A Drunkard's Path (19 page)

 

 

 

 

A
s Barney and I were walking up the driveway of my grandmother’s house, I saw a delivery truck at the front door. When I got closer I realized a delivery man was standing at the front door, holding a vase of flowers so large it seemed to overwhelm him. For a second I got lost in the possibilities of a future full of romantic gestures from Jesse, but the deliveryman quickly brought me back to reality.

“Eleanor Cassidy?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, but I can sign for her.”

I brought the flowers into the house, put them on the kitchen table, and removed the cellophane that covered them. They were stunning. Two dozen plum-colored roses, just on the verge of blooming.

I didn’t want to, but I found myself staring at the envelope that was addressed to Eleanor Cassidy. I knew who they were from. I knew that their arrival coupled with my grandmother’s good mood meant she had spent the day with Oliver. I also knew that it was none of my business. For whatever reason she had chosen not to share this with me. Maybe she thought I would see her as too old for love. But I didn’t. I’d be thrilled for Eleanor to be with someone who is as wonderful as she is—if such a man exists. It’s just that I had my doubts that Oliver even came close.

I got up from the table and put on the kettle, but my eyes kept returning to the flowers. I sat down and stared at them. I tapped my fingers on the kitchen table while I watched the graceful way they bent their stems to fill the vase. I knew it was only a matter of time before nosiness, wrapped in concern, got the better of me.

I reached up and took the envelope out of its plastic holder. I held it in my hands. The envelope wasn’t sealed so, after only a moment’s hesitation, I opened it.

It read: “I can’t stop smiling. Love, Oliver.”

I sank down in a chair. I wanted to call the group, set off alarms, get everyone fired up and outraged, but I couldn’t. It was the most romantic note I’d ever read.

It began to dawn on me that the sinking feeling in my stomach, the one that made me sick whenever I thought of Oliver and my grandmother, wasn’t just fear. At least a part of it was jealousy.

When Maggie called, later that night, I knew what she would say.

“They spent the day together. At the house. If you understand me” was how she put it.

“I understand you.”

“She’s like a schoolgirl. She said she was nervous but once they—”

“I don’t need the details,” I interrupted. “She is my grandmother.”

“Right. Well, even at our age we still enjoy intimacy.”

“But she hasn’t enjoyed it for almost fifty years,” I said.

Silence.

“Has she?” I asked. “No. Forget I asked.”

“She’s in love with him. She didn’t say it but I could hear it in her voice.”

“I think he’s in love with her too.”

“What do we do?” Maggie asked.

“We keep doing what we’ve been doing. But we have to be very careful. If Oliver is the killer, then Grandma is going to get hurt, and if he isn’t—”

“But she finds out we’ve been snooping . . . ,” Maggie interrupted.

“There’ll be hell to pay.”

Maggie sighed. “Well, hopefully it will work out. I’ll keep looking through the newspaper files and maybe we’ll come up with something. One way or the other.”

The next morning I went into the kitchen early. Eleanor had come home after I was already in bed, so I didn’t see her reaction to the flowers. They were still on the kitchen table, but I noticed that the card was gone. I was still a little hurt that she hadn’t wanted to share her happiness with me, but maybe grandmothers and granddaughters can’t be girlfriends. Still, I couldn’t help but smile. Dinner dates, secret trysts, roses, and romantic notes. Murderer or not, Jesse could learn a thing or two from Oliver White.

I was thinking of calling Jesse to mention the gesture when I caught sight of a police uniform outside on the porch. Maybe I wouldn’t have to call him, I thought. I opened the door.

“Good morning.” Chief Powell smiled at me from the porch.

“Good morning. What are you doing there?”

“Making sure we haven’t left anything behind.”

“Any leads?”

Powell shook his head. “Nothing yet. I’m starting to wonder if it wasn’t a serial killer on his way through town. I’m checking with the other departments in the state to see if they’ve found any girls in the river.”

“I suppose it could be a serial killer, but that still wouldn’t explain why someone from my art class ended up dead a few feet from my house.”

“You’re quite the detective,” he said. “What’s your theory?”

It was tempting but anything I said would get back to Jesse. “I don’t have one.”

He looked at me for what seemed a long time, then nodded. “I hope you don’t mind me in your backyard. It’s just that the snow is melting a little and I figured the killer might have left something. Technically, I guess I should have asked first.”

“I don’t mind.” But I did, a little. Not that we had anything to hide. It’s just that if the killer had left something, I wanted to find it. “I’m making coffee. When you’re ready, you should come in.”

“Will do,” he said and went back to his work.

I closed the kitchen door and made the coffee as promised. I watched him out the window. He seemed to be looking at the ground around the pole where Sandra had likely hit her head. He walked from the pole toward the river and disappeared behind trees. I knew he was walking the path the killer must have walked while carrying or dragging the unconscious Sandra. But while the killer’s footsteps were covered by falling snow, I could see where Powell was walking. He was definitely thorough, even if he was out of his jurisdiction. I could hardly argue with someone so intent on solving a case that they would break a few rules, even if Powell didn’t seem the type.

I turned away from the window and sipped my coffee. Within a few minutes Powell was knocking at the window so I poured him a cup. I put a few muffins on a plate and set them on the table.

He sat, all friendly smiles and polite conversation—a huge difference from the military man who’d been in the kitchen on the night of Sandra’s murder.

“Beautiful roses,” he said. “From Jesse?”

“No. From . . .” I hesitated but I wasn’t sure why. “Oliver. For my grandmother.”

“Beautiful.” He reached out his hand and rubbed his finger against one of the petals.

“You don’t think Oliver’s involved, do you?” I asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

“Couldn’t because you don’t know, or couldn’t because you have evidence he is involved and can’t reveal it?”

He laughed. “Jesse told me about you.”

“He has?” It seemed a bit disloyal for Jesse to do such a thing. Especially since it made me the object of some kind of joke.

“In a good way,” Powell clarified as he sipped his coffee.

“It’s just that if Oliver is involved, well . . .” I pointed to the flowers. “He’s getting pretty close to my grandmother. If it were your grandmother, I’m sure you would want to know.”

“I suppose I would.”

“Would you be happy if someone you loved was dating someone with Oliver’s reputation? Someone who could be involved in the deaths of young women?”

Powell cleared his throat. “So you are anxious to get Oliver out of your grandmother’s life.”

“Well . . .” I stopped and looked at the flowers again. “If he’s done something wrong, I am. My grandmother is a very special person. She’s devoted her whole life to caring for her family and being there for her friends and anyone in town who needs her. She deserves a little happiness.”

I could see Powell watching me intently and it made me blush. “She seems like a good woman,” he agreed. “It makes sense that you want to protect her.”

“Wouldn’t you? I’m sure you have a mom or grandmother you would do anything for?”

He shrugged. “I’m an orphan.”

“Oh.” For some reason it put him in an entirely different light. “I’m sorry to hear that. How old were you?”

He hesitated, spending a little too much time eating his muffin, but then he took a breath and said, “My dad died when I was about four and my mom died when I was fifteen.”

“Of what?” It was an impolite question, and I knew it, but it was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

“My father was a drug addict.”

“Really?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. Powell was a straight-arrow, clean-cut guy. It didn’t add up.

He ran his hand through his crew cut. “I guess becoming a cop was my way of rebelling.”

“Or helping people,” I suggested. “And your mother? Was she an addict as well?”

He shook his head. “She was killed. Murdered,” he said quickly. “She crossed paths with the wrong people.”

“Like Sandra and Lily.”

He leaned forward. “I think there are bad people in this world and you have to weed them out or else they’ll destroy innocent lives. That’s why I do what I do.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry about your mom. About your parents. It must have been awful.”

“I know I can be a little pushy, but someone like you ought to understand why,” he said. “I’m not going to rest until I have the right person behind bars.”

“I do understand that.”

He nodded and got up from the table. “I better get back to work. Thanks for the breakfast. Bachelors don’t get a lot of home cooking.”

“Anytime.”

He stood by the door for a second, then looked at me. “If I did have a grandmother who was getting involved with someone I didn’t trust, I suppose I’d look into his background. Especially if, as you say, he and Mrs. Cassidy are getting close.”

“You wouldn’t consider that interfering in a police investigation?”

“Not unless he’s the killer.”

He smiled and left. I sat alone in the kitchen with, almost, official permission to do what I was already doing.

 

 

 

 

I
sat through my color theory class the way I usually did, with one eye on the clock. It’s not that color isn’t an important part of an art piece. It’s key. It’s the theory part that left me cold. I wanted to do something—paint, quilt, solve a murder. And sitting through a two-hour lecture was keeping me from all of the above.

Though Powell hadn’t exactly said it, he at least opened the door to my looking into Sandra’s and Lily’s murders. While I sat in class, I made a list of what I needed to know.

What connected the two women? I had a hard time believing their deaths, so close in time and place, were just coincidence.

What did Canada have to do with it? Maybe Jesse was right. Maybe those were just some leftover coins from a trip north, but who keeps foreign currency in their wallet?

Did the watch mean anything? Was it just an item forgotten by a man she knew or could it be the killer’s watch?

And finally, why was Sandra killed near the house? Who was she coming to see and why?

As soon as the professor gave us our homework assignment, I was out the door. I got in the car and started driving with absolutely no idea where I should go. I felt like my car was mirroring my head. I just kept going in circles. I drove for twenty minutes, changing direction twice. Eventually I knew I had to stop and regroup. I stopped at a park and went for a walk. It was a beautiful winter day. The weather was slightly warmer than it had been a week before, though I could still see my breath and feel the occasional pinch of an icy wind against my cheek. As I walked I realized the answer to all of these questions started with Sandra. If I could connect her to Lily then maybe it would lead me away from Oliver. I knew I couldn’t go to Jesse for answers but I could go to Sandra. I headed back to my car at almost a sprint and started driving with an actual destination in mind.