Pride v. Prejudice (26 page)

“No, he lied about it.” I paused to think. “He thought she was having an affair and intended to catch her in the act.”

“Then why was he there before ten o'clock, with the lights on? Wouldn't he have waited until she and this supposed lover were inside the house?”

A reasonable question. Rather than brood, I waved at Billy. “Can I ask you something else?”

He came grudgingly, stopping several times to hurl rocks in the water. “Ask me what?” he demanded.

“You told the deputy that you had evidence from that night. What was it?”

“It wasn't from that night. Grandma made me go back to bed. I'm getting hungry, Gramps.”

I realize I'd betrayed him by my failure to support his zombie theory. Bribery did not seem appropriate in front of his grandfather. Squeezing an answer out of him was even less so. My maternal stare would be met with cynicism, if not derision. I waited until he glanced at me. “What you found may be very important, Billy. It may solve a complicated case and help Miss Sarah. Please tell me what you found.”

“A red bandana,” he said. “It was in the ditch by the driveway, all stinky and dirty. I knew it was an important clue, but that old deputy snorted when he wrote it down. The other deputy laughed when I told him it belonged to one of the zombies. They wear bandanas so they can tell each other apart.”

I nodded. “So I've been told. Do you have it?”

“I wear it when I'm a cowboy. Today I'm a dinosaur hunter.”

“Is there a chance I might borrow it?” I said, trying to remain calm. It was the first tangible clue, unless it was merely a dirty bandana that had been in a ditch for weeks or months. The latter was more probable.

“Will you give it back?”

“Wouldn't you rather have a new one? I know you're leaving for home tomorrow, but I should have time to bring one out to you. It's red, right?”

“I already said that,” Billy retorted. “Yeah, you can take it. Are you gonna be a cowboy?”

William was chuckling. “I can hardly wait to see you in a cowboy hat and boots, Claire. Which color cowboy hat will you be wearing?”

“White, of course,” I said. It would have been lovely to sit on the riverbank and mindlessly throw rocks into the water, but the clock loomed overhead. “I need to track down Tricia Yates and get her version of what happened here.” I smiled at Billy. “She may have seen the zombies, too.” I took off my shoes and braced myself for water, mud, and stones. “If you hear a dog barking, feel free to come to my rescue. If not, I'll be at your house in the morning.”

“I don't have my gun,” Billy said sadly.

I made my way back to the other side, put on my shoes, and waved at the two before heading for the stile. With a thick stick, I might add. I arrived at my car without encountering any hounds from hell, snakes, or carnivorous animals. I'd started to drive toward County 102 when I remembered that I had incurred the wrath (or at least the interest) of the FBI. Not only would they know the make, model, and license plate of my car, they might have requested assistance from the Farberville Police Department. I wondered how that had played out. Much merriment would have ensued as the dispatcher put out a BOLO for the wife of the deputy chief of police.

It seemed prudent to assess the situation while outside the city limits. I lacked the nerve to take sanctuary in Sarah's house, which was apt to be under surveillance by sheriff's deputies or federal agents. I'd heard the door of the Mount Zion Methodist Church lock when I'd exited. Zachery Barnard's house lacked amenities. I finally decided to pay a visit to Miss Poppoy. If Geronimo's vehicle was there, I would continue to the next convenience store to avail myself of the facilities and use the pay phone.

I resisted the impulse to drive by Zachery's shack. The primary reason the FBI wanted to talk to me had to be that they had identified Roderick James's fingerprints on the green van. I did not want to drive into their clutches. I continued past the road and turned into Miss Poppoy's driveway. There was only one car parked in front of her house. Feeling better about my chances of remaining on the lam, I went to the porch and knocked on the door.

Miss Poppoy was wearing a housedress and was wig-free. “I know you,” she said as she gestured for me to come inside. “You're not a missionary. Would you like some tea and cookies?”

“I'd love some,” I admitted, “and if it's not a problem, I need to use your phone.”

She gave me a beady look. “Long distance?”

“No, Farberville. I need to speak to my husband.”

“I reckon that's okay. You can freshen up down the hall, second door on the right. I'll put on the kettle.”

Once in the bathroom, I sat down on the edge of the bathtub and forced my neck and shoulder muscles to relax. I was unable to convince my brain to stop flitting like a hummingbird from one bit of information to the next. After a few minutes, I washed my face and hands, ran my fingers through my untidy hair, and plastered on a socially acceptable smile.

As I came into the hall, I heard Miss Poppoy's voice. “These blasted missionaries think they have the right to interrupt me in the middle of
Top Chef.
They bang on the door like Mongolians.”

I faltered, but only for seconds, and went into the living room. It was uninhabited, so I headed to the kitchen. Miss Poppoy was in front of the stove, still talking blithely about the intrusion of missionaries, but I had no idea what she was saying.

Seated at a small table was a familiar figure.

 

14

I may have staggered backward as I gaped in an unbecoming fashion. I knew he couldn't be Zachery Barnard, since he was tucked in a drawer in the morgue. Oliver Goldsmith was out; he'd died in the latter part of the eighteenth century. The man at the table bore a keen resemblance to the sketch from the trial, if one added forty years, wrinkles, and gray hair. The aggressive chin and asymmetrical nose had not been softened by age.

“You look pale,” Miss Poppoy chirped. “Why don't you sit down? Would you prefer something stronger than tea?”

I remained in the doorway, uncertain how he would react. He wore an unbuttoned flannel shirt with chopped sleeves over a T-shirt and jeans; if he had a gun, it wasn't visible. “Mr. James, I presume?” I said.

“Call me Rod,” he said genially. “You know, Poppy, I do feel a need for something stronger. Can you spare a beer?”

“Of course, dearie.” She put her hand on his shoulder in an unsettlingly intimate way. “Would you like another bologna and cheese sandwich?”

I was so bewildered that I expected to see the Cheshire Cat peering down from atop the refrigerator. “What are you doing here?”

He put his hand over Miss Poppoy's and squeezed it. “You're too kind. Just a beer.” He gave me a level look. “After you and your friend left Zach's place, I decided it might not be wise to drive my van. I parked it in the pond. I was going to hitchhike out of state, but this delightful woman stopped and picked me up. My angel of mercy.”

Miss Poppoy blushed. “I felt so sorry for him, on foot and broke, so I offered to fix him lunch before he resumed his journey. We've been chatting ever since. Roddy majored in British literature in college. I have a passion for Jane Austen, the Bront
ë
gals, and that rascal Mr. Dickens. We've been having a lovely time.” She giggled as she slid her hand down his chest. “I'm going to teach him to play mah-jongg this evening.”

I felt a stab of sympathy for him, then reminded myself that he had killed an undercover agent at the demonstration and subsequently escaped from Folsom Prison. I suspected his history would not daunt Miss Poppoy. I sucked in a breath and sat down at the table. “I reported the location of the van. The FBI is looking for me, which implies they found your fingerprints and ran them through the system.”

“I expected no less,” Roderick said. “You claimed to be a friend of Sarah's. Is that true?”

I saw no reason to explain why I was attempting to help her. “Her trial starts Tuesday morning. The prosecutor has a strong case. Her lawyer, on the other hand, is inexperienced and floundering like a beached fish. Sarah has been lying to both of us.” I stopped to let him consider what I'd said, then continued. “She insists that she was home and fast asleep when Tuck was killed with a shotgun. The sound woke the neighbors, and was heard by campers on the far side of the field. Nobody's buying her story.”

Miss Poppoy joined us at the table. “I feel sorry for the woman. Tuck was a sumbitch from start to finish. He growled at me at the farmers' market when I commented on his bruised tomatoes. It was all I could do not to slap him upside the head.”

“What if she has an alibi?” Roderick asked me.

“She said she came straight home from her book club meeting and went to bed,” I said, meeting his gaze. “That's her story. Does she have an alibi?”

“I do hope so,” said Miss Poppoy. “She brought me chicken soup and homemade bread when I had bronchitis. Whole wheat, and fresh from the oven. No one that kindhearted would kill somebody, even a nasty piece of work like her husband. I know a bruised tomato when I see one.”

Roderick got up and went to the refrigerator. He returned with a beer, but set it down unopened. “She wasn't home at midnight.”

Miss Poppoy deftly opened his beer and handed it to him. “Sarah's not a liar. If she says she was home, she was home. I am very sensitive about people. I knew the minute I met her that she was as honest as the day is long.”

“Do you have any scotch?” I asked our hostess, who was beginning to remind me of Billy. This was not a compliment. After she'd disappeared into the living room, I turned to him. “Where was she? Silly question. She was with you, wasn't she? She refused to say so because the authorities are still looking for you after all these years. If you were to step forward, you'd be sent back to Folsom to finish your sentence plus whatever is added for escaping.”

“Yeah,” he murmured.

“How did you find her?”

“There's a network. I made inquiries, and after years of searching, someone in the underground community traced Tuck via Facebook. He was stupid enough to drop a few clues about his real identity. Maybe he thought the feds had lost interest. That's the problem with amateurs—they underestimate the power of the opposition. The government has been scanning mail, planting bugs, and eavesdropping on phone calls for decades. Internet security's a joke. Only recently has this been made public and become a scandal. Hell, my phone was tapped in 1967, and a nondescript white car was always parked across the street. I used to take the agents tea on cold mornings and tell them my plans for the day. I offered to find out if they could audit my classes, but they declined. Guess they weren't into liberal arts.”

Miss Poppoy returned with bottles of scotch, gin, and vermouth. “I do believe I'll have a martini. What about you, Roddy?”

He smiled at her. “I'd better stick to beer. Claire may be planning to call the FBI. I'll need a clear head if I have to flee out the back door.”

She gasped. “She most certainly will not! I will not allow a guest in my home to be dragged away in handcuffs.”

I held up my palms. “I'm not going to call anyone except my husband. The FBI is after me, too.” I waited to see if Miss Poppoy realized that she was entertaining fugitives in her kitchen. In her situation, I might have been uneasy, or perhaps significantly alarmed. As I fled out the back door.

“Well, then,” she said, “I'll bake some cookies.” She began opening cabinets and yanking out various ingredients. “I'm afraid I don't have any chocolate chips. I fed them to Larry Lippet's nasty dog, but he survived. You simply cannot believe everything you read on the Internet. I hope you have a fondness for gingersnaps.”

I must admit I was still dazed by Roderick's presence, as well as a trifle pleased about my deductive prowess. “When did you come to Farberville?” I asked him quietly.

“Two years ago. After I … departed an untenable locale, I was unable to acquire a fake identity, so I had to take crappy jobs. I worked alongside undocumented migrant workers picking everything from artichokes to zucchinis. I transported drugs from Mexico and Colombia. I picked up a few dollars selling blood. Most of the time, I stayed in the South because it's easier to be homeless when you don't have to deal with freezing temperatures and sleet.”

“Did you know that Sarah and Tuck were together?”

“No,” he said, “but it was the only lead I had. I wouldn't have wasted fifteen seconds worrying about Tuck. He was a pain in the ass when I met him in '69. He was convinced that if he spent one night in the local jail, he'd be beaten and raped.”

“Roddy,” Miss Poppoy trilled, “have you seen the molasses?”

He winced but stood up, twinkling as if she were his beloved grandmother. “Let me help you look, Poppy.”

While the two of them searched through cabinets, I poured scotch into a jelly glass and took a sip. I had no doubt that Peter would be less than pleased that I was sitting across the table from a convicted murderer, and he would feel compelled to go into great detail about my imprudent, reckless, irresponsible behavior. It was best, I told myself, not to mention Roderick's whereabouts when I called home. I planned to do so only when I was prepared to leave Miss Poppoy's house, since the FBI could trace the call in less time than it takes to flush a toilet. Being a fugitive was a major annoyance. Sarah, Tuck, and Roderick would agree, although they'd had forty years to practice. I was a novice.

Roderick found a bottle of molasses on a top shelf. Miss Poppoy squealed in admiration and returned to her mixing bowl.

“Shall I assume you felt more kindly toward Sarah back then?” I asked him as he sat down.

“We had a relationship. Nobody talked about marriage. Societal shackles, the degradation of women, the imposition of artificial constraints on sexual freedom, and so on. We had dreams of an idyllic farmhouse, children allowed to express themselves freely, and a macrobiotic diet from our organic garden.” His fist hit the table hard enough to rattle the bottles. Miss Poppoy yelped. I held back an uncouth response despite a tingle of panic. “Damn that war!” he went on in a bitter voice. “Tricky Dick sent more than half a million young men to Vietnam to be killed in a swampy jungle. My cousin came home with one leg and a fatal addiction to heroin. One of my best friends from high school died at Danang; another one survived but committed suicide in '68.”