But Emily corroborated that Laura was there for a coaching session.
Well, of course, she had an alibi.
Sam ran that incident back through her mind. Laura at the door in her tennis whites. Laura awfully curious about what’s going on with Felicity, trying to get past her to hear Felicity and Emily’s conversation. But she did get past her.
Sam let her go by herself back into the kitchen for a drink of water. And behind the kitchen was the pantry.
Of course!
Laura ransacked the pantry.
But that didn’t fly. Laura came over on Wednesday afternoon. It wasn’t until Friday, yesterday, that she and Emily had found the pantry pillaged.
Laura could have sneaked back later. Or Margaret, for that matter. Percy sure as hell hadn’t. He’d been dead for two days.
Sam started. It was the damned cellular phone in her car. She’d never get used to it.
“It’s Beau. Want to hear the latest on Percy?”
“Speak to me of the devil.”
“Well, you know I told you that Mrs. Percy and the sister were camped out in my lobby?”
“Uh-huh.” She was downtown now. She had to pay attention to traffic.
“So, when I released the body—they were ever so grateful—I went down personally, and Mrs. Percy started telling me how she’d urged Randolph—Randy, she called him—to go to the doctor. He’d been sick for a couple of days.”
“How’d she know?”
“Seems as though he’d called her in Savannah. Momma’s boy, I guess.”
“Damn it! I knew that!”
“She told you?”
“She did. I wasn’t paying attention because I didn’t care about his health then. I was worried about Felicity’s. She said he’d been feeling poorly.”
“Well, she elaborated on it for me, and then I called the Claridge and got some corroboration from a steward there.”
“And?”
“It sounds like flu. But flu didn’t kill him, didn’t develop into pneumonia like it does with a bedridden elderly person. Percy was in the pink of health, especially for his age.”
“So?”
“This is what I’ve got. He complained to his mother that he felt dizzy. Sick to his stomach. He’d vomited a couple of times.”
“But there was no vomitus with the corpse.”
“Right. The vomiting was earlier. The steward said that on Tuesday night, Percy was complaining that his neck ached, felt weak. He was having some difficulty turning his head and more than a little trouble breathing. The steward tried to get him to go to a hospital, but Percy insisted it was only a flu bug and that he’d feel better.”
“And he died the next day.”
“Or sometime that night. Somewhere in that range.”
“You think you know what it is, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me, for Christ’s sakes!” She veered into the left lane, narrowly missing a honking truck.
“Wait till I finish screening for it.”
“Why?”
“I want to be sure. And trust me, Sammy. It’s what I think it is, his death was accidental. Nobody ever murders anybody this way.”
“People murder people every which way! And I’m inches away from who killed him. Beau, you can be such a Pollyanna!”
There was nothing but static for a minute. Then he said, “You know, Sammy, I put up with a lot of crap from you. But I think I’ve had about enough for this week. Why don’t you go find yourself another M.E. to bother with your bullshit suspicions?”
Splat, slam, crackle. And then there was a dial tone.
Fuck him. She was way ahead of him on this anyway. Him and his super lab. Percy died accidentally? Horse shit. She could handle this like she handled everything else. By herself, thank you.
Eighteen
Margaret Landry sat by herself in her kitchen. Drinking.
She’d been at it for a couple of days now, lining up miniatures in a row like toy soldiers, then mowing them down.
The sweet ones were her favorite, peach schnapps in particular. It was cool and frisky at first, then warm and smooth in her tummy. Peachtree schnapps, actually, according to the label. How aptly named; her poison.
The thought made her smile.
The small bottles were best because she could hide them from Laura.
Oh, Laura knew she’d been drinking. She fussed at Margaret about it until she was red in the face—as if she were the mommy. But Laura couldn’t stop her.
Not with these babies. She couldn’t find the little bottles. Not in this apartment.
Margaret laughed at the idea.
Ho-ho-ho: her Santa Claus laugh.
She had played Santa Claus once at Macy’s in New York when she’d been—what else was new?—in between shows and needed the cash. Laura was a toddler then—afraid of Mommy’s white beard and mustache.
Laura would never find the cute little bottles in this jumble. Even in the kitchen, the shelves were piled high with scripts shoved in between her cookbooks, bowls, and Mason jars.
The rest of the apartment was a warren, passageways carved in among clothes racks jammed with costumes from the past ten, fifteen years.
Laura was always after her to get rid of them. Momma, why don’t we clean this mess up? she would ask.
This was no mess. This was Margaret’s life: slipping in and out of characters’ skins, changing a bathrobe for a ballgown. That’s what her life was all about.
Margaret twisted the top off another little bottle and held it up to the light. Inside the brown glass the liquid had no color. It could have been lots of things. Rubbing alcohol. Water. Cleaning compound. Peroxide—bleach your insides white as snow. You wouldn’t know what it was until you put your tongue to it. Close your eyes. It was sweet—just like Margaret.
Don’t kid a kidder.
Don’t shit a shitter.
Sweetheart.
That’s what Papa had called her: my little sweetheart.
But he’d been wrong, shitting her all that time. He and Big Ma, too. Didn’t they know she’d catch on? Did they think that photograph of a high yellow woman they ran by her, your poor momma, tricked her for one minute?
Even as a child, Margaret had been nobody’s fool.
She knew her momma was a white woman. What she couldn’t figure out was why.
Why would her daddy, as handsome a brown-faced man as ever lived—and she knew those pictures were him—why would he choose a milk-pale woman like her?
Because she tricked him. That’s why.
Lured him into her, spider to the fly. And then she killed him.
Oh, she knew how it had happened, Margaret did. She’d seen it all live and in color in her own head. Just like an MGM movie in her own little theater, the one where she held private screenings. When she closed her eyes the picture came up and she’d seen that white woman seduce and abandon her daddy. And then abandon her, poor, helpless child.
She’d seen it all, just like she’d seen Miss Felicity die.
Emily, too.
Both those bitches toying with her like she was a fool, some witless fluff, some piece of rag and bone they could bat around for a while, then leave to die.
And the instruments of revenge, she’d seen those too in the movie.
She raised both her hands—smooth, light coffee, lots of cream—then flipped them over to the still paler palms. She’d seen her own fortune in them, scaring herself.
The instruments had come to her as if out of the sky.
Randolph Percy. That tongue-flicking snake. She could smell the evil in him.
When she’d said, “I have someone you need to meet,” he hadn’t even blinked. Thought he was so clever. Twinkling. Blue-eyed. But she’d wound him up and off he marched like a good little soldier.
She plucked another bottle now from the neat row. Twisted the top off. Sucked the sweet liquid.
Too bad he wasn’t good enough.
Percy, Percy. Tsk, tsk.
/>
What was she going to do now?
Maybe the other instrument’s still there. Not a human one, and therefore more reliable. Sitting quietly on the shelf. Festering. Just waiting for a white hand, spotted with liver, to pick it up so it can reach down inside and kill her.
Maybe.
But better safe than sorry.
She’d have to go back.
It wouldn’t be hard. Those ladies feeling so safe and sound in their world, the one they own, bought and paid for with the sweat off other people’s backs. They were so easy to fool.
Just have to make sure the instrument works. No need to juice it up. You know what I’m saying?
You hear me, woman?
Momma, you hear me calling?
Can’t you see that I was there?
Don’t you know me, sweet momma?
Why, I left my calling card.
Don’t you hear me knocking—knocking at your heart?
*
In the theater below Margaret’s apartment, Sam parted a black velvet curtain at the back of the aisle and stepped into darkness. The only light was trained upon the lady. She was winding toward her end. The familiar lines were coming.
Lady Macbeth’s hands writhed before her. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One; two; why then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky!”
Was that Margaret?
The power was there, but it didn’t sound like her contralto.
“Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
It was Laura. The understudy standing in for the lady at a Saturday matinee. Close to the end now. Sam had best get on with it if she wanted to see Margaret alone. That was probably the best way.
Sam slipped back through the black velvet into the light of the lobby, then out into the still brighter afternoon.
*
Margaret stiffened at the footsteps on the stairs. Her ears perked up, her eyes widened, then narrowed.
She was more than a little drunk, more than a little crazy. And once she was hidden, down deep in the dark, the humor fled her eyes, frightened off by the madness, which glittered.
*
The screen door screeched.
“Margaret?
“Margaret, are you there? It’s Samantha Adams. Do you remember meeting me?”
The door was open. Sam stepped inside, down a narrow black hall, feeling her way into the dark kitchen. All the shades were pulled in the apartment, blackout curtains. It was like night in here.
“Margaret?”
She could hear the nervousness in her voice, tinny in the stillness.
Well, shit. This was creepy. Smelled funny, too. The odor reminded her of something from her childhood. Maybe more recent. Something hot and sticky.
She felt along the walls for a light switch. Zero. She stumbled over a kitchen chair, bumped into a table. She rubbed her hipbone. That smarted. There’d be bruises to show for that lick tomorrow. Now she was in what had to be the dining room. More chairs and another table. An obstacle course of furniture.
She pushed forward.
“Margaret?”
Suddenly something brushed against her arm, then wrapped itself around her body. Panic climbed into her throat.
The thing was everywhere, touching her like a lover. Clicking. Long stringy things, clicking.
She got a handful of something now. Jerked at it. Something popped. Bouncing all around her. Jesus! It was a beaded curtain, its little wooden balls now rolling under her feet.
That’s all it was.
Now you’re scaring yourself shitless in the dark, Sam told herself. Get a grip on yourself. You need to think. Calm yourself.
She had to think.
Adams, you’re making yourself stone crazy.
She had to concentrate now. Reach down and find a still place.
“Margaret? Are you in here? It’s Sam Adams. I want to talk with you.”
Ask you a few questions about whether or not you sicked Randy Percy on your momma.
Ask you whether or not you’re a murderer.
Or, if you don’t count Percy, an attempted murderer.
Ask if you’ve felt murder in your heart.
Sam was in a long hallway now jammed end to end with pipe-iron clothes racks.
She felt her way past can-can skirts scratchy with stiff crinolines. A woolly monk’s robe brushed her arm. Something satiny slithered down a leg. Jesters’ bells tinkled.
It was close as hell in here. She could hardly catch her breath, tried to slow it down. A surgical mask would be nice. It smelled like a swamp. Things rotting.
*
From her hiding place, Margaret watched through a crack. What did the woman want? What was she looking for? What would she take? Not good. Not good at all. Margaret was going to have to do something.
*
Sam saw a little light ahead. Must be the bedroom. Probably where Margaret was. Lying in her sickbed just like the girl at the box office told her a couple of days ago. Good. She wasn’t above picking on Margaret when she was down.
Sam squeezed past the closet door. The ceramic knob carved across her back, bumped over her backbone.
She’d cleared it now.
She was reaching for the bedroom door. At least she could see something there.
In the dark behind her, the closet door opened.
A hand snaked out, then another hand. And suspended between them was a length of scarlet satin.
Then Sam was choking to death.
Margaret was a good five inches shorter, but she made it up in fifty pounds of heft, all coming down on the ends of the red sash—from a pirate’s costume, see Laura, how handy these old things are, kill this motherfucker burglar—she’d thrown over Sam’s head in one lucky move. Jerk. Snap.
Sam scrabbled at the sash with her nails, tearing her own flesh. She couldn’t breathe.
Step back, something told her. Step back into the force. Pull away and the noose tightens.
She stepped back. Margaret’s soft bulk was like pillows behind her.
Sam went limp and collapsed onto Margaret and the choking sash, tumbling her over. The hands loosened now, flailed. Four arms and legs rolled in the darkness. Sam sat on Margaret. Bumped up against one another. Almost like love. But not quite.
“Kill you.” Margaret grunted.
“Be still or I’ll knock the shit out of you.” Sam had one hand on Margaret’s gullet and the other arm drawn back. She wasn’t kidding.
A whisper from the floor beneath her now. Stench of booze breath. “Who are you?”
“Sam Adams.”
“Oh.”
“Who the hell did you think I was?”
“Burglar.” The word was slurred.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
She loosened her hold a little now. This was going to be all right.
“Please.” Margaret turned, trying to curl into a ball. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said in baby talk. Then she pushed out an arm. “I hurt myself.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. You know I’m not a burglar, Margaret? You know who I am?”
Margaret’s whole body nodded yes.
“If I let you up, you won’t try to strangle me again?”
“I’ll be good.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
*
They were sitting in the kitchen now, lights blazing. Sam had called the police, and was lucky enough to get Charlie. She got him to agree to hold Margaret for observation at Grady in the psych ward. She’d crashed into a box of Christmas ornaments in the closet, and had a mess of cuts on one arm, which was now wrapped in gauze. It would do as an additional excuse to hold her. An ambulance was on the way.
Sam had found the coffee and was making a pot. Not that that would sober Margaret up. She should know. If you pour coffee in a drunk, you get a wide-awake drunk, that’s all. There was no way she was going to get any answers now. She could do that in the hospital. But Sam n
eeded the brew herself. She was still shaking. The scratches on her neck smarted. Coffee was the best she could do right now for comfort.
Margaret sat hunched in a purple robe. The color picked up the circles under her eyes. She didn’t look good.
There was that smell again in the kitchen. Stale, hot, and sticky. Something about food.
“You cook a lot?”
“Yes.” Margaret nodded. Perked up. Eager to please. “Are you hungry?”
“No, I just wondered.”
Cookbooks were all over the place. Of course she did.
“I’ll get you something to eat.” Margaret was slurring only the tiniest bit now. She was coming back. She stood and headed toward the refrigerator.
Sam kept a careful eye on her.
“Sit down, please, Margaret.”
“No trouble.”
“I’m not hungry, really.”
“Only take a minute.”
She reached into the refrigerator, pulling out little bowls and plates.
“Please, Margaret.”
The woman turned with a sad face. “Please let me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Well, hell. It couldn’t hurt to humor her.
“Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. I’ll take a little something if you’ll join me.”
Margaret beamed.
“But put it all on the table over here, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t want Margaret diddling around with her back to her.
“Sure.”
Piece by piece, Margaret spread a small feast before them.
“Cold leg of lamb. Here’s some black bread. I made it myself. Hot mustard. And some relish.”
She was fixing plates with little sandwiches for both of them, her broad hands busy and steady. She opened a Mason jar of marinated mushrooms and mixed it in with a relish.
“You like spicy things?” she asked.
Sam nodded.
Margaret grinned. It was almost the old Margaret. The original Margaret she’d seen a week ago on the stage and at the party. The brilliant Margaret. The poor, deranged lady had almost completely disappeared. It was an amazing transformation.
“I’ll put some Pickapeppa sauce on it, too. Is that okay?”
“Fine. I like hot things.”
Margaret was finished now.
“There.”
“Thanks.”
Sam reached for the sandwich.
Then Hang All the Liars Page 17