Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly (21 page)

Meg pulled away and went to the
sink.  She stood in the spot where the linoleum had worn to an indented black
patch and stared out the small window above it.  When she spoke, her voice was
so low I could barely hear her.  “My mother.  My real mother—she never wanted
me.”

“No, honey, she would have kept
you, but—”

“Tell me the truth.”  She turned
on me, eyes fierce.

“You know the story, how she—”

“I know the story you and
Grandmother told.  All tied up in pink ribbons to make it look better.”  Her
voice rose, “How could you lie to me about my own mother?”

I reached for her.  She slapped my
hands away.

She pounded on the drain board
with her fists.  “This house is full of lies.  I hate it.”

My stomach clenched.  I had feared
this moment for so long.

“According to the Macrae legend,
my mother was dying of leukemia and had to give me to my father’s family to
raise.”  She glared at me.  “Right?”

“If you want to discuss this
rationally, come sit down,” I said, touching her chair.  “One scene a day is my
limit.”

“You sound like Grandmother,” she
sneered.

I sat down.

Meg released a gusty sigh.  She
strode to the table and sat with her hands flat on the table in front of her. 
“It’s the lying that’s making me crazy,” she said, tugging on a strand of her dark
red hair.  “You told me she brought me to you when I was four months old
because she was dying, but Alisz said—”

“Why on earth would Alisz tell
you—”

“She was trying to help—”

“It was none of her business!”

Meg held up her hand.  “Just
listen, okay?  Last summer after Hugh was shot she was feeling so bad.  I said
she was lucky to have had him to love even if it wasn’t long enough because my
parents had died before I’d had a chance to know them at all.

“She said I should know the
truth.  She quoted that thing, you know, ‘The truth shall make you free.’”

She poured more brandy into the
lipstick-stained glass.  “She was trying to help, so don’t go into a tailspin
because Alisz told me the truth and you told me a lie, okay?”

It was my turn to sigh.

It had been a June evening, still
light, the air heavy with heat and the scent of roses.  Mother, George, and I
had been sitting out on the front porch when an old, rust-spotted car pulled up
in front of the house.  A young blonde, her hair scraped back in a knot, got
out, opened the back door of the car, reached in and straightened up holding a
sleeping, red-headed baby clothed only in a diaper.

George went absolutely still, his
hands nearly as white as the old wicker chair he gripped so tightly.

Grim-faced, the young woman
marched up our porch steps.

Mother rose from her chair. 
George looked as though he couldn’t have stood if he’d tried.

The woman held the baby under the
arms and thrust it at George.  The baby started awake.  “You gave me a present
I didn’t want,” she said over its screams.  “I’m returning it.”

George didn’t move.

The woman seemed capable of
throwing the baby at his feet, so I reached for it.  My hands went around the
tiny body.  The woman tried to pull it back.  My mind said to let go, not to
hurt the baby, but my hands held fast, sure the baby wasn’t safe with that
woman.

“You’re the sainted sister, I
suppose,” the woman hissed as she released her grip.

I pulled the baby close against me
and murmured, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” as I rested my cheek
against her silky hair and rubbed her back.  The baby shuddered and hiccupped
as she calmed.  Tears pooled in her large brown eyes, but she smiled, revealing
the Macrae dimple in her right cheek.

George’s mouth trembled when he
said, “I don’t want—”

“Well, neither do I,” the woman
snapped.  She turned on her heel and marched back down the steps.

Jill Ferguson and her father
watched from their porch.

Mother went to the railing and
said, “You can’t do this.”

The woman glared up at her.  “What
makes you think your son can drop a baby on me?  Put her in an orphanage if you
don’t want her.”  She strode to her car.

“What’s her name?” I called.

“She hasn’t got one.”

The woman got in the car and drove
away.

My mother turned on George.

Baby in my arms, I walked into the
house, through it, and out the back door to the car.  We’d return when the
smoke cleared.  It didn’t matter what they said, anyway, no one was going to
take this child away from me.

Now I looked at Meg.  She’d never
learn from me any of the ugly details Jill Ferguson had missed or had not
passed on to Alisz.  “Honey, your mother was young, not prepared in any way to
take on the responsibility of raising a baby.”

“You were only 19 yourself,” Meg
said.  “My age now.”

“Yes, but Mother supported us
until I got out of library school, and we thought George—”

“If he hadn’t died, he would have
sent for me.”

I nodded, unable to speak.  That’s
what we’d told her.

“Alisz said my mother was a
waitress in a tacky coffee shop in Illinois.  I guess she wouldn’t have had
much money.”

I nodded.  “We don’t know what she
went through during the four months she kept you.  There’s no use torturing
yourself over what she didn’t do.”  I reached out, stroking her twisting
fingers.  “Meg, can’t you see the details don’t matter?”

She gave a bitter laugh.  “Tell
that to the Montrose family of Boston!”  She stood abruptly, startling Bunny. 
She walked to the refrigerator, opened it, stared into its lighted interior. 
“Bastards don’t rate with people like that!”

“Meg.”  I walked to her, turned
her to face me, shook her gently.  “Don’t do this to yourself.  What happened
before you were born is no reflection on you.”

“I was so stupid.”  Tears spilled
down her cheeks.  “I always knew they hadn’t been married, but I thought it was
romantic, that they’d been star-crossed lovers, but it was just fucking. 
That’s all.  Fucking!”

I held her close.  “Baby, what
your parents did has nothing to do with you.”

Her body convulsed, and she
gripped me fiercely.  “I couldn’t keep seeing Benjamin after Alisz told me that. 
I couldn’t tell him.  He’d have been so disgusted.”

“I don’t think it would have
mattered to him.”

“You don’t know what his family is
like.  Everything in their lives is perfect.”  She ended on a note of anguish.

I rocked her back and forth and
stroked her hair.

What had Alisz been thinking?  Why
had she told her?  It was that darn Stoic philosophy of hers—she’d told Jared
all the harrowing details of her childhood and of her mother’s madness when he
was still young.  In my opinion, that’s why he’d grown up fading into the
background, afraid of life. 

I was sure she hadn’t tried to
protect him from the details of Hugh’s death, either, grimly determined he’d
know the truth.  Well, that was her son, and, I guess, her right to do with him
as she saw fit, but how dare Alisz do this to Meg!  Wait’ll I got hold of her. 
She’d never interfere with my family again.  I didn’t care how many years of
friendship got blown to smithereens!

“Aunt Liz, I want to find my
mother.”

“Oh, Meg, maybe that’s not a good
idea.”

“I have to.  I want you to hire a
private detective.”

“We’ll see.  But it’ll have to
wait, Meg.”

She shook her head, mouth set in a
stubborn line.

Hastily I said, “Until Mother’s
stronger.”  I’d have to put Meg off.  Get to her mother first when she was
found.  Fix it so she couldn’t do Meg any more harm.

After we’d done the dishes, we sat
at the kitchen table to play bridge, but we’d only played a few hands when I
trumped Gene’s king after the ace had been played.

He said, “If you’re not going to
play to win, there’s no sense playing at all.”

I set my cards down.  “Sorry, I
can’t concentrate.  Why don’t you play three-handed?”  I wandered to the living
room and stared out into the misty night.

Gene had sent Lofty back out on
patrol.  He was to check The Bird and Fran’s apartment frequently, make sure
nobody got in, but somebody would have to be a fool to try because you could
see the lot from the gas pumps, and—

Kirk had seen Victor’s station
wagon there last night.  What had he been doing?

I went upstairs to my office and
called Victor’s house.  Jennifer answered.

“May I speak to Victor?” I asked
without identifying myself.

The phone went dead.

I redialed.

Jennifer shrieked, “He’s not here,
leave me alone, you goddamned whore,” and hung up.

Where would he be?  It would be
stupid to go looking for a possible killer.  Was I being melodramatic? 
Yesterday I would have thought so, but today—I shivered.

I should find out if Kirk had told
Gene about Victor and Fran in the parking lot.  If he didn’t know, he surely
should, just in case it was relevant.

I went into the kitchen where Gene
was shuffling the cards.

I said, “Gene, there’s a little
thing I forgot to mention earlier.”

He laid the cards down.  His eyes
were bloodshot and his voice thick from the cold he was fighting as he said, “God,
give me patience.”

“Gene—”

“Oh, get it over with, Nancy
Drew.  What’s so important?”

“Nothing,” I snapped, and
continued on through the kitchen and into the bathroom.

Gene had left his wet clothes in a
heap on the bathroom floor.  His holster and gun hung over the shower door. 
I’d washed my hands and was reaching for the light switch when it hit me:  it
wouldn’t be stupid to go looking for Victor if I had a gun.  I didn’t believe
in guns, but I didn’t believe in sticking my head into a tiger’s mouth just for
the view, either.

The revolver looked much larger in
my hands than it did against Gene’s chest

I wrapped the gun in a towel,
tucked it under my arm, and strolled back through the kitchen.  In the hall, I
slipped the revolver in the pocket of my jacket.  It made me feel lopsided. 
How did Gene manage it?  I guessed you just got used to it, like old Mrs.
Ferguson with her goiter.

I tiptoed out the front door and
closed it softly.  The clouds had rolled past and stars shone as I walked to
the community theater.  It was dark.  I walked slowly down the driveway.  Across
the street, lights shone from a neighbor’s uncurtained front window.  I walked
past the theater to the parking lot where Victor’s station wagon stood.  What
now?  Maybe this was a stupid idea.  I should swallow my pride and go back and
talk to Gene.

As I hesitated near the single
cedar tree, the back door of the theater crashed open.  Laurel erupted,
screaming, “You bastard!”

She was barefoot, wearing a coat,
and holding something light-colored in her arms.  She turned in the wedge of
light from the open door, staggered, dropped a shoe and her pink dress,
regained her balance, and shouted, “I hope you fry in hell!”

Victor appeared in the doorway
wearing nothing but an unbuttoned red shirt.  I glimpsed the appeal he held for
women as he raised an arm to brace himself against the doorjamb.

She fell to her knees sobbing.

I eased closer to the tree, glad
the parking lot was dark and wishing I’d stayed home.

“I’ve done everything, Victor,
everything.”  She braced herself with one hand against the sidewalk and looked
up at him.  “Why isn’t it enough?”

“Second verse, worse than the
first,” he said in a singsong.

She folded her arms around herself
and rocked on her knees, sobbing harder.

I pressed my hand against my
mouth.

Victor sighed loudly.  “You’re so
boring,” he said, drawing out the r’s.  “How do you stand yourself?”  He closed
the door.

Laurel writhed on the pavement
crying so hard she was choking, gasping for air.

If I were Laurel, I’d die if
someone saw me.  But what if I left and she did something rash?

In the end, we were saved by a
couple who’d been out for a stroll and who were drawn by the noise.  They
gathered up Laurel and her clothes, and took her away with them while I hid
behind the cedar tree.

A drop of water fell off a cedar
bough and hit my forehead.  I swiped it away with the back of my wrist.

Why wasn’t I in bed with the
blankets pulled over my head?  
Because.
  Mother never had any patience
with that answer, but sometimes it was all a person could say.

I went up the steps and through
the back door of the theater.  Entering the backstage area, brightly lit by
work lights, felt like stepping into a play.

Victor, still clad only in his red
shirt, sat on a purple velvet throne.  The open shirt framed the narrow line of
dark hair that ran down his thin chest.  His disheveled hair fell forward from
its widow’s peak onto his pale forehead.

He looked like a dwarf king under
the 30-foot ceiling.

Victor’s slender hand rose to push
back his hair.  His intense, dark eyes ranged over me.  “Ah, most excellent,
most sober Liz, come in and let me give you reasons to throw things at me,” he
said, waving a vodka bottle.

“How could you treat Laurel that
way?”

“Laurel enjoys it.  Her problems
aren’t my fault, only my burden.”  He took a swig from his bottle.  “But no
more.”

“How can someone as shallow as you
arouse such depth of feeling in someone else?”

He leaned forward, eyebrows
raised, speaking in a stage whisper, “Someone with depths can’t believe in my
shallows, so they do it to themselves.”

I felt the gun in my pocket. 
After all the deception of the last few days, his honest words cheered somehow me,
and my tone was light when I said, “You are despicable, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

We stared at each other.

“I’ve wondered if you were icy
clear through, Liz,” he said.  He leaned back, draping his arms over his
throne, displaying his rising interest.

Thinking his simple trick of
biology would suffer from lack of response, I looked around the cluttered
area.  Besides Victor’s throne, there were several knee-high toadstools with
white stems and bright red and white-spotted tops, a picnic table, and a tree
stump with a hinged top.  A two-dimensional forest leaned against the walls. 
Laurel’s pastel scarf lay among their roots.

Undiminished, he watched me wander
to a large, free-standing mirror.  Black leather pants drooped over the
mirror’s frame.  As I grasped them, I saw my white face, tousled hair, the dark
circles under my eyes.  How had he managed to get excited about that?

I tossed his pants into his lap.

Slowly he rose, stepped into them,
and zipped up before sitting again.  “So the rumors are true.  You don’t like
men.”

I laughed.  “If you feel more
comfortable believing that, go ahead.”  I dragged one of the toadstools closer
to his throne and sat on it.

He offered me the vodka bottle.

I shook my head.  “Were you in
love with Fran?”

He gulped vodka from the bottle
until it jumped from his mouth with a pop of air.  “I don’t know how she did
it,” he said, pushing the bottle between his knees.  “Fran … ” he sighed. 
He lifted the bottle and drank until it was empty.  “I’ve always had a weakness
for nasty women.”

He walked over to the tree stump,
lifted its latched top, and extracted a half-empty bottle of Chivas.  He
twisted off the top and drank.  “Ugh!  Horrid stuff.”

“Why drink it?”

He took another long swallow and
offered the bottle to me.  “Loosen up.”

I pushed it away.  “You and your
wife are generous with your substances.”

He laughed.  “Bet you’d never had
grass before.”

“You’re right.”

“Stupid Jennifer, to give you
those brownies.  She could have given you the ones she’d made for the kids,
instead, but oh, no, impulsive little Jen—”

He swallowed more Scotch and
winced.  “Is that the reason for this visit?  You’re going to press charges
against Jennifer?  Won’t do you any good.  I can just see you in court.”

He took several mincing steps
toward the throne and spoke in a high, prissy voice, “Now, Judge, you’ve got to
throw the book at this woman because she forced me to eat the devil weed.”

He whirled, his body becoming
willowy, fingers raking through his hair, and in an uncanny imitation of
Jennifer’s voice he said, “But, your honor, I’m the beleaguered mother of three
small boys, spawned by a devious, infernal father, and I can’t be responsible
for the fantasies of uptight middle-aged women.”  Victor dropped his arm.  “You
don’t want to go up against Jen.”

“I wasn’t going to, though I’m
curious about whether the two of you are dealing drugs.”

He snorted with laughter.  “She’s
got a little patch in the woods, that’s all.”  He glared at me.  “What are you
thinking?  If we deal drugs we must be capable of murder?”  He shook his head,
his mouth a thin line.  “Is your world that black-and-white?”

“Not any more.”

He slumped onto the tree stump. 
“If you’re not here to complain about Jennifer, what is it you want?”

“I want to know what happened to
Fran.  You were seen in the parking lot of The Bird last night—”

“This damn town!  I’ve gotta get
out.”

“To Hollywood?”

“That make you laugh?”

“No.”

He watched me carefully.

I rubbed my left thumbnail.  “I
understand how restrictive Warfield is.”

He looked around the cavernous
space.  “This is the only place that’s big enough,” he said, indicating the stage
beyond the framing curtains.  He laughed, almost a sob, “But look how far from
anywhere that matters.  Fran understood.  She was going to give me a guaranteed
boost, a rocket to the stars.”  He drank some more.

“What was she going to do?” I
whispered.

“She said she could influence that
supercilious bastard Andre so he’d give me the introductions I needed.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”  He took another
swallow.

“Had she already given … had
she already used this influence?”

“She kept saying it had to wait
till after your play.  She wanted to make sure Andre and I were doing our best
for you.  That stupid play of yours—she treated it like Ibsen.”  He shook his
head, and his hair flopped over his forehead again.  “But she must have started
the deal because at the dress rehearsal Andre was friendly for the first time,
kidding about me packing my bags.

“And now—” he surged to his feet
and glared around him.  “God damn it,” he yelled, throwing the bottle at the
cardboard trees.  The bottle hit them with a dull thud.

“Last night, what did you two—”

“It was nothing.  We went down to
Portland, had some margaritas, some salsa, danced.”  He went up on his toes for
a moment, then stomped his feet in a flamenco beat.

“And when you got back?”

“She wouldn’t let me come in, said
she had something to do.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.  Said it was
magic.”  He hugged himself and swayed back and forth, like Laurel in her agony.

I walked onto the stage and faced
the dim rows of seats.  Victor had needed Andre and Fran alive.  They’d been
his ticket out of town.  If Jennifer had known, however, and had wanted to hold
onto Victor—

I paced back and forth while
Victor walked past me and sat on the edge of the stage.

I rubbed my forehead.  “Why did
Fran try to influence Andre for you?  Were you planning to leave town
together?”

“She had no interest in Hollywood.  It was too big for her, I think.  She called it an investment.”

I shook my head.  An investment. 
God, I was tired.

Victor patted the stage next to
him.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“But you haven’t seen the couch in
my office.”  He twisted to look up at me.

He looked so sad, so diminished.

“Victor, you’ve done a wonderful
job with this theater.  Why don’t you accept it and enjoy it?”

He hopped down into the area in
front of the first row of seats and turned to look at me.  “It’s not what I
want.”

“But it’s what you’ve got.”

He put his hands up to his face
and pressed hard.  His voice was tight as he said, “I can’t stand it.”

Silence closed around us until he
said softly, “Come into my office, Liz.”

I shook my head, but he wasn’t
looking at me.  “I can’t, Victor.”  I left him in the darkened theater.

I walked home, Gene’s gun banging
against my thigh, saw the light was still on in the kitchen and heard the murmur
of voices.  I circled to the front and sat on the top step of the porch.

Victor was the only person in town
I was certain was not guilty of murder.

I had second thoughts about Gene. 
What if there’d been other, more damning photographs of Gene and Sibyl
together?  How many had there been in the packet?  Maybe seven or eight, but
film came in rolls of 12 or more exposures, didn’t it?  Or were they prints
from a digital camera?  No, because there’d been negatives.  What would have
kept Max from sneaking closer, taking pictures through an open window?  So
maybe Fran had given Andre just a sampler with the promise of more damaging
evidence to come?

Maybe Gene hadn’t harmed me
because he needed to get his hands on the pictures and his “oh, shucks” attitude
toward running for office was all show to disarm me?

I’d sleep with his gun under my
pillow tonight, and kick him out bright and early tomorrow.

Kirk came out, his coat over one
arm.  He cast a huge shadow down the steps as he stood between the porch light
and me.  “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through,” he said, moving to stand
beside me.

I reached up and patted his arm. 
“Thanks for your help.  I’m so glad you were here for Mother and Meg.”

“Is there anything you need?”

I sighed.  “If you could turn the
clock back—”

He startled me by sitting next to
me and putting his arm across my shoulders.  It lay heavily.

He pulled some foil folded into a
tiny square out of his pocket and held it out to me.  “Here’s something that’ll
help you sleep if you have trouble tonight.”

“What is it?”

“A couple of sleeping pills.”

“Thanks, but I’ve always relied on
chamomile tea.”

“Keep these just in case.”  He
continued to hold the little square of foil toward me.

I shook my head and stared at his
earnest young face.  “Kirk, you could get into serious trouble giving out
prescribed medication.”

He shrugged.  “Sometimes words of
comfort aren’t enough.  It’s just realistic to have a practical measure for
people in terrible pain.”

“I can’t believe a doctor would let
you do this.”

He stared at the porch steps.

I spoke sharply, “Kirk, who’s
supplying you with these?”

His brows drew down over his
eyes.  “Lots of people say the first night after a death is the worst, that
being unable to sleep is torture.  I’m trying to spare you that.”

Weariness swept over me.  It had
been such a long, awful day, and I couldn’t bear to further estrange Kirk. 
Later on I’d decide what to do about him dispensing medicinal comfort along
with the spiritual, but tonight—I held my hand out, and Kirk dropped the light
packet into my palm.

He smiled, and his shoulders
settled, his relief apparent.  “I hope it helps, Liz, I’ll remember you in my
prayers.”

“Thanks.”

“And if you need me at any time,
call, okay?” and off he went toward the rectory, whistling “Amazing Grace.”

Each step toward the door felt as
though my feet were strapped to bricks.  I locked the front door behind me.

Gene and Meg were making Mother’s
bed up with fresh sheets while Bunny looked on.  Meg was saying, “I don’t know
how Andre got the sequins—”

I ran forward.  “Meg!  I told you
not to—”

“Oh, Aunt Liz, back off.  I’m
just—”

“Should I cancel the APB for my
gun now that you’ve returned?”  Gene glared at me.

I patted my pocket.  “It’s safe.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in
guns.”

“I don’t.”

“Where were you?”

“Talking to Victor.”

“Godammit!  I told you—”

“I’m back safe and sound, so don’t
carry on,” I said.

He held his hand out.

“I’m going to keep it for
tonight,” I said.

His hand dropped to his side.  “You
look like shit,” he said, “go to bed.”

“Do you want me to help you up the
stairs?” Meg asked.

I laughed.  “It hasn’t come to
that.”  Then I said, “Yes, I could use your help.”

She finished sliding a pillow into
a fresh case, placed it on the bed, gave it a pat, and came to take my arm.

Upstairs, I insisted we move her
mattress into my room so we could sleep together behind a locked door.  After
calling the hospital to check on Mother, I placed Gene’s gun on my bedside
table, shed my clothes, and fell into bed.

When I woke, the clock said 1:17. 
I punched my pillow and tried to go back to sleep.

But then I remembered my
conversation with Meg about her mother.  And I wondered what she’d told Gene
while I was gone.  Didn’t she understand the danger?  Thoughts tumbled through
my head, worry over each issue building until I pulled on a robe.  Bunny
observed me from his comfortable curl at Meg’s neck.  I tiptoed down the
stairs, assaulted by the snores emanating from Mother’s room.

Some watchdog.

I turned on the broiler to heat
the kitchen, made my tea and slumped at the table.  The steam from the tea
condensed on my folded hands, the too-sweet fragrance of chamomile caught at
the back of my throat.

I wished I were asleep.  Maybe I
should give in and take the pills Kirk had given me.  What if Kirk had told me
only half the story?  What if he’d waited until Victor left, what if he’d
approached Fran with his helpful pills?  What if he’d killed her?