The Mortal Groove (24 page)

“That's right,” said Cordelia.

“Why?”

Jane cleared her throat. “We're from the Twin Cities. A friend of ours—a reporter—was looking into the death of a young woman in Waldo, Sue Bouchard. It happened back in 1971.”

“I know the story,” said Lang.

“Our friend was attacked a few nights ago. We're pretty sure she met with Wilton and he was the one who knifed her.”

“Because she was looking into the old murder case?”

“Exactly,” said Jane. “She was planning to drive down here and do some research—”

“And you two decided, that since she couldn't, you'd do it for her.”

“Something like that,” said Cordelia.

“Again, my question is why.”

“Because I love her,” said Cordelia, pushing off the hood of the car and meeting his hard gaze. “And I'm not talking about platonic friendship either. I want to see Wilton get what's coming to him.”

“So you've been looking into that old murder case. I checked before I drove over here. Larry Wilton has been living in Phoenix for the last dozen or so years. But he recently spent some time in Minnesota, where he's currently wanted on a murder charge.”

“What murder charge?” said Cordelia.

“Seems he bludgeoned a man from Colorado with a pipe wrench, stuffed the man in the trunk of a car, drove the car to Minnesota, and then set it on fire to cover his tracks.”

“Good God,” said Cordelia, looking away.

“Let me tell you ladies, this is not a man you want to mess with.”

“We had no idea he'd be down here,” said Jane.

“No, well, he obviously doesn't want anyone digging into that unsolved homicide.”

“Because he did it,” erupted Cordelia. “He was the one who killed Sue Bouchard.”

“You found proof of that, did you?”

Cordelia's entire body deflated. “No.”

Lang crouched down next to Jane, looked her in the eye. “This is important. You have to listen to me. Get in your car and go home. Forget about playing amateur detective. Wilton is a scary man. He's running from a murder investigation. If Ms. Thorn's girlfriend dies, he'll be on the hook for two murders. He's already been in jail once for assault. Three strikes and he's looking at life in prison. That makes him a man who's got nothing to lose. Did you hear that? Do you understand what it means?”

Jane nodded.

“So you're leaving, right?”

“We're leaving,” said Cordelia.

He stood up, his hands on his hips. “I'm sorry your trip to Iowa wasn't a pleasant experience. Have a safe trip home.”

 

 

“I'm exhausted,” said Cordelia, driving slowly past the last of the gawkers still lingering along the street. “I can't make it home on one hour's sleep.”

“Let's pull off somewhere, maybe take a short nap,” said Jane.

A few miles out of Conner's Mills, they spied a gravel road. Cordelia backed the car in so they could see the highway, then told Jane to use the power switch to recline her seat. Once both seats were at a more comfortable angle, she switched off the engine and the lights.

Cordelia covered herself with the car blanket and Jane pulled her suede jacket up over her shoulders. She didn't think she'd actually sleep, but the next thing she knew, her eyes opened and it was morning.

Glancing over at Cordelia, she saw that she was already awake. “What time is it?” she asked, stretching her arms.

“A little after nine.”

“Can you believe we slept this long?”

“Nine is
long?”

Mouse loomed over Jane's head, sniffing her face. “Hi, boy,” she said, reaching up and patting the sides of his neck. “I suppose you need to do your morning routine.” She leaned over and turned the ignition key, then pulled the seat back up to a sitting position. She opened the door and Mouse jumped out. She let him do a little roaming, knowing he wouldn't go far.

“I'm starving,” said Cordelia, checking in the glove compartment and finding nothing but empty candy wrappers.

“So here's what we do,” said Jane. “I want you to drop me off at the Ben Franklin store in Waldo.”

“Are you kidding me? I was planning to blow through that town in under a minute.”

“And then you drive somewhere, anywhere you want, and find yourself a nice breakfast. Pancakes with fresh maple syrup, a nice fluffy omelet filled with ham and cheese, and some homemade country-fried potatoes. Sound good?”

“You forgot the ketchup for my potatoes.”

Jane's stomach flipped over. “Of course, have all you want. Oh, and don't forget to give Mouse some water. Buy him something nice for breakfast, too. But no sweets, got it? And then you can call the hospital, get an update.”

Cordelia's eyebrow arched upward. “And what will you be doing while Mouse and I are enjoying our sumptuous repast?”

“I'll hit the store and buy myself some different clothes and a cap to cover my hair. After I'm all decked out in my new duds, I'll walk over to Sue Bouchard's mother's house, talk to her for a few minutes, and then I'll call you. You can come pick me up along the highway. I'll just start out walking, heading east.”

“And what if Larry Wilton sees you?”

Jane glanced over at her. “I'm counting on him laying low this morning after what he did last night. Look, Cordelia, I just want a few minutes with Sue's mom. That's all.”

“We're not going to take Lang's advice—let this go?”

“Yes, we will take his advice,
after
I've spoken to Mrs. Bouchard.”

Jane could tell Cordelia didn't believe her.

“You know, Jane dear, I love you like a sister, but sometimes you have this sick, insanely tenacious need to understand things that are none of your business.”

“Nolan said almost the same thing to me once, although he left out the words
sick
and
insanely.”

“Well, he shouldn't have. If you've got an Achilles' heel, that's it.”

“But will you do it, even if you don't agree it's the right thing?”

Her eyes rose to the roof of the car. “Oh, I suppose.”

Jane leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You're a real mensch, you know that?”

“Oh, joy. I've always wanted to be a mensch.”

Jane let Mouse back into the car. “Let's hit the road. The sooner we're done in Waldo, the sooner we can go home.”

 

On the drive back, the gray day darkened and a cold rain began to fall. This actually made Jane's effort to disguise herself easier. It only took fifteen minutes to find a pair of lined logger pants, brown work boots, a brown hard hat, and a tan PVC raincoat with a hood. In small towns, Ben Franklin stores often took on the form of a mini-Cabela's. After paying for everything, she changed into her new gear in the unisex fitting room, stuffed her old clothes and boots into a sack, and headed out the back door.

On her wav through town, nobody seemed to take much notice of her. She took back streets, kept her head down and stayed away from the main drag. By ten
AM
, she was standing on Mrs. Bouchard's side steps, ringing the doorbell.

The elderly woman who answered was stooped and seemed terribly frail. Her thin hair was curled away from a heart-shaped face, and she wore rimless glasses. She seemed somewhat taken aback by Jane's clothing, but she invited her in nonetheless, leading her through the kitchen into the living room. She walked slowly, as if she feared the consequence of putting a foot down wrong.

“I don't usually wear this kind of outfit,” said Jane, taking off the hard hat.

“No?”

“It's kind of a long story.”

Mrs. Bouchard sat on an antique couch. It was a beautiful piece, covered in a red, dark green and black Chinese-patterned silk. Much of the furniture in the living room was an Oriental style. She nodded for Jane to take the chair next to the couch. “You mentioned on the phone that you'd come down to Iowa to look into my daughter's death. You're doing; research for a friend?”

“That's right,” said Jane. “An investigative reporter.”

“She wants the case reopened?”

“Possibly. But I don't want to get your hopes up.”

“No,” said Mrs. Bouchard, straightening her flowered house-dress over her knees. “Believe me, I know nobody cares anymore. It happened too long ago. Ancient history.”

“This may seem strange to you, Mrs. Bouchard, but I care.”

The old woman pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Call me Grace.”

“Thank you, Grace. I'm Jane.”

“Just ask whatever questions you want. I'll try to answer them as honestly as I can.”

“I'm sorry if this seems abrupt, but I don't have much time. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

She gave her head a quick shake, looked around the room. “This just seems very strange to me. Nobody's ever been very interested in my opinion.” She removed a handkerchief from her sleeve, touched it to her nose. “I
know
who did it, Jane. There's never been a doubt in my mind. Randy Turk murdered my daughter. He couldn't have her, so he took her life.”

Jane inched forward in her chair. “What do you mean ‘he couldn't have her'?”

“He couldn't stand the thought that Sue would turn his proposal down.”

“He proposed marriage?”

“It was a couple of days before Sue died that Randy came over here with a ring. They sat on the back porch, on the swing, and talked for a while, then he got down on his knee and asked her for her hand in marriage. I'm ashamed to say that I was looking out the kitchen window at the time. I could tell by the look on Sue's face how pained she was.”

“She just flat out turned him down?”

“I think so. But he talked her into waiting a couple of days. He thought if she gave it more thought, she'd change her mind.”

“She talked to you about it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Why did she turn him down?”

Grace hesitated for a moment, then said, “Because she was in love with someone else.”

“Do you know who?”

“Of course I do. It was Randy's brother. Ethan.”

At Jane's surprised look, she added, “I know it seems like an odd match. My daughter was very bright. She wanted to become a lawyer, you know—and she would have, too. Ethan wasn't a smart man, but he was decent, kind, and had his own kind of intelligence. And he was handsome as all get out. He had a good job as a car mechanic. They fell in love while Randy was away in Vietnam. I'm not sure Sue was ever really that serious about Randy. She felt sorry for him because he was going off to war. She promised to write him every week—and she kept her promise. They'd gone steady in high school. She was a year behind him. When he went to college, they dated other people, but still kept in touch. He came home after he learned he would be sent over to fight. And that's when things heated up again. But it didn't last—not for Sue.”

“So when Randy got home, he didn't know anything about the romance between his brother and his girlfriend?”

Grace shook her head. “They kept things very private. Ethan felt terrible about it, I could tell. It tormented him. I love him like a son, Jane. He was always so good to me.” She took her glasses off and wiped at the edges of her eyes.

“The night your daughter died—”

“Yes, well, Randy came over. He wanted her to go have a beer with him and his army friends down at Big Chick's Lounge. Sue didn't want to go, but I think he pressured her.”

“Had she broken it off yet?”

“No. I assume she told him that night, and that's what led to her death. From what I was told, Randy drank a great deal at the bar. I don't think he would have done it if he'd been sober. It was a combination of bad decisions.”

“I've heard he had a terrible temper.”

“I know people say that, but I never saw it. He could be
moody. And when he came back from Vietnam, he seemed changed somehow. He was so angry. He said the people in Waldo were small-minded and self-consumed.”

“Did you ever meet his army buddies?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“What did you think of them?”

“They were polite, but rather rough.”

“And what did you think of Randy?”

“Oh,” she said, sighing, “he was a responsible boy. I know he and Ethan were close, that he'd always stood up for his brother. I admired his loyalty. Children can be terribly mean and I imagine Ethan was an easy target. But there was a restiveness in Randy even before the war. All I knew for sure was, he wasn't right for my daughter.”

“The police,” said Jane. “You must have told them about Ethan and Sue. Didn't that cause them to look at Randy much more critically?”

Her gaze drifted out the picture window. “I never said anything. Ethan begged me not to.”