Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly (13 page)

I started the station wagon and
drove across the parking lot.  The basso profundo bellow of a yellow Cadillac’s
horn stopped me at the curb.  Alisz pulled into the driveway next to me.  She
rolled down her window to peer at me.  “So here you are.  Your mother has had
us combing the underbrushes, and you were here at the heart of the action all
along.”

“Fran’s dead,” I said, my voice
rising in an unintended whine.

“I know,” she said.  Her lids
lowered, and she blinked rapidly.  Her voice changed from matter-of-factness to
sympathy, “Yes, your mother told us when she sent us to find you.”  She
gestured at the official vehicles clustered in the parking lot, their lights
still flashing, and said, “It looks like a movie set.”

“It’s not,” I snapped.

Her sallow cheeks flushed with
pink, and she said, “I know that.  Didn’t I lose my best friend yesterday? 
More than anyone else, I know what you are going through.”  Her fingers tapped
on the steering wheel.  “Your mother wants you home right away.”

We were silent a moment and then
she said, “Are you all right to drive?  Would you like to ride with
me?”

“No.  Thank you.  We’ll
probably need to have the car handy,” I said.

“Then I’ll follow you and see
if there is anything I can do to help.”  The yellow Cadillac stayed
behind me through town.

Neighbors and friends spilled from
the parlor into the hallway and out onto the porch.  As I mounted the steps to
the house, Alisz at my side, people fell silent.  Our footsteps on the glossy
green boards pounded like drums.

Kirk, clad in formal priestly
black, stepped out of the silent wall of people and reached for me.  He said,
“I’m so sorry about Fran.  Is there anything I can do for you?”

I stared at him, the innocent
round face, strong arms, grasping hands. 
All the better to kill you with,
my dear. 
I shook my head to clear it.  I forced my stiff lips to stretch
in a smile.  “Coffee, please.”

“Coming right up,” he said, moving
away.

I turned toward my mother. 
Dressed in black, she sat in her faded wing chair beside the fireplace.  The
portrait painted of her the summer before she met my father stared down into
the crowded room.  I sometimes wondered how my mother could bear the comparison
of the fresh, beautiful, painted face crowned with Titian hair to the ravaged
countenance she presented to the world now.  “Tell us what happened, Liz,” she
said.

Then Meg came sobbing, “Oh, Auntie
Liz, Auntie Liz,” and threw herself at me.

My arms wrapped tightly around her
as if she were five years old again.  Gentle hands steered us toward the plush
comfort of the love seat, and we huddled together.

Feeling Meg’s body clenched in
grief, my horrid suspicions of her evaporated.  Whatever else had changed in
Meg, her ability to love had not.

“What caused Fran’s death?” Mother
asked, rubbing at her swollen, distorted knuckles.

“I don’t know.”  I shook my head. 
“The door was locked.  No sign that anyone else had been there.”

“A real mystery,” Alisz said.

Quickly Jared asked, “What did
Gene say?”

I shrugged.  “Nobody told me anything,”
I said.

“Surely we can find out if they
have any clues?” Alisz said.

I rocketed to my feet.  “This
isn’t a game!  You think Gene is going to let us in on his investigation as if
it were the mystery play?  Fran is dead!”

She took a step back, her posture
rigid.  “I was not meaning this was a game.  How can you say that?”  She groped
behind her, and Jared stepped forward to take her hand.

From the window seat, Jill
Ferguson chimed in, “We only want to know that we’re not going to be murdered
in our beds tonight.”

Meg pulled me down beside her
again.  Her eyes were red and swollen, her skin blotchy, her breath sour from
her hangover.  She managed a small smile.  “Aunt Liz, they’re here to help.”

“Of course we are,” Kirk said,
returning with coffee.  “We want to do whatever we can.”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered.

Kirk put a bone china cup into my
hand and patted my shoulder heavily before going to sit beside Mother.

I looked around—everyone from the
play rehearsal but Victor, Sybil and Gene was here.  I hadn’t noticed Laurel at first.  Wearing a pink dress and an extravagant scarf of swirling pastels, she
stood quietly among the crowd on the stairway in the hall.

I’d snapped at Alisz, telling her
this wasn’t a game.  If only this were a game of Clue, I thought.  I couldn’t
count the number of games I’d endured when Meg was small.  Logic eliminated all
suspects but one.  Questions asked.  Answers given.  The guilty accused. 
Logic.

“Maybe we can help Gene by
organizing our information,” I said.  “I was with Fran yesterday afternoon
until 6:30.  Did anyone see her after that?”  Question asked.

Silence stretched as people looked
at each other.  The Seth Thomas clock ticked on the mantel.

Alisz said, “She came to get information
on—”

“Yes, she said she might come to
the bon voyage party,” I said.

“It was not a party, not with
Annamaria—”

“It’s just such a habit—”

“Because I wouldn’t want people to
think—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Jared
said, shaking his arm free of his mother’s grip.  “It was pretty quiet when I
got there, most everyone had heard about Annamaria.”

“What time did Fran arrive?” I
prompted.

“Nearly seven,” Alisz said. 
“Donna was angry when Fran insisted on getting brochures and ticket
information.  Donna wanted to go home.”

“How long did Fran stay?”

Jared said, “It was sometime after
seven.  She went with Laurel and me for dinner.”

Fabrics rustled as people turned
to look at Laurel on the stairs.

“We went down to Beaches,” she
said, her voice soft.  It was a restaurant down on the Columbia River.

“How long did you stay?” Kirk
asked.

Laurel and Jared exchanged a look.

“Fran had driven separately,”
Jared said.  “She took off about nine or so.”

“Did she say where she was going
from there?”

They shook their heads.

I got up and crossed to the
doorway, looking up at Laurel.  “Surely she said something, didn’t just leave.”

Laurel fidgeted with her scarf. 
“She didn’t say anything—just—I think—she had to get her beauty sleep,
something like that.”

I scanned faces and asked, “Did
anyone see Fran after that?”

After a moment, heads shook.  Jill
Ferguson’s eyes filled with regret—she could find nothing to say.  Kirk studied
his black wing tips.  Mother’s pale face and compressed lips told me how distasteful
she found this.

So, answers given.  Was I any
further ahead?  And how to apply logic to such sparse information?  I needed
more.

Fran must have gone somewhere else
after she’d left Beaches, because she didn’t call my answering machine until
after midnight, and she’d been looped when she called.  She never drank alone. 
So where had she gone?

Despite Mother’s pinched face, I
persevered.  “Did anyone see her yesterday earlier?  Did she say anything about
plans?”

Kirk said, “She drove by the
church in the afternoon, asked if I’d seen you.  I told her about running into
you at Sheila’s.  She said it was no help.”

That sounded so much like Fran it
hurt.  I smiled despite the sting in my eyes.

Laurel said, “She came by the
library, too, in the afternoon.  She didn’t want to talk about the play.”

“Didn’t you see Fran earlier,
Mom?” Jared asked.

“Yes, she came by, asking for Liz,
but Liz had been gone a long time.”

I turned slowly, searching faces,
feeling helpless, wanting an answer now.  “When I went to Fran’s this morning,
I saw some of you already up:  you, Kirk; Laurel, and Alisz.  Did any of you
see anything out of the ordinary?”

They shook their heads.

Mother’s voice came from her
corner, “Thank you all for coming.  It’s such a comfort knowing that Warfield
hasn’t changed, that we can still count on our friends.  But if you’d excuse us
now, we need a little quiet time.”

Laurel moved down the stairs, her
scarf drifting after her.  “I’ll be glad to stay if that will help.”

I thanked her and told her I’d
call her later.  I stood just inside the parlor doorway beside the upright
piano.  As people passed, they offered condolences and help.  Meg came to stand
beside me.  I put my arm around her waist.

Jill Ferguson reminded us she was
right next door, “just in case.”

Outside, cars moved from the
curbs, truck engines roared to life.

Alisz put one cold hand on my arm
in a comforting gesture.  “We have both lost our best friends.  I know how you
are feeling, I will stay and make you lunch.  It will make you feel better.”

Mother said, “Thank you so much,
dear, but I must have time alone with my family, you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes downcast.

Kirk remained standing at Mother’s
side.

Suddenly I could see what Fran had
meant yesterday about my mother’s place in town, about her manner.  Oh, God, I
thought, I hope I’m not like that.

“I’ll walk you out, Alisz,” I
said.  We went down the porch steps into the sunshine.  “It was so good of you
to come over.  I really appreciate it.”

“If there is anything I can do
… “

I shook my head, unable to speak,
and patted her arm.

I turned back to the house.

The front hall seemed dark, so I
left the door open to the clean air and bright sun.

“Liz?  Please come here,” Mother
called.

She still sat in her wing chair.

I crossed to the Tiffany lamp that
stood at the end of the sofa and clicked it on.

“Sit down, Liz,” Mother said.

“In a minute.”  I moved to the
game table in the corner by the bookcases and turned on the lamp there.

Kirk still stood by Mother’s
side.  He, just as much as the others who’d been in the play, was a suspect. 
Didn’t she realize that?  His eyes were intent on Meg who had drifted to the
window seat.

The fronds of one of the Boston ferns that hung in the bay window touched Meg’s auburn hair.  Absently, she brushed
at it.  The pot swayed gently above her, shifting light and shadow in the
room.  “These things are due for a haircut,” she said.

I sat on the sofa.  “I don’t think
we’ve groomed them since you left last September.”

Mother said, “I received a
telephone call earlier.  That’s why I sent people to look for you.  I tried to
call Gene, but he was not in his office.  I didn’t know about Fran at the time,
of course.”

“It wasn’t heavy breathing, was
it, Grandmother?  We can call the phone company for you and—”

Mother waved her hand as if
batting at an annoying fly.  She looked at me, her brown eyes searching mine. 
“Someone called and said, ‘Tell Liz it is just beginning.  Soon all her pretty
ones will die—she will have no one.’

“I said, ‘Who is this?  What are
you talking about?’

“The person just laughed and said,
‘Suffering comes not from the sacrifice of the first-born but the best
loved.’”  Mother’s face was white.  “These deaths are aimed at you, Liz!”

My head whirled.  “Fran’s dead
because someone hates me?”

“Andre, too,” Meg said.

I looked down at my hands clenched
in my lap.  “This is crazy!”

The four of us looked at each
other in silence.  I found myself wondering how Mother’d been able to sit
through all the visitors so easily, keeping the phone conversation secret. 
Studying her pale, drawn face, I realized it hadn’t been easy.

“Who’s doing this?” I cried.

Only the ticking of the clock on
the mantel answered me.

Kirk cleared his throat.  “What
the caller said sounds like a quote, doesn’t it?  Anybody recognize it?”

We all shook our heads.

“Did you recognize the voice,
Claire?” Kirk asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps a woman.”

I said, “Was there an accent?”

She hesitated.  “Perhaps.  Like
someone trying to mimic a southern accent?”

I jumped up, ran down the dim
hallway, into the kitchen and dialed the phone.

“What are you doing?” Mother’s
voice called after me.

“Who are you calling?” Meg was
right behind me, Kirk on her heels.

“Gene.”

Of course he wasn’t in.  I left a
message for him to call as soon as possible.

“Why did you jump up like that?”
Meg asked.

I became aware that I was rubbing
my forehead again.  “Because—wait, I don’t want to do this more than once.” 
We trooped back to the parlor.  “Sorry, Mother,” I said.  “Your phone call
might be connected to a phone call I got at Fran’s, so I tried to call Gene.”

“I don’t understand,” she said,
her gnarled hand moving restlessly on the antimacassar-covered arm of her
chair.

I hesitated.

“Go on,” she said.

Kirk moved close to her, his hand
on the wing of her chair.

Our eyes locked.

“You can’t suspect me of any of
this?  My God, Liz, I’m—”

“Yes, I know,” I said, staring
into his baby-blue eyes.

Mother said, “Liz, don’t be
ridiculous, Kirk’s a—”

“What are you talking about?” Meg
demanded, stamping her foot.  “He’s a what?”

Slowly, Kirk said, “A priest.”  He
stepped away from Mother’s chair.  “One your aunt is not sure she can trust.”

“I won’t allow this in my house!”
Mother said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my face hot
with embarrassment.  “I just don’t know whom to trust.  And Gene told me not to
talk with anyone.”

He nodded, his own face red.  “I
can assure you I would never kill anyone, not just because I’m a priest but
because—I just couldn’t, that’s all.”  He brushed past me on his way to the
door.