Murder on Old Main Street (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (20 page)

And then I saw it, the white wooden sign on my left and the two-story red brick building behind it. Two patrol cars were parked at the left of the long driveway, but no officers were in sight as the Altima screamed through a hard left turn but missed the driveway. A young officer emerged from a side entrance and stared in amazement as the car churned across the front lawn of the station, spitting chunks of sod behind the rear wheels. It came to rest on the pavement with its bumper barely a foot from the cruisers, for which I was insanely grateful.

Behind me, the Trans Am fared no better. Attempting to follow me into the hard left turn, the driver had missed badly, actually striking the wooden pole holding the sign for the Police Department before screaming to a stop against a pine tree. At that point, confronted by the young officer who was now speaking rapidly into a radio, the driver must have realized where I had led him. The big motor idled for only seconds before roaring into reverse at full throttle, and the car shot backwards into Main Street. As the officer approached my car, gun drawn, two of his colleagues sprang from the police station entrance and leaped into the nearest cruiser. Siren wailing, they tore after the Trans Am. Officer number one approached the Altima cautiously, gun at the ready. He bent down and motioned for me to lower my window, and I fumbled at the buttons on the door panel until the glass went down.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. Despite his steely eyes, I couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t look old enough to carry a gun. For some reason this struck me as hilarious. I sat bolt upright, both hands visible on the steering wheel, and laughed and laughed until I cried.

Once my bout of hysteria had passed, Officer Petrillo could not have been nicer to me if I had been his own mother. He quickly relayed the information I gave him to his colleagues in pursuit of the Trans Am and then helped me out of the car and into the police station. The dispatcher relayed word of a 911 call made by the Stop & Shop trucker about a woman in an Altima who was being pursued by a black Trans Am. There had been another call from a local octogenarian whose sedan had been sideswiped near the highway entrance by a fishtailing black car, make and model unknown. The old gent had been heading out early to beat the traffic and was very shaken up by the incident. I knew exactly how he felt. And then, of course, there was the eyewitness report of Officer Petrillo, who had watched me and my tormenter arrive across the front lawn of the station. I wondered how much I was going to owe the Town of Glastonbury for the sod and the sign, although technically speaking, the sign hadn’t been my fault.

After settling me in an interview room with a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee, Officer Petrillo asked me to write out my statement in longhand, a procedure with which I was becoming dismayingly familiar. I limited my comments to the events of the morning, making no reference to the Wethersfield homicide investigation. Although I felt strongly that the two things were connected, I couldn’t say so for certain, so why get into it? I said simply that for reasons known only to the other driver, whose face I was unable to see because of the heavily tinted windows on the Trans Am, I had been harassed and chased as witnessed by the Stop & Shop trucker and the other motorists I had narrowly avoided hitting. So far, the Trans Am had eluded the pursuing officers, but based on the information provided by the observant, however rattled, truck driver, an APB was being issued as we spoke. I had every confidence that the driver would soon be apprehended, and after that, we’d see where we were.

When Officer Petrillo asked where I had been headed at that hour of the morning, I’d said only that I was headed for my place of business to get a jump on the day. Except for one final turn, the route I had planned to take to the police station was identical to the one I took every morning to MACK Realty.

Presently, the officer excused himself to deliver my statement to a clerical person, who would transcribe it for my review and signature, and to check on my car. I was content to sip my coffee and stare blankly at the wall during his absence. When he returned, he reported that the Altima had been parked properly at the side of the driveway and seemed to be just fine. Not even a tire had been blown, although I’d probably want to have someone look them over more thoroughly when I had a chance. Nobody mentioned the tote bag full of mystery novels, so I assumed the trunk hadn’t been opened. Even if it had been searched, such reading material would be considered entirely suitable for a single lady of my age, I was sure.

After perhaps twenty minutes, Officer Petrillo placed a computer print-out of my statement on the table in front of me. I read it and signed it. In response to his question, I assured him that I felt able to drive. He promised to keep me informed on the progress of their investigation and ushered me out the side entrance I had entered just an hour before. The Altima waited placidly in a visitor parking space. Except for muddy tires, it looked exactly as it always did.

I started to think that perhaps the events of the morning had all been a bad dream, but one look at the ruined lawn snapped me back to reality. When I put them on the wheel, my hands felt bruised and tender. I flipped down the visor and was surprised to see how normal my face looked in the mirror. I had chewed off my lipstick, but there was nothing unusual about that. The tremble in my fingers, as I attempted to reapply it, was the only vestige of my harrowing experience. I looked at my watch and was shocked to see that it was only 7:30. It felt as if a week had passed since I stood in my kitchen drinking coffee, but despite the complicated events of the morning so far, I wouldn’t even be late to work.

I drove sedately over the bridge back to Wethersfield, happy to remain within the speed limit, and considered my options. I couldn’t prove it, but every instinct told me that my stalker had been attempting to force me off the road this morning in order to get his hands on the diaries in my trunk. That meant he had to have watched me leave The Birches. Joey and I had read only two of the four volumes so far, and despite our doubts, it was certainly possible that something incriminating remained to be discovered. Presumably, the driver of the Trans Am thought so and had trashed the Wheeler house for the same reason. Otherwise, more than one violent thug was after Harriett’s scribbling, and that seemed extremely unlikely.

Thwarted in both attempts, the stalker had to be murderous by now, so good sense would dictate that I turn the diaries over to the police and advance that theory as quickly as possible, right? On the other hand, my would-be assailant was well on his way to being apprehended, thanks to the quick action of the Glastonbury police, so I had little to fear for the moment. Would it not be more effective, and helpful to Abby’s cause, to wade through the remaining two diaries ourselves and present Lieutenant Harkness with an alternative suspect based on what we learned?

I drove along the Silas Deane Highway to the intersection of Old Main Street and pondered what to do while waiting for the light to change. Straight through would lead me to the police station. A right turn would lead me to the Law Barn. The light changed, and I turned right.

As soon as I rounded the first curve, I could see parking would be a problem today. I remembered that the public hearing on the proposed smoking ban was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. at the Keeney Memorial, diagonally across the street from our offices. Already, the protestors paced the length of the block, cigarettes dangling defiantly from mouths and fingers, signs held high. “Smokers have rights, too,” seemed to be the slogan of choice today, and there were chants and shouts, as well. As I waited behind stalled drivers, most of whom were seeking nonexistent parking spaces, I could see that not all of the noise emanated from the smokers. Those in favor of the proposed ban, including several small business owners, were staging a counter-rally on the opposite side of the street. Several brandished signs of their own, reading, “We don’t need no stinking cigarettes!” and “Kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray” and similarly charged slogans.

At Garden Street I turned left, then right, to tuck my car into the service alley at the back of the Law Barn. Chances were I’d be blocked in before ten o’clock, but I didn’t know what else to do with it. I locked the car doors carefully, selected the two unread diaries from the bag in the trunk, and let myself into the back yard quietly through the gate in the chain link fence. Rhett Butler was already in his pen, gnawing on a bone big enough to be the hip joint of a bull moose. He looked up barely long enough to woof politely before returning to it. Margo and Emma sat on the back stairs, holding Dunkin’ Donuts cups and giggling conspiratorially. No doubt they were comparing notes on the intricacies of dating police officers, if Emma had been out with Rick Fletcher last evening, as I suspected.

“Well, hey, Sugar! My, don’t we look cranky this mornin’,” Margo greeted me. “After my ordeal last night, Emma’s been consolin’ me, and I can’t have you stealin’ her attention with that long face of yours. What’s the matter? Are you and Armando fussin’ again? Now that I come to think of it, what were you doin’ at home when I called you last night?”

But Emma’s attention had already been diverted. One look at my face, and she was on her feet and coming toward me. “Momma?” She pulled me to her in a quick hug, then released me to arms’ length to study my face. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Speaking of ordeals,” I began and launched into a five-minute recap of how my planned trip to the Wethersfield Police Station had ended on the front lawn of the Glastonbury Police Station instead. Halfway through my recitation, Emma relieved me of my handbag and the diaries and pushed me gently onto the stoop next to Margo, who wordlessly handed me the rest of her coffee. As I talked, their eyes grew round, and their mouths sagged open, but they didn’t interrupt me until I had finished. Then they looked at each other and back at me. Emma’s eyes were brimming dangerously.

“Well, shit, Sugar, how am I supposed to compete with that?” Margo demanded. “You have totally upstaged me and just ruined my day. You always were a prima donna, Kate Lawrence,” she flounced, hands on hips.

Emma’s tears vanished instantly as she turned to glare at my old friend, but I roared with laughter. It was just what I needed, and I howled until Emma got the joke and grinned along with Margo. As we collected our cups and books and headed inside, an angry chattering came from above Rhett’s pen. We shaded our eyes and looked into the lower boughs, where Fat Squirrel perched, his cheeks stuffed with peanuts. As we watched, he hurled a shell and scolded some more.

“No worse for wear,” I noted sourly, but Emma was thrilled to see the little fleabag. I had to admit, I was glad to see him, too, albeit with reservations. Even Rhett seemed pleased to see his old adversary and looked up from his bone to pant doggily at the squirrel. Having re-established relations, F.S. scooted down the tree trunk and skittered over to the trash cans, twitching nervously. “Is he about to do what I think he’s about to do?” I asked Emma. She shrugged and turned her hands palm up, and we all trooped inside.

From the lobby the noise from both sets of demonstrators was even more audible, and it was clear that little business would be accomplished today. I, for one, was grateful. Emma retreated to the loft to reschedule the few appointments she had. After that, she would concentrate on the third of Harriett Wheeler’s diaries, while I scoured the fourth one for any possible clue to the identity of Prudy’s killer. Margo would spend the day running interference for us both, with the help of Jenny, who had been dropped off several blocks away and hiked in to work.

Despite all of the tea and coffee I had consumed, my eyes were heavy. I also had a killer headache. I decided to repair to the reading room, which seemed entirely appropriate to the task at hand, and nipped into the coatroom as soon as Jenny went to make some copies. Emma had given me her cell phone, since mine was still in the Wethersfield P.D.’s evidence locker, on which either she or Margo would call me if I were truly needed. “And don’t turn it off!” she admonished me before scooting up to her lair.

I regarded the thing with distaste. It being Emma’s phone, no doubt the thing would ring all day. I located the ring volume control on the side and set it on vibrate, then laid it carefully on the mahogany vanity. I assuaged my conscience by promising myself to check messages every so often. Before sinking into the overstuffed arm chair with my reading assignment, I swallowed two Advils from the emergency stash and splashed cool water on my face. Then I turned on the table lamp and sat down. I removed the cap from the listening tube so that I could monitor activity in the lobby, in case Jenny needed some help. The phone rang occasionally, but she didn’t seem to be having any difficulty handling the calls.

Hoping my headache would take the hint and leave, I lifted the cover on what looked to be Dorothy Sayers’
The Nine Tailors
but was actually volume four of The Wheeler Chronicles, as we had come to think of the diaries. Based on the dates of the first and last entries, this one appeared to cover the period of eight years before Harriett’s death in 2004. I sighed and struggled to focus on the spidery penmanship, which described in self-pitying detail the abuse she had had to endure at the hands of an unnamed neighbor. Apparently, the neighbor encouraged his dog to relieve himself during their regular walks on Harriett’s lawn.
I’ll just bet he did,
I thought groggily, but pushed on to the next entry and the next.