Wicked Fix (23 page)

ing-and-dining room. Adjacent was a galley kitchen,

featuring the usual appliances as well as a calendar

with the Bible Belters' upcoming appearances marked

on it, an oiled maple chopping block, and a rack holding

a set of good French steel knives. "Dad fancies himself

a gourmet cook," Marcus said jovially.

The other area, at the rear of the big vehicle, was

more casual, with books, reclining chairs, a compact

weight machine and an exercise bicycle--that, I realized,

must be how Marcus stayed in such good shape--

and the duo's musical instruments.

"Have to keep the vessel of the spirit in order,"

Marcus remarked, seeing me notice the workout devices.

"And these are the tools of our trade."

He waved at the keyboard synthesizer; I recognized

it only because Sam wanted one. I did know what a

guitar looked like, of course. And there was a banjo.

At the sight of it, my fingers tingled; all the modern

and bluegrass stuff they played at La Sardina had made

me begin coveting one, though I hadn't gone any further

with the idea.

"Go ahead," Marcus invited. "I'm no Earl Scruggs,

but I can play a little. Go on, pick it up, it won't bite

you."

He waved me to one of two practice chairs with a

music stand in front of them and sat beside me.

"Hold it like this, put your fingers there, and

strum," he instructed, so I did. "Now like this ..."

Ten minutes later he had taught me three chords,

my fingertips felt as if they'd gone through a meat

grinder, and I'd seen the dermatological makeup on the

back of his right hand.

"The Lord," he opined, "has blessed you with a

little bit of musical talent."

"A very little," I laughed, putting down the instrument.

I couldn't tell what the makeup covered; it had

been applied carefully. An unusual birthmark, perhaps,

slightly rough. Or a gash closed with Dermabond or

some similar surgical adhesive.

Even Krazy Glue will close a wound in a pinch, I'd

learned from Victor, and the makeup could be bought

in the drugstore. I didn't want to stare; if talking with

Arnold hadn't primed me to notice it, I never would

have.

But now I had. "Is this what your dad did with the

kids in his youth group?" I asked. "Get them hooked

on music, then slip the religion part in on the side?"

"Something like that," he agreed cheerfully. "But,"

he added, his tone turning serious, "you didn't come

here for music lessons. Or a history of Dad's old

church-related activities."

"No," I admitted, "I didn't. I'm looking for more

facts on Reuben Tate. Information that might help me

find out who really killed him. Because my ex-husband

didn't."

His expression flickered cautiously; for all his practiced

manners, the topic of Reuben made him uncomfortable.

"Dad and I only got into town a few nights

before Reuben died," he said. "But I'll help if I can."

"Did he harass you in any way, after you arrived?

Ask you for money, threaten you, try to start arguments

with you--did he get in your face? Or in your

father's? Did you see him at all?"

Marcus looked thoughtful. "I didn't see him. My

father did. Reuben came here while I was out having

the Winnebago serviced. Dad wouldn't say what they

talked about. I'm glad," he went on, "you're asking me

these things and not him. Reuben upset him very badly.

Dad stayed up half the night, praying over it."

Marcus rose, parted the Venetian blinds at one of

the big vehicle's windows, and looked out. "He's a vigorous

guy, but he is getting older. I wouldn't want

him," Marcus finished meaningfully, "upset any further."

Those wagons circling again. I thought of asking

Marcus what his dad had been praying about, then

decided to cut to the chase, instead.

"Did Reuben have anything to do with your

mother's death?"

It was a guess based on nothing but a wild intuition.

A funny kind of resonance had invaded the room

just when they'd mentioned her, something unspoken

between them. But at my query, Marcus's frank gaze

retracted as emphatically as a welcome mat being

rolled up.

"He didn't murder my mother," he said after a

moment. "Not in the way that most people mean the

term. But I'm sure that he was responsible for her

death."

"In what way?"

Marcus turned from the window. "He scared her

to death. Oh, I know, it sounds melodramatic, but she

was vulnerable to that. Her heart was bad; everyone

knew it. But if you're wondering if my dad would ever

really act out that eye-for-an-eye stuff ..."

Or get his big, strong son to do it, I thought

clearly, and Marcus read my thought.

"Or get me to do it," he finished, "all I can say is

that Dad and I have hardly been out of each other's

sight since we arrived in Eastport."

Oh, terrific, another we-can-alibi-each-other scenario.

A new thought struck me, and I had nothing else

so I went with it:

"Have you by any chance met my ex-husband

around town," I asked, "since you've arrived?"

I followed Marcus out into the bright Sunday afternoon.

He shut the door of the Winnebago, turned.

"This is the one you're trying to help out? Who's been

arrested?"

"That's the one." I made my voice sound regretfully

amused, as if Victor were a teenager who'd been

picked up for some bit of harmless mischief.

"I'm afraid he has rather a penchant for getting

himself in trouble," I went on, as we strolled into the

garden. The tall white chrysanthemums bobbed in the

breeze, flanked by the bright red masses of fruit on

the thorned barberry bushes.

"Dark curly hair, intense expression, abrupt manner,"

I went on, describing Victor. "He's a very clean

sort of man. Fastidious to a fault, actually, enough so

that you might remember him."

I picked a chrysanthemum. "You see, anyone who

could help pinpoint his whereabouts in the few days

before the murder might end up being of assistance."

Marcus nodded, enlightened. "Oh, sure. Now I remember

him. Smells like soap?"

That was Victor, all right: special antibacterial

soap with hexachlorophene in it, which you could get

only by prescription.

"We met him in the Baywatch restaurant where we

were having lunch, the day after we got in," Marcus

said. "He even gave us a little tour of his place. Lovely

old Greek revival, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Victor's friendliness to strangers was a

new development, part of his program to be accepted

in town.

Meanwhile, Marcus couldn't very well not mention

this little meeting; anyone might have seen him

and Heywood entering Victor's house. "And Victor is

such a hospitable fellow, it's true."

When it suited him. "But our talk was very general,"

Marcus said. "I wish I could think of something

useful, but ..."

"That's all right. I appreciate your telling me about

this. And thank your dad for me, too."

"Will do." He raised his big right hand unselfconsciously

in a sort of salute as I went away down the

sidewalk. When I glanced back he still stood there,

watching me go, his face unreadable at that distance.

"They've all three of them been in there," I

said to Wade an hour later. We were up in

the front bedroom taking apart a whole window

frame, at Wade's insistence.

"Mike Carpentier, Marcus Sondergard, and Heywood

Sondergard, Marcus's father," I went on.

"What'll you bet that Terence and Paddy've also been

in Victor's place recently?"

"And could have seen that instrument collection,"

Wade said. "I don't know, though, how much that's

going to help you. It's a pretty big net you're casting."

"Right," I agreed glumly. "Because who knows

who else was in the house? At this rate, it could've been

half the town. Did Marcus have any birthmark or a

scar on his right hand, back when you knew him?"

Mike Carpentier, I recalled, had a burn on his.

"Not one I remember. But not that I necessarily

would recall something like that, either."

Wade had brought a six-foot piece of one-by-eight

pine board along with his circular saw, two sawhorses,

the clawhammer, and a bag of nails, plus the electric

drill. I'd brought a tape measure and a detailed, exploded-view

diagram of a modern window frame,

which if it couldn't be jury-rigged to work in an antique

house I was in deep trouble.

Wade's eyebrows went up as he got a good look at

the window I had been working on earlier. "Exactly

how did you manage to destroy this, again?"

Embarrassment swept over me. "Nailed the

weatherstripping in backwards," I confessed. "Which,"

I added, "anyone could make that mistake, and I was

preoccupied. Then of course I had to pull it out again.

Which was when the old framing piece split."

"Uh-huh." Wade looked at me hard, then relented.

"At least you're trying. This old house hasn't had so

many repairs going on inside it since it was built, I'll

bet."

He eyed the frame again, then hefted the pry bar

and tore what I thought was a hideously large and important

piece off of it. Plaster bits clattered to the floor.

"Hey, look at this."

He fished around with his fingers in the crevice

between the inner and outer walls. "I stand corrected.

Someone has worked on this window before."

He drew out some tightly folded, yellowing newspaper,

mostly intact. "Somebody packed this in here,

trying to block a draft," he said, tossing aside the paper.

I picked it up. It was torn down the center, obliterating

the date. But the quaint typography put it in its

era: fresh news, 150 years ago. Others much like it had

been in the walls of the downstairs ell, stuffed in there

apparently as makeshift insulation.

The brittle pages were filled with ads for patent

remedies, notices of public meetings, and reports of

local events from a time when ladies wore elaborate hats