Do Unto Others (15 page)

“How horrible.” Eula Mae shook her head, then looked uncertainly at me.

“Jordy found Shannon Harcher,” Junebug said, as if that explained my presence. “He also found another witness that said, basically, that Beta was extorting money from folks to finance a church she planned to start over in Houston.”

I saw the fight for control on her face. The wrinkled corners of her lipsticked mouth jerked, just once. Her silver bracelets, choking with charms, tinkled as she smoothed out her skirt.

“And why are y’all telling me this? Trying to give me the plot for my next potboiler?” She laughed, and it sounded jagged.

“We think Shannon Harcher walked in on someone ransacking the house. Looking for something, maybe something Beta was holding over their head and using to get money,” Junebug explained.

“So answer me, Junebug,” Eula Mae’s voice rose. “I don’t know anything about Beta getting killed or this Shannon girl getting shot. Why are you here to see me?”

Junebug set his mouth in a thin line. “We found a letter there, Eula Mae. A letter apparently from your sister to a literary agent, asking about representing a book she’d written called
The Rose of San Jacinto.
”

Eula Mae did not withstand adversity as well as her heroines. Her face blanched, the lines in it seeming to darken as she frowned. One hand flew up to her forehead, like a startled bird returning to roost. “I—I—,” she stuttered.

I saw Billy Ray starting to uncoil like a striking rattler. “Perhaps, Junebug,” I suggested, “Eula Mae should have some legal representation present if you’re going to accuse her or—”

“No!” Eula Mae thundered, and I fell silent. “No lawyers,” she whispered, and her eyes flicked across each of our faces. “No one else. Who else knows about this, Junebug?”

“Just the three of us,” he answered softly.

“I—I want your help. Each of you, please,” she whispered. This woman seemed crushed; not like the Eula Mae who always tried to run the library board meetings, who played her local fans like a string quartet, who had beaten the odds to make a living as a writer. Even her curly, uncontrollable hair was listless. Her eyes, usually sparkling with gossip and merriment, stared at the floor.

“What kind of help?” I asked.

“I want you to help my sister,” she said, which left us all silent. Eula Mae waved a tired hand and began an explanation. “A few weeks back the Baptist church committee came by looking for items for their rummage sale. I gave them a box of old books that had been my sister Patty’s. I didn’t think to look through them—they were just old books of hers, writers she’d admired as a teacher. Welty, Balzac, Thoreau, Turgenev, Robert Penn Warren. I gave them those books and never gave it a second thought.”

“Till Beta paid you a visit,” I said, finishing her sentence for her.

Eula Mae stared at me and through me. It didn’t matter what I’d said.

“She’d gone through the box I donated, and found a letter Patty wrote to an agent—about her book.” Eula Mae’s tongue flickered across her lips. “I never knew Patty even wrote a draft of such a letter. She never sent
one. She was a wonderful writer, but she was just too afraid of rejection. I kept urging her to send it, but she didn’t want to hear anyone say no to it. Then she thought people around here would tease her for writing a romance novel. I suggested she publish it under a pseudonym, but she just laughed. She said if she ever did, it’d be under a joke name like Jocelyn Lushe. She just made up that name out of the blue.” Tears formed in Eula Mae’s eyes. Junebug offered her a handkerchief and she took it, wiping her eyes.

“After Patty died, I just hated the thought of that manuscript sitting there. I started submitting it, but I was afraid no one would touch it if they knew a dead woman had written it. Those romance houses, they want to know they can buy a book and expect others to follow from the same author, build a series and an audience. So I said the book was mine, and I used the Jocelyn Lushe name. It didn’t seem like I was taking credit for her, or stealing from her, because it wasn’t my name. It was her pseudonym. I didn’t plan on continuing it—I just wanted to get Patty’s book published. So I did. And it did really well; it made a lot of money. The publisher started asking me for my next manuscript.” She paused and wiped her eyes again. “I didn’t want to stop. Writing those books was like having Patty back around. She’d had gobs of notes for ideas, so I went through those and wrote another book. Then I got a three-book contract, and I just had to keep writing them.”

“Stealing from a dead woman—your own sister—to make yourself famous,” Billy Ray snorted, shaking his head at Eula Mae with contempt.

He got as good as he gave. “Think what you want, Billy Ray,” she snapped. “There have been eleven Jocelyn Lushe books. I wrote ten of them, and they’ve
done damned well. I didn’t steal from Patty; I kept her dream alive. I did all the hard work.”

“But Beta found out,” Junebug prompted.

She nodded, miserably. “Beta found out. She came to me with the letter. I’d never known Patty had written it; it would have been just like her to write it, then not mail it. Just slipped into that book to mail when she got her courage up. I guess her cancer took all her courage.” She dabbed at her eyes, and when she looked up again they blazed, free of tears. “Beta told me, as payback for helping to remove her from the library board, that she’d expose the first book as being Patty’s, not mine. She’d call my publisher, the Romance Writers of America, the news stations in Austin. It could have been very … professionally devastating.”

“So why didn’t she just do that?” Billy Ray demanded.

“She wanted money. Money for her silence,” Eula Mae replied.

“So you gave her $35,000,” I finished, eager to hear and have my theory entirely justified.

Eula Mae blinked at me. “No. I gave her $10,000.”

“So who gave her the other—” I started, but Junebug shushed me.

“When’d you give her this money, Eula Mae?” Junebug asked.

She sniffed, wiping her nose with the handkerchief. “The week before she died. I met her at her house. She’d been babysitting little Josh Schneider. The Schneiders dropped her off at her place and I gave her cash. She wanted more, but I said no. I decided I wasn’t going to keep paying blackmail to that horrible woman, and—”

“And so you killed her,” Billy Ray interrupted. “I’m gonna guess you didn’t tell her no more payments; you agreed to make one final payment. At the library, two nights ago. You killed her to shut her up and stop the
extortion. But you still needed to find that letter. So you broke into Beta’s house, tore up her den looking for it, and when Shannon Harcher walked in on you, you shot her in cold blood.” The assistant district attorney leaned as far forward as he could, spewing his accusation like he usually spewed bad breath.

Eula Mae trembled. “That, sir, is what’s known as a damnable lie,” she retorted, and one of her characters couldn’t have said it better. I leaned over and took Eula Mae’s hand.

“I don’t know who killed Beta,” Eula Mae said, “but it wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Had you told her you weren’t going to pay her any more money?” Junebug asked quietly.

She shook her head. “She told me she’d want more later, but not when. I decided the day after I’d paid I wasn’t going to give in to that holier-than-thou witch.”

“You didn’t need too, Miz Quiff,” Billy Ray asserted. “You’d already decided to take action, and you did. Well, this little scandal should help your book sales.”

Her eyes blazed, like an irate devil’s. “You little shyster,” she barked. “I might’ve expected that from you. I told you this ’cause I said I wanted you to help my sister. Help me keep her dream alive. Don’t tell anyone what Beta knew. Do what you like to Eula Mae Quiff, but don’t ruin Jocelyn Lushe.”

Billy Ray shook his head. “No way, Miz Quiff. There’s no way to keep that quiet when your trial starts.”

“Miz Quiff,” Junebug said, not using her Christian names. I didn’t take that as a good sign. “Where were you between two and three this afternoon?”

Her hand trembled in mine. “Here. Editing a manuscript.” She paused. “Alone.”

“Did you see or talk to anyone?” he pressed.

She shook her head. “No, I did not.”

Billy Ray stood. “I think we’ve heard enough, Chief.”

Junebug looked up at him, not wanting to get up from the wicker sofa. The air in the room had taken on a dense, thick quality. I felt choked.

Junebug finally rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Miz Quiff. I’m going to have to take you down to the station for further questioning—”

“Junebug, please!” she gasped. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Beta, I didn’t shoot that girl. You know me, you know I couldn’t.”

He stared into her face. His mouth worked for a moment, then he found his words. “You’re under arrest for the shooting of Shannon Harcher. You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?”

Eula Mae sagged against me and I held her up. She only needed a moment. She found the strength in herself and stood straight. I stood next to her, listening to her Miranda rights. She said she understood everything he said to her. I felt like I didn’t understand a damned thing. Eula Mae had lied, and taking credit for her sister’s work wasn’t too acceptable, but I didn’t think she was a killer.

“The handcuffs, Chief,” Billy Ray said when her rights were read.

“That’s not necessary, I assure you.” Eula Mae looked shocked at the very suggestion.

Billy Ray began a whiny protest, but Junebug shook his head. The police chief took her by the elbow and led her toward the door. I finally found my voice.

“Eula Mae! Do you want me to call my uncle Bid?”

“God, no,” she retorted. “You better get me a real lawyer.”

“SHANNON SHOT AND EULA MAE ARRESTED? You’re kidding, right?” Sister was incredulous.

“No, I’m not. He arrested her.” I poured Dr Pepper over ice cubes and listened to them pop. I forced a grilled cheese sandwich into my mouth. It was tasteless.

“What does Junebug think Eula Mae did, read one of her books to Beta and bore her to death?” Sister snorted. “He and Billy Ray must be out of their minds. What proof do they have?”

I chewed. I’d come straight home to find Mark watching gory films in my room while Mama napped and Sister ran midafternoon errands. I’d called a respectable-sounding lawyer in the Bavary yellow pages—having the biggest ad does make a difference in dire straits—and hired him for Eula Mae. I’d made some food I didn’t have an appetite for and tried to eat. Sister’s demands for information kept my mouth busy. “It’s a case of sorts. Eula Mae doesn’t have any alibis, she’s got a key to the library, and she sure as hell had a motive.”

Sister pressed me for what motive in particular, but I’d decided to keep Eula Mae’s reasons to myself. I wasn’t going to be the one to wreck her career. Hell, maybe this wouldn’t wreck it. But obviously Eula Mae
thought her literary reputation was worth at least $10,000.

The phone jangled. Sister scooped it up with a quick hello. “You listen here, Junebug,” she said after a moment. “If you work late tonight, you come over to the truck stop and I’ll fix you up with some of my peach cobbler. I want to have a word with you.” Silence while Sister listened. “Don’t you jaw that old line at me, Hewett Moncrief. You sound like one of those ventriloquist’s dummies, sitting on Billy Ray’s knee.” Eyes rolling, she handed the phone to me.

“Jordy here.”

“Hey,” Junebug said, subdued. “I guess y’all can open the library. My officers are busy doing scene-of-crime work over at Miz Harcher’s house. They’re all finished up with the back room at the library.”

“Thanks. I might even reopen this afternoon. I’m going nuts just sitting around here.”

“Well, I would like for you to come over right now and give a statement about finding Shannon Harcher.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let me make a couple of phone calls and I’ll be down.”

We both hung up. I called the hospital. They wouldn’t provide information about Shannon’s condition. I asked for Ruth, but they said she was on duty in the emergency room. I had a feeling she was working on Shannon.

I called Adam Hufnagel. His wife Tamma answered, sounding like she’d caught a bad cold and had just woken up.

“What did you say?” she asked after I’d asked for Adam.

I sighed, trying not to sound impatient. “I need to speak with Adam.”

“He’s trying to take a nap, Jordy. He’s had a hard day.”

“Well, maybe you can help me, Tamma. Do you know, did he keep his appointment with Shannon Harcher today?”

There was a moment’s silence. “Yes, he mentioned he saw her. Why do you ask?” Her voice held the edge of suspicion she’d shown when she confronted me in her husband’s office.

“If you have an extension, please put him on it,” I said. “I have news he needs to hear—you both need to hear.”

There must’ve been something in my tone, because she didn’t argue. I held while she roused him. When he came on the line, I waited until I heard Tamma pick the phone back up.

“Shannon Harcher was shot today at Beta’s house. Junebug and I found her. She’s in critical condition at the hospital. They’ve arrested Eula Mae,” I said.

Adam wheezed and Tamma was silent. “Why Eula Mae?”

“I don’t want to get into that, but apparently I was right. Beta was profiting from her involvement in your church’s activities, like your rummage sale. Just thought you’d like to know. You might want to be a little more choosy with your volunteers.” I hung up, not wanting to further my conversation with those two.

I called Candace, told her what all had happened during the course of the afternoon (including Eula Mae’s confession—I trusted Candace to keep a secret to the grave), and asked her to open up the library. I asked her if she’d mind working late so folks could use the library a bit longer than usual, since it’d been closed for two days. She didn’t mind a whit and kept inquiring as to my well-being. I told her I’d see her shortly.

I finished eating and told Sister I’d be home later than usual. We went upstairs and checked with Mark. He’d laid in a big supply of borrowed videos and wasn’t averse to taking care of Mama. I put the VCR on pause and told him about Shannon.

Mark’s dark eyes grew wide. “Can we go down to the hospital to see her?”

I shook my head. “Not now. She’s in intensive care, I’m sure. Maybe later.”

“Is she going to die? Was it gross? Do you think she’s in a lot of pain?”

“I don’t know, Mark, and yes, it was gross.” I glanced at the videotapes he’d borrowed from friends, every one a bloodbath. “I don’t think I’ll ever want to see one of those movies again myself.”

Mark looked at the collected Arnolds and Dirty Harrys with new eyes. He pushed the off button and the VCR fell quiet. “Maybe not these, tonight. Maybe I’ll just read a book for a change.”

  I went to the police station and made my statement. It was fairly short and simple. Billy Ray wasn’t around to taunt me this time; he was too busy arguing with Eula Mae and the lawyer from Bavary I’d hired. Apparently she and her lawyer were getting along just fine; they could both yell you deaf. I nearly felt sorry for Junebug.

I picked up my notes on the case and shuffled through them. I thought a lot of questions were still unanswered by Eula Mae’s arrest. I stuck my notebook under my arm and headed out.

I parked in front of the library. It was nearly four and we usually closed at six on Thursdays. I suppose it was hardly worth opening for two remaining hours, but I figured Candace and I could wrap up any loose ends
from having been closed for a while. Plus, we might stay open a bit later, let the curiosity seekers get it out of their systems.

Going in was a little harder than I thought it would be. My hand froze as I reached for the door. Beta’s bludgeoned face, eyes wide open in death, wasn’t waiting in there for me this time. But I couldn’t erase her easily from my thoughts. I made a concerted effort and instead of Beta’s battered head, I saw Shannon’s bloodied face. My fingertips massaged my eyes. Too much death, too much suffering for one little town.

I heard the door open and Candace was there, wrapping her arms around me. “You okay?” she breathed against my chest.

“Yeah. God, what a week,” I said, then chortled nervously. My own laughter sounded tinny in my ears. We put arms around each other and walked into the library together.

The air had the same dense quality about it that Beta Harcher’s house had. I told myself that it was just from the library being shut up for two days, not death lingering in the air like some foul fog. The old air-conditioning system sputtered and cranked away, but it hadn’t yet dispelled the foreboding, pressing atmosphere.

She’d brewed coffee, in the only brewer we had—back in the room where Beta’s body had lain. I set my notebook on the counter and I went back there. The tape outline was still down, etching where she fell. I didn’t know if I was yet allowed to pull the tape up, but I did, yanking it up violently. I wasn’t about to velvet-rope this section of the library and charge a quarter a peek. I felt mad—mad that Beta had hurt people, mad at what I’d been through, mad that Shannon was lying near death, even mad that little Josh Schneider got an
awful early introduction to what death meant. Candace watched me, waiting for me to talk.

“If Eula Mae killed her,” I finally said, “that means Beta died for $10,000. I never thought of a life in monetary terms.” I realized I was lying as soon as I said it. I’d thought of how much money Mama would need to live her limbo existence over the next twenty years. I closed my eyes, feeling more anger and shame. I got up, poured coffee, and went back to my tiny office. I sat down and Candace sat across from me. She was watching me with a concern that made me uneasy. I wondered—not for the first time—what it would be like to kiss her. Instead I coughed.

“I suppose we should reshelve and check in books in the drop slip,” I said, attempting to sound professional. “Doesn’t look like we’re going to get any takers today.”

Candace shook her head. “’Fraid so. I felt creepy when I got here, and I didn’t know how long you’d be at the station. So I called some of the regulars. Old Man Renfro and Gaston Leach both said they’d be over shortly.”

“Followed, undoubtedly, by the town curious who’ll want to tour the death scene. Shall you be the docent or shall I?” I said. I sipped at my coffee. I kept thinking about Eula Mae, in jail and accused of murder and attempted murder. Something niggled at my mind, something in all this that didn’t fit. I thought of Matt Blalock and simmering hatred. I thought of Ruth Wills, an accusation of poisoning that didn’t stand up. I thought of Hally Schneider, who had been right about a secret connection between Beta and Eula Mae, yet still seemed awfully nervous for an innocent bystander. I thought of Bob Don, who seemed to want to help me and fought violently with Beta less than a week before her death. I thought of the Hufnagels, and how their church wasn’t
good enough for Beta’s ambitions. And I thought of my mother, her presence on Beta’s list still unexplained. Billy Ray thought he had his woman now, but I wasn’t convinced.

I went over to the local-authors shelf. Eula Mae was currently the only Mirabeau resident with fulfilled literary aspirations, and her collected works sat in a row. I plucked her first novel from the shelf; the copyright was in Eula Mae’s name. I’d thought for a moment that if it was copyrighted under the Jocelyn Lushe pseudonym that Eula Mae would have had an easy out; no one could have necessarily accused her of lying. But it wasn’t so. She’d claimed each book as her own. I replaced
The Rose of San Jacinto
on the shelf and went back to Candace.

“There’s still $25,000 that was in Beta’s savings account that didn’t come from Eula Mae,” I told Candace. “So where the hell did that come from? She embezzle from the Girl Scout cookie fund?”

The bells above the front door jangled, and from my office I saw Old Man Renfro and Gaston Leach come into view. I couldn’t have conjured up a more unlikely pair. Old Man Renfro always wore a threadbare suit; he must’ve had a whole armoire of them. Snowy white hair topped his dark, wise face. He was retired from the post office and when he had tired of reading people’s addresses, he’d ended up spending his days at the library. It would not be unreasonable to guess he’d read everything in the library at least once. Even the children’s section, reading them to his several grandchildren. According to what I’d heard, he’d attacked the shelves methodically, moving through the Dewey decimal system as if it were a grocery list and devouring every book. His real name was Willie, but every one called him Old Man Renfro.

Gaston Leach was what every kid in high school aspired not to be. He was a gawky youth that might one day, the charitable among us said, turn from ugly duckling to swan. We could only pray he’d develop some social skills to go along with any external improvements. He had a mind I’d have killed for and a face I’d have committed suicide over. His parents apparently had little concern for Gaston’s ability to interact with others, because they sent him out in tacky clothing the dead wouldn’t wear and bought him eyeglasses with lenses that could double as drink coasters. Not to mention the pairing of his first name with his last. His thick mop of black hair fell in a bad cut across his forehead. Today he was resplendent in too-long gray trousers that hung low on his bony hips and a shirt with a nauseating orange plaid. Never failing to accessorize incorrectly, he held up his pants with a western-style brown belt and wore black shoes. He’d missed being cool by several feet today.

“Glad to see y’all are back open,” Old Man Renfro proclaimed. “Well, Miss Harcher did manage to close the library for a while, but not in the way she thought she would.”

Gaston was less philosophical. “The new McCaffrey come in while y’all were closed?” he demanded, turning those powerful lenses on the new-arrivals bin.

“No, Gaston,” I said, having no idea. I hadn’t checked our mail drop, but I didn’t want to get into another long discussion with Gaston about the relative merits of the science-fiction selection at the Mirabeau Public Library.

“Oh,” Gaston muttered, high-beaming reproachfully at Candace. She must’ve bribed him to come over. Apparently the idea of being supportive of folks he saw every day was an alien concept. That couldn’t be right,
I thought. Gaston explored alien concepts every day, what with his reading list. Old Man Renfro took Gaston by the elbow and steered him to a chair in the periodicals section. Candace and I followed.

“Candace says that there’s been a shooting, and that Eula Mae has been arrested for that crime and for Miss Harcher’s murder,” Old Man Renfro said. His voice was a carefully modulated tenor. He was one of those gentlemen who is very careful about how he speaks, because he’d grown up in a house where it hadn’t mattered and he’d made a conscious decision to be correct. If his voice was any deeper he could’ve subbed for James Earl Jones.