Murder as a Second Language (18 page)

Gregory might have had a better opportunity, if there had been a slice of time when everyone but Ludmila had left and Toby hadn't arrived. I couldn't picture him convincing her to accompany him to the copy room, or physically dragging her there. His motive was harder to discern than Bartek's. Gregory might have been angry, or even enraged, by her verbal abuse, but he'd dealt with it for months.

I closed my book and gazed at the meadow for inspiration. Butterflies flitted among the wildflowers, and grasshoppers whirred. A hawk circled in hope a small rodent might make an imprudent foray. Something moved in the apple orchard. I put my hand above my eyes and tried to get a better look. Deer often grazed in the meadow and decimated the flower beds on the far side of the pool. Caron claimed to have seen a bear from her balcony. I stood up and went across the terrace to get a better look. My mouth turned dry as I realized my bear was wearing a dark jacket and sunglasses.

I went inside and locked the French doors. I called Peter but was sent to voice mail. I licked my lips as I called Jorgeson, who was more obliging than my husband.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Malloy. The deputy chief is conferring with the chief chief. Do you have a message for him?”

“Someone is watching the house.” I realized I was whispering and raised my voice. “I caught a glimpse of a man in the apple orchard.”

“Don't you still have some neighbors out there?”

“Only one, and
she's
out of town. She asked me to keep an eye on her house, and I've been doing so a couple of times a week. She won't be back for another three weeks.”

“A hiker, maybe, or someone who read about the unfortunate business and came out to gawk? The road isn't posted to keep out trespassers.”

I was getting annoyed. “I wish I could tell you that I'd been napping and was confused when I saw him—but I wasn't. I think I was followed earlier.” I glanced at the French doors. I was visible and nicely framed. “If it's not a bother, would you please send a squad car immediately? Otherwise, I'm going to hang up and call nine-one-one.” I may have sounded a tad hysterical.

“We'll have a car there as soon as possible,” Jorgeson said, apparently taking me seriously. “In the meantime, make sure all the doors and windows are locked and stay out of sight. Does the deputy chief keep a gun at home?”

“Absolutely not, and if he did, I wouldn't touch it. The last thing I need to do is shoot myself in the foot.” I ended the call and made sure the front door was locked. I peeked out the window in the master suite, but all I saw was birds, butterflies, grasshoppers, and apple trees. I began to wonder if I'd been mistaken. Black cars were not uncommon. Luanne drove one, and so did my old English professor. One of the men in my life before I met Peter drove a black Mercedes, but he'd moved to the East Coast years ago.

It would take the squad car at least fifteen minutes, presuming the officers turned on the siren and flashing lights. I wasn't confident they would, since I hadn't claimed to see a weapon. If he had a weapon. If he wasn't a delusion born of paranoia. I went upstairs and looked out of the window in one of the guest rooms. No bears, no hired killer. I sank down on the bed and forced myself to calm down. The idea of a hit man was absurd. I had no idea who'd murdered Ludmila. Well, I had some far-fetched theories, but I myself didn't take any of them seriously. The only thing that might be fraught with significance was Leslie's meeting with her Saudi student at the sports bar. I tried to recall his face. Reasonably handsome, in his thirties, no scars or tattoos, no dagger between his teeth, no camel in the parking lot.

My cell phone jangled. I'd left it in the kitchen, and I did my best not to trip as I hurried downstairs. It went silent before I grabbed it. Caron had given me innumerable lessons on how to retrieve calls. I tried to remember her instructions, but my hand was shaking so badly that I couldn't hit the right buttons. I sat down on a stool, took a couple of deep breaths, and looked at the spiteful device. After a few errors, I located the call, which had come as a text, source unknown. It read, “Stop meddling or you will pay the price.”

If the text originated from out of state, it posed no urgent problem. If it originated from the apple orchard, it was high time to make a dramatic departure. I snatched my purse and ran out the front door. Seconds before I grabbed the car door, I saw the very flat tire. I circled the car. All four tires were rubbery puddles. My sprint back inside should have earned me a trophy. I locked and bolted the front door. I heard no sounds to suggest someone was in the house. Somewhere in the woods, crows battled over a savory tidbit. I froze as I heard a sound overhead before I realized that the local squirrels were engaged in the daily pecan bowling tournament on the roof.

I locked myself in the master bathroom. It seemed excessive to crawl into the bathtub, so I sat down at the dressing table and called Jorgeson.

“Should be there in a few minutes, Ms. Malloy. There was an accident on Thurber Street that snarled traffic.” He had the audacity to sound unconcerned.

I updated him in a few terse sentences, interspersed with gulps. I realized I'd moved to a narrow space between the table and the side of the shower. When he demanded to know where I was, I could barely get out the words.

His voice was gruff. “Stay there and don't open the door until the police identify themselves.”

“It's not like I'm going for a stroll,” I muttered. I leaned against the wall, keeping the cell phone to my ear. One of the houseplants above the bathtub needed to be watered. The pearl gray towels matched the walls and tile work. A touch of cranberry might add interest, as might sage green. A champagne cork had hidden itself in a corner. I smiled as I remembered the romantic interlude that began with champagne and candlelight. And there could be someone in my house.

Jorgeson's voice startled me. “You still there, Ms. Malloy?”

“Yes, I'm still here. Where's Peter?”

“On his way.”

“On his way here—or on his way to your office?”

The cell phone slipped out of my hands when I heard a shot.

 

10

I managed to pick up my cell phone. “I heard a shot,” I said evenly. “I am not happy with the situation. If you have useful—”

“My men are outside, Ms. Malloy,” said Jorgeson. “They have a device to unlock the front door. Just stay there, okay? I'll call back.”

I calmed down enough to begin breathing, although I preferred that Jorgeson's men be inside rather than outside. I tried to concentrate on the cranberry-versus-sage accent color in the bathroom. After an interminable wait, I heard voices. I dislodged myself and crept to the door to listen. My cell jangled.

“It's okay, Ms. Malloy.” Jorgeson's voice was mellifluous, warm, and welcome. “The officers have searched the house and found no one.”

“They didn't search this bathroom. How do I know they searched the entire house?”

“Please unlock the door, Ms. Malloy. Show them where you thought you saw someone, and they'll continue searching.”

He had done his best to glide right by the key phrase, but I had enough adrenaline in my veins to leap over tall buildings in a single bound. “Thought I saw?” I asked, speaking slowly and carefully. “In the same way I thought my tires had been slashed? You doubt me?”

“Not for a second, Ms. Malloy. Will you please show the officers where you saw the man?”

I was still miffed. “Oh, all right. They aren't going to shoot me, are they?”

“They're waiting for you on the terrace.”

I went into the bedroom and on into the kitchen, my phone to my ear. “What about the shot I heard?”

“The officers will explain, Ms. Malloy. Deputy Chief Rosen ought to be there in ten minutes.” He ended the call.

I hurried out to the terrace, where two unfamiliar officers were scanning the landscape for errant bears and armed men. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “I saw the man at the edge of the apple orchard.”

“Did you see a weapon, ma'am?”

“No, but I heard a shot.” I sensed my credibility was slightly below average. “It was very close to the house.”

One of the officers made a face. “That was me. As soon as we got out of the car, I saw something moving behind those fir trees. I fired a warning shot.”

The other laughed. “Scared the living daylights out of a groundhog. Those things can scoot when they're panicked. I can assure you, Ms. Malloy, the groundhog will not return anytime soon.”

He and his partner trudged toward the orchard, their hands on the hilts of their holstered guns. I was watching them when I heard a car door slam. Seconds later Peter came out to the terrace and wrapped his arms around me. I could feel the adrenaline begin to ebb as I collapsed against him. Husbands have their uses. I let my head rest on his shoulder while I struggled to put my thoughts in order.

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

“Yes, but I could use a drink.” I sat down on the end of a chaise longue and licked my dry lips. When he returned, I blurted out the whole story, beginning at the sports bar. I could have mentioned my previous encounter with Leslie, but in the name of marital harmony I decided it was unworthy of inclusion. It was risky, since I didn't know if Peter had heard about my brief involuntary visit to the PD.

“It sounds as though I need to have a talk with Leslie,” Peter said.

I was surprised that he accepted my story without question. I wasn't sure I hadn't allowed myself to overreact to a random series of coincidences. Good guys wear white hats; bad guys drive black cars. “I can't be certain,” I admitted. “I did see someone in the apple orchard, but it could have been a hiker. He didn't realize anyone still lived in Hollow Valley and was having an innocent look around at the historic sites. When he saw me, he backtracked and is on the far side of the mountain by now. The four flat tires made a suicide pact.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No, I believe I was followed by someone in a black car. That doesn't mean you have to believe it, too.”

For some reason, Peter appeared to be confused. He gazed at the orchard for a long moment, his darling face wrinkled with thought. “Do you want me to believe it?”

My dilemma was straightforward. If I said yes, then he would send a squad car to drag Leslie out of her class and to the PD. He would ask questions, and she would answer them. However, I'd never find out what she said. I would not be invited to sit in, and I would not be privy to the report. If I said no, then Peter would not be happy that I demanded a squad car and all available manpower to converge on my bucolic environs. “Maybe I should ask her. Just a casual question. That way, if she does know something, she won't be tipped off.”

The man was reading my mind. “You can't have it both ways, Claire.”

“Whatever you think.”

The uniformed officers emerged from the orchard. Peter told one of them to check out all the residences and buildings in the valley and the other to stay on the front porch. He promised me that he'd send someone to deal with the tires and be home for dinner. I forbade myself from cowering inside with the doors locked. That lasted about a minute, and then I retreated on the pretense I needed to use the computer in my office. I was confident something would inspire me to charge into a Google expedition of sites and links, and I would surface with a perfectly reasonable solution that explained all the craziness of the last three days.

All that, and how to squeeze blood from a turnip.

*   *   *

I was reduced to playing solitaire online when Caron called to say she was at Ashley's house and would be home by midnight. It was the perfect time to master the dining room. I pulled out a tablecloth, crystal wineglasses, and candles. I took my bodyguard a glass of iced tea, cut some roses from the trellis by the front porch, and arranged them in a cut-glass vase. When I realized I was perilously close to polishing the silverware, I sat down on a kitchen stool until the obsessive (and excessive) enthusiasm waned. I've never wished to compete with Martha Stewart. Although my taste is impeccable, I have not yet learned how to fold napkins into swans, and I would gnaw off my fingers before I looked it up on the Internet.

I was startled when the doorbell rang. As a precaution, I peeked out the front window and saw a tow truck. I opened the door. A polite young man in a filthy uniform told me that he and his buddy would put spare tires on my car, but I needed to stop by the garage as soon as possible for a more permanent solution.

Peter brought home a nice bottle of wine. I allowed him to grill the steaks while I dealt with the accessories. I avoided mentioning the investigation, instead catching him up on Caron's crisis du jour and the possibility of building a small greenhouse. It was a highly civilized meal, right down to the apple pie and coffee. We took brandy snifters out to the terrace. The sky was clear, the stars glittering.

“Did you talk to Leslie?” I asked casually, as though inquiring about the probability of rain over the weekend.

“She agreed to come to the police station for a chat.”

I gave him a dazzling smile. “And…?”

His internal struggle was visible on his face. “I'll give you a brief account, since I don't think it has significance. Leslie teaches ESL and citizenship classes online. Omario is her student and was in need of information to change his green card status. She referred him to a lawyer. After she left the bar, a man in a black car asked her for directions to the campus registrar's office. She saw Omario drive away in a white hatchback. She told us his last name. We ran a check, and the only car registered to him is a five-year-old Honda. He has no record or outstanding warrants.”

“You believed her?”

“I don't have any reason not to believe her. One of the officers confirmed that she teaches courses online via some dinky college in Iowa.” He held up his palms. “This does not mean that I don't believe you, dear wife. Someone followed you from either the bar or the Literacy Council. It wasn't this Omario, unless he kept a spare car behind the bar.”