Born Innocent

by Christine Rimmer

  But what she’d said wouldn’t stop echoing in his head.

  You’ve done more than any friend could ever be expected to do....

  Friend. The word galled him. It was the word he’d always used to keep her at a safe distance. And now, she had used it—to push him away. He supposed it was kind of funny. In a way. If having a woman tear your guts out with your own words could be considered funny.

  You’ve done more...

  Joe threw back his head and laughed. It was a raw howl of a laugh, one with no warmth or humor in it at all.

  Hell. He hadn’t done a damn thing, except take advantage of the tough time she was having enough to let her talk him into making love with her again. She’d told him it would comfort her, to be in his arms. So he’d given her comfort, and gotten plenty for himself, as well.

  But as far as what might really have helped her, he’d done exactly zilch. He’d failed her in their pathetic attempts to find out who really shot Alan Henson. And, in the end, he wasn’t going to be able to protect her from paying for a crime she didn’t commit.

  Joe knew, of course, that she was innocent of shooting Henson. There had never been the slightest doubt in his mind about that.

  He knew she was innocent for two reasons: one, she had said so. And two, because, if she had shot him—something she would only have done in self-defense—she would have called an ambulance right away and then called the sheriff’s office. It would never have occurred to her to do otherwise. She wouldn’t have hesitated to face the consequences of her actions; and she would have been absolutely sure that justice would triumph in the end.

  That was what was ripping her apart now. She was learning that she lived in a world where justice sometimes lost out to blind circumstance. It was breaking her heart.

  He’d accused her a few minutes ago of keeping something from him. But now, thinking back, he knew that had to be just wishful thinking on his part.

  He’d wanted there to be something, some secret, that he could drag out of her. Something he could really help her with, since he’d failed her so miserably with everything else.

  But, of course, there was no secret. It was all right out there in the open for everyone to see. Her world was coming apart at the seams. She was going before the grand jury in less than forty-eight hours, and she wanted to get on with her life until then. Nothing mysterious about that.

  Joe fell back on the bed, rubbed his eyes and closed them for a moment. When he opened them again, he was looking at his duffel bag by the closet across the room. On top of the bag was the steno pad he’d taken to San Francisco. The damn thing was almost completely full. Of useless notes. He’d scribbled his little heart out, getting down every bit of meaningless information that popped into his brain.

  Joe sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

  The damn notebook drew him.

  There was that feeling he kept having about all this. That feeling he used to get sometimes when he was tracking some low-life fool and thought he’d exhausted all the possibilities of where the guy might be.

  It was the what-is-wrong-with-this-picture? feeling. The feeling that he was looking right at what he needed to know, but just wasn’t seeing it.

  In such situations, the notebook helped the most. It had all the pictures, in the form of everything he could remember about everyone he’d talked to concerning the case.

  Joe stood up and went to the duffel bag. He bent and got the notebook, and then sat in the rocking chair and began flipping through the pages.

  “Claire, I really would like a private word with you.”

  Claire hung her dress in the closet and turned to look at Ella, who had appeared in the door to the hall. The last thing she wanted was a “private word” with her mother.

  “Can’t it wait a while, Mother? Right now, I’m just not up for it.” She went to her open suitcase and began transferring its contents back to her dresser drawers.

  Ella ventured into the room. “Dear, there are a few things I’d like to tell you, if you would just give me a moment or two.”

  “Mother, right now, I—” The front desk buzzer cut Claire off.

  “Oh, no.” Ella turned for the door. “I’ll be right back. I’m sure it’s only Amelia. She’s having a rough time of it today.”

  Claire was curious. “Why?”

  Ella paused in the doorway. “Because of Verna.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it turns out Verna’s left things a mess. And Amelia is having trouble getting the rooms cleaned because of it. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll attend to it. Don’t you worry yourself.”

  Claire stood by the door to the hall for a moment, watching her mother’s retreating back. There was really no reason not to just do as Ella had suggested and return to emptying her suitcase and putting her things in order.

  But this problem with Verna seemed something she should get on top of. After all, she had come back to put her life in order. And if her head housekeeper wasn’t doing her job, it would be better to deal with it now.

  Claire followed her mother out to the lobby, and found Amelia cracking gum like crazy and looking thoroughly discouraged. Still, she straightened up a little when she saw Claire.

  “Hey, Claire. How you doing?”

  “Fine. What’s going on?”

  Ella turned. “Claire, I thought I told you not to worry about this right now.”

  Claire spoke firmly. “Thanks, Mother. You’ve been terrific. But it’s time I started doing my job again.”

  “But, dear, I—”

  Claire cut to the point. “Tell me what’s happening, Amelia.”

  Amelia gave a good chomp on her gum. “Disaster, that’s what. Capital D.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, I don’t like to rat on Verna. You know Verna and me always got along. But something serious is up with her. It’s like she hasn’t done half her work over the past week. Everything’s behind. I’ll be lucky to get the rooms cleaned by midnight tonight, with all the backup stuff I’ve got to do before I can actually clean the bathrooms and make the beds. I mean, the cart took me an hour to straighten up.” She was referring to the housekeeping cart, on which she carried all the cleaning supplies and fresh linens as she went from room to room. “All the spray bottles were empty, and the mops actually smelled. And I’ve got both washers going, but all the sheets and towels are dirty. And now I’m out of detergent. Like totally.” Amelia was so disheartened, she actually dropped into a chair right in front of her boss and blew a huge, pink bubble, waiting until it popped halfway across her face before reeling it back in. “I just don’t get it. Verna always keeps on top of the supplies. She writes down what we need when it’s low, and we never run out.”

  Ella did some clucking. “Well, she just hasn’t been feeling well. I swear, she looked positively gray the other day when I asked her to scrub down the back bungalow....” Ella continued for a few moments in the same vein, chiding herself, feeling sorry for poor Verna.

  Claire barely heard her. In her mind, she was seeing the dark stain on the rug in the back bungalow, and wondering if it was possible that Verna could have—

  No, not Verna. Quiet, no-nonsense Verna. It couldn’t be Verna....

  Still, all the things she and Joe had discussed about Henson and his particular charm for women echoed in her head.

  Would he have been able to charm Verna? She was so steady and practical, not the type to fall head over heels for anyone or anything.

  And yet, she was a widow, who lived alone, who cleaned motel rooms for a living. She was one of those people other people take for granted, someone who keeps the world running, and gets little attention or recognition for a lifetime of dependable, day-in, day-out service. Deep in her heart, she could be lonely, and hungry for love.

  And though Verna didn’t seem the type of woman Henson would chose to charm, Claire and Joe had learned that the man never missed a trick. Certainly he wouldn’t be beneath chattin
g up the housekeeper when she came in to clean his bungalow. And if she had any money at all...

  “I gotta have detergent,” Amelia whined.

  “I understand,” Claire said. “Are we out of anything else?”

  “Window cleaner. And boy, do we need it. You should see the smears that those two little kids in number four left on all the windows and mirrors in there. Gross.”

  “Mother, can you watch things here for a little while longer?”

  “Of course. I’m here as long as you need me. But I—”

  “Good. There’s a small box of detergent under the sink in my kitchen. You can use that for the next two loads. In the meantime, I’ll go over to the grocery store and pick up enough of what we need to last until I can make my next trip to Grass Valley. And while I’m at it, I think I’ll just drive to Verna’s, to see if she’s all right....”

  * * *

  At the ranch, Joe had moved from the bedroom rocker to the kitchen table. He’d found himself a big yellow legal pad—he liked bigger sheets of paper when he was formulating theories—and his hand was flying across the lined, yellow sheet. He was making notes about his notes.

  He wrote:

  An amateur—gets off one shot, probably in heat of passion, and then doesn’t even stick around to see if the guy is dead. Probably assumes Henson is dead. And then finds out the next day that he’s not.

  Someone Henson ripped off. Someone with access to Claire’s gun. The more I think about it, it’s unlikely someone would have wandered in and just happened to discover a weapon behind the counter. Maybe, all along, we haven’t given enough thought to the access problem, the factor of opportunity.

  Sheriff and Leven blinded by all the circumstantial stuff, the stuff that points right at Claire. Claire and I blinded by the list, by wanting it to be someone on the list.

  But Henson must have gotten to people who never made it to the list. And it’s extremely likely that he got to someone local. Someone in Pine Bluff.

  Most likely, a woman. A lonely, needy woman....

  Claire drove straight to Verna’s house, not stopping even to buy the window cleaner and detergent she’d promised Amelia. The cleaning supplies could wait.

  But the tight knot of anticipation in her stomach, the way her heart pounded with hope and, yes, fear, too—those things couldn’t wait. Those things had to be attended to right now.

  As she turned left at the stop sign across the bridge and headed up the hill that led out of town, she recalled her promise to Sheriff Dan. She’d given her word she’d stop doing his job for him.

  A small smile played on her lips. Well, fine. She wasn’t breaking her word—or if she was, Sheriff Dan would never know it. After all, Verna was Claire’s employee, and Claire was concerned about her. It was as simple as that. Claire’s mother had said Verna was sick. Claire wanted to check on her. That was all.

  But you could have called her.

  No, I couldn’t see how she really is over the phone. I wanted to check on her in person, and that’s what I’m doing. There’s no law against that....

  Claire thought of Joe. Perhaps it would be wisest to take the turnoff to the ranch, to find Joe and ask him to come back with her to Verna’s, in case there really was anything to this crazy hunch of hers.

  Claire shook her head. Ten to one, this would turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Claire had known Verna Higgins all her life. Verna was a peaceable soul, not the type to shoot a man in a fit of passion—or in cold blood, either, for that matter.

  In spite of the way her stomach clenched and her heart beat in her throat, Claire was pretty sure of what she would actually find when she knocked on Verna’s door: Verna in her housecoat, watching Saturday afternoon TV.

  No, Claire wouldn’t bother Joe. She’d already dragged him all over San Francisco for no reason. Enough was enough. She could handle this herself. Behind her, the dirt road that led to the ranch disappeared around a bend.

  Soon enough, up ahead between a pair of tall pines, she could see the top of the dirt road that cut down to Verna’s house. And then she was upon it. Crossing the opposing lane of traffic, she pulled off onto the shoulder and started down toward the little house that clung to the side of the mountain beneath the dappling shadows of the big trees.

  Claire stopped the car several yards from the front porch. She sat for a moment, looking out the windshield at the house. It looked deserted. The blinds were drawn on the three front windows—the big ones to one side of the door, which probably served the living room, as well as the slightly smaller one on the other side, no doubt to a bedroom.

  She could see no sign of Verna’s gray compact car. But that could easily be in the garage, which adjoined the house and appeared locked up tight.

  Claire got out, and stood by her driver’s door for a moment, suddenly reluctant, after her headlong rush to get here, to go up to the porch and knock on the door.

  Claire stared at the house, and actually considered getting back in her car and returning to town and calling Sheriff Dan. She could tell him her suspicions and let him handle it from there.

  Claire shook her head.

  No, she wasn’t that woman anymore, that trusting woman who turned things over to the proper authorities because that was the right thing to do. She couldn’t just let someone else handle it. She wanted to handle it herself.

  Besides, she was probably making a big deal out of nothing at all. In any case, it was time to stop dawdling and get to it.

  Claire squared her shoulders and marched to the porch, up the three steps and to the front door. She knocked briskly and then waited.

  Nothing happened.

  She called. “Verna! It’s me, Claire. Are you in there?”

  No one answered. She wondered if, like that night at Joe’s, she’d have to break a window to get in.

  She left the porch and walked around the side of the garage, where a small, cobwebby window allowed her to see that Verna’s car, at least, was here. She continued on, around the garage, to the back of the house. The windows there were dark, as well.

  She mounted the short stoop to the back door, pulled open the squeaky screen and knocked. When nothing happened, she tried the door handle. It turned.

  “Verna? Are you there?” She pushed the door slowly open. “Verna?” She wrapped her fingers around the top of the door, and peeked around it.

  She saw a small, dim kitchen and she saw open boxes on the floor, half-filled with kitchen utensils.

  She also saw Verna, standing about four feet away from the door. Verna wasn’t wearing the housecoat Claire had expected. Instead, she was fully dressed, and in her shaking hands she held a small revolver. The gun was pointed straight at Claire.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Verna said, “I guess you better come in.”

  Claire held her breath and wondered what her chances were of making a run for it.

  “Don’t even think it.” Verna gestured with the gun. “Come in and close that door.”

  “All right. Take it easy.” Slowly, Claire pushed the door open enough to slide through it. Then she closed it gently behind her.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Claire raised her hands in the air. “Okay. Now what?”

  “Just...shut up. Just let me think.” Verna’s hands—and the gun she was pointing at Claire—kept shaking. Claire tried not to imagine what would happen if one of her fingers slipped.

  Verna gestured with the gun some more. “Okay. In there.” She circled around until she was between Claire and the door. Then she herded Claire through the doorway that led to the front room. Claire had to step over more halffilled open boxes to get through the kitchen.

  “Sit down,” Verna instructed when Claire had moved fully into the front room and stood near a faded, floral-patterned couch. Claire didn’t argue. She nudged aside a box with tissue paper sticking out of it and sat at one end of the couch. Verna lowered herself into a heavily padded reclining chair across from
her.

  The women regarded each other.

  The room was very warm. Claire could feel the sweat, partly from the heat and partly from her own fear, breaking out on her brow, her upper lip and beneath her arms.

  Verna was sweating, too. And her hands, which still held the gun trained on Claire, were also still shaking. Claire had the terrifying urge to ask, What are you going to do with me? She held it back.

  Verna looked more than merely desperate. Something inside her seemed to have snapped. There was a rim of white around her mouth. Her eyes had a wild, trapped gleam. Claire already knew what Verna was going to do with her, even if Verna didn’t yet quite know herself.

  Claire’s elbow nudged the tissue paper that spilled out of the box beside her. It made a soft, crackling sound.

  Verna spoke up. “Yeah, I’m packing,” she said impatiently, as if in answer to a question that Claire had never uttered aloud. “I’m leaving. But I’m having a hard time deciding what to take. My car’s not very big. I’ll have to leave a few things.”

  Claire nodded. What should she do? Humor this wildeyed stranger who seemed, somehow, to be no longer the Verna she knew? This woman who held Claire’s life—and the secret life of a tiny baby—in her quivering, sweaty hands? She supposed it was worth a shot.

  “Yes, I... imagine it’s difficult. Making up your mind.”

  Verna’s mad eyes narrowed. “I know you blame me. Don’t pretend you don’t.” Her voice went plaintive. “But what was I supposed to do? They thought it was you, and I let them go ahead and think that. What else could I do? I didn’t want to go to jail. But this... acting like nothing happened, it’s making me, I don’t know, crazy. I have to get out.”

  Claire, who was trying not to think of what she saw in store for herself when she looked into Verna’s exhausted, mad eyes, asked carefully, “You’re talking about what happened with Alan?”

  Verna scrunched up her face. “What else is there? Of course. What happened with Alan. Don’t play stupid. You know. I know you know.”

  Claire swallowed. “Yes. I do. I understand. About Alan.”