Vengeance Is Mine (14 page)

CHAPTER 16

“Steve?”

Michele's voice was hushed in the darkness of the bedroom. She'd been silent all the way back to his apartment, and Steve could tell she was worried about something.

“What is it, honey?”

Michele sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Do you really think those three men murdered Brian?”

So
that
was it. Steve made a lunge and pulled Michele down into his arms.

“Of course not. They were at Judith's.”

Michele pulled back just a bit so she could see Steve's face in the moonlight.

“But, Steve, Judith claimed she wasn't raped.”

Steve grinned and held her tighter.

“But, Michele, Judith was lying.”

Michele looked up into his face for a moment, and then she gave a big sigh of relief.

“You knew all along?”

“Of course I did. It's the most ingenious piece of revenge I've ever come across. Most rapists pray their victims won't testify against them, but those three are stuck in jail, hoping she will.”

Michele kissed him soundly on the lips. “I'm really glad you know the truth. I promised Judith I wouldn't tell, and it's been driving me crazy. I hate to have secrets from you. You're not really going to charge them with murder, are you?”

“It's tempting, but I know they didn't do it. I figured I'd just let them stew in jail for as long as I can. Maybe it'll keep them out of trouble.”

Michele was quiet again for a full minute. Then she snuggled up and hid her face against Steve's chest.

“Steve?”

“What is it, honey?”

“Remember what I just said about how I didn't like to keep secrets from you?”

“I remember.”

“Well, there's something else and you'll probably hate me but . . .”

Michele faltered slightly. She really didn't want to confess everything, but her conscience was bothering her.

“Go on, Michele.”

“Well, I don't know what a lunker is and I've never heard of a Wig Wag, and well, Carol gave me those fishing tapes so I could trick you into asking me along on the trip to Canada, but I fell asleep watching the first one. Then, when you started talking about vertical jigging, I happened to remember a few of the words, and I—I pretended to know what you were talking about. Are you mad? Tell me you're not mad at me, Steve.”

Steve couldn't help it. He started to laugh. Michele was so damn cute sometimes.

“I'm not mad at you, Michele.”

“I can understand if you don't want to take me to Canada now that you know the truth. I—I've never caught a fish in my life.”

Steve brushed back her hair and kissed her.

“I'm glad you've never caught a fish before, Michele. It'll be a real thrill when you catch your first lunker in Canada with me. Now go to sleep, honey. We have to get up at seven-thirty.”

Michele cuddled up and kissed his chest. There was another long moment of silence.

“Steve?”

“What is it, honey?”

“Uh . . . well, I was just thinking. Are you sure you want to go to sleep? Right this minute, I mean?”

 

 

Margaret sat up in bed and switched on the light. The courthouse clock was striking the hour. She had fallen asleep about midnight, but she was awake again to hear the clock strike three, three-thirty, and now four. There was no point in staring up at the darkness. Since she was awake, she might as well make use of her time.

Brian Nordstrom's death had affected her much more than she'd let on. Margaret had liked him immensely. He'd been a joy to have on the show—good sense of humor, sharp as a tack, and a recognized artist at the age of twenty-six. There weren't many people in St. Cloud who could claim an accomplishment like that.

It was a little crazy to think this way, but Margaret almost hoped Brian's killer was the same one who had killed Ray and Dale and Les Hollenkamp. She didn't like to think that Brian's death had something to do with his sexual preferences, but she knew that people in St. Cloud got very upset when they were forced to deal with homosexuality. It was possible that someone right here in town had killed Brian because he believed he was perverted.

The thought made her shiver a little. It was unfair to think of Brian in those terms. Greg had come to the station when Brian taped his interview, and Margaret had liked him too. Of course, Howard would have disagreed with her, but Margaret thought anyone who had a loving relationship was lucky, and it didn't matter to her whether people were gay or straight.

People were always threatened by someone who was different. Margaret remembered that she'd done her share of threatening when she'd taken over the crime beat at the
Chicago Times
. The old guard had been outraged, and they'd come up with all sorts of excuses to get rid of her. She'd stuck it out and won their respect. It was unfair that Brian hadn't had the same chance.

Margaret sighed deeply. She was becoming a late-night philosopher, and it was knocking the hell out of her sleep. It was too late to take a sleeping pill now. She had to get up in a couple of hours, and there was nothing worse than feeling thickheaded in the morning. She'd work on one of her lists. That always relaxed her.

The red notebook was on top of the pile by the bed. It was her list of DRDs. The initials stood for Department of Redundancy Department, and Margaret had started the notebook ten years ago, jotting down choice phrases as they came in over the newsroom teletype. It was filled with redundancies like “Bureau of the FBI” and “California CHP.” There was the “DMV Department” and the “Amco Company of America,” and today she'd heard another real gem, “Continue on.” What other way could you continue, if not on?

There was a noise outside her window, and Margaret jumped out of bed. Someone was outside in the yard.

Howard had insisted on keeping a gun in the house, and Margaret pulled it out of her nightstand. She clicked open the cylinder to make sure it was loaded and took it with her to check the front door. It was securely locked. Heart pounding, she hurried through the kitchen to the back door. The dead bolt was in place. The thought of a killer stalking her, moving along the quiet city street, was terrifying.

Margaret pulled back the curtains and peeked out the window. Nothing moved. Perhaps it was a dog or cat she'd heard, but she'd keep the gun with her, just in case.

She watched out the window for a good ten minutes before she was satisfied that no one was prowling outside. Then she sat down in the new recliner her staff had given her for Christmas and switched on the television set. She'd never watched her own station at this time of the morning, and she liked to keep an eye on things.

The four-thirty early-bird movie would start in five minutes. Margaret watched a commercial for the new buffet that had opened on Highway 55. It advertised a Sunday brunch for $6.99—a real bargain for hungry families just coming from church. Margaret had seen the ad when it came in, and she had called the owner immediately. The price he wanted to advertise was $6.66, but Margaret had talked him into changing it. A meal that contained the number of the beast wouldn't go over big with the after-church crowd. People in St. Cloud took their religion seriously.

This Friday was Valentine's Day, and Margaret's station was running a full week of Doris Day romantic comedies. Tonight it had scheduled
Pillow Talk
and
Teacher's Pet
back to back. Doris Day movies were still big in St. Cloud. Everyone claimed they were wholesome.

Margaret's new recliner had buttons on the side for heat and massage, and she reached down to switch on the massage. The chair started jiggling immediately. It reminded Margaret of the magic fingers motel bed she'd slept in years ago at the Wisconsin Dells. She'd dropped in a quarter for five minutes, and the blasted thing had gotten stuck. It had practically shaken her teeth loose before she finally found the wall socket and pulled out the plug.

Margaret sighed and reached down to switch on the heat. She didn't much care for the vibrator part, but she'd give the chair a fair test. This recliner had cost her employees more than $300. She'd seen one just like it in Dayton's showroom.

“Good God!”

Margaret frowned as the chair warmed up. It felt as if she were sitting on top of an erupting volcano. This recliner would take some getting used to.

There was another noise in the yard, and Margaret made it to the window in time to see a black puppy hurtle over her fence and run into her snow-covered rose garden. The poor thing was panic-stricken.

Margaret had a reputation for being tough, but she'd never been able to resist an animal in trouble. She unlocked the back door and called out softly. At first the puppy stared at her with frightened eyes, but when she snapped her fingers, he dashed into the kitchen and stood there shivering.

“Come here, puppy. You're all wet.”

Margaret laughed as he shook off wet dirty snow. Jeanette would have a job to do in the kitchen when she came in to clean tomorrow. She grabbed the first thing that was handy, one of her brand-new monogrammed kitchen towels, and rubbed the shivering puppy down. Then she heated up some leftover lamb from the dinner party and put it in one of her wide flat serving bowls.

When she set the bowl of food on the kitchen floor, the puppy rushed up to lick her hand. Margaret looked into his big brown eyes and knew she was a goner. There was no way she could turn him back out into the cold.

“Let me see, puppy. Do you have any tags?”

Margaret bent to look. No collar, no tags. She'd always wanted a dog, but Howard had been allergic to animal hair. There was no reason she shouldn't indulge herself and keep him now that she was all alone. It would be nice to have someone to come home to at the end of a long day at work.

“All right, puppy. You're adopted. First we've got to find a name for you.”

The puppy looked up gravely as Margaret sat down at the table.

“Spot? Buster? Blackie? Pepper?”

None of the names seemed to make an impression. Margaret thought for a moment.

“How about a president's name? Rutherford? Zachary? Grover?”

The puppy perked up his ears and yipped once. He seemed to be smiling as he looked at her.

“All right then. It's Grover. I'll get you some tags in the morning.”

After the puppy had finished eating, Margaret scooped him up and cuddled him. He was all skin and bones. He must have been without a home for quite a while.

There was a low humming sound from the living room, and Margaret remembered the chair. It was heating and vibrating with nobody in it.

“You lucked out, Grover. I think I've got just the thing for you.”

Margaret carried him into the living room and put him down in the seat of the chair. At first he looked startled, but then he flopped down and gave a deep doggy sigh of comfort.

“You like it? It's yours. Now you're the only puppy in St. Cloud with a three-hundred-dollar bed.”

 

 

Steve squinted at the display on his digital alarm clock. Six-thirty and he was wide-awake. Michele was curled up against his side, her long dark hair sweeping out in a shining wave over the pillow. She was sound asleep, a half smile on her beautiful face.

The alarm wouldn't go off for another hour, but Steve knew it was useless to try to go back to sleep. Some half-formed idea was bouncing around at the back of his mind and he had to get a handle on it.

Getting out of the water bed without waking Michele was difficult. Steve moved slowly, inch by inch, trying not to set up a wave. Finally he managed to work his way to the edge and put both feet on the floor. One gentle push and he was up. Michele hadn't even wiggled.

His robe was hanging on the back of the door, and Steve grabbed it on his way out. He was about to close the door when Pete barreled through.

Steve caught the little dog in midair, cutting off his end run for the bed. He closed the door softly and carried Pete to the kitchen.

“Let her sleep, Pete. She's tired. Here, have some breakfast.”

Steve reached up for the box on the top of the refrigerator and gave Pete a green Milk-Bone. The dog treats came in five colors, but green was Pete's favorite. Steve had run a taste test a couple of times, setting out one of each color and letting Pete choose. He'd gone for the green each time.

“Damn!” Steve swore softly as he opened the refrigerator. The package of bread he'd bought was growing mold on the top. He tossed it into the kitchen trash. The only thing to eat was the pizza that was left over from last night. It would have to do. He was starving.

He pulled out the red and white box and opened the lid. It wasn't a very appetizing breakfast. The cheese looked like rubber, and the way the grease from the sausage had congealed on top made Steve's stomach curl up in knots. At least there was instant coffee. He'd skip the pizza and have coffee for breakfast with plenty of milk and sugar.

The teakettle had water in it from last night's coffee. Steve turned on the burner and switched it right back off again. The whistle would wake Michele, and she needed her sleep. There was nothing so awful as instant coffee made with hot tap water.

Steve scooped out three heaping teaspoons of Yuban crystals and ran the tap water as hot as he could get it. The crystals didn't exactly dissolve when he filled his mug but at least the caffeine would get him going.

“Damn!” Steve swore again as he opened the carton of milk and poured it into his cup. It smelled kind of funny, and there were lumps. The date on the carton said January 5, and this was February 11. He carried the carton to the sink and dumped it. Then he rinsed out his cup and started over. He'd have black coffee for breakfast, with lots of sugar.