Tippy Toe Murder (10 page)
“I guess so.” Lucy was astonished to see
Annemarie Slack leading a small procession of grocery carts across the parking
lot to her Chevy Suburban. The IGA staff didn’t include bag boys except on
Saturdays, so Lucy was amused to see the bakery lady and Mort the butcher
helping Annemarie with her bundles.
“Annemarie’s doing everything herself,”
Miss Tilley went on. “Kitty told me she absolutely refused to hire a caterer.” “For
some people cooking is a way of expressing love,” mused Lucy. Thinking of the
fish sticks and hamburgers she’d been serving lately, she added, “I prefer to
express it in other ways.”
“So I see.” Miss Tilley was staring rather
pointedly at Lucy’s tummy.
Embarrassed, Lucy quickly asked, “Is Kitty
very upset about losing Morrill?”
“It’s hard to tell. You never really know
what Kitty’s thinking. My guess is that she’s rather shocked. I stayed with her
last night. She didn’t cry, thank goodness, but she didn’t seem interested in
anything, either. She had the TV on, but I don’t think she could tell you what
she watched. She just sat there.” “Were Fred and Annemarie with her?”
“No. They were busy with the police and the
undertaker. In fact, Fred called and asked me to stay with his mother because
they couldn’t. He’s a good son.”
“Mommy,” whined Sara.
“Here, honey,” said Lucy, digging in her
purse for a coin. “You can ride the horsey.” A small mechanical pony stood in
front of the grocery, but Lucy always marched the children past it. Sara was
thrilled with her treat and climbed right on.
Aware that she had only a few minutes
before the ride ran down, Lucy switched the subject of the conversation. She
knew that Miss Tilley and Caroline Hutton were old friends.
“Now that there’s been a murder, I hope the
police don’t forget about Caro.” For a minute the words seemed to hang between
them, and Lucy was afraid she had upset Miss Tilley.
“I’m hoping the opposite,” the old
librarian answered. She had obviously given the matter some thought. “They’ll
have to investigate both crimes to see if there’s a link, won’t they? This
might be the beginning of a crime wave against senior citizens.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No, but I think the police will have to
consider it. Maybe they’ll find some new information about Caro. I hope so.”
“The worst thing is not knowing what
happened to her,” said Lucy. The horse was prancing more slowly now.
“I don’t think Caro is dead. I think she’s
. . . what’s that term?” Miss Tilley’s face clouded with the effort of
remembering, then brightened when she found the right words. “Missing in
action.” She smiled. “That’s it. Missing in action.”
“What do you mean?” began Lucy, as the
horse ground to a halt and she went to help Sara get down. When she turned,
Miss Tilley was gone.
One hour and a hundred and twenty-three
dollars later, Lucy was on her way home. Sara, licking pink icing off her
fingers, was in a cupcake-induced state of bliss.
Driving along Main Street, Lucy was soon
past the hardware store. A block or so later the business district ended and
the street was lined with the impressive mansions built in earlier centuries by
sea captains and merchants. Lucy drove by the Slacks’ ornate Victorian; it
seemed gloomier than ever. The overgrown fir trees that blocked out the sun
couldn’t entirely account for the atmosphere that seemed to surround the old
mansion.
Fred and Annemarie’s Federalist-style house
stood nearly opposite, freshly painted gleaming white, the crushed-oyster-shell
driveway sparkling in the sunlight. A new road had been cut alongside Fred’s
property, where plans for a new subdivision had been approved. The project
never got off the ground; only the fresh blacktop and a single foundation stood
as a monument to the recession that had stalled so much of the Northeast.
Lucy drove a few blocks farther before she
passed the little bungalow where Franny lived with her mother on the outer
fringe of the village. When Lucy saw several police cruisers parked in front,
effectively barricading the house, her stomach lurched. Swallowing hard, she
hoped Franny had a very good alibi.
No talking
backstage.
Franny, however, had no alibi at all.
“You mean absolutely nobody can verify that
you spent all yesterday afternoon at home?” Horowitz’s soft voice betrayed no
emotion and his eyes were pale blanks to Franny. If anything, he seemed tired.
Investigating crimes must get rather depressing, she thought.
“I watched a little bit of TV. I looked
through some magazines. I found an old Agatha Christie paperback and read it.” “You
didn’t get any phone calls?”
“No.”
“Nobody dropped by?”
“No. Nobody would have expected us to be
home. I’m always at work. And yesterday was Mom’s day at the thrift shop.”
Franny smiled weakly at her mother, who was huddled in a rocking chair in the
comer of the living room. She was watching avidly and saving up all the
details, but Franny was certain that this story wouldn’t be served up to
entertain the bridge club or the other energetic retirees who volunteered at
Meals on Wheels.
There was certainly a lot to see. The
little house had literally been invaded by police officers. When she had opened
the door, Horowitz had flashed a warrant and sat Franny and her mother down in
the living room. He wanted to ask her some questions, he said, while the house
was searched. Franny had no idea what they were looking for, but soon the house
was filled with policemen intent on exploring every nook and cranny. Horowitz
remained in the living room, along with a second man whose job seemed to be
operating a tape recorder. A female state trooper, her rounded figure looking
slightly ridiculous in her mannish uniform, stood nearby. Franny hoped she wasn’t
going to be subjected to a body search and eyed the female officer uneasily.
The problem was that Franny was having a
hard time believing in her own innocence. In fact, she had wished more than
once that Slack would drop dead, most recently on the day he fired her. And now
that he was dead, really dead, she was glad.
She knew it was wrong to feel this way. She
went to church every Sunday and believed in her heart that it was wicked to
rejoice in another’s misfortune, but she couldn’t help it. He was a miserable,
horrible old man, he’d caused her a great deal of grief, and he’d finally
gotten exactly what he deserved. It just went to show that there was some
justice in the world.
Or would be if she could convince Horowitz
that she’d had nothing to do with Slack’s sudden demise. If only she didn’t
feel guilty. But there was, she’d discovered, this soft, rotten spot in her
conscience, and she knew Horowitz sensed it. He believed she’d killed Slack,
she knew it. Guilt-ridden as she was, she couldn’t hope to convince him that
she was really innocent.
“Now, why didn’t you go to work yesterday?”
he asked.
Franny was tempted to lie, to say that she’d
been sick, but decided it would be better to stick to the truth. She had told
Lucy she’d been fired, and for all she knew
it was common knowledge by now.
“Mr. Slack fired me on Wednesday.”
“Why was that? You’d worked in the store
for a number of years, hadn’t you? Why would he suddenly decide to fire you?” “He
said I was stealing.”
“Why would he say that?” Horowitz’s voice
was smooth, seductive.
“There was a problem with shrinkage—money
and merchandise.”
“Really? How much?”
“It varied. Some days ten or twenty
dollars. A total of a hundred and forty dollars.”
“You say merchandise was also missing—what
sort of merchandise was that?”
“Mostly batteries. Paint. Little stuff.”
“Explosives?”
“No,” answered Franny quickly, shocked. “At
least I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure. The store stocks dynamite, but
it’s rarely called for. I hadn’t checked it lately.”
“Do you have any idea who was stealing,
since it wasn’t you?”
“No.” Franny was reluctant to tell Horowitz
about Ben. Complaining to Lucy was one thing, turning him in to the police was
another. Across the room her mother opened her mouth to speak but apparently
thought better of it and held her tongue.
“Did anyone work in the store besides you
and Mr. Slack?” persisted Horowitz.
“Mr. Slack’s grandson, Ben.”
“He had access to the cash and the
merchandise?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t it be logical to suspect him? In
fact, isn’t that why you borrowed the camera?” “Yes,” agreed Franny, relieved
that her suspicions were finally out in the open. She hadn’t volunteered it;
Horowitz had dragged it from her.
“We’ll leave that for now,” said Horowitz,
and Franny breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Let’s go back about fifteen years,
to the accidental death of your husband, Darryl Morgan. Do you remember that?”
Franny lowered her head and began nervously
smoothing her homemade wraparound skirt over her knees. Her mother pursed her
lips and fixed her gaze on Franny.
“Of course I do,” said Franny, staring hard
at the irregular kettle-cloth weave.
“How long were you married?”
“Just over a year and a half.”
“How did he die?”
“He fell down the cellar stairs and crushed
his skull. He’d been drinking.”
“Did he drink a lot?”
“You could say that.”
“Was he abusive?”
Franny didn’t answer, so Horowitz went on. “Records
at the police station show a number of calls to the Morgan residence beginning
in September 1976 and continuing through June 1978. The code was
forty-one—domestic dispute. Do you recall these disputes?”
“I never called the police.”
“The calls were placed by neighbors,”
explained Horowitz. “There’s a pattern of increasing frequency, which ended
abruptly with Morgan’s death.”
“I came home and found Darryl at the bottom
of the stairs. He was dead.”
“That’s what you said at the time. The
records show that the DA considered charging you with Morgan’s death.”
“I was never charged.”
“No,” agreed Horowitz. “But you were
suspected.”
“What does something that happened fifteen
years ago have to do with this business here?” demanded Irma, no longer able to
sit quietly by as Horowitz built a case against her daughter.
“It could indicate a pattern,” answered
Horowitz patiently. “A pattern of abusive relationships that end in violence.” “Don’t
be stupid. Franny had a good marriage. Darryl was a real catch.” Irma had
puffed out her chest and looked a bit like a broody hen, all flashing eyes and
ruffled feathers.
“You didn’t keep your husband’s name. Why
was that?” asked Horowitz, with his usual persistence.
“I wanted to forget him. I didn’t even want
his name. That’s not a crime.”
“That’s right,” proclaimed Irma. “You’re
barking up the wrong tree. What about them Satanists? Caro Hutton disappears,
old Mr. Slack dies. It doesn’t take a genius to see that boy Ben is involved.
Him and his Devil-worshiping friends. You should leave Franny alone and arrest
them before they take another victim!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Small. I can’t ignore the
evidence.” He paused and turned to Franny. “I’m going to have to take you into
custody. The charge is the murder of Morrill Slack.”
“But what about Ben?” cried Franny.
“He couldn’t have done it. He has an
unbreakable alibi. At the time of Slack’s death, Ben was in the custody of the
Gilead police. Operating under the influence.”
Horowitz nodded at the officer, who
immediately slipped a pair of handcuffs around Franny’s wrists and read the
Miranda rights to her from a printed card. Franny was led out to one of the
cruisers and quickly driven away in a procession complete with flashing lights,
but no sirens. Irma Small watched from the window, a vague figure, her image
blurred by the aluminum screen.
No undershirts or
underpants to be worn under costume.
“There’s nothing to do here. I’m bored.”
Caro Hutton had no experience at parenting,
so she took the complaint quite seriously. She looked up from her needlepoint
and gazed directly into her young companion’s clear blue eyes. She was glad she
had chosen the name Lisa for her; somehow it suited her.
“There’s no TV. There’s hardly any toys.
There’s nobody to play with. I want to go home.”
“I used to spend summers here when I was a
little girl,” said Caro. “I was never bored. I thought I was in heaven.”
“What did you do?”
“Let me see if I can remember. It was a
very long time ago.” Caro bent her head and took a stitch or two. Children
nowadays watched too much television, she believed, and it robbed them of their
imagination. When she was a child she had been surrounded by a large extended
family, and she’d always had plenty of interesting things to do. When she began
performing and teaching, time had always been at a premium. It was only after
she retired and began watching television herself that she’d ever experienced
the numbing effects of boredom. It was a terrible sensation and she sympathized
with the little girl.
