Black Widow

by Breton, Laurie

  Nick raised an eyebrow. “She’s not the one who left a five-foot rattlesnake in a box on her porch.”

  “No. But she obviously provoked somebody else into doing it. Do you have any leads?”

  “Not yet. But we’re working on it.”

  “Chief DiSalvo, I realize this is a delicate issue, but I feel I have to ask. What in hell were you doing at her home in the first place?”

  He felt the jolt all the way to his stomach. Sitting up straighter, he said carefully, “We’d just had dinner together. I was escorting the lady home.”

  The mayor looked pained. “Do you really think it’s appropriate,” he said, “for you to be having a relationship with this woman?”

  “I had dinner with her, Mayor. That hardly constitutes a relationship.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr. DiSalvo, it’s not quite seemly for the chief of police to be seen squiring around a convicted felon.”

  Nick leaned forward in his chair. “I have a couple of problems with that, Mayor. Number one, her conviction was overturned—”

  “In the eyes of the court, Nick. Certainly not in the eyes of the three thousand people who live in this town.”

  “And second, it’s none of anybody’s business who I have dinner with when I’m off duty. My private life is my own business.”

  “Wrong again, Chief. I speak from experience when I say that as a public official in this town, you don’t have a private life.” The mayor leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Look, Nick, this town has eyes and ears, and every move you make, in or out of uniform, is meticulously scrutinized. If you look bad, the town looks bad, and our citizens won’t stand for it.”

  The fury rose so quickly he shot to his feet. “As chief of police,” he said, “I was hired to maintain peace in this town. To protect its citizens. Am I correct?”

  Stevens sighed. “Yes,” he said, “but—”

  “Do you have a problem with the way I’m performing my duties?”

  The mayor’s mouth thinned. “No,” he said.

  “Good.” Nick slung his cup of coffee into the wastebasket and stalked to the door. “When you have any complaints about my job performance, you let me know.”

  And he slammed the door behind him.

  Downstairs, things weren’t much better. “Earl called in sick,” Rowena said as he passed her desk. “Lumbago’s actin’ up again.”

  “Lovely. Has the lab called back with anything on those prints yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What the hell is taking those idiots so long?”

  “Well, they are all the way up to Raleigh, Chief. It takes time, you know. This isn’t New York.”

  “No shit. Listen, give ‘em a call, rattle their cage a little. Hey, Betty?”

  Across the corridor, the town clerk looked up from her copy of True Romance. “Chief?”

  “You know anything about snakes?”

  “Snakes?”

  “Rattlesnakes in particular.”

  Her eyes widened in curiosity. “Any particular reason?”

  “Somebody left Kathryn McAllister a little calling card last night. A five-foot rattlesnake, in a box on her porch. How the hell would somebody get it there without getting bit?”

  Telephone receiver in hand, Rowena paused in the middle of dialing. “My Lord and Savior,” she breathed. “Did she get bit?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “Bucky came over and filled it full of lead.”

  “I read somewhere,” Rowena said with ghoulish good cheer, “that the mortality rate for rattlesnake bite is somewhere around forty percent. That’s forty out of a hundred people who don’t survive bein’ bit.”

  “Thank you, Rowena, for sharing that information.”

  Betty tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile, and then her phone rang and she picked it up and was all business. A moment later, she said, “Hey, Nick, what about Dwight Ingram? He lives out on Old Raleigh Road. He’s retired from the wildlife biology department at UNC. Maybe he can help you out.”

  He found Ingram’s number in the phone book. Called and left a message on his machine. He pushed the disconnect button, waited for the dial tone, and dialed Kathryn’s number. It rang and rang, and in a fit of temper, he slammed down the receiver. The woman was becoming increasingly difficult to keep track of, and the more people she pissed off, the worse it was going to get. It was obvious that somebody disliked her in a big way, but trying to find that somebody was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. The back of his neck was itching like crazy, and if he ever found out who had left that snake there, he would arrest them on an attempted murder charge. If he didn’t beat them to death first.

  It was the first satisfying thought he’d had all morning.

  Chapter Five

  Surrounded by a sea of paperwork, Kathryn rocked back on her heels and gazed with distaste at the unopened bank statement in her hand, postmarked six days prior to Michael’s death. She’d found it in a file folder with several other pieces of unopened mail, secured with a rubber band, most likely tucked away by Michael in his haste to leave for Richmond.

  The phone rang. Grateful for the reprieve, she sprang up and headed for the kitchen. Given the events of the past few days, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to answer it. But at this particular moment, it was the lesser of two evils. There was something highly distasteful about opening mail addressed to a dead man, even though that dead man had been her husband. Besides, the athletic whistle she’d bought at the Sears store in Fayetteville would capably handle the next fool who had the audacity to make a crank call.

  She tucked the stack of unopened mail in a cubbyhole next to the microwave and cautiouly picked up the phone. She needn’t have worried. “I just heard,” Raelynn said. “Are you all right?”

  “I am today. Last night I wasn’t so sure.”

  “If I had come home and found that loathsome creature on my doorstep—ugh! I can’t even think about it without getting the heebie-jeebies. I think I would probably fall dead on the spot. Was it as horrible as I imagine?”

  “Worse. I thought I might wake up this morning with snow-white hair, but when I checked in the mirror, I didn’t look any different than I did yesterday afternoon.”

  “An experience like that is bound to leave a mark on you, sugar. Just not where you can see it. I can’t imagine what anybody could be thinking, pulling a stunt like that. Are the police trying to find out who did it?”

  “They took the box as evidence, but unless somebody comes forward as a witness, I don’t think there’s much chance of finding out who it was.” She paused, debated whether to continue, then plunged ahead. “You know, Raelynn, I have the funniest feeling about this. I’m petrified of snakes. It’s a totally irrational fear. I go white, I shake all over, I’m paralyzed with fear at the smallest grass snake. I think whoever did this knows about that fear.”

  “Meanin’ it’s somebody who knows you well.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you given any thought as to who it might be?”

  “I’ve racked my brain, but I’m not coming up with anything. I lived in this town for four years, Raelynn. I knew a lot of people. Neighbors, my students, their parents, Michael’s clients—”

  “And his relatives,” Raelynn said pointedly.

  Kathryn sighed. “And his relatives.”

  “Neely McAllister is a hard woman, Kat, but I can hardly see her carrying over a snake surprise and leaving it on your doorstep as a small token of her esteem.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Nor can I picture her communing with the Great Unwashed in order to hire some commoner to do her dirty work for her. She might get those lily-white hands soiled. Which leaves the Judge.”

  She considered the fair-haired and genteel Kevin McAllister, who spent most of his spare time on the fairway with a five-iron in his hand. “The Judge always treated me with respect,” she said, “until he thought I’d killed
his son. And that kind of behavior seems childish in the extreme for someone of his stature.”

  “Well, somebody certainly wanted to give you one dilly of a fright. If it hadn’t been for Nick DiSalvo, you and I would probably not be havin’ this conversation right now. Which reminds me. I hear that you and our revered chief of police were seen having a romantic dinner together at Buzzy’s last night, prior to all hell breaking loose. Is there something you’d like to be telling me, sugar?”

  “No.”

  “He’s an exceedingly attractive man.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “There’s not a female on the planet who could fail to notice that man’s outstanding qualities.”

  “He’s not all that good-looking,” she said irritably. “Nice eyes, I suppose, if you like that dark, ethnic look. I think his nose has been broken at least once, maybe twice. And—”

  “For somebody who hasn’t noticed, you seem to be rather well acquainted with various aspects of his appearance.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Raelynn sighed dramatically. “Four months,” she said. “Four months I spend being my most charming self every time I encounter the gentleman, and what do I get for all my labors? Nothing. You, on the other hand, are in town for five days, and already you have him sniffing around you like a blue-tick hound sniffs around a—”

  “Raelynn!”

  “I was about to say a prime cut of sirloin. Nothing salacious had even crossed my mind. You, my dear, are the one with your mind in the gutter.”

  Through gritted teeth, she spat out, “We had dinner. Period. End of story.”

  “Ouch. I do believe I have located a sore spot. And on that auspicious note, I shall take my leave, before Rowley County ices over. Y’all take care of yourself, you hear? If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

  Dwight Ingram was tall and lean, with a shock of white hair beneath a Charlotte Hornets cap perched at a jaunty angle on his head. “Chief DiSalvo,” he boomed in a hearty voice, and shook Nick’s hand with a bone-crunching grip. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Thanks,” Nick said, “but I’m on duty.”

  “Of course. Iced tea, then?”

  Nick shrugged agreeably. “Iced tea’ll be fine.”

  While Ingram busied himself in the kitchen, Nick stood at the open window of the sun porch and admired the panoramic view of the greens at the Rowley County Golf Club. Ingram returned with two tall glasses on a serving tray, long-handled spoons laid out neatly, a lemon wedge balanced on the rim of each glass. “Let’s sit on the patio,” he said, and Nick followed him to a wrought iron table shaded by a green-and-white-striped umbrella.

  “Sun tea,” Ingram said. “Ever had it before?”

  “Can’t say that I have.” He’d never been much of a tea drinker, but he took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. “It’s not bad,” he said.

  “Easiest thing on earth. Fill a gallon jar with water, toss in your teabags, and leave it sitting on the steps in the sun for a few hours. Brews by itself, and it comes out perfect every time. All you need is a little lemon and some sweetener.” Ingram emptied half his glass in one long swig. “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “you want to know about snakes.”

  “Yes, sir. Rattlesnakes in particular.”

  “Ah, yes. Crotalus adamanteus. The Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake. A member of the family Viperidae, the pit vipers, so called because of the depression between the eye and the nostril that serves as a heat sensor to help them locate prey. Quite deadly when provoked. They grow to enormous size, you know.”

  “Yes,” Nick said dryly, “we’re acquainted.”

  “What do you want to know, Mr. DiSalvo?”

  Nick rested his glass on his knee. “If you were going to leave one of these things as a little calling card in a box on somebody’s porch, how would you get it there without being bit?”

  Ingram’s thick white eyebrows drew together as he considered. “How big?” he said.

  “Five, maybe six feet. As big around as my arm.”

  “What kind of box?”

  “An ordinary cardboard box, the kind you get at the supermarket. Uncovered.”

  “Hmn…a snake that big, and that deadly, you’d probably want some help. Let’s say I wouldn’t attempt it by myself.”

  Nick leaned forward. “So you’re saying there must have been two of them?”

  “That would be my guess, if only for safety’s sake. If you were alone, the bite could easily incapacitate you before you could drive yourself to the hospital.”

  “How would you pick it up?”

  “With a tool called a snake hook. You’d hook the snake about halfway down its body. Evenly distribute the animal’s weight, which could be considerable in a snake that large.”

  “Could it be moved right in the box?”

  Ingram considered it. “Possibly. If you kept it refrigerated somewhere for a few hours, it would probably be relatively docile. Snakes are cold-blooded animals. Their body temperature and their activity level change according to the temperature of the environment. They grow lethargic when they’re exposed to cold for lengthy periods.”

  “You think that’s what they did? Cooled it off first to make it more manageable?”

  “It’s possible.” Ingram paused. “Of course,” he said as an afterthought, “there is one other possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you familiar with snake handling churches, Chief DiSalvo?”

  “Excuse me. I thought I heard you say churches.”

  Ingram smiled. “In parts of the South,” he said, “primarily in rural Appalachian areas, there are fundamentalist Christian sects who use snake handling as a religious ritual. Pentecostal splinter groups, for the most part. They believe in a literal interpretation of some biblical verse that portrays the handling of serpents as evidence of their faith.”

  Nick whistled. “Holy mother of Moses,” he said.

  “It’s not a common phenomenon,” Ingram said. “There are probably only a handful of them left. But if your visitor happened to be a member of one of these sects, chances are he’d have had considerable experience handling large snakes.”

  “And they don’t get bit?”

  “Of course they do. But they’re relatively proficient with the creatures, and not too many of them die of snakebite.”

  “Are there any of these churches in Rowley County?”

  “It’s hard to say. They don’t exactly take out advertisements in the local newspaper. Wait here a minute. I have something that might interest you.”

  Ingram disappeared into the house, returning a few minutes later with a book and a small wooden box. “I thought you might want to borrow this,” he said, handing Nick the book. “It details the story of the Appalachian snake handlers. It’s fascinating reading.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be sure to return it when I’m done.”

  Ingram slid open the box, upended it, and shook out its contents into his palm. “Rattlesnake fangs,” he said, holding out his hand so Nick could see them. “Quite amazing, really.”

  “Amazing,” Nick said, without moving to take them from him.

  Ingram grinned and dropped the inch-long fangs back into the box. “The rattlesnake,” he said, “has suffered mightily because of the ignorance of man. When left alone, they’re not particularly aggressive.”

  Nick held out his hand. “Professor Ingram, thank you for the information. It’s been enlightening.”

  “One more thing,” Ingram said. “Leaving a five-foot rattlesnake for an unsuspecting and inexperienced person to stumble over is a little like handing a baby a loaded gun. If I were you, I’d warn the recipient of this little gift to watch his back.”

  Since he was already in the neighborhood, he decided it was high time to pay the Judge and Neely McAllister a friendly little visit.

  The paved drive cut a knife-sharp line through fields that were green with br
oadleaf tobacco. Its pungent scent hovered on the heavy air, bringing with it a longing Nick thought he’d left behind him after six months without a cigarette. But it was still there, insidious and seductive, waiting to sneak up and grab him at a vulnerable moment.

  The house itself was brick, with a two-story front porch whose roof was supported by mammoth white columns. Surrounded by rolling green lawns and shaded by towering elms that must have been well over a century old, it bespoke a gentler era, when men were men and ladies were ladies and the South had been a place of culture and refinement.

  The door was opened by a rawboned black woman wearing a crisp white apron. “Afternoon,” she said.

  “Good afternoon,” Nick said. “I was wondering if Mr. and Mrs. McAllister might be home?”

  “Do come inside, Chief DiSalvo. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  She left him waiting in a massive entry hall that smelled pleasantly of old-fashioned paste floor wax not quite concealed by the scent of the yellow roses that sat in a vase on a cherrywood table, beneath an oval mirror that was probably as old as the house. The ceiling rose thirty feet to accommodate the magnificent mahogany staircase that ascended gracefully to the second floor. Somewhere in the murky bowels of the house, he heard voices, indistinct, but plainly those of a man and a woman.

  On the wall opposite the mirror hung an oil painting of a young man he recognized as Michael McAllister. He stepped closer to study it, wondering just who he had been, this handsome and affable young man who had swept young Kathryn Sipowicz off her feet and carried her away from home and hearth to this town, this house, these people who had ultimately condemned her.

  The rapid click-click of a woman’s heels echoed down the corridor. He turned as Neely McAllister entered the room. “Chief DiSalvo,” she said. “What a surprise.”

  She was dressed in pale blue silk and a double strand of pearls. She held out a diamond-encrusted hand, and he stopped himself just short of bowing to kiss it. Instead, he shook the proffered hand, noting the small mouè of displeasure around her mouth at his obvious ignorance of what constituted proper manners. “Mrs. McAllister,” he said. “I thought maybe I might have a few words with you and the Judge.”