…A Dangerous Thing (17 page)

"What kind of injury?"
 
She sounded skeptical.

"It's . . . and old baseball injury.
 
My back.
 
It acts up now and then, but I hardly ever mention it.
 
I don't like to use it as an excuse."

"Your back?"
 
She didn't sound exactly convinced, but he could tell she was weakening.

"Yes."
 
Burns felt inspired.
 
He could almost hear the crack of the bat against the old horsehide.
 
"I hurt it turning a double play."

"You played the infield?"

"That's right.
 
Second base."
 
That much was true.
 
It was Little League ball, but he had been a second baseman.
 
"The ball took a bad hop, so I had to twist around to make the throw to the shortstop.
 
I felt something pop, but we got the two."

"You'll have to tell me more about your baseball career someday."

"Sure," Burns said, wondering where he could get his hands on a book that would have some good baseball stories in it.
 
"Maybe we could take in one of the college's games."

Elaine wasn't going to let him off the hook about George that easily.
 
"Maybe."

Maybe
was better than nothing.
 
Burns was feeling a little better when he hung up.

S
amantha Henderson lived in an older section of town known as "The Heights," for reasons that might have been clear to an earlier generation of Pecan City inhabitants but that made no sense at all to Burns.
 
Unless, of course, you considered an elevation of maybe thirty feet a "height."
  
The homes in The Heights were mostly frame houses shaded by oak trees and surrounded by green lawns.

Samantha Henderson lived in the middle of a block, and Burns parked his gigantic old Plymouth at the curb.
 
He stepped out on the cracked sidewalk and waited for Elaine to join him.
 
The thought of going around the car to open the door for her had entered his mind, but he had quickly rejected it.
 
He didn't want her to think he was an old-fashioned dweeb.

It was nearly dark, but Burns could see no lights on in the Henderson house as he hobbled up the walk.

Elaine pretended not to notice the hitch in his stride.
 
"Do you think she's home?"

"Where else would she be?"

"At the funeral home."

"The visitation was yesterday," Burns said.

Visitation was another custom he wasn't in favor of.
 
He knew that he should go to the funeral home to show his support for the family, but he didn't like the idea of sitting around talking cheerfully in the presence of a corpse.
 
It wasn't so bad if the casket was closed, but that usually wasn't the case.
 
So if faced with the choice of visiting the family at home or at the funeral parlor, Burns chose the home.

They reached the door, and Burns rang the bell.
 
There was no response for what seemed like a long time.
 
Then Burns heard the sound of a deadbolt being thrown, and the door opened.

Samantha Henderson looked terrible.
 
There were dark circles underneath her eyes, her hair was uncombed, and she was wearing a dress that looked as if she might have slept in it.

Burns knew that he was guilty of
lookism
, but he couldn't help it.
 
Even Elaine looked somewhat shocked.

"Oh," Samantha said.
 
Her voice was not much more than a whisper.
 
"Hello, Dr. Burns."

"Hello, Samantha," Burns said.
 
"This is Elaine Tanner.
 
She's the school librarian.
 
You may have met her at school."

"Hello, Miss Tanner.
 
It was nice of you to come."

Burns thought that she couldn't have sounded less enthusiastic had Dracula himself, or maybe the
Wolfman
, been standing outside her door.
 
He waited for her to invite them in, but she said nothing further.
 
They all stood there awkwardly.

Finally Burns said, "Could we come in for a minute?"

Samantha stepped back.
 
"Of course."

She turned and walked in front of them to the living room.
 
All the curtains were drawn, and the room was so dark that Burns could hardly make out the furniture.

"I suppose I should turn on a light," Samantha said, but she made no move to do so.

"A light might be a good idea," Burns said.

"Yes," Elaine said, walking over to a floor lamp and switching it on when Samantha made no move to do so.
 

The light didn't help the room.
 
It appeared that Samantha had done no cleaning since Tom's death.
 
In fact, it appeared that she hadn't done any cleaning for a long time before that.
 
There were magazines lying in the floor by an overstuffed chair that seemed to be leaning slightly to the left as if its springs were broken, there was a thin layer of dust on the coffee table, and there was a faint odor of decay that Burns couldn't identify.

"Please have a seat," Samantha said.

Burns looked at Elaine, who went directly to the couch and sat down.
 
Burns joined her.
 
A sharp pain ran up his back when he sat, but he was a former athlete.
 
It wasn't anything he couldn't deal with.
 
Samantha continued to stand.
 
She wasn't looking at her guests.
 
She was looking out one of the living room windows, though there was nothing to see.

"We were certainly sorry about Tom's death," Burns said.
 
It was the only thing he could think of.

"Thank you," Samantha said.
 
She was still looking out the window.
 
"I miss him very much."

There was another awkward pause while Burns tried to think of something else to say.
 
Elaine wasn't any help at all.

"They told me he was murdered," Samantha said, her voice growing a little stronger.
 
"But I don't believe it."

It was the last thing Burns would have expected her to say, but since she had brought it up herself, he thought it was worth pursuing.

"Why not?" he asked.

Samantha turned and looked at him.
 
"Everyone loved Tom.
 
Who would have killed him?"

"That's what I've been wondering," Burns said.
 
Elaine jabbed him with an elbow, but he paid her no attention.

"It might have been that horrible Mal Tomlin," Samantha said.

Burns sat up a little straighter, ignoring the twinge in his tailbone.
 
"Who?

"Mal Tomlin.
 
You must know who he is."

"I know him," Burns said.
 
"Why would he kill Tom?"

"He was jealous of him.
 
Mal's
wife was very attracted to Tom."

Burns thought of
Joynell
Tomlin, a cheerful blonde who liked to think of herself as resembling Dolly Parton, though the truth was that she was more likely to be the winner in a Pillsbury Doughboy lookalike contest.
 
As far as Burns knew she was completely faithful to Mal.

"Or maybe it was Earl Fox."

"Earl Fox?"

"Of course.
 
His wife made several advances toward Tom."

This had to be one of the most bizarre conversations of
Burns's
life.
 
Rae Fox was a tall, thin brunette with a tan that rivaled George Hamilton's.
 
Earl sometimes joked that if she died before he did, he was going to make
seatcovers
for his car from her skin.
 
He didn't make the joke in front of Rae, however.
 
Burns would have bet a year's salary that Rae Fox had never looked at Tom Henderson with anything resembling interest.

"That was Tom's trouble, you know," Samantha said.

"What was?"

"What I said before.
 
Everyone loved him.
 
Especially the women.
 
The women loved him so much that it got him killed."

Burns wondered if she knew about Dawn
Melling
, but he thought it would be better not to mention it.
 
She seemed to have enough candidates for her husband's murderer already.

"Did you tell the police what you suspect?" he asked.

"Yes.
 
I didn't see any need to protect those men.
 
If they're guilty, they should be punished."

"That's probably true," Burns said, though he didn't think that either of the two men she had mentioned had anything to do with Henderson's death.
 
Boss Napier, however, might be another story.
 
He might be very willing to believe Samantha Henderson.

"The funeral is tomorrow, you know," Samantha said.

"Yes," Burns told her.
 
"We know.
 
We'll be there."

"That will be nice," Samantha said.

Burns got up.
 
He thought he'd brought about as much comfort into Samantha Henderson's home as he possibly could.
 
Elaine got up and stood beside him.

"We'll have to be going now," Burns said.

"It was nice of you to come by.
 
You, too, Miss Tanner."

"We're so sorry about Tom," Elaine said, and Samantha started to cry.

"T
hat was interesting," Elaine said when they were in
Burns's
car.

"It certainly was.
 
Did you believe any of it?"

Elaine was stony-faced.
 
"I don't know the people involved well enough to believe or disbelieve anything."

Burns wondered about her tone.
 
Then he had a thought.
 
"Did you ever talk much to Tom?"

Elaine half-turned to look at him.
 
"What do you mean by that?"

"I think you know."

"All right.
 
I did talk to him once.
 
He came to the library to ask me about ordering a book."

"He came to your office?"

"That's right.
 
And there was no one else there, if that's your next question, Mr. Private Detective."

"Wait a minute," Burns said.
 
"You're the one who was going on to Boss Napier about my being one of his ace investigators."
 
He had another thought.
 
"You didn't tell Napier about Henderson's visit to your office, did you?"

"Why should I?"

"Because he made a pass at you, didn't he?"

"'Made a pass.' That's such old-fashioned language."

"You're avoiding the question," Burns pointed out.

"All right.
 
Maybe I am.
 
But he didn't make a pass, as you put it.
 
Not exactly.
 
It wasn't so much what he said as the way he said it."

Remembering what Henderson had said to Dawn, Burns wondered if the late psychology professor had said something similar to Elaine.
 
He didn't think it would be a good idea to ask, however.
 
So he just waited to see if Elaine would go on.

"That's why I was a little hesitant about coming with you tonight," she said.
 
"Because of that little incident."

"What about Samantha's idea that
Joynell
and Rae were coming on to Tom?"

"That was projection on Tom's part if he told his wife that," Elaine said.
 
"I'm sure that if anything happened, the women weren't responsible.
 
Doesn't that help you to see how insidious sexism can be?"

"I don't have any trouble seeing that.
 
But I think it's wrong to hold all men responsible for the acts of a creep like Tom Henderson.
 
I don't believe that most men are like that."

"Only because you're not."

Burns tried to leer.
 
"Maybe I am."

Elaine smiled.
 
"No you're not.
 
I wouldn't be here if you were."

"I guess that's a compliment.
 
And since you're so sure I'm harmless, if we go by my house, would you come in and look at something?"

"What?
 
Your etchings?"