The Winter Widow (21 page)

WHEN Sheriff Holmes took off to sort out a fatal accident involving a drunk driver, Susan went to his office window and looked out at a cold gray sky, the color of frozen pond water. Late yesterday afternoon, Vic Pollock had been released on bail. Parkhurst and a deputy were bringing him in for more questioning. The street outside was empty with Sunday morning quiet, and somewhere bells rang, summoning all the good folks to church.

And then there was Vic, she thought, turning from the window as the door opened and a deputy herded Vic Pollock into the office. Parkhurst was right on his heels. The deputy closed the door and leaned against it. Vic leveled on her a gaze of rancorous resentment. She wrapped herself in a cloak of cool poise, crossed to the sheriff's desk and stood behind it.

“Sit,” Parkhurst said to Vic, and nodded at the chair in front of the desk. She shot Parkhurst a cautionary look, but he seemed to have himself well in control; after Vic lowered his bulk to the chair, he went to the window, propped his rear on the ledge and folded his arms. Silhouetted against the gray sky, he looked like a short-tempered guardian angel.

The dissonance between them was, to say the least, intensified after his attack on Vic. She was angry and he was white-lipped and defensive.

Vic leaned his broad shoulders against the chair back and it creaked in protest. What was going on in his head, other than resentment at being here, she had no idea. He gave no indication he'd ever even seen her before and certainly no evidence of guilt or contrition at his assault on her.

He'd spruced himself up some in cleaner khaki pants and a red plaid shirt, and his greasy blue-black hair was slicked back, but his fingernails were rimmed with dirt and he still gave off a faint odor of the predator. She'd brought in a grizzly bear and felt there ought to be bars between them.

“Where's your wife, Mr. Pollock?” she asked as she sat down.

“Don't rightly know.”

“You've been telling people she's visiting relatives. Why'd you say that?”

“None of their business.” He stared right through her as something stirred deep down in the wilderness of his mind. “Emma Lou'll be back.” Anticipation flickered across his fleshy face.

Plans for Emma Lou when she returned, Susan thought, and doubts nibbled at her theory he'd killed his wife. If Vic was relishing cruel punishments, Emma Lou couldn't be dead. If she wasn't dead, where was she? Sophie'd said better to look in Kansas City. Did Sophie know something or was she just talking?

“Toxic waste, Mr. Pollock. Who's paying you for the privilege of leaving it on your land?”

“I purely didn't know what was in them drums.”

Parkhurst made a sound of disgust. “Some slime just sidled up with a fistful of money and said, ‘You take it and I'll leave my poison right here in the middle of all this fertile farmland.'”

Vic scooted his chair a little to one side and turned his head to look at Parkhurst. “Weren't like that. City fella come to talk, needed space, didn't matter out in the open. Said nothin' about no poison.”

“You didn't ask,” she said, “what was in the drums?”

Vic swung his head back to her and she was reminded of the slow menace of Guthman's bull. “What for? God answered my prayers. Nothin' grow in that holler anyway and it's been hard times. Always repairs and the wheat crop failed and then them taxes. My great-great-granddaddy started up that farm. Weren't gonna lose it for them taxes.”

That had a little ring of truth behind it, and she wondered whether a jury would give it any credence. “Who approached you?”

“I only saw him the once.”

“How were you paid?”

“Came in the mail, regular.”

“A check?”

“Cash.”

“What was his name?”

Vic furrowed his brow, signifying deep thought. “Don't believe I can remember.”

“Uh-huh.” She knew he was lying. He knew she knew, and he didn't care. “What did he look like?”

“Like everybody else. Ordinary.”

“Tall? Short?”

“Uh—” Again, Vic wrinkled his forehead. “Medium, I'd say.”

“Hair color? Age?”

“Can't think right offhand. Maybe light-colored hair, maybe some younger than me.”

He was vague and unhelpful because that was his nature, but he was also annoyed that the easy flow of money was cut off. What passed for intelligence was a sort of animal instinct for survival; make it pay and he wouldn't hesitate to sell out his supplier.

“Where does this toxic waste come from?” she asked.

“Don't know.”

Another lie? She couldn't tell. It was possible whoever made the arrangements carefully kept that information to himself. “Lucille Guthman found out what you were doing.”

“Don't see how. Didn't anybody know.”

“That why you killed her, Vic?” Parkhurst said. “She found out, would have spread the word and spoiled your game. Same reason you killed Dan.”

Vic swung his head to look at Parkhurst and grinned, crinkling up the flesh around his small, cold eyes. “Can't pin it on me. Weren't anywhere near Kansas City.”

Parkhurst, without moving a muscle, managed to convey contempt and utter disbelief.

“Pried into a lot of things, Lucille did,” Vic said. “Got into something she shouldn't of. Just like Dan.”

Susan leaned back in her chair, not allowing any of her rage to show, and let Parkhurst take over the questioning. He asked the same questions she had, only rapid-fire and accusatory, with sneered disbelief when Vic gave the same answers.

Vic didn't show any of the signs of guilt most people display: no tension in his posture, no clenching of jaw muscles, no breaking of eye contact or tightening of knuckles. His large hands with thick black hair on the backs lay relaxed on his bulging thighs. The only emotion she could read was fuming irritation that his lucrative sideline was interrupted by interfering busybodies. He stuck to ignorance and gave away nothing more than that the man who paid him was maybe blond and maybe younger.

“Answered all these questions more'n twice over,” Vic said. “You got nothin' on me.”

Unfortunately, that was true—nothing concrete to tie him to the murders; none of his three rifles had been the weapon used to kill Daniel—but Vic was at the center of much furor. The attack on her was the least of it and probably canceled out by Parkhurst's assault on him, but environmentalists were sharpening their pencils to make lists of charges to bring against him, and neighboring landowners were rushing out to consult attorneys.

“You're free to go, Mr. Pollock.” She stood up behind the desk. “That'll be all for now.”

His lifted his head slowly to stare at her, and for a brief instant his eyes were unguarded. Primitive fear crawled along her scalp and she felt hair stir on her arms. As clearly as though he spoke aloud, she heard his dispassionate thoughts.
Come a time when you're all alone somewheres. Look over your shoulder. I'll be there.
Then it was gone, that glimpse into his mind, like a shutter clicking shut, and he rose, nodded to her, grinned at Parkhurst and shambled out. The deputy followed. She backed to lean against the wall.

“Sweet fellow, isn't he?” Parkhurst said.

“The stuff of which nightmares are made.” She folded her arms and rubbed the upper parts. “You think he killed Daniel and Lucille?”

Parkhurst took a long breath, pushed himself off the window ledge, paced to the chair Vic had just vacated and dropped into it. “Why would he kill Dan?”

“Daniel might have known about the toxic waste. You said he wanted to talk to you about something, maybe that was it.”

“How'd Dan find out?”

“Lucille could have told him.”

Parkhurst slouched down, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Speculation. We need a few hard facts. There's somebody else who must have been just as concerned as Vic to keep this all quiet.”

“Yes. The city man with blond hair who set it up. You saying he might have killed Daniel and Lucille?”

“I'm saying we let the sheriff keep bringing Vic in and chipping away. If a murder charge looms, I'll bet he suddenly starts to remember a lot more about that man.”

She nodded. And probably a lot more about where his wife is. If Emma Lou's disappearance wasn't connected with the murders, she wanted it out of the way. She glanced at her watch. Lucille's funeral was at three.

*   *   *

A FEW minutes before three o'clock, Susan slid into a pew far in the back of the crowded church. She wondered how many of these people were here out of liking for Lucille and how many out of the respect due Otto Guthman.

A bronze casket with a spray of pink roses sat just below the altar rail and masses of flowers were bunched on either side. The music pounded in her head and she felt dizzy with a sick sense of unreality. The casket blurred, blended and superimposed itself on the image of Daniel's. Digging fingernails into her palm, she took a slow breath and concentrated on the people in the pews in front of her.

Ella Guthman, hunched and shriveled inside a black dress, seemed propped up by Otto, face dark with anger, on one side and Jack, face waxy pale, on the other. Doug McClay, seated on the aisle midway down, looked remote with inward concentration. Cold light bled through the stained-glass windows and dusted his blond hair with a greenish tinge. What was he thinking of? Lucille? Or was he focusing hard on anything else just to get through this?

Brenner Niemen and Sophie sat just behind him, Brenner with his arms crossed and his head bent, Sophie darting glances back and forth over the congregation with avid curiosity, like a promoter counting the house. Floyd Kimmell's reddish-brown hair made him easy to spot, and his beefy shoulders strained the fabric of his reddish-brown suit coat. I sure wish I knew what it is you think you're getting away with. Maybe nothing to do with the murders. She hadn't found any evidence that pointed to him, but maybe she hadn't looked hard enough.

Osey Pickett was with his parents and the four older brothers who looked so alike she couldn't tell one from another. Hazel, clutching a handkerchief, fixed a sorrowful gaze on the Guthmans. George Halpern and his plump, comfortable wife were just in front of Susan, and Parkhurst sat beside them. Two rows ahead Helen looked composed and attentive; next to her Henry Royce, the editor, looked grim.

When Susan came out of the church after the service, it was bitterly cold and beginning to sleet. In her little brown Fiat she followed the procession of black cars behind police escort to the cemetery and stood at the edge of the group around the open grave. Rows of weathered stones with withered, faded flowers stretched around them. A cold wind sneaked through the skeletal trees etched against the slate sky. Icy pellets stung her face.

Ella leaned heavily on Jack, her face twisted with pain. Otto stood tall, with his head high and his brows drawn together in a look of thundering rage. Doug McClay stared intently at the toes of his shoes, possibly to shut out the minister's words. Sleet hissed an accompaniment in the background like a thin keening dirge.

“I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

When Reverend Mullet finished, people began moving around, approaching the Guthmans with offers of sympathy and speaking to each other. Susan threaded her way through the group, intent on catching Sophie, but several people stopped her to ask what she was doing about these awful murders and when would there be an arrest. Soon, she told them. “I'm following every lead and the investigation is progressing.” She kept moving, not giving anyone an opportunity to ask where it was progressing to. George's wife gave her an understanding smile and a friendly pat on the arm as she passed.

“Miz Wren.” Mayor Bakover, face ruddier than usual from the wind and cold, touched the brim of his hat, and led her aside, then rested both gloved hands on the handle of his cane. “I'm afraid this has gone on long enough.”

She eyed him warily. What was he talking about?

“Folks weren't any too pleased about your appointment to chief and now I'm going to have to listen to them. Not only haven't you found who killed Dan, but you allowed another death to occur. This simply won't work. I'm sorry, Miz Wren, but I can't permit this to go on any longer. I'm afraid I'm obliged to relieve you of your duties.”

“It's only been eleven days since Daniel was killed.” She kept her voice calm. “I'm making progress.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“I will.”

“Not good enough. I need somebody who'll get results now. There's no further use for you.”

Why, you bastard. She'd underestimated him, felt she'd been so clever convincing him, but he'd taken one look at her and understood immediately how to use her to his benefit. Somebody had to pry into the affairs of Otto Guthman; his name had been used to lure Daniel into a trap and it was on his land Daniel had been shot.

The mayor had been in a quandary; he dared not offend Guthman—powerful, influential and staunch supporter—in case Guthman was innocent. And there was Susan. If she found the killer, all to the good. If she didn't—if she annoyed prominent citizens—well, what could you expect, she was an outsider and a woman at that. Now that Lucille had been killed, Bakover felt Guthman was innocent; he wouldn't kill his own daughter. Susan could be dismissed and somebody else brought in.

She wasn't as convinced as Bakover of Guthman's innocence. Maybe he wouldn't kill his daughter, but maybe he was just that ruthless if there was no other way. That she'd discovered no glimmer of a motive didn't mean there wasn't one.

“You knew it was only temporary,” Bakover said. “This is your last day.”

She was so furious her jaw ached as she tried to speak in a level voice. “You can't do that.”