Needful Things (46 page)

With the murder weapons removed, tagged, bagged, and on their way to Augusta, the two CIU teams moved in and began to search the area around the bodies, which still lay in their terminal embrace with the blood pooled between them now hardening to a substance like enamel. When Ray Van Allen was finally allowed to load them into the Medical Assistance van, the scene was lit with police cruiser high beams and the orderlies first had to peel Wilma and Nettie apart.

During most of this, Castle Rock's Finest stood around feeling like bumps on a log.

Henry Payton joined Alan on the sidelines during the conclusion of the oddly delicate ballet known as On-Scene Investigation. “Lousy damned way to spend a Sunday afternoon,” he said.

Alan nodded.

“I'm sorry the head moved on you. That was bad luck.”

Alan nodded again.

“I don't think anyone's going to bother you about it, though. You've got at least one good pic of the original position.” He looked toward Norris, who was talking with Clut and the newly arrived John LaPointe. “You're just lucky that old boy there didn't put his finger over the lens.”

“Aw, Norris is all right.”

“So's K-Y Jelly . . . in its place. Anyway, the whole thing looks pretty simple.”

Alan agreed. That was the trouble; he had known that long before he and Norris finished their Sunday tour of duty in an alley behind Kennebec Valley Hospital. The whole thing was
too
pretty simple, maybe.

“You planning to attend the cutting party?” Henry asked.

“Yes. Is Ryan going to do it?”

“That's what I understand.”

“I thought I might take Norris with me. The bodies will go to Oxford first, won't they?”

“Uh-huh. That's where we log them in.”

“If Norris and I left now, we could be in Augusta before they get there.”

Henry Payton nodded. “Why not? I think it's buttoned up here.”

“I'd like to send one of my men with each of your CIU teams. As observers. Do you have a problem with that?”

Payton thought it over. “Nope—but who's going to keep the peace? Ole Seat Thomas?”

Alan felt a sudden flash of something which was a little too hot to be dismissed as mere annoyance. It had been a long day, he'd listened to Henry rag on his deputies about as much as he wanted to . . . yet he needed to stay on Henry's good side in order to hitch a ride on what was technically a State Police case, and so he held his tongue.

“Come on, Henry. It's Sunday night. Even The Mellow Tiger's closed.”

“Why are you so hot to stick with this, Alan? Is there something hinky about it? I understand there was bad feeling between the two women, and that the one on top already offed someone. Her husband, no less.”

Alan thought about it. “No—nothing hinky. Nothing that I know about, anyway. It's just that . . .”

“It doesn't quite jell in your head yet?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay. Just as long as your men understand they're there to listen and no more.”

Alan smiled a little. He thought of telling Payton that if he instructed Clut and John LaPointe to ask questions, they would probably run the other way, and decided not to.
“They'll keep their lips zipped,” he said. “You can count on it.”

And so here they were, he and Norris Ridgewick, after the longest Sunday in living memory. But the day had one thing in common with the lives of Nettie and Wilma: it was over.

“Were you thinking about checking into a motel room for the night?” Norris asked hesitantly. Alan didn't have to be a mindreader to know what
he
was thinking about: the fishing he would miss tomorrow.

“Hell, no.” Alan bent and picked up the gown he had used to prop the door open. “Let's beat feet.”

“Great idea,” Norris said, sounding happy for the first time since Alan had met him at the crime scene. Five minutes later they were headed toward Castle Rock along Route 43, the headlights of the County cruiser boring holes in the windy darkness. By the time they arrived, it had been Monday morning for almost three hours.

Alan pulled in behind the Municipal Building and got out of the cruiser. His station wagon was parked next to Norris's dilapidated VW Beetle on the far side of the lot.

“You headed right home?” he asked Norris.

Norris offered a small, embarrassed grin and dropped his eyes. “Soon's I change into my civvies.”

“Norris, how many times have I told you about using the men's room as a changing booth?”

“Come on, Alan—I don't do it all the time.” They both knew, however, that Norris did just that.

Alan sighed. “Never mind—it's been a hell of a long day for you. I'm sorry.”

Norris shrugged. “It was murder. They don't happen around
here very often. When they do, I guess everybody pulls together.”

“Get Sandy or Sheila to write you up an overtime chit if either of them is still here.”

“And give Buster something else to bitch about?” Norris laughed with some bitterness. “I think I'll pass. This one's on me, Alan.”

“Has he been giving you shit?” Alan had forgotten all about the town's Head Selectman these last couple of days.

“No—but he gives me a real hairy eyeball when we pass on the street. If looks could kill, I'd be as dead as Nettie and Wilma.”

“I'll write up the chit myself tomorrow morning.”

“If your name's on it, that's okay,” Norris said, starting for the door marked
TOWN EMPLOYEES ONLY
. “Goodnight, Alan.”

“Good luck with the fishing.”

Norris brightened at once. “Thanks—you should see the the rod I got down at the new store, Alan—it's a dandy.”

Alan grinned. “I bet it is. I keep meaning to go see that fellow—he seems to have something for everyone else in town, so why not something for me?”

“Why not?” Norris agreed. “He's got all kinds of stuff, all right. You'd be surprised.”

“Goodnight, Norris. And thanks again.”

“Don't mention it.” But Norris was clearly pleased.

Alan got into his car, backed out of the lot, and turned down Main Street. He checked the buildings on both sides automatically, not even registering his own examination . . . but storing the information just the same. One of the things he noticed was the fact that there was a light on in the living area above Needful Things. It was mighty late for small-town folks to be up. He wondered if Mr. Leland Gaunt was an insomniac, and reminded himself again that he had that call to make—but it would keep, he reckoned, until he had the sad business of Nettie and Wilma sorted out to his satisfaction.

He reached the corner of Main and Laurel, signalled a left turn, then halted in the middle of the intersection and turned right instead. To hell with going home. That was a cold and empty place with his remaining son living it
up with his friend on Cape Cod. There were too many closed doors with too many memories lurking behind them in that house. On the other side of town there was a live woman who might need someone quite badly just now. Almost as badly, perhaps, as this live man needed her.

Five minutes later Alan killed the headlights and rolled quietly up Polly's driveway. The door would be locked, but he knew which corner of the porch steps to look under.

“What are you still doing here, Sandy?” Norris asked as he walked in, loosening his tie.

Sandra McMillan, a fading blonde who had been the county's part-time dispatcher for almost twenty years, was slipping into her coat. She looked very tired.

“Sheila had tickets to see Bill Cosby in Portland,” she told Norris. “She said she'd stay here, but I made her go—practically pushed her out the door. I mean, how often does Bill Cosby come to Maine?”

How often do two women decide to cut each other to pieces over a dog that probably came from the Castle County Animal Shelter in the first place?
Norris thought . . . but did not say. “Not that often, I guess.”

“Hardly
ever.”
Sandy sighed deeply. “Tell you a secret, though—now that it's all over, I almost wish I'd said yes when Sheila offered to stay. It's been so
crazy
tonight—I think every TV station in the state called at least nine times, and until eleven o'clock or so, this place looked like a department store Christmas Eve sale.”

“Well, go on home. You have my permission. Did you power up The Bastard?”

The Bastard was the machine which switched calls to Alan's home when no dispatcher was on duty at the station. If no one picked up at Alan's after four rings, The Bastard cut in and told callers to dial the State Police in Oxford. It was a jury-rig system that wouldn't have worked in a big city, but in Castle County, which had the smallest
population of all Maine's sixteen counties, it worked fine.

“It's on.”

“Good. I have a feeling that Alan might not have been going straight home.”

Sandy raised her eyebrows knowingly.

“Hear anything from Lieutenant Payton?” Norris asked.

“Not a thing.” She paused. “Was it awful, Norris? I mean . . . those two women?”

“It was pretty awful, all right,” he agreed. His civvies were hung neatly on a hanger he had hooked over a filing-cabinet handle. He removed it and started for the men's room. It had been his habit to change in and out of his uniforms at work for the last three years or so, although the changes rarely came at such an outrageous hour as this. “Go home, Sandy—I'll lock up when I'm done.”

He pushed through the bathroom door and hooked the hanger over the top of the door to the toilet stall. He was unbuttoning his uniform shirt when there was a light knock on the door.

“Norris?” Sandy called.

“I think I'm the only one here,” he called back.

“I almost forgot—someone left a present for you. It's on your desk.”

Norris paused in the act of unbuckling his pants. “A present? Who from?”

“I don't know—the place really was a madhouse. But it's got a card on it. Also a bow. It must be your secret lover.”

“My lover's so secret even
I
don't know about her,” Norris said with real regret. He stepped out of his pants and laid them over the stall door while he put on his jeans.

Outside, Sandy McMillan smiled with a touch of malice. “Mr. Keeton was by tonight,” she said. “Maybe
he
left it. Maybe it's a kiss-and-make-up present.”

Norris laughed. “That'll be the day.”

“Well, make sure you tell me tomorrow—I'm dying to know. It's a pretty package. Goodnight, Norris.”

“Night.”

Who could have left me a present?
he wondered, zipping up his fly.

Sandy left, pulling the collar of her coat up as she went out—the night was very cold, reminding her that winter was on its way. Cyndi Rose Martin, the lawyer's wife, was one of the many people she had seen that night—Cyndi Rose had turned up early in the evening. Sandy never thought of mentioning her to Norris, however; he did not move in the Martins' more rarefied social and professional circles. Cyndi Rose said she was looking for her husband, which made a certain amount of sense to Sandy (although the evening had been so harum-scarum that Sandy probably wouldn't have thought it odd if the woman had said she was looking for Mikhail Baryshnikov), because Albert Martin did some of the town's legal work.

Sandy said she hadn't seen Mr. Martin that evening, although Cyndi Rose was welcome to check upstairs and see if he was in with Mr. Keeton, if she wanted. Cyndi Rose said she thought she would do that, as long as she was here. By then the switchboard was lit up like a Christmas tree again, and Sandy did not see Cyndi Rose take the rectangular package with the bright foil paper and the blue velvet bow from her large handbag and put it on Norris Ridgewick's desk. Her pretty face had been lit with a smile as she did it, but the smile itself was not pretty at all. It was, in fact, rather cruel.

Norris heard the outer door shut and, dimly, the sound of Sandy starting her car. He tucked his shirt into his jeans, stepped into his loafers, and arranged his uniform carefully on its hanger. He sniffed the shirt at the armpits and decided it didn't have to go to the cleaners right away. That was good; a penny saved was a penny earned.

When he left the men's room, he put the hanger back on the same file-cabinet handle, where he could not help seeing it on his way out. That was
also
good, because Alan got pissed like a bear when Norris forgot and left his duds
hanging around the police station. He said it made the place look like a laundrymat.

He went over to his desk. Someone really had left him a present—it was a box done up in light-blue foil wrapping paper and blue velvet ribbon exploding into a fluffy bow on top. There was a square white envelope tucked under the ribbon. Very curious now, Norris removed the envelope and tore it open. There was a card inside. Typed on it in capital letters was a short, enigmatic message:

!!!!!JUST A REMINDER!!!!!

He frowned. The only two persons he could think of who were always reminding him of things were Alan and his mother . . . and his mother had died five years ago. He picked up the package, broke the ribbon, and set the bow carefully aside. Then he took off the paper, revealing a plain white cardboard box. It was about a foot long, four inches wide, and four inches deep. The lid was taped shut.

Norris broke the tape and opened the box. There was a layer of white tissue paper over the object inside, thin enough to indicate a flat surface with a number of raised ridges running across it, but not thin enough to allow him to see what his present was.

He reached in to pull the tissue paper out, and his forefinger struck something hard—a protruding tongue of metal. A heavy steel jaw closed on the tissue paper and also on Norris Ridgewick's first three fingers. Pain ripped up his arm. He screamed and stumbled backward, grabbing his right wrist with his left hand. The white box tumbled to the floor. Tissue-paper crinkled.