Eine Kleine Murder (11 page)

Chapter 19

Stringendo: Hastening, accelerating the movement, usually
suddenly and rapidly, with a crescendo (Ital.
)

Since my car was parked at the side of the drugstore, I thought Len might not see me, but as I began to turn away to hide my face, our eyes connected.
Oh shit! Did he follow me here? That must have been him behind me when I drove out here two days ago. Damn.

Len threw his cigarette onto the pavement. He motioned for me to stay put, and started my way, his steps angry and deliberate. Luckily, there was a long line of diesel trucks between us.

“Where's your car?” I asked Mo. Anything would be better than confronting Len.

“Right here.” He gestured two cars down.

“Let's go.”

Am I crazy, getting into a car with Mo?
My mind went into high gear. We were in a public place. Nothing could happen here. I would be safe. Besides, Len was across the street. This was the chance I was waiting for to talk to Mo about Gram and see how he reacted.

I sucked in a deep breath, not at all sure I was doing the right thing. I experienced a minor tremor of fear from Mo's nearness, but a major earthquake at the sight of an angry Len, still looking for an opening to cross the highway. Behind him, his little blue convertible was parked in the lot. Had he really followed me here days ago? Had he stood outside my window smoking, spying on me? I couldn't picture him not barging in if he knew where I was.

“Straight to the gas station, right?”

Mo pulled out his keys. “Right.”

My cell phone had three bars. I would be able to call for help if anything awful happened. I hustled him to his jalopy and crawled in, willing him to hurry. Len gave an astonished look as we peeled past him out of the lot. When I looked back he was shaking a fist at me, as irate as I'd ever seen him.

Mo wielded his big old car down a narrow blacktop road and out of town by a back way, along several dusty lanes that intersected at corners which all looked alike, bordered on all four sides by fields of towering cornstalks.

I groaned almost audibly.
What are you doing, Cressa? This might be the person who drowned Gram and Grace.

Not necessarily,
I answered.
Two little girls think they might have seen him there, that's all. We mustn't panic here.

You're right,
I agreed.
I have to find out if he was there or not. And he's not going to drown me in the car, is he? No, he's not.

I pulled my shoulders down and tried to roll the tension out of them. There was nothing to be nervous about. A nice Brandenburg Concerto, specifically the last movement of the first
Concerto in F major
, a relaxed piece of music, mentally soothed my jangled nerves. I hummed it lightly, tonguing the
dum, dadadum, dadadum, dadadum
against the roof of my mouth.

One thing was good. We weren't on the main highway. That made it less likely Len could follow us. It would be fun to see what all the stirred-up road dust would do to his upholstery if he did, though. He never put the top up on his convertible unless he had to.

Mo turned at one corner and continued down a road that looked identical to the one we had just left. I was glad the windows were open when he lit his cigarette.

“How on earth do you know where you are?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It's not hard. I've always lived here.”

The corn put a clean tang into the air. I leaned toward the window to avoid Mo's smoke and inhaled the outside air, closing my eyes for a second. Some of the fields had neatly spaced rows and others were packed tight. I asked Mo what the difference was.

“Some of the farmers have started growing organic corn and they plant the rows farther apart, the old-fashioned way, like they did years ago.”

We soon emerged from the fields into the next town, New Windsor. A black and white sign announced, “New Windsor, Pop. 650.” It didn't look much larger than Alpha, Pop. 550.

There were two service stations on the main road, but Mo drove right past both of them.

“Wait,” I shouted. “Where are you going?”

“I wanna show you something first. We're going for a ride. It's not far.”

I reluctantly agreed, wondering what there was to see except more cornfields. I tried to ignore the alarm bells, sounding like Chinese gongs, clanging in my head. After all, this wasn't Chicago; this was the heartland of America. Good old wholesome, small-town Midwest America.

“I need to get back soon so my cheese doesn't spoil,” I said.

“Where's the cheese?”

“In my car. I just bought it for the mice.”

“Cheese for mice? You're feeding them?”

“No, no. It's for trapping them in my cabin.”

“I was gonna say, we don't feed mice around here, we try to get rid of ‘em.” He would be so cute if he had more brains. And if he chewed with his mouth closed. And if I didn't halfway suspect him of murder.

I put my finger on the fast-dial number for Neek and hoped she would answer if I called.

I glanced at Mo and noticed that, curiously, he looked exactly like his father in profile.

They have the same features. Mo's are arranged differently. And a lot better. His face isn't so narrow and fox-like.

“Mo,” I started.
It's now or never.
“Do you remember the night my grandmother drowned?”

He looked straight ahead as if I hadn't said anything.

“And the night Grace drowned? Were you around?”

Still no comment. He looked away and flipped his butt out the window.

“Do you think it's peculiar they died so similarly?”

He gave me an odd look, roared down a maze of intersecting dirt roads at his usual high rate of speed, throwing plumes of dust high into the air behind us, then swung into a driveway that led to a tumble-down shed behind an abandoned farmhouse. I choked a couple of times on the dust settling over us.

What had once been an orderly hedge across the front lawn had gone wild and effectively shielded the place from view unless one were looking straight down the driveway.

It was shady where we parked. With a growing sense of unease I stared at the way the chain around Mo's neck gleamed in the shadow.

“This is creepy,” I said. Goosebumps sprang up on my arms. Traveled up my spine. “Why are you stopping here?”

“Because it's private,” he purred, reaching over to put his hand on my neck. He then drew my head to his, and mashed his lips against mine. At the same time he also tucked his other hand down the front of my shirt. His clammy hand.

Startled, I pushed back. Straightened in my seat. Plucked his hand out of my shirt. My cell had fallen into my purse somewhere.

“Mo,” I said as sternly as I could, “Please take me back to a service station.”

My insides quivered like a vibrating string. All my senses twanged onto high alert.

“What's wrong?” His eyes glittered in the shade of the overgrown hedge.

“Nothing's wrong, but I don't like this place and I don't want to be here.” The pitch of my voice rose with each word.

“So, you're too good for me?”

“Mo, please. I don't even know you. You don't know me. And I'm uncomfortable here.” Tremors entered my voice. Damn! In another minute I would cry. “This place is in the middle of nowhere. Please take me back to New Windsor.”

“I don't think we're quite ready to leave yet.” His handsome face grew mean with an ugly sneer that pulled the skin tight over his cheekbones. “I think you owe me something.”

“What? Owe you for what?”

“For dinner.”

“You call hamburgers in a bowling alley ‘dinner'?” I sneered back at him, anger bubbling up inside, overtaking my fear. “Dinners are eaten in restaurants,” I spat. “And women do not ‘owe' gentlemen for dinners. Not that there are any gentlemen right here.”

“You're a snob.” His eyes narrowed. The chain around his neck shone just like his eyes. He looked dangerous. And there was something about that chain.

“Never mind, I'll pay you for ‘dinner' and then you'll take me home.” I started rummaging in my purse as I spoke.

“I don't like your attitude,” he said between the clenched teeth of his wolfish smile. He grabbed my shirt, tore it open in the front. Just then I put my trembling fingers on the tube I had been scrabbling for in my purse.

With one fluid motion, guided by pure adrenaline, I whipped out a small leather case, swiveled the lever around with a flick of my thumb, aimed at Mo's handsome face, and pressed.

I threw open the car door and ran out toward the road. I didn't want to hang around for the effects of the pepper spray.

His screams echoed behind me as I sped into the cornfield to hide. I tore blindly down the rows, zigzagging to elude Mo, if he were following. His cries became fainter in the distance, until all I could hear were my own footfalls thudding into the soft dirt, accompanied by the ragged pounding of my heart.

When I stopped for breath, I realized I had no idea which direction I had come from. I didn't want to return to Mo, just back to the road. Shaking with adrenaline and exertion, I collapsed onto the warm earth and gulped in the fresh, tangy scent of the growing corn plants, mingled with the smell of the moist dirt underneath me.

As soon as my heart quit beating in my stomach, I caught a couple of deep, jagged breaths and stood up, trying to decide which way to head.

I was relieved that this was, apparently, one of those organic fields. Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to fit between the rows. But the rows went on forever.

It was definitely time to call Neek. Amazingly, my purse had remained draped over my shoulder. For once, Ivan the Terrible was where I wanted it, fully charged. I slung my purse in front of me. Indecision and terror paralyzed me. Call Neek? Call nine-one-one? Do something!

I put my hand on the phone, then listened.

The cornstalks rustled off to my right. Good, I thought, wind. Turning my head to catch the breeze on my sweaty face, I realized it wasn't the wind. Someone was coming toward me. Could Mo have recovered from the spray that quickly? Would he hear me if I beeped the buttons on the phone? Even setting it to mute would make noise. As usual, the cell phone was useless.

I ducked down to try and avoid detection. The theme from
Jaws
kept rhythm with my wildly thumping heart. A shadow loomed before the approaching figure.

My phone rang.

Chapter 20

Pas de Deux: Dance for two (Fr.)

Not knowing what to do, I threw the still-ringing phone to my right. I cowered closer to the ground, trying to blend into the soft dirt. A faint voice called my name.

“Cressa?”

It doesn't sound like Mo.

“Cressa, it's me, Daryl.”

Daryl? It's Daryl? Not Mo? Hallelujah!
My breath whooshed out loud enough for him to hear several rows away and he came crashing through the corn stalks between us. His coppery hair shone in the shadows.

“Are you okay?”

I sprang to my feet and, to my complete embarrassment, burst into tears.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” I blubbered. “But Mo might be. At least I hope he is.”

“What happened?”

“What happened to me, is Mo!” I snapped. As if it were his fault his roommate attacked me.

“I saw Mo back there, heard him shouting your name, and figured he must have gotten out of line again.”

“What do you mean ‘again'?”

“Are you all right?”

“Better than he is.” I found a smug smile somewhere.

While I was looking for my now-silent cell phone, I pulled out the lethal leather canister. I held it up and said, “Pepper spray.”

“No kidding! You big city girls play rough.” He laughed. “So Mo finally got what he deserves.”

He stuck his hand out to shake mine in mock congratulations. I held the spray with one hand, and my torn shirt with the other; we musicians are more ambidextrous than the general population, but I could have used an extra hand right then. I quickly turned the lever to the locked position and put the spray canister back into my purse, then took his calm, cool hand. I found mine was still sweaty and trembling.

After I retrieved Ivan the Terrible, we started off through the rustling rows and I hoped he knew which way was out of this dark maze. He did. We quickly reached the road where Daryl had left his green Ford two-door. The car was fairly new, but covered with dust from the dirt road. He opened the passenger door for me and we drove off, leaving Mo moaning and stumbling around in circles nearby. Daryl wasn't too concerned about him.

“Should I drop you back at the lake? Or can I stop by my place and get you a T-shirt or something first?” Daryl asked as we headed toward Alpha. “You're not exactly presentable.”

“Well, I kind of hate to put myself at the mercy of any more males today.” No, not kind of—I
really
hated to. “But my car is over by the drugstore and won't start. Could you take me there?” He nodded, his eyes still on the road, and I couldn't resist asking: “How do you stand living with that idiot, anyway?”

“We usually go our separate ways. I don't see much of him. It's an awful lot cheaper to share rent. And he's not exactly my roommate; he lives in the other half of the duplex.”

We returned to Alpha by a more direct route than Mo had taken, bypassing New Windsor. As we turned onto the main highway I rolled the window down and let the rushing air cool my damp face and neck.

“I've been trying to decide whether he's harmless or not ever since I met him.” My voice was returning to normal, but parts of me were still shaking. “I guess now I know for sure. What were you doing out there, by the way? It doesn't look like anyone lives around there.”

“I had just picked up my car from the shop and was coming out of the hardware store in New Windsor when I saw you two drive through town. When Mo headed for the back roads, I, I don't know, I thought he might be up to no good.” He gave me a long glance that held concern. “After I followed you, and saw you were parking, I felt pretty stupid. I was turning my car around to get out of there when I heard Mo yelling. He couldn't tell me what had happened, he just kept yelling and cussing and pointing into the corn field. You left a pretty clear path.”

I huddled in Daryl's car, thinking dismal thoughts about my judgment in men. First Len, then Mo. Next Daryl? I couldn't make myself think he was like them.

We reached the duplex Daryl and Mo shared. I was glad to know where Mo lived so I could avoid it in the future. The entrance to Mo's half was around the corner. If he came back, he wouldn't see me going in or coming out.

The house was small, old, and painted white, located about a block off the highway, with a porch that went all the way across the front. I got out of the car, clutching the remains of my top, then hesitated before going up the steps.

I thought I could trust Daryl. But Mo did live here, too, after all.

“Do you think Mo will be coming back soon?” I asked.

“Don't worry, I'll take care of him if he shows up. He'll probably be a long time recovering from your spray. Technically, he should be back at work at the bowling alley, but I doubt he'll show up there.”

Daryl pushed the front door open.

“Don't you people ever lock anything around here?” I asked.
It must be nice—weird, but nice—to live in a place where people don't lock doors.
This sleepy town was blissfully cozy after the terror of Mo's car and the cornfield.

Daryl's smile was open and sweet. It made something inside me curl up and wag its tail. “It's considered unfriendly to lock your door. Anyway, there are at least two or three neighbors looking out their windows at all times to see who goes where. I'll be asked about you tomorrow. Count on it.”

He pointed me to a couch in the small living room and ran upstairs. “I'll be right back.”

It was not hard to tell a single guy lived here. It wasn't terribly messy, but the furniture was all second-hand, or donated from a relative's attic. Nothing matched and only the elaborate stereo system and the big-screen TV looked new.

I flinched when I heard a noise, afraid it was Mo, but immediately realized it was the sound of Daryl's footsteps on the wooden floor above.

It was beginning to grow dark outside, but I could see into the next room, which was probably supposed to be the dining room. It wasn't furnished like one, though.

In fact, it didn't even have furniture, but, instead, twisted metal figures either reposed or stood around the room, according to their shapes and degrees of completion. An easel in the corner held a canvas that was painted completely blue. Several other canvases leaned against one wall, hiding their surfaces. I crept into the room and sneaked a look at several of the paintings, but scurried back to the living room as Daryl came down the creaking stairs with a white shirt.

“Who's the artist?” I asked.

“I'm the art teacher in the high school,” he answered.

I said I liked the sculpture of the birds and Daryl looked pleased.

After I used the bathroom to change my shirt, we drove back to my car. There was no sign of Len or Mo. Daryl looked at my gas gauge and determined I had run out. He didn't say anything smart-alecky, which I had been bracing myself for. I was relieved.

We quickly ran back to New Windsor to fill the gallon container he kept in his trunk. He poured the gas into my tank and, feeling utterly foolish, I got into the driver's seat. I stammered my thanks to Daryl many, many times for coming to my rescue.
I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't been there.
Despite my embarrassment, it was relaxing being with him.

Leaning into the window with a big, warm smile on his face he said, again, that it was nothing, that I could return the shirt any time.

It was hard to get my car keys out of my purse. After my agility in spraying Mo, I was now all thumbs. I tried three times to get the key into the ignition, until Daryl finally offered to drive me home and help me pick up my car in the morning. We both agreed I was in no shape to drive, but I would need my car tomorrow to get to Gram's funeral in the afternoon.

He put my purchases in his back seat. I compared getting into Daryl's car to getting into Mo's. Much better. And even easier the second time. As we passed the edge of the small town, Daryl slowed and leaned toward me, directing my gaze out the window. Darkness had fallen.

“Look out at the cornfields,” he said softly. “When we get to this rise, look across the tops of the tassels.”

I turned to him, wondering why on earth I should look at a cornfield in the dark. His face was closer than I had calculated and I almost touched his cheek with mine. I could feel warmth spreading from the place our cheeks would have met.

He drew back, but only slightly.

“Look—right there.” He pointed out my window.

He slowed even more as we came to the top of a small rise. I held my breath in amazement.

Millions of fireflies danced like tiny Tinkerbells over the tops of the corn plants. The field was alive with them, bright with their twinkling lights.

Above them, the country sky was a black velvet setting for the diamond stars that pulsed with the sound of the crickets. The fertile smell of cooling earth and green plants drifted into the car as I rolled the window down to see better. I was speechless. The glory of the stars paled beside the phantasmagoria of the cornfield and I gazed, mesmerized, at the spectacle. Daryl stopped the car.

“It looks like Christmas lights,” I whispered, not wanting to break the spell. “What makes the fireflies do that? Are they always there?”

“This time of year they are,” answered Daryl. “I don't know what exactly they're after. Something in the corn tassels.”

I looked at him and saw he was smiling, amused at my fascination. I grinned back. I could feel his breath on my cheek. He smiled wider, his head still close to mine as we both looked out the passenger window.

I stole a glance at Daryl, trying to figure him out. Crashing the “date” with Mo was a cloddish thing to do, but I was glad he had, and that I had met him. I was glad there was someone here to serve as a buffer for Mo.

Daryl put the car in gear and continued.

We drove up the gravel hill to my cabin. I remembered Mo's father complaining about teenagers scattering the gravel. And Al complaining about Mo's driving. I was thankful for Al's sake that Daryl's speed was more moderate.

“Thanks for saving me,” I said once more.

“I think you had already saved yourself,” he said.

“I would never have gotten out of that cornfield. I had no idea where to go.”

He carried my bags to my door and made sure I was safely inside. I watched him drive away out my front window. I was still numb from being assaulted by Mo, but Daryl had thawed the ice somewhat.

I shook myself out of my reverie. I needed to check on Al. By the light from one of his windows, I could see him perched on a large flat stump in front of his cabin, his long legs tucked into the stump. The steel of his huge shiny knife blurred as he flicked the scales off a fish he'd caught earlier, threw it aside and reached for another. I stepped outside, he waved the blade, and I walked over.

“Any news?” I asked.

“Sure is. I brought Grace's glasses to Cambridge and turned them in to Dobson.”

“Dobson?”

“He's the county sheriff. At first he didn't think they were important. But I asked him why the hell she would have buried them. She always wore them, even when she swam.”

A little of his old temper flared, then subsided as quickly. “And way over there on the west shore, when all she was doing was swimming back and forth. But I sure didn't get a good answer.”

“Is he at least going to test them for fingerprints? Didn't Chief Bailey say he would?”

“He has to now. He's sending them to the crime lab. Didn't know how long that will take. It depends on how backed up they are.”

“What do you mean, he has to?”

“A call came while I was in Dobson's office.” Al put his knife down and rubbed his hands on a rough towel draped over his knee, making a faint harsh sound in the still night. “After he hung up, Dobson said the autopsies are done. Grace and Ida both had their lungs packed solid with mud.”

“Mud? What does that mean?”

“He said it means they were most likely held down with their faces in the mud till they sucked in enough to kill them.” He attacked the fish scales, cutting deep into the flesh with his powerful strokes.

My mouth dropped open. A startlingly clear picture of Gram, struggling facedown in the lake with Mo's strong hands on her, leapt up before me.

“So they
were
killed. It's official.” A hot pain seared my heart.

“Yep. But they have no idea who killed them. Why would anyone …” His voice choked. He swallowed and went on. “Dobson told me to go ahead and bury my wife. I suppose I'll have to pick out a casket.”

“Is your family going to be here soon?”

“Neither of my sons can make it today or tomorrow.” The knife blade stopped and Al's shoulders slumped. “Our oldest has to pick the kids up from summer camp and the other is out of the country on business. I told them to just come the morning of the funeral, and I'd let them know when. I thought I'd set it up for a couple of days after Ida's. There's no hurry.”

How, I thought, could he stay so calm? And why didn't he want his children to be here? Was there more to this seemingly open, friendly man than I could fathom? I wanted to meet his sons to see what they were like.

His sigh was deep, heavy. “I wish you could have tasted Grace's brownies.”

“But I have. She brought a plate over when I got here.”

“Good aren't they?” He voice was barely audible.

I don't know if he saw my nod. “I'll go with you to pick out the casket if you want. You were such a big help to me when I had to make Gram's arrangements.”

He gave me a gentle look. “That's nice of you, Cressa. I'd appreciate it, since my boys won't be here till the last minute. I pretty much know what Grace wanted in the way of a service. We talked about it some. We always figured one of us would have to bury the other. But not like this.”