Closely Akin to Murder (16 page)

In the ensuing silence, I could hear the clock ticking in my kitchen and footsteps in the downstairs apartment as the tenant returned from a less than arduous day at the bookstore. A motorcycle drove down the alley behind the duplex. I pressed the receiver more tightly to my ear and listened to traffic on a Brussels street.

“No,” Ronnie said at last. “I'm familiar with the concept of false memories, and I realize people can be convinced of their validity, especially when a traumatic event is the focus. What you hypothesized is not what happened at the bungalow. As soon as I opened my eyes, I remembered exactly what I'd done. Fran didn't tell me; I told her. Even now I could relate every step I
took, every punch I tried to throw, every hysterical thought that raced through my brain. The way his fingers dug into my shoulder. My bewilderment that his clothes were wet. The crazed look on his face. It was over in less than two minutes, and I can recall every second.”

She'd sounded so tortured that I had no reservations about her sincerity. I waited a moment, then said, “But you were under the influence of alcohol and marijuana that night. If you'd had so much that you passed out, how could you remember anything with that kind of clarity?”

“Having someone rip off your clothes can be sobering. It may have taken me a few seconds to figure out what was going on and begin to struggle, but I did. Bear in mind I'd had more than an hour to sleep off the ill effects of the alcohol. I wasn't a drinker, so my tolerance threshold was low and I doubt I had more than two or three drinks.”

“That makes sense,” I conceded.

“I should hope so,” Ronnie said. “You said earlier that you have a new lead. What is it?”

“Those packages you received in prison may have come from Fran's mother. I haven't learned her last name, but I think I know the location of the convent school that Fran attended.”

“How could you have found that out?”

I'd been expecting an expression of admiration for my deductive mastery, but I reminded myself that she'd just been forced to relive a murder. I told her about the conversation with Caron and my subsequent visit to St. Martin's Academy. “I don't believe the extortionist is in Acapulco,” I continued. “Either Chad Warmeyer or Debbie D'Avril could be involved, I suppose, but this
would require one of them to locate you after you changed your name twenty-two years ago. Has your photograph been in a newspaper or magazine recently?”

“I have never permitted any formal photographs of me to be published. I'm a scientist, not a media-hungry celebrity. Even if Debbie or Chad happened to glance through a medical journal and find a group photograph taken at a conference, neither would recognize me. They had no interest in me thirty years ago. I was nothing more than an extra bag Arthur and Margaret Landonwood brought to Acapulco.”

“Fran's the most likely suspect,” I said. “She certainly has the strongest motive, and her mother seems to have known when you were released from prison. The only hope I have of finding her is to go to Phoenix and make inquiries at the convent.”

“I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't simply pay the money. I'd assumed one of the Mexicans involved in the case was the guilty party. I'm not so certain I want you to continue this investigation in the United States, where the danger of having it made public is so much greater.”

“I'll do whatever you wish,” I said as graciously as I could, “but I've put a lot of energy into this and I'd hate to give up while I still have a lead.”

“Why do you believe the sisters at the convent will tell you anything? They're apt to be in their eighties or nineties and unable to place an unremarkable student from thirty years ago.”

I was a bit annoyed with her abrupt capitulation. She'd begged me to go to Acapulco, and I'd obliged despite my misgivings. Caron's life had been endangered. My nightmares might not be as gory as Ronnie's,
but I knew I wouldn't easily forget the terror that had gripped me during the ordeal.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll resume selling books and you can start saving up for the next call from the extortionist.”

“And you believe that's Fran?”

“You killed her father, whom she loved. Because of what you did, she ended up spending an unknown number of years in a filthy prison. Perhaps she's decided to punish you, or has spent her inheritance and needs money. In either scenario, she won't quit with a single payment.”

“Locating her won't do any good, then,” Ronnie said with a sigh.

“You might be able to reason with her. If not, at least you'll know what you're up against and can decide how to proceed. You may have to go public with the story yourself. Three decades can blunt the impact of almost anything.”

“Call my travel agent in Chicago and have her make arrangements for you to go to Phoenix, and also wire you whatever cash you need. Please keep me informed of any progress you make. I'll be home at the end of the week.”

My elation faded as I hung up the receiver. More nuns more sun more bad airline food, and more dead ends. And this time it was my own doing.

I had a feeling Peter would not be amused.

“
But you don't believe Fran Pickett
killed Santiago, do you?” Peter asked after I'd finished a carefully edited rendition of the previous four days.

When he'd returned my call earlier in the evening, his voice had been so silky (read: seductive) that I'd put aside my misgivings and invited him over for a drink. Now I was wondering if I should have listened to my head instead of my hormones.

“No,” I said reluctantly. “I first spoke to Chico at about ten o'clock in the morning. Santiago was killed no later than the middle of the afternoon. Unless Fran was already in Mexico, I can't see how she could have done it—or why, for that matter. The identity of a second person who may have been in the bungalow is irrelevant. Ronnie stabbed Oliver Pickett.”

“Maybe she concocted the confession in order to protect someone else,” he said. “That, or she's unbalanced. All police departments deal with people who are so desperate for attention that they'll confess to any crime worthy of front page coverage. There's a local guy who comes into the station once a month to confess to the Lindbergh baby's kidnapping. We make the rookies take turns writing up the report.”

I craned my neck to look up at his face. After an indulgent moment to marvel at his profile, I said, “Ronnie's emotional development wasn't enhanced by her stint in prison, but she sounded as though she'd dealt with it. Besides, if she knew someone else stabbed Oliver Pickett, why wouldn't she tell me the truth before she sent me blundering around Acapulco?”

He gave me an innocent smile. “You and she are cousins. Does a propensity for fabrication run in the family?”

Before I could respond, Caron burst through the front door. “Rhonda Maguire is a bitch,” she said as she flopped into a chair and regarded us with a beady look until we'd moved to a more decorous distance. “She had a slumber party the night of the homecoming game, and I wasn't invited.”

“You weren't in town,” I said.

“She didn't know I wouldn't be when she sent the invitations out a week beforehand. According to what Inez heard, all the girls brought their dates over after the dance for a midnight breakfast. They had fruit cups! Doesn't that make you Totally Nauseous?”

Peter and I nodded like a pair of marionettes, then I said, “Did Inez ever learn who was in Rhonda's car the day you had the costly encounter with the police officer?”

Caron rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “No, and Rhonda wouldn't even tell Emily and Merissa when they were at the mall on Saturday. You'd think it was some kind of top-secret meeting with a spy from one of those Eastern European countries that nobody can pronounce. They need to go on
Wheel of Fortune
and buy some vowels.” She stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door.

Peter risked putting his arm back around me. “When are you leaving for Phoenix?”

“I'll call Ronnie's travel agent in the morning and try for a flight as soon as tomorrow afternoon. Caron's staying with Inez, and the downstairs tenant agreed to run the store for a few more days. He's taken to reading romance novels when there are no customers, which means he has almost limitless opportunities. Azalea Twilight's his favorite author thus far. Do you remember what a turmoil she stirred up with
Professor of Passion?
I truly thought you were going to arrest me for her murder.”

Peter ignored my flimsy shot at a diversion. “I'm not going to do my usual song-and-dance routine about exposing yourself to danger, but I want you to remember that someone stabbed a pitiful old man in the throat. It could have been a fluke—or it could have happened because
you
inadvertently pinched a nerve.”

“Are you suggesting that I should check into the convent until the case is solved? What if one of the Sisters of the Holy Shrine of San Jacinto is a serial killer on a religious retreat? There I'll be, sleeping on a straw pallet in a tiny cell when the door eases open and in creeps Sister Ted Bundy.”

He failed to appreciate my wit. “If you actually find out where Fran Pickett's mother lives and start questioning her, she's liable to inform Fran. You brought up the likelihood that Fran is behind the blackmail demand.”

“It was merely a theory,” I said, trying not to sound overly defensive. “If Fran is alive, she's forty-six years old.”

“And therefore incapable of doing grievous bodily harm? Would you care to think back over your illustrious
career as a meddlesome snoop? Right offhand, I can name two middle-aged women who packed pistols in their handbags and tried to shoot you. I'm sure there have been more. When I have some free time, maybe I'll make a list.”

Not pleased with the tenor of his remarks, I banged down my empty glass on the coffee table and retreated to the far end of the sofa. “Don't start with the sarcasm, Peter. If you can't accept that I do not enjoy being patronized, find someone who does. Try the personal ads in the newspaper; there seem to be plenty of people eager to be abused in one way or another.”

“I apologize,” he said.

“You do?”

“Go to Phoenix and find the convent. If this leads you to Fran's mother and ultimately to Fran herself, I'm confident you can deal with her in your own unorthodox fashion. Is there anything I can do here to help you?”

I eyed him suspiciously. In general, he was forthright, which meant I'd become adept at predicting his behavior. I'd memorized some of his more insufferable lectures. I knew how to interpret the sudden tightening of his jaw that warned me I'd gone too far. I probably could have assessed his blood pressure with the accuracy of a sphygmomanometer. “Help me how?” I asked.

“Whatever you want. I can take you to the airport, swing by on Thursday and put out the trash, wallpaper the bedroom, assign Jorgeson to identify the mysterious passenger in Rhonda's car.” He made an elaborate production of yawning, then stood up and picked up his coat. “Call me before you leave if you think of anything. I don't guess you know when you'll be back, do you?”

“It depends on what develops in Phoenix,” I said, still puzzled by his amicability. His jaw should have been tighter, and his brow lowered enough to accentuate a faintly etched furrow that I found adorable. Instead, his expression was relaxed, as if he were preparing to watch a favorite movie. Or was off to visit someone with a less acerbic tongue, I thought as he bent down to give me a perfunctory kiss and then left.

“Oh my gawd!” Caron howled from her bedroom. “You've got to be kidding! We can't have a test on the Dickens book tomorrow. I've only read three chapters!”

Some things never change.

 

I was in Phoenix by six o'clock the next afternoon, settled in a cushy hotel room and armed with a drink from the minibar. I found a telephone directory in a drawer alongside a Gideon bible, took out the former, checked to make sure Fran wasn't listed (I'd called information from Farberville), and then flipped to the yellow pages. There was no heading for “Convents, Catholic,” so I retreated a few pages to “Churches, Catholic.” The substantial Hispanic population was reflected by the number of listings, many of which included times for masses held in Spanish.

I randomly selected one of them, and quickly learned that church offices not only have voice mail, but also close at five. I could have attended one of the numerous evening masses, I supposed, and lurked in the vestibule afterward in hopes of encountering a well-informed nun or priest.

On that note, I took a shower, ordered room service, and spent the evening pleasantly entertained with a mystery novel.

My first telephone call in the morning was to St. Francis of Assisi—or to his church, anyway. His secretary wasn't in, but my fourth call (St. Sebastian) elicited the information I needed. Although the school was closed, the Convent of the Holy Shrine of San Jacinto was indeed in operation in a small town in the Tonto National Forest.

I'd had the foresight to rent a car at the airport. I stopped at the hotel desk for a map and directions, and after a maddening fifteen minutes during which it was made clear that hotel desks were not staffed by moonlighting brain surgeons, went out to the parking lot with a map and some idea of how to proceed.

The traffic in Phoenix was typical of any sprawling city; the only evidence I wasn't in Atlanta or Dallas was the occasional swollen cactus holding up its arms as if the victim of a mugging. The artificial greenery of the city gave way to the browns and siennas of the high desert, and then to piñon and ponderosa pines as I drove into the mountains. Here there were streams, some rushing and some trickling, and forests with shadowy tunnels. I found a country music station to distract myself from worrying about coming face-to-face with another Sister Mary Clarissa.