by Joan Hess
This time Roderick’s rumble sounded like the purr of a male lion gazing at his next meal. He seemed to have an extensive repertoire.
“No,” Grady insisted, his voice beginning to quiver. “I caught them and put a stop to it.”
“I’m more interested in figuring out where Tricia went and how long she was gone than I am in your sleazy sexual behavior,” I said mildly, “but if you continue to stick to your story, I’ll call the city prosecutor in the morning. She’s the mother of two teenaged girls, and rumored to be relentless when prosecuting sexual misconduct.”
Grady crumpled into a chair, sobbing. Roderick went into the kitchen and returned with a beer. Across the street, car doors banged and a voice called out for help with grocery bags. A motorcycle roared down the street. I contemplated how to organize an elegant luncheon at my house from a holding cell. My allotted phone call might need to be made to a caterer, if I could find one on short notice.
“Please don’t turn me in,” Grady said in a raspy voice. “I’m begging you. The sex was consensual, I swear it. It was just so … god-awful. Most of the kids pulled off their clothes. Someone forced me to take a couple of hits of pot, and it turned into a bizarre reverie. I tried to make them stop or at least get away, but there were so many hands grasping me.” He gulped as if he were drowning in our ill-disguised contempt. “They wouldn’t listen to me. I tried, I really did.”
“A love fest,” Roderick drawled. “Also known as a group grope or an orgy. They were teenagers. Jeez, don’t you have any friends your own age?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” he bleated.
That was one of Caron’s pet mantras. It had been used often with little success, and I was not impressed. “That’s when Tricia showed up, right?” I asked Grady. “She must have been appalled.”
He wiped his nose ineffectively. “I expected her to go ballistic and screech all kinds of sanctimonious shit at us, but she just stared. I told everybody to get dressed, sit down, and shut up. Tricia was weird, like she was overmedicated. I was starting to worry about her when she pulled herself together and launched into a lecture. The part about swearing on the Bible was true.”
“What time was it?”
“More like midnight,” he admitted. “Once I started telling you about it, I had to make it sound like it happened fast. I’m so sorry I lied to you.”
Roderick rumbled, but less ominously. “You got anything to eat, man?”
It occurred to me that I might have been hearing his stomach rumbling. “I have money. Shall we order a pizza?”
“I’ll do it,” Grady said eagerly. “I think I have a coupon. Pepperoni okay with you?” He got up and started toward the kitchen.
I asked Roderick to follow him, then flopped back in the chair to ascertain if I was capable of thought. I felt as if the day had begun Thursday afternoon, seventy-two hours previously. Peter’s manly prowess had diverted (and delighted) me, but I’d not slept well afterward. And might not in the future, unless I was issued a decent mattress and considerate cellmates. It was getting dark outside. I couldn’t go home or to Luanne’s apartment. What cash I had would cover the cost of a motel—if I dared drive the only silver Jaguar in town and park it outside the room. The FBI surely had traced the call I’d made from Abbie’s house. Luanne might have been able to deflect them in French on the telephone, but not after they appeared at her front door in black suits and sunglasses, with a traducteur français.
The two men came back into the living room and sat down. Roderick looked cheerful; Grady looked as if he’d interrupted his own funeral. They sat down on the sofa as far apart from each other as possible.
Grady jabbed his thumb at Roderick. “Who’s this guy?”
“Oliver’s an old friend of Tricia’s,” I said, pleased to have a neat opening for my next question. “Have you seen or talked to her since you left the church earlier today?”
“Why would I?”
“To tell her she needs to replenish her liquor cabinet?” I suggested, hoping Roderick would lay off the rumbling.
“She’ll discover that Tuesday morning. We don’t socialize outside of church. I’d rather watch cooking shows than listen to her whine about her salary, her apartment building, her car, her hair, and everything else. She used to be tolerable, but a while back she mutated into a harpy.”
“After the campout,” I said, nodding. “She saw you at your worst and was disgusted. I’m surprised she let you share her bourbon.” I considered this for a moment. “Was she blackmailing you, Grady? All she had to do was a little research online to find out you committed a handful of misdemeanors and a truckload of felonies.”
“She writes the checks, and she knows I make less than she does. During the week, I coach soccer and give piano and voice lessons for grocery money. I sing at weddings so I can hang around for the buffet. All my credit cards are maxed out.”
“Maybe she wanted private lessons,” said Roderick, emphasizing the word “private” with a leer.
Grady’s eyeballs bulged. “You’ve got to be kidding! There’s no way I’d ever do that! The idea of touching her makes me want to puke. No blackmail, no nothing! We never talked about that night.”
I believed that much. It would have been a very awkward conversation for both participants. “All was forgotten until I came along and started poking the hornet’s nest. Were you worried that she’d blurt out the whole story? She didn’t have anything to lose, but you do.”
He smirked. “But then she’ll have to explain where she was. The guy that got shot lived across the field. We saw the police cars and TV vans when we drove past the house the next morning. He wasn’t a member of the church, but she could have known him. Her behavior was suspicious, and it wouldn’t help that the teenagers and I would have to say that she was acting real strange when she came back from that direction. Tricia and I had what you might call a mutual agreement not to elaborate on the events that night.”
Roderick rumbled, indicating skepticism.
I was formulating a response when the doorbell rang. I took out a twenty-dollar bill and was about to hand it to Grady when I was seized with an epiphany of blinding brilliance. Despite my innate modesty, there is no other way to describe it. I pulled back my hand and said, “I’ll get it.”
I opened the front door and assessed the delivery boy. He was no more than seventeen or eighteen years old and had the cheeks of a chipmunk. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. I was delighted to see headphones hanging around his neck, with a wire that went to a device in his shirt pocket.
“Pizza Pizzazz,” he chirped. “One large pepperoni with green peppers and onions. That’ll be sixteen dollars and fifty-three cents, ma’am.”
I took the box from his hands and set it down on a nearby table. “I’ll be back shortly,” I said to Roderick and Grady, and then gently propelled the boy out onto the porch, waving the twenty-dollar bill like bait. “How many more deliveries on your run?”
“Uh, like two,” he said, mesmerized by the bill as I wafted it under his nose.
“Would you be interested in a fifty-dollar tip?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Allow me to explain how you’re going to earn it.”
* * *
Minutes later I was in the passenger’s seat of his subcompact as he drove past the stadium. As per our arrangement, he was wearing the headphones and singing along with whatever was eroding his hearing and endangering him with a future of tinnitus. I pulled out my cell phone, fiddled with it until it came to life, and called Peter.
“Hey,” I said, “I wanted to let you know I’m safe. Had any more visitors?”
“Two of them haven’t left. They know what you’re driving.”
“Not at the moment. Did Wessell stage another press conference?”
“He’s getting national media coverage. He made an announcement about Roderick James, which added to the reporters’ frenzy. Your name was tossed into the fray. CNN and MSNBC reporters are cam
ped on our road. Jorgeson sent a patrol car to block the driveway. Turn yourself in before it gets worse, Claire.” When his voice broke, so did my heart. “I love you, even when you’re on one of these fanatical crusades. We’ll confront this together, I promise. I have our lawyer on standby, but she can’t help until you’re in custody and charges have been filed. Caron’s handling it as best she can. She said to tell you that she’s got your back. You need to go to the PD.”
“I will tomorrow. Got to go. I love you.” I hung up as the delivery boy pulled into a driveway. He gave me a fuzzy smile as he retrieved a pizza box from the backseat and went to the door. I struggled not to lose what little self-control I had. I’d heard the extreme anxiety in Peter’s voice, which was very dear of him but not constructive. If I were to turn myself in, Wessell would have me in a stockade in front of the courthouse. My jail jumpsuit would have a scarlet M for meddlesome. Or murder, I glumly amended, if he found a way to charge me with Tricia’s death.
The delivery boy returned. “Cheap bastards. A two-dollar tip? Give me a break!”
“My tip will ease your pain.” I waited until he’d replaced the headphones and backed out of the driveway, and then called Luanne.
“Guess who?” I said, although I doubted she was in the mood for games. I can be very perceptive.
“Do you know how much trouble you’ve gotten me in? Why did you take my car to a murder scene at a skanky apartment building? If Sweetie hadn’t come early and provided me with an alibi, I’d be at the jail in some hideous orange outfit, waiting for my lawyer to drive back from his lake house at five hundred dollars per hour! Have you lost your mind? The news anchor said that Wessell accused you of aiding and abetting a fugitive, who happens to be armed and dangerous. They don’t know that I—”
“Was kind enough to pick me up a few hours ago,” I cut in before she incriminated herself. “That’s what friends do. Your phone is tapped by now, and mine as well. I can’t tell you any more. I’m okay. Good-bye.”
The delivery boy arrived at his last designated address, which turned out to be a motel. He found the room number and parked. He gave me the same smile as he took the pizza box and climbed out of the car. I calculated that my final call could last no more than five minutes. I wondered if the FBI agents were having a jolly time trying to locate me via cell towers. I rolled down the window and stuck out my head to listen for a helicopter flying above the area while its copilots peered down for silver Jaguars. No spotlights swept across the parking lot, which was for the best since the couple in the pool were skinny-dipping in the muted light of a pink neon sign. Their version of Marco Polo was X-rated.
Once the delivery boy returned and put on his headphones, I called Evan. “How’s it going?” I asked brightly when he answered.
“Holy shit,” he yelped. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”
“Deal with it. I know about the motel room. The man who was with her will give her an alibi if we get down to that.”
“Unless it was Roderick James, the notorious felon who broke out of prison and now has every law officer in the county and dozens of FBI agents searching for him. Not the most credible witness. He could have killed Tuck because of some forty-year-old grudge. How convenient that his story gives both of them an alibi.”
“You’re rather peevish,” I said. “Another member of the SAC group is involved, too, although there’s a small problem putting her on the stand. She was there and may have killed Tuck.”
“Give me her name. The FBI might as well go after her, too.”
“You don’t want to know. Any idea who gave you the tip about the motel?”
“Muffled voice, female. You seem to know a lot more than I do. I did learn something significant, however. Sarah used her credit card at the motel. No one from the sheriff’s office bothered to request her credit card activity. I’m going to use that to undermine their case.”
“Very sloppy of them.” I frowned as I realized there was another possible clue the investigators had ignored. If I told Evan, I might as well be broadcasting it on the radio. I needed to have it in my possession first. “Did the night clerk see her leave?”
“No, and he didn’t notice anyone with her. He gets paid to keep his eyes on the TV behind the desk. The only reason he remembers her is that she seemed too old to be fooling around. He’s used to older men and younger women.”
“I have to go, Evan. I’ll try to check in with you when I can.” I ended the call as my temporary chauffeur got in the car, and I powered off the phone when we were more than a mile from Grady’s house. I dug out my wallet and removed some bills. When we arrived, I waited until my young friend took off the headphones before saying, “I promised you fifty dollars to let me ride with you. I’m adding another fifty so that you’ll forget it ever happened. If you go back to your pizza place and start bragging about this, you’ll find yourself in court facing a judge. Trust me on this.” He reached for the bills, but I held them out of reach. “Say it,” I commanded him in my steeliest maternal voice.
“Never happened. I delivered the pizzas and now I’m reporting in to pick up the next bunch of pizzas. You know, we can do this again anytime you want. Just call Pizza Pizzazz and ask for Darcy. The telephone number’s on the receipt.”
I gave him the money. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Have a nice evening,” he called as I walked toward the house. Yeah, right.
Roderick and Grady were watching TV, the empty pizza box on a stool. The former gave me an inquisitive look; the latter ignored me. I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The contents were not promising, but I found a package of sliced cheese and made myself a sandwich with the last of his bread. I took it and a glass of ice water out to the backyard and sat down on a dubious webbed aluminum chair. I was not surprised when Roderick joined me.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked as he opened a beer.
“Delivering pizzas. I know the FBI can trace the location of my cell phone, so I provided them with a little excitement. It’s incapacitated now. The police followed up on my nine-one-one call and found Tricia’s body. A helpful resident told them about the silver Jag. We’re not implicated yet, but the detectives will question her neighbors. Unless the boys on the balcony went to the movies, they’ve already described us.”
“Bummer.”
“I agree. I did learn one curious thing. Sarah’s lawyer told me that the anonymous tip about the motel came from a woman. It had to have been Tricia. She was either trying to help Sarah or alerting the feds about you. Are you sure you never encountered her?”
He scratched his chin. “Not that I recall, but I wouldn’t have paid any attention. I don’t study people’s faces in the grocery store or on the sidewalk. When you made me look at her, I was able to recognize her because I was focused on the SAC members. I had her in context.”
“Could Tuck have recognized you and told Tricia?”
“No way. Sarah and I were very careful not to be seen together. She’s positive that he had no clue about our liaisons. I never went to the farmers’ market, the co-op, the library, the convenience store, or anywhere he frequented. The only reason he started following her after work came from his home-grown paranoia.”
“What about your green van?” I asked. “He might have noticed it on the county highway, caught a brief glimpse of your face, and begun to suspect he recognized you.”
Roderick snickered. “Maybe, but even if he’d found a way to trace the license plate, all he’d have learned is that it’s registered in Arizona. When the plate expires, I peel a sticker off a parked car and glue it on mine. Been driving it for three years.”
I gazed at the shadowy trees that hid the stars. Music and voices from various locales in the neighborhood drifted in and out of my consciousness. Too many people with aliases and a shared past, I thought bleakly. Three anonymous tips, so far. One from me, doing my civic duty. One from Tricia, motive undetermined. The third had been made to Wessell’
s office, at a most opportune time—unless he’d been saving it for maximum impact. A single TV van had shown up to cover his first grandiose press conference on the steps of the courthouse. Peter had said that the national media had swooped in like turkey buzzards for Wessell’s subsequent theatrics. I winced as I envisioned him in court, his weasel face damp with excitement as he pointed at Sarah and elaborated on her heinous crimes in the past. How could she not be guilty of murder? She’d been on the FBI’s most-wanted list for forty years! Would the honest, law-abiding residents of Stump County allow her to get away with yet another murder? The courthouse was his bully pulpit. “Bully” was the operative word.
“Let’s construct a scenario,” I said, discarding the last few bites of the sandwich. “Everything was cruising along. You and Sarah had found each other, and Tuck and Tricia had done the same. Infidelity wasn’t an issue for at least a year. Then, out of nowhere, Tuck decided to turn himself in to the FBI so he could reunite with his family before he died of an outlandish disease he learned about from watching reruns of House.”
“He freaked out,” Roderick said, “but he may have been right. He was having headaches, sore muscles, fever, and fatigue. Sarah told me that she saw brief moments of facial palsy, like he was having a stroke. I researched his symptoms online and came up with Lyme disease. Bad news when it’s gone untreated for a long time.”
For the very first time since I’d heard Tuck’s name, I felt a glimmer of sympathy. He was a notorious hypochondriac, dismissed by his doctors and the emergency room staff. Anything short of a visible splintered bone would have been treated with two aspirin and a condescending pat on the back. On top of that, he was paranoid. On a scale of one to ten, his credibility fell below zero.
“Let’s stick to the scenario,” I said. “Tuck told Sarah about his intentions. What was her response?”
“She made him promise to wait until she had a plan, and he agreed. She and I talked about where to go. Her identity would be blown, but we’d have enough time to locate a safe haven. The underground network is vaster than you might believe. Once upon a time, it was operated by hippies, antiwar protesters, draft-card burners, and dudes on their way to Canada. You showed up, contributed as best you could, and moved on. Some of these places were for peaceniks, others for the proviolence faction. Back in the seventies, I stayed in communes from California to Vermont. It’s harder now to find a place to stay and regroup, but we figured we could.”