Eoin smiled. “I’m not married.”
“Your girlfriend, then. Very beautiful. She will thank you very much if you buy her this.”
The salesgirl was a well-endowed brunette with an Eastern European accent. She took the shawl from his hands and draped it across her shoulders, then around her neck, then over her head, then around her hips in a well-practiced display of options for the vacillating customer.
“Just a friend. I’ll take it.”
He followed the salesgirl to the register. On the way, she stopped at a display of brooches and picked one off the stand. It was a round silver Celtic knot. Symbol of the continuity of life, every ending a beginning. She held it against the shawl.
“It is beautiful too. Beautiful against the wool.” She started to demonstrate again, but Eoin put up a warning hand.
“That’s fine. Wrap it up. I’ll take them both.”
He had just finished paying when Ben walked up. He folded his arms across his chest and looked Eoin Connor right in the eyes. Connor was impressed. The boy had spunk. He was still rangy, not filled out yet, a scrawny shadow of the man that was going to be, but he had nerve, and here he was, challenging him man to man and in public.
Connor smiled slightly. It wouldn’t come to blows, of course, that wasn’t the point. But Ben might need to learn that however young and fit he was, it wouldn’t do to lock horns with someone like himself. I might be older than you, you wee — he caught himself before the usual expletive; he’d have to make more of an effort to subdue his working class language if he were to have any chance with Jane. But I could still take you in a fair fight... and I don’t fight fair.
He waited to hear what was on Ben’s mind. It wasn’t long in coming.
“Do you love my mom?” Ben asked.
Connor was taken aback. It was just like Ben, still not much more than a teenager, brash and impatient, thinking that everything happened in a rush. He hadn’t had the time to learn that some things develop ever so slowly and are the better for it. He was still at the stage of tossing his heart in first and letting his head follow sometime after. Still, he deserved an honest answer.
“Not yet,” Connor answered, “and not like you mean. I don’t know who she is, she doesn’t really know, herself, so no, Ben, I don’t.”
Blue eyes regarded him warily. “Don’t you hurt her.”
Ben squared his shoulders unconsciously, setting himself up as white knight and protector.
Connor laughed at that. “I can tell you this much, Ben. That I’ll not do. I’ll not hurt her, I promise. She’s had enough of that for a while.” He stopped.
There wasn’t really any way to explain how complicated it all was. There was no way to tell Ben that he longed to get to know Jane and to love her with great abandon, but wasn’t sure she’d have him in her life in any form. Not that this upstart needed to know that in the first place, he reflected. And how to explain that the absent Fiona threw a spanner in the works, even if Jane would have him? For now, he was content to ignore the problems.
“The only end I have in mind, Ben, is to enjoy her company, for whatever it is, for however long she’ll have me. I’ve no designs, good or bad.”
He glanced up to see the other two standing at a distance in the store, heads together, watching. He could see the curious looks on their faces. Another rite of passage for young Ben, he thought. They sent him over to talk. He tilted his head toward them in acknowledgement, and Adam waved a cautious hand in his direction.
“Before Dad died, long before really, since he didn’t — well, let’s face it—Dad didn’t know he was going to die — he took all us boys out to lunch one day.” He smiled in spite of himself at that and continued. “We went out to this really great restaurant on the ocean and had crab and shrimp and oysters, just us. When we were done, he got really serious and told us that one of these days, there’d come a time when Mom needed us to take care of her, and he wanted to make sure that we understood it was our job if he wasn’t there. That he expected all of us to be the men of the family, and that he trusted us and never to forget it.”
Connor was torn between admiration and annoyance for Dead John. Admiration because he was an old-fashioned husband who clearly took his obligation to his family and his wife seriously. Admiration, because he’d handed her specifically to his sons. Annoyance because this one had been too young to understand, and the weight of it showed clearly in his face even this many years later.
“My dad did the same thing. Big responsibility. I was glad I had older brothers; it made it easier.”
The boy’s face relaxed in the comfort of shared experience.
“It sure does. When Dad died, Adam and Seth were right there with her. When they had to go back to seminary, Luke took construction jobs around town for about a year. She came out here alone — and I was elected to come out. We’re all worried about her. She’s not getting better. She’s not, and there’s nothing I can do. I’ve let Dad down.”
He stopped abruptly.
Connor recognized the turmoil in the voice, the unwillingness to trust speech for fear that it would let loose unmanly emotion.
“I understand,” he said, and he did. Not from the perspective of losing a wife, for that he’d not done; she’d lost him. But he remembered the awful, isolating grief that had enveloped his mother after his own father’s death, and the terrible sense of impotence they all had in dealing with it. But his mother had followed her husband to the grave in only a few short months. Jane had half a lifetime left. “You didn’t let your dad down, you did just what he asked. This isn’t something you can fix.”
“She used to be really fun. Not like Dad, she always worked harder and longer, and she was always more serious. But she could be fun.” He paused. “She never even smiles anymore.”
Connor paused to consider his words carefully. No room for missteps here. Ben was too shaken by his mother’s near death to realize that she’d already turned a corner. Ben would have to realize that himself, in his own good time.
“It’s like a part of herself died, Ben. It’s not like it is for you. You loved your dad, and you miss him, but you’re a separate person from him. She’s not, not anymore, probably not since long before your dad died. That’s what people mean when they talk about two becoming one. She has to get on by herself and it’s hard for her.”
“Will she ever get better?” The troubled eyes were earnest, the face glum.
Connor returned his direct gaze. “I’d like to think so. I care about her, too.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you didn’t. I just needed to be sure, you know?” Then, abruptly, he changed the subject. “She won’t even go to communion. She never missed communion. What’s wrong? She won’t talk about it.” It was like Connor had opened a dam. “Will she ever get better?”
The question was more earnest than before, the eyes more troubled.
“I hope so.” Dear God, Connor thought, I hope so.
Ben looked at him, his jaw working but no words coming, clearly uneasy with what he wanted to say and afraid to say it.
“Spit it out, Lad. What’s on your mind?” Eoin Connor wasn’t prepared for the response.
“Is it true, what they say in church? That she can always come back? That it isn’t ever too late? It’s important. Adam says yes, but he’s supposed to. Is what he told me true?”
Connor was taken aback by the concern of one just out of the nest wrestling with what he’d been taught and what he now thought, or what he thought he thought. And here his poor mother had pulled the very rug out from underneath him just when he needed it most, and they were both adrift.
This question, however, Connor could answer with confidence.
“Every last syllable, lad. Every last syllable.”
Satisfied, Ben held out his hand and Connor took it. It was a strong grip, the grip of a man and not a boy.
“Okay, then. Just remember, don’t you hurt my mother.”
CHAPTER T
WENTY-EIGHT
JUNE 22, AFTERNOON
I was writing a note to leave on the counter thanking Connor for his hospitality when he came in. The carryout bags in his hands explained why he straggled in rather than on the heels of my boys.
“And what do you think you’re doing? Where are the boys?”
I bristled at his tone, not able to tell whether he was angry or worried. Either way, it was none of his concern.
“The boys are gone. I sent them off. Luke is taking Adam to Portland. I booked him a flight from there to Juneau, but they had to leave this afternoon to be able to make it to Alaska, and Ben’s along for the ride. I wanted them safe.”
Connor closed the door behind him and put two bags on the counter, one brown paper smelling of food and the other a red and white one with grosgrain ribbon handles.
“Well done, Jane. I suppose that means you’re leaving, too.”
“No need for me to stay now.”
“Unless the killer really is after you.”
“I’ll be fine in the house. I don’t feel much like getting out, anyway, and Isa and Pilar will take good care of me. I don’t want to impose any more than I have.”
Connor pursed his lips and gave a brief nod. “Fair enough. Have a bite with me before you go? I’ve brought Chinese. More than we need, I expect. I bought enough for those ruffians of yours. You’ll be doing me a kindness. Otherwise I’ll be eating this for weeks.”
“I doubt my appetite will make much difference, but yes, I’ll stay.”
We sat down on the couch where we had watched the storm earlier. Connor laid out a veritable Chinese buffet, supplemented it with a beer for himself and fizzy water for me. We ate right from the containers. I was surprised at his skill with chopsticks.
“Did the boys figure out why you were in such a hurry to get rid of them?” he asked, gesturing in my direction with a container of mu-shu pork.
“Who knows? Probably. I think they were just glad to have some time together. I suspect they’ll spend it plotting how to take care of me. It’s interesting, isn’t it, when the children start to worry about the parents?”
“Worry they do. Ben especially.” Eoin looked as though he wanted to say something else but changed his mind. Instead, he got up and retrieved the fancy bag from the kitchen counter. “I brought you something from town.”
I expected more explanation, but none came. I set the container I was eating from aside and took it, wiping a bit of sauce from my mouth with a paper napkin.
The bag was tied together with more ribbon, and the contents were shrouded in layers of tissue. I pulled out a delicate knitted shawl in a riot of winter colors. It was beautiful.
“It reminded me of Ireland,” he said simply. “I thought you might like it.”
I put the soft wool to my face. “Oh, I do. Much more than that awful tee shirt you bought me.”
“So I hope,” Eoin laughed. “There’s more.”
I dug around in the paper until I found something heavy. It was a silver brooch, made on intertwining lines, strangely familiar. I held it in the palm of my hand and looked at it, trying to remember where I had seen it before. In frustration, I looked heavenward, and my eyes landed on the antler chandelier. Suddenly, pieces began to fall together in my mind. I looked at the logo on the bag again: a white deer.
“I have to go to the office. Right now. Things are starting to make sense. Can you take me? Please? And I need Father Matt, too. This involves him.”
I stuffed the shawl and the brooch in the bag and headed for the door without waiting for an answer.
Fifteen minutes later, both Eoin and Father Matt stood behind me, watching me shuffle the pictures from the crime scene on the glass blotter of my desk: Paul Kessler lying on my drive. The entrance wound in his back in all its clinical detail, spreading stain on rough tunic. Finally I found what I was looking for: A shot taken of the rifle that Ivanka Kovacs had said the assailant dropped as he shoved her out of the way. And a distance shot of the death scene, taken in the light of the flood-lamps the sheriff had brought up, that showed Ivanka Kovacs and her husband leaving my house. Ivanka was shouldering her backpack, and she was turned, so that the profile of the oversized pack stood out clearly, soft and nearly flat against her back.
I stabbed my finger at the picture. “See that?” I asked.
Father Matt and Eoin shrugged.
“Sure. Ivanka Kovacs. She was there, I helped take care of her. The killer pushed her down. The backpack broke her fall. What about it?” Father Matt said.
“Okay, now I need you to look at something else.” I fished my keyboard out of the middle drawer of my desk and I pulled up my documents screen. I paused for a moment, perplexed. Where had Ben saved that video? I tried a couple of prompts, with no success. “Damn,” I said under my breath. “Where is it?”
“What are you looking for?” Eoin asked.
“A video. Ben saved a video from my security camera from the day Kessler was killed. I sent it down to Tom, but as far as I know he doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t know what to look for.”
I kept punching keys in increasing desperation. Where was Ben when I needed him? Why was it so hard to find things on this beastly computer?
Eoin pushed me gently aside. “Let me.” He punched a few buttons, emitted a couple of reflective noises, punched again, and the video magically appeared on my screen. Once again, I was watching the intermittent parade of people who passed within camera range of my house that Thursday afternoon.
It took longer than I thought for Ivanka Kovacs to come into view, but there she was, backpack on and in profile as she turned to look down the street.
“Pause it,” I commanded Eoin, and he did, an amused look on his face. I pointed to the screen. “Look at that backpack. Now look at the crime scene picture. Notice anything?”
It only took a second for Eoin Connor to see it. “Her pack. It’s bulky on the way up, flat when she’s leaving your house.”
“Exactly.” I said, relieved that he’d seen the same thing.
My relief evaporated when Father Matt followed up with, “So what?”
I indicated the other photo, the rifle with the inlaid stock. “See that? It’s not an ordinary gun. It comes apart for carrying. See?” I indicated the joint. It breaks down into relatively small sections. Small enough to fit in a backpack.” I waited for the penny to drop.
Father Matt looked at me, confused and concerned. “Jane, are you trying to tell us that Ivanka Kovacs had that rifle in her pack? That she’s the killer?”
I could tell the idea seemed preposterous to him. It had to me, too. Serial killers are dysfunctional loners, not sweet little old ladies running knitting shops in tourist towns. Still, it all fit. It had to be right.
“I think so,” I responded slowly, suddenly unsure of my self. “Look, see how big the pack was going up, sort of irregular, and how flat later on? Something was missing — why not this? “
“Jane, it could have been anything. Lunch. A bag of birdseed. A jacket. Anything. You can’t tell what’s in there from the shape of the pack. Besides, Ivanka Kovacs must be nearing eighty. She couldn’t possibly shoot that well anymore, even if she once did. Whoever shot you was a sharpshooter.”
I bristled. “She’s sharp as a tack, she works on that ranch, she doesn’t even wear glasses — have you ever seen her with glasses? What makes you think she couldn’t pull off a shot like that? Especially with a scope — the rifle has a pretty impressive scope on it.”
I could see Father Matt wrestling with the possibility that one of his flock was a black, black sheep indeed. Anxious to press my advantage, I remembered the image of the deer. “And wait a minute…take a look at this.” I typed Ivanka Kovacs into the computer search engine and scanned the results. The article I was looking for, one I had read shortly after coming to town, was the third one down. “That’s the connection. Ivanka was a biathlete in Hungary. She knows how to shoot. And the funny design on the stock, it’
s not flames or lightning. It’s antlers, just like the ones on the White Deer logo.”
Father Matt looked at the bag and slid the photo of the rifle from underneath the others, looking back and forth from one to the other.
“There’s a resemblance,” he admitted, “but it also looks a lot like the Hartford logo and a zillion other images of a buck. I’m not so sure.”
I looked to Connor for support. He was considering the photos, moving them back and forth as he thought, chin in hand, glancing from time to time at the computer screen. Impatient, I scanned the other hits from the search engine. One of them was from the White Deer online catalog, the usual corporate back-story.
“Look here,” I showed them the photo of the young Kovacs couple. “See? They were crack shots. Look at the guns in the background. They’re a matched set. That would explain why two guns.” I shuddered, remembering the analysis Lucy had come in special to run the Saturday after I was shot.
Conner looked at the picture intently. “I don’t know, Jane,” he finally said. “It could be. The stocks are turned away. There’s something on them, you can just see it, but there’s no way to prove that it’s the same.” He put down the magnifying glass he’d taken from the rubble on my desk and used to examine the photos more closely. “Still…”
I could tell his writer’s mind was turning over the possibilities. He waved me out of my chair and took a seat in my desk chair. He flipped through the pages of the files, Father Matt reading over his shoulder. I watched them confer over this bit of information and that, wanting to step in, to plead and convince them, but knowing that they were my jury now. I’d made my argument. Time to see if it held up. Please, God, it would.
Eventually, Father Matt straightened up. His face was dark, concerned, but I couldn’t tell why. It wasn’t until Eoin swung around in the chair, his eyes meeting mine, that I knew they saw it, too. It took us the rest of the night to figure out how to prove it.
**********
Connor pushed open the door of Jane Wallace’s office, put a paisley wrapped box on her desk, and made himself comfortable in her chair. He wanted the desk between him and the door. He figured it was only a matter of time before the sheriff came by, and he didn’t want to miss the fireworks, even if Jane was gone, but there was no sense risking physical violence. He had probably already risked jail, given that Jane was under a gag order in the matter of these murders. Strictly speaking, it didn’t apply to him, and that’s what he would argue, but he’d probably have to do it from behind bars.
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 34