Murder on the Mind (10 page)

Richard scowled, let out a breath, and got up to make a fresh pot.

Evenings had fallen into a pattern. After dinner, we’d sit around the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the paper. Later, I’d try to stay out of Richard’s and Brenda’s way. Things seemed strained between them, and no doubt my presence was a contributing factor. Then, for as long as I could concentrate, I’d reread the newspaper articles on the murder, or maybe glance at the library books, before going to bed. A boring lifestyle, but I wasn’t up to much more.

The coffeemaker chugged and Richard took his seat again.

The front doorbell rang.

We glared at one another for long seconds, daring each other to answer it.

It rang again.

Without a word, Richard pushed back his chair and disappeared down the hall.

I turned my attention back to the financial page and felt sorry for old Rich. It seemed like he was doing all the fetching and carrying lately. Did a man as well-educated and professionally situated as my brother feel degraded by such trivial matters?

Brenda got up to pour herself another cup of coffee, as Richard returned with another man.

“Jeff, this is Detective Carl Hayden. He’d like to speak with you.” He didn’t bother to introduce the plainclothes cop to Brenda.

My stomach knotted. I recognized the name from the newspaper articles. Hayden was the lead investigator on the Sumner murder. He was big—about six-four, two hundred and fifty pounds—and he looked pissed. Crew-cut and heavy-featured, he reminded me of a slow-moving freight train—deadly, not to be underestimated.

“Detective Hayden.” I offered my hand, which he ignored.

“Would you like some coffee?” Brenda asked politely, but her body language belied her solicitous words as she eyed the cop with suspicion.

Hayden shook his head, all business, turning his full attention to me. “Sir, Mrs. Claudia Sumner called Orchard Park Police Department this afternoon. Said you’d paid her a visit.”

“Yes, sir.” I figured I’d better be as polite as he was. After all, I didn’t want to be charged with obstructing justice, if that’s what he ultimately had in mind.

“You told her you were an insurance investigator. But she doesn’t deal with The Travelers.”

Neither did I, any more.

“Sir, do you now work for Travelers?”

I carefully considered my answer.

“No.”

“Have you ever worked for that company?”

“Yes.”

“In Buffalo?”

“No.”

I hoped my curt answers wouldn’t bug him, but I didn’t want to give him any more information than I had to.

“Mr. Resnick, just what is your interest in Mr. Sumner’s death?”

“How did you track me down?”

“DMV. Mrs. Sumner’s security guard took down the license plate number. Please answer my question.”

Polite but firm.

“Like everybody else, I just want to know what happened to him.”

“Everybody else doesn’t pass themselves off as insurance investigators and visit the bereaved,” Hayden said. “Where were you on Thursday evening between four and eight o’clock?”

“You can’t suspect Jeff,” Brenda cried.

“I was with them.” I nodded toward Richard and Brenda. “All day, all evening.”

“We can vouch for him,” Richard added. “Detective Hayden—” He turned the cop aside and spoke quietly. “My brother recently suffered a rather severe head injury, which can account for—”

“Richard!”

Just what I needed—to be branded a nut.

Listening intently to Richard, Hayden looked at me over his shoulder, his expression grim. He turned back to me with no hint of sympathy.

“Mr. Resnick, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from visiting the Sumner family; they’ve suffered enough. And it would be unfortunate for you if they decided to press harassment charges. Besides, the Orchard Park PD is capable of solving this murder without outside interference.”

Defiance flashed through me, but I kept my mouth shut.

Hayden nodded at Richard and Brenda, then headed back the way he’d come, with Richard struggling to keep up.

“Of all the nerve,” Brenda said.

“I haven’t stepped on anyone’s toes,” I said, but she wasn’t the one I needed to convince. I was out of the hospital on Richard’s say-so. As my next of kin, and a physician besides, Richard held all the power. I wasn’t sure of my rights should he decide to have me committed, or—

I forced myself to breathe evenly. No way could I let paranoia get the better of me. It made me react like those brain-injury case studies in the pamphlets.

Footsteps approached. I must’ve looked panicked, because Brenda moved closer, put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Jeffy. Everything’s okay.”

Richard’s face betrayed no emotion. “We need to talk,” he said, voice calm, his attention fixed only on me. He took his seat at the table across from me.

I felt like a kid who’d been caught spying on a skinny dipper. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. Certainly nothing too illegal.

He composed himself, and I wondered if he assumed that stance before telling patients they had only weeks to live.

“Something’s not right with you, and I don’t believe it’s physical.”

“Why? Because I know about this murder?”

He nodded. “I’m having trouble dealing with this whole situation.”

“You’re having trouble? What about me? I feel like I’m going crazy. It’s like the inside of my brain itches and I can’t scratch it. My whole life is fucked, because a couple of street punks needed crack money.”

Richard remained controlled, rational. “Just what do you know that you didn’t read in the paper?”

My voice rose. “I know that a man was murdered.”

“Everybody knows that.”

“I know he was killed in a field. I know that a little kid witnessed it.”

“What little kid?” Brenda asked.

“Jackie.”

“The kid on the invitation you saw in Sumner’s office?” Richard asked.

“Yes.”

“And how did she witness it?”

“I don’t know—
he
just did.”

They were both staring at me; Brenda aghast, Richard incredulous. But the impact of my words had only just hit me. Until that moment, I hadn’t known Jackie was a boy or what he’d seen, but I was as sure of it as I was about my own name.

“If you don’t want to talk to me or Brenda, I think you should talk to someone else,” Richard said, his voice deadly calm. “You need professional help to get over the trauma of your . . . accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident—it was an unprovoked attack. A robbery. And they got a whole lot more than just my money. They took my life!”

“Which proves my point. You need to work through this anger. Until you do, your subconscious is going to keep harping on it, which is why you’re obsessing on this murder.”

“No.” Our gazes locked. “I know what I know. I had those dreams in the hospital before Sumner was murdered.”

“Do you actually believe you have psychic power?”

“Whatever’s happening to me is real. It’s not a psychotic reaction, or a delusion, or something I’m making up to get attention.”

“You must admit your behavior has been a little strange.”

“How so?”

“The fact that you can’t go upstairs, for one.”

Just thinking about it filled me with dread. “It’s because of your grandmother.”

“Oh, so now you think the house is haunted?”

“Richard!” Brenda chided.

He whirled on her, eyes blazing. “Stay out of this.”

“Just who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Him!” He turned back to me. “Well?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts—but there’s something of her up there. It’s leftover anger—rage. I don’t understand it, but it’s there and it hurts like hell.”

I changed the subject. “What happened to the sympathetic doctor I spoke to the other day, the one who wanted to help me? Now, because the police got wind of my investigation, you want to shut me down, hide me in a closet, and pass me off as some kind of brain-damaged fool!”

I bolted from my chair. I didn’t have the stamina for an extended battle with Richard.

“Where’re you going?” Richard demanded, following me through the house.

“Out.” I grabbed my coat from the hall closet, struggled to get it over my cast, and opened the front door.

“Jeff.”

“Let him go,” Brenda said, as I stormed out into the cold.

“Jeff, come back!” Richard called after me again.

I stalked off toward Main Street, my breath coming out in foggy wisps. The cold air felt good, cleansing. With every step I felt empowered, even though I hadn’t won the argument.

The Snyder business district was to the right. I headed for it.

Biting my lip in frustration, I faced the reality of my situation: Richard had lost all patience with me. That meant no more lifts around town. No more getting me in places like the bank. The strings were now firmly attached, and I would either have to play the game his way . . . or get back on my feet. To do that, I needed a job.

The answer seemed simple, but was I physically ready to work? The headaches weren’t as bad, but they still came daily and probably would for some time. I couldn’t even remember how much longer I needed the cast on my arm. I had no money and nowhere else to go. I’d paid taxes—I might be eligible for Social Security. But how long would it take to get it, and what was I supposed to do in the meantime?

I paused, looking around. Where the hell was I going, anyway? In the back of my mind I remembered a cozy little bar up ahead, next to the fire station.

The penetrating wind made me huddle deeper into my unzipped jacket. What was the name of that tavern? Oh, yeah, McMann’s. Richard had taken a few hours off from the hospital to take me there on my eighteenth birthday. My first legal drink. We’d stood at the bar, sipping our beers, surrounded by a bunch of old geezers, and shared a fleeting moment of camaraderie. Afterwards we’d returned home to find Richard’s grandmother waiting for us. Her shrill voice cut my soul as she ranted about our alcoholic mother.

I’d been a forgotten bystander as Richard argued that as my guardian he could take me where he wanted, do exactly as he saw fit. It hadn’t occurred to him that on that date I could legally make my own decisions. That same night I decided I’d enlist in the Army at the end of the school year.

Richard tried to talk me out of it—he wanted me to go to college. But I wouldn’t listen and traded one four-year sentence for another. I wanted to get away from that old woman the way I now wanted to get away from him.

The wind whipped around me and I stopped dead. Déjà vu dragged me back to the night of the attack. The circumstances were the same: a lonely street, a bitter cold night. Panicked, I looked ahead and behind me, expecting two shadowy figures.

No one.

Slower, my feet crunched the crusted snow once more.

Time to play devil’s advocate. What if Richard was right? Could some injured, twisted part of me be fooling me into thinking I knew things I couldn’t possibly know?

No.

I’d seen Sumner’s face in my mind before Brenda showed me his picture in the newspaper. I don’t know why I was blessed—cursed?—with this knowledge, but I trusted it. If I didn’t believe there was a reason for this happening to me, it would drive me crazy.

A look around helped me get my bearings. Up ahead, the lights of my alma mater, Amherst Central High School, illuminated an entire city block. On really bad days, Curtis the chauffeur would drive me . . . unless Mrs. Alpert rose early. Then she insisted he be at her beck and call. She always picked the stormiest days.

I hated that old woman with a passion I’ve never felt since, and I wanted to get out of that house so badly. . . .

Why did it always come back to her?

Forcing my thoughts back to the present, I continued walking.

A bakery sat at the crossroads. What had been there years ago? I’d already walked past the Snyder fire station before realizing something was wrong. Hadn’t McMann’s been right there? The fire station looked big and new and had obviously been expanded to sit where that quaint little tavern had been.

Confused, I glanced around me. The cold seeped through my thin-soled shoes. I was too far from home to start back without first stopping to warm up. All the little stores were dark and the night seemed to be closing in.

An elderly woman peered through the bakery’s plate glass window. She’d rubbed a hole in the condensation and motioned to me. I looked around. No one nearby. She
was
beckoning me.

I waited for a car to pass before crossing the street, not knowing why I felt drawn. She met me at the door.

“Come in—come in. It’s too cold to be out on a night like this.”

The dead bolt snapped behind me, sending a shiver up my back. She led me to the rear of the shop, the aroma of fresh-baked bread and cakes still heavy in the warm, moist air.