Women Drinking Benedictine (20 page)

“What about the people from the boat?” she asked.

“They could have killed him, too,” he told her. He turned to face her head on as if proud of this mark.

“No. I want to know what they're doing here,” she said. “I meant what are they doing in Marquette?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I want to know what happened to them,” she said.

“Will you tell me? Will you tell me what happened to those people?”

“No,” Wade pulled away.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Wayne rubbed the scar as if her touch had made him sore. He buttoned his shirt and turned toward the front door, where they saw Phil making his way up the front walk. Her heart raced as he stepped inside. She grabbed the edge of the table and held tight to stop the dizziness taking over. The room seemed to be losing light, as if Phil had carried the night in with him.

Phil's glasses fogged, and he set them on the table. Janeene reached for them so that she could wipe the condensation off, but her hands were clumsy and she pushed them onto the floor. Phil bent to pick them up.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Did you figure out what was wrong with the car?” Wade asked.

“Nothing,” Phil said. He put his hands to his mouth and blew on them and then got the flashlight out of the drawer.

“There's nothing wrong with the car? Nothing at all?”

“Not that I can tell,” Phil said. He tested the flashlight. The strong light hit the opposite wall and filled the room with long shadows.

“I think your father ran over something,” Phil told Wade. “The car started up right away. It didn't need the jump. There's no other reason you would have stalled out.”

“Did you see anything?” Wade continued rubbing his chest through the thick layers of winter coat he was not wearing.

“It was probably a deer,” Phil said. “A deer's got the strength to stop a car like that.”

“Did you check the grate?”

“There was nothing,” Phil said.

“Then it wasn't a deer,” Wade told him. “Deers leave their fur.”

“There was nothing except a dent near the driver's-side headlight,” Phil said.

“There'd be blood if it was a deer,” Wade said. “Those animals bleed more than any animal on this earth.” They stood, ready to leave the house.

“Wait,” Janeene called as they went out the front door.

They turned back and looked at her. “What?” Phil asked.

“I want to see it. I want to see the car,” she said. She put on her coat and wrapped a wool scarf around the bottom part of her face.

“It's thirty below out there,” Phil said. “Stay in here where it's warm.”

“There's no reason for you to be out on a night like this,” Wade said. “This kind of cold can kill you.”

They were gone before she could protest further and right away the silence of the house was overwhelming. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to let go of whatever it was that was scaring her. The panic increased, and she stepped outside and stood on the front porch, letting the wind run through her body.

Phil and the men huddled around the two cars, but she could not hear their voices. She did not know if they were talking to each another. Phil had pulled his car around so that it faced Henry's, and the front ends touched like animals confronting each other.

She turned toward the lake and saw a flash of light shoot up from the ground. She stared into the darkness, and a few minutes later there was another flash. Certain that it was not her imagination or something in the sky, she stepped off the porch. Staying close to the houses, away from the street lamps, she walked as fast as she could through the snowdrifts. When she was far enough away so that the men would not hear or see her, she took off.

She ran stiffly in her heavy winter clothes. The cold air filled her lungs, and her sides ached with cramps. The fear stayed with her, but she refused to stop. She had to know what was out there.

The breakwater was somewhere off to her left. She could hear the rustling noise in the tall evergreen branches. It was too dark to know exactly where she was until she reached the beach. The winter wind had caught and trapped the sand like waves in motion. She turned to look where she had come from. Marquette was covered in a shadowlike net cast from the lake. It was near midnight. The streets should have been deserted, yet she thought she saw shadows moving in the distance. If there were only a bit more light, Janeene was certain she would at least see hints of all the figures hiding on Superior's shoreline. But understand them, she could not.

 

T
HE WAY MY SISTER EXPLAINED IT WAS THAT
she wanted to get rid of her husband. I never believed she'd really kill him, but she was definitely up to something. She claimed she was going about it slowly, not because she was afraid of being caught, but because she loved Randy too much to use rat poison or to blow him away with the 30-caliber rifle he's got hidden between the washer and the dryer in the basement. Instead Siobhan was relying on a series of small accidents—accidents that in time would make him leave her. Last fall she loosened the lug nuts on his car tire. She pictured the tire flying off as he was driving down the highway into Munising. Luck just had it that the next time he drove the car, the Holsum Bakery truck in front of him ran over a squirrel. Randy had to slow down to keep from smashing into the rear end of the truck, and that's when the tire fell off. He was only going about ten miles an hour, so it wasn't anywhere near the accident it should have been. He plowed into a tree and broke his collarbone and two of his ribs. The hospital kept him overnight to get all the windshield glass out of his face, but it wasn't anything worse. As Siobhan said, that one should have been the one.

Siobhan said being married was not for her. She was tired of the way things were, and she wanted a change. I know what it is to be trapped in a dead-end situation, and I wanted to help her get out of it. Getting rid of Randy wasn't going to solve anything, but you can't argue with Siobhan. She gets angry and she'll snap like a dry twig in the woods. That's why it was up to me to interfere with her plans. Whenever the attempts on Randy's life didn't foul up of their own accord, I had to step in and rescue him.

Yesterday Siobhan stayed up until four in the morning putting together a booby trap in the bathroom. She hadn't warned me about this attempt. When Randy closed the door, the garden tools wrapped in the bedsheet were supposed to fall on his head and kill him. But he was standing over the toilet taking a leak when he kicked the door shut. The rake knocked a gash in his forehead, but it didn't come close to killing him. It got him acting dizzy, and he wandered out onto the highway without realizing who he was or where he was going. Siobhan was asleep, planning to wake up a widow, when the hospital in Marquette called to let her know they had sewn fourteen stitches into Randy's forehead. A road construction crew had found him wandering on I-41 just south of Munising. He was resting comfortably and Siobhan could pick him up after his observation period—anytime after 12:00.

“You were going to do it in the house?” I should have guessed Siobhan was up to something; she'd been unusually quiet the last couple of days. “What were you going to do with the body? Drag it outside?” We haven't had the snow we usually get, but I still couldn't see Siobhan acting like that in an emergency.

“Of course not,” she said. “As soon as I got up I was going to call the state police. They would have gotten rid of it.”

“How were you going to explain the rake and the snow shovel on the bathroom floor?” It was hard for me to imagine why Siobhan wanted to be single, especially in Munising. Everyone we know is married with kids.

“I was going to put those back in the garage,” Siobhan said. “Right back where they belong.”

“Don't you think the police would have asked you how he was killed? They might be interested in how he died, you know.”

“Oh, stop,” Siobhan said. “You act like it's some big mystery, like there'll be an investigation with magnifying glasses and police reports.”

“If he's dead there will be.”

“It's March.” I could hear her sigh. “Do you know that? It's already March.” Randy was supposed to have been dead by Christmas so that Siobhan could begin the New Year a single woman. We didn't talk about what she would do as a widow—how it would change her life or anything—but I liked my part in Siobhan's plans. She's the kind of person who can make anything exciting, even life in Munising.

“Do you think they're going to let you get away without even a mention of how Randy got himself killed on his bathroom floor?” I never could figure out how Siobhan thought she would get away with murdering Randy. It just didn't make sense.

“My God,” Siobhan swore. “I know just what will happen. I can see the whole scene in my mind. Burns and Anders will come screaming up the driveway in their patrol car with the siren blaring away. Then they'll see Randy dead with his head smashed in and they'll start carrying on and soon they'll be crying and telling me what a good friend and fine man Randy was. The neighbors will start flocking out on the front lawn, staring at the house like they never saw one before, all of them asking stupid questions, and one of them, probably Mrs. Saxon, who doesn't like me anyway, will knock on the door with a ridiculous plate of her dumb macaroons, and just when I turn my back, Burns will find the whiskey under the sink and in no more than fifteen minutes, my clean kitchen will be filled with nosy neighbors and everyone will be putting on a drunk so bad that maybe, just maybe, one of them will sober up by the end of the week, and by that time no one will remember how Randy died, but everyone will be too stupid to ask anyone else.”

Kate's my baby and she was crying while Siobhan was going on. I put her back in her high chair and fed her the rest of her breakfast—oatmeal and canned peaches. She eats it three times a day. When I try to feed her something else, she starts screaming. Nothing else keeps her quiet. I work during the day and Siobhan looks after her. She tells me Kate's a fine eater. I don't argue with her or say any different. I figure Kate's getting her protein with Siobhan and her fruit and fiber with me. We get along best when she's not crying, so I don't force her to eat anything that makes her upset.

“You watch out, Siobhan,” I warned her. “You might not be as smart as you think you are.”

“This isn't Detroit,” Siobhan said. “Women don't go to jail in the Upper Peninsula.”

“Aren't you forgetting about Maureen Bogden?” I asked. Kate was busy playing with her reflection in the stainless steel part of the baby chair. Siobhan didn't say anything, so I reminded her of the time Maureen Bogden caught hold of a rumor that her boyfriend was sleeping with the part-time waitress from the Dogpatch. No one had any proof of it, but as soon as Maureen heard the news, she marched herself into the Dogpatch and knocked the waitress in the jaw. The Munising police arrested Maureen right there in the bar, in front of the band and everything.

There was a silence on the other line and I thought Siobhan must have been mulling over my warning about Maureen.

“Siobhan, are you listening to me?” She didn't answer, and all I could hear was silence coming over the line.

“Siobhan?” I said louder. “What's wrong? What is it?” Something bumped against the receiver on her end, then I heard her voice loud and clear.

“Sorry,” she said. “I had to go to the bathroom.”

Kate started crying, and I removed the silver tray to lift her out of the high chair. She stopped crying when I set her on the floor.

“I had three cups of coffee,” Siobhan said. “I couldn't wait.”

“You should tell me when you're leaving the phone,” I said. “I was saying something.”

“I'm listening to you.” Siobhan started to snap a bit, but she caught herself before she yelled at me. She was careful to be nice to me, and I thought it was because she liked having me as her partner in crime. “I listen to everybody.”

I finished the rest of Kate's breakfast and then ran water in the empty dish. It would soak with the rest of the breakfast dishes.

“Did Kate stop crying?” Siobhan said.

“She's fine,” I said. “She'll be asleep in about a minute. Just about time for her to nap again.”

“Why don't you bring her over?” Siobhan said. “I'll watch her and you can go down and pick up Randy.”

“What's this?” I asked. Siobhan usually gets me to go with her when she has to pick up Randy. After the bowling accident failed, the three of us went to the Brownstone Inn and played darts until two in the morning. Randy could play fine with his broken toes. He shot from his bar stool and scored higher than both me and Siobhan.

“Please,” Siobhan begged. She dropped her voice and let the words drag out. “I can't talk to Randy. Not just yet.”

“Why don't both of us go?” I said. “We can go together.”

“I can't do it,” she said. “How am I going to face him in Marquette with people looking at me? Those people are nurses and doctors. They'll know something's wrong.”

I didn't say anything.

“Please do it for me?”

She didn't have to put it like that. It's not like it's any big deal to drive to Marquette. I go there all the time. Kate's father is stationed in Marquette—up at K. I. Sawyer Air Force Base. I drive up once a month to get the support checks. Since we're not married, I'm not allowed on base, but he drives out to meet me at the Roadhouse right where County Road 551 connects with 41. It feels good to get out of town and see some new faces. On Thursday nights the Roadhouse has what they call adult entertainment, and the place jumps. The girls aren't as good-looking as I thought they'd be. Everyone stares when they first take off their tops, but after a couple of minutes there's nothing to look at—nothing changes. Pretty soon everyone's back playing pool or watching the TV, and the girls end up dancing in their corners by themselves.