“Honey, you look bushed,” said the clerk, a round woman named Doris. Her husband managed the bowling alley, where Claudia lately had taken to eating since it was close to the police station.
“A little on the weary side,” Claudia acknowledged. She forced a smile.
“My husband, Arthur—you know Art? works the bowling alley?—anyway, he told me he saw you there at lunch. Said you looked like death warmed over then. You look worse now, the truth be told.”
Claudia watched a box of corn flakes flick across the scanner. In Cleveland, anonymity was assured. In Indian Run, you couldn’t scratch your nose without a third party commenting on it later.
“It’s been a long day,” she mumbled to Doris.
“You got anybody in jail yet?”
“Not yet,” Claudia said.
“Who’d of thought something like that could happen here,” Doris said wonderingly.
“It happens everywhere,” said Claudia.
“Well, I hope you get someone soon,” said Doris. She hit the total. “Fifty-eight dollars and sixty-seven cents.” She took Claudia’s money, then began to bag the groceries. “Nobody’s gonna rest easy until someone’s put away on this.”
“We’ll find the person. And I’m sure it was an isolated type of thing.”
“Hmmmph. That’s not what they’re sayin’ on the TV.”
Claudia made a face. “Who’s saying?”
“Well, you know, the psychics! This TV reporter—I don’t recall the name, but was Channel 3, the six o’clock report—this reporter was interviewin’ some of the dead woman’s neighbors. One of ’em says to the reporter that she had a feelin’—that’s how she put it, she had a feelin’—this was just the beginning.”
Great. Just great. Indian River didn’t have its own local TV station. Channel 3 was situated in Land of Rivers—a misnomer if ever there was one—some thirty miles distant. The station rarely had occasion to even peek into Indian Run. That it had now meant that Overton’s death would spiral out of control soon.
Claudia had hoped—foolishly, she recognized—to keep the story low-key. The town’s twice-weekly paper never probed deeply and with luck, the murder would’ve been too old to look sexy to any of the more aggressive press by the time they saw the Gazette’s story. That wouldn’t happen now.
Claudia helped Doris load the bags into her cart. For almost sixty bucks there should have been more than three bags, she thought.
Doris rattled on about the Channel 3 report. “They nabbed Chief Suggs in his office, but he didn’t say much.” Doris laughed. “That old fart. I love the man to death—he and my Art fish together sometimes—but I gotta tell you, he looked about as comfortable talkin’ to that reporter as somebody who’d just had his wisdom teeth pulled.”
After murmuring additional reassurances, Claudia said goodbye and pushed her cart to the parking lot. The most the Indian Run Police Department had been able to supply her was a battered Cavalier with more than 87,000 miles on it. The passenger door didn’t work at all. The driver’s door took muscle. Claudia wrenched it open, pushed the seat forward and irritably stowed her groceries on the back seat. A slightly damp odor rose from the jacket in the back.
Claudia got in the front, slammed the door, and promptly backed into another car easing out at the same time. Her groceries fell to the floor.
“Shit,” Claudia muttered. She climbed back out.
The Mustang she hit was older than the Cavalier. But where the Cavalier had nicks and dents and rust, the Mustang had only smooth lines beneath a brilliant sheen—except, now, for the tail light.
A man unwound himself from inside the Mustang. He scanned the damage, then pulled thoughtfully on his chin, watching Claudia approach.
“Now that’s too bad,” he murmured. “This car’s made it all over the country and just about over every rush-hour interstate you can imagine, and it’s never managed a scratch. Figures it would get its first battle scar in a parking lot.”
While offering an apology, Claudia fumbled in her shoulder bag for a scrap of paper. She tore off the bottom of the grocery receipt.
“Look, I’m in a hurry,” she said. She started to scribble her name and number down. “You can get in touch with me on an estimate. I’ll talk to my insurance company. It shouldn’t take long to settle up.”
“Well, now hang on. Let’s see what we got,” said the man. He bent down to examine the Mustang’s tail light. He shrugged when he straightened. “The light’s been knocked out, but that seems to be it, really. My biggest problem will be getting nailed by some gung-ho cop on my way home.”
Claudia chuckled dryly. “Don’t worry. Lightning never strikes twice in the same spot.”
“You lost me,” the man said.
“I’m a cop.”
“Ah!” The man smiled. “Now there’s an irony for you.” He stuck a hand out. “Dennis Heath.”
“Claudia Hershey.”
They shook. Heath’s hand was warm and dry. He held the shake a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Claudia saw nicely shaped nails when he released her hand. Her eyes processed the rest of him: Hazel eyes, she thought, though it was hard to tell with just the dull illumination from the parking lot lights; thinning hair the color of clay; a square face—maybe some slav in him; lines around the eyes and mouth that put him at about 40; her height, give or take a half inch; just the tiniest bit of roundness where his stomach met his pants. Claudia didn’t think she’d seen him around before.
Lights flickered, then dimmed behind them. Claudia looked back. Philby’s had just closed and Doris was coming out. “Oh, goodness, a little fender-bender time, huh?” she sang out merrily.
Claudia sighed and gave a half wave back.
“Any substantial damage to your car?” Heath asked Claudia.
“You must be joking.”
Heath’s smile appeared easily. “Actually, I was.” He peered in Claudia’s back window. “Bet your eggs are broken, though.”
“Worse things have happened, believe me. Here, take my phone number and—”
“Oh, look. Let’s just not worry about it.” Heath shrugged lightly. “It’s not a big deal in the general scheme of things. It’s certainly not major enough to yank in the insurance people. They just look for opportunities to up their rates.”
“Yes, but I’m clearly at fault. You have a broken tail light and we’re talking about a vintage car. I’ll pay for it.”
“Really, it’s—”
“I insist,” Claudia said firmly. She held out the piece of paper. When Heath took it, his fingers glided across her own. His eyes were actually quite nice.
Heath looked from Claudia to the piece of paper. “Nice handwriting,” he said.
“You’ll revise your opinion when you see it under the light.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“It’s the only thing I am sure of today, Mr. Heath.”
They moved apart. As Claudia clambered back into her car, she heard Heath call something out to her. She rolled her window down and stuck her head out. She told him she couldn’t hear him.
“I said, you’d look better in a Maserati. Or maybe even a refurbished Mustang.”
Claudia shook her head and rolled up the window. She drove off, surprised to find herself smiling just a little.
* * *
The house blazed with lights and rock music. The throbbing beat sheared the smile off Claudia’s face the moment she stepped out of the car, and she looked toward the source.
She and Robin lived in the last house on Daffodil Lane, a name that embarrassed Claudia’s daughter as much as the house itself. The house was a one-story structure with oversized hallways and odd angles that defied conventional furniture arrangement. It was pale green in its current incarnation, having been through two renovations and one expansion in its 30-year history. The overall effect was lopsided; Robin groused that it looked like something Alice might’ve found through the looking glass.
Gritting
her teeth, Claudia shoved food stuff back into the paper sacks. Heath was right; the eggs were broken. She grabbed two of the bags and headed for the front door, fumbling for her keys. As it turned out, they weren’t necessary. The door was unlocked. Eight-thirty at night, and anyone could walk in. Robin knew better. Damn it, she knew better.
Tension twisted from Claudia’s shoulders straight into her head. The television was on, but of course Robin wasn’t there. She would be in her room, plugged into the sound system Claudia had bought with guilt money after the move down.
“Robin?” Claudia called out loudly.
Nothing.
Claudia set the bags aside and headed down the first hallway. It was as long as a tunnel. She called her daughter’s name again, louder. Then again. Robin’s bedroom door was cracked and Claudia nudged it open. Her daughter lay on her back on the bed, her knees drawn up, headphones clamped to her ears, oblivious. Her foot tapped to the rhythm of the song.
For a minute, Claudia just stood there. She felt herself soften. Enduring a nine-year marriage to a man with the sensitivity of a tree stump made sense in context with the daughter produced at the mid-way point. In her most objective moments, Claudia almost felt gratitude, if not for the interior of her ex-husband, than at least for his exterior. Brian’s casual good looks were stamped all over Robin. Where Claudia was long and angled, Robin was petite and soft. She had her father’s wheat-colored hair and indigo eyes, and a mouth that turned impishly at the ends. Claudia wished Robin would use her mouth to smile more. But she didn’t. Holding it back was a good weapon.
Claudia vanquished the memories. She crossed the room and fumbled for the volume control, then turned the music down.
“Hey!” said Robin. She jackknifed into a sitting position, eyes flashing. “You could knock!” she said.
“The door was open and you didn’t hear me calling,” said Claudia. Not a very good beginning. “Look, kiddo, I’ve got one more bag of groceries in the back of the car. Why don’t you get it while I start dinner?”
“God, Mother! It’s after eight-thirty. I already ate.”
“Ah, but not lamb chops, I bet,” said Claudia with forced cheer. When had Robin started calling her ‘Mother’? “I’m going to broil them up royal.”
“Big deal.”
Claudia let it pass. “Just get the bag, will you?”
Robin scowled, then vaulted off the bed, throwing body language like a pugilist. She glowered at Claudia and stalked out.
While she was gone, Claudia made for the den. The desk overflowed with receipts, junk mail, a new music sheet, magazines, canceled checks. One day soon, it would have to be sorted.
The report card was sandwiched between the sheet music and a utility bill. Claudia pulled the computer form free and shook it open. She scanned it quickly, then studied the “B” beside algebra.
Son of a bitch.
Exhaling, Claudia folded the sheet and returned to the kitchen just as Robin pushed the last bag of groceries on the table. Wordlessly, the girl turned and left. Claudia dropped the form on the counter, her mouth rigid.
The books, the magazine articles, the newspaper lifestyle stories, they all advocated restraint in situations like this. Problems were to be addressed thoughtfully. Children should be encouraged to open up. Parents must listen. Communication had to be conducted in a neutral, relaxed environment.
Very well, then. Claudia set about making dinner. She popped two aspirins and uncorked some Chablis. The books were right, of course. Difficulties didn’t have to necessitate confrontation. This was hardly a police interrogation.
While the lamb chops broiled, Claudia set the table and called her daughter, inviting conversation. But Robin stayed sullen, spurning idle repartee with monosyllabic responses. By the time they sat down to eat Claudia had lost what little hold remained on her appetite.
“I don’t see why I have to be here. It’s too late to be eating dinner,” Robin groused. She stabbed a piece of meat and chewed resentfully.
“You wouldn’t say that if I’d put pizza on your plate,” Claudia teased lightly.
“I would too. Pizza makes you fat. It’s nothing but calories and cholesterol.”
“Still tastes good.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not what’s on my plate, anyway.”
Claudia sighed and put her fork down. “All right. How about this? Maybe I just want to have dinner with you because I don’t think we’re talking to each other enough.” Claudia thought for a moment. “The irony is, ever since we moved here—at least up until this case—we’ve had more time than ever to spend together. I’m home at night. I’m here for you. So, why aren’t we talking?”
Robin rolled her eyes. “There’s not a whole lot to talk about.”
Utensils clinked against plates. “You sure?” Claudia asked softly. She took a swallow of wine. “You used to have loads of stories about school. But you hardly say a word anymore.”
“Nothing to say.”
“Oh, come on. How are your classes coming?”
Robin shrugged. “Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“They’re okay, all right? They’re fine.” Robin pushed a roll into her mouth.
“No major problems?” Claudia persisted. Why wouldn’t the kid open up? “Nothing I can help you with?”
Slamming her fork down, Robin said, “What’s with the third-degree? I said everything’s fine!”
“I don’t think so, Robin,” Claudia said gravely. She pushed her plate back and regarded her daughter. Then she retrieved the report card from the counter and dropped it beside Robin’s plate.
“If everything’s fine, then maybe you can explain this,” Claudia said. She leaned against the counter, resisting the urge to cross her arms.
Robin glanced at the paper. “It’s my report card.” The shrug was nonchalant, but her eyes gave her away.
“I know what it is, Robin.” Claudia struggled to keep her voice level. “I also know it’s been altered.”
Pink flames rose in Robin’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do.”
“I do not.”
With unplanned abruptness, Claudia pushed off from the counter and slapped a hand against the table. Plates and utensils clattered. Robin jumped.
“Knock it off! You damn well do know what I mean and whether you want to talk to me or not, you’d better start trying,” Claudia said rapidly, neutral intent out the window. “I mean it. I’m running out of patience fast, kiddo. I want an explanation, and I want it now.”
Robin sat upright. Like a bird not yet out of the nest, her mouth closed, opened, closed, and opened. Her eyes acknowledged that calamity loomed, but then, as if she’d made some sort of decision, she took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest.
“As usual, you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” she said petulantly, tilting her chair back on two legs.
“You call this nothing?” said Claudia. She snatched the computer form and shook it six inches from her daughter’s face. “You changed your grade! You lied to me! You call that nothing?”
“It’s not like I turned it into an ‘A’,” Robin said.
“And so that makes it all right?”
“See? It doesn’t matter what I say!” Robin glared at Claudia. “You’re just going to bitch me out no matter what.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady.”
“Watch your mouth,” Robin mimicked in a sing-song voice. Her eyes blazed adolescent rage. “Why don’t you just read me my rights?”
“Don’t push me, Robin.”
“Or what?” Robin’s chair banged back on all fours. “Mother Rambo will—”
“That’s it!” Claudia said hotly. She snagged Robin and hoisted her to her feet, an iron grip on each arm. The chair clattered to the floor. “I’ve had it with you, Robin,” Claudia snapped. “You’ve become a manipulative little brat, and like some kind of June Cleaver I’ve been tiptoeing around you and lett
ing it happen. Well, no more! We’re—”
Robin scowled and turned her face away.
“Look at me!” Claudia snared Robin’s chin and forced eye contract. “You’re about an eyelash away from disaster. Keep it up and I swear I’ll tattoo a print of my hand right on your butt.”
Defiance gave weight to Robin’s jaw. “That’s ridiculous! I’m too old for that.”
“You think so?” Claudia’s grip tightened. “Then go ahead. Try it out. Push me once more and see what happens.”
Claudia sent up a prayer that Robin would not test the threat. The speech she’d rehearsed was not the one she was giving, goddamn it, and if Robin crossed the line Claudia didn’t know what she’d do and she didn’t want to find out.
But after a moment, Claudia felt her daughter slump almost imperceptibly. Her eyes registered uncertainty.
There is a God, thought Claudia. She released Robin and gestured at the fallen chair. “Pick that up and sit down. We’re going to get through this if it kills us both.”
Claudia returned to her own chair. She told herself not to cave in, then looked at her daughter sternly. “All right. I want to know what’s going on with you, kiddo. The report card, everything.”
An eternity passed, and then: “I hate it here. It’s a stupid place. The school is stupid. The people are stupid. Half of them eat brain tumors for breakfast.”
“Come on, Robin. You’re not making sense,” Claudia said. “You’ve made some friends. You’ve even got some boy calling you.”
“He’s a nerd.”
“Yeah, well, you spent forty minutes on the phone with that nerd the other night,” Claudia reminded her.
“It wasn’t that long,” Robin mumbled.
“The point is, I think you’re going way out of your way not to like it here and despite your best efforts you’re starting to like it, anyway. And that makes you angrier than ever at me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Well, true or not, maybe it’s something for you to think about.” Claudia watched Robin toy with congealing grease on her plate. “You need to think about a lot of things, Robin, and one of the first is your algebra grade. What you did—for whatever reason—is absolutely unacceptable.”
The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries Page 5