Wicked Fix (21 page)

I thought Bailey might as well unhook the Internet

link; all the information anyone could ever need was

already there in the store.

"They go to early services at First Baptist when

they're in town," Heather said. "So they're probably

home by now."

Just then Bob came in, got a coffee, and walked

with me to the booth in the back of the shop, the look

on his round, pink face one of abiding disgust.

"This murder business," he said, sliding in across

from me, "is not the kind of tourist attraction the

chamber of commerce had in mind when they started

advertising us as a big downeast Maine travel destination,

tryin' to get publicity."

He took a swallow of coffee. "City manager's office

is in a tizzy gettin' calls from reporters who want to

know does Eastport have a serial killer? 'Cause if we

do, we can all get on Hard Copy, but if it's just us folks

killin' one another, that ain't as newsworthy."

Oh, he was on a tear. I tried edging him in a new

direction.

"Well, but you know what the flip side is, don't

you? It's that most of the time, the great big world out

there leaves us alone, way up here at the edge of the

continent. To do things the way we want to, take care

of things that way, too."

He nodded reluctantly. Bailey came over with the

cream and sugar, caught my expression, and didn't

stick around to chat.

"Which," I went on, getting to the point, "I think

somebody did when they finished off Reuben Tate.

Took care of things their own way, I mean. And I'll tell

you another thing, Arnold: I think somebody set Victor

up for it on purpose."

I didn't feel so nervous about floating this theory

with Bob as I had with Bennet. As a small-town police

chief, Bob had seen a lot of odd things, and their oddness

hadn't prevented them from being true. His gaze

sharpened as I told him about the call Victor said he'd

gotten, and the mysterious coming of the trash truck.

"People in town knew Reuben was giving Victor

trouble," I said. "And I know of people who'd been in

his house, probably seen his collection of surgical instruments.

You can't walk down the hall without passing

it."

Well, Mike Carpentier had been in Victor's house

recently, anyway, and likely there were more. "I don't

suppose you've heard about any fingerprints, by any

chance? On, say, the weapon?"

"Nuh-uh. Glove marks on his skin, maybe. Burn

'em, or toss 'em in the bay, they're gone forever, probably."

"Darn. But my point is, if you hung back and

watched for your chance, you could steal a scalpel

from Victor's collection and kill Reuben with it, on a

night when Victor had no alibi for his time. That Victor

had threatened Reuben, and that he had a reason to

clean up so thoroughly--"

"Him being' a few fish short of a bucketful, in the

rub-a-dub department," Arnold put in accurately.

"Right. That would be, from your angle if you

were a sneaky murderer, just dumb luck. Whenever

you find out about it, you use it, even work it into your

plan. Take advantage," I finished, "of happenstance."

"Nothing dumb about the rest of it, though," Arnold

said shrewdly. "And the call would seal it. He'd

know Reuben was dead when he couldn't have yet, and

he couldn't prove how he found out. Same with that

garbage truck."

"Seems Reuben was talking up his plan to

blackmail Victor, too," I said, "so more than one person

might have thought to take advantage of that. And

sometimes when people get away with things, it's because

other things just happened to go their way," I

finished. "Like the bar fight, and Victor's hygiene fixation.

You couldn't plan that, it would be a couple of

lucky breaks you would use, just because they came

along."

Arnold nodded. "Maybe," he allowed. "But what

about the drugs in Tate's system? I hear he was loaded

with sedatives. The state boys," he added sarcastically,

"let me in on a few things."

"I don't know. I didn't say I had it all figured out.

But I doubt Victor's the only one on the island with a

bottle of Valium or whatever. For all I know, Reuben

had them himself."

Arnold shook his head. "Reuben liked uppers

more, though I guess if somebody offered to fix him up

with something he'd take it, no matter what it was. I

had his head, I'd want to be out of it a lot too. What

we've got left is someone who's smart, angry, and in

the right weight class to lift him up there."

"And there's another thing." The worry that had

seized me the previous evening came over me again.

The thing about shooting someone is, you do the deed

from a distance.

But this had been close-up work. "Whoever did it

is really dangerous, Arnold. To be able to--"

The sight of Reuben hanging there came back to

me again full force and I shuddered, unable to help

myself. Even a little blood can look like a lot.

And this was a lot. "Yeah," Arnold said reluctantly.

"That, too. Like whoever done it had a whole

lot more in mind than just killing him."

"Like the method itself was supposed to ..."

He nodded again. "Say something. I thought about

it. And ... look, I'm not supposed to talk about

this. But the patronizing attitude on those sons of

bitches ..."

The state guys, he meant. From their point of view,

Arnold was about as credible a law enforcement officer

as Deputy Dawg.

And it hurt his feelings. "Guy on the breakwater,

tie in his throat," he said.

"Right. That's another thing I'm curious about."

Arnold eyed me acutely. "I'm guessing your interest

isn't on account of your still having a soft spot for

your ex-husband."

"No. I've got serious financial reasons for not

wanting him to stay in trouble. And Sam ..."

"Yeah. His old man. Hard on a kid. On top of

which, the worse pain in the tail a fellow is, the more

you feel you've got to go the extra mile for him, sometimes.

Prove to yourself you are not being' a jerk yourself."

"Yes." I exhaled gratefully. That part was just so

hard to explain, but Arnold had put his finger on it.

"But look, it's not just me. I've got--"

"A funny feeling that maybe all this isn't over

with?"

I blinked at him, surprised.

"Me too," he mused. "You say somebody called

Victor, told him about the body in the cemetery? Said it

was Reuben dead, but Victor didn't know who it was

calling?"

"That's right." A suspicion struck me. "Arnold

..."

"Because," he said gravely, "I didn't think so much

of it at the time. Figured it was just somebody who

didn't want to get all involved in a bad business."

He looked up at me. "But yesterday morning right

after we found our first victim, I went across the street

from the seawall, into my office. Got an answering machine

in there, it's not set up to go through the

dispatcher, 'case Clarissa wants to call me on any

personal matter, and I'm not in the car."

To tell him, maybe, that the baby was coming.

"And that," he finished, "was how I found out about

Reuben. Course, by now that machine's number is

common knowledge. But I didn't recognize the voice.

Hung up 'fore I could ask, too."

"No caller ID, I suppose?"

"Nope. Line's just for me, didn't want to pay more

on it."

"The other guy," I said, "the one who was strangled.

Is he from here? Does he have a family?"

The victim's name, Arnold said, was Wesley Bo

dine. "Weasel for short. And by inclination. That fellow

was pure no-account: beat on his wife, wouldn't

support his kids, rowdy and mean when he wasn't so

drunk he could barely navigate. Worst guy in town, in

fact, or anyway he was, up till Reuben came back. Not

many people knew about him 'cept the guys he drank

with 'cause he kept himself to himself and so did his

wife, till she took the kids and went back home to her

folks in New Hampshire. But I knew."

Arnold glanced around to check that we weren't

being eavesdropped on. "And the tie wasn't the only

thing," he said, keeping his voice low. "In his mouth.

Weasel didn't have many teeth left but he had a few.

And the medical examiner says there was a chunk of

what looked like skin stuck on one of 'em."

It took me a moment to make sense of the implication.

"Not Reuben's."

Arnold nodded soberly. "That's right. Hell of a lot

of bad things were done to Reuben in his last hours.

But no one bit him."

"So unless you think there were two other killers--

besides Reuben, I mean--running around Eastport on

Friday night ..."

"And I don't," he said firmly. "Tiny town, middle

of nowhere, and two unrelated murders on one night?

It's just too damned much coincidence. No, I think

whoever did Reuben also did the Weasel. Two victims,

one villain."

"But the state cops don't agree. They're thinking

two killers. So it doesn't matter that Victor doesn't

have a cut hand, either."

Arnold's tone was even. "That's right. Like I say,

they never wanted Victor for Weasel in the first place,

so this won't change things in that regard."

So much for a stroke of luck. Another odd thing

struck me. "So how do you know about this skin

shred, anyway? Arnold, you wouldn't happen to be

related to the medical examiner? Or ..."

In downeast Maine, everyone was related to almost

everybody else. Arnold looked wise.

"Ice fishing. He comes up winters, we go out and

swap ourselves a few tall stories, drink beers. Kind of

activity the college-boy investigators think is beneath

'em. You keep the information to yourself, though," he

warned. "He gets in trouble, leakin' things to me, he

won't be telling me no more. Or comin' up fishing no

more, either."

"I'll keep my lip zipped," I promised.

"And don't go thinkin' it gets your ex off the hook,

either," he repeated brusquely. "Way this'll all happen,