Design on a Crime (19 page)

Yep, that'd be me, all right. The woman convicted of peeing
at the wrong time.

A hysterical giggle burst out, and Tom took that to mean
that I was just peachy dandy.

"I'm so glad to see how well you take even this kind of
thing. It's a tribute to your parents and the faith they shared
with you. No wonder Gussie loves you so much. You're an
outstanding young Christian, Haley."

I wasn't. Anything but, really, but I couldn't explain it to
Tom. Besides, panic rumbled in my gut, and I knew I had to
run.

"Ah ... well, thanks for the compliment, and it's too bad
that Gussie's not better yet. I'll call her tomorrow ... see how
she's doing. Give her my love."

With the brass doorknob in my hand, I felt a hair better.
"Gotta go." I shot him a grimace that posed as a smile, then
ran as if the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.

Well, if you asked Dad, my apostasy was a lot like that
kind of chase. He'd said any number of times that no matter
how fast and how long I ran, God wouldn't give up on me.
From where I stood-or ran-he'd given up four years ago.
The hounds of hell? I wasn't sure about them. I figured if
God could dump me, then somewhere along the line all the horror that seemed determined to catch up and devour me
would sooner or later give up too.

I hoped.

When I got home, I found a note from Dad on the kitchen
table. He'd gone for a lecture at Seattle Pacific University,
some theologian from England or Scotland or somewhere
abroad. He'd talked about it for a couple of days.

Good. I wouldn't have to dance around the trouble I was in.
I didn't want to tell my father any more half truths or babble
gobbledygook at him. I just wanted to camp out in my room
and not show my face again until someone fixed everything
that was so screwed up.

Since that wasn't about to happen any time soon, I went
to sleep instead.

I didn't have anything to do the next day. My Sundays were
usually quiet and peaceful, especially since Dad spent most of
the day at church. It was his busiest day. I needed time alone
to think things through, maybe even piece together some of
the chunks of the puzzle of Marge's death.

But that's not what I got.

At nine thirty, well after Dad left for the morning's first
service-he did two each Sunday-the doorbell rang. Midas,
of course, went nuts.

"Give me a break." I threw on a ratty old terry-cloth robe.
"Don't people sleep or go to church anymore?"

I opened the door and had my answer. Detective Tsu and
a couple of her giant Smurfs stood there, more grim faced
than I'd ever seen them.

"This doesn't look good," I said.

Detective Tsu shook her head. Her smooth hairstyle made
me reach up for my wild mop. Any effort to control my hair
was wasted; the stuff flew out in all directions, headed off
where no woman's hair had gone before.

"I left the parlor at the beginning of the intermission," I
said to stem the interrogation I knew was coming, "and I
did go to the port-a-potty. Then I went to the catering tent,
asked the big bald guy to slice some turkey breast for me, and
had the blond girl serve me pasta. I sat at a corner table-by
myself-to eat. Then I headed back to the house, and Ozzie
Krieger ran up to me. He asked me to help him look for Marge,
and you know the rest."

The detective's lips were tight, and her nostrils flared ever
so slightly. "Ms. Farrell-"

"You know all this, because I gave you guys this same
statement that afternoon, and I've answered questions about
my whereabouts around a dozen times already. My answers
are the same, since that's exactly what I did. According to
the TV, you guys are big on consistent answers. How's that
for consistency?"

"It's fine, but that's not why we're here."

"Oh." Her expression sent me reeling back into that black
hole I knew so well. "I really don't want to know why you're
here, then, but I've a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

Something softened the look she gave me. "I'm afraid I
am." She slipped a hand into her ultrachic purse and withdrew a couple of sheets of paper. Her hazel eyes met mine.
She swallowed, and her smooth throat rippled.

I leaned against the door frame for support. Ablack cloud
congealed at the edge of my awareness.

"This is a warrant for your arrest, Ms. Farrell. You have to
come with us to the station."

Darkness rushed in. I fought against it. I couldn't let it win.
Not this time. I scrabbled for logical thought, some perspective, but it didn't come. I floundered in my thoughts; desperation seized me. My warm, cozy bed sang a siren song, but
there'd be no escape this time.

Shudders shook me. I forced my eyes open, but my vision
blurred. The urge to scream overtook me, but I refused to
indulge it. "I didn't do it." My voice came out in a croak. My
throat tightened; my lungs strained for air. "You have to find
out who did. Don't let them get away with it."

Proclaiming my innocence did no good. I'd been blaring
it to anyone I got to listen right from the get-go. This time
I said it for myself. I couldn't lose sight of reality no matter
how surreal things got.

Detective Tsu nodded to one of her officers. He stepped
forward, a pair of handcuffs in hand.

Bile seared my throat. I gagged. "Do ... do you really have
to do that? I'll go to the car with you." My teeth chattered so
hard I almost couldn't speak. "Sooner or later ... later now
... you'll figure out who killed Marge. I get nothing out of
resisting you."

"It's police procedure," Detective Tsu said. "I'm sorry."

"Are you really?" I shouldn't have said it, but she'd made
me crazy from the moment I met her. My hands clenched;
the skin on my knuckles turned white. "I would think, since
you've been so determined to prove me guilty, that you'd be
jumping up for joy right now."

"I regret the opinion you've formed of me." Although her speech was squeaky proper and I'd never heard her use any
real slang, this statement came with a bucketful of starch.

She went on. "I put this off as long as I could, but after a
witness not only placed you in the vicinity of the murder
but also saw your hand on the murder weapon, it became
difficult to explain my delay. My minor doubt as to your
guilt does nothing to counter those fingerprints and your
inheritance. My chief would never understand a draw in
a sparring match, much less a martial arts instructor's
tribute."

So Tyler's words had counted for something.

"You do know I passed out when I found Marge," I said.
"I fell, and that's probably when my hand landed on that
miserable rock."

"Your hand wasn't laying on the rock, Ms. Farrell. Two witnesses confirm this. You held that bloody rock in your hand,
tight. That's why we found your prints all over it."

I sucked in air. My hands hurt, and I concentrated on unfurling each finger. My nails left crescent marks on my palms.
"Who besides Tom Stoker could say that?"

Detective Tsu shrugged. "It can't hurt to tell you that Dutch
Merrill said the same thing that afternoon. He hasn't changed
his story yet."

That miserable cheat. Again.

A ripping surge of anger grabbed me, and I welcomed it.
"Didn't I tell you he's everywhere I go? He even found me.
Don't you think he could've stuffed the rock in my hand
when he got there?"

"That's a bit far-fetched." Ms. Tsu looked at me from head
to toe. "Don't you want to get dressed?"

I remembered my ancient robe. "Do the Smurfs have to
keep me company while I do?"

She smiled. "No. One will take the side of the house where
your room's located, and I'll stand by your door until you're
ready. It's police procedure, even though I doubt you'll try to
run. You seem to prefer to meet challenges head-on."

To my surprise, that last comment came with a drop of
admiration. I didn't know how much truth there was to her
assumption, but I wasn't about to change her opinion. It might
count for something down the road.

"You're right. I'll fight this all the way." There was one more
thing. "I have a favor to ask. My dad's not very young, and we
lost my mother about a year ago now. He took it hard." So did
I, but that had no place in this mess, aside from the ravening
loneliness her loss left behind. "He was also a good friend to
Marge. I ... I'd rather he didn't have to see me handcuffed,
and I'd also prefer to tell him what's about to happen."

I swallowed hard, tried to swallow the lump from my
throat. Nothing happened, so I blinked against the tears. "I
couldn't stand it if he walked out of church and saw you
drag me away. And I don't want him to hear about it from a
parishioner, see it on the news, or read it in the paper."

"I do understand, Haley."

The warmth in Detective Tsu's voice almost did me in. I
nodded and went upstairs. She didn't follow, and I appreciated what that said. I did, though, check outside my window.
One of her Smurfs paced up and down the yard on that side
of the house.

I sighed. How did one dress for jail? That had to rank right
up there as the number one advice no fashionista ever gave.

Certain that whatever I wore would be taken away, I rooted
around my dresser for comfortable clothes. A soft, long cotton skirt and a white T-shirt seemed best-not too ratty, in
case some stupid photographer decided to snap a shot of the
accused killer, but not too funky or dressy either.

Again hysteria threatened. An inappropriate giggle slipped
out. At the same time, the tears I'd fought downstairs ran
down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. A sob
wracked me. I didn't think I'd make it through the next minute, much less the rest of the day.

I reached for the anger that had seen me through so much,
the anger that just minutes ago had surfaced at the thought
of Dutch, but it seemed to have skittered just beyond my
grasp. I had to do something. I wasn't going to just roll over
and give in. Then the church bells rang.

Dad. I had to be strong for him. He'd been strong for me
before, and this would devastate him just as much.

I looked at my parents' portrait on the dresser. They'd had
it taken on their silver anniversary, three years ago. I could
do it. They'd taught me to be strong, to weather anything
and everything. For Dad's sake and Mom's memory, I'd see
this through.

Marge's killer would not get away with it.

I went downstairs. "I'm ready."

Detective Tsu turned from the curio cabinet where Mom's
collection of eastern European Easter eggs took center stage.
"These are lovely. Are they yours?"

"They are now, but my mother's the one who collected
them."

"They represent hope, you know."

I sucked in a breath. Unless I was much mistaken, the iiber-
professional, ultraserious Detective Tsu had just sent me a
message. Did she really think that somehow, some way, at
some unknown time in the future, I'd see the dawn of hope?
Did she know something she had yet to tell me?

Did she see an Easter at the end of my darkness?

Time flew by in a blur of misery. Telling Dad that I was
headed to jail stood as the second worst moment of my life,
the worst being the attack four years ago. It was even worse
than Mom's passing, since she'd been in so much pain before
she went.

"I'll be praying, honey," was all he said, but the grief in
his eyes and the slump of his shoulders spoke more than any
puny words could say.

I didn't cry until I sat in the cruiser. Then Detective Tsu
sat at my side. "I really am sorry, and I've never said this to
a prisoner."

My tears gave her an E.T.-ish alien look, kind of drippy
and bleary. I sniffled before I tried to form words. "I have to
ask. Are you sorry you arrested me because you know I'm
not guilty, or are you sorry you arrested me because you're
sure I did it and wish I hadn't?"

"I'm not sure I know the answer yet."

"Then what do you have to be sorry for?"

"That I've had to arrest a woman I'm starting to like."

That set me back. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just hope that if, as you say, you are
innocent, the truth will soon turn up."

"I've been on that kick from the start. That's why you kept tripping over me, so to speak-No! You're not the one who
said that. Dutch Merrill said it."

"He really has been everywhere you have, hasn't he?"

"Makes a girl wonder what his stake is in all this, doesn't
it?

"Hmm ..."

"Okay. You don't have to answer, but at least listen to me."
I figured she was stuck with me for another fifteen minutes,
barring any church-rush traffic jam, if such a thing existed,
so it didn't hurt to try to get a reaction from her.

Well, I could try, anyway. The woman was as readable as
a treatise on the mating habits of mutant gnats.

"Look. If you think I look guilty because I've been in the
wrong place at the wrong time, then Dutch should look just
as guilty, right?"

She shrugged.

I went on despite her apathetic response. "I hate rumors,
okay? But before the auction, when Marge first told me she'd
recommend me to Noreen, she also said she'd heard Noreen
was involved-personally, that is-with some builder. I didn't
expect it to be Dutch, but who else would it be?"

"I heard something like that."

"So here's my question. What was Noreen really up to? We
know she was messing around with Steve, but was she also
involved with Dutch? And what did that mean to Steve? To
Marge? Even to Dutch?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might. All the promiscuity-" I couldn't stop the shiver
of disgust "-could make for some hot, out-of-control jealousy, don't you think? A crime of passion."

Her hazel eyes met mine. "Control's important to you, isn't
it? That's why you take lessons with Tyler, right?"