Family Practice (19 page)

In the bedroom, she pulled open a drawer, grabbed clean underwear, and slammed the drawer shut. She slid the next one open and rummaged around for shirts. Her hand touched something cold and hard.

She froze, pulse fluttering in her throat. Reluctantly, she lifted out cotton shirts and stared at the gun. Daddy's gun. Oh, shit.

15

E
LLEN STARED AT
Daddy's gun and tried to breathe. Oh, God. Her hand, seemingly of its own accord, reached toward it. Don't touch it! Why not? It probably already has my fingerprints all over it. And probably nobody else's. Otherwise it wouldn't be here. And just because it is here doesn't mean it was used to kill Dorothy.

Oh, yes. Yes, it was. You can be damn sure of that. Otherwise, it wouldn't have disappeared and then come back.

I don't know what to do. She rubbed a hand hard over her face. Why is it here? Somebody wants me blamed for Dorothy's murder?

Oh, God. She rocked back on her heels, sat on her rear, and slumped against the wall. One of her siblings hated her that much? She felt hard pain all through her body, folded her arms across her stomach, and leaned forward.

Her eyes strayed back to the gun. She'd never realized before how ugly it was, black and lethal. Adam was here when she got here. He could have shoved it in the drawer. Adam Sheffield killed Dorothy? Of course he didn't. He had no reason. He wanted her out of the way so we could get married and live happily ever after with the money? That's just stupid.

With both hands, she grabbed her hair and pulled hard. I'm only thinking about Adam to stop myself from wondering which one of my family is a murderer. Or keep me from thinking what to do.

She knew what she should do. Immediately call the police. They'd want to know why she hadn't told them about the gun in the first place. Why hadn't she?

There she went, wandering down side trails again. She had to decide what to do. Talk to Carl. Ask him what to do. What if he put it here?

He didn't. Not Carl. It wasn't Carl. Then why not tell him about it?

The gun. Daddy's gun. He bought it to kill himself. It ended up killing his oldest child.

She pictured him in his wheelchair in the sunroom. She would stay with him sometimes. Why in the sunroom? That's where he'd painted before his stroke. When he was home, when he wasn't in the hospital.

He was so closed in, so isolated. Mother always kept her away from him. Don't bother your father. He's not feeling well. As though what he had was catching. He was so sad, so lost. Even when he was painting. But there was a difference when he was painting, something different. Not happiness, or even contentment, but sort of a way of making his presence known. Like a lonely wolf baying at the moon.

He painted fast and sure, as if that was the only thing he had control of. And after his stroke, he was wheeled into the sunroom, the only place where he had found some release from pain. And he could do nothing.

Now she thought that must have been a very cruel thing. She would slip in and stay with him, talk to him. She felt his pain, felt so useless, longed for the ability to do something for him. Near the end, his speech was almost gone. She believed he had thoughts, but he could no longer connect them with words.

He would sit and stare at the unfinished painting on the easel. She was twelve years old.

“I could help, Daddy,” she had told him. She got out his brushes and paints and studied the canvas. It had a black funnel whirling down. Inside the funnel, a man laboriously climbing up with a cuckoo clock clutched in one arm had stumbled. The other arm reached out for a yellow bird that had its mouth open and a rainbow of butterflies swarming out.

Very industriously, she painted a butterfly that had turned into a flower at the rim of the funnel. She meant to paint flowers all around the rim.

Daddy's gnarled fingers plucked at her arm. She turned to look at him.

“In as much as,” he said, “heretofore within the above fore-mentioned in lieu of notwithstanding therefore prior to unless hereby.” Tears were sliding down his face and dripping off his chin.

Rubbing a hand over her face, she discovered her own face was wet with tears. I can't just sit here and cry. I have to do something about Daddy's gun. Get rid of it somehow? How? Drop it into the river? Bury it?

And get caught doing it. Oh, yeah, that would really help.

How could she get rid of something that might point to the killer?

She heard the front door open downstairs and stopped breathing.

“Ellen?”

She let out a long breath. Nadine. “In here.” She shoved the drawer shut and got to her feet on rather shaky legs. Grabbing up a T-shirt, she rubbed it across her face and dropped it on the bed. She brushed off the seat of her blue jeans, pulled her shirt straight, and went into the living room.

“Hi.” Nadine, in jeans and a white blouse with damp spots on the shoulders where the baby had drooled, had a diaper bag over one shoulder and a squalling Bobby in a carry cot. “I saw your car and— Ellen, are you all right? You're white as a sheet.”

“Yeah, I'm okay.”

“Come on in here and sit down. You look like you're going to fall over.” She shepherded Ellen into the kitchen, set the carry cot on a chair, and nudged Ellen into the adjacent one.

“You need a glass of water.” Nadine took a glass from the cabinet and turned on the tap. No water came out. “Oh, damn, I forgot.” She unzipped the diaper bag, pulled out a baby bottle, and poured the water from it into the glass. She set the glass in front of Ellen.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn't. Bob's studying for an exam, and this guy”—Nadine nodded at Bobby, waving pudgy fists and squawking—“has been yelling all morning. I thought I'd stay here awhile, where his fussing wouldn't bother anybody.” She plugged a pacifier in the baby's mouth and sat down. “What happened?”

Ellen picked up the glass and took a sip. “Oh, God, Nadine, I wish I could tell you.”

“Just tell me.”

She wanted to, there was nothing she wanted more than to tell somebody what was upstairs in her dresser drawer. She was afraid. She didn't want to get Nadine in trouble. Her knowledge of anything legal was hazy, but she didn't want to make Nadine an accessory to anything. “Adam was here,” she said.

“Here? What was he doing here?”

“He said he came to see me.”

Nadine smiled softly. “Well, you knew it would happen. What other reason would he have to come back to Hampstead except to see you?”

Ellen rubbed angrily at her face. “I don't know. I don't know that I believe anything anymore. Not even that airplanes can fly.”

The baby squirmed and made small, mewling noises. Nadine gathered him in her arms and cooed at him. “What was it like to see Adam?”

“Damn it,” Ellen said angrily. She took a breath. “Good. He looked good. I wanted to hurl myself at him and tickle my fingers through his curls. Incidentally, he needs a haircut.”

“So why didn't you? Hurl yourself.”

“Oh, hell, Nadine. Because I hate him.”

“Doesn't sound like hate to me.”

“Well, it is. How could it be anything else after what happened?”

“What did happen? You never really explained.”

Ellen slouched back in the chair and took another slug of Bobby's water. “Oh, it all just got too much. Seemed like we fought all the time. Mostly because we didn't have any money. And seemed like no matter how much we tried, we couldn't pay school expenses and rent and be able to eat.” She shrugged. “We tried, we really did try. I worked, and Adam worked, and we both tried to find time to study.”

She looked at Bobby nuzzling Nadine's shoulder. “We just couldn't do it. Dorothy didn't like him, and after we started living together, she would no longer pay my school expenses.”

“I know that,” Nadine said.

“Then Adam just up and left.”

“Why?”

“The fights and no money.”

“Yes, but there must have been some final straw.”

“I guess so.” Ellen ran a shoe tip up and down the table leg. “Dorothy paid him to leave.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Well, it was pretty obvious. He was gone.”

“Yes, but—”

“Dorothy told me,” Ellen said flatly.

“Oh.” Nadine resettled Bobby. “Well, maybe—”

“Don't even try to think up excuses. You're entirely too nice, Nadine. You know that? You always believe there's two sides. I don't want any shilly-shallying in loyalty here. Anybody who would do that is a slime, and I don't want anything to do with him.”

Bobby fussed, and Nadine moved him from her shoulder, cradled him in her arms, and gently jostled him. “Maybe you should at least hear his side.”

“I shouldn't listen to a word he says. I shouldn't be within a hundred miles of him.”

With little whimpering sighs, Bobby drifted off to sleep, and Nadine placed him tenderly in the carry cot. “Are you trying to stay here without any water?”

“No. I just came to see if Ackerbaugh was on the plumbing job and pick up some clothes. I'm staying at home.” Home. Still, after all my attempts to get away. Damn it, this is my home.

“It's really weird, Nadine. I keep expecting Dorothy to be there. Or come trotting in and ask me why I'm not practicing my flute.”

“Why don't you go someplace else?”

Ellen laughed with no humor. “I don't think it will matter. The trap is closing.”

*   *   *

Osey knew a runaround when he heard one. He'd been on the phone for over an hour trying to pry loose the name of whoever had put the piece in the paper about the painting being sold. Hundred thousand dollars? Must be nice to have that kind of money to hang on your walls.

He was getting tired of trying to get hold of people who weren't in, or were busy and would call back and never did. Shit. He might as well have gone to Kansas City in the first place. Get him out of the department. Air conditioning wasn't working too well. On top of what you might call the general tension of the place, getting out began to sound like a right good idea.

He picked up the receiver again and punched in the number of the
Kansas City Star,
a number he was beginning to remember quite well. He wondered if maybe he wouldn't save time by making a recording and just playing it every time he punched in the number.

“Detective Osey Pickett,” he said when the call was picked up. “Police Department.” This time he left out Hampstead. Maybe he'd get further faster if the other end thought he was dealing with the Kansas City police. “I need to speak with Jim Barnes.”

After clicks and buzzes, Barnes came on the line sounding harried and irritated.

Osey identified himself again and went into his story.

“Filler on page twenty-seven? Oh, for God's sake.”

“It's important,” Osey inserted.

Muttering came over the line; then Barnes said, “You working on a theft?”

“No, sir. I just need this information.”

More muttering and then more clicks. This time the phone was answered by a female voice. He didn't catch the name. He went into his spiel again. “I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't get your name.”

“Lisa Mona,” she said, real slow and drawn out, like she was speaking to an idiot. “And don't bother with the jokes. I've heard them all.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, right. Why do you want to know this?”

“I'm afraid I can't give out that information, ma'am.” He knew better than to mention homicide to anybody in the newspaper business. After some more palaver back and forth, she finally came across with the name of the gallery that had sold the painting.

Osey felt like whooping when he hung up, and took off for Kansas City in pouring rain.

An hour and a half later, he was at KCPD, letting them know he was on their turf and asking what they knew about the Jennings Gallery.

“Not a damn thing,” Sergeant Barker said. “Far as I can tell you, they're lily clean. No smell of fraud or handling stolen merchandise, no complaints. Matter of fact, this is the first I've heard of them. You want some assist?”

“Not necessary.”

“Good. I got enough with our own crime.”

Osey thanked him, asked for directions, and found the place with no problem. Parking, on the other hand, was a mite problematical. He circled the block and was about to widen his field when a car backed out ahead of him. He swung in and thumbed coins in the meter.

He got soaked sprinting from the squad car to the door. He wiped his forehead and went inside. Uh huh. Not the type of place he generally spent a lot of time in. Soft classical music. Pictures all over the walls. Sculpture and glass stuff displayed here and there. Elderly male seated behind a counter, intent on perusing a catalogue.

Osey, careful not to bump anything—if he broke it, it would probably cost ten years' salary—made his way to the counter.

The old guy shut the catalogue, lined it up true on the edge of the counter, and stood up. “Good afternoon. Anything I can help you with?” Standing, he didn't seem much taller than sitting down. Fluffy hair the color of rain clouds, face as netted with wrinkles as a ripe cantaloupe. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie with gold tiepin, and gold cufflinks.

“I'm looking for Claude Jennings.”

“I am he.”

Osey hauled out his ID and laid it on the counter.

Jennings took a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his inside coat pocket—how had he read the catalogue?—and slowly unfolded the ear pieces, hooked them over his ears, adjusted the fit over the bridge of his nose, picked up the ID, and moved it back and forth as though to catch the light better.

Not a man to go off half-cocked, Osey thought, waiting patiently while Jennings compared the photo with the real thing.