I shook my head as I stared out the living room window. I was not a law enforcement officer or any kind of detective, but several things about the homeless-man-as-murderer scenario just didn’t make sense. And the more I thought about it, the fishier it seemed: If the homeless man had killed Dr. LeMay and Mrs. Armstrong, why hadn’t he robbed the place? Could the horror of what he’d done have driven him out before he accomplished his purpose?
If he was innocent, how had the murder weapon—what Chandler McAdoo seemed to think was the murder weapon—come to be in the alley? If this man was clever enough to hide Diane Dykeman’s purse, which he almost certainly had stolen, why hadn’t he been clever enough to get rid of the evidence of a much more serious crime?
I’ll tell you what I’d do, I thought. If I wanted to commit a murder and pin it on a throwaway person, I’d put the murder weapon right by a homeless man, moreover a black homeless man . . . someone with no local ties, no likely alibi, and already reported to be a purse snatcher.
That’s what I’d do.
The back door to the doctor’s office had been locked, I recalled. So the murderer had come in the front, as Varena and I had. He had walked past the doorway of the room in which Mrs. Armstrong was working, and she had
not been alarmed.
Binnie Armstrong had been lying in the doorway, so she had calmly continued whatever she had been doing in the little lab.
So. The murderer—carrying the pipe—walks into the office, which is officially closed. The murderer passes Binnie Armstrong, who stays right where she is. Then the murderer had gone into Dr. LeMay’s office, looked at the old man on the other side of the piled desk, spoken to him. Though the killer had had a length of pipe in one hand,
still
the doctor hadn’t been alarmed.
I felt goosebumps shiver down my arms.
Without warning—since Dr. LeMay was still in his chair, which was still pushed right up to the desk—the murderer had lifted the pipe and hit Dr. LeMay over the head, kept hitting him, until he was just tissue. Then the killer had stepped out into the hall, and while Binnie was hurrying from the lab to investigate the awful sounds she’d heard, he hit her, too . . . until she was on the verge of death.
Then he’d stepped out the front door and gotten into his vehicle . . . but surely he must have been covered in blood?
I frowned. Here was a snag. Even the most angelic of white men could not step out in front of the doctor’s office in the daytime with blood-soaked clothing, carrying a bloody pipe.
“Lily?” My mother’s voice. “Lily?”
“Yes?”
“I thought we’d have an early lunch, since the shower is this afternoon.”
“OK.” I tried to control the lurch of my stomach at the thought of food.
“It’s on the table. I’ve called you twice.”
“Oh. Sorry.” As I reluctantly dipped my spoon into my mother’s homemade beef soup, I tried to get back on my train of thought, but it had rolled out of the station.
Here we all were, sitting around the kitchen table, just as we had for so many years.
Suddenly, this scene seemed overwhelmingly bleak.
Here we still were,
the four of us.
“Excuse me, I have to walk,” I said, pushing away from the table. The three of them looked up at me, a familiar dismay dragging at their mouths. But the compulsion had gotten so strong that I could no longer play my part.
I threw on my coat, pulled on gloves as I left the house.
The first block was bliss. Even in the freezing cold, even in the face of the sharp wind, I was by myself. At least the sun was shining in its watery winter way, and the clear colors of the pines and holly bushes against the pale blue sky made my eyes blink with pleasure. The branches of the hardwood trees looked like a bleak version of lace. Our neighbor’s big brown dog barked and trailed my progress for the length of his yard, but he stopped at that and gave me no more trouble. I remembered I had to nod when cars went past, but in Bartley that was not so frequent, even at lunchtime.
I turned a corner to put the wind behind me, and in time I passed the Presbyterian church and the manse, where the O’Sheas lived. I wondered if the toddler, Luke, was letting Lou sleep. But I couldn’t think about the O’Sheas without thinking of the picture that Roy Costimiglia had received in the mail.
Whoever sent that picture obviously knew which girl was the abducted Summer Dawn Macklesby. That particular picture, attached to that particular article, sent to the Macklesbys’ PI, was intended to lead Roy Costimiglia to one conclusion. Why hadn’t the anonymous sender gone one step further and circled the child’s face? Why the ambiguity?
That was a real puzzle.
Of course . . . if you could figure out who’d sent it . . . you could find out why. Maybe.
Great piece of detection, Lily, I told myself scornfully, and walked even faster. A brown mailing envelope that could be bought at any Wal-Mart, a picture from a yearbook that hundreds of students had purchased . . . well, one copy would be missing that page now. Page 23, I remembered, from looking so hard at the one in Jack’s briefcase.
Of course, the whole thing was really Jack’s problem. Furthermore, it was a problem Jack was being paid to solve.
But I needed to know the answer before Varena married Dill Kingery. And the fact was evident that, though Jack was a trained and dogged detective, I was the one on the inside track, here in Bartley.
So I tried to imagine some way I could help Jack, some information I could discover for him.
I couldn’t think of a damn thing I could do.
But maybe something would come to me.
The harder and longer I walked, the better I felt. I was breathing easier: The claustrophobia induced by family closeness was loosening its knot.
I glanced at my watch and stopped dead in my tracks.
It was time for Varena’s shower.
Luckily, I had been meandering around in my parents’ neighborhood, so I was only four blocks away from their house. I set out quickly, arriving at the front door within minutes. They’d left it unlocked, which was a relief. I dashed to my bedroom, skinned out of my jeans and sweater, and pulled on my black pants-blue blouse-black jacket combination. I checked the shower location and dashed out the door.
I was only ten minutes late.
This was a kitchen shower at the home of Mother’s best friend, Grace Parks. Grace lived on a street of large homes, and hers was one of the largest. She had daily help, I remembered, and I cast a professional eye over the house as I entered.
You wouldn’t catch Grace looking relieved to see me, but the lines bracketing her generous mouth did relax when I came in. She gave me a ritual hug and a pat on the shoulder that was just a little too forceful, as she told me my mother and sister were in the living room waiting for me. I’d always like Grace, who would be blond until the day she died. Grace seemed indestructible. Her brown eyes were always made up, her curvy figure had never sagged (at least on the surface), and she wore magnificent jewelry quite routinely.
She slid me into a chair she’d saved right by my mother and answered a question from one of the assembled guests even as she was putting the pencil and notepad in my hands. I stared at it blankly for a moment until I realized I’d been assigned the task of recording the gifts and givers.
I gave Mom a cautious smile, and she cautiously smiled back. Varena gave me a compound look, irritation and relief mixed in equal parts. “Sorry,” I said quietly.
“You made it,” my mother said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact.
I nodded at the circle of women in Grace’s huge living room, recognizing most of them from the shower two days ago. These people would be just as relieved as Varena to have the wedding over with. More people seemed to have been invited to this shower; maybe since Grace had such a large home, she’d told Varena to expand the basic guest list.
Because I’d been thinking of their daughters, I particularly noticed Meredith Osborn and Lou O’Shea. Mrs. Kingery was sitting on the other side of Varena, which was a relief. It seemed unfair to me that Dill should have such a nerve-wracking mother after his wife had been unstable enough to kill herself. I could see why he’d be attracted to Varena, who had always seemed to be one of the most stable and balanced people I’d ever known.
It was the first time I’d realized that. It’s strange how you can know someone all your life and still not spell out her strong and weak points to yourself.
This shower had a kitchen theme. All the guests had been asked to include their favorite recipe with their gift. As we began the grand opening, I got busy. My handwriting is not elegant, but it is clear, and I tried to do a thorough job. Some boxes were stuffed with little things rather than a single gift, like a set of dish towels. Diane Dykeman (she of the snatched purse) had given Varena a set of measuring spoons and measuring cups, a little scale, and a chart of weight equivalencies, and I had to use my most microscopic writing to enter everything.
This was really an excellent job to have, I decided, because I didn’t have to talk to anyone. The story about me kicking the purse snatcher wasn’t town currency yet, and Mother and Varena were avoiding the subject. But I was pretty sure it would begin to make the rounds when time came for refreshments.
When that moment arrived—when all the gifts had been opened and Grace Parks had vanished for a significant time—she reappeared at my elbow and asked me to pour the punch.
It occurred to me that Grace understood me pretty well. I gave her an assessing look as I took my place at one end of her massive oval dining table, polished to a gleaming shine, bisected by a Christmas runner and covered with the usual shower food: nuts, cake, finger sandwiches, mints, snack mix.
“You’re like me,” Grace said. She gave me a direct look. “You like to be busy more than you like to sit and listen.”
It had never crossed my mind that I was in any way like the elegant Grace Parks. I nodded and began to fill my ladle for the first one around the table—Varena, of course, the honoree.
I had to do no more than say “Punch?” after that and smile and nod.
After a long time, it was over, and once again we loaded gifts into the car, thanked Grace profusely, and drove home to unload.
After I’d changed back to jeans and the sweater, Varena asked me if I’d go to her cottage with her to help pack. She’d been moving her things slowly into Dill’s house over the past month, beginning with the things she needed least.
Of course I agreed, relieved both at the prospect of being busy and of being helpful. We had a quick sandwich and went over to the cottage, with a few stops along the way. Dill, Varena told me, was spending some quality time with Anna, who’d been showing signs of being overwhelmed by all the wedding excitement.
“I’ve reached the point where all I can do here at my place is sleep,” she told me, after she’d put her sweats on. “But I kept the lease up until the end of December, because I really didn’t want to move back in with the folks.” I nodded. I could see that once she did that, she and Dill would have lost whatever privacy they had. Or did Varena just want to ensure she had a break from our parents?
“What do you have left to pack?”
Varena began to open closets, showing me what she hadn’t managed to empty out before now.
We’d stopped behind some stores to collect boxes. Downtown had been empty, now that most of the businesses were closed. It was fully dark at six o’clock this time of year, and the night was very cold. The cottage seemed warm and homey in contrast to the blackness outside.
I was assigned to pack the tiny closet by the front door, which contained things like extra lightbulbs, extension cords, batteries, and the vacuum cleaner. As I began to pack them in a sturdy box, Varena started wrapping some pots and pans with newspaper. We worked in comfortable silence for a little while.
Varena had just asked me if I wanted some instant hot chocolate when we heard the sound of someone walking outside the cottage.
The scare we’d had that morning must have made us jumpy. Both of us raised our heads like deer hearing the sound of the hunter’s boots. Peripherally, I saw Varena turn to me, but I shook my head slightly to make her keep silent.
Then someone kicked the front door.
Varena shrieked.
“Who is it?” I called, standing to one side of the door.
“Jack,” he yelled. “Let me in!”
I caught my breath in a rattling gasp, frightened and furious at being so. I yanked the door open, ready to let him know how much I appreciated being jolted like that. The words died in my throat when I opened the door. Jack was carrying Meredith Osborn. She was covered in blood.
Behind me I heard Varena pick up the phone, punch in 911. She spoke tersely to whoever answered.
Jack was haggard with shock. Some of Meredith Osborn’s blood was smeared on him. He was breathing raggedly. Though she was a small woman, he’d been carrying her as a dead weight.
Varena picked up a sheet she’d just folded and flung it over the couch in one movement, and Jack gladly laid the little woman down. When he’d deposited his burden he stood for a moment with his arms still curved. Then with a groan he straightened them, his shoulders moving unconsciously in an effort to relax strained muscles.
Varena was already on her knees beside the couch, her hands on her landlady’s wrist. She was shaking her head.
“She’s got a pulse, but it’s . . .” Varena shook her head again. “She’s been lying outside.” The dying woman’s face was ice-white, and the cold was rolling off the tiny body, eddying through the warm room.
We heard the sound of the ambulance in the distance.
Meredith Osborn opened her eyes. They fixed on mine.
Someone had struck her across her face, and her lips were cracked, had bled. Underneath the blood, they were blue, to match the tinge of her fingernails.