Murder Take Two (25 page)

When the waitress came for their order, Clem asked for another glass of wine.

“What do you want to eat?” he said. She looked on the way to getting drunk and he wanted to get food down her.

She picked up the menu. “I don't know. Anything.”

“Bring her spaghetti and meatballs,” he said.

“I'm a vegetarian.”

“Bring me spaghetti and meatballs. Bring her spaghetti.” He handed back the menus.

“What did your father do?” He eyed the media people. So far none had approached.

“Movies. What else?”

“Actor?”

“Art director.”

Before she finished answering his question about what that was, big platters of spaghetti arrived with Clem's wine and a refill of iced tea.

“Did you ever want to be somebody else?” Clem poked a fork at her spaghetti.

“Like who?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Anybody who seems to have it all in control.” She broke off a chunk of bread and crumpled it on her plate. She sipped wine. “Life's a bitch and then you die.” She started to laugh and it got caught somewhere.

“Were you a close friend of Sheri Lloyd's?”

“No. She had a hard time when she was growing up. I know that because she was always wanting to ‘dialogue.' Get it out in the open. Huh. She was always trying to be somebody else, because her life was so yucky. She wasn't very smart.”

Clem's eyes got blurry; she pressed the heels of her palms against them as though to hold back tears. “She probably didn't even know why.”

Reporters at the next table were comparing information. One asked, “Did you get a picture of the hotel room?”

“No. Cops wouldn't let me in. I got an interview with a local though. She said the death was God's punishment. Have you ever noticed the people on God's side like lots of blood with His punishment?”

Clem placed her fork on her plate, folded her napkin carefully and placed it neatly beside her fork, and said in a very soft and careful voice, “I have to get out of here.”

He took one look at her, beckoned the waitress, and mimed scribbling on his hand. When the check came, he threw money down, got up, and took her elbow. She held herself totally stiff, as though one misstep and she'd shatter like fine china. He steered her to the squad car and helped her in.

“To the hotel?”

“No. Drive.”

With longing regrets for his spaghetti, he drove north and kept going. The sky was getting darker, stars were beginning to pop out and the moon, just past full, was covered by thin clouds. He took back roads, past barbed-wire-fenced fields of wheat and milo, over easy hills and down to the river at a spot three miles below where they'd been filming. He stopped and cut the motor.

For a second quiet took over, then sounds filtered in, the rush of water, the
tick-tick
of cooling metal, and the rustle of wind through the trees. The water, a dark slick endlessly moving, reflected a veiled moon, and minutes later a bright moon when clouds slid on. His mother always said this spot was magic, a place of healing. He didn't know about healing, but it did provide a spot to catch up and regroup, gather the wherewithal to carry on.

Clem sat motionless, looking down at the water. Abruptly she hit the door handle and jumped out. She moved so fast, he was left scrambling and cursing. If she fell, hurt herself—

She simply stood on the bank gazing up at the night sky. “She was just a joke to them, those reporters. They just—” Clem shook herself like Elmo after a bath. “I didn't even like her, but at least I knew her—” She looked at him and smiled, a crooked little smile of sadness.

In a second misery took over and she wrapped her arms around his neck, gulping and booing all over his uniform shirt. He let her sob, didn't say a word, didn't give encouraging pats on the shoulder. When she was done, she'd be mad at him, but right now she needed something to cling to and he obliged, holding her tight to let her know she wasn't alone, but not intruding on the spasms of damp misery.

When it ended, she was quiet with her arms around his neck, face on his chest, leaning heavily against him, all energy spent. Occasionally a ghost of a hiccup escaped. The night sounds crept around them, tree leaves tossed as the wind picked up, the heedless river rippled on. There was an eerie cry of an owl, the whine of mosquitoes, and the rustle of small hunters in the low ground growth.

21

Wind blew in from the north pushing a bank of clouds and bringing the temperature down so fast Yancy could almost feel it drop. Rain was coming. He could smell it. Wind whipped through the Cherokee's windows as he goosed the accelerator to take the hill, trying to catch up for being two hours late. Lightning flickered behind the clouds, too far away to hear thunder, making the radio crackle.

As soon as the Cherokee's nose hit the driveway, Serena appeared in the doorway, a silhouette against the kitchen light. “I was afraid you wouldn't come.”

“I told you I'd be here.” Heavy lazy drops slapped down as he trotted to the house; they felt good on his face and arms. The rain wasn't ready yet; it would take its own good time.

“You've also been known to call and say you can't make it.”

“I'm here. Go.”

In the dark living room, his mother sat at the window with Elmo at her feet. When he bent down to kiss her cheek, the dog extended a friendly poke with his muzzle.

“Peter.” Her fingertips gently ran down his cheek.

“Don't you want some light?”

“I suppose.” The sudden light made her blink. “You look tired.”

“It's been a long day.” He jerked off his tie and unbuttoned the top button.

“You and Serena have had a lot to cope with over the years.”

Dropping to the couch, he rested his head back. “What are you talking about?”

“I wasn't exactly a conventional mother.”

“That's true.”

She was silent for a long moment. “I've been thinking—trying to think. It's so hard when I can't concentrate. A few seconds and then my mind—skitters. Remember when you used to skip rocks on the pond? It's like that. Jumping around so I never get anyplace. Frustrating—”

He pulled himself forward and leaned his arms on his knees to study her face—tears glistened in her eyes. “Hey,” he said softly. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry, Peter. All those years—when you were little, you and Serena. I'm sorry it was so hard for you. I was selfish. When you're young, you don't think. I never had any relatives. My parents died, and then I didn't have any family at all. I decided to make my own. I never thought how hard it would be for you and Serena.”

Elmo, hearing the sad tinge in her voice, whimpered and put his head in her lap. She stroked his ears and eyebrows. “It's still hard for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your crazy mother, that's what I'm talking about. I don't know how I could have been so selfish.”

“I've always been proud of my crazy mother.” For the most part that was true.

She smiled. “Well, Serena hasn't.”

“Girls are more delicate.”

“Both of you put up with so much. Don't think I don't know.”

“We had everything we needed.” Except for food, he thought, and some way to fit in with other kids. That was hard, being different, being laughed at. It got him in a lot of fights, which she never could understand, but there were things he had that they didn't. Through her eyes, he was given magic. He had Shakespeare for breakfast, and flowers unfolding in the moonlight, saw birds and animals living lives of heroism.

“Will you take care of Elmo, Peter? I wouldn't want anything to happen to him.”

“Nothing's going to happen to Elmo.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.” This mood worried him. She'd always been loony, but she was happy with it, not despairing like this. “Don't worry.”

“Poor Peter. You always had to take care of things.”

“Mom, what—?”

She dropped her hand over the arm of the chair and Elmo laid back down, planting himself just under her fingertips. “He's been restless this evening. I don't know what's bothering him. He keeps pacing around, and barking.”

Her mood, Yancy thought.

“Tell me what happened in the movie business today,” she said.

He gave her an account of his day, starting at five
A.M.
at the river.

“The actress who got killed—I can't remember her name. Who killed her?”

“No solution yet. The chief is walking around with fire in her eyes and ice in her voice.”

“What's the name of the movie?”

“
Lethal Promise.
Don't ask what it's about because I don't really know.”

“A promise that shouldn't be made? Which you should never do, by the way. I hereby absolve you of any promise which shouldn't have been made. Except the one about Elmo.”

“I'll keep only promises that need keeping.”

She smiled. “You're a good boy, Peter. You deserved better, you and Serena. I love you and your sister more than life itself. I didn't know— Only looking back do I realize—”

Her voice was so thin with sorrow he wondered if she were seeing a particular memory.

“Don't look so worried, Peter. I'm all right. Anyway, as all right as I ever get.”

An echo of his own voice resonated in these words and he felt like he maybe shouldn't be so flippant.

She kissed him, squeezed his hands, and said she should get herself to bed. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch, trying to figure out what her regrets had been all about. An hour later something woke him.

He swung his feet to the floor and rubbed his grainy eyes. His teeth felt like green fuzz. Elmo barked. Yancy plodded into the kitchen where Elmo had his nose against the door. He barked again.

“I'm coming, I'm coming.”

Head low, Elmo growled deep in his throat. Yancy fumbled with the lock, half-asleep.

The dog's toenails scrambled on the linoleum as the door opened. He shoved his muzzle through and took off, barking furiously.

Oh, Christ. What was the dumb dog after? He never learned about skunks. Yancy took off in stockinged feet, wincing and limping as gravel cut into them. The rain had fizzled to mist blown by the wind so that he had to turn his head to one side and blink as he peered into the darkness.

“Elmo!”

The dog skidded to a stop and looked uncertainly at Yancy.

“Come!”

Elmo looked in the direction of his prey, looked at Yancy, seemed undecided, then galumped toward Yancy, leaped up, and tried to lick his face.

“What's the matter with you, you stupid mutt?” Yancy grabbed his collar. “Hey! Anybody there?”

No answer but the wind fanning mist in his face. Whoever or whatever it was had fled from the hound of hell who didn't want to be dragged back inside.

Yancy limped over to the couch and stripped off his damp socks. When Serena got home an hour later, Yancy shoved bare feet, horrible as that was, into his shoes and took himself off.

The mist, thinned to not much more than an occasional fat drop from wet trees, made muzzy halos around streetlights. As he pulled in at the old Victorian, movement flickered across the side mirror. Somebody had slipped down the driveway of the house across the street. The moon glowing behind clouds and the moisture in the air put him right into a spy movie. Except for a light over the front door, the house was dark. The owners were away and he'd been asked to keep an eye out. “If this mad painter should strike,” Mr. Fandor had said with an impish smile, “let him finish the picture before you arrest him.”

Yancy wasn't waiting for anything. He grabbed his flashlight and loped across the street. The shiny slick drive reflected the light. “Police! Come out with your hands up.”

No response.

At the far end, he swung the beam in a wide arc through the rear yard. Nothing.

Behind him, he heard a shoe slide on wet concrete. Before he could turn, somebody barreled into him. Stumbling forward, he landed on one knee, lost his balance, and fell hard on his left side. His breath caught on the sharp pain.

Oh, shit.

He'd been stabbed. And if that wasn't enough, he'd fallen on the knife and forced it in farther.

22

Lightning split the sky. Thunder crashed. With his face against damp cement, Yancy stared at the fan of light from his flashlight a couple feet ahead where it had rolled when he'd dropped it. Whoever had stabbed him had taken his gun. He waited for a shot in the back. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.

He was clammy, shivering, but didn't seem to be lying in a pool of vital fluid. His breathing didn't crackle from blood in his lungs.

He heard a whisper, “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

Heart banging nightmare time. A hulking form materialized above him, bent to pick up the flash, and ran the beam over him. He flinched; the pain made him clench his teeth.

“You got a knife in your side.”

“Don't touch it!”

“No way, man. I'm not getting near it.” The light lit up the lower half of Kevin Murphy's face.

“Why'd you do it?” Not coughing. Good sign, still no blood in his lungs.

“Uh-uh, not me.”

“Bleeding?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Your shirt soaked around the knife.”

“Keys. Left pocket. Go up to my place. Call for help.”

“Right.” Kevin didn't move.

“Do it!”

“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Gingerly, Kevin eased his hand in Yancy's pocket and, in sliding the keys out, jiggled Yancy slightly. Yancy clamped down on his back teeth.

“You got sweat all over your forehead,” Kevin said.

“Phone.”

“Yeah, I'm going.” Kevin hesitated, then sprinted down the driveway.