A Curious Affair (11 page)

“You son of a bitch,” I whispered beneath my breath, which I tried to keep slow and even. “I’m going to prove you did it. I swear to God, you will not get away with this.”

“You don’t like him, then,” a voice said behind me. The near-whisper made me jump and drop my antacids. My anger had so distracted me that I hadn’t heard anyone approach. Hell, I should have smelled him; he was smoking and smelled like a soggy sidewalk ashtray. His right hand was cupping one of those unfiltered cigarettes that he rolled himself. I’d seen him do his one-handed trick a time or two when he sat outside The Mule on the iron bench that was bolted to the sidewalk with rusting screws. I think he chose to roll his own because of the cool factor, and also because it gave him something to do. Man cannot live by beer guzzling alone.

I wasn’t fond of the retired steamfitter, but I liked Josh better than Dell and managed to smile slightly at his concerned face and cheerless eyes, whose uneasy gaze seemed to suggest some lingering shame at falling to society’s lowest stratum.

“No,” I admitted, trying to look welcoming. I bent and picked up my antacids. “I don’t. And I don’t think Irv liked him either.”

Josh nodded. His neck was so thin that the act looked painful. Poor drunks don’t get fat, even if their livers try their best to give them beer bellies.

“Molly doesn’t like him at all. Thinks he’s up to something.
She says Irv was excited about some new thing—wanted to get us together and talk about some business venture the day before he died, but then he called back to say he couldn’t come; this nephew was coming for a visit. We thought Irv was blowing smoke about a new business but…” Josh looked over my shoulder and then backed away, his lips tightening. His voice was a little louder when he said, “Well, I’ll talk to you later. Glad you could make it, Jillian. Irv would be touched. He always spoke well of you and your husband. If you need any help with the yard now that Irv’s gone, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Josh. I appreciate that.” And I meant it. I would need help. The garden had been listless all through the heat of summer and autumn. And winter was especially brutal. But given a few days of sun, I knew from experience that the flora would snap into action and I’d need to whack the wild grass back or it would overrun the propane tank. Another week and the sky would begin raining oak pollen, and opportunistic weeds would become aggressive. I had a weed-whacker, but like my stove it hated me, and it refused to cooperate with my trimming efforts.

Josh nodded and then scuttled away as quickly as his limp would take him. I noticed that he avoided Molly and Dell, and wondered if he thought they would not approve of his talking to me about Irv’s business plans.

I didn’t turn right away, preferring to take a moment to get my pleasant social face back on. I wasn’t surprised, or particularly pleased, to hear Tyler Murphy’s voice a moment later. Aside from it scaring Josh away just when the conversation was getting interesting, his presence was beginning to bother me in other ways. I didn’t want to admit it, but Tyler Murphy was stirring to life certain feelings—or at least desires—that had been dormant since Cal died. I probably should have been grateful for the proof that I wasn’t emotionally beyond the reach of normal sexual
wants, but at that point I mostly resented it. Sex, especially the kind that came with any kind of a relationship, wasn’t something I wanted to think about. Especially not in the cemetery where Cal’s spirit might be watching.

“The nephew has a boilerplate will naming him heir—and it looks legit,” the sheriff said without preamble. This wasn’t exactly news, but I appreciated his inclination to confide in me. I turned my head finally and wasn’t surprised to see that Tyler’s face looked rather hard. His eyes were lovely, but his gaze could be as disconcerting as a dentist’s above the drill when he’s focused on his work. He really didn’t want Irv’s death to be murder, or for the nephew to have any motive for killing his uncle, but my certainty seemed to have forced him to face the idea that it could be true. And if it was, he wanted to catch the killer. “I don’t know why anyone would want Irv’s old shack, though. Unless there are some drugs up there that we haven’t found yet.”

I finished crunching my antacid tablet.

“It could be drugs,” I said, keeping my voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry. I didn’t believe this theory, but there was no point in dismissing it out of hand—especially if I didn’t want him arbitrarily dismissing my thoughts. “But I don’t think that’s it. Irv never did anything on his own land. I mean, why risk it when you have the Stanislaus Forest to play in? I know you don’t like the suggestion, but it was more likely gold. You should look at the deed for the land and see if it includes mineral rights.” I didn’t say anything about Josh’s claim that Irv wanted to talk about a new business venture with his friends. There was no point in it. None of Irv’s cronies would talk to the sheriff about anything. And if they thought I was fraternizing with Tyler, Josh might freeze me out too. There had already been an obvious depreciation in goodwill on Dell and Molly’s part because of my reporting Irv’s death to the sheriff instead
of calling them. My gut still said that I needed them on my side if I was going to come up with a reasonable, explainable motive for this murder.

Tyler nodded slowly, glancing at the nephew. I was happy to have his gaze move on to that target.

“Irv didn’t have much of anything else, and we haven’t found any gold. And we searched that cabin end to end. From what I can tell the marijuana sales were his only income, and the land up the hill isn’t worth spit, so mineral rights are probably irrelevant.” I nodded back. This was true. The land was mostly sandstone, red dirt and misery—impossible to build on or farm. Even the gold miners had given up on it, abandoning their coyote holes when they hit bedrock. Tyler looked away from Irv’s nephew, returning his gaze to my face. “Yet, Mrs. March, in spite of this fact, you think this was a murder for profit—and have from the beginning. I have to ask myself why.”

I shrugged. “Logically?”

“I’d prefer that. It looks so much better in my report.” His voice was dry.

I’d have preferred that, too. I might be going out on a limb here, but I’m betting that more men had walked on the moon than had been hit by lightning and started hearing cats talk about murder. It just didn’t sound plausible, and for sure it could never go in any report.

“Okay, how about this? Irv and Wilkes didn’t know each other well enough for it to be a crime of hot blood,” I said at last. “From what Molly told me, until last month Irv hadn’t seen his nephew since the sister died ten years ago. And before that, he’d only seen the kid twice. I like profit as a motive better in this case. Neither Irv nor the nephew are the type for a crime of passion.”

“I agree. If this is about money, though, I can think of others around Irv who had even greater need than Peter Wilkes,” Tyler said evenly. I sympathized with his
point, but knew he was wrong to suspect Molly and Dell. “What I can’t figure out is just why you’ve always been so certain it
is
murder. If we hadn’t sent the body out for an autopsy with a genuine forensic pathologist, old Doc Harmon would have signed off on this as an accident and we would never know that murder had been done.”

I looked the sheriff in the eye.

“So it
is
murder.”

“Yes, blunt force trauma. One killing blow to the head. Probably from the fireplace poker, which is still missing. You were right about that, too.”

I nodded, not surprised. When I questioned him in detail, Atherton had said the man used the old poker by the potbellied stove to kill Irv and had it when he ran away. “That was quick work.”

“It’s the only suspicious death in the county. Irv got moved to the head of the line.” Those probing eyes were back on my face.

“I feel like you’ve been watching me, Sheriff. Constantly. Why? Do you think it likely that I killed Irv and am trying to blame someone else for my wicked deeds?” I asked bluntly, and watched with satisfaction when Tyler blinked.

“Hadn’t crossed my mind.” He lied—I could see it in his deep blue eyes.

“It better have crossed your mind, or you’re in the wrong line of work.” I looked away, smiling grimly. Molly and Dell had cornered Josh, and all three were staring at me and the sheriff. They looked like prisoners, huddling together as they waited to see what the warden would do. They were as pallid and undernourished as junkies, and bowed down either by the grief of their friend’s passing or the weights of their unkind lives. I thought it was the latter, and though that burden was mostly self-inflicted it did nothing to make them
easier to look at. Would this be me in five years if I didn’t get my act together?

“Okay, for maybe half a second the notion flitted through my brain. But why the hell would you drag me into this if you were guilty?” Tyler asked. We were being logical, trying to dress up our gut emotion in respectable reason. We weren’t succeeding, though. At least, I wasn’t. And Tyler was feeling my anger at Peter Wilkes and it was making his sheriff’s antennae twitch.

“Maybe I’m just crazy. Or psychic. Or haunted. Maybe I hear voices from beyond telling me this was murder,” I said, gazing at the church as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. My stomach clenched.
Too close
, it warned me.
You’re getting too close
to the truth
.

“Maybe,” Tyler agreed. I watched as his shadow drew closer and touched mine, mingling our pale shades. I allowed it for a moment and then stepped away. Even that was too much intimacy when I was standing in the cemetery where Cal rested. He added quietly: “But I don’t think your madness would have these particular symptoms. From what I hear, writers tend to be quietly eccentric. They wear large hats and have cats and forget to eat. They don’t go around bashing their neighbors’ heads in because they hear voices. Certainly they don’t go to the police afterwards and insist on it being murder.”

Cats. I had those, alright—in numbers great enough to make anyone question my sanity. In fact, I’d left the largest one closed up in my bedroom when I came down the hill. I hoped Atherton wasn’t too annoyed about that.

I nodded. “Eccentric is fine. I wouldn’t want the town’s new sheriff thinking I was a homicidal maniac or anything.”

Tyler grunted. He was watching as Molly, Dell and Josh put out their cigarettes and went into the church. Josh lagged behind the other two, sending a last glance
up at us. I thought he looked guilty, and was betting Tyler thought that, too.

“Well, we’d best go down. People are heading inside. I wouldn’t normally go to this funeral but since you’re so suspicious of him, I want to keep an eye on the nephew for the next few days. Also, maybe there will be some thaw in the Fremont Creek crowd if I pay my respects. If there is anything to know about Irv, they’re the ones who’ll know it.”

“Hope ever, hope on,” I muttered. I didn’t think Molly or Dell would thaw for him even under a blowtorch. Tyler wouldn’t get anywhere with them.

“Can’t hurt any to try,” Tyler said. “So, are you coming inside, or will you watch from the sidelines?”

I sighed. I hated funerals and had avoided them since Cal died. There was little chance that I’d actually catch the nephew doing or saying anything incriminating there, especially with the sheriff hanging about. Still, I felt that I had to go. Just in case.

Something stropped at my woolen-clad ankle and it was all I could do not to jump. As it was, I gave a small gasp.

I’m here
, the growl announced.
We’re all here
.

Speaking of the symptoms of my madness, this was probably what the squirrel had been so upset about. I glanced around quickly. The cats were huddled at the base of the wrought-iron fence at the rear of the cemetery.

“Hello, Atherton,” I said. I felt myself pale as I looked into the black cat’s enormous eyes. His gaze was hard, predatory, and I was—just a little bit—afraid of the anger I saw in him. “What a surprise. I thought you were having a nice nap in my bedroom.”

It can’t be a surprise. Not really. Smelly-
butt man is here.
Is the sheep man going to take him away?

It shouldn’t have been surprising after his showing up
at the wake, but I was still taken aback to see the cat here. I had been careful this time. The only way he could have escaped was out the bedroom window, and then only if he had ripped my screen from the frame. And I hadn’t said anything to him about where and when the funeral was. That meant he had heard me talking on the phone with Molly. This may sound dumb, but I didn’t think the cat could understand my conversations unless I was talking
to
him. Apparently it didn’t work that way.

I lifted my head slowly, breaking away from Atherton’s gaze without answering him aloud.

“And here is proof of my growing eccentricity. Sheriff, have you met my cat, Atherton? He thinks Wilkes killed Irv, too.”

Atherton stared at me.

“I believe I’ve seen him about. Up at Irv’s place. I thought maybe I was being stalked by a panther.” I could feel Tyler’s puzzled gaze on me and I tried to pull myself together. It was difficult, though, because everywhere I looked now, there were strays ghosting through the shrubs on the churchyard and perching on tombstones. They moved like a restless school of fish—perhaps piranhas. Their eyes were intent, angry; a mob mentality ruled them. I wondered if they would actually attack Irv’s nephew if they found him alone.

Then I wondered if I should let them. It could solve a lot of problems and would be just. Let the ones he had most wronged have their vengeance.

Of course, the town would panic when they found the body covered in claw marks, and the stray cats would be rounded up and put down en masse. I couldn’t let that happen. There had to be some way to get sufficient proof of Wilkes’s wrongdoing.

I turned to face Tyler. “Yes. I inherited him—without a will, even. I hope the nephew doesn’t contest ownership. I don’t think Atherton would go with him.” Talking
was getting difficult. I could feel my jaw locking up again. It was partly the cold wind and the disappearing sun, but partly nerves and distraction. The sheriff hadn’t noticed the other cats, but he would if he turned around, and even the most rational and unimaginative of men would question what so many mean-looking strays were doing in the churchyard. Cats didn’t travel in packs like dogs. This was unnatural behavior.