Slow Dancing (26 page)

“You’re lying,” she said, color draining from her face again, her hands gripping the pen and pad.

“I am not, Mary. Flip the radio on. It’s all over the dial.”

“Your timing sucks,” she replied. “I got orders to give out. If you aren’t going to order something get out.”

“Ha! What’re you gonna do? Call the cops?” She sneered at him and he laughed again, opening the menu.

Disbelieving, Mary couldn’t believe someone had murdered Alan. It was almost as though the last week had never happened, that he’d never come into the café, or moved into his house, or made love to her. Feeling as if she could throw up again, Mary passed out plates of food to the table of women, the smell of cabbage and fried onions wafting up to her nose, nauseating. When everyone had their food, she went back to get Boyd’s order, wishing she could slap his smug face.

“Isn’t there a law against harassing a citizen at their place of business?”

“I’ll take the steak and fries,” he said. “Coffee, if it’s fresh.”

“I should piss in your cup,” Mary replied.

“Peter tells me you had a little temper fit after lover boy left your place last night.” He ignored her gasp. “Rumor has it you weren’t too happy about his news. Not that it’s been confirmed yet. Don’t want that gettin’ around if it’s not true.”

“What news are you referring to?”

“That Mr. Johnson is,
was
Ellen Fisher’s real father,” Boyd said, smiling. “Rumor has it that you were so upset, you smashed his mug in your driveway last night after he left your place.”

“Your sources don’t know what they’re talking about,” she answered smugly. “Prove it, Dalton.”

“You don’t seem very upset about his demise.”

“Give me a moment or two to think about it, jerk. Now I’m putting your order in and if you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling the station.”

“Why not come down after work, instead,” he replied. “Give us a chance to talk to you in front of a video camera.”

“Why? Since when is it against the law to break up china in your own driveway?”

“Oh! Is
that
what you were doing? Peter tells a different story.”

“You goin’ around questioning my neighbors for no good reason is another form of harassment,” Mary said, disgusted. She walked away to put his order in and lingered behind the lunch counter for a while. Boyd was reading the paper, the morning edition left behind by an earlier patron. But he watched her over the paper’s edge from time to time, wondering. She was attractive, smart, funny. Why couldn’t she keep a man interested in her? He thought of his own relationship with her before he married Carol, how for a few short weeks he’d enjoyed being with her until her craziness made it unbearable.

“Here’s your steak,” she said, putting down a platter of food in front of him, with a steak knife poised over the edge. She walked away before he could respond, but he was fixated on the knife. It was a smaller version of the knife covered in Alan Johnson’s blood. The bloody juices seeping out of the meat and the thought of the knife at the station, while it had been wiped clean by the time he saw it, made him queasy. He picked it up with a paper napkin and though he could barely see the engraving, since he’d already seen it once that day, the letters spelling Baker Forge jumped out at him. Heart thumping, appetite gone, he waved Mary over.

“Can I have a takeout box? Our chat used up all my lunch time.” She didn’t reply, but retrieved a cardboard container for his food and went back to the counter without engaging him again. He left a twenty dollar bill on the table, a fifty percent tip for miserable service, but he had it coming.

“See you later,” he said, waving, and left the café, anxious to return to the station with his latest find, a four-inch steak knife carefully wrapped in a paper napkin in the box his leftovers came in.

Chapter 24

Frank and Ellen spent the rest of the day in the yard as they’d planned after the detour to the sheriff’s office. Chicken ready for the grill, they made potato salad and chucked corn and were slicing strawberries to top ice cream sundaes. More flats of petunias sat in the shade, waiting for planting. They’d weed and primp the garden, a favorite summer pastime.

“Who’s that, sister?” Frank said, looking up at the road, shading his eyes with his hand. A human being walked toward the house, but its sex was unclear. “I need glasses.”

“It’s Mary!” Ellen replied, disgusted. “Why is she comin’ here?”

“Bother,” Frank mumbled. “Hide them berries. She’s the last one I want to have to invite for a meal.” Ellen picked up the tray of food and took it around to the back of the house into the kitchen.
What did Mary want?

As she got closer, Frank could see she was in distress. They busied themselves resuming the sanding of the picnic table while they waited for her approach.

“Hi, thought I’d drop by,” she called when she reached the driveway. She took a rumpled tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. When they didn’t respond, she stopped walking and called out, “Mind if I come up?”

“No,” Frank said. “As you like.” Caught off guard by his attitude, Mary hesitated. Frank was always polite, even when the most aggravated with her.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Frank stood up. “What can I do for you, Mary?”

“I got bad news today, that’s all. I came by to give my condolences to Ellen about her real father.” Ellen looked up when she heard the word
real.

“No disrespect, Miss Cook, but Frank here is my
real
father. My
only
father. Please remember that when you come around his house.”

“You got a smart mouth on you for a girl,” Mary snapped. “Frank, I’d think you’d want her to be more mindful of speakin’ to adults.”

“Mary, why’d you come out here?” Frank asked, exasperated. “We done nothin’ to you. Your opinion about my child ain’t welcome, neither.”

She came closer, and then sat down with a plunk on the picnic table bench and started to cry. “I never did anything to you, yet you’re so mean to me! I was there for Margaret from the time she got here. Her and you, Ellen. Took you both in and gave you what I had. I never asked for nothin’ in return.”

“Yet you talked trash about Frank to anyone who would listen,” Ellen snapped. “Shame on you. It’s disgusting.”

“What did I say?” she said. “That I saw you two through the living room window, in a lover’s embrace.”

“That’s a lie!” Ellen shouted, Frank going to her and patting her.

“Quiet up, sister, no point in gettin’ yourself in a tizzy about it.” To Mary, he said, “When in God’s name did you ever see us doing that? Maybe in a dream, or a nightmare.”

“Just this week! I was walkin’ by the river and I looked up and there it was, as plain as day.”

“Monday night, someone tore up our garden,” Ellen said softly. “Was that you? Mary Cook, my mother’s best friend. Was that you who destroyed her peonies? The roses? Not a petal left behind?”

Mary’s face belied her next words as the flush came up her neck. “It wasn’t me. It was a coincidence. I was here on the river’s edge and I saw you and snuck up by the garage. That’s when I saw the two of you, holding each other, rocking, kissing. It was disgusting.”

Frank chortled loudly, slapping his hands on his knees. “Mary, we was dancin’! What you saw was us slow dancin’, like we always do. You better get home. I don’t think you’re in your right mind, lady. Get on home before I call the sheriff and tell him you was the vandal who ruined our garden.”

The three of them waited, his words sinking in. Mary, family friend albeit annoying as could be, had so much venom for them that she could do that to a beautiful garden. “How did it get to this? All I wanted was to be your wife, Frank. Be Ellen’s mother.”

“You can’t force such things, Mary. We would have been together before Margaret ever came to town if it was meant to be.”

Ellen had left so quietly they hadn’t noticed. She was inside on the phone, calling the sheriff, telling the dispatcher Mary Cook had just admitted she was at their house the night the garden was ruined.

Sitting at his desk, Boyd had a new file in front of him. In it was the coroner’s report from the autopsy of Margaret Fisher McPherson, nurse’s notes from Hallowsbrook and a narrative from questioning Miss Margo Portland regarding the conversation she had with Ellen Fisher, daughter of the decedent.

The intercom buzzed. “Sheriff, call on line two.” Boyd picked up the phone.

“It’s Faye, Boyd. Prints on the trash can knife match the prints on the café knife.” Sitting back in his chair, Boyd couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“What about the prints from the room?”

“They’re unknown.” He could hear her snickering. “Come by my office in about fifteen minutes; you and Madden go pick Mary Cook up for questioning.” He put the phone down and the intercom buzzed again.

“Sorry, sheriff, line two.”

“Who is it?” he asked, growling.

“Ellen Fisher.” Boyd quickly picked up the phone.

“Ellen, you okay?”

“Miss Cook is here, sheriff. She’s actin’ strange, crying about the man who says he’s my father.” Boyd stood up and started to gather up his belongings.

“Oh boy, I’m sorry she’s bothering you.”

“That’s okay, but she told Frank she was out at the house on Monday and made her silly remark about seein’ us kissin’. Monday night was the night the garden got wrecked. She denied it, but I’m pretty sure it was her.”

“And she’s still there?”

“I think so. I left Frank and snuck inside to call you.”

“You did the right thing, Ellen. I’m on way now.” They said goodbye and hung up. Ellen went to the sink and turned the water on, letting it run for a moment. She filled a glass part way and drank from it, looking out the window. She could still hear the droning of Frank and Mary’s voices, rising up and then down to a whisper as they argued. Praying silently Sheriff Dalton would hurry and get there, she felt guilty about leaving Frank with Mary. She put her ear to the door.

“I don’t believe you,” Frank was saying, disgust in his voice reverberating. “You’re sick, Mary Cook.”

“It’s true Frank; I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I loved her and she loved me back. We were together before she married you.” Ellen’s heart was beating so hard, she felt faint. Straining to hear Frank’s response, it took her a few seconds to figure out he wasn’t talking, that he was just as shocked.

“We went on a date the second day she was here, Mary,” he said, finally. “If what you’re saying is true, you got on her that first day.”

“It wasn’t like that!” she screamed. “I didn’t
get on her
. It was mutual.”

“This is low even for you,” Frank said softly, looking around to see if Ellen was nearby, not wanting her to hear Mary.

“Believe me, Frank, it’s true. Ask the nurses at Hallowsbrook. They knew we wanted to be alone.” Ellen thought back to the few times they’d arrived on Saturday when Mary had already been there, how jealous she’d be finding Mary in Margaret’s room, her smug smile before she left. Afterward, Margaret ignored her family.
What if what Mary was claiming was true?

“I loved her as much as you did. She was my best friend! I love Ellen, too. I promised Margaret I’d be there for her daughter. And I would have been, if you’d both only give me a chance. Please Frank, give me a chance. I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to please you.”

Ellen opened the door. “You’re a liar. My mother couldn’t stand the site of you.”

“Sister, don’t do it, don’t lower yourself.”

“Its okay, Frank. She needs to know,” she said, directing the next words at Mary. “My mother once said you had cooties. She begged Frank to keep me away from you and he has.” Frank took her arm and pulled her over to him.

“That’s enough now. Don’t lower yourself.” The sound of a car on gravel made them look over to the road, to the sheriff’s car turning into the driveway. Frank looked down at Ellen with his eyebrows raised and she nodded her head. Boyd got out of the car, pointing to the house. Frank took Ellen’s arm again, whispering to her. They went back inside, closing the heavy door after them.

“He must be confrontin’ her about the garden,” Frank said. They went to the window and peeked out the side of the drapery. It happened so fast, they’d later say that it was almost like slow motion, confusing them both.

“What the heck?” Frank shouted. “She punched him in the gut!” Throwing the front door open, they ran to Boyd who was lying on the ground moaning, holding his stomach. Mary was already at the road, running toward town.

Trying to catch his breath, Boyd was unable to talk at first. “Jesus,” he croaked. “She’s got a hell of a left hook.”

“As much as I’m sure you’d like to forget that ever happened, she just assaulted a police officer,” Frank said.

“What are you saying?” Boyd asked, as they helped him get to his feet.

“You need to report this. Sister, go inside and call the sheriff’s office again.”

“No, no, I’ll chase after her. I need to pick her up before she disappears. I came to take her in for questioning.” He didn’t elaborate and they didn’t ask what he was going to question her about when he got into the cruiser, groaning, and left without saying goodbye. Frank put his arm around Ellen’s shoulder and they watched as he turned onto the road, dust trailing behind him, as the car sped up.

“He’s probably embarrassed,” Ellen said, worried. “I thought she might have stabbed him in the belly.”

“Like Alan was stabbed?”

“Yes, just like that. Do you think she did it, Frank?” Rubbing his chin, Frank thought about it for a moment.

“I’ve said it before, Mary is trouble, but I don’t think she’s a murderer.” But Ellen’s thoughts had shifted from Mary the murderer, to Mary the seducer.

“I heard what she said about momma. She implied they were lovers, didn’t she Frank?”

“If they were, Margaret was coerced,” Frank said, stony. He remembered the early days of their relationship, how eager Margaret was to get out of Mary’s house when he would come to pick her up for date, willing to risk town gossip to stay with him out at the cottage before they were married, never allowing Mary to baby sit with Ellen, even for a moment.