with this part of myself. “I've been having a lot of trouble getting it going, but—I know this sounds really strange, sort of ghoulish even—but I got sort of inspired tonight by all the horrible things that have happened here.”

I couldn't help pacing as I spoke.

“I've been trying to write a piece commemorating my grandmother's life, but I've had a lot of trouble getting it to pull together. I've made progress tonight, but not enough yet. I want it to have fire. I want it to blaze, to burn up the page.”

Daryl shuddered.

“Are you cold?”

“No, I'm sorry. I have a personal thing about fire. Had a bad experience when I was younger.” He stood up abruptly.

“Gotta go. Thanks for the pop.” He thrust the glass into my hands—his were shaking again—and fled out the door.

I stood there, dazed.
What in the heck was that? We were getting along so well. I was about to tell him… We were having such a good conversation. Weren't we? Was I doing all the talking? What came over him? The fire. The fire?!

Mr. Anders mentioned fire in connection with Daryl. He didn't think “young Daryl had anything to do with it. Don't pay attention to people who say he did.” Anything to do with it? With
what
?

Chapter 27

Lento: Slow (Ital.)

The next day dawned bright and clean, the air crisp compared to the soggy stuff we had been breathing since the rain.

When I awoke, I felt more groggy than crisp. Something lodged in the back of my brain, but I couldn't quite dredge it up. What was it? The joyful birdsong washed over me, attempting to lull me into distraction.

Sitting on the edge of the daybed on the porch, gazing out at the tangle of branches and boughs between me and the smooth water, it all came crashing back.

Gram. Gram was still gone. Gone forever. Grace, too. She left the same hole in Al's heart. I hoped the two good friends were together somewhere.

Toombs—the only death I couldn't completely regret.

The sickening confirmation that they were all murdered, the horrible knowledge that an unknown killer lurked somewhere near, that everything had happened was almost too much. It had to be someone at the lake. Something swelled in my head, threatening to shut my mind down if I didn't stop thinking about that.

Then there were my guilty—good feelings over how well things were going with my symphony.

And Daryl. Oh yes, Daryl.
Oof!

Something was haunting him last night when he left. He fled as if trying to escape something. What on earth could be wrong with him? It was the mention of fire that set him off. I had to see what that was about, and if I could help him.

I wanted to like the guy, to at least be friends with him.
But last night, when I thought we were getting closer, bam. He blew up.

Okay, Cressa. You have to get through another day. You have to stay for Grace's funeral. And help Al at the funeral home this afternoon. That leaves this morning.

I got out of bed and shuffled my way into the kitchen area. Shoving my manuscript sheets aside to eat breakfast, I hummed softly to myself, pleased at what I had accomplished the night before.
If only I can make the same progress today, I'll start to relax and feel good about my piece.
I had perched on this same stool, sitting and writing, and, oh yes, hearing with half an ear those traps springing in the background. A pang of conscience struck me at the way I had thrown them out under the tree with the mice still pinned under their bars.

With my stomach still behaving, I managed to eat some toast before going out the front door in my robe and slippers to clean the traps.

A metal glint caught my eye. Two Henry County patrol cars were parked at the bottom of the hill. Before I picked up the traps, two uniformed men came out of Hayley's place and headed toward Eve's.

They must be questioning everyone. Finally, officials are getting involved here.

I willed them to find the killer this morning. More cars, some with county markings, some with Illinois State Police logos on their doors, drove in. Two came up the hill, parked in front of the public showers across from my place, and disgorged more uniformed men.

I ducked back inside without the traps when they headed for me. True, I had a robe on, but I didn't think that was ideal attire for talking with police officers. I started to throw some clothes on, then out my side window I saw them head down the steps between my cabin and Eve's. I guessed they were going to take another look at where Toombs's body had been.

Curious, I kept watching. A few moments passed, and I saw two men come out of Eve's and walk back down the hill.

They're skipping me. Maybe, since Chief Kyle already searched my cabin, I'll be left alone. At least for now. That's a relief.

I waited inside for a couple more minutes. Then, when I saw the last cruiser head down the hill, I tiptoed outside. Kneeling to retrieve the mouse traps, I spotted them deep in the shade under the spruce branches. I gingerly pulled one into the sunshine and steeled myself for the sight of the pitiful mangled bodies.

But they weren't there. Could this be the same trap I had thrown out here last night? It looked brand new. Never been used. I pulled the other out. It, too, was clean. Not a hair. Not a whisker.

I set them back on the ground gently, impressed by the symmetry of Mother Nature. Their deaths hadn't been futile, like Gram's and Grace's had been. A creature must have made his evening meal from the mice I provided. Not a bit of their tiny bodies had been wasted.

A noisy engine and clanking metal got my attention. The garbage truck had a hard time maneuvering around all the extra cars, but it eventually made it through. Its huge metal arms grabbed the dumpster. I watched trash bags tumble into its craw.

I returned inside, showered, and decided to put on a denim skirt, for a change from my usual shorts and jeans, with a cotton shirt and a pair of loafers. It almost felt like a private celebration day. I knew I should be sad Toombs was dead, but the fact was, his death might push the authorities to find the killer running loose at this resort.

I brushed my hair and searched once again for my locket.

Darn! I should have asked Daryl last night when he was here about the chain around Mo's neck.

It had looked suspiciously like the one to my missing locket. Next time I saw Daryl I'd ask him if Mo had recently acquired a new chain.