The Winter Widow (26 page)

Sooner or later word would come in, a hint, a scent, a possibility; from her officers, from the sheriff, from Kansas City, Florida, Brazil, somewhere. Wherever he was, she would go. She'd get him; she simply had to wait for information. She hated waiting.

The eerie shrieking of the wind scraped her nerves raw. Pulling down slats in the blind, she peered out at the growing darkness. A woman, bent almost double and towing two small children, made an erratic course along the sidewalk. The wind snatched away one child and swept him to the gutter. The woman plucked him up by the back of his jacket and staggered on.

She let the slats snap back into place and turned from the window, startled to see Parkhurst, in black pants and black sweater, regarding her with the assessing eyes of a mental-ward attendant.

“What's wrong?” she asked, more sharply than she intended, because she'd been unaware of his presence. He moved like a cat; somebody should put a bell around his neck.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course, I'm okay.” She crossed to the desk, nudged the chair an inch closer with her foot, and slid into it. “How did you know Emma Lou was with Joe Calvin?”

“If two people leave at the same time, there's a possibility their leaving is connected.”

“Why didn't you tell me about this possibility?”

“I might have been wrong. I hate it when I'm wrong.” His tone was light but his flat gaze didn't change; the dark circles under his eyes, and the shadow of beard, gave him a sinister look. She sat up straight to resist the force of his intensity.

“If Brenner is the killer, we'll get him.” Parkhurst padded to the chair in front of the desk and dropped into it.

“‘If'?”

“That's what I'm worried about,” he said.

“What?”

“We have no evidence.”

“He fits the description of the man who set up the toxic-waste dumping with Vic Pollock. Blond, city man. He fits with Floyd Kimmell's man from Kansas City who ‘was always smart.' Floyd knew him. He'll give us Brenner's name as soon as he realizes what kind of trouble he's in.”

“Any number of people fit that vague description.”

“How many around here can you name?”

They stared at each other, defending their positions with silence. Outside, the wind wailed and rattled the window.

“Brenner attacked Sophie,” she said.

“That's not proof he killed Dan.”

No, it isn't, she thought, dropping her gaze and shuffling through reports looking for her cigarettes, but it's certainly suggestive, added to toxic waste and slaughtered beef. “What did you find at Sophie's?”

“Damn-all. Except the rifle's missing. Nothing in Brenner's room to connect him with the murders, nothing to say where he might be.” Parkhurst rubbed his jaw, and stubble rasped against his hand. “And nothing that proves what happened to Sophie wasn't an accident.”

“She said Brenner hit her.”

“No. She didn't. She only said his name. And she had a severe head injury.”

Susan nodded, lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling light. Okay, but it didn't weaken her certainty that Brenner was the slime who killed Daniel.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Parkhurst said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Buckling on your six-guns and heading out for the O.K. Corral.”

She choked on a breathful of cigarette smoke and an involuntary snort of laughter. That was exactly what she wanted to do, and given the opportunity, she wasn't sure she wouldn't. Maybe just as well she didn't know where Brenner was.

*   *   *

THE wind slapped against the house, shook the kitchen window and whipped through the elm tree outside. It set her teeth on edge. She stood with the refrigerator door open, peering inside and wondering if any of those containers held anything that hadn't grown green fur. The best she could come up with was some stale pumpernickel and a block of cheddar cheese. She sliced the cheese, laid it on the bread and slid the whole thing in the microwave.

The drippy, gooey sandwich tasted good, especially since she hadn't eaten in she couldn't remember how long, but one of the first things she was going to do when she got back to San Francisco was buy a loaf of sourdough bread. Still no word on Brenner when she'd left the police department with firm instructions to call if anything came in. The phone was obstinately still. The wind howled incessantly.

She poured a glass of milk and looked around the messy kitchen as she drank it. The time had come. She was too twitchy, too keyed up; cleaning would use that energy and leave her mind free. Pushing up the sleeves of her old gray sweatshirt, she stacked all the dishes in the dishwasher. It sloshed and hummed in opposition to the wind.

She emptied ashtrays, wiped down the countertops and swept the floor, then took a bucket from under the sink and filled it with hot water and detergent. On hands and knees, she scrubbed the floor.

Clutter bothered her—she did like bare surfaces—but dirt and grime she could ignore for long periods—probably in reaction to her mother's spotless housekeeping—until they reached an overwhelming point. This place had now gone past that.

She scoured tub and basin and toilet and then the bathroom floor, her ears attuned all the while for the ring of the phone. It didn't ring. The wind never ceased its roar. In the living room, she dusted, sprayed the wood surfaces with polish and rubbed until they gleamed. Wind howled down the chimney. She got out the vacuum cleaner, unwound the cord, and just as she bent to plug it in, the phone rang. Dropping the cord, she ran to the kitchen and pounced on the phone.

“This is Helen.” Her voice held annoyance.

Oh damn, she'd forgotten to return Helen's call. “I apologize for not getting back to you. I really haven't had much time to think about selling—”

“I didn't call about that, although I do not know why you insist on stalling.”

Soon, Susan promised silently, soon it's all yours, just as soon as Brenner is caught. Assuming he's guilty, a small voice cautioned. Yes of course, she told the voice, but I know he's guilty.

“… Brenner is out there,” Helen was saying.

“Where?”

“At the farm,” Helen said impatiently. “The Wren farm. Haven't you been listening?”

“Why do you think that?”

“His car was there. Bob Donato saw it. He called me this morning. Bob owns the adjacent farm, and he was on his way home from—”

“What time was the car seen?”

“Around two-thirty this morning.”

Susan hung up and stared at the shiny clean floor beneath her dirty sneakers. A fever of excitement swept over her. Don't get carried away, she told herself, it's very unlikely. Why would Brenner be out there? He might be hoping Sophie's injuries were accepted as an accident and he could come back and be properly appalled at what had happened to poor old Auntie. But even if that were true, he'd surely go someplace warmer and more comfortable, where he could rig up an alibi at the same time. If he's there, he could leave at any second.

She raced up to the bedroom, put on thick socks and boots, and shrugged into her heavy gray jacket.
All right, you son of a bitch.
Grabbing her gun, she swung out the cylinder, checked the bullets and snapped it shut.
If you're out there, you're dead.
She shoved the gun in her pocket. Damned if she was going to dance around with backup. She didn't want anybody trying to stop her. In the bottom desk drawer, she found a fistful of keys. She trotted out to the pickup.

*   *   *

THIN clouds raced across the moon. Her gloved hands gripped the wheel as she fought the wind for control, and she felt a rush of exhilaration as she sped along the deserted country road with trees whipping on both sides and brush blowing across in front of her. Half a mile from the house, she pulled onto a dirt track, badly rutted and overgrown with brush. She was taking no chances headlights would be seen.

When she climbed from the truck, the wind slammed her back against it and tore her breath away, then stroked her face and teased her hair, whispered with a seductive croon, coaxing her heart to race and her blood to sing. Shielding the flashlight beam with her fingers, she set off on the dirt track. The wind chuckled and nuzzled and urged unrestraint.

A hundred yards from the rear of the farmyard, she thumbed off the flashlight and stared fixedly at the dark outline of the two-story house. No lights. If Brenner was inside, he was freezing in the dark. The trees thrashed and wailed. She moved toward the barn, felt for the door and slid it open with a grinding rumble just far enough to step inside. At least she didn't have to worry about noise; the wind covered any sound she might make. Briefly, she flicked on the light, just long enough to see the barn was empty, no car hidden inside.

She circled the house, examining ground-floor windows and front and back doors. As nearly as she could tell in the uncertain light, no one had broken in. If he'd gotten in, he'd used a key.

The kitchen door was locked tight. After two wrong tries, she found the right key, slipped in fast and stood with her back to the wall. The howling wind was muted; moonlight and dancing trees created live shadows. The old farmhouse smelled damp and stale and long-deserted.

Her boot heels made a soft
tap, tap
as she eased into the dining room and risked using the flashlight. Empty. She tried to imagine Daniel living here as a young child, with happiness and sunshine and love. It was beyond her. All she could feel was Helen and gloom, bitterness and despair; Helen resenting the long-wanted younger brother, nursing the sickly mother and injured father, managing the farm with all the troubles of machinery breaking down and livestock destroying crops, finally killing the man responsible. Helen was right; Susan had been a pampered and petted only child, secure in the warm love of doting parents.

She edged into the living room, and her breath caught. A menacing bulk hovered in the corner. Half a second later, her mind pointed out it was nothing but a broken-down easy chair.

Bare wooden stairs creaked as she went up, hugging the wall. Large bedroom on the right, old chest with one drawer missing.

A loud crash.

She jumped, dropped the flashlight and hit the floor, pulling out her gun. The flashlight clattered and rolled with a crazy pattern of light. She squirmed to the wall, rose and waited, then darted out the door and across the hallway.

A squeak, a bang, a crash.

She tensed, both hands on the gun, and zipped through the doorway in a crouch. Outside, tree limbs beckoned and pointed and squealed against the windowpane.

Oh Jesus, if Brenner had been here, I'd have killed him. She shoved the gun in her pocket and rubbed her face with a shaky hand. What the hell is the matter with me, slinking around on half-bent knees like a vigilante?

She retrieved the flashlight and went back down the stairs on rubbery legs. Get a grip on yourself and get out of here. She left through the kitchen door and locked it behind her.

The wind rushed at her, grabbed her hair and tore at her clothes. It was worse than the Santa Ana winds in California. She felt boneless, so tired she could barely shuffle feet that seemed encased in cement, and she had a half-mile hike back to the pickup. Starting across the farmyard, she swung the light back and forth and ran it over a small shed. A small bright spot winked at her.

She stopped, slowly moved the light until it winked again. She sighed, then told herself to get a move on and trudged to the shed. One of the screws holding the plate for the padlock had caught the light. She lifted the lock. Fastened.

The wind sniffled and mourned. Far away, a coyote cried and hair prickled on the back of her neck. Bending her head against the wind, she forced unwilling leg muscles to carry her toward the dirt path.

One shiny screw?

She stopped and turned back.

Why one shiny screw? The rest were weathered and rusted.

With the light close, she bent to examine the plate screwed into the door and found small scratches from a screwdriver. Someone who didn't have a key had simply removed the hardware holding on the padlock and when he put it back had used one new screw.

Pulling off a glove, she stuck her hand in her pocket and drew out the bunch of keys; several were padlock keys.

The first one she tried slid into the lock and she snapped it free. Hinges squealed as she swung open the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHY would anyone want to get in here? Through the doorway the light shined on rough wooden shelves with dusty Mason jars, enamel pots, stone crocks and an ancient pressure cooker; a jumble of rusted tools on the floor, old brooms, a lumpy pile of burlap bags, a child's rocker, wooden crates; rat droppings, dust and dirt everywhere.

Kids maybe, just to see what was inside or just for the hell of it? Wind grabbed the door from her hand, banged it back against the shed and tore the top hinge loose with a shriek.

Oh hell, go home, Susan, it's only a shed with a lot of unwanted and discarded junk.
Somebody wanted in bad enough to remove the lock.
So what? Nothing to get excited about.
Then why are you so reluctant to go inside?

She swung the light around the darkness behind her, moonlight and shadows and thrashing trees. Nobody here but you, kiddo, and with the hinge loose, even if somebody were here, he couldn't lock you inside. She stepped in.

The dust on the floorboards showed sweep marks. One of the old brooms used to obliterate tracks? She couldn't believe there'd be anything here worth stealing, and she certainly couldn't tell if anything was missing; she'd have to ask Helen.

She took another step and silky threads clung to her face. Gasping, she clawed at her face. Spiderwebs. She shivered and flung an arm back and forth to remove any others.

All right, you're inside. Satisfied now? The wind howled derisively. She played the light over the burlap bags: lumpy pile two feet high, no dirt, no dust on the top bag. Crouching, she reached out her hand and let her fingertips rest lightly on the pile.