dramatic-looking wrap of gauze.
"Terence. Believe me, if someone's trying to hurt
Paddy, it isn't Reuben. I saw him in that cemetery and I
can guarantee it."
He shook his head impatiently. "I know he's dead.
But don't you feel that he's still around, somehow? I
mean, we talk about him. Telling old stories. Recalling
things he did. Being glad he's gone. And it's unhealthy.
It's like the old saying, do you remember? Speak of the
devil ..."
"And," I finished, "the devil appears." A chill
prickled foolishly across the back of my neck. "But
that wouldn't account for any actual physical attempts
on Paddy."
Terence sighed. "You know that open circular
stairway he insisted on, when he designed the loft?"
I knew it. I'd been in the upstairs living space: parties
and so on. The stairs were an invitation to vertigo
or worse.
Terence went on. "How I fell was, someone had
left a bunch of thread tangled across the top riser.
This," he lifted his taped left hand, "is nothing. I could
have broken my neck."
"There's fabric all over the studio," I objected.
"Couldn't it have blown there, or gotten dragged there,
somehow?"
He frowned. "I don't think so. He's neat as a pin
when he's working. But that's not all. The other night I
went out for a walk. When I came in, all the gas burners
on the stove had been turned on. It's not an electronic
model, either, you have to light it with a match.
The place was reeking with gas."
"Well. That is more straightforward. You can turn
on one by accident, or absent-mindedly. But not all
four. Or not normally, anyway."
Delicately, I did not suggest that Terence might be
a little absent-minded lately, himself. But he got the
drift.
"Any health problems that I may be having do not
bear upon the problem we are discussing," he said, his
arm tightening on the parcel he had tucked under it.
I might have believed him, but he slurred a couple
of words as he said this, and didn't seem to notice.
There was beer, and probably some hip flasks, too,
among the festival attendees. But Terence wouldn't
have touched any.
I wanted to ask him to unwrap that bandage, let
me see the hand. Then I could be certain he wasn't just
shining me on, or at least not in that department; that
he hadn't wounded himself on one of Weasel Bodine's
few remaining teeth, for instance, perhaps in an effort
to protect Paddy. Because it had occurred to me that
one reason for killing the hapless Weasel might be that
he had seen Reuben's murder. And if Paddy was involved
...
But the medical examiner's report on Weasel still
wasn't out. And as a result, the promise I'd made to
Bob Arnold to keep mum when it came to any information
about that skin shred was still in force.
"Anything more?" I asked. "Other attempts on either
of you, suspicious events? And ..."
A new possibility occurred to me. "Where's Paddy
now?"
If Paddy and Terence really were on the outs, and
Paddy wanted to get rid of Terence, not just break up
with him ...
"He's eating his salmon and having an argument
with Clinch Brockway," Terence replied. "Paddy
thinks he ought to be able to put a balcony on the back
of his building, and Clinch says it'll be an eyesore on
that historical structure."
Terence managed a laugh. "Actually, I don't think
Paddy really even wants a balcony. But he loves an
argument. More than he likes grilled salmon, even.
He'll be there awhile."
Across the street, some little girls had gotten a box
of sparklers from somewhere and were trying to light
them. I kept an eye on the girls, none of whom could
have been more than seven or so, as they enjoyed the
forbidden activity.
"Have you," I asked Terence, "told Bob Arnold
about this?"
He shook his head emphatically. "Paddy would
have a fit. He says--can you believe this?--he says
none of it happened. He's convinced it was all my
imagination ... or so he says."
Great. Now I could worry about that. Was it live,
or was it Memorex, as recorded by Terence's perhaps
unreliable mental processes? But who would want to
kill Paddy or Terence?
"I don't know," Terence admitted slowly when I
asked him. "But I've been thinking. Two fellows got
murdered. I've been thinking of how it could have happened.
I mean, exactly how."
Me too. If someone killed the Weasel first, for instance,
that ruled out the Weasel's possibly having witnessed
Reuben Tate's death. Which meant there would
have to be another motive for ...
Across the street, the girls looked up guiltily as a
woman's voice called from the tent area. Still carrying
the sparklers, they scampered across the library lawn,
up the hill, and out of sight.
"... Play with those things, you do it where I can
see you," the woman's voice scolded. "Go right over
there by that fence and stay there, where there's nothing
to catch fire."
Terence frowned, distracted. "What kind of a
name is that, anyway? Weasel ... sounds like a cartoon
character."
I looked at him sharply. His face had slackened.
Then he snapped back, just as a small commotion
came from behind the library. Puzzled, I got up, then
identified the sound: the little girls. They were screaming,
but not just to hear the sound of their own voices.
Kids will do that. But these little girls meant it. I ran,
Terence behind me.
The tables were still crowded, the folks who'd been
last in line just starting on their dinners, others finishing
desserts or coffee. The girls gathered by a low fence
dividing the park from a private yard. Around them lay
a few burned sparklers, powdery with gray chemical
ash.
Lashed to the fence, its cloth belly slashed and its
button eyes torn off, a paring knife protruding from its
cloth body, was Molly Carpentier's rag doll. One of
its little black cloth shoes lay in the grass beneath it.
Molly stood staring. "I put her down," the child
said softly, her eyes huge. "Just for a minute ..."
Mike Carpentier seized his daughter's shoulders,
turned the child, and gave her a little shove toward the
tents. "Go and sit down. I'll get her. Go on, now."
Slowly, the child obeyed.
"This is what happens." Mike said angrily. "Little
savages. This is why," he yanked the rag doll from its
bindings, "I have to keep her away from them. Or
she'll end up just like them."
The other girls had moved away, sniffling, herded
by their mothers. I thought their first shock had been
real; the doll was an awful sight. But once they'd gotten
going, each shriek had made the next come more
easily, till they were frightening one another even more
than the doll had frightened them. >
Terence had gone to sit with Paddy. From the
looks on their faces, it seemed they were arguing,
Paddy clenching his fist and slamming it onto the long
table. Terence said something, got up, and strode back
in my direction, passing the drinks table with the
brown paper parcel still under his arm. Paddy followed,
but stopped by the iced tea and lemonade
glasses, grabbed one of the few remaining filled ones,
and swallowed some of it angrily.
Marcus came down from the bandstand, grabbed a
lemonade also, and ran back up again. Willow Prettymore
appeared suddenly, took another from the two
that were left; the pitcher was empty.
Gotcha, I thought, starting toward her. And I
wanted to refill that lemonade pitcher, too; the late
stayers were enjoying the music, and the cleanup crew
was bound to be thirsty as well.
Heywood came down from the bandstand as Marcus
went into a reprise of the "Biggest Whatever" song.
Mike Carpentier passed the drinks table just as Willow
did, still propelling Molly, who stopped to reach for a
glass, looked imploring at her father, then moved along
fretfully without a fresh drink.
On the lawn, the little girls looked up and began
laughing, their fright forgotten at the funny song that
Marcus was singing. Heywood laughed with the children,
then continued across the lawn toward the drinks
table, stopping to accept congratulations on the performance.
Finally he picked up the last remaining glass of
lemonade and took a swig from it.
The unpleasantness, it seemed, was over. But
something still felt rotten in Denmark. For one thing, I
did not at all like the expression that appeared suddenly
on Heywood's face.
Wincing, he looked down at his glass and frowned,
putting his hand to his throat. From across the lawn I
heard him cough, then try to say something. Willow
put down her glass and took a step toward him, her
face creasing abruptly with concern.
A rumble of thunder broke the sudden silence as
Marcus cut off in the middle of a rousing second
chorus and ran to his father. Suddenly it was pouring,
the skies opening drenchingly, tent tops flapping and
poles rattling as the squall hit us.
"What's happening?" Ellie cried, rushing from the
grill area where she had been wrapping salmon fillets
and putting them into a cooler. George and Wade
turned together from the desserts table.
Terence reached me, shoved the brown paper parcel
at me, and ran to help. Marcus reached his father's
side at the same time. Bending convulsively, Heywood
staggered and fell, his glass of lemonade flying from his
hand in an arc of pale yellow.
Willow stopped, watching the liquid splash, and
Marcus knelt helplessly by Heywood while Terence
peered over his shoulder. "Get an ambulance, somebody!"
Terence shouted.
Turning, Willow considered her own glass there on
the drinks table. She hadn't yet tasted it, apparently;
now she picked it up again and sniffed cautiously at it.
The scream she let out then made the little girls
sound like amateurs.