Up in Smoke (38 page)

“What about?” Todd said.

With some posturing about no questions without their attorney present, Todd went off to the governor's office with the chief and her head shitkicker. The other cop, who looked like he bent railroad tracks with his bare hands, put his back to the door and planted his legs wide. After a few seconds of surprise and shocked silence, Nora started up with her usual chatter. One look from the cop shut her up. Bernie wondered if the cop could teach him that trick.

“I need to go pick up somebody,” Bernie said.

“Just sit down, sir. It'll only be a few minutes.”

It was more than a few. When Todd was released, he said, in the interests of saving time, he'd get Cass.

“Do it right away,” Bernie said. “She has some appointment at seven. Get her before she has a chance to leave.”

Leon got questioned next and then Nora. Bernie was last. He'd assumed they were digging once again into who did what, where, and when at the time the governor was shot. And he was right, but to his surprise there were additional questions about the governor's visit to the girl in the hospital: where was everybody standing in the room, who spoke to the girl, who was closest to the bed, what had the Governor said to her, what had everybody else said to her, what was the order of their leaving, did anyone go back into the room after the Governor left?

Bernie was getting a little tired of answering questions in the dark. “What's this all about?”

“Just answer the questions,” Parkhurst said.

“Another minute or two, Mr. Quaid,” she said. “Who was wearing perfume?”

“Perfume?” he repeated. “I don't understand. What does perfume have to do with anything?”

“Did you notice any?”

“I probably wouldn't have paid any attention if I had.”

“Does Nora wear perfume?”

Bernie grinned. “So much it makes your eyes water. Especially if you're in a car with her.”

“And the press secretary, Hadley Cane?”

“Maybe, but I couldn't tell you what kind.”

“What about you? Aftershave or cologne?”

Bernie was completely bewildered. What the hell did perfume have to do with the attempt to kill the governor? “No.”

“Who does, Mr. Quaid? The men on the governor's staff, who wears aftershave?”

“I don't have any idea. Is there a law here that we don't know about? No aftershave allowed?”

“No, Mr. Quaid, no law.”

When Bernie got back to the living room, Hadley had arrived and was perched on one couch tapping a shoe with impatience. She looked a question at him. He shrugged.

Susan went through a whole fistful of questions with the press secretary before getting to questions dealing with aftershave.

“Aftershave?” Hadley wrinkled her nose. “Why are you asking? I guess some do.”

From the paper bag at her feet, Susan took out the bottle of Sand she'd bought, removed the top and handed it to Hadley. “Do you know who uses this?”

Hadley put the bottle under her nose and sniffed. She looked up. “The governor, I think,” she said. “Sometimes.” She gave the bottle back. “Molly buys it, but he doesn't like to wear anything like that in case, you know, it's off-putting to a voter.”

44

Halloween. Almost six o'clock and this black night was tortured by a coming storm. Cass felt hollow inside and cold, but the closer it got to seven, the calmer she became. A year ago today at seven o'clock she had turned to say something to Laura in the back seat and a drunk smashed into their car. What Cass had said was lost in the mists. She should have died, too, along with Ted and Laura. Today she would make that right. In one hour she would end her pain.

She pulled her down jacket from a hanger in the closet, went to the dining room and hung it over a chair. While she sat at the Victorian desk, sleet chattered against the window as though tapping fingers beckoned. With a fluid leap, Monty lit on the corner, crouched and wrapped his tail around his front paws. She stroked the cat, feeling the silkiness of its fur. Rosie the dog crowded against her knee, laid her head in Cass's lap and looked up with anxious eyes.

Cass raised the dog's muzzle, slid a hand over her ears, and said, “It's okay.” She looked at Monty. “Everything's going to be all right.”

From the middle drawer, she took out a sheet of her aunt's stationery, white with a border of blue irises.

Dear Bernie

Please take care of Monty and Rosie. There isn't anyone else.

Cass

She hadn't known Bernie long, but when she'd said she couldn't join the campaign because it meant she might be away for long periods of time and she had these animals to look after, he'd promised he would take care of them if anything happened to her. Of course, he hadn't meant what she had in mind. He'd meant an accident, or something preventing her from getting home at the expected time, but he had made a promise and he would keep it. She knew he would.

From the bottom right-hand drawer, she took out the revolver, opened the cylinder and slotted in one bullet, hesitated, then put in the other five. Why not? She slipped the gun in the jacket pocket.

Roaring with fury, Rosie raced to the door. Seconds later the doorbell rang. Hackles raised, snarling, the dog threw herself at the door. Damn it, Cass had told Bernie she couldn't come to this meeting. As usual he just flattened her like a steamroller and kept right on coming. She'd intended to be gone when he got here, to leave the door unlocked so he'd have no trouble getting in and he could find the note.

She'd have to get rid of him somehow. Tell him she was expecting an important phone call and she'd come out to the farm right after the call came. Taking Rosie's collar, she tried to pull her away. “It's Bernie, silly dog. You love Bernie.” The dog resisted with every pound, dug in her claws and strained toward the door.

Cass opened it, hanging on to Rosie. “Todd?” She had to yell over the dog's barking. “What are you doing here? Where's Bernie?”

“Tied up with cops.” Todd stepped inside. Rosie twisted loose and leaped for his throat. He yelled and fell. They rolled on the floor.

“Rosie!” Cass grabbed the dog's tail and pulled. Rosie whipped her head around to sink wicked teeth in Cass's arm, realized at the last second who Cass was and let Cass drag her off Todd. With her claws scraping on the wood floor, Cass pulled her to the bedroom and shut her in. Barking, Rosie threw herself at the door.

“Fucking dog!” Todd muttered, examining the ripped collar of his expensive jacket. “You ought to have it put down. It's vicious.”

“Actually she's very sweet. I don't know what got into her.”

“Get your coat,” he said. “Let's go.” He gestured at her down jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

“You packing up to move?” Following her through the archway with her, he looked at the boxes stacked against the wall and picked up the roll of tape sitting on the top one.

“Getting rid of stuff.” She never did get them to the church rummage sale. Somebody else would have to deal with them. “Todd, I really—”

“Come on, we don't have all day.”

“I told Bernie, I couldn't do this.”

Placing his hands on his hips, he looked at her. “You have to come.”

“I don't.”

“The governor wants you there, and I need you to drive.”

“You need me to drive,” she repeated flatly.

Todd held out the keys. “I'm fighting off a migraine and headlights can trigger it.”

She took the keys and shrugged on her coat. “I'll take you out there, then I'm coming right back.”

“Fine. Let's get moving.”

“What do the police want with Bernie?” she said as she slid in the driver's seat.

“Questions.” Todd snapped the seat belt in place. “Jesus, you'd think they'd get tired of their fucking questions, the same ones over and over.”

“About the little girl who was killed?”

“About everything. Wakely, the girl, the Egelhoff woman, Jack getting shot. Who was where, who said what. It's never going to die down until they stop harassing us. Every time they come around, they bring the whole media circus with them.”

Icy needles of sleet
pit-pitted
against the windshield and she turned on the wipers. At Eleventh Street, she turned left, the quickest way to get to Harper and then pick up Highway 10 to get to Jack's farm. Hampstead was built on small hills and with the streets icing up, she had to concentrate on her driving.

As they passed the fast-food places and used-car lots at the edge of town, the dark seemed to thicken and press like a barrier the car had to push at to get through. The road climbed gently, but even though the rise wasn't steep, the car didn't have four-wheel drive and it wanted to slide back.

“Surely, the police don't think Bernie's guilty of anything.” Like smothering a little girl. Cass didn't know Gayle Egelhoff and after twenty years she didn't really know Wakely anymore either, and while she was sorry about their deaths, it was the little girl that haunted her. How could anyone hold a pillow against the face of a little girl, feel that desperate struggle for air, and keep pressing until the fight stopped.

“Who the hell knows,” Todd said.

Saturday night, Cass thought, when Bernie came to pick her up for Eva's party, the dog had wanted to tear him apart. He'd been wearing a jacket he'd borrowed from Todd. The next time Bernie had come, Rosie greeted him with ecstatic whimpers and slobbery kisses.

Could the jacket have set her off? If Rosie was injured trying to protect her owner, she'd might remember the attacker's scent. Was it Todd who Rosie wanted to tear apart? Todd hit the dog? Todd killed Gayle?

45

Just as Susan was thinking maybe she'd call it a day and leave for home, her phone buzzed. Now what? “Yes, Hazel.”

“Call from a Bernie Quaid,” the dispatcher said. “Says he's found a suicide note from Cass Storm.”

“Where is she?”

“He can't find her and he's worried.”

“Tell him I'm on the way. Parkhurst still here?”

“Yep.”

“Reporters still around?”

“Does a hen lay eggs?”

“Tell Parkhurst to pick me up at Tenth and Main.”

“Take a coat. Big storm moving in.”

Susan slipped on her trench coat and kept a wary eye out for the media as she hiked the block and a half to the downtown area where Parkhurst was waiting.

“What's up?” he said as she climbed in.

She told him as he drove to Casilda Storm's house. Bernie, one hand on the dog's collar, had the door open as soon as the Bronco pulled up in the driveway.

“What's going on?” Susan asked. The dog obviously didn't like them coming in; it stood stiff, growled low in its throat.

“Cass. I'm afraid—”

“Do something with the dog, Mr. Quaid.”

“She won't bite.”

Right. How many times had she heard that?

“She's not mean, she's frightened. And confused. When I got here, I found her shut up in the bedroom. And Cass isn't here. Then I found the note. I don't know what's going on.”

“Do something with the dog.”

“Right, yes, okay.” He trotted the dog to a bedroom and closed the door on it.

“Where's the note?”

“Dining room. On the desk.” He started to show them.

“Why don't you sit down, Mr. Quaid. Did you touch the note?”

He nodded, backed up and lowered his rear to the Victorian sofa. “Picked it up without thinking.”

Susan went around the stacked boxes into the dining room. “Is it Ms. Storm's handwriting?”

“Yes,” he said, then “I'm not sure.”

“Which?”

“You've got to find her!”

“Yes, Mr. Quaid. We will do that.”

Bernie ran a hand through his hair. “I'm not all that familiar with her handwriting. I think it's hers.”

“Okay. Just sit tight while we look around.”

After she and Parkhurst made a pass through the house, she let out a breath of relief when they didn't find a body. Nor did they find any signs of struggle.

Susan bagged the note and sat in the wingback chair by the sofa. Parkhurst prowled.

“Cass is not in the house,” she said.

“I looked in the bathroom,” Bernie admitted. “I was afraid she'd be sitting in a bathtub full of bloody water.”

“What makes you think she's suicidal?”

“Because she's sad, she's had this awful tragedy happen.” He told her that Cass's husband and daughter had been killed by a drunk driver. “She's struggling with depression.”

“Where would she go? If she wanted to hurt herself. Since she isn't here, where would she go?”

“I don't know! Why aren't you looking for her!” In the bedroom, the dog started barking.

“Calm down, Mr. Quaid, you're upsetting the dog.”

“Just find her.”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“We were waiting—”

“Who do you mean by we?”

“Everybody. Molly, Leon, Hadley, Carter. And Nora. We were waiting for Todd to come back with Cass.” He took a breath, maybe to gather his thoughts. “I was going to pick her up but you were asking me questions.” Little hint of accusation.

“Go on.”

“So Todd went.” Bernie ran his hand through his hair, scrubbing at the top of his head. “He never got back. He doesn't answer his cell phone. Cass didn't answer her phone. I don't know where he is. I don't know where Cass is. I don't know what's going on.” The last was said on a rising note of anger.

Susan looked at her watch. Nearly seven-thirty. Todd must have left the farm around six. “Was there anyplace else Todd needed to go, anything he needed to do? Pick up pizza? Buy potato chips?”