ShadowsintheMist (13 page)

He was around the desk in an instant to envelop me in his
arms but I stood rigid with frustration. I didn’t stop to think I was being
unreasonable, that I, myself, had broken off our engagement before any of this
came about and here I was accusing him of discarding me.

I pushed him away violently. “Leave me alone! I don’t need
your sympathy.” I raised my chin and took a shaky breath, feeling no pity for
him despite his dejected, helpless expression. “I want a canoe for tomorrow.
Jenny Hampton and I are doing the lower reach.”

He hesitated, confused, then atypically chose to ignore the
problem. He retrieved an appointment book from somewhere under the counter and
flipped the pages, scribbling an entry.

“Okay,” he said, “you’re all set. I’ll have Mike arrange to
have the cushions and paddles at the landing with the canoe, unless you want to
take them with you now.”

“Mike?”

“He’s helping out around here. Probably still worried about
his job. Anyway, we can use him since Jim left to go back to school last week.”

“Never mind. I’ll take the stuff with me now.”

He nodded. “Come on, then. I’ll load them in your trunk.”

Minutes later, I was back on the road. Despite my anger, I
knew David was right. I needed to discuss the particulars of this “partnership”,
as he put it, with Grant. The sooner we got it over with, the sooner the year
would be up and I could put the whole sordid affair behind me.

Chapter Six

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Thomas Stearns Eliot,
The Waste Land.
Pt. 1, The
Burial Of The Dead

I stopped on impulse at a small flower stall on my way
through town, choosing a large bouquet of burgundy and orange chrysanthemums
sprigged with daisies and baby’s breath to place on Leo’s grave and a second
arrangement of delicate pink and white rosebuds to place on my mother’s.

I parked the car in its usual place in front of the garage.
I was in no mood to talk to anyone, so I slipped around the side and followed
the path across the rear garden flanked by its high hedgerow. It was a
beautiful day. Except for the soft earth and thick, rain-soaked smell that
steamed up from the ground, one wouldn’t have guessed a storm had raged most of
the night.

Following the tangle of lilacs that crowded behind the
swimming pool, I rounded a bend and was brought up short. Poised in the center
of the gravel, Kong gazed at me with feline nonchalance. I smiled.

“Hey, Kong. Nice kitty.”

He responded with a low chirrup, rubbing himself against my
ankles, his purr vibrating against my skin. I bent to caress his head and ears,
surprised by his sudden amenity.

“Good boy,” I crooned. “What a good boy.”

He didn’t put up with my fondling for long but padded off to
the side of the path with an inviting glance over his shoulder. I watched,
bemused, as he disappeared into the dense bushes. I was about to go on when his
plaintive yowl piqued my curiosity. I got down on my hands and knees to peer
into the darkness after him.

The shrubbery was heavier than I’d imagined, at least three
feet thick and snarled in twisting profusion close to the ground. I struggled
to push aside the curling branches, cursing as my arms and face were scratched.
Finally, by lying flat on my stomach, I was able to tunnel far enough in to
distinguish Kong’s yellow eyes gazing fixedly back. He too, was crouched low
against the ground. His ears were laid back and his mouth opened again and
again in a grating cry.

“What is it, kitty?” I wheedled, reaching out a tentative
hand. He backed away, swishing his tail and yowling louder. Puzzled, I noticed
a long cylindrical shape lying on the ground where he’d been. It gave off a
metallic glint. I reached out and pulled it to me. Glancing about, I realized
Kong had disappeared, so I began my slow retreat, wriggling back out the way I’d
come.

Once more on the path, I stood up, brushed at the dirt and
wet leaves stuck to me, then bent and retrieved the implement I’d rescued. It
was a fireplace poker. I turned it over in my hands curiously. How did it come
to be out here in the bushes? By the look of it, it hadn’t been here long. The
handle was still shiny and the other end…

I gasped and dropped it as though it were red-hot. Clamping
a hand over my mouth, I backed away. The essence of my nightmares stared back
at me and my mind whirled in confused spirals. There was blood on the poker. I
was certain it was blood despite the faded brown color. Clinging to the blood
was gray hair—my father’s hair.

How long I stood staring at the implement, I don’t remember
but it was some time before I was able to calm myself enough to think
rationally. I must take it to the police at once before anyone else saw it. I
picked it up gingerly and, with a shiver of revulsion, hurried back along the
path toward my car, ignoring the bright bouquets that now lay discarded on the
path. The word I’d been avoiding flashed like neon in my mind—murder!

I was so set on getting the thing to the police that by the
time I paused in my headlong flight to look up, it was too late. I pulled up as
I rounded the corner of the garage. Grant was getting out of his car, raising a
hand in greeting.

“Suzanna, how are you? Lottie said you were up with the
birds, so I assume you’ve recovered from…” He didn’t finish the sentence. The
pallor of my face and stricken expression must have spoken volumes.

“What is it?” he asked, concerned. He approached me slowly,
one hand extended, as though I were a cornered wild animal.

I did feel trapped and drew back instinctively, my mind
searching frantically for some means of logical escape. I clutched the poker
behind my back, knowing I mustn’t allow him to see it. I was all too conscious
the strong hand he held out toward me could easily have been the one that had
gripped this very poker and brought it smashing down upon my father’s head.

I spun to flee but it was too late. With a bound, he was
upon me, his hands like steel bands around my upper arms.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “What have you
got there?”

I was near panic now. I struggled helplessly, even as he
reached behind my back and jerked the poker from my grasp. I made a frantic
grab for it, trying to keep him from inspecting it, yet fearing he already knew
what I’d just discovered. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it. Was it
recognition I saw flit briefly across his face? I stood before him like a
despondent child, rubbing my wrist where he’d twisted it during the struggle.
His face was hard as he looked at me.

“Where did you get this?”

When I didn’t answer immediately, he gave me a sharp shake. “Where
did you get it?”

Just as a defenseless animal draws on its final resources
and turns to face the attacker, I grew suddenly very calm and an icy numbness
took control.

“Let go of me.” My voice held no compromise and probably
from sheer surprise, he complied, dropping my arm but not retreating. His frame
blocked any hope of escape. I was trembling but whether from fear or rage I
couldn’t tell.

“I found it in the bushes,” I said with amazing composure. I
knew there was no point lying. If he was the one who had used the poker to kill
Leo, he’d know of its whereabouts. And if he wasn’t, what difference did it
make?

He was studying it closely now. “In the bushes?” He seemed
surprised.

As his eyes lit on the hooked, charred end, I wondered if
indeed there was anything there, or if my too-vivid imagination had once again
been playing tricks. His expression remained neutral and he lowered the rod to
his side. I tensed inwardly, half-expecting him to raise it and bring it
crashing down on my skull. But he seemed more quizzical than enraged and my
heart slowed its beat. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed.

“Where were you going with this thing?”

My mind reeled. “I…I don’t know,” I hedged. “I guess I was
just going to put it back.”

“Don’t lie to me, Suzanna.” He spoke calmly but it was
obvious he was holding a tight rein on himself. I saw a muscle bulge in his jaw
and his free hand was clenched at his side. “Where were you going? To the
police?”

This is it! Now he knows I’ve seen the evidence and he’ll
have to kill me too.

“Yes,” I retorted boldly. “I was going to the police.”

Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Good. At least you’ve got a bit of
common sense! How long have you suspected?”

“What?” I was confused.

“Oh, come on, Suzie, don’t play games! How long have you
suspected Leo was murdered?”

I hugged my arms around me and stared at him dumbfounded. “I…I
guess since… I really don’t know.”

He nodded. “Don’t move.” He strode to his car, opening the
rear door and depositing the poker carefully on the seat. He shut and locked
the door and returned, taking me around the corner and into the shadows at the
side of the garage. When we were well out of range of prying eyes, he faced me,
both hands hard on my shoulders, his dark face only inches from my own.

“Now, listen to me, Suzie…um…Suzanna. It’s important you
tell no one about this. Do you understand?” His voice was low and urgent. At my
look of mixed fear and obstinacy, he sighed. “I know what you’re thinking but
it’s not true. You can trust me. I can’t tell you everything, only that we’ve
suspected foul play all along and there’s a very large investigation going on.”

I continued to stare at him, disbelieving.

“For your own safety, Suzanna, you have to stay out of it.
Do you understand?”

The intensity of his voice frightened me. If he was telling
the truth, I would go along with him and even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t risk
angering him. If he thought I trusted him, he might leave me alone until I
could expose him. I nodded and he looked relieved.

“What about…that?” I asked, inclining my head in the
direction of the car.

“I’ll take care of it.”

I clamped my lips together to stifle a retort.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it to the proper authorities. We’ve
been looking for something concrete and it looks as though you’ve given us just
what we need.” He smiled. “You’ve saved us a lot of work.”

“May I ask who ‘we’ refers to, Grant?” He couldn’t know I’d
been to see the police and they’d told me they weren’t conducting any
investigation.

He looked across the unused paddock, with its jumble of
weeds and grasses only partially mown, to the stables where Rudy Coleman was
undoubtedly tinkering with the tractor that broke down before completing the
job. When he turned back to me, I knew he was going to tell me a lie but I kept
my face under rigid control as perspiration soaked my armpits and palms.

“The police, of course,” he said. “I’m working with the
police.”

* * * * *

The Pere Marquette River was named after Father Jacques
Marquette, the French missionary and explorer who founded missions at Sault
Sainte Marie and Saint Ignace. The river lies like a flattened spring between
Ludington and Baldwin, flowing in loops, twists and back flips that fill miles
of square acres. It isn’t a wild river like the Pine, located a little further
north but not as placid as the Manistee, also north, so is a favorite among
amateur canoeists who want an exciting but less treacherous challenge. During
the summer holidays, the Pere Marquette swarms with people. Now, with the peak
season finished, there were only a few remaining tourists, so Jenny and I could
enjoy our outing without the clamor of crowds.

It’s exhilarating to spend a day navigating the labyrinth of
low-hanging boughs, shallow shoals, felled logs and rocky protrusions reaching
out from the steep banks. At times, it’s all you can do to cling to the sides
of the craft as it bumps over rushing rapids or twirls helplessly in deep, slow
eddies. I was looking forward to the afternoon, if only to ease my mind of the
overwhelming sense of dread that haunted me.

Thankfully, I hadn’t seen Grant since our meeting in the
driveway. I needed time to think and put things in perspective. Maybe I was
jumping to conclusions too quickly. It was easy to read answers into unrelated
expressions or gestures and I couldn’t afford to jeopardize my credibility any
further. It was imperative that I gather evidence methodically. There was no
point in running off to the police again, spouting theories of murder and
bloodstained weapons.

Grant would probably only deny the whole affair and with the
entire community already thinking me unstable, who’d believe me? I’d bide my
time and watch until Grant made the inevitable mistake that would substantiate
my suspicions.

But there again, the argument returned. Who was to say for
certain that Grant killed Leo? He certainly had a lot to gain—a vast
inheritance of wealth as well as power. He’d shown himself since childhood to
be unscrupulous and was no slouch when it came to putting on a believable
charade. I half-suspected Grant may have even convinced Leo to rewrite his will
so he’d have free rein over the estate and business. But the only way he could
do it, I thought ruefully, was by manipulating me once we were married. He
obviously considered me very pliable!

Still, there was something intrinsically trusting in me that
continued to jump to Grant’s defense. I simply couldn’t imagine the man who dragged
me from the pool, worked frantically to revive me, then watched over me with
concern could be the same man who had brutally struck Leo and left him, dying,
in that same pool.

Perhaps it was a burglar? Had anyone checked to see if there
was anything missing from the house? I remembered the figure standing in the
road and the other by the trees near Leo’s grave. Perhaps this person killed
Leo and returned to search for the murder weapon, afraid he might be traced by
his fingerprints on the handle? I shook my head. It was no use. Anyone could
have committed the crime. For now, I would put the puzzle aside and try to
relax. I suspected my stamina would be sorely tested over the next few weeks.