Arson Takes a Dare: The Third Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 3) (15 page)

Marisa put her arms around her mother. When her mother returned the hug, her purse banged against Marisa’s hip.
Ouch. Mom’s purse is really heavy.

Alisa tried to sit up. She gave up and flopped back on the pillows. She fiddled with the handcuff, rattling it. “I had a special score to settle against Mosely. When we were kids, he crossed a line. He spit on me. I had to go to the principal’s office because of him. When I ran across his Phiz Phase Page, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to even the score. I admit I did want to make him squirm. But I would never try to make someone kill himself.”

Barbara slid closer to the bed.

Alisa took a deep breath. “I only married Brent Greenup because my fiancée Addison killed himself. I was upset and I had financial problems. I thought Brent could rescue me from everything that hurt me.”

“Did you bully Addison into suicide, too?” Barbara pulled a wad of tissues from the box by Alisa’s bed.

Alisa clutched the bed rails. “It’s not my fault. I have post-traumatic stress syndrome. You know, PTSD. I’m the way I am because of Fulton Hart.”

Marisa frowned. “That name sounds familiar.” She snapped her fingers. “He was our eighth grade teacher. I think his specialty was history.”

“He did more than teach me that Kentucky had two state capitols during the Civil War.” Alisa turned her face into the pillow.

“She’s trying to make us forget why we’re here, Marisa. Don’t listen to her.” Barbara moved nearer to the bed. Her hand slid into her purse.

Why does Mom have her hand in her purse? Her heavy purse!
“Alisa, what are you blathering about? Mr. Hart was a kind and patient teacher.”

“He molested me.”

The words seemed to fill the ICU room, overshadowing the bright lights and drowning out the beeping of the monitors.

Marisa’s chest felt tight. “Did you report him?”

“I told my parents,” Alisa replied. “They called the sheriff. He recorded his interviews with me and my parents. He said he would talk to Fulton Hart. My parents called him many times. First, he said he lost the tape recordings. Then, he said it was my word against Mr. Hart. The next school year, Mr. Hart was gone. Everyone said he’d retired from school to be a farmer. My parents told me to let it go and not tell anyone.”

Barbara shook her head, her hand in her large purse. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Marisa pulled her mother’s hand out of the purse. She gently pulled the strap from Barbara’s shoulder. She peeked inside the bag. “Mom, I can’t believe you brought a gun.” She was furious with her mother.

Barbara glared. “I’m too old and short to throttle her with my bare hands. The gun levels the playing field.”

Marisa put the strap over her own shoulder, gingerly holding the bag against her side.

“What are you whispering about?” Alisa’s sheet moved and her breathing was audible. “Are you talking about me and Fulton Hart?”

Marisa stepped to the bed. She reached out to touch the shaking arm, covered with reddish freckles.

“Marisa Adair, no!” Barbara Adair roared.

Marisa’s hand fell. “No what?”

“Do not forgive her. I forbid it. I see the pity on your face. She’s evil, through and through.”

“I’m not evil. Mayla Kenton was truly evil, but not me. I’m a victim of circumstances.” Tears rolled down her white cheeks.

“Mayla Kenton?” Marisa bent over the bed. “What about Mayla?”

“There was a news report on the television just a few minutes ago about Mayla Kenton. Her mother has offered a fortune to the person who can solve her murder. Mrs. Kenton yapped about Mayla’s beauty and gentle nature. I’ve read about sociopaths. I think her daughter fits the criteria.” Alisa frowned. “As a matter of fact, I thought I saw her on campus—”

“Just shut up!” Barbara Adair pushed her daughter away from the hospital bed. “You’re trying to stain Fulton Hart’s reputation to excuse the evil you started as a child and continue today. Fulton was a football star at Grayhampton High. He played football with your dad, Marisa, and we both knew him.”

Marisa stiffened.
I don’t want to hear anything about my dad.
She brought her hands to her ears.

“Fulton also played college ball at the University,” Barbara continued, ignoring her daughter’s ‘Hear No Evil’
actions. “He was slated for pro football when he suffered a crippling injury. He finished his teaching degree, married a cheerleader, and become a schoolteacher.”

I’m being childish. I haven’t seen him in years. My father can’t hurt me now. I’m a grownup. He can’t scream at me or beat me.
Marisa forced herself to lower her hands.

“Fulton was a football hero,” Barbara continued. “He was tall and wide. With his sparkling eyes and curly hair, he was so handsome. He loved to laugh, and he liked grown up girls.” She glared at Alisa. “He even did volunteer work in his spare time. If there was anything wrong going on, Alisa, your parents wouldn’t have made you drop it. It wouldn’t make sense for them to cover up their own daughter’s injuries.”

Alisa’s mouth dropped open. “Are you senile, Mrs. Adair, or just a major hypocrite? Everyone at school knew Mr. Adair was an out-of-control alcoholic. His violent rages when he was drinking were legendary. Marisa and her brothers came to school with bruises, cuts, and marks from his belt. You’re the queen of cover up.”

Barbara stiffened. Her thin body shook. “That is none of your business.” She sputtered, spittle flying. She turned her head to meet her daughter’s mesmerized gaze. “Marisa, are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

Images of violence, poverty, and fear flashed through Marisa’s mind. “She’s right, Mom. You either couldn’t or wouldn’t save us and yourself from the deprivation and the abuse.”

Barbara Adair looked at Marisa as if she’d lost her mind.

Maybe I have lost my mind.
Marisa didn’t back down.

Barbara clenched her fists and took a deep breath. “Marisa, it was over thirty years ago. We lived in that isolated backwater hell. Women didn’t have the options then that they do today. Plus, the law wouldn’t do anything. The last time they came out, when you were little, I was the one who got arrested. I had to stay with your father. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has choices, Mom. You said earlier it didn’t make sense for Alisa’s parents to order her to drop her accusations against Fulton Hart. Alisa is right about you. For whatever reason, you didn’t protect us or defend us from our father. Especially Mosely. He was the one our father especially picked on—” Marisa glanced at Alisa. “—or targeted. He made Mosely’s life miserable at home, while Alisa and her gang made it a living hell at school.”

“Marisa…” Barbara wailed.

Marisa ignored her distraught mother. “After Mosely grew up, the pattern continued. You enabled him, just like you did our father. My brother was like a pre-teen stuck in a man’s body. You met his every need, paid for his truck and gas, and even paid his legal bills.”

“He couldn’t stand on his own two feet.” Tears rolled down Barbara’s wrinkled cheeks. “I had to take care of him.”

“He didn’t stand on his own two feet because he had you to do it for him,” Marisa said. “Now, you think hurting Alisa will somehow help Mosely. You could have helped him when he was alive by assisting him to be a strong, independent man. Instead, you chose to help him as he took the same path our father walked.”

Twisting to the hospital bed, Marisa shook off her mother’s desperate hand. “I’m sorry you went through all of that, Alisa. I’m sorry your parents didn’t have the strength to stand up for you, either.”

Alisa’s laugh was bitter. “It wasn’t lack of strength. Sometimes I wish it had been weakness. It was greed. My parents suddenly were awash in money. They’d been eking a living from our tiny, tired farm. After they told me to forget what had happened, they had money to buy new equipment, more livestock and feed, and a neighboring, fertile farm. They went from dirt poor to living high on the hog. Where do you think that money came from?”

“You should have thought up a better story, Alisa,” Barbara interjected, her tears under control. “Everyone knows schoolteachers make peanuts. How could Fulton bribe your parents?”

“Fulton Hart inherited money from his wealthy parents when they died in a car crash,” Alisa answered. “He didn’t have to work. He chose to teach school because it kept him near a supply of innocent young victims. I’m positive there were others before and after me. I wasn’t special.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Barbara jeered. “None of that matters. My son is dead, and you killed him.” She tried to snatch the purse from Marisa’s shoulder. “Give me that purse! My gun is in there!”

“A crazy blackmailer murdered Mosely, Mom. Not Alisa.” Marisa held the purse up out of her short mother’s reach. “You want to kill Alisa to make her pay for bullying Mosely as a child and as an adult. You want your pound of flesh.”

Alisa screeched, “Help me! She has a gun!”

Marisa ignored the frantic woman. “Look at her.” She pointed at Alisa with her free hand. “Fate has taken much more than its pound of flesh from her. Metaphorically speaking, Fate has taken a ton of flesh, and Fate carved it out of her soul. She doesn’t have anything else to give, Mom. She’ll go to prison for the University shootings. Whatever you do to her is nothing compared to what she has done to herself.”

Barbara gasped in outrage.

“And if you take a pound of flesh from her,” Marisa added, “you’ll have to take several pounds from yourself.”

Alisa turned her face away. “I don’t deserve your pity, Marisa. For years, I’ve hurt as many people as I can. Each time Fulton Hart touched me, a terrible pressure built up in me. Picking on others released the pressure.”

“Alisa, you started bullying us long before eighth grade.” Marisa kept her voice even. “You don’t have Mr. Hart to blame for those years.”

“Oh, but I do,” Alisa said. “We had first through eighth grade in one elementary school building. Mr. Hart targeted me the first day of first grade.” Tears fell down her cheeks, the freckles in sharp contrast to the white skin. “It stopped when he retired. But the pressure didn’t. It’s here, inside me, every minute of every day. Targeting other people eases the pressure. I have to do it. Or else the pressure increases until it’s unbearable. Let your mother shoot me. It’ll stop the pressure for good.” 

“I heard screaming about a gun.” Officer Landis glared from the doorway, his arms akimbo and his legs braced. “What’s in that bag dangling from your hand, Marisa, and why is your mother jumping to reach it?”

“Chocolate. Mom’s a diabetic and I won’t let her have it. It’s bad for her.” Marisa opened the bag and walked to the officer. “See? A chocolate bar. Nothing else but womanly odds and ends. Certainly no gun in here.”

The officer dug in the bag with one hand, his cell phone in the other. He stared at the woman on bed.

“I’ll take the chocolate bar off their hands, Officer.” She solemnly winked at Marisa.

“I want everyone except the prisoner out of this room.” He opened the shade with a clatter.

“Landis! This little brat keeps raising and lowering a sick woman’s bed! Get your ass in here now!”
Officer Daviess’ bellow reached them from the hall.
“The injured grandmother is moaning in pain! The little demon is laughing his head off! And the parents refuse to stop the kid! They say they don’t want me to interfere with his freaking interactions with his freaking environment!”

“If you touch our child, we’ll sue you and the police department! Watch your language! And you look like a pumpkin head!”

The officer threw the purse to Barbara Adair and sped out of the room.

Marisa pulled the ancient revolver from her jacket pocket. She checked it. “It’s empty.”

“I just wanted to scare her.” Barbara thrust out her lip like a thwarted toddler. “I didn’t really want to kill her.”

“I think she has even worse monsters to worry about than you, Mom.” Marisa stowed the empty gun in her purse.

“I’m not a monster,” Barbara insisted.

“It depends on your perspective.” Marisa walked to the bed and touched Alisa’s cold, freckled hand.

“Take your hands off her, Marisa.” Barbara was incensed. “She’s the monster. She’s like a vicious, feral dog. You’re petting her with the hand of compassion. She’ll sink her teeth into it and infect you with her soulless sickness.”

Marisa turned her back on her mother and leaned over Alisa. “When I was little, we rarely had enough to eat or clothes to wear, let alone toys. Instead, I was forced to use whatever was at hand and my imagination.”

Alisa’s eyes were wide.

“I made miniature homes,” Marisa continued. “With the plentiful, shallow boxes which had held the cases of beer my father brought into the house every night, and figures cut from discarded paper, I was able to construct happy, loving homes. I carefully copied images from outdated library books and the unspoken yearnings of my imagination. On a trip to the dump, I found a book of wallpaper samples. I used the squares of bright colors and soft textures to transform my boxes into beautiful rooms.

“If I had one of those little homes here now, you and I could use our imaginations to go to a safe and wonderful place, with people who love us. People who would protect us and defend us.”