The Magic of Murder (12 page)

“Official business,” he said as he cut to the front of the line. “Got a burn victim over there.”

The nurse examined the badge, then Roger’s face. She must have seen urgency in his eyes, because she dispensed with the normal questions about my medical insurance. Lifting the telephone on her desk, she called into it, “We need a gurney out here, stat!”

Seconds later, I was on a cart, headed for a swinging door.

While he trotted beside it, Roger told Rebecca, “Wait here.”

She latched onto the back of the gurney. “Not a chance.”

What occurred next was a blur of motion, mostly in white, green, and orange. Four hands lifted me onto a hard bed inside a curtained enclosure. A nurse slit my pants leg up to my thigh. A doctor pulled aside the curtain. Standing beside the nurse, he examined the burns on my foot and leg. I leaned up on my elbows to watch. My skin looked like crisp bacon.

“What caused this burn?” the doctor asked.

Roger answered for me. “Some kind of gel. Won’t know what it is till I get it to the lab.”

The doctor nodded. To me he said, “Are you in much pain?”

Strangely, I wasn’t. I looked at Rebecca. Her expression was blank.

“Seems as though someone started treatment,” the doctor said.

Roger turned to Rebecca.

“I rubbed her leg with oil made of sandalwood, carnation petals, and rosemary,” she said.

“You had that with you?” Roger asked.

She peered through the curtains at people in green scrubs who rushed back and forth. “Never know when it might be needed.”

Still on my elbows, I stared at her back. If I could see her face, I’m pretty sure there would have been a sly grin on it.

The doctor scraped some of the burned skin from my leg. “That hurt?” he asked.

I cringed.

He shook his head. I guess he thought I should have screamed in pain. He pulled a pointed instrument from his breast pocket, ran it along the sole of my foot.

The muscle contracted. I giggled.

Again the doctor shook his head. He glanced at Roger. “When did you say this occurred?”

“No more than half an hour ago.”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sure? A victim doesn’t always get the timeframe right.”

“I was there when the fire started,” Roger said. He didn’t seem inclined to explain someone had tried to firebomb me twice in two days.

The doctor rubbed his chin. “Don’t understand why she isn’t in severe pain,” he said to the nurse. “Probably shock.” To me, he said, “In an hour or two the shock will abate and you might be in considerable pain.”

The nurse handed him a hypodermic and a small vial. He drew the liquid in, tapped the needle. “This will help fight infection—”

“Won’t be any,” I heard Rebecca whisper.

“—and I’ll write you a scrip for some pain meds. Meantime, we’ll get that leg bandaged. Make an
appointment for your primary to take a look at it in a few days.”

That said, the doctor smiled at me, pulled the curtain aside, and was off to his next patient. His puzzlement over why I suffered so little pain had apparently been forgotten.

***

In less than two hours we were in Roger’s car, driving to Niagara Falls at a saner rate of speed. The crutches the nurse had given me were on the floor beneath my feet. We dropped Rebecca off where her ten-year-old Saturn Ion was parked behind a couple of squad cars outside Main Street Books. When she opened the door, I tried to climb out after her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Roger asked.

“I’ve got to speak to Zack Anaison,” I said. “I want to find out how much damage was done to his meeting room.” I felt guilty about his store being hurt in an attack on me.

“You don’t have to talk to him now,” Roger said.

“I do,” I argued. “I feel just awful about it.”

He heaved a Lord-give-me-patience sigh. “Stay where you are. I’ll talk to him.”

He slid from the Trailblazer, said a few words to the cop standing guard at the door, and disappeared inside. Ten minutes later he returned, followed by Zack, who told me not to fret over the damage. It was minor, he said. Some sanding and stain, it would look good as new. Better even, since the room had “nary a moment’s work done to it in ’bout fifty years” (Bookworm Anaison tended to talk like a character in a Zane Gray story).

“Satisfied now?” Roger said to me as he started the car.

I leaned toward the window, and glanced around. Rebecca had already left. Without saying goodbye? I hoped
she wasn’t angry with me. Of course, I hadn’t done
anything to her. But that’s the way guilt affects a person. Having crept in, I felt as though I were to blame for everything since Eve handed Adam a wormy apple.

I also felt as though Roger must be angry at me, because he didn’t say a word all the way from Main Street Books until he turned into my driveway. It was then I knew Rebecca, at least, wasn’t angry. She had parked in a cleared spot near my garage and was leaning on the hood of her car.

I soon learned Roger wasn’t angry, either. As he lifted me from the back seat, he said, “I’ll take you inside, help you pack a few things. Then you’ll stay at my house till we catch the bastard who’s doing this to you.”

I pulled my front door key from my bag.

Rebecca took the key from my hand. With a sideways glance at Roger, she said, “Emlyn can stay at home where she’ll be comfortable. I’ll stay with her, make sure she’s all right.”

I had spent so much time with Roger lately, I was able to translate the language of his sighs. This one said,
Great, now I have two of you to worry about.

Chapter Thirteen

Reasons to Kill

             
R
ebecca hung her coat as well as Roger’s in the hall closet, and carried her ten gallon-sized floral shoulder bag into the kitchen.

Roger carried me into my living room (I have to admit I was getting happily used to this), and helped me get settled on the sofa. He tucked a couple of cushions under my leg.

“Doctor said you should keep this raised,” he told me.

All the while, as if demanding,
What did you do her!
Elvira glared at him from beneath my desk.

He took the afghan from where I had folded it over the arm of my wingback chair. As he straightened the cover, he stopped and stared at the runes my grandmother sewed into it. “I saw these in that book of yours,” he said. “What are they?”

Observant man, he didn’t miss a thing and what he saw he remembered.

I had researched those symbols online. Though most remained a mystery I hoped to decipher someday, I did manage to find a few. “This one’s for protection,” I said. “And this symbolizes the wisdom to use the plants growing all around us.”

“Only for good, I hope,” Roger said. “I don’t want to have to arrest you for poisoning someone.”

I smiled at him, and pointed to the protection rune. “If I ever do, I’ll use this to make sure you never find out.”

He let out a booming laugh. “Wonderful, I live next door to a potential mass murderer.” All at once, his face grew serious. “Best thing is to stay very close so I can keep an eye on you. Maybe we ought to—”

Before he carried the idea where he seemed to want to take it, from the kitchen, Rebecca called, “Can I get anyone something while I’m in here?”

The moment was lost.

“I’m good,” I called back.

“A beer would be nice,” Roger said.

He parked himself in my wingback chair next to the bookcases and beneath the railroad station clock. He began to thumb through the television section of the
Buffalo News
. After a minute, he grunted, “Daytime television.” He tossed the TV section onto the coffee table. “If I had nothing to do all day but watch soap operas, I might stick a gun in my mouth.”

I smiled at him. “Beer’s on the bottom shelf of the fridge,” I called to Rebecca. “Better get this guy one quick. He’s about to go off the deep end.”

In a few moments, she handed him a bottle, a glass, and a coaster.

He placed the coaster on the lamp table and the beer on top of it. Then he looked at the glass as if he had no idea what it might be for.

Rebecca solved his dilemma when she said, “That thing in your hand? The beer goes in it.”

“Guys,” I said, and shrugged.

Elvira shimmied from under my desk and jumped onto Roger’s lap. Her head swiveling from the beer to him, she licked her lips.

“Untamed animals, both of them,” Rebecca remarked.

She relieved Roger of the unwanted glass and returned
to the kitchen. I heard cabinets open and close, then a couple drawers. Finally I heard the teapot whistle. In a minute she was back, carrying a mug of tea. This she
handed to me.

“Don’t want tea,” I said.

“It’s herbal. Drink it,” she insisted. “It’ll help the healing process.”

For a moment, Roger stared at her with the same expression he had shown me when I told him about Sarah Goode. Then, with a shake of his head, he picked up the newspaper and turned to the sports section.

Perched on his lap, Elvira seemed to read along with him. My friend and my cat had apparently formed a bond.

“By the way,” Rebecca said, “the message light is blinking on your phone.

“Oh?”

“Don’t you want to know who it is? Might be important,” Roger said without looking up from the paper.

With my mind filled by the memory of how my foot and leg had gotten burned, I wasn’t much interested in who might have phoned.

“Ought to find out,” Rebecca said. Without an invitation to do so, she pushed the
Message
button.

Immediately, a thin version of Marge Osborn’s voice spoke from the small speaker.

“Emlyn, are you home yet?” she said. “If you are, pick up.” She sounded frantic. “Jen told me what happened at the book store. Are you okay? Emmy, I’m worried about you. I hope this has nothing to do with you asking questions about my husband’s death. The way you almost interrogated us the other day—who else are you questioning? Don’t deny you’re doing it, I know you too well. You can’t help yourself. Probably want to turn it into one of your stories. Anyhow, I’d feel just awful if another person got hurt. Call me. Let me know you’re okay. And promise me you’ll stop snooping—I don’t want you get hurt worse. Okay?”

Roger and Rebecca looked at me.

“It’s not snooping,” I said. “It’s research.”

Roger snickered. “Oh, is that what they call it these days?”

I had the good grace to blush.

“Well, then,” Rebecca said, “go ahead, research.” She held out the telephone receiver. “What’s her number?”

I rolled onto my side, trying to find a position in which my leg might not sting. “Later,” I said. “I don’t much feel like talking right now.”

We sat quietly for a while, Roger reading the sports section, Rebecca gazing through the slatted blinds on the French doors. Then, as if she realized something, her eyes scrunched.

I followed her glance to Sarah Goode’s book at the edge of the coffee table. I hadn’t put it away when I left the house earlier. I hadn’t expected company and there was no longer a point in hiding it from Roger.

Rebecca’s eyebrows crimped up as she asked a silent question.

“It’s okay, he read it,” I told her.

“Did he?” She peeked at Roger.

“He found it when he stayed over last night.”

From the way her eyes glittered, I suspected my friend believed he had done more than just sleep on my couch. With Roger in the room, I didn’t want to tell how close I’d come to letting him do
much
more. In fact, I didn’t want to remind myself.

“I still don’t believe in that mumbo-jumbo stuff,” Roger
said. He didn’t raise his eyes from the
News
.

The sun had set. I looked at my watch. It was almost seven-thirty.

As if he were keeping a weather-eye on my every movement, Roger looked up and smiled.

“Sorry,” I said. “Stomach’s grumbling.”

It was no wonder. I hadn’t eaten all day. The doctor had been right when he said the shock I’d suffered would wear off in a few hours. My body had returned to normal. I was hungry. Here’s the funny part, though: while my foot and leg still hurt, I didn’t feel the agonizing pain the doctor
had warned me to expect. Rebecca’s herbal remedy actually worked. If I harbored any doubts about the effectiveness of Sarah Goode’s herbal mixtures—or
Rebecca’s, for that matter—they were gone.

Roger broke into my thoughts when he announced, “I’m starving. How about if I order some Chinese takeout?”

“I’m in,” I said.

“Me too,” Rebecca said. “Order me General Tsao’s Chicken.”

As he tilted in the chair to pull his cell phone from his pants pocket, Roger said, “I thought all you witches were vegetarians.”

“I’m not the witch,” Rebecca said and smiled at him. “That’s your buddy’s job.”

I lifted the cover to look at my bandaged leg. “Seems I’m not very good at the job yet.”

Roger rolled his eyes.

***

I leaned heavily on my crutches when I hobbled to the kitchen table. Rebecca and Roger wanted me to stay off my feet, so they bickered a bit about which of them would pull out the dishes and flatware. Normally, I’m a purist where Chinese food is concerned, by which I mean I insist on using chopsticks. Not this night, though. I was so hungry, even a fork couldn’t shovel the food into my mouth fast enough.

It seemed as though Elvira couldn’t eat fast enough, either. Her rear end wiggled as she gulped the Cat Chow from her bowl.

While we ate, the conversation turned to Jimmy Osborn’s death. As I recall, I led it there. I hoped if I learned the facts the police knew about the murder, with Rebecca’s help I might put an end to the insanity before the rest of my body got fried.

“In my experience,” Roger said, “the motive for most murders comes down to one thing: passion. Love, hate, a lust for money. Look behind the violence, you’ll find love, hate, or greed.”

“Where does Jimmy fit into that picture?” I asked.

“Ah, the Final Jeopardy question.”

“Can’t see behind your neighbor’s Venetian blinds,” I said.

Rebecca put down her fork and dabbed her napkin at her lips. “Not in the usual way.” She rose from the table. “More tea, anyone?”

I lifted my cup.

Roger covered his cup with his hand. “At this point,
I’d even take a hint from what your voodoo chants turn up.”

“What does Woody think?” I asked. To Rebecca, I explained, “That’s Harry Woodward, Roger’s boss.”

She nodded.

Elvira glanced up then returned to her meal.

Running a hand through his brown locks, Roger said, “I expected Woody to be all over this, a real hound dog. After all, one of his men got killed.”

“He isn’t?” Rebecca asked.

“Doesn’t seem to be. It isn’t only me he won’t let work the case, it’s all the guys. He says we’re all too close to it.” Roger rubbed his chin. “It’s like he suspects one of us did it.”

“Is that possible?” I asked.

“I know I didn’t. The others? No matter how I try, I can’t see a motive.”

“Eight bullets in the chest,” I said. “Someone really had it in for Jimmy.”

“His wife?” Rebecca asked. I supposed she was thinking about the message Marge left on my phone, and believed it sounded like a warning. She didn’t know Marge. The girl I grew up with got queasy when aliens were zapped in sci-fi movies.

Before I could disabuse her of the idea, Roger said, “Nah, I don’t see it. Jimmy was crazy about her. Told me he was saving up to take a trip to Mexico. A second honeymoon, he said.”

“So that leaves?” I asked.

“I’m stumped.” Roger admitted. “If Woody’s working the case, he’s doing it alone and keeping everything very close to the vest. He got a call yesterday and went out for about an hour. That gave me a chance to sneak a peek at his file. Practically nothing in it.”

Again, Elvira’s head came up from her bowl. She was actually listening to us.

Surprised at the direction this had taken, I said, “You don’t think Woody might have—?” I couldn’t finish my sentence. From all I knew about him, Harry Woodward walked a line so straight it could be used as a yardstick. Still, sometimes yardsticks got broken.

Roger thought for a moment. “I wonder,” he said at last. “He’s certainly acting strange.”

At the mention of strange behavior, I thought of my ex.
His
behavior was certainly stranger than usual. “How about Kevin?” I said. No need to explain to Rebecca who he was, she’d helped me damage his life. “The firebombs began just after he was here. Oh, and he was also at the book store just before—”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Roger said.

“And when I think about it, he used to read about the Russian revolution—that’s when those Molotov cocktails were used.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Roger said.

“What?”

“Your husband—”

“Her ex-husband,” Rebecca corrected him.

“Okay, then, her ex-husband. He didn’t know Jimmy. Why would he want to kill him?”

As if she wanted to participate in the conversation, Elvira jumped onto my lap. She shoved my plate aside and rested her head on her paws. With her pink eyes focused on Roger, she
meowed
.

“I agree,” Rebecca said.

“With me?” Roger asked.

“No, with Elvira. Are you sure Kevin didn’t know your partner?”

“That’s right,” I said. “He told me he was in big trouble.
Oh, and he stopped by the Osborns’ house looking for Jimmy. Could Jimmy have been investigating him?”

“Can’t be. I’d have known if he was. My partner wasn’t a cowboy. He played everything by the book.”

“So that leaves us with…what?”

“Harry Woodward,” Rebecca and Roger said in unison.

“I don’t like it,” Roger added. “No, I don’t like it at all. But as Sherlock Holmes used to say, when you eliminate everything possible, whatever’s left, regardless of how improbable, has to be the answer.”

Elvira’s head came up and she nodded.

I didn’t bother to remind Roger and the cat it was Arthur Conan Doyle who put those words in his detective’s mouth.

We fell silent, each of us pushing food around our plate.

While I wondered what could possibly have turned Harry Woodward’s white hat black, a heavy fist rapped on my front door. After the last two days, I was so startled I nearly knocked over my chair when I jumped up.