Black Widow

by Breton, Laurie

  His eyes never leaving hers, he raised his mug to his mouth and took a sip of coffee.

  Kathryn ran a hand through her hair. “That’s preposterous,” she said. “Raelynn is my attorney. She worked for four years to get my conviction overturned. She’s my friend. She wouldn’t do something like that. She wouldn’t—”

  “You’ve done time,” he said softly. “You of all people should know that given the right motivation, anybody is capable of doing anything.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not saying she did it. I just wanted to point out the astounding coincidence.” He took another sip of her watered-down coffee. “I’ve been a cop for sixteen years,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “What earthly motivation could she have?”

  He shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “Oh, Nick.”

  The despair in her voice got to him. He set down his coffee and took her in his arms. “It’s all right,” he said. “No matter what happens, I’m here. I won’t let you down.”

  Her arms went around him and she rested her forehead against his chin. “I asked Raelynn once if I could trust you,” she said.

  He stroked her hair, fascinated by its varying shades of blonde, all of them beautiful, all of them natural. “What did she say?”

  “She said there were only two people in this town I could trust. She was one, and you were the other.”

  “Well,” he said, “she was at least half right.”

  They held each other for a while, and then she straightened her spine and stepped back, out of his arms. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Have you ever heard of a local organization called the Businessmen’s Benevolent Association?”

  “The Businessmen’s Benevolent Association?” He thought about it, but it didn’t ring any bells. “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “According to Clara Hughes, it was a civic organization here in Elba, thirty or so years ago. They raised money for worthwhile causes, helped out with community projects, that kind of thing. But apparently the organization had a dark underbelly. According to Clara, it was a front for an exclusive private men’s club. While their wives played bridge at home, the men were at the club, entertaining their young black mistresses.”

  Both his eyebrows went sky-high. “You don’t say.”

  “And I bet even a Yankee newcomer like you can come up with a list of members without having to think too hard.”

  “Let’s see. How about Chamberlain and Pepperell and McAllister, just for starters?”

  “Bingo, DiSalvo. You win a gold star. What’s even more interesting is that they used to meet in my house.”

  He frowned and looked around him. “This house?”

  “No, no. The Chandler place. Where Michael and I used to live. That was their headquarters.”

  The back of his neck began to itch again, and he turned the information over and over in his head, but damned if he could see what possible connection it could have with either of the murders. With the obvious exception of Kevin McAllister, who kept showing up in the damnedest places. “Did you know,” he said, “that Wanita had a sugar daddy?”

  “I’m not surprised. I knew damn well she wasn’t paying for that house on her own. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know yet. But her girlfriend seemed to think it might be Kevin McAllister.” He took a sip of coffee. “Funny, isn’t it, how that name keeps popping up?”

  “And wouldn’t that be convenient,” she said, “considering that he lives right next door.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. He could hold his liaisons right in his own backyard. The little woman wouldn’t be interrogating him about how much time he spent away from home. He could pop in for a quickie just about any time he wanted, and the wifey would never know the difference.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Except,” he said, thinking aloud, “it breaks his pattern.”

  “What pattern is that?”

  “According to my sources, Wanita’s the wrong color. A bit long in the tooth, too. Our boy likes ‘em young.” He eyed her speculatively. “He ever hit on you?”

  “Judge McAllister? Christ, no. Why?”

  “Just wondering about his code of ethics. If he has one. Would it keep him from hitting on his lovely young daughter-in-law?”

  “You just said yourself, I’m not his type. As Clara would put it, he prefers brown sugar.”

  “Not necessarily. Raelynn told me he hit on her once.”

  She yawned, and he emptied his cup in the sink. “It’s late,” she said. “We should try to get some sleep. Although I’m not sure I can, after this little episode.”

  “I’ll give you a massage. That’ll do the trick.”

  She drew her hair back from her face and rubbed the back of her neck. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.

  “Oh, and there is one other thing,” he said. “One other little unresolved issue.”

  She dropped the heavy fall of hair and looked at him. “What’s that?” she said.

  “You didn’t follow orders. I still owe you that spanking.”

  By morning, everyone in Elba knew that Dewey Webb had been arrested for killing Wanita Crumley. The people who knew Dewey, who’d known him all their lives, shook their heads in bewilderment and said that it couldn’t be true. Those who knew him only by his reputation shook their heads in righteous piety and said that any man who made his living selling sin to sinners was bound to get his comeback sooner or later. The police station was a madhouse, the phone ringing off the hook, news reporters from Raleigh and Charlotte hovering like spiders, waiting to pounce on Nick DiSalvo the instant he walked through the door.

  With the phone receiver attached to her ear, Rowena waved a stack of pink message slips as he passed. Nick poured himself a cup of ambrosia. Like a pack of wolves, the reporters followed him to the door of his office. He slammed it in their faces and leaned on it to catch his breath.

  Richard Melcher was sitting at his desk again. “Melcher,” he said, “you really are a slow learner, aren’t you?”

  “Awfully convenient for you, DiSalvo, that Dewey Webb’s prints turned up on that gun. Considering that until last night, your personal piece of tail was the prime suspect.”

  He dropped his cup of coffee and grabbed Melcher by the front of his shirt, yanking him up out of the chair and onto his feet. “If you ever refer to her that way again,” he said quietly, “I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  Melcher’s eyes met his coolly. “You,” he said, “are an animal. An uncivilized, boorish heathen. How the hell you ever ended up with this job, I can’t—”

  Nick shook him so hard his teeth snapped together. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  The younger man’s eyes narrowed. “I understand,” he said.

  Nick released him so suddenly that Melcher lost his footing and nearly fell. “Get the hell out of here,” he snapped. “We have our suspect in custody. Now you can go back to Raleigh and tell your boss what a stupendous job you did here. Maybe you’ll get a corner office out of it.”

  Melcher smoothed his tie and returned Nick’s scowl. “Just remember, DiSalvo, this will go down as a black mark on your record.”

  “Get out of here!”

  When Melcher was gone, he fished a fistful of napkins out of his desk and mopped up the spilled coffee. To steady his hands, he drank what was left of it while he paged through his messages. The mayor was requesting an audience with him first thing. Wanita Crumley’s sister, June, wanted to talk to him. Celeste Geary, the anchorwoman from channel seven in Raleigh, wanted an exclusive interview before the noon news report.

  He tossed Geary’s message in the trash, set aside the one from the mayor, and phoned Crumley’s sister and made an appointment to meet with her later in the day. And then, reluctantly, he went upstairs to meet with the mayor.

  Marilu looked like an ice cream soda this morning, all pink and white f
roth. She raised her tanned shoulders and thrust out her impressive chest and smiled at him. “Good morning, Chief,” she said. “Mayor’s waiting for you right inside. Congratulations on catchin’ your killer so quickly.”

  He grunted a response and stepped up to the open door and knocked.

  “Nick! Come in, come in.” Wayne Stevens leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped over his flat abdomen, a smile on his face. “Fast work,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

  Nick shut the door behind him and sat down. “I wouldn’t get too impressed just yet,” he said.

  The mayor’s smile faltered a little. “What do you mean?” he said.

  “I’m not thoroughly convinced that Dewey Webb killed Wanita Crumley.”

  This time, the smile disappeared altogether. “I don’t understand,” Stevens said. “You have the man in custody, and his prints all over the murder weapon. How much more will it take to convince you?”

  He debated whether or not Stevens could be trusted. “I think,” he said slowly, carefully, “that there’s something really smelly going on around here.”

  Stevens drew his bushy eyebrows together. “Smelly in what way?”

  “I think somebody set up Dewey Webb. Just like they set up Kathryn McAllister four years ago. I think the two murders are related. There’s a killer walking our streets, Mayor, and I intend to find out who it is and put him away.”

  He could see that Stevens was considering his suggestion. “How many people have you told?”

  “Just you, sir. And Kathryn McAllister.”

  “Many a good man has had his head turned by a pretty face, DiSalvo.”

  “She’s innocent,” he said, “and I intend to prove it.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?”

  The truth was bound to come out, sooner or later. Too many people already knew. Better that the mayor should hear it from his own mouth. “Yes,” he said.

  “Goddamn it, Nick!”

  “I’m a good cop, sir. I know what the hell I’m doing.”

  Stevens sighed. “Damn it all to hell! Why can’t anything be uncomplicated? What about Dewey Webb?”

  “Right now,” Nick said, “he’s the only suspect we’ve got. It’ll never make it to trial. We’ll find the real killer, and Dewey’ll be released.”

  “In the meantime, DiSalvo, I’m expecting you to keep this little conversation between us. Our official line remains the same. Dewey Webb is our killer. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” he said. “By the way, have you ever heard of an organization called the Businessmen’s Benevolent Association?”

  It was subtle, the change in Stevens, but it was very real. “I’m not the person to ask,” the mayor said stiffly.

  “Any idea who might be?” Nick said casually.

  “I’d suggest you drop it,” Stevens said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in five minutes.”

  It ate at him for the rest of the morning, the mayor’s reaction when he’d asked about the Businessmen’s Benevolent Association. There was something there, of that he was certain. Whether or not it had any connection with the murders he had no idea. But what he’d seen in Stevens’ eyes had looked remarkably like fear, and he couldn’t help wondering what Mayor Wayne Stevens had to fear.

  At nine o’clock, he issued a brief statement to the waiting reporters. Celeste Geary called again, and he was on the phone with her when his door burst open and Janine flew in, her face thunderous. “Excuse me,” he told Geary. “I’ll have to call you back.” He hung up the phone and leaned over his desk. “Hi, baby,” he said to his daughter.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She crossed her arms over her chest, and he realized that she’d begun developing breasts, this womanchild of his. Where had the years gone?

  “Why didn’t I tell you what?” he said.

  “That she killed someone, Daddy! How could you not tell me something that important?”

  He’d known it was coming, had postponed it as long as possible, but here it was, and he had to face it. “Shut the door,” he said, “and sit down.”

  Sitting there in all her righteous fury, she was a miniature version of her mother. How many times had Lenore met him at the door with this kind of anger because he’d worked late again and missed some crucial family function? “First of all,” he said, “Kathryn didn’t kill anybody.”

  “That’s not what Sylvie says. She says that Kathryn killed her husband with a knife and went to prison for it!”

  “It wasn’t a knife,” he said, “it was a pair of wallpapering shears. And yes, she did go to prison. But she’s not the one who killed him. That’s why she’s not in prison any more. A judge overturned her conviction.”

  “I don’t understand, Daddy. You’re a cop. How could you involve yourself with somebody like that?”

  “I thought your mom and I taught you not to judge people until you got to know them? You don’t know anything about her.”

  “Because you’ve conveniently kept us apart. I think you’re embarrassed about being involved with her, and you don’t want anybody to know. You’re a hypocrite, Daddy, that’s what you are.”

  Her words went through him like a knife, at least in part because there was some truth in them. What was it Kathryn had tried to tell him the other day? Something about walking down the street beside her in the broad light of day?

  Janine tapped her foot. “Well, Daddy?”

  With a sigh, he picked up the telephone and called Kathryn. “Would you do me the honor,” he said, “of having dinner with me tonight? You, me, and Janine. In public. In broad daylight. Right here in River City.”

  “Nick?”

  “Just say yes, McAllister, and don’t ask questions.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Thank you. My day is now complete. I’ll pick you up around six. Try to leave the evil twin at home, okay? Janine’s been listening to rumors, and she’s convinced I’m keeping company with Lizzie Borden.”

  “Ah. I see. I’ll try to be on my best behavior, then.”

  “Kat?”

  “DiSalvo?”

  He realized his daughter was listening to every word, and besides, he wasn’t sure what it was he wanted to say. Wasn’t sure he could put it into words. Not yet, anyway. “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  He hung up the phone and faced his daughter. “There,” he said. “Are you happy now?”

  Luther Murdock looked older than his sixty-seven years. His face was drawn, the wrinkles more pronounced than they’d been the last time she’d seen him, some five years ago. “Dewey din’t kill nobody,” he told her, wiping absently at the counter with a wet rag. “I’ve known that boy since he was no bigger’n a flea. He loved that woman, Miz McAllister. He wouldn’t have done anything to hurt her.”

  She leaned forward over the bar, glanced around, and lowered her voice. “I think Dewey was set up,” she said. “Just like I was. I think whoever killed Michael also killed Wanita. I’m looking for proof.”

  “Who’d want to do that to Mister Dewey?”

  “I doubt that it was personal. Dewey just happened to be the most likely suspect. Just like I was, with Michael.”

  “I don’t see how I can help, Miz McAllister.”

  “You might know something you don’t even realize you know. Some piece of the puzzle that I haven’t been able to fit together.”

  “This is a job for the police, ma’am. You’re liable to get hurt if you go messin’ around in stuff that ain’t your business.”

  “It is my business,” she said. “It’s my business to find out who killed my husband. It’s my business to clear my name. And now,” she added, “it looks like it’s up to me to clear Dewey.”

  “You’re a right fine lady,” he said. “I never believed you killed Mr. McAllister. You was always nice to my grandkids. You was their favorite teacher.”

  She remembered them fondly, Denise and Della Murdock, a pair of sweet-faced pre-teens who
were being raised by their grandparents after their mother left town with her latest boyfriend and never bothered to come back. “They were beautiful little girls,” she said. “They must be almost grown now. Young ladies.”

  His grin took years off his face. “They surely are, Miz McAllister. They surely are.”

  “Luther,” she said, “what do you know about an organization called the Businessmen’s Benevolent Association?”

  His face went still, except for the twitch in his eyelid. “Nothing,” he said blankly. “Never heard of ‘em.”

  He was lying. She knew it. “Come on, Luther. You’ve lived in this town all your life. Why won’t you talk about them?”

  “That was thirty years ago, ma’am. It don’t matter now.”

  “And what if it does?”

  He picked up a glass and began polishing it with a clean towel. Glanced nervously past her shoulder. On the television above his head, Days of Our Lives was playing. “They’s things goes on in this town,” he said, “that decent folk don’t talk about.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m an old man, Miz McAllister. I keep my mouth shut, and everything goes along right smooth. I says the wrong thing to the wrong person, and who knows what might happen? My baby girls are fifteen and sixteen. I gotta take care of ‘em.”

  “I swear to you on a stack of Bibles that what you tell me will never leave this room.”

  “I don’t see what the Benevolent Association got to do with Dewey bein’ in jail.”

  “Neither do I. But there’s a connection. I feel it in my bones.”

  “What went on in that house,” he said softly, “was shameful. Place ought to be burned down and the ground sowed with salt. Young women of color—beautiful young women—bein’ paraded in and out like they was a revolvin’ door on the place. White men using ‘em for their own perverted pleasures. And not giving ‘em a choice.”

  “Do you mean to say that the women weren’t willing? They were raped?”

  He glanced out at the nearly empty room. “You gotta understand,” he said, “what it was like. They was all rich white men. They owned the town, and everybody in it. If one of ‘em decided he wanted a particular colored girl, there warn’t nothin’ she could do about it. Not if she didn’t want her daddy bein’ fired from his job when he had six or seven mouths to feed.”