Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly (18 page)

Sibyl fixed me with her large,
dark eyes, “What do you suppose she was talking about?”

Was she testing me to see if I
knew about the photos?  “I don’t know,” I said.  “Do you have any idea who she
was talking to?”

“How would I know?”  She paused. 
“But hadn’t she said she was going to phone that little reporter of hers?”

I nearly snapped my fingers as
things fell into place.  Of course.  Fran couldn’t have taken those
pictures—they’d have been out of focus or she’d have left the lens cap on or something. 
But Max, Max was a pro.

A lazy smile settled on her lips. 
“Frankly, Liz, I don’t approve of gossip, but if you’re searching for clues,
you should try Victor’s wife.  Who knows more about dirty linen than the maid?”

Charlie’s big voice, harsh now,
cut through her laugh.  “Leave Jennifer out of this.  She’s got trouble
enough.”

Sibyl made a shushing gesture with
her hand.  Charlie’s chair rolled backwards as if wafted by the breeze she’d
created.

The two of them glared at each
other.  The silence was so intense I heard the cries of two small birds
chivvying a crow above the river.  I studied the spreading clouds.

Sibyl’s shoe scraped against the
porch.  “Liz is looking for information, Charlie.  I was just trying to help.” 
She turned her back on him and continued, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have
masses of calls to make.”  Her high heels were loud against the porch.  She
turned in the open doorway, “Jennifer lives two houses down on the other side
of the road.”

Charlie sighed deeply as her footsteps
receded.

I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
to cause trouble.”

His grey eyes met mine.  A small,
rueful smile crooked his mouth.  “Trouble’s always waiting just around the
corner, don’t you know that?”

I sighed.  “Some days it sure
feels like it.”

“I’m sorry about your friend. 
What do you suppose will happen to the paper now?”

“Technically, I’ll own it.”

“Really!?”

I shrugged.  “But I don’t know
anything about running one.”

“Maybe I could help.”  He ducked
his head and color spread up his sunken cheeks.  “Sorry, you probably
don’t feel up to talking about it.”

I didn’t, but I was curious about
what he’d meant.  “How is it you could help?”

“I was City Editor back in Omaha, pretty good, too, once upon a time.”

I smiled at him.  “I bet you were.”

“I’d just fill in till you found
someone.”  His head cocked, he looked at me like a puppy hoping for a walk.  He
hurried on, “Just because I haven’t been off this porch in a couple of
years—hasn’t seemed any point, and Sib doesn’t like—”  His voice died away.

I liked the eagerness that had
shone so briefly in his eyes.  This man needed to get out from under Sibyl’s
thumb.

“Two things,” I said.  “Even though
you don’t want me to bother Jennifer, I absolutely have to talk to her.”

He frowned.

I hurried on, “I can’t stand back
and hope justice will be done, I have to do something.”

He nodded.  “Just—be nice to Jen
no matter how she acts.  She’s a little—testy sometimes—” his voice faded.

“All right.  The other thing is,
it’s possible Fran’s family will contest the will—I wouldn’t fight it if they
did.”

“Many a slip twixt cup and lip,”
he said.  His gaze swept the yard, the tall hedge that separated him from his
neighbor, the river valley, but he wasn’t seeing an expensive view, he was
surveying his prison.

“Charlie, if things work out so
I’m in charge of the paper, I’ll come back to talk with you.  I promise.”

“All right,” he said in his
beautiful, deep voice, lifting his hand for a high-five.

My palm stinging, I collected
Squeaky and went on my way.

I paused to look at the area
around the Chinese-red gate.  The photographer had to have hidden in the
thicket of alders, maples, and pines across the street.

Charlie said he hadn’t been off
the porch in nearly two years.  Remembering the way he’d said it, I believed
him.

I walked Squeaky slowly, scuffing
through the pine needles that lay deep at the side of the road.

Why had the photographs been
taken?  To topple Sibyl from her secure seat as the Democratic candidate?  If
so, the Republicans, Andre and his rival, one of whom would face her in
November, had a motive.  But why would Fran be involved?

If Charlie never left the porch,
he wouldn’t be able to see over the hedge, so with the neighbor gone, Sibyl had
a convenient, discreet place to meet a lover.  Did someone tip Max off?

I arrived at Victor’s driveway and
walked up the narrow, shaded lane.  Gravel crunched beneath my feet.  Trees
trembled in the breeze.  I shivered and glanced at my watch.  Nearly 2:30 and
cooling rapidly.  Just a few patches of blue sky still showed.

A small, weathered cabin, its
shake roof covered in moss and pine needles, came into view.  As I put the kick
stand down, three black-haired boys charged out the front door and went running
off helter-skelter into the woods.

The metal door knocker, formed in
the shape of the masks of comedy and tragedy, was not as heavy as it looked and
made a tinny sound.

Moments later the door was opened
by a woman in her late 20’s, whose fine, light blonde hair immediately prompted
the thought “gossamer.”  She had pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a lush
mouth.

“Are you Jennifer?” I asked.

“Yes.”  She frowned as if
suspecting me of hiding a copy of
The Watchtower
behind my back.

“I’m Liz Macrae.”

Her full lips curved in a smile. 
“You wrote that cute melodrama.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering why on
earth Victor would go chasing after Fran and Laurel who were nowhere near as
beautiful as his wife.

“If you’re here to see Victor,
you’re out of luck,” she said.

“No, I’m here to see you on
a—well—frankly—”  Darn Sibyl, I’d never get that word out of my vocabulary.

Jennifer’s mouth tightened, her
eyes narrowed, but she said, “Why don’t you come in?”

She led me to the kitchen, a tiny
dark room into which they’d crammed a maple trestle table.  The fragrance of
chocolate wafted from two small pans of brownies on the counter.  A bouquet of
crocuses, daffodil buds and weeds, undoubtedly picked by the boys, was stuffed
into a water glass in the center of the table.  The benches were covered with
school work, sweatshirts, and a pair of small, blue briefs.

She swept an area clear.  “I was
just pouring some coffee.  Would you like some?”

“Yes, very much, but I’d better
tell you why I’m here first.”

Her voice turned harsh and her
eyes icy as she said, “If Victor made a pass at you, I don’t want to hear about
it.”  She glared at me.

“No, n—not at all,” I stammered,
a bit frightened by her expression.  If she’d known about Fran’s growing
interest in Victor—

She grabbed a mug out of the
drainer.  “You’d be surprised how many old biddies come pounding that fucking
knocker to tell me Victor’s unzipped his pants again.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Okay.  Go ahead,” she said.

“It’s about Fran Egan.”

She turned, elegant eyebrows
arched, but no sign of wariness or fear on her face.

“Did you know she was found dead
this morning?”

She slapped the counter.  “Shit! 
Just what I need.  Now I’ll have to find some other lazy bitch to clean for.”

“She was my best friend,” I said, my
lips stiff.

She ran her hands like a rake
through her hair.  Even in the dim kitchen, it shimmered as it fell back into
place.  “Sorry.”

I hadn’t realized she was Fran’s
cleaning lady until Sibyl told me.  Fran had never referred to her by name. 
How had Fran dared think of an affair with Victor?

Jennifer brought two mugs of
coffee to the table.  She went back for teaspoons, sugar and milk.

My stomach growled loudly.  I
pressed my hand to it.  “Excuse me,” I said.

She hesitated over the brownie
pans.

“It wasn’t a hint,” I said
hastily.

She shrugged, amusement lighting
her eyes.  “I was just wondering if they were cool enough to cut,” she said. 
She cut four small squares.  “Help yourself.”  She sat and shoved my mug across
the table.

I took a brownie.  “Um, good,” I
said, though the texture was strange.

She swallowed one of the small
brownies in a single gulp.  “Look, I’m not going to pretend to be sad.  Fran
Egan was a bitch.”

I sighed and rubbed the broken
stone in my lapis bracelet.  “Frankly—”  Darn that woman!

We sipped.  How quiet it was so
far from town, no cars, no people.  “Can you tell me why you don’t like Fran?”
I prodded.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

I felt my face twisting from one
expression to another as though it were made of silly putty.  My voice squeaked
when I said, “No.”  We both giggled.  I felt as though the world had tilted.  I
cleared my throat.  “But I believe that knowing’s better than not knowing.” 
The words had been hard to form, but I thought I’d expressed my feeling rather
well.  I took a second brownie.

She held up one finger.  “First,
she and Victor were sleeping together.”  I hadn’t been aware that I’d shaken my
head until she stopped and shrugged.  “If they weren’t yet, they would have any
day.  Believe me, I know the symptoms.”

She held up a second finger.  “She
was feeding his fantasies about running off to Hollywood and being a star. 
Such crap!  And after a few months, she’d have gone on to someone else while I
have to deal with—”  She sighed.  “And, to top it off, she was going to fire
me.”

“Did she—”

“No, she didn’t tell me.  A friend
who does cleaning said Fran had phoned to ask about her rates, tried to make a
deal trading advertising for services.  So I pulled what one of my brothers
calls a preemptive strike.  I went through her desk.

“I’d always wondered why she was
so cheap.  I mean, there she was with a medical alert bracelet made of sterling
silver rather than steel, and some weeks she wouldn’t pay me, she’d say come
back tomorrow and even then she might not have it.”

“Her husband gave her that silver
bracelet because she wouldn’t wear the other kind.”

“See what I mean?  A spoiled
bitch!”

“No.  She just liked nice things.”

“You want to defend her or you
want to listen?”  She glared at me.

I picked up the mug and swirled
what was left of my coffee.

“She counted my time down to
minutes so she could save a few pennies!  But she’d go off on trips and she had
that brand-new Mustang and new clothes all the time.  Do you know she sent a
bag of clothes to Goodwill every single month?  Some things she’d never worn at
all?”

She took a deep breath.  “So I
thought she had money somewhere, but you know what?  She really was broke.  All
her credit cards were maxed.  The telephone and PUD were threatening her.  She
was in bad shape.”

Jennifer’s words buzzed, hardly
making sense.  I remembered yesterday, Fran asking me to lend her the money for
New Zealand.  I would have loaned her the money, of course, but I’d also have
given it to her just to help with her bills.  Why hadn’t she asked?

I took a deep breath.  “Anything
else?”

Raking her hand through her hair
again, she said, “One time, before a party, her place was a sty, and she wanted
me to come in even though I’d promised the day to someone else.  When I said I
wouldn’t, she said wouldn’t it be a shame if Victor’s bad habits made it into
the news.”

My head was moving back and forth,
disagreeing all on its own.  I put my hands up to stop it.

Smiling genially, Jennifer asked,
“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you,” I replied with
dignity.  What had we been talking about?  I looked around the kitchen.  There
weren’t any brownies left on the plate.  I forced my mind to the issue at
hand.  “What did she mean?  About the news?”

“What do you think?  Haven’t you
noticed how the paper’s changed since her husband died?”  She grabbed a spoon
and began stabbing the crust that had formed at the top of the sugar bowl. 
Chop-chop-chop.  “Have you paid attention to her editorial page?  Or to the
front page?  To the benefits that get a big splash and those that barely make
the back page?  She can make or break an organization’s fund-raiser.”

Under James’s rule, the Warbler
had attacked or exposed everyone impartially.  His aim had been to report the
news and arouse controversy.  He stirred things up until he got a heated debate
going on the letters-to-the-editor page.  People couldn’t wait to see what each
side said to the other.

Since Fran had taken over, the
paper had changed, and I’d assumed it was because she didn’t have the same
knack.  Often, surprisingly, only one side of an argument would be strongly
represented in the letters section.  I had told myself that Warfield was
changing as it grew, that people no longer found it entertaining to fuss at the
editor.

Several times Fran had reported
things in ugly terms.  When, occasionally, someone had given her the cold
shoulder, I’d put it down to jealousy.

The paper had missed some
political stories as well.  She’d laughed off complaints, saying a weekly paper
couldn’t do what a daily could, but now—

My face had come to rest in my
hands.  I rubbed my forehead.

Jennifer’s words made me jump. 
“You asked,” she said from far away.

“But are you sure—”

“Look, she was good at reading
people.  Victor hates this town, he hates his job, and most of the time he
hates me and the kids.  The community theater is his life.  Yeah, he gets
favors from the women who want good parts, but he doesn’t force them, and they
don’t mind until he drops them for the next one.  That’s when they get all
morally outraged and find their way here.”  She shook her head.

“Everybody knows, and nobody
cares, but if it became official, if people were forced to confront it, then
someone would take it away from him.  It’d kill him.”

“Why do you stay with him?”

“None of your business.”

“No,” I whispered.  What was wrong
with me?  I never asked personal questions.  I pushed myself up from the
table.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”  She
trailed me as I walked to the front door.  “You asked,” she said.

I opened the door.  “Yes, I
know.”  Grateful for the brisk, cool breeze against my face I concentrated on
walking a straight line to my bike.

I forced the pedals around and
around.  I felt dirty.  Foolish.  Angry.  Utterly bereaved.

The bicycle tire turned and turned
until I found myself in the cemetery among the McDowell graves.  I laid Squeaky
in the grass and sat on a green wooden bench, my arms wrapped around myself,
tears leaking from beneath my eyelids.  “Fran,” I whispered.  “Oh, Fran.”

I’d ignored so many little
things.  I’d seen Fran the way I’d wanted to see her, but underneath—

So reasons existed to kill Fran. 
She played around with other people’s husbands.  I’d known that.  Sometimes she
was rude and demanding.  I’d ignored that.  She stooped to blackmail.  That, I
couldn’t understand.

Had we been living in alternate
universes?  Me with a warm and loving friend named Fran.  She, avaricious and
capable of blackmail, with a stupid little friend named Liz.

She must have used the paper to
influence and to punish.  She must have taken money or—the thought clicked
in—the black Mustang.  What was it she’d said?  It wasn’t a color she’d have
chosen?

And Thursday night in our
kitchen—she’d begged me not to ask her questions.  She’d been warning me not
to look.

I took a few restless steps and
knelt by my grandparents’ grave.  I picked pine needles out of the incised
lettering on their stone.

And even for Fran, she’d been
pretty pushy about starting out early on our New Zealand trip.  Had she
realized someone wanted to kill her?

My fingertips grew numb from the
cold gravestone.  In a few days, Fran would be lying under one of these, many
miles away.  “Oh, dear God,” I whispered, feeling the weight of the dirt that
would press down on her, “Oh, dear God, don’t let her be afraid.”

I knelt there as the hissing rain
approached me through the whispering trees, across the still graves and the
smooth green grass.  As they got closer, the raindrops sounded like hundreds of
little feet.  The hair stood up on the back of my neck, and goose bumps swarmed
over me.

I jumped up, grabbed Squeaky, and
raced away.  The rain caught up with me on the hill, a light spatter of drops
at first, quickly changing to a sluice of cold water that pounded my head and
bounced off the pavement.

I knew better than to ride down a
steep, wet, twisting road, but I couldn’t make myself stop.  I’d almost made it
to the bottom when Squeaky hit a patch of rain-slicked leaves, and the two of
us launched into space.