Wicked Fix (34 page)

dramatic-looking wrap of gauze.

"Terence. Believe me, if someone's trying to hurt

Paddy, it isn't Reuben. I saw him in that cemetery and I

can guarantee it."

He shook his head impatiently. "I know he's dead.

But don't you feel that he's still around, somehow? I

mean, we talk about him. Telling old stories. Recalling

things he did. Being glad he's gone. And it's unhealthy.

It's like the old saying, do you remember? Speak of the

devil ..."

"And," I finished, "the devil appears." A chill

prickled foolishly across the back of my neck. "But

that wouldn't account for any actual physical attempts

on Paddy."

Terence sighed. "You know that open circular

stairway he insisted on, when he designed the loft?"

I knew it. I'd been in the upstairs living space: parties

and so on. The stairs were an invitation to vertigo

or worse.

Terence went on. "How I fell was, someone had

left a bunch of thread tangled across the top riser.

This," he lifted his taped left hand, "is nothing. I could

have broken my neck."

"There's fabric all over the studio," I objected.

"Couldn't it have blown there, or gotten dragged there,

somehow?"

He frowned. "I don't think so. He's neat as a pin

when he's working. But that's not all. The other night I

went out for a walk. When I came in, all the gas burners

on the stove had been turned on. It's not an electronic

model, either, you have to light it with a match.

The place was reeking with gas."

"Well. That is more straightforward. You can turn

on one by accident, or absent-mindedly. But not all

four. Or not normally, anyway."

Delicately, I did not suggest that Terence might be

a little absent-minded lately, himself. But he got the

drift.

"Any health problems that I may be having do not

bear upon the problem we are discussing," he said, his

arm tightening on the parcel he had tucked under it.

I might have believed him, but he slurred a couple

of words as he said this, and didn't seem to notice.

There was beer, and probably some hip flasks, too,

among the festival attendees. But Terence wouldn't

have touched any.

I wanted to ask him to unwrap that bandage, let

me see the hand. Then I could be certain he wasn't just

shining me on, or at least not in that department; that

he hadn't wounded himself on one of Weasel Bodine's

few remaining teeth, for instance, perhaps in an effort

to protect Paddy. Because it had occurred to me that

one reason for killing the hapless Weasel might be that

he had seen Reuben's murder. And if Paddy was involved

...

But the medical examiner's report on Weasel still

wasn't out. And as a result, the promise I'd made to

Bob Arnold to keep mum when it came to any information

about that skin shred was still in force.

"Anything more?" I asked. "Other attempts on either

of you, suspicious events? And ..."

A new possibility occurred to me. "Where's Paddy

now?"

If Paddy and Terence really were on the outs, and

Paddy wanted to get rid of Terence, not just break up

with him ...

"He's eating his salmon and having an argument

with Clinch Brockway," Terence replied. "Paddy

thinks he ought to be able to put a balcony on the back

of his building, and Clinch says it'll be an eyesore on

that historical structure."

Terence managed a laugh. "Actually, I don't think

Paddy really even wants a balcony. But he loves an

argument. More than he likes grilled salmon, even.

He'll be there awhile."

Across the street, some little girls had gotten a box

of sparklers from somewhere and were trying to light

them. I kept an eye on the girls, none of whom could

have been more than seven or so, as they enjoyed the

forbidden activity.

"Have you," I asked Terence, "told Bob Arnold

about this?"

He shook his head emphatically. "Paddy would

have a fit. He says--can you believe this?--he says

none of it happened. He's convinced it was all my

imagination ... or so he says."

Great. Now I could worry about that. Was it live,

or was it Memorex, as recorded by Terence's perhaps

unreliable mental processes? But who would want to

kill Paddy or Terence?

"I don't know," Terence admitted slowly when I

asked him. "But I've been thinking. Two fellows got

murdered. I've been thinking of how it could have happened.

I mean, exactly how."

Me too. If someone killed the Weasel first, for instance,

that ruled out the Weasel's possibly having witnessed

Reuben Tate's death. Which meant there would

have to be another motive for ...

Across the street, the girls looked up guiltily as a

woman's voice called from the tent area. Still carrying

the sparklers, they scampered across the library lawn,

up the hill, and out of sight.

"... Play with those things, you do it where I can

see you," the woman's voice scolded. "Go right over

there by that fence and stay there, where there's nothing

to catch fire."

Terence frowned, distracted. "What kind of a

name is that, anyway? Weasel ... sounds like a cartoon

character."

I looked at him sharply. His face had slackened.

Then he snapped back, just as a small commotion

came from behind the library. Puzzled, I got up, then

identified the sound: the little girls. They were screaming,

but not just to hear the sound of their own voices.

Kids will do that. But these little girls meant it. I ran,

Terence behind me.

The tables were still crowded, the folks who'd been

last in line just starting on their dinners, others finishing

desserts or coffee. The girls gathered by a low fence

dividing the park from a private yard. Around them lay

a few burned sparklers, powdery with gray chemical

ash.

Lashed to the fence, its cloth belly slashed and its

button eyes torn off, a paring knife protruding from its

cloth body, was Molly Carpentier's rag doll. One of

its little black cloth shoes lay in the grass beneath it.

Molly stood staring. "I put her down," the child

said softly, her eyes huge. "Just for a minute ..."

Mike Carpentier seized his daughter's shoulders,

turned the child, and gave her a little shove toward the

tents. "Go and sit down. I'll get her. Go on, now."

Slowly, the child obeyed.

"This is what happens." Mike said angrily. "Little

savages. This is why," he yanked the rag doll from its

bindings, "I have to keep her away from them. Or

she'll end up just like them."

The other girls had moved away, sniffling, herded

by their mothers. I thought their first shock had been

real; the doll was an awful sight. But once they'd gotten

going, each shriek had made the next come more

easily, till they were frightening one another even more

than the doll had frightened them. >

Terence had gone to sit with Paddy. From the

looks on their faces, it seemed they were arguing,

Paddy clenching his fist and slamming it onto the long

table. Terence said something, got up, and strode back

in my direction, passing the drinks table with the

brown paper parcel still under his arm. Paddy followed,

but stopped by the iced tea and lemonade

glasses, grabbed one of the few remaining filled ones,

and swallowed some of it angrily.

Marcus came down from the bandstand, grabbed a

lemonade also, and ran back up again. Willow Prettymore

appeared suddenly, took another from the two

that were left; the pitcher was empty.

Gotcha, I thought, starting toward her. And I

wanted to refill that lemonade pitcher, too; the late

stayers were enjoying the music, and the cleanup crew

was bound to be thirsty as well.

Heywood came down from the bandstand as Marcus

went into a reprise of the "Biggest Whatever" song.

Mike Carpentier passed the drinks table just as Willow

did, still propelling Molly, who stopped to reach for a

glass, looked imploring at her father, then moved along

fretfully without a fresh drink.

On the lawn, the little girls looked up and began

laughing, their fright forgotten at the funny song that

Marcus was singing. Heywood laughed with the children,

then continued across the lawn toward the drinks

table, stopping to accept congratulations on the performance.

Finally he picked up the last remaining glass of

lemonade and took a swig from it.

The unpleasantness, it seemed, was over. But

something still felt rotten in Denmark. For one thing, I

did not at all like the expression that appeared suddenly

on Heywood's face.

Wincing, he looked down at his glass and frowned,

putting his hand to his throat. From across the lawn I

heard him cough, then try to say something. Willow

put down her glass and took a step toward him, her

face creasing abruptly with concern.

A rumble of thunder broke the sudden silence as

Marcus cut off in the middle of a rousing second

chorus and ran to his father. Suddenly it was pouring,

the skies opening drenchingly, tent tops flapping and

poles rattling as the squall hit us.

"What's happening?" Ellie cried, rushing from the

grill area where she had been wrapping salmon fillets

and putting them into a cooler. George and Wade

turned together from the desserts table.

Terence reached me, shoved the brown paper parcel

at me, and ran to help. Marcus reached his father's

side at the same time. Bending convulsively, Heywood

staggered and fell, his glass of lemonade flying from his

hand in an arc of pale yellow.

Willow stopped, watching the liquid splash, and

Marcus knelt helplessly by Heywood while Terence

peered over his shoulder. "Get an ambulance, somebody!"

Terence shouted.

Turning, Willow considered her own glass there on

the drinks table. She hadn't yet tasted it, apparently;

now she picked it up again and sniffed cautiously at it.

The scream she let out then made the little girls

sound like amateurs.