Gourdfellas (20 page)

All I needed was a little more line so that I could reel in what might turn out to be the Big One. Maybe she knew who Anita trusted, someone she might have taken into her confidence and promised a piece of the modest little pie that Marjorie had left behind. But Sue Evans stiffened, visibly shutting out the question. “I have no way to know. I don’t mean to rush you but—”

“I’m sorry, really.” Time to switch tactics. Maybe a little self-disclosure would open her up. “Listen, we both know that someone found that note in your bathroom. I don’t know what you believe, but I didn’t write it. I just want to know what it said. You can understand how hard this is for me, I’m sure. I don’t know who’s trying to point a finger at me, but I had nothing to do with Marjorie’s murder. I’m trying to put the pieces together so I can help defend myself.”

That felt so much better.

She seemed to get it right away. Her body unclenched and her face softened. She still didn’t look at me when she said, “I’m not supposed to talk about what was in that note. I wish I could help you, but Michele Castro made a huge point of telling me that I was to say absolutely nothing. To anyone. Not just you.”

“Of course, I understand.” I wouldn’t put her on the spot, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find out more. “Would you answer one thing for me? Marjorie was killed on a Thursday. Yet the note wasn’t found until the following Monday. Did you use the store bathroom between those two times?”

“Every day. Several times a day. Customers use that bathroom too, kids, parents. Salespeople. The UPS man. It’s almost as busy as K-Mart’s toy department,” she said ruefully, as she fingered her seed necklace, rubbing one as though it were a protective talisman.

“But if Marjorie dropped it when she was cleaning, that means that nobody noticed it until nearly ten days later.” That was difficult for me to believe, given the traffic that had been in and out of that small room daily. Unless Sue made it a practice to snooze in her back room . . .

“All I can tell you is that it must have been under something and then it got moved by maybe a curious four-year-old and then—” She paled and clapped a hand across her mouth.

“What is it?”

She shook her head, silver earrings swinging wildly. “Look, I know you’re concerned, but I can’t talk about this anymore. I almost said what was in the note. I really am sorry but I can’t talk to you any more.”

She handed me the plastic bag containing the Tintin comic and walked to the back of the store. I heard a door click shut—she’d taken her secret and disappeared into the back room.

I stepped onto the street into an afternoon that had turned blustery. Thick clouds piled up on the western horizon. The air had a yellowish tint that I’d never seen before, and it made me uneasy. No need to linger in town when I had so much to work do. Best to get Neil’s medicine and go straight home.

I ran across the street, dodging the sparse traffic and skirting half a bale of hay that must have dropped off the back of someone’s truck. The fluorescent lights inside the pharmacy flickered and blinked a silent warning. The hole in the rug seemed to have gotten larger since the last time I was here, and the whole place had an air of weariness about it that made me understand why some Walden Corners residents had taken to driving the extra six miles to go to the Walgreens.

“Mr. Trent,” I called into the void. This seemed to be the day shopkeepers had decided to hide in the back of their stores. That wasn’t much of an incentive for doing business here. Maybe they were all caught up in a community depression and needed some community Prozac.

I picked up a jar of vitamins, then set it down on the counter a little harder than might have been necessary. In a few seconds, Joseph Trent’s nose and his granny glasses appeared, followed by the rest of him.

“Hi, Mr. Trent. Seems like a quiet day around town.” I’d learned that getting right to business felt rude to some long-time residents. My Brooklyn-bred habit of saying what I wanted had taken conscious effort to change.

Joseph Trent’s tight lips spread into a smile. “Everyone’s getting ready for the storm, so they’re out buying batteries and stocking up on bottled water and candles. They never catch on that television stations need to make everything a big deal to keep people watching the commercials. Usually, it’s just an ordinary thunderstorm that they blow all out of proportion. What can I do for you, Miss Marino?”

Nobody had called me that since I went to a Park Avenue doctor to see if I’d torn any ligaments or tendons in my knee playing Frisbee in Central Park when I was twenty.

“My brother called in a renewal for his prescriptions. He gets the generic, not the brand name, right?” Making conversation might not get me quicker service today, but it had become something of a personal challenge to see if I could get this dour man to like me. “Should I be worried about that? I mean, you never know what you’re getting when you buy pills, but the generics are fine, aren’t they?”

Trent pushed his glasses up on his nose, then took them off and set them on the counter. His brown eyes squinted at me and his upper lip twitched. “The government thinks so, most doctors think so.”

Somehow, I had managed to insult him. I was definitely not cut out to play at being something I wasn’t. I wondered whether Nora or Melissa or Susan were having as hard a time as I was when they poked around to try to help me. Elizabeth was probably accustomed to questioning by indirection.

But if I tried too hard, I only ended up with both feet in my mouth.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. You know, you read so much in the papers, it’s hard to know what to believe.” I watched his face for signs that he was no longer offended, but saw only same stoic expression. I was zero for two with Walden Corners merchants today. “Oh, and I was wondering. You know that sleep-inducing herbal thing you gave me? They don’t seem to be working. I wanted to check with you before I took two instead of one. What do you think? Would that be all right? Or should I try whatever you gave Sue Evans?”

Finally, his frown turned to a bright smile. People love to be recognized for their expertise, and I’d pushed the right button.

“I have a stronger version in the back,” he said. “If you take two of the old ones, they might upset your stomach. This formula is stronger and it’s mixed with something to counteract the digestive problems. I’ll get your brother’s meds and give you a couple of capsules to try. Take two or even three. If they work, then you can buy a bottle.”

“That’s great.” Relieved that we seemed to be back on friendly footing, I mentally reviewed my conversation in the toy store while he disappeared into his stockroom. Sue had been understandably defensive, not at all happy when I brought up the note. Her mention of Anita was surprising, though. Maybe there was bad blood between them. They were about the same age, might have been classmates. Nora would know.

“You better get on home,” Joseph Trent said as he plunked the two pill bottles on the counter and pointed to the windows at the front of the store. “I just looked outside, and right now that sky looks real threatening. See how green that air is? That means there could be a strong thunderstorm or even a tornado on the way. You need to get home before driving gets dangerous.”

Beyond the window, scraps of paper and swirls of dust eddied and danced around the lone figure crossing the street. Her hair was blown first straight out behind her and then as the wind direction changed, whipped straight up, like a cartoon character who had stuck her finger in a live socket. Even when she tried to shake her long brown hair out of her eyes, the wind seemed intent on plastering it to her face.

“You’re right. Thanks, Mr. Trent. I guess I won’t stop at the Agway this trip. It does look wicked out there.” I grabbed the white paper bag and headed for the front of the store. When I pulled the door open, a gust nearly grabbed the knob out of my hand. I tugged it closed and pushed against what felt like a wall of pulsing air as I walked the half block to my Subaru.

The sky, no longer green, had turned evening dark. The wind changed direction as often as a diva changes costumes. The eight mile drive home usually took about fifteen minutes, and I crossed my mental fingers that I’d make it to my driveway before the skies opened up. The streets were deserted. Even the supermarket parking lot held fewer than a dozen cars. I thought I saw B. H. Hovanian make a dash from the diner to his office, but my hands felt glued to the steering wheel and I didn’t wave.

As I passed the Agway, a tractor towing an empty hay wagon pulled out in front of me. I gritted my teeth and inched to the center line, but a car was coming toward me and I couldn’t pass. The tractor chugged along at ten miles an hour, and as I looked around for a side road to peel off onto, the driver’s peaked cap blew off. It sailed onto my windshield, then bounced to the road. In my rearview mirror, I watched as the wind picked it up and sent it flying again, like a skipping stone on a clear lake—except nothing outside my rolling fortress looked placid and still.

Trees, some with new green leaves that looked tender and tentative, bent and whipped toward the ground. A willow’s branches flapped and twisted like a double jointed dancer. I pulled to the left again, crept closer to the tail of the wagon, clung to the steering wheel. Up ahead, no oncoming traffic. Good—but less than a quarter mile away, a hill rose above the fields. If I could clear the tractor and the wagon before a car came over that hill, I could be home in ten minutes. The sky was even darker, the wind more punishing as I pulled out, pressed the accelerator, and cleared the back end of the hay wagon.

I was almost up to the front of the wagon when a pickup truck crested the hill, traveling fast and heading right for me. On my left, the shoulder of the road butted up against a wide green swath that could have been solid or swamp for all I knew. But it was my only choice. I cut the wheel, felt my left front tire hit soft dirt, pulled my foot off the gas pedal and blinked as the truck sped past me in a blur.

Thrumming with adrenaline, my hands shaking, I pressed the brake until the car came to a stop. Was that truck silver?

Seth Selinsky was the only person I knew who drove a silver pickup.

Could he have been behind the wheel . . . and could he have deliberately tried to run me off the road? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get a clear mental picture of the driver. Couldn’t have been Seth.

Couldn’t.

Why would someone want to run me off the road? It didn’t make sense. I tried to convince myself that I was as much a surprise to him as he’d been to me, that he hadn’t had sufficient time to react. The adrenaline coursing through my veins wouldn’t allow me to accept this rational argument. Besides, it had been a pickup truck, that much I knew for sure. Silver—maybe the color had been distorted by the strange storm light. The wind had died a little, and up ahead, the tractor and the hay wagon were pulling off onto a dirt road. Nothing coming in either direction. I felt as though I could fly home under my own power, but I took a deep breath and then exhaled. Still no traffic, so I pulled onto the road, and sped forward. One more mile to Iron Mill Road.

By the time I reached my left turn, my pulse was almost normal, but the sky definitely was not. Darker still, and with a metallic cast that made me think of weathered bronze, it seemed to be pressing down on the trees and flattening them. Up ahead, a bright flash of lightning blazed along the horizon, illuminating the small stone church at the top of the rise, making it look like a Gothic painting. Fat drops of rain hit the windshield. By the time I reached over to turn my wipers on, the rain was so heavy I couldn’t see the edge of the road.

I’ll never know whether I heard a warning sound first or simply had the good sense to edge the car to the side of the road, but as I pressed the brake and came to a full stop, another flash of lightning lit up the sky and a huge tree crashed across the road right where I would have been if I hadn’t pulled over.

Something fell across the top of my car. Instinctively, I ducked. When I peered at the windshield I could barely make out a heavy branch laden with green leaves. The rain continued to pound at every surface, bouncing up in huge fat splashes.

It was one thing to be inside my house when a snow-storm brought down power lines, or to enjoy the adventure of scooping snow to melt for drinking water after a blizzard. This was entirely different. It wasn’t a hurricane and so the fury wouldn’t last for days. Probably not even hours.

I was still unnerved.

Think, I commanded, but my brain had not yet recovered enough to engage in any rational activity. A black snakelike figure whipped across the road, and a shower of sparks and crackles snapped around me. The downed power line hit a puddle and sizzled, then was carried by a gust up and onto the grass. What was I supposed to do? Getting out of the car seemed wrong, dangerous. Staying in the car felt nearly as vulnerable.

The rain, which had been so heavy I’d been unable to see just a few minutes earlier, was now only a steady downpour. In my rearview mirror, I saw what appeared to be two headlights, neither coming forward nor receding. Another car, stopped dead in the road. It was probably two hundred feet away.

With the tree blocking the road in front of me, my only option was to turn around and find another route to the other end of Iron Mill Road. I backed up, hoping that my car would slip out from under the branch, half expecting another tree to come crashing down and pin me to the spot forever. I kept looking back to the power line, which continued to sizzle and flail like an agitated sea monster spitting fire. If I could complete the U-turn without being electrocuted, I’d be happy. Amazed, but very happy indeed.

As I pulled forward, I gave a final glance to the black, undulating wire, watched in horror as it landed on the roof of the little shed beside the church. I hoped everything was too wet for a fire to start. Brilliant white sparks crackled for ten seconds and then the wire blew off the roof again. I started down the road with my heart pounding and my mouth dry.