by Ann B. Ross
“But,” he said grimly, as he drew himself up a few more inches. “Who was with you? You keep sayin we, and I thought I saw someone else sneaking around. How do I know the both of you weren’t trying to break in?”
“Because I just told you we weren’t. I was there on a purely fact-finding mission, so don’t get on your high horse with me. Detective Ellis will soon know all about it, including not only who was with me—a man, by the way, who is well known in law enforcement circles—but that you also were there doing who-knows-what. So be prepared.
“And,” I went on, feeling myself on a roll, “while we’re clearing the air, why do you find it necessary to be running and skiing around my house? I don’t like it, Mr. Clayborn. I don’t like seeing someone half-dressed pounding down my street every night that comes around. What’s so interesting? What’s on your mind? Are you checking on me? Are you trying to intimidate me into making a confession? Well, if you are, let me tell you something—I didn’t kill your wife, either, and you can just find yourself another place to run.”
Just then the power came on. Up and down Polk Street, the streetlights lit up, as did all the houses around us.
“Well, hallelujah,” I said, looking around.
Stan Clayborn looked around, too. “People will sleep warmer tonight. We should all be thanking the Universe for putting things right.”
“I’ll thank Duke Power, if you don’t mind, since they’re the only ones I’m in touch with. Now I’ve got to go inside. It’s cold out here. But, Mr. Clayborn, I don’t want to see any more sprints past my house from now on. You worry me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cause you any concern. I’m staying with a coworker not far from here until they let me back in the house. I run this way because I like this street. The grand old houses are beautiful—the kind that I admire. Connie and I spoke often of this street, although she,” he said, with no undertone of criticism, “preferred a more modern style of architecture.”
“I know she did,” I said with more understanding than he knew. “She told us all about it at that lovely coffee she had last week.” And gave us her plans for demolition and reconstruction of our grand old houses while she was at it. I thought it, but kept the thought to myself. By this time, I’d been laying down the law right and left to anybody who needed it, and I was tired.
• • •
I slipped back into the house through the front door, heard the sounds of activity throughout the house, and hurried as fast as I could up the stairs and into my bedroom.
Closing the door behind me, I quickly came out of my cold weather garb, including Sam’s downward-creeping pants and Hazel Marie’s toe-crimping boots. I had just slipped a cardigan on over my dress when Hazel Marie knocked on the door.
“Miss Julia? I hate to wake . . . oh, you’re up. The power’s back on, and I’m going to take my crew on home.”
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, Hazel Marie. Maybe you should give your house a chance to warm up.”
She grinned. “I’ll just have to keep the girls bundled up until it’s warm. They’ve gone through all the diapers I brought, so I’d better get home before accidents start happening. Oh,” she said, turning her head to look down the hall, “Coleman’s up, and I think Binkie and Gracie are leaving, too.”
“I’m coming,” I said, and then as if I’d just noticed them, I went on. “I found your boots in here. One of the children must’ve been playing with them.”
“Probably so. I think they’ve played with everything else in the house.”
• • •
By another hour or so, I’d seen them all off to their homes and I was left by myself in an empty house. Lillian and Binkie had moved chairs back to their places and put away toys and games, while Hazel Marie had folded up pallets and put sheets in the washing machine. I kept telling them to leave it all, that we’d straighten the house later, but Binkie said, “We made the mess, we’ll clean it up.”
I’d much rather have gotten her off to myself so I could tell her what I’d learned and what I intended to do come morning. All I’d been able to do in the midst of bundling up the children and getting things ready to leave was to tell her that I wanted to speak to Detective Ellis first thing in the morning.
“Not a good idea, Miss Julia,” she’d said. “Let’s don’t volunteer anything. The SBI will surely be here tomorrow, and when their report comes back, you’ll probably be called in. Let’s wait and see.”
“But, Binkie,” I’d said, starting to tell her that I was ready to come clean. I didn’t get to finish. Gracie was crying because she didn’t want to leave, and Coleman was calling for Binkie to hurry because he had to go on duty.
But maybe it was better that I kept it to myself for a while longer. I had the night to consider exactly what I would do. As I sat alone in the library, I thought over the events of the afternoon. I’d cornered the pastor, renounced the terms of my promise, and told him to be prepared because it was all coming out. My obligation to him was over.
And I’d also stood up to the night runner, who turned out to be exactly who I’d suspected. And I had come to the conclusion that anybody who was getting messages from the universe was too far off in the stratosphere to take up arms against his wife. Daft people are usually too preoccupied to engage in vicious crime.
I suddenly sat up straight, though, as it occurred to me that he and Connie had not been in as perfect a harmony via the music of the spheres as he would have me believe. He valued old buildings; she wanted to bulldoze them. Could a man get mad enough over architectural designs to bludgeon his wife? It didn’t seem likely, but I’d certainly pass my thoughts along those lines to Detective Ellis. Whatever he thought of the Clayborns’ bones of contention, I would be out of it. All I wanted was to clear my name and erase it from his list of suspects.
Chapter 48
And pursuant to that determination and before I changed my mind or somebody changed it for me, I called the sheriff’s office in spite of the late hour and asked to speak with Detective Ellis. It seemed to take forever for him to come to the phone, and when he finally did, he sounded rushed and harassed.
“Yeah? This is Ellis.”
“Detective, this is Julia Murdoch. I know you’re busy with much more important matters, but I need to put my mind, and yours, at rest before I go to bed tonight. I want to come in and see you in the morning. I’m ready to confess.”
Dead silence. Then in a soft voice he said, “You are?”
“Yes, I’ve put it off long enough. Will you have time to see me about eight o’clock?”
“Mrs. Murdoch, I will make time. In fact, I can send a car for you right now.”
“Oh, no, don’t bother. I’m going to bed, and if you knew what kind of day I’ve had, you’d understand why. See you in the morning, Detective.” And I hung up, satisfied that I was about to clear my conscience and my name, and would most likely make his day as well. I slept like a baby.
• • •
The phone woke me a little after six the following morning, which ordinarily would have aggravated me no end. But it was Sam telling me that he was checking out of the hotel and would soon be on his way home. That was worth being rousted out of bed before daylight, so after urging caution on the interstate, I got up and began to dress for the day.
What does one wear to a confession? I knew exactly what to wear to a tea, a coffee, a soiree, a dinner party, to church, a funeral, a wedding, a reception, to go shopping, pay a visit, go to lunch, work in the yard, or just piddle around the house. I was, however, at a loss as to suitable attire for an official confession. Not, I assure you, that I had never confessed to anything before. Not at all, because I enumerated my sins of omission and commission every night of my life, but I doubted that a flannel gown and robe would be an appropriate costume for meeting with Detective Ellis.
So I settled for some woolen pieces and serviceable shoes, then went downstairs to plug in the coffee. And I guess that every time I did that from then on, I would recall unplugging Connie’s pot, as she was no longer able to do. I took that memory as a reminder to be grateful for the little things in life, no matter how routine or seemingly unimportant they might be.
Lillian and Latisha came in, stomping snow from their boots and shedding coats and gloves.
“No school again today, Miss Lady,” Latisha announced, dropping her book bag. “If this snow stick around till June, look like we’ll be out till next September, too.”
“I don’t think you can count on that, Latisha,” I said, smiling at the thought.
“You up mighty early,” Lillian said, addressing me. “Latisha, you go on in yonder an’ make me a picture with your color crayons. On a piece of paper, not on nothin’ else.”
“I know. I know.” And, picking up her bag, she started toward the library. “I ’spect I’ll need a snack pretty soon, though.”
Lillian rolled her eyes, then asked what I wanted for breakfast.
“Just the usual, thank you,” I said. “I have a busy morning ahead. I want to talk to Binkie first, then I’ll be going to the sheriff’s office and confess what they consider my misdeeds—although I consider my reticence in revealing certain privileged information indicative of the moral high ground.”
“You what?”
“I merely intend to clear up a few minor matters that seem to have loomed large in Detective Ellis’s mind, that’s all.”
“Miss Binkie know what you doin’?”
“I’m going right now to call her.”
And I did, only to get Gracie’s babysitter, who said that Binkie had already left to prepare for a court case due to be tried later in the day. Obviously, I thought, court did not run on the public school schedule, else it would call a snow day and lawyers and judges could color pictures, like Latisha, or make themselves available to their regular clients, like me.
• • •
So I showed up at the sheriff’s office without my attorney, but right on time, just as I’d promised Detective Ellis. I am a woman of my word, which had been consistently proven throughout the Clayborn investigation, and which, I might add, had thus far proven to be of some detriment to me.
Detective Ellis greeted me in a gracious, even solicitous, manner, ushered me into the interrogation room, inquired after my health, offered coffee, and quickly entered the usual information into his recorder.
“Now, Mrs. Murdoch,” he said, an eager glint in his eyes, “tell me in your own words just what happened when you went to see Ms. Clayborn last Tuesday.”
“Oh, I’ve already told you that. And in great detail, too. In fact, I told it to you twice, and nothing’s changed. Everything having to do with my actual visit happened just as I said.”
“But,” he said, frowning, “I thought you wanted to confess.”
“I do! That’s why I’m here. You see, Detective, I know that it’s been bothering you that I’ve been less than forthcoming about my reason for visiting Mrs. Clayborn. So I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that I have now pronounced as null and void any promise I may have made heretofore concerning that reason, so I consider myself free of any moral restraint whatsoever.”
“Uh, run that by me again?”
“I told the one to whom I had made a promise not to tell that I was going to tell. Which is what I am now doing.”
“You are?”
“Yes. You see, Detective, ideally he would’ve released me from that promise on his own, especially when keeping the promise not to tell put me in such an uneasy position with you. Instead of stepping up to the plate, though, he avoided me at every turn, and the more he avoided me, the less I felt obliged to keep my promise.” I stopped and considered that for a minute. “I tell you, I have had a moral struggle about to whom I owed the greatest obligation—to you, who wanted me to tell, or to him, who didn’t. The only way to solve it was to track him down and tell him I was going to tell—you know, to warn him. It was the least and the best I could do under the circumstances. So I have now done that and formally renounced my promise of silence, and I’m ready to tell you what you’ve been wanting to know.”
“I am more than ready to hear it, believe me.”
“All right, here goes, and I hope the Lord forgives me if I’ve made the wrong decision. I’ve already told you that I called Connie Clayborn the morning of that fateful day, but what I didn’t tell you was that it wasn’t to thank her for her previous invitation, as I led you to believe. I called her because I’d been asked to.” And I went on to tell Detective Ellis about Emma Sue’s sad decline as she grieved over the town park and about Pastor Ledbetter’s increasing concern about her. “He asked me to attempt to get Connie to apologize for her scalding criticism of Emma Sue’s efforts on the park. Which was all well and good because Connie should have apologized. She went way over the line in what she said, and it just stabbed Emma Sue to the heart.
“Not literally, of course. But then, when he started in on the possibility of Satanic influence, I began to have second thoughts about getting involved.”
“Satanic?” Detective Ellis perked up at that.
I waved my hand in a brushing gesture. “Oh, I discounted that right away. Connie was just ill informed and insensitive to the feelings of others, that’s all. Poorly brought up, too, I would imagine. Anyway, I thought I could do some good by talking with her, not only to relieve Emma Sue’s distress but also to help Connie fit in a whole lot better than she was doing on her own. But, Detective, here’s the heart of my confession.”
“Oh, good,” Detective Ellis said, his shoulders sagging.
“I welcomed the request to speak to Connie because I wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine. I’m sorry to admit this because it reflects badly on me, but the truth of the matter was that I longed to tell her how cruel she’d been, how unthinking and unkind. So, with the mission I’d been given, I had the perfect opportunity to cut her down to size by letting her know how unlikely it was that she’d ever be invited to join the garden club or the book club or even to be invited for dinner anywhere.”
“Oh, my,” Detective Ellis murmured.
“Yes. So, you see, I harbored ill will toward her because I’d had as much to do with that park as Emma Sue had, and I was deeply offended by Connie’s criticism. But, Detective, I never got to say another word to her after we hung up that morning. She was gone by the time I got there that afternoon. She never knew my real feelings.”
“Okay, then,” Detective Ellis said with something like a sigh, “let me get this straight. You went to see Ms. Clayborn because Mr. Ledbetter asked you to, and he asked you to because his wife’s feelings were hurt, and you were glad to do it because your feelings were hurt, too, and you wanted to hurt Ms. Clayborn’s feelings. That about it?”
“Not quite. You’re not getting the underlying factors, Detective. It was more than just a few women’s hurt feelings, as you imply.” I stopped, breathed deeply, and plunged ahead. “I hate having to tell on people, Detective. I hope you understand that I take no pleasure in exposing the secrets of others. But the motive of Pastor Ledbetter in sending me to Connie was his deep concern that his ministry was being compromised by his own inability to snap Emma Sue out of her depression. His situation is addressed in either First or Second Timothy—the exact reference escapes me now—so he was, in a sense, fighting to sustain his irreproachable standing within the church. And besides,” I went on, cringing as I piled onto my own pastor, “he grew up in Abbot County and may have known about the fire lane behind the Clayborn house.”
Detective Ellis sat straight up. “Huh,” he said.
“Well, but Connie’s husband also obviously knew about it, too, having lived right below it for some time. And in spite of his noticeable grief for his
wife, epitomized by his attempt to commune with her by way of leftover positive energy in the house while it was still a crime scene, all was not in perfect harmony within that marriage.”
“No?” Detective Ellis’s eyes widened at the news.
“No. Mr. Clayborn told me on what I hope was his last night run by my house that he and Connie agreed on everything except architectural design and . . .”
As the door suddenly opened, I looked up. Sergeant Coleman Bates stuck his head in, gave me a brief nod, then said, “See you a minute, Detective?”
Detective Ellis stood, scooped up his notes and his recorder, and started to leave. “Have a rest, Mrs. Murdoch. I won’t be long.”
So I waited, but rested hardly at all. Coleman had barely acknowledged me, which I put down to his official manner. Still, his serious demeanor had done nothing to reassure me, even though I’d now told everything I knew, including my heretofore untold motive for visiting Connie, the harsh feelings I’d held toward her, and the suspicious ones I still harbored toward her husband and my own pastor.
They say that confession is good for the soul, but if that were so, why, after revealing all that had burdened me, was I not feeling so good about having done it?
Chapter 49
After several lonely minutes, the door swung open and Coleman came in, Detective Ellis right behind him, and Lieutenant Peavey stopping in the doorway.
“Miss Julia,” Coleman said, putting his hands on the table and leaning toward me. “You don’t have to do this—you may want to consult your attorney or you may not want to do it at all—but I’m asking you to bear with me and help me conduct a little experiment. You know I’ve been off for several days, so I’ve just had the opportunity to study the crime scene evidence—the forensics, the scene drawings, the investigators’ notes, the statements that were given, and so on. There’s a big question mark in the notes that, with your help, I want to try to answer.”