Killing Cassidy (16 page)

“Let's take a look at what we've learned. We know, with reasonable certainty, that Kevin was not suffering from paranoia. That string of accidents Father Kennedy related can't be sheer coincidence.”

“We can't prove that.”

“We can't prove anything at this stage. But we have enough evidence to formulate a theory. Proof can come later. We also know a little, not enough but something, about Kevin's life shortly before he was killed. We know he had sufficient patience to listen to the execrable Pastor Whatever-His-Name-Is, and the wit to give him money to get rid of him. We know how other people reacted to him. We're building up a picture, and we know where the holes are in that picture. Furthermore, we have accomplished this in less than a week, working entirely alone, not only without official help but in the face of considerable official opposition.”

He got to his feet and pulled me up after him. “Have I convinced you?”

I smiled, somewhat ruefully. “You've convinced me. I'll be buying medals next to pin on both of us. I've been acting like an idiot, haven't I?”

“Perhaps a bit overwrought at times, that's all. Now, if you love me, tell me where we can find some lunch. I understand there's a lodge in the park.”

“There is, and it's nice, too, but very popular. We probably couldn't get in, and I have a better idea, anyway. You like seafood, and there's a nice place in Madison down by the river. The Key West Shrimp House.”

“Key West? Isn't that in Florida?”

“Yes. Don't ask me why they call it that. But they have good shrimp, and terrific catfish, and a great salad bar with a mashed potato salad the like of which I've never tasted anywhere else.”

Alan laughed. “Americans have the oddest ideas about food. Mashed potatoes do not comprise my idea of salad, but I'm always ready for a new experience. Lead on, MacDuff.”

I was suddenly starved, too. It is extraordinary how heartening it can be to have the man you love give you a good talking-to. With rather overdone panache and at too great a speed, I drove the hilly, curvy road from the newer part of town on top of the bluff down to Madison proper. A few more blocks, and we were at the foot of Broadway. I pulled the car up and pointed, as proudly as if I'd invented it, at the great river a few feet away.

“The Ohio.”

Broad, beautiful, apparently placid, it flowed past the lovely little park that had graced the riverfront for the past few years. As we watched, a long string of barges moved slowly past, pushed by a tugboat that seemed much too small for the job.

“I've loved this river all my life,” I said softly. “It's one of the great rivers of this country, you know. Of the world, really. It flows from Pittsburgh down to the Mississippi, and then on down to the Gulf of Mexico. Navigable all the way. The big riverboats used to carry passengers and freight this way until the railroads came along. The barge traffic is still important, though, and there are two or three fancy pleasure boats still, the
Delta Queen
and the
Mississippi Queen
and one or two others. They call here in summer, right here at this landing. I've always wanted to take that trip, all the way down to the Gulf.”

“Perhaps we will someday.” Alan took my hand and smiled, and we sat and watched the river flow past, jes' rollin' along.

A big fish leaped out of the water and splashed back again. Alan laughed. “That big fellow looks good enough to eat. Which reminds me …”

We walked back up Broadway to the Key West Shrimp House, and there we were immediately brought back to our problem. Straight in front of us sat Hannah Schneider with five or six other women. She was deep in conversation, but she looked up and waved at us.

“Antimall committee?” I asked with a smile, gesturing to the group.

She laughed. “No, but you're close. I'm in Tri Kappa, you know, and they roped me into the Tour of Homes committee this year. It's all in the interest of preservation. We're just settling the last-minute details. It's next weekend; are you and your husband coming?”

“We wouldn't miss it, would we, Alan?”

“No, indeed. Where does one obtain tickets?”

“At the Lanier mansion; that's where the tour begins. Not this coming weekend, you know, but next—the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth, ten to four. Come early; the lines get long in the afternoon.”

She turned back to her meeting, and we were shown to a table in a corner of the room. I tried to concentrate on my food, but I couldn't help thinking about our problem.

“What do you think is our next step?” I asked eagerly, once Alan had eaten enough to be interested in talking.

He looked around cautiously, but the room was full of conversation to cover ours. “We're planning to talk to Dr. Foley tomorrow.”

“Yes, but until then!”

“Unless inspiration strikes, we wait.”

“But—but I thought it was important to act as quickly as possible in a murder case.”

Alan nearly choked on his catfish. When he recovered, he spoke patiently. “The first twenty-four hours are critical, certainly, but once that's past, as heaven knows it is in both these murders, one spends a good deal of time waiting. Waiting for the autopsy report, the other forensic reports. Waiting, for quite a long time, for the DNA analysis if one has been ordered. Waiting for informants to turn up. Waiting for an inspiration. As I've said before, except for the rare occasions when police work is all too exciting, it's dull, Dorothy. It requires patience and perseverance.”

“Well, patience may be a virtue,” I retorted, “but it has never been one of mine. I want to do things now.”

“Tomorrow,” he said gently. “It's not so long. Tomorrow we'll talk to the doctor, and perhaps we can begin to make some progress.”

Time does pass, of course, no matter how tedious the waiting. The pot does boil, no matter how assiduously it is watched. We got through the day, eventually. We spent the afternoon idly wandering around Madison, popping into antique and junk stores and looking at bits of history. We stopped at the historical society museum, bought a couple of books about Madison, and whiled away the evening reading them. Friday morning we packed up and took ourselves over to the Foleys' house.

Peggy welcomed us, settled us in our luxury suite in the guest cottage, and sat us down for lunch, chatting pleasantly. It wasn't until after we'd finished our lunch and were drinking excellent coffee (“The real stuff, since Doc isn't here”) that she stopped talking about nothing and put down her coffee cup. “All right,” she said quietly. “What are you really doing in Hillsburg?”

I
let out a long sigh. “Peggy, I'm so glad you asked. We're both dying to tell you all about it.”

“It's about Kevin, isn't it?”

I think I gasped. “How did you know?”

“This is a small town, Dorothy. You've been talking to a lot of people. I hear Holy Bob tried to convert you from your sinful ways.”

I shuddered at the memory. “That man is a menace. I'm afraid I don't have much use for that particular brand of religion.”

Peggy snorted. “Religion my hind foot! Commerce is what it is. Did you see the car he drives?”

“No, but I can imagine. Cadillac?”

“Lincoln. Huge. Looks like a hearse. And his congregation's way too poor to keep him in that kind of luxury. But never mind him. Why are you asking questions about Kevin?”

Alan and I looked at each other. Alan rolled his eyes, and I groaned. “Oh, Lord, and we thought we were being subtle about it. We could be in real trouble if people are beginning to speculate. You see, we think Kevin was murdered.”

Peggy took that, and the lengthy explanation that followed, in stride. I suppose a doctor's wife must hear a lot of peculiar things. “I thought it must be something like that,” she said when I'd finished. “I know your reputation, you see. But it just isn't possible, is it? I mean, if Doc says he died of pneumonia, he died of pneumonia.”

“I know. That's why I want to talk to Doc about it. Because, Peggy, there just isn't much doubt about it. We can't prove it yet, but we're reasonably certain in our own minds. Maybe there are ways to cause pneumonia?”

Peggy shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose. Though why anyone would want to get Kevin out of the way—Kevin, of all people!”

“I know,” I said again. “That's what we thought at first. And the problem is—well, it sounds melodramatic, but one of the people we've talked to is probably … the one.”

“Mmm. More coffee?”

We declined, and sat for a moment in worried silence. Then Peggy sat up straighter. If we'd been in a comic strip, a lightbulb would have appeared above her head.

“I've got it,” she said triumphantly. “You're writing a book.”

“Excuse me?”

“You're doing research. For a book about—about health patterns of the elderly. Or, no. The relationships between geriatric illness and social interactions.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Kevin was an academic. This is a college town. Nobody'll ask why. People around here go and write fool books every day. Maybe you're doing some kind of postgraduate work in England. And you haven't told anybody what you're doing because … I know, because you didn't want their responses to be conditioned by the fact that they might be used in a book.”

I began to laugh. I couldn't help it. Alan laughed with me, and we giggled and snorted until tears came to our eyes and we had to hit each other on the back. At one point I was sure I was going to get the hiccups. Peggy waited, bewildered, until we had wiped our eyes and she had administered restorative glasses of water.

“All right,” she said patiently. “What did I say?”

“I don't think,” I gasped, still not fully in control of myself, “it was really what you said. We're a little tired and strung out, and it doesn't take much. The fact is, I told the police chief yesterday that I was writing a book. My version wasn't nearly as good as yours, though.”

“Ah, well, you've left academic life and no longer imbibe academic jargon with your morning coffee. In this town it's in the air we breathe. So what's your version?”

“Just a biography. Nothing original at all.”

“What a shame. Well, I suppose we'll have to stick with it, since you've already told one lie to the police. Changing to an entirely different one would complicate things. Okay, so we've dealt with
that
problem. I'll start spreading the word this afternoon when I go to the supermarket, and it'll be around in a day or two. Not, of course, that I believe for a moment that there's a problem anyway. It is simply not on the cards that Kevin was murdered.”

“I think you're mistaken about that, Mrs. Foley.”

Alan's voice was calm, reasonable.

“I'm Peggy. Okay, so you've both said you're convinced, and aside from that last little outburst, neither of you shows signs of certifiable insanity. What makes you believe such an unbelievable proposition?”

He methodically listed our reasons. The accidents. Kevin's talk with Father Kennedy. The circumstances of Jerry's death. “Too many coincidences,” he concluded. “A policeman doesn't like coincidences.”

“Mmm,” said Peggy again, but it was a different kind of sound now. More like conditional agreement.

“Of course,” Alan added, “we could do with something provable.”

“What about Darryl Lacey? Can't he help? He talks with a real country twang, I know, but he's sharp.”

Alan and I sighed in unison. “It isn't that we don't think he's a good cop,” I explained. “It's just that he could be a suspect. I hadn't told you about it yet, but Kevin made a list, you see.” I recited it.

“Aha! And he put ‘doctor' on there, too. So what are you doing talking to me?”

I turned a little red, I think, but Alan's aplomb was equal to the situation.

“We have eliminated your husband on the grounds that (a) he was not in town when Kevin contracted his illness, and (b) he is not the sort of person who could ever kill anyone. I admit that the latter would not stand up in court, but as my dear wife insists that she would sooner suspect me than him, and as I trust her judgment …” He made a charming, deprecating gesture and grinned, and after a moment Peggy grinned back.

“Okay. But Darryl—I think you're all wet, suspecting him. Dorothy, we've both known him since he was a kid!”

“I know!” I ran my hands through my hair. “I don't
want
to suspect him! And it would be much easier if we could clear him for certain and start working together. But that's not as easy as it sounds. I'm getting very frustrated about all this, though Alan says we're making progress.”

“You're just too close to it, is all. Listen, Dorothy, you've written long letters to us, all about the stuff you've gotten involved in over in England, and I can read between the lines as well as anyone. There you could be objective. You were an observer. Oh, I know you've decided to live there and all, but—well, I hate to say it, but you don't quite belong there the way you do here. Hillsburg's your hometown, and your emotions are getting in the way.”

Alan had said much the same thing, hadn't he? The trouble was, I was beginning to feel I didn't belong anywhere, but I was going to have to take Alan's advice—ignore my feelings and get on with the job.

“You'll work it out,” Peggy was saying. “The game tomorrow will get your adrenaline going and use up a lot of emotional energy, and you'll start looking at things with your usual jaundiced eye again.”

“Well, I must say! Jaundiced eye, indeed!”

“Your keen understanding of human nature, then, if you prefer it prettied up.” She stood. “Now, if I don't get to the grocery, we'll have no dinner, and no tailgate party tomorrow. You want to come with me, or relax?”