Murder Comes by Mail

by A. H. Gabhart

  “More like no potatoes, though that’s not important. Anyway, he thinks the killer is targeting me. Not his victims. Me. That he’s killing people to get at me.”

  Alex was silent a moment. “So you broadcast a warning to all the women in your life. How could he even know about me?”

  “He was in my house last night. He could have been here when you called and heard you leave your message. I have caller ID and your name and number is listed in a book right by the phone.”

  “Whole name?”

  “No, only Alex.”

  “That’s good. He might think I’m a guy.”

  “Not if he was here when you called and heard you. You don’t sound like a guy.”

  “Now you’re making me nervous, Michael.” Her voice sounded tight.

  Michael imagined Alex with the phone pressed hard against her ear. She’d be shoving her dark hair back away from her face, as if that would make her hear better. He wished he could really see her. “You didn’t get any weird phone calls then?”

  “Only from you. How do you know he was in your house?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You talk. I’ll listen. Don’t leave anything out, whether you think it’s important or not.” She was all business again.

  Michael perched on the arm of the couch while he considered the best place to start. Across the room, the curtains were only half closed over the window, and Michael suddenly felt on display. He couldn’t remember ever worrying about whether the drapes were open or shut, but now he got up and pulled them tightly together. He sat back down, ready to tell her anything she wanted to know except how he kept feeling monsters in the dark around him.

  23

  Michael talked and Alex listened, inserting a quick question now and again to clarify something. Finally he got it all told. “That covers it. The earring. What little I know about Kim Barbour’s murder. Rebecca Ann getting the pictures. Jackson’s car disappearing from T.R.’s. Whitt and his sidekick, Chekowski. Me going around scaring women.”

  He hoped that last would lighten the mood, but it didn’t work. It was too true.

  The only sound from the other end of the line was Alex tapping her pen on a table or her desk. When the silence went on so long that it started whining in his ear, Michael asked, “Well, Counselor, surely you have questions.”

  “There are always questions. We’ll start with the most important one.” Alex hesitated a bare second. “Where were you when Hope was killed?”

  “What?” That was the last question Michael expected her to ask.

  “I want to know where you were when that first young girl was killed. Friday night, wasn’t it? Or has the coroner established a different time of death?”

  “Whitt isn’t likely to share the findings of the medical examiner with me, but it almost had to be Friday night.”

  “You haven’t answered my first question. Where were you Friday night?”

  Michael pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to relax his grip on the phone. “What difference does that make? I didn’t even know that girl existed until I saw those pictures that came in the mail.”

  “Just answer the question, forever more.” Alex’s voice was clipped, impatient.

  “All right.” He didn’t like the question, but he had asked for her help. He shut his eyes to think back to Friday. It seemed ages ago. “I went by Aunt Lindy’s around dinnertime, maybe six thirty. Then I came home, went fishing for a while, and cleaned my guns.”

  “Guns? As in plural?” Alex didn’t give him time to answer. “Oh, you mean your Civil War toys.”

  “My Civil War antique guns,” Michael corrected. Alex liked to needle him about his gun collection, but tonight he just went through the motions of pretending to care. None of that seemed to matter much when she was asking him if he had an alibi for murder.

  “Nobody with you? No girlfriend there to help you clean the fish you caught? Spending the night?” She kept her voice light, but it was obvious she was deadly serious.

  “Nope. All alone.” He wanted to pretend they weren’t talking murder alibis. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous, Sheridan.”

  “Not jealous. Envious.” Alex went along with him, perhaps giving him time to wrap his mind around the reason for her question.

  He wondered if she used that tactic on her clients. Pressuring for answers, then letting up. He pushed that thought away. He was a friend. Not a client. “Envious? That’s hard to believe.”

  “I don’t know why. It all sounds so peaceful.” Her exaggerated sigh came across the line. “I had to not only buy dinner for the obnoxious client of the year, but also hold his hand and tell him how the firm absolutely refuses to allow him to go to jail. I’m beginning to hope I was lying. If it wasn’t for what it would do to the reputation of the firm, I’d wash my hands of the whole mess and hand him over to the prosecution in one of those extra-large gift bags.”

  “That bad, huh?” Michael wished she were sitting beside him holding his hand. “You could always hang out your shingle here in Hidden Springs.”

  “I may have to show up down there to keep a certain old friend out of jail.” Her voice was serious again.

  “What are you talking about?” Michael stared toward his window. A sliver of dark night showed at the bottom of the drawn drapes.

  “Come on, Michael, you’re a cop. Think like one. That man planted evidence on you. He didn’t hide that earring there to scare you. He put it there to incriminate you, and now you’ve just told me you don’t have alibi one for the time of death.”

  Michael’s mouth was suddenly so dry he could hardly get out the words. “That’s nuts, Alex.”

  Her voice went soft, almost a caress across the miles. “I know that, Michael. I do. But this man, this Jackson, Johnson, whatever his name, is mentally disturbed. You’ve got to try to think like he’s thinking.”

  “I don’t want to think like he’s thinking. I want to find him and stop him.”

  “He has the advantage on you there. He’s already found you.” Alex paused a couple of seconds. “You do have your gun loaded, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And where I can reach it. But Whitt doesn’t think Jackson will come after me personally. Just that he might pick someone connected to me somehow.”

  “He won’t show up in DC.” Alex sounded as if she were trying to convince herself as much as Michael.

  “He couldn’t find you. Not with just your telephone number.” Michael hated the doubt in his voice. “Could he?”

  “Maybe. It’s not listed, but if a person knows what he’s doing, he can track things down on the internet.” She was silent a minute with the pen tapping on the desk again. “You think this guy has that much on the ball? To be able to do that?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so. That’s the weird thing about all this. Out there on the bridge he looked like nothing more than a run-of-the mill bum down on his luck and tired of it all. He was ready to pitch himself in the river rather than face whatever scrape he was in. But no, I didn’t peg him as too smart or at all dangerous to anybody but himself.”

  “Unfortunately, you can’t always tell by looking. About the dangerous part.”

  “Yeah.” Michael stood up and walked into the kitchen and back. He needed to be moving. “You ever defended any murderers? Clients you knew were guilty?”

  “The firm handles all sorts of cases.” Her voice sounded a little stiff, as though he’d stepped on her toes.

  “So that means you probably have. I always figured you could tell a psycho just by looking. Do you think that’s true?”

  “I think that’s simply something we tell ourselves so we don’t have to be jumping at every shadow. But keep in mind how reporters can generally dig up at least one neighbor who always says, ‘He seemed like such a nice guy. Never bothered anybody. Minded his own business.’ Which turned out to be killing people.”

  “So you don’t think you can tell?” Michael stopped i
n front of the sink to stare at his fuzzy reflection with the room mirrored behind him. Maybe that’s all a person ever saw. Just their own image mirrored back to them. At least until the monster in the dark put his face right against the window and let you know for sure he was out there.

  “I didn’t say that, exactly. The firm has had clients who scared me to look at them and others who did look like that proverbial guy next door until you knew what they’d done. Not that a defense attorney asks for confessions. It’s usually better not to hear that ‘I did it’ line.”

  “I keep telling you, Sheridan. You’re in the wrong line of work.”

  “Yours is better?”

  “At least I’m trying to put murderers away. Not get them off.”

  “Everybody is entitled to his or her day in court, and that usually means an attorney there with him. Some of the cases you bleed over. Others you don’t cry when you lose.”

  “What’s your obnoxious client done?”

  “You know I can’t talk cases, Michael. Attorney-client confidentiality. But the firm’s into more civilized crime now. Corporate intrigue. The junior, very junior, partners handle the run-of-the-mill criminal cases for our clients. Embezzlement, reckless homicide, that sort of thing. If one of our clients were to be involved in a high-profile murder case, and we do definitely hope that never happens, the senior partners would no doubt farm it out to a firm with more resources in criminal cases.” Alex laughed a little. “However, sometimes I think I liked the everyday thieves and murderers better than these bigwigs. You didn’t have to promise to keep them out of jail. They were ready to plea-bargain just to knock a few years off their sentences.”

  “Like I keep telling you, you should come to Hidden Springs and research deeds.”

  “Now there’s some high-pressure work.” This time Alex’s laugh was more relaxed. Then she was serious again. “Look, Michael, I don’t know how I can help you with any of this, but if you think of a way, let me know.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “I’ll double-check my locks and not make appointments with strangers and look at anyone who mentions anything to do with you or Hidden Springs with wary suspicion.”

  He wasn’t sure that would be enough. “You could hire a bodyguard for a couple of weeks. Write it off as a business expense. To keep away that obnoxious client.”

  “You looking for a job?” She had a smile in her voice.

  “Come to Hidden Springs and I’ll work for free.”

  “I’m thinking you’ve got enough people to guard down there already.” She paused a moment, as though considering her next words. “Did you warn Karen?”

  “She’s on her way to visit her sister in South Carolina and Betty Jean’s at her parents’, probably sleeping with her finger on the emergency call button on her phone. I’m headed back to spend the night at Aunt Lindy’s.”

  “You think Malinda could be in danger?” She sounded surprised.

  “Who knows? But better safe than sorry. I tried to get her to go visit a friend in Boston, but she refused. Said she could take care of herself.”

  “Against a serial killer?” Now she sounded incredulous.

  “You know Aunt Lindy. She loaded Dad’s old pistol. I didn’t even know she still had it. When I left a while ago to come get Jasper, she had it on the lamp table beside her.”

  “Then pity the poor man who attempts to bother her. You don’t really think this Jackson will go after her, do you?” Worry took over in Alex’s voice.

  “No.” Michael went back in the living room, but instead of sitting down, he paced back and forth in front of his couch. A couple of floorboards creaked under his weight and Jasper raised his head off his paws to give him a puzzled look.

  “All of a sudden, you’re scaring me, Michael. You don’t sound sure enough.”

  Michael stood still and breathed out a tired sigh. “I’m not sure of anything, Alex. Just stay safe.”

  That was all he wanted. For everybody to be safe. Michael put the phone back on the base and stared up at the ceiling while a silent prayer rose up inside him. Lord, please don’t let anybody else die.

  Michael picked up his bag, flicked off the lights, and locked up. He had to pick Jasper’s front paws up and place them on the backseat of the car, then shove him inside. The dog didn’t like riding in the backseat of the patrol car. All the way to town, he panted so much, the seat was sure to be slimy with dog slobber.

  Jasper didn’t get any happier when Michael fastened his yard chain to a back porch post. As soon as Michael went inside, the dog set up a howl.

  Aunt Lindy came down the hall from her bedroom with Grimalkin trailing after her. No sign of the gun. She looked smaller and more vulnerable in her nightclothes without her glasses propped on her nose. Michael didn’t ask if the gun was in her robe pocket because he wasn’t sure which scared him the most—that she didn’t have it with her or that she did.

  “Good gracious, Michael. Can’t you make that dog hush? Reece Sheridan will call the police on me.”

  “I am the police,” Michael reminded her.

  Aunt Lindy didn’t smile. “Then give yourself a citation and bring Dog in the house or whatever it takes to make him stop howling.”

  “You sure Grimalkin won’t have a heart attack?”

  “Could be you should worry more about Dog than Grimalkin. I’ll see that she stays in my bedroom until you get that animal inside to your room. After that, Dog is on his own.” She picked up the cat and headed back toward her bedroom.

  “Good night, Aunt Lindy.”

  “Good night, Michael. I’m not sure any of this is one bit necessary.” She didn’t slam the bedroom door behind her, but she did close it very firmly.

  Michael felt sort of like a teenager again as he brought Jasper through the kitchen door and poked around in the cabinet to find an old pan to use for the dog’s water dish. Jasper circled the room, sniffing everything. “Best be good, buddy. She has a gun and says she knows how to use it.”

  When he turned around from filling the pan at the sink, Jasper had his nose pressed against the closed door that led to the front of house. He was standing stiff with his hackles raised. Michael put his hand on his head. “Easy, boy. The cat’s not in there and you couldn’t chase her if she was.”

  Jasper made a sound somewhere between a whine and a growl.

  Michael opened the door and the dog made a beeline for the staircase and up it without hesitation. “Huh, guess you want to sniff out my room.” Michael followed him up the stairs with his bag and the pan, trying not to slosh the water out on the stairs.

  The dog streaked past Michael’s bedroom toward a door that led up to the attic. The growl turned into barks that bounced off the walls in the hallway.

  “Quiet, Jasper.” Michael set the water down and went after the dog to grab his collar. Jasper’s bark turned back into a low growl. Michael ran his hand along the dog’s back, smoothing down his raised hair. “The cat’s not up here, and if you keep barking, Aunt Lindy will kick us both out. We’ll have to sleep on the porch.”

  The dog’s growl softened into an anxious whine as he looked from the door up at Michael.

  “What’s the matter with you? No cats up there. Nothing but mice and old books.” Michael took hold of the dog’s collar again and turned him back down the hall. Once inside the bedroom with the door shut, Jasper made a thorough sniffing inspection all around the room. That seemed to satisfy him as he plopped down on the rug at the foot of the bed with a whiffling sigh of contentment. Grimalkin had obviously not been in this room.

  Michael didn’t turn on a light as he undressed. Enough light from the street outside slipped in around the curtains to keep darkness at bay. In bed, Michael stared up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling and listened to the old house settle into a midnight silence.

  The sounds ought to be as comforting as an old lullaby, but he couldn’t fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the photos of the two dead girls popped the
m back open. Both girls were dead through no fault of their own but because a monster had decided to stalk him.

  And now Alex said the monster was planting evidence on him. But why? No one would ever believe he could kill those girls. No one. Then he remembered how Whitt’s eyes narrowed on him when he asked Michael about the earring. Still, he’d never once asked Michael where he was on Friday night. That didn’t mean the question wouldn’t come up the next time he saw Whitt.

  Michael’s legs felt so jerky he wanted to get up and pace the room, but he lay still. The old floorboards would creak if he got up, and that might wake Aunt Lindy again. Something he did not want to do. Besides, he needed to sleep. A man couldn’t think straight without enough sleep, and he needed to think straight.

  He slowly blanked out any thought of the murders by pulling up facts about the War Between the States. Confederate troops attacked Fort Sumter on April 12, 1861. Lee surrendered on April 9, 1865. Michael ran through the battles in between. Bull Run, Antietam, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg. His ancestors had fought in each of those places, and with sleep eluding him in this house where they once lived, it seemed only appropriate to let his mind drift to their stories.

  Three Hidden Springs Keanes fought for the Union Army, two for the South. Two of the men, cousins, came back to Hidden Springs to finish out their lives as partners in the dry goods business in spite of fighting on opposite sides in the war. Neither ever married. Then there was Uncle Wilbur, whose body lived through the war but whose spirit died at Gettysburg. He never married either.

  The fact was, many of his Keane ancestors hadn’t seemed too keen on marrying. Every generation had more than its share of bachelors and spinsters until finally the duty of carrying on the Keane name in Hidden Springs was up to Michael. While he was hardly adverse to the idea of a couple of little Keanes underfoot, first he needed a wife. That’s where things got complicated, if not impossible, since he was desperately in love with a woman who would laugh at the idea of settling down in Hidden Springs even if he ever did gather up nerve enough to ask her straight out and risk her saying no. Hearing her no would be too final.