Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly (4 page)

“Aunt Liz, you look like
you’re going to faint.”  Meg slid into the vacant chair, Little Bunny Foo
Foo on her lap.  “Are you all right?”

“She’s had one shock too
many,” Mother said, pushing herself out of her chair.  She leaned against
the chair back, then took the step to the counter and leaned on that as she
reached into a cupboard and got the brandy.  “Here, Liz, put some of this
in your tea.”

Fran took the bottle from her and
helped herself to some before passing it on to me.

Mother cut a piece of gingerbread,
mounded whipped cream on it, and made her way back to the table.  “Put
that creature on the floor where it belongs,” she said, placing the plate
in front of Meg.

Meg wrinkled her nose but put the
dog on the floor.  She dug a fork into the gingerbread.

Mother lowered herself into her
chair.  “Now, what were you doing at the jail?”

Meg shrugged, her mouth full.  She
put her fork down, raised her hands and wiggled her blackened fingertips at
us.  She swallowed.  “They said they needed to take fingerprints.  After
that they wanted my clothes.  But don’t worry, they said they’d give them
back.”  She took another bite of gingerbread.

“But, Meg, why did they take
you?” Fran asked.

“They took everyone, didn’t
they?”  Her gaze rested on me still in my blue sweater and Fran’s jeans. 
She frowned.

“I thought everyone was
supposed to go in tomorrow to have their fingerprints taken,” I said.

Meg’s chair screeched against the
floor as she pushed it back.  “Why are you looking at me like that?  I
didn’t kill Andre!”

“We know that, dear, but why
would the police think you did?” Mother asked.

“My Go—gosh, I don’t
know!”  Her brown eyes grew huge as she began to take her visit to the
station seriously.

“Meg, if they have some
reason to suspect you, you must tell us.  Now’s not the time for secrets,”
I said.

Her fair skin flushed scarlet. 
“Secrets!”  She glared at the three of us.  “Sometimes you
remind me of those three witches in Macbeth:  Higgelty, Piggelty and Nod, or
whatever their names were, cackling over your boiling cauldron.”  Her
voice rose to a shriek, “No, we wouldn’t want any secrets here!”  She
scooped Little Bunny Foo Foo up and ran out, her footsteps pounding down the
hall then up the stairs. The door of her room slammed shut.

“Perhaps it’s a good thing
she dropped out of Wellesley after all.”  Mother sniffed.  “Higgelty,
Piggelty and Nod!  What are they teaching these days?”

I managed to say, “At least
she got the play right,” before Fran and I erupted in laughter.

Mother levered herself to her feet
and glared down at us.  “You girls can laugh all you want, but education
in America is going downhill at a perilous rate.”

We laughed even harder.

Mother made her way to the
refrigerator where she’d left her cane hooked on the handle and then thumped
down the hall.

After a while, Fran shook my arm
and said, “Hey, Higgelty—”

“No, I’m Piggelty.”

“Stop, stop, my sides
hurt.”

When we finally sat up and wiped
our eyes, the last giggles shivering through us, Fran said, “Why would
they have taken her clothes?”

“I don’t know.  It scares
me.”  I poured more tea for both of us even though it was lukewarm and way
too strong.  Fran dumped the tea out and poured us healthy slugs of brandy. 
“That’s the first time I’ve seen Meg go off the deep end,” she said. 
She pulled her velvet jacket closed.  “I see what you mean about her being
irrational.”

“She’s so changed.”

“She’s as cheery as ever when
she comes into the paper.”

“Not around here.  She’s
sullen, and she never used to be.  Mood swings, so much anger.  But the play’s
been good for her, steadied her a little.”

“Should you talk to her again
about a therapist?”

I shrugged.  “She refused
absolutely.  I wish I had a clue what’s wrong.”

“Something that happened at
school, you think?”

I rubbed my forehead. 
“Maybe.  Though I noticed some unhappiness before she went back in
September.”

“She and Benjamin were still
in love then.”

“Yes.  That didn’t fall apart
until after Christmas.”  I sighed.

Fran sighed too.  “So, last
summer.”  Fran touched my hand.  “The only traumatic thing I can
think of last summer was Hugh’s death.”

I did my best to ignore the
familiar stab of regret.  “I don’t see how that could have affected her so
much.”

She said, “Intimations of
mortality?  Because he was Jared’s father and someone she’d known all her
life?  Because she knew how you once felt—”

I touched the lapis bracelet on my
wrist, the only one of Hugh’s gifts I had kept.

“Maybe the futility got to
her,” Fran said, “being caught in the crossfire during a convenience store
hold-up.”

“While buying flavored
condoms.”  My eyes filled with tears, “Oh, Fran, the dumbest thought
keeps coming back.  If Hugh’d only bought the condoms here in Warfield instead
of in Portland, he’d still be alive—it was such a stupid thing to die
for.”

“Well, his lady friend was
down there.  Probably he and Alisz didn’t use condoms, and you know how people
talk around here.  Give him credit for being discreet.”

“Poor Alisz.”

Fran shrugged.  “It’s too bad
Hugh’s affair got the publicity it did when he was shot, but I always say men
don’t stray if they’re getting what they want at home.”

I poked at the crumbs on my
plate.  “I wish—I’d give anything to go back twenty years and start
over—”

“I’m sorry I brought it
up.”  Her arm went around me and she hugged me tightly.

After a moment I sat up and
reached for my brandy.

Fran got the pan of gingerbread
and the bowl of whipping cream, and we had more of both.

I was just about to ask her where
she’d gone when she said abruptly, “Well, I didn’t kill Andre, did
you?”

“No.”

Fran pivoted her wrist back and
forth, her silver medical alert bracelet swiveling on her wrist, the links
making a slithering sound.  “You know the statistics—it’s most likely to
be your nearest and dearest who do you in.”

“But he didn’t have anyone
near and dear since Barry died.  Women were strictly a hobby.”

“Don’t be bitter,” she
admonished.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, and you should
do a better job of hiding it.  It’s a motive—”

“What about you?”  I
pointed my finger at her.

She batted it away.  “I take
men and sex a lot less seriously—”

“Because you’ve had a lot
more of them,” I said.

“Exactly.  You should try
it.”

“Opportunities don’t exactly
abound—”

“You just walk right on by
them and never notice.”

Upstairs the newly re-christened
Bunny barked twice.

“That’s not going to make him
popular,” I said.

We both jumped when the kitchen
door creaked open and a man’s voice said, “Don’t you ever lock your
doors?”

I froze in my chair.  Fran had
jumped up and grabbed the toaster, raising it above her head with both hands.

“Gene Cudworthy, I’m going to
kill you!” I said, the hair still standing up on my neck.

“Fran looks far more
dangerous,” he said, but I noticed he hadn’t even put an arm up to defend
himself.

She laughed and put the toaster
back on the counter.  “You’re lucky you didn’t get a head full of bread
crumbs.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you. 
I tapped on the back porch screen door, but you didn’t hear me, so I came on
through.”

My heart stopped beating.  He’s
going to arrest Meg.  I said, “You can’t take her.  She’s only
nineteen.”

“What?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. 
“Meg’s innocent.”

“Now why would you think I
was coming to arrest Meg?”  His quizzical blue eyes met mine.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“What did you come for?”

“I saw Fran’s car
outside.”  He smoothed his moustache with one large hand and scrutinized
Fran.  “Now’s your chance to come clean, tell me why you left and where
you went.  Tomorrow this gets real serious.”

Fran said, “Sit down,
Gene.”  She got a glass and put it in front of him.  I shoved the brandy
bottle toward him.  She got him a plate and fork and served him gingerbread.  I
scraped the bowl for the last of the whipped cream.

He sank into a chair. 
“Thanks.”

We all had brandy.  Mother was
going to be scandalized.

“To absent friends,”
Fran said, raising her teacup.

We all clinked and drank.

Gene said, “I’m still waiting for
an explanation.”

Fran’s bracelet began slithering
again.

The two of them stared at each
other, each willing the other to back down.  It was more than a battle of
wills, though.  Embarrassed, I took the bowl and pan to the sink and began
washing them.  Total silence behind me.

They’d had a brief affair while
Gene was married to wife #2.  Wife #3 looked a lot like Fran.  From the
electricity that filled the air, I’d say Fran had a shot at becoming #4.

I dried the cake pan more
thoroughly than it had ever been dried before, and they still hadn’t spoken. 
Without turning around, I said, “It’s been a long day, and I’m
tired.”

A chair scraped the floor.  Gene
said, “Tomorrow you both come down to the station.  I’ll want to hear the
truth.”

“Don’t involve Liz,”
Fran said.

“She better not be doing
anything but telling the truth tomorrow, including what she knows of your
activities tonight.  There’s such a charge as obstruction of justice, you
know.”

“It’s a terrible thing what
political aspirations do to a person,” Fran said.

“What does that mean?”

“If you weren’t running for
sheriff, you wouldn’t be coming on like such a hardass, that’s what it
means,” she said.

Ominous silence followed her
statement.  Nothing on earth could have compelled me to turn around.

At last his footsteps thudded to
the door.  It creaked open.

Fran said, “She’ll tell you
the truth.”

“Please thank Cousin Claire
for the gingerbread.  Good night,” he said, his voice tired.  The door
shut quietly behind him.

I turned.  “Fran, why didn’t
you just tell him—”

“It’s complicated.”

“What will you say?”

She shrugged.

“Fran, are you in some kind
of trouble?  Do you need help?”

She yawned, head back, long arms
reaching for the ceiling, jacket falling open, breasts straining against the
sheer white fabric of her blouse.  She said, “Ask me no questions, I’ll
tell you no lies.”

“I don’t understand.”  I
felt as though the yellow linoleum floor was tilting.

“Lizzie, don’t look like
that, it’s nothing so terrible.”  She stood up and held a long arm out to
me.  “Come on, walk me to the door.”

We tiptoed down the hall past
Mother’s room, carefully opened the front door, and stepped onto the porch. 
The clouds had blown past, and the moon shone so brightly it cast shadows.

“Mmm—doesn’t it smell
good?” she whispered.

“Lovely.  I’ll pick you up in
the morning—”

“It’d probably look better if
we went in separately,” she said.

“I don’t care,” I said. 
“What time?”

”About two?”

“Gene said morning.”

“Then, 11:55.  That’ll
preserve your writing time, too.  How’s the latest opus going, anyway?”

“Pretty well.”

“When you get that prim tone
it always means you’re working on a hot scene.”  She hugged me and ran lightly
down the steps.  “Night, Piggelty,” she called softly.

“Night, Higgelty.”

I watched her drive away, the
engine of the Mustang thunderous in the still night.  She didn’t even brake at
the stop sign, just whipped around the corner and out of sight.

I sank into the wicker chair.  It
creaked.  It had absorbed moisture, and the chill crept into my jeans.  Fran’s
jeans, I thought, feeling their pinch.  They were too small and only the
strength of desperation had enabled me to zip them.  I giggled, then sobered as
I remembered the bloody blue gown I’d been so frantic to shed.

The vision of Andre’s ruined head
rose in my mind.  It was awful to see someone so beautiful, someone who’d loved
life so much, dead.  “Andre, who would do that to you?” I whispered.  He’d
been charming, extremely likable.  What could he have done to make someone so
angry?

I shivered.  I didn’t want to
think it was anyone living in this quiet town, this town that had always been
my home.  Chilled clear through, I went inside, locking the door behind me.

My phone rang at 8:30 the next
morning.  I settled deeply into my pillow and pulled the covers over my head. 
In the middle of the fourth ring it cut off.

The phone rang again.  I burrowed
deeper.  After three rings, it stopped.

The phone rang.  I snatched it
up.  “What?”

“I knew you were there,”
Fran’s smug voice said.

I groaned.  “How come you’re
awake already?  I expected to have to pry you out of your bed at ll:54.”

“Bad news.”

I sat up.  “What?”

“Annamaria is dead.”

I hugged the covers to me. 
“Dead?  But all she had was the flu.”  The vision of Andre’s body
flashed in front of me.  “She was murdered?”

“Calm down, Liz.  Nothing
like that.”

“I just can’t believe it. 
When I picked up the dress from her yesterday, she looked wretched, but
not—oh, God.”

“What?”

“She said she felt like she
was going to die.  I just thought—you know how sometimes when you have the
stomach flu—”

“You couldn’t have
known—”

“But I should have insisted
she let me take her to the doctor.  I was in such a hurry because of having to
learn lines and altering the dress that I only offered half-heartedly.”  I
rubbed my head.  “How could she die of the flu, or food poisoning, or
whatever it was?”

“Apparently Tony came home in
the middle of the night and found her unconscious in the bathroom.  He rushed
her to the hospital, but they couldn’t save her.”

“Poor Tony.”  Tony Vico
was an airline pilot, and the most devoted husband and father in town.

“Anyway—will you please go
over there with me?”

“So you won’t have to go to
the funeral home?”

Her voice was small when she
replied, “I know I’m awful about it, but I just can’t bear to.  I’ll pick
you up in ten minutes.”

“I need 45.”

“Skip the coffee.  I’ll be
there in 20.”

I headed for the bathroom, but
Mother’s faint voice caught me midway across the landing.  “What’s going
on?” she called.

When Meg returned home after
dropping out of college, Mother canceled her cell phone.  We now had three
phone lines in the house, one for each of us.  Mother always turned off the
bell on the phone by her bed at night since the pain of her arthritis often
kept her from sleeping.  Everyone who knew us waited to call till after ll:00
AM.  Still, all three lines came together on the phone in the kitchen on the
other side of her bedroom wall, and Fran’s three sets of rings would have been
hard to ignore—I was the proof of that pudding.

I ran down the stairs and slid
open the oak double doors.  Years ago she’d taken over the dining room as her
bedroom when the stairs became too difficult.  Mother was sitting up in bed
with her grey hair tumbling onto her shoulders.

“What’s happening?”
Mother asked.

“Let me get you some coffee,
then we’ll talk.”

“No, just tell me.”

“Fran called with some bad
news.  Annamaria died last night.”  I told her what Fran had said. 
“I have to hurry, Fran’s going pick me up soon.”

Mother nodded.  “Start the
coffee, will you?”

As I went into the kitchen, she
called after me, “Where’s Meg?”

“I don’t know.  I heard her
chasing Bunny through the Ferguson’s yard earlier.”  As I measured coffee
into the filter, I heard Mother’s small sounds of pain in the next room as she
got out of bed.  It was the worst time of day for her when, as she said, she
was most like the tin man after a hard rain.

“Coffee’s started,” I
called and ran upstairs.  I intended to hurry, but my thoughts roamed as the
hot water beat on my head and back.  Where could Fran have disappeared to last
night and why?  Why had Andre been holding Meg’s lipstick?  Why had Meg arrived
late to the rehearsal wearing a different costume than we’d planned?

And why would anyone kill Andre at
the play rehearsal when there were so many people around?  “Because his
house has a security system, that’s why!” I said.

I hoped Gene would find the killer
fast.  I shivered even though the water running over me was still hot.

This made five deaths of people
close to me in the last three years.  First James Egan, Fran’s husband, died
after a long battle with cancer.  Then Barry, Andre’s secretary, died of AIDS. 
Horrible as both deaths had been, they’d brought relief from suffering.

But the deaths that had
followed—each had been appalling in its suddenness, its unfairness—Hugh
gunned down in that robbery.  Now Andre being murdered and Annamaria dying only
a few hours ago.

My chest ached.

I hurried out of the shower,
wrapped in a towel.  I heard a noise in the study.  “Meg?” I said,
crossing to the door.

Fran straightened from the file
drawer of my desk, a large manila envelope in her hand.  Today she wore her
hair the way I liked it best, in a single braid that stretched nearly to her
waist.  She wore navy slacks and sweater. “Nope, me, and you’ve caught me
red-handed.”

“Honestly, you and Meg are
the worst.  I’d trust you both with my purse or national security, but let
either of you get within sniffing distance of envelopes or stamps, and you’re
without a single scruple.”

Fran tossed the braid over her
shoulder.  “That shower’s going to qualify you for Guinness.”

“Don’t try to change the
subject.  Besides, there’s some guy in Norway who stayed in a shower 50 hours. 
No one’s ever going to break his record.”

“Really?”  She squinted
at me.

“Check it out,” I said. 
“But meanwhile, put my envelope back.  I need it to send out the stuff
I’ve been working on.  Why didn’t you swipe one from your very own newspaper
office?”

She looked crestfallen.  “I
forgot to.”  She looked down at the envelope.  “Please, Liz,”
she wheedled, “I really need to send something.”

“Then go to the P.O.”  I
pointed at her, “Now put it back.”

She hesitated, her green eyes
calculating, but then she gave up, stuffing the envelope back into the drawer. 
“You are no longer my best friend.”

“Yes, I am,” I replied,
“I have saved you from sin.  Now go downstairs where Mother can keep an
eye on you.”

They were drinking coffee in the
kitchen when I went down.

Mother gave me a disapproving
look.  “Don’t you have anything dark to wear?”

“I think I look quite nice,
as a matter of fact, dignified, not at all frivolous.”  I’d chosen a beige
suit.

“You could at least wear high
heels,” Mother said.

“Would they convey sorrow
better than these?” I said, holding my foot, shod in its neat, comfortable
flat, out for inspection.

Fran stuck her tongue out at me. 
She hated that I had nicer ankles than she did.  Though my legs were
considerably shorter, her ankles were the slightest bit thick while mine were
nicely turned.

I poured coffee into a mug and
slid English muffin halves into the toaster.  “How’d you find out about
Annamaria, anyway?” I asked Fran.

“Max.”

“What would you do without
him?”

“Shut down the paper.  No one
digs dirt the way he can.”

“You’re no slouch.”

She laughed.  “But not in his
class, and besides, I hate the boring side—researching, verifying.”  She
wrinkled her nose.  “Yuck.”

“You should stop by Alisz’s
as long as you’re making consolation calls,” Mother said.

“She’ll probably be at
Annamaria’s,” I said.

“Claire’s going to make two
casseroles, one for Alisz.  Poor thing, losing Hugh and now her best friend
in—” Fran started to count on her fingers.

“Seven months,” Mother supplied.

I smelled scorching and hit the
lever on the toaster.  It reluctantly released its hostages.

“Me, too,” Fran said.

I gave her my English muffin and
started another.

She spread generous amounts of
butter and orange marmalade and offered me half.  She looked unusually pale.

“Why don’t you skip calling
on the Vicos?” I said.

Her smile wan, she said, “I
wish I could.  Do you think I’ll ever grow up?”

“Not a prayer.”  We
grinned at each other.

Mother said, “You should get
over this irrational fear of death, Fran.  It’s not natural.”

Fran sighed and bowed her head
over her coffee.

She’d explained once that her fear
of dying wasn’t so much the process as it was of being a body.  “I know it
comes from visits with my uncle.  He was a pathologist and nothing was sacred
to him.  My brother egged him on for the goriest details.  It made me sick. 
I’ll do anything to avoid being dead!”

The only time she’d ever let me
down was when I’d needed her to go to Hugh’s funeral with me and she hadn’t
been able to do it.

Tony Vico greeted us with a wobbly
smile and hugs, nearly crushing the flowers we’d brought.

In the living room, flower
arrangements and potted azaleas, mostly pink like ours, stood two and three to
a table.  The mantel was a mass of roses. 

Tony and Annamaria’s two oldest
daughters were there with husbands and children.  Their youngest daughter,
Patricia, probably hadn’t made it home from college yet.  Father Donnato stood
by the fireplace.  I was surprised to see Kirk beside him.  Kirk, like Father
Donnato, was in priestly garb, his blond hair downy now that he’d washed out
the goo he’d used for his role the night before.

After I’d paid my respects to
Annamaria’s family, I stood alone for a moment, nauseated by the warm room,
noise, and smell of flowers.  I made my way to Kirk, and when he turned to me,
I said, “Aren’t you kind of in the wrong pew?”

“Liz, for heaven’s
sake!”

“Well, Annamaria was such a
staunch Catholic I wondered—”

“I am allowed to have friends
outside our church, you know.”

I’d never seen Kirk so crusty
before.  Curious, I couldn’t resist a little jibe.  “No, I didn’t know
that.  Surely the Bishop’s Committee has some rule against it?”

He glared at me.  At the best of
times, Kirk, with his blond hair, round blue eyes, peaches-and-cream complexion
and stocky build, looked like a choir boy, not a full-grown Episcopal priest. 
Now, his face pink with indignation, he looked Meg’s age rather than only ten
years my junior.

“Your joke’s in poor taste
given the circumstances,” he said.

I felt the heat rise in my face,
part anger, part embarrassment.  I took a deep, calming breath.  “Point
taken,” I said.  “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”  He
clasped his hands in front of him.  “I’m unnerved by what happened to
Annamaria.  She was such a good person, kind, generous—it hurts to know she’s
gone.”  Tears glittered in his eyes.

“Even though you believe in
heaven?”

“Heaven has its share of
saints.  They should leave us the few we’ve got.”

I stared at him in astonishment. 
“There’s hope for you yet, you young whippersnapper, you.”

He smiled and moved off.

Fran glided up to me.  “Why
are you looking at Kirk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Kind of narrow-eyed and
considering.”

“Wasn’t she the Indian
princess on the Howdy Doody show?”

“You idiot!”

We both started to laugh and
quickly stopped.  We looked around to see if anyone had noticed and saw Alisz
at the front door.

“Whoa, that’s a
glare-and-a-half!” Fran whispered to me.

“I can’t blame her, walking
in to find us giggling when we should be mourning.”

“We are mourning, just not in
the same way.”

Patricia made her way into the
house past Alisz’s rigid form and fell, wailing, into her father’s arms.  Tony
began to sob.

I walked over to Alisz.  “I’m
so sorry about Annamaria.  I know how close you were.”

Her hazel eyes glittered.  She
nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.

Behind us, Tony’s wracking sobs
grew louder.

I thought Alisz must be barely
holding herself together and wished I could think of something comforting to say.

As Father Donnato led Tony and
Patricia away, Patricia whispered brokenly, “Oh, Papa, what will we
do?”

“Did you pick her up at the
airport?” I asked Alisz.

“Yes.”  The word barely
escaped her lips.  She was pale except for the patches of blusher on her
cheeks.  There was no sign that she had cried, but Alisz had always been
strong.

“That was so good of you. 
Fran and I came over to see if we could help, but there doesn’t seem to be
anything that isn’t taken care of,” I babbled.  “Mother’s making casseroles,
I’ll bring them by later.”

To my intense relief, Fran came up
behind me and said we’d better go.

As I stood in the bright sunshine
by Fran’s new black Mustang waiting for her to unlock the door, I took a deep
breath of the cool morning air.  Pine and cedar trees formed a dark wall behind
the Vico’s house, and the air smelled fresh. 

Fran hit the lock release, and I
got in.  The car had gathered a lot of heat.  We opened our windows as we
rolled slowly along.  Two houses down on the other side of the street was
Alisz’s long, low house of thin pink bricks.

“This is a great car,
Fran.”

“Yeah.  Black’s not a color
I’d choose, though.  It has to be washed constantly to look good.”

“What do you mean you
wouldn’t choose it?  You did!”

“Sure.  I just meant since I
got it I’ve seen other colors I liked better.”

“Buyer’s remorse, huh?”

“I guess,” she said. 
“So are you going to explain to me why you were looking at Kirk that
way?”

I wriggled uncomfortably.

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. 
“Whatever is wrong?”

I gazed out at the lightly
populated golf course.  I couldn’t think of a more tedious pastime, but I
didn’t say that to Fran since she’d been raised believing it was the nation’s
religion.  “Promise you’ll never tell?”