Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly (6 page)

“There’s something I’d like
you to clear up for me,” Gene said.  He cleared his throat.  “A lot
of people around town have wondered about Andre’s sexual orientation.”

I laughed.

He shrugged.  “His assistant
Barry was definitely light in the loafers.”

I scowled at him.  “The word
is gay.”

“Whatever.  They lived
together.”

“Barry had his own apartment over
the garage.”

Gene shook his head impatiently. 
“I want to know about Andre.  What was your impression?”

“My impression was that he
enjoyed women very much, in every way imaginable.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to give you
details,” I snapped.

“I’m trying to learn as much
about the victim as possible, and I need to know this.  You dated him.  Did you
have sex with him?”

I broke eye contact and got up,
paced around his desk, and looked out the glass door into the parking lot
beyond.  “I think Barry was in love with Andre, but I don’t know what
Andre felt about him beyond a close friendship.  They’d known each other for
years, since Hollywood.”

“I hope you took adequate
precautions.”

I whirled and glared at him. 
“That’s going way beyond what’s any of your business.”

His face reddened, but he
persisted, “If Andre swung both ways, and Barry died of AIDS—”  He
stood.  “Look, Liz, I know you’re smart, and I hope you take care of
yourself.  But how can I know what you know?  If it’d been me, I wouldn’t have
gone near a guy I wasn’t sure was completely straight.”

“This is great coming from a
man who’s slept around as much as you have.”

“That’s been exaggerated, and
not that it’s any of your business, I’ve been extremely careful.”

I gripped the back of his worn
black chair.  “Look, I want to get out of here.  Ask me what you need to
about Andre’s murder and let me go.”

“Do you know of anyone else
who had an affair with Andre?”

Reluctantly, I named a couple of
women.

“Do you know if Andre had any
enemies?”

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone with a
motive to kill Andre?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about
his political campaign?”

That was easy.  “No.”

“Do you know if he had any
enemies?”

“No.”

“How did Meg feel about
him?”

“She was angry—” I
stopped, looked down at the ugly black naugahyde chair.  Nasty, personal
comments about Gene swirled in my mind, but I clamped my lips shut.  He’d suckered
me.  All I could do was minimize the damage.  Besides, Jill Ferguson would
surely detail that scene for Gene as soon as she heard about Andre’s death. 
“Andre ran over her cat six weeks ago, and she was angry at the
time.”  I looked up and stared into his eyes, “But she came to
realize it had been an accident and forgave him.”

Gently he stroked one of the
piggyback plant’s leaves.  “She was late for rehearsal last night, did she
tell you why?”

“I didn’t think to ask.”

“Did you see her around the school
before rehearsal started?”

“No.”

“Has she ever worked at the
high school?  As a cleaning lady, maybe?”

“Of course not.  Why on earth
are you asking me that?”

He ignored my question and said,
“I remember hearing her ask Annamaria at one of the early play meetings if
she’d help her make her costume.  Do you know anything about that?”

My heart pounded with dread. 
“I didn’t know about that.  She and I bought a black jumpsuit for her to
wear.”

It was almost a relief when he
asked, “How did Meg feel about your affair with Andre?”

“She didn’t know about it.  I
was with him after she’d gone away for her first year at Wellesley.  We
suspended our relationship during her vacations.”

“You don’t think anyone told
her about it?”

“We were discreet.”

“I heard about it.”

I shrugged.  “I didn’t think
anyone knew.”

“You didn’t tell Fran or your
mother?”

I laughed.  “No, I did not
tell my mother.  Yes, Fran and I talked about it, but she wouldn’t have told
anyone.  Perhaps people saw us together and drew their own conclusions.”

He sat down.  “The same way
people have drawn the conclusion that you and Fran are lovers?”

“Which people are
these?”

“It’s a rumor that doesn’t go
away.”

I shrugged.

“If you and Fran are lovers,
it gives her a motive to kill Andre, especially if there’s a virus
involved.”

I turned and looked out the glass
door.

“Are you and Fran lovers,
Liz?”

“There are so many good
things about living in a small town,” I said.  “But this part I
hate.”

Rumors could hurt people so
badly.  Like after James died, the rumors that Fran had hastened his death with
a mix of painkillers and sleeping pills.  It was pretty well known that Fran
and James’s marriage was not a happy one.  James was nearly 20 years older than
Fran, a cold, intellectual man used to being catered to. 

He’d died on a hot summer day when
the doctor had expected him to live for another six weeks or so.  He’d had a
lot of painkillers and sleeping pills in his system, and rumor said that Fran
had given them to him.

Fran confided only in me.  She
believed James simply couldn’t take any more pain or another look in the mirror
and chose that way out.

I had said, “It must have
been an accident, Fran, he didn’t leave a note.”

“No, he wouldn’t have done
that.  He wouldn’t want people to know he’d given up.”

“But he must have seen that
you’d be blamed.”

She shrugged, a sad, hurt look in
her green eyes, and I remembered how, near the end, I’d sometimes seen
something close to hatred in James’ face as he looked at her young, beautiful,
vibrant body.

Now Gene was saying, “People
will talk.”

I shook my head.  I turned from
the door to look at him.  “You had an affair with Fran, how can you even
ask this?”

He looked startled, then smiled. 
“If you don’t know if Andre swung both ways, how am I supposed to know
about Fran?”

“Good point.  Okay, not that
it’s anyone’s business, no, Fran and I are not lovers, never have been, never
will be.  Yes, we love each other.  I can’t imagine a day going by without
talking to her.”  A pain in my heart reminded me of the fight we’d just
had.  “She’s the funniest, smartest, most loving person I know.  If I were
a lesbian, I’d certainly choose her to be my partner, but I just don’t have
urges in that direction.”

“Okay.  Thanks.  I had to
ask.”

Feeling drained, I pulled his desk
chair out. Something was wrong with one of its casters, and I had to muscle it
away from the desk so I could sit.  “This is a dreadful chair,” I
said, shifting on its lumpy seat.

Gene smiled fondly.  “It was
Uncle Jed’s.”

Jed had been chief for years. 
After his death, a series of incompetents had held the post for extremely short
tenures until Gene took over.

Resting my elbows on the desk, I
cradled my face in my hands.  “This is a nightmare.”

“Hey, there’s not a rubber
hose in sight.”  He tipped his chair back.  “Did you ever know Andre to
take drugs?”

This was one question I’d been
expecting.  “He’d had a real problem with substance abuse before he left Hollywood,” I said.  “He’d gotten clean.  It was important to him.”

“You never saw him smoke
marijuana?”

“No.”  I hesitated.  It had
occurred to me that Meg’s mood swings might be drug-related.  She’d been taken
into custody with some other kids during a drug raid in college, but she’d been
let go, and she swore she didn’t use anything.  I didn’t see how Gene could
know that, but just in case—a pinch of truth might do some good.  Staring at
the dimness inside my cupped hands, I said, “Barry smoked marijuana.”

“Andre allowed that on his
property?”

“Yes.  It helped Barry with the
nausea.”

Finally he said, “Now what
about these trips you and Fran take together?”

I spread my fingers and looked
through them at him.  “What has that got to do with Andre?”

“Could you just answer?”

“We go on vacations.  We
enjoy traveling together.”

“Where do you go?”

I shrugged, folded my hands on the
desk.  “Last fall we went east to do the changing leaves thing and to
visit Meg at school, meet her boy friend, and visit Fran’s alma mater.  The
spring before we went to Hong Kong and Japan.”

“Where do you get the money
for these trips?  They sound pretty spendy.”

“Annamaria was great at
finding good prices.”

“They still cost.”

“Yeah.”

“So how do you two come up
with so much money?”

“I’ve never asked Fran.  I
assume James left her money.”

“And you?”

I stared at him.

“Look, I know you and your
mother went through rough times after—” he paused, then plowed on,
“your father left.  Now you spend money without a thought.  You sent Meg
to an expensive school, for example.  I’ve gotta wonder.”

“Because I might have been
blackmailing someone?”

“It’s a thought.”

I shook my head.  “Mother’s
got a great head for business.  If she’d been physically able to work, she
could have saved Grandfather’s store.  I assume she has some investments.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

I shook my head.

“What about you?”  His
gaze was steady, remorseless.

I stared down at my hands, drew an
arrow on the cold grey desktop with my sweaty finger.

“Jeez, have you been
blackmailing someone?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then, what can be so
bad?”

My face grew hot.

“Spit it out, Liz.”

“I write,” I mumbled.

“What?  I didn’t hear
you.”

I looked up at him.  “I
write,” I said loudly.

“What do you write?”

“Romance novels.”

“And you get a lot of money
for that?”

“You wouldn’t believe how
much.”

“I’ve never seen your name on
a book.”

“I use a pseudonym.”

“What is it?”

“That is truly none of your
business.”

He sat straight and glared.

“Look, it would be hell if it
got out.  I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep my identity secret.”

“No one knows?”

“My agent, of course.”

“Anyone in town?”

I hesitated.  “Meg knows, and
Fran.  They promised to carry the secret to their graves.”

“And you make a lot of
money?”

“Yes.”

He grinned, put his hands behind
his head, elbows out, and leaned back in his chair.  “How’d you get into
that racket?”

“Back when I was still
librarian, one of the assistants was writing true confession stories for the
magazines and making extra money, so I tried it.  After awhile I started a
story that kept stretching and stretching until it was a novel.  I sent it off
and sold it, and then other books that kept selling and selling.

“The really irritating thing
is, I can’t for the life of me sell the books I want to sell.”

“What kind of books are
those?”

I hadn’t meant to say that.

Gene leaned forward.  “Come
on, you’ve gone this far.”

I shook my head.

He smoothed his moustache, trying
to hide a smile.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not.”

“And don’t you dare ever tell
anyone.”

“I won’t, but why did you
write the play if you’re afraid your secret writing identity will get out?”

“It wasn’t smart.  I guess—I just
needed something to do.”

He gave me a long look.

“Can we get this over with?” I
demanded.

He said, “Where does Meg get her
money?  She a writer too?”

“She works as a sub at the
library.”

“She can’t make much that way.”

“No.  I give her an
allowance.”

“How much?”

I told him.

“Cousin Claire give her
money?”

“Not since she dropped out of
college.”

He frowned.  “I’ve seen her
rock climbing gear.  It’s not cheap.  How does she—”

“A lot of it was Hugh’s. 
Alisz gave it to Meg when she started climbing with Jared and her last
summer.”

Gene stared down at his boots,
studying their polished toes, then looked at me.  “Just one thing more,
Liz, and I’m sorry to ask, but I have to.”

My shoulders tightened in dread.

“Could your father have come
back?”

“What?”

“Have you seen—”

“Never mind, I heard
you.”  I stood.  The big black chair barely moved, so I had to grip the
desk for support while I shoved the chair with the backs of my legs.  I walked
around the edge of the desk and out the door.  I barely heard Gene saying,
“I’m sorry,” through the roaring in my ears.

I walked down the gloomy hallway,
through the empty lobby, out into the sunshine.  No black Mustang at the curb.

I realized I’d left my purse in
Fran’s car.  I was stranded without a penny.  I didn’t want to go home, but I
needed something to comfort my stomach.  I went east on Main Street past the
high school. 

Warfield Community Library, a
small, charmless, brick building, sat across the street on the corner of the
high school property.  Laurel and Alisz stood talking at its door.  I hurried
across the intersection.  I passed a gas station and the Italian restaurant,
and came to Sheila’s In, a small white cottage.

I opened the gate in the white
picket fence that would be draped with red roses this summer.  I bent to pet
the white Persian drowsing in the sun before continuing up the walk.  I opened
the front door and saw I was in luck—no other customers because it was early
for lunch.

Sheila had removed the interior
walls in the front of the cottage to form the dining area.  Mismatched wooden
chairs and tables she’d picked up at garage sales provided seating.