Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly (22 page)

I heard Mother’s bedroom door scrape
softly, and then Gene padded into the kitchen.  He wore only his wristwatch and
the jeans he’d borrowed from Kirk.  He looked remarkably like one of my book
jacket heroes, broad chest tapering to a narrow waist, well-defined pectorals
lightly covered with soft golden-red hair that arrowed downward into the
unfastened jeans.  When he saw me, he mumbled, “Oh.  Sorry.”

He kept on going while I wondered
whether an optimist would consider him half-dressed or half-naked?

I got up, squeezed lemon juice in
a mug, poured in a slug of brandy, and added a teaspoon of honey.  The toddy
looked good so I made another for myself.

When he came back, the jeans were
zipped.

I handed him his mug.

“Thanks.”  He pulled out the chair
next to me.  “What’re you doing up?”

“Thinking horrid
middle-of-the-night thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“You should go back to bed,” I
said, “you don’t want to get chilled.”

“Not a chance.  It’s like a sweat
lodge in here.”

I said, “For what it’s worth, I’m
sure Victor didn’t do it.”  I told him the jist of my conversation with
Victor.  I added, “It gives Jennifer a motive.”

He shook his head, “She’s got an
alibi.”

“What?”

“Can’t tell you, but it looks
good.”  He glanced at me, took a sip of his drink, then said, “I’m about ready
to take Jared and Laurel off my list.”

“Why?”

“We checked Jared’s timetable for
Thursday.  He was with another student who drove him up from Portland and saw
him walk into the front door.  It’s pretty certain Jared was in sight from then
until the body was discovered.  And then he and Laurel were together last night
at the time Fran died, so Jared’s probably clear, depending on what we find out
about COD, and Laurel’s clear for Andre as well because she was always in the
stage area.”

“Laurel and Jared could be alibiing
each other.”

“Maybe.”  He looked at me, his
eyebrow quirked.  “That was a big sigh.”  Gene’s blue eyes bored into me. 
“Relieved because he’s Hugh’s son?” 

I shrugged.

“And if you’d married Hugh, Jared
could have been yours?”

“Stupid, isn’t it, but I’ve always
felt attached.  Even more since Hugh died.”

“Guess you really loved him.”

“Yeah.  Every once in awhile it
sneaks up on me.  What if I hadn’t let Alisz have him?  I was so afraid—afraid
I’d make him unhappy.”  I rubbed my eyes.  “He never looked happy, anyway.”  I
glanced at him.

He looked melancholy.

“Sorry,” I said, “looks like I’m
passing on my midnight-blues.”

He shrugged, half-smiled, “It’s
funny, I thought—”

“What?”

“I remember seeing you after the
break-up.  You didn’t seem affected at all.”

“Pride, you know?”  I sloshed the
toddy around in the mug and took another sip.  “Anyway, I’m surprised you
noticed my emotional state.  Wasn’t that the summer you got married?”

“Yeah.”

The room had become stifling.  I
leaned over and turned off the broiler.

He cleared his throat, and I
realized his voice was no longer hoarse from an oncoming cold.  He’d always had
an amazing ability to throw off minor illnesses, and it looked as though his
immune system had come through for him again.  “So, what else is keeping you
awake?” he asked.

I told him about my conversation
with Meg, finishing, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Start the search for her mother. 
First thing in the morning.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“Yes, it is.  You didn’t know what
was wrong with Meg.  Now you do, so you help her.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.  “What?”

“I can’t decide if you’re
simple-minded or if the matter’s that uncomplicated.”

He sighed.  “Your side of the
family’s always had a talent for making mountains out of—”  He stopped, looked
down into his mug.  “Anything else bothering you?”

“Fran told me I wasn’t in touch
with real life, and I think talking to Victor’s made me face my inadequacies—”

“Don’t pay attention to that whiny
bastard.”

“Remember that stuff Mr.
Pfister used to talk about in English, that one’s reach should exceed one’s
grasp?  Victor reminded me.  I’m tired of the books I’m writing.”

“Then why do it?”

“I got hooked on my success.  And
the money.”  I rubbed at a spot on the table.  “And having a secret.”

“I bought one of your books
today.  It’s pretty fantastic,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me.

I could feel myself blush.  “But
what I mean is—”

“‘To thine own self be true.’ 
See, I did listen to Mr. Pfister.  So what’ve you got to lose?  Write what you
want.”

“It’s not as easy as—”

“Yes, it is.”

“People expect—”

“Screw ‘em.”

“You are simple-minded,” I
snapped.  “You don’t understand at all.”

“Don’t get mean, Liz.”  He leaned
toward me, his large hand resting on the table next to mine.  “You saw Fran’s
body today.  Now you know your turn will come.”  His forefinger caressed the
back of my hand.  “It brings home that we don’t have forever and we have to
decide what’s important.”  His finger tapped my hand, “In fact, you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m gonna drop out of the
sheriff’s race.  It’s making me miserable.  I’m a small-town cop.  I’ve got
what I want—mostly, anyway.”

“What more do you—” I broke off
as he leaned closer.  My hand pressed against his shoulder, but my intention to
push him away got lost as my hand slid down his long, muscled arm.

He smelled so good, a hint of
musk, a hint of just-baked bread, the fading tang of aftershave.

His lips met mine.

My hand trailed across his
shoulder to his neck and pulled him closer as my mouth opened under his.

Then the photographs of him with
Sibyl flashed before my eyes as he pulled me into his lap.

I stiffened, struggling against
the embrace.

“Jeez, Liz, what the hell’s the
matter?” he grumbled, slowly loosening his grip.

I slithered from his lap and
nearly fell, grabbing the table to catch my balance.  “It just isn’t a good
idea, that’s all,” I said, pulling my robe around me and tightening the belt.

“Because of the cousin thing?  You
said yourself there are so many generations between the great-greats and us
that we’re hardly related at all.”

I stepped back.  “Well, that’s
a factor, and I just … “  I gestured vaguely at the air between us.

He waited, his head cocked. 
“And?” he prompted.

“Your thing with Sibyl.”  I
could feel the pursing of my lips, the small wagging of my head, the distaste I
couldn’t dismiss.

His hands fisted, then pressed flat
against the table.  “What a small, inflexible mind you have, Liz.”

“You’d chase after anything in
skirts, wouldn’t you, you pathetic, aging billy goat!”

He grinned at me, his lips tight
over his teeth, his eyes glittering.  “Granted you aren’t the freshest fish in
the Warfield pond, you’re still being a little hard on yourself, aren’t you?”

“Get out,” I snarled.  “Get out of
my house this instant.”

He rose slowly, lifted his chair
so it didn’t make a whisper of sound against the floor, and set it back in its
place at the table.  He turned and walked out of the kitchen.  I heard the snap
of the latch on the front door.  I picked up his mug and threw it against the
refrigerator.

It was only a crummy kiss.  Part
of me observed that it had actually been an excellent kiss.  I threw my mug as
well.  Then I went out and locked the front door.

Realizing I’d sunk as far as I intended
to go had a strangely energizing effect.  Briskly, I cleaned up the kitchen and
moved on to the bathroom where Gene’s clothes still lay on the floor.  I
carried them to the washer.

I never wasted water by washing
less than a full load, so I crept up to my bedroom and gathered several pairs
of jeans and a couple of shirts from my hamper and went back down to where the
water was gushing into the machine.  Out of habit, I felt in the pockets.  In
one pair of jeans, I encountered four scraps of paper.  I recognized Fran’s
handwriting on them, and held up the jeans, realizing they were the ones I’d
pulled on the night of Andre’s murder.

The first piece of paper read,
“Rocks—Dennis—prf?”  The next said, “beauty sleep,” the next, “A.N. 5-4-9-0,”
and the last said, “NZ-CC? $2,287 ATH $1,346 BRZ $954”

I spread them on the kitchen
table.  If I hadn’t walked off in her jeans, Fran would have pulled these notes
to herself out on Thursday night, separated the personal ones from the ones she
intended to follow up for The Bird, and then acted on them.  I stood staring at
them.

I’d bet the one about the rocks
was for the paper—a lead on a weekly profile.  Was Dennis a rock collector?  A
rock climber?

I bent over the notes again. 
“Beauty sleep.”  What on earth?  Had she not been sleeping well?  Was this a
reminder to get more sleep?  The name of a book?  I remembered the message
she’d left, that she was getting her beauty sleep.  Why the obsession with
sleep?

“A.N. 5-4-9-0.”  Andre Noire, the
security code to his house?  I was tempted to take a drive and find out, but
recalling Officer Hicks’ attitude the other night, I decided that I’d wait
until after church tomorrow.

I put that note in the pocket of
my robe.

And the last note “NZ-CC? $2,287
ATH $1,346 BRZ $954”  Air fares?  Wondering which place she could afford?  So
she’d been thinking seriously about escape before she’d broached it to me on
Friday.

The sloshing of water attracted my
attention.  The washer had filled.  I picked up Gene’s clothes.

In his shirt pocket was a small
square of folded paper.  When I unfolded it, two sticky, half-melted capsules
clung to the paper.  I sniffed them.  They smelled vaguely herbal, sort of like
celery.  I dumped the shirt in the washer and started on the pockets of his
jeans.

The front right pocket held coins,
a couple of dollar bills, and his keys.  It wasn’t my fault he was so stupid
that he left without his key—in his bare feet!  The thought of him marching
down the cold, wet street made me giggle nervously.

The only other thing in his jeans
was his wallet.  I dumped his jeans in after his shirt and shut the washer’s
lid.

I went back into the bathroom and
got his holster.  I dropped all his possessions including his cell phone into a
grocery bag.  Meg could take his things to the station in the morning.

I picked one of the sticky
capsules off the paper.  I sniffed it again.  How easy it would be to mix herbs
and penicillin and convince Fran it was a health potion.  But surely the taste
and the smell—she was so allergic, she’d notice, wouldn’t she?  I remembered
how tipsy she’d sounded in that phone message.

I got a saucer, pried apart the
capsule and dumped the powder onto it.  It smelled like dried soup.  I’d never
know unless I had it tested at a lab.  How did a private citizen get things
tested?  I’d have to call the library.

I rubbed my forehead.  There were
so many things to do.  I went over to the recycling pile, flipped through the
glossy catalogues until I found an envelope and made a list.

Then I stared at the plain brown
bag holding Gene’s things.  Ordinarily I’d never go through someone’s purse or
wallet.  But who was investigating the investigator?  Clearly, it was up to me.

His wallet was plain brown
leather.  The money compartment held only a ten-dollar bill.

In the card-holding slots of the
wallet, he had a couple of credit cards, a library card, a video rental club
card, and his license.  A plastic holder was tucked into a long slot.  I pulled
it out.  On top was a picture of his parents taken for their 40th anniversary. 
Next was a snapshot of the whole extended family taken on that occasion, Mother
and me among the tiny faces.  Opposite that was his social security card.  I
flipped the plastic again and froze.

My own, much younger, face stared
back at me.  My own defaced face.  My high school graduation picture, probably
one Mother had given to Gene’s mother, because I hadn’t given him one.  He’d
drawn on devil’s horns and pointed teeth, and then had apparently tried to
erase them, because the picture was smeared and slightly torn.  Stupid man!

His wallet held nothing else.

Slightly dizzy with exhaustion, I
made my way back upstairs.  As I shed my robe, I noticed Gene’s gun on the
nightstand.  I should get it to him quietly first thing in the morning or his
men would make fun of him for losing his gun.

Then, remembering my defaced
portrait, I decided to let him beg for it.  From a distance, of course, because
he was never setting foot in this house again.  Better yet, I would drop it
off—at the front desk, Monday evening, just before the city council meeting
when half the town milled around in the lobby.

It took me a few minutes to fall
asleep, but I was smiling the whole time.

When the ringing phone dragged me
to consciousness the next morning, I opened my eyes and stared down the barrel
of Gene’s revolver lying on my nightstand.

I pushed the gun aside, grabbed
the phone, and said, “Hello?”  It came out croaky and mean.

The voice whispered, “Who do you
love most?”

Rage slashed through me.  “Stop
this!  Stop it now, you coward!”  I slammed the phone down.

I jumped out of bed and tripped
over Meg’s empty mattress.  I yelled, “Meg?  Where are you?”

“In the kitchen.”

I ran downstairs.

Dressed in an oversized t-shirt,
her hair held in a loose bun by a couple of pins, she turned, a loaf of bread
in her hands, her voice sharp, “What’s the matter?  Was that about Grandmo—”

The phone shrilled.  My line was
lighted.  I grabbed it.

The voice said, “You should not
say such things to me.”

“Do you think you’re anything but
a coward?  Twisting the knife from a safe distance—what is that but
cowardly?”  My hand hurt from gripping the phone so hard.

Harsh breathing filled the line.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I
yelled into the phone.  “You’re perverted and disgusting, and if anyone
deserves to die, it’s you.”

The caller hung up.

My rage drained away leaving me
terrified.  “Oh, God, Meg, now I’ve made the murderer mad!”

For a second we stared at each
other, and then her eyes crinkled, her face scrunched, and she began to laugh.

“Meg, I’m not kidding.”

“I know, I know,” she managed to
say, falling back against the counter, laughing.

“Well, for goodness’ sake.”  I
sniffed, and jammed two slices of bread into the toaster.

“Aunt Liz—”  Meg’s face was red,
her eyes streaming.

I got butter and blueberry jam
from the refrigerator and set them on the table.  I poured two mugs of coffee
and added cream.  “Sit down,” I said.

She collapsed into a chair.

I retrieved the toast and nearly
dropped it, my hands were shaking so hard.  I realized that once again I’d
failed to listen carefully enough to identify the caller.  And pain stabbed my
heart as I realized, yet again, that Fran wasn’t here to talk things over with.

“Aunt Liz, I don’t think you have
to worry about your phone manners.  After all, how much madder can a murderer
get?  Isn’t he already pretty much maxed out?”

I shivered.  “I have such a bad
feeling.”

She rested her hand on my arm,
“Are you scared?”

I nodded.  “I’ve never been so
scared in my life.”  I pushed my toast aside, my throat so tight I couldn’t
swallow.  I gazed out the small window at the cloudy sky.

She sighed.  “As soon as
Grandmother gets out of the hospital, I think we’d better go somewhere safe,
don’t you?”

“But—”

“Safety first, that’s what you’ve
always drummed into my head, and I hate to set a bad precedent by taking your
advice, but—”

“Idiot child,” I said.

“That is not at all P.C., you
know.”

“Screw P.C.”

“Aunt Liz!”

I called the hospital.  They
couldn’t report anything new until the doctor had seen Mother.  Being a Sunday,
that wasn’t likely to happen till noon.

I glanced at the clock as I hung
up.  “Good lord, Meg, we are late!”

I was ready first and standing
impatiently at the front door with my Book of Common Prayer in my hand when
Meg, dressed in a cinnamon-brown dress with gold buttons, rocketed down the
stairs with Bunny.

I opened the door, but Meg said,
“Just a sec.”

“We’re going to be late.”

“No, we’re not, you’re used to
having to go slowly because of Grandmother.”  She took a deep breath.  “I’ve
got a deal for you.”

I groaned.  “Not now, Meg.”

“This is important,” she said, her
brown eyes earnest.

“All right,” I sighed, “what’s the
deal?”

“You agree to hire a private
investigator to find my—my biological mother, and I’ll go back to school.”

“No deals, Meg.”

Her face reddened.  “That’s not
fair!  I need to know—”

“What I meant was, I don’t want
finding your mother connected to your education.  I’ll hire a detective for you.”

Her face lit with a smile.

I held up my hand.  “But we need
an agreement about how we’ll handle it if she’s found.”

“That’s none of your business! 
She’s my mother, and—”

“It is my business.  I’m the one
who changed your diapers, I’m the one who found you an algebra tutor, I’m the
one who—”

Meg held up her hands.  “I know,
Aunt Liz.”  She fingered one of her gold buttons.  “You’ve always been here for
me.  But can’t you understand that I need to talk to my—” she crossed her arms
over her chest “—mother?  I need to talk to her myself, alone.”

I realized I was shaking my head. 
I forced myself to stop, to breathe.  “Okay, you can meet with her alone, but
I’m going along so I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

She pursed her lips and shook her
head.  “You keep treating me like a baby.”

“Then grow up,” I said.

She grabbed the doorknob, yanked
the door open, and ran off toward the church, Bunny at her heels.

My heart heavy, I followed, my
heels clacking loudly in the little vacuum I seemed to occupy.  I took a moment
before I turned the corner to set aside the fear and hollowness I felt.  I
joined the jovial throng milling about on the sidewalk outside church entry. 
Several people mentioned the weather, glancing up at the overcast sky.

From behind me a deep voice said,
“Liz?”

I turned quickly and almost fell
into Charlie Aynesworth’s lap.

He grabbed my forearm to steady
me.  His grip was strong.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s all right.  I’m so glad
you came,” I said.

“Wait’ll the lightning strikes,”
he said.

I patted his shoulder, his camel
hair jacket soft under my hand.  “Wait’ll you meet our choir director!”

We grinned at each other.  I asked
after Sybil.

“She had campaign promises to
keep,” he said lightly, though his shoulders hunched.  “I hadn’t forgotten how
to drive the van after all, and here I am.”

I spotted Kirk talking to Meg on
the steps and called him over to introduce them.  Moments later, Jill Ferguson
appeared with Alisz and Jared in tow.

“Look who’s come over to the right
side!” Jill said, clutching Alisz’ arm.

The anger I’d felt over what Alisz
had done to Meg in telling her about her mother surged up.  I swallowed hard
and tried to smile.  Church was the place to bury grudges, after all.

“You are surprised to see us,”
Alisz said.

“Well, of course I am,” I replied
too heartily.

“We’ve already been to early
mass,” Alisz said.  She rested a hand on my arm.  “I thought perhaps I could be
of some comfort to you for the sorrows you are enduring.”

“How thoughtful of you,” I said. 
A silence hung between us.  “Uh, I hope we can comfort you, too, in the loss of
Annamaria.”

“Her funeral will be tomorrow.  It
was announced in church this morning.”

I thought of all the funerals
there’d be in Warfield this week.  Oh, what I’d give to go back three days.

Alisz rubbed my arm, her eyes
searching my face.  “Liz, you look so sad.”

I gave myself a mental shake. 
Alisz, too, had lost a best friend, someone who’d helped fill her empty days
after Hugh’s death, who’d involved her in committees and causes, who’d eased
the way when she’d so often offended without meaning to.  I said, “I’d be glad
to drive you to Annamaria’s funeral if that will help.”

Her face changed strangely into a
rictus of grief that quickly became a strained smile.  She said, “Oh, but I am
sure you will be too busy for that.”

Kirk, talking to Charlie, bumped
against me.

“No, I’ve got nothing planned
tomorrow, and I’d be glad to help you,” I said.

“But, Liz, I came to comfort you
today.  Perhaps later we will talk about tomorrow.”

I didn’t feel comforted.  I felt
panicked, hemmed in by Charlie, Kirk, Jill, Jared and Alisz, frightened by the
earlier call.  Surely none of these people could be the caller.  No way he
could act this normal.  Still, my heart was thudding, and I fled.

The front rows were always the
last to fill, often remaining empty.  I sat with my head bowed.  No well-bred
Episcopalian would think of interrupting a person in prayer.

“Where the fuck’s my gun?” Gene
hissed, sliding into the pew next to me.

I glanced over, a reprimand sharp
on my tongue, but it was never delivered because his hair was so neatly combed,
because he wore a navy pin-striped suit with assurance, because I felt
breathless and my palms began to sweat.

“You must have a spare,” I
whispered.

“That’s not the point.  I want it
back.  And my keys and my wallet and my godammed defective phone.”

Any triumph I might have felt was
quelled by his glare and the rigid line of his mouth under his moustache.

“You can come get them after the
service—”

“I’m never entering that mausoleum
again, remember?”

“Fine!  I’ll bring them to the
station tomorrow.”

He laid his arm along the back of
the pew behind me and leaned even closer, his peppermint-scented breath
tickling my neck.  “I want those things today.  Immediately after church.  The
pictures, too.  Don’t give me any more shit about them.”

I tried to lean away, but his left
hand dug into my shoulder, holding me in place.

There was a commotion at the back,
and Charlie’s deep voice said, “Thanks.”

My mind flitted from Gene’s threat
to Charlie, and I immediately felt guilty.  I’d abandoned Charlie.  A rustle in
the pew behind us announced the arrival of more parishioners.

“I don’t want to be seen with
you,” I whispered.

“Me neither.  You think I want
rumors starting about me and some dried-up old maid?”

I surged to my feet, breaking
Gene’s grip on me.

“Meet me at the Scout hut,” Gene
said, his voice unintentionally loud in the waiting church.

Everyone looked at me.  Face hot,
ignoring Alisz, Jared, and Jill, in the pew behind us, I hurried to the back of
the church where Charlie sat in his wheelchair.  I squeezed past him into the
pew.

“How’re you doing?” I whispered.

“Not singed yet.”

Meg played the introductory bars
to the processional, and I got to my feet.  I glanced down at Charlie.  He was
intent on his hymnal, his voice rising strong and beautiful with the passing
choir.

I heard scarcely anything Kirk
said about maintaining faith in the face of loss.  All I could think about was
that the killer could be one of the people in church with me.

Kirk, for example, striding back
and forth as he preached, vestments flying, dispensed pills he shouldn’t.  He’d
been frustrated with Andre’s attitude toward the church and the problems with
the roof, he’d been in the play, and he’d been hanging around our house a lot. 
It could be Kirk.

I glanced toward the front pews
and saw Gene’s red hair.  Though I didn’t know what reason he might have to
kill Andre, he’d had the opportunity.  Because of the photographs, and maybe
because of their past relationship, he had a reason to kill Fran.  But he’d
been with me when the call came last night.  Unless he had a partner?  Maybe
he’d set something up electronically?  Yesterday he’d said he didn’t care about
the pictures; today he was demanding their return.

I knew Alisz and Jill were sitting
in the pew behind him, though I couldn’t see them.  I couldn’t imagine either
of them as the killer anymore than I could imagine killing someone myself.  Jill
was just a nosy, middle-aged spinster whose worst crime was gossiping.  And
Alisz, while never a close friend—well, I knew how much she’d overcome and how
much she valued what she’d gained through her own hard work and perseverance.

During the passing of the peace I
stared into people’s faces and wondered,
Did you kill Fran?  Could it have
been you?
  I longed for the service to end.

I was consumed by the facts I’d
gathered the last few days, the people I’d talked to, the things they’d said. 
How could I make sense of it?  How could I protect the people I loved?

Because we were in the back, we
waited a long time for our turn at communion while the choir sang “My Faith
Looks Up to Thee.”  Gradually the individual phrases took on a personal
meaning:  I was faint of heart.  I was surrounded by grief, caught in a dark
maze, and so far, I hadn’t acted with any faith at all, just panic, anger, and
fear.  I took a deep breath, then another.

“Liz?” Charlie whispered, touching
me gently on the elbow.

I’d closed my eyes.  The line had
moved forward.

“You all right?”

I smiled down at him.  “Yes, I’m
fine.”  I’d realized what I needed to do.  No one else was going to die because
of the killer’s rage at me.

Judging by the fury that had
poured across the telephone line this morning, I realized that if I sat quietly
at home where the killer would be sure to find me, I shouldn’t have long to
wait for an attack.

But first I had to get Meg out of
the way and return Gene’s stuff so he wouldn’t crash around and spoil things.