Susan shrugged.
“What does sand have to do with her attacker?”
“I don’t know,” Susan said. “I don’t know anything.”
“Aw, Suse, don’t use this tragedy to beat yourself up. You’re already in a—”
She shot a look at him. “Yes?” she said darkly.
“—fragile state. This has sent you skittering along toward the edge.”
She snorted. “The edge of what?”
“Your funk, depression, melancholia. Whatever you want to call it. It makes me want to yell at you, or smack you.” He divided the last of the wine between her glass and his. “Drink up. When you’re really drunk, I’ll sing Irish songs.”
“If you sing ‘Danny Boy,’ I’ll smack you.”
He tipped his glass and drained it, started to set it on the coffeetable, then glanced up with a thoughtful frown.
“Dawn’s early light?” she said.
“A thought. One year for Christmas Lynn gave me some fancy-ass cologne or aftershave or something called Sand. Came in an artsy bottle that actually had sand in the bottom. There was a card with poetic descriptions of the rainbow of colors in the stuff and that it came from some deep secret part of the sea or some shit like that. Hannah liked to tilt it back and forth, shake it and watch the sand settle.”
After a second, when his words got to her brain, Susan got up and went through the French doors into the small room off the living room that she used as an office and punched in Parkhurst’s number.
“Tell Demarco to meet us at the shop. You can pick me up on the way.”
“What’s up?”
“Tell you when you get here.” She hung up and went to brush her teeth and gargle.
* * *
Somebody had made a fresh pot of coffee. Susan poured a mug and carried it to her office. Parkhurst started to pace.
“Sit!” She hoped the Excedrin she’d taken would kick in soon.
He sat, slid down, and rested on his spine. Five minutes later, Demarco arrived and stood at attention in the doorway. She sighed.
“Who was in the girl’s room when governor Garrett went to see her?”
“The governor,” Demarco said, “his press secretary Hadley Cane, Bernie Quaid, who’s assistant to just about everyone, campaign manager Todd Haviland, media consultant Leon Massy, Mrs. Garrett, her assistant Nora Tallace, highway patrolmen Phil Baker and Art van Dever. And the media.”
“Did you get their names?”
“Cameraman Rich Laslo, blond TV newscaster named Kathy Wendell, mag reporter Sean Donovan. Ty Baldini from the local paper.”
Sean had been there? He hadn’t mentioned it to her. She leaned forward to pick up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “Any thoughts on what the girl meant by sand?”
“No, ma’am.”
“There’s an aftershave called Sand. Maybe her attacker wore it and she smelled it when he slashed her. Later, in the hospital, her memory may have been triggered by smelling it again.” She glanced at Parkhurst.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “Never touch the stuff.”
“We need to find out if anyone who was in that hospital room uses Sand aftershave. Leave the news people till last. It’s possible there’s a homicidal maniac among them, but barring that, it’s unlikely one of them slashed the throat of a little girl and then smothered her to finish the job. We’ll start with the governor’s people.”
She told Parkhurst to take Demarco, track down and question Todd Haviland, Bernie Quaid, Leon Massy, Mrs. Garrett—who better than a wife to know if a man wore aftershave—Nora Tallace, and Hadley Cane. Highly unlikely the governor, in disguise, skulked into the hospital, but just to be thorough.
“And don’t forget the highway patrolmen.” She retrieved her coat from the coat rack.
“What about Donovan?” Demarco asked.
“I’ll take care of him.” She wondered if wearing a man’s aftershave was a good way to set someone up. Anybody could buy the stuff and splash it on. Who would know if it had never been used before?
Slipping out the back door to avoid reporters and leaving the pickup in the parking lot, she tugged her belt tighter and moved in a brisk walk the four blocks south to Behren’s Department Store at Eleventh and Main. The cosmetic counter was given lots of attention by three teenagers choosing eye shadow and lipstick. Edgy with impatience and worried that the media might get wind of what they were doing, it was all she could do not to tap her foot. When the girls twittered away, Susan asked the saleswoman if they carried Sand aftershave.
Oh, indeed they did, and very lovely it was, too. Would she like to buy some?
She would. Since it was a little steeper than she anticipated and she didn’t have enough cash with her, she handed over her credit card.
43
In the five minutes it took Bernie to splash water on his face, put on his shoes and get to the living room, Nora’s nonstop blathering about Jack needing time to recover and Molly stepping into his position and taking over as governor had Todd ready to strangle her. Bernie went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee—it was going to be a long afternoon. Todd was standing with his back to them, staring out the window at the black clouds hanging low in the sky. Leon gave Bernie a thumb’s up from the other side of the room where he was selecting a sandwich from the assortment on the platter.
Bernie took a sip of coffee and wedged himself against the arm of the couch. “What’s going on?”
Todd turned from the window. “We need to make decisions on how to play this until Jack is well enough to get off his ass and back on the trail.”
“Well, that’s a nice way of putting it, I must say.” Nora sniffed. She was offended by what she considered unnecessary vulgarity.
“Where’s Hadley?” Bernie thought the media consultant needed to be in on any planning sessions.
“Out doing—” Todd waved a hand. “Whatever the hell it is women do when they go out.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for her?”
“Yeah. While we’re waiting you can go and pick up Cass.”
Leon started singing softly, “I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger.”
“Where is she?” Bernie asked.
“Why should she be here?” Nora said. “Molly doesn’t like her and right now Molly can use all the consideration you can give her. She—”
“How the fuck should I know,” Todd said to Bernie. “Find out.”
“Is it necessary to be quite so profane?” Nora said. “I mean, for goodness sake…”
“It’s going to get worse if you don’t shut the fuck up!”
Bernie called Cass on his cell phone. When she answered, he said, “I’ll pick you up in a few minutes. We’re having a planning session and Jack wants you in on it.”
As he anticipated, she said she couldn’t come. “I’m really sorry, Bernie. I have an appointment at seven that I have to keep. It’s really important.”
Before he could tell her he’d be there in ten minutes, a solid knock on the door startled them all. Since he was the closest, he answered the door.
Highway patrolman Phil Baker had Chief Wren with him, her trusty sidekick Parkhurst, and a third cop who looked like he chewed nails for relaxation.
“Jack—?” Todd’s face went white.
“This isn’t about Governor Garrett,” the lady cop said. “I need to ask a few questions.”
“What about?” Todd said.
With some posturing about no questions without their attorney present, Todd went off to the governor’s office with the chief and her head shitkicker. The other cop, who looked like he bent railroad tracks with his bare hands, put his back to the door and planted his legs wide. After a few seconds of surprise and shocked silence, Nora started up with her usual chatter. One look from the cop shut her up. Bernie wondered if the cop could teach him that trick.
“I need to go pick up somebody,” Bernie said.
“Just sit down, sir. It’ll only be a few mi
nutes.”
It was more than a few. When Todd was released, he said, in the interests of saving time, he’d get Cass.
“Do it right away,” Bernie said. “She has some appointment at seven. Get her before she has a chance to leave.”
Leon got questioned next and then Nora. Bernie was last. He’d assumed they were digging once again into who did what, where, and when at the time the governor was shot. And he was right, but to his surprise there were additional questions about the governor’s visit to the girl in the hospital: where was everybody standing in the room, who spoke to the girl, who was closest to the bed, what had the Governor said to her, what had everybody else said to her, what was the order of their leaving, did anyone go back into the room after the Governor left?
Bernie was getting a little tired of answering questions in the dark. “What’s this all about?”
“Just answer the questions,” Parkhurst said.
“Another minute or two, Mr. Quaid,” she said. “Who was wearing perfume?”
“Perfume?” he repeated. “I don’t understand. What does perfume have to do with anything?”
“Did you notice any?”
“I probably wouldn’t have paid any attention if I had.”
“Does Nora wear perfume?”
Bernie grinned. “So much it makes your eyes water. Especially if you’re in a car with her.”
“And the press secretary, Hadley Cane?”
“Maybe, but I couldn’t tell you what kind.”
“What about you? Aftershave or cologne?”
Bernie was completely bewildered. What the hell did perfume have to do with the attempt to kill the governor? “No.”
“Who does, Mr. Quaid? The men on the governor’s staff, who wears aftershave?”
“I don’t have any idea. Is there a law here that we don’t know about? No aftershave allowed?”
“No, Mr. Quaid, no law.”
When Bernie got back to the living room, Hadley had arrived and was perched on one couch tapping a shoe with impatience. She looked a question at him. He shrugged.
Susan went through a whole fistful of questions with the press secretary before getting to questions dealing with aftershave.
“Aftershave?” Hadley wrinkled her nose. “Why are you asking? I guess some do.”
From the paper bag at her feet, Susan took out the bottle of Sand she’d bought, removed the top and handed it to Hadley. “Do you know who uses this?”
Hadley put the bottle under her nose and sniffed. She looked up. “The governor, I think,” she said. “Sometimes.” She gave the bottle back. “Molly buys it, but he doesn’t like to wear anything like that in case, you know, it’s off-putting to a voter.”
44
Halloween. Almost six o’clock and this black night was tortured by a coming storm. Cass felt hollow inside and cold, but the closer it got to seven, the calmer she became. A year ago today at seven o’clock she had turned to say something to Laura in the back seat and a drunk smashed into their car. What Cass had said was lost in the mists. She should have died, too, along with Ted and Laura. Today she would make that right. In one hour she would end her pain.
She pulled her down jacket from a hanger in the closet, went to the dining room and hung it over a chair. While she sat at the Victorian desk, sleet chattered against the window as though tapping fingers beckoned. With a fluid leap, Monty lit on the corner, crouched and wrapped his tail around his front paws. She stroked the cat, feeling the silkiness of its fur. Rosie the dog crowded against her knee, laid her head in Cass’s lap and looked up with anxious eyes.
Cass raised the dog’s muzzle, slid a hand over her ears, and said, “It’s okay.” She looked at Monty. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
From the middle drawer, she took out a sheet of her aunt’s stationery, white with a border of blue irises.
Dear Bernie
Please take care of Monty and Rosie. There isn’t anyone else.
Cass
She hadn’t known Bernie long, but when she’d said she couldn’t join the campaign because it meant she might be away for long periods of time and she had these animals to look after, he’d promised he would take care of them if anything happened to her. Of course, he hadn’t meant what she had in mind. He’d meant an accident, or something preventing her from getting home at the expected time, but he had made a promise and he would keep it. She knew he would.
From the bottom right-hand drawer, she took out the revolver, opened the cylinder and slotted in one bullet, hesitated, then put in the other five. Why not? She slipped the gun in the jacket pocket.
Roaring with fury, Rosie raced to the door. Seconds later the doorbell rang. Hackles raised, snarling, the dog threw herself at the door. Damn it, Cass had told Bernie she couldn’t come to this meeting. As usual he just flattened her like a steamroller and kept right on coming. She’d intended to be gone when he got here, to leave the door unlocked so he’d have no trouble getting in and he could find the note.
She’d have to get rid of him somehow. Tell him she was expecting an important phone call and she’d come out to the farm right after the call came. Taking Rosie’s collar, she tried to pull her away. “It’s Bernie, silly dog. You love Bernie.” The dog resisted with every pound, dug in her claws and strained toward the door.
Cass opened it, hanging on to Rosie. “Todd?” She had to yell over the dog’s barking. “What are you doing here? Where’s Bernie?”
“Tied up with cops.” Todd stepped inside. Rosie twisted loose and leaped for his throat. He yelled and fell. They rolled on the floor.
“Rosie!” Cass grabbed the dog’s tail and pulled. Rosie whipped her head around to sink wicked teeth in Cass’s arm, realized at the last second who Cass was and let Cass drag her off Todd. With her claws scraping on the wood floor, Cass pulled her to the bedroom and shut her in. Barking, Rosie threw herself at the door.
“Fucking dog!” Todd muttered, examining the ripped collar of his expensive jacket. “You ought to have it put down. It’s vicious.”
“Actually she’s very sweet. I don’t know what got into her.”
“Get your coat,” he said. “Let’s go.” He gestured at her down jacket hanging on the back of the chair.
“You packing up to move?” Following her through the archway with her, he looked at the boxes stacked against the wall and picked up the roll of tape sitting on the top one.
“Getting rid of stuff.” She never did get them to the church rummage sale. Somebody else would have to deal with them. “Todd, I really—”
“Come on, we don’t have all day.”
“I told Bernie, I couldn’t do this.”
Placing his hands on his hips, he looked at her. “You have to come.”
“I don’t.”
“The governor wants you there, and I need you to drive.”
“You need me to drive,” she repeated flatly.
Todd held out the keys. “I’m fighting off a migraine and headlights can trigger it.”
She took the keys and shrugged on her coat. “I’ll take you out there, then I’m coming right back.”
“Fine. Let’s get moving.”
“What do the police want with Bernie?” she said as she slid in the driver’s seat.
“Questions.” Todd snapped the seat belt in place. “Jesus, you’d think they’d get tired of their fucking questions, the same ones over and over.”
“About the little girl who was killed?”
“About everything. Wakely, the girl, the Egelhoff woman, Jack getting shot. Who was where, who said what. It’s never going to die down until they stop harassing us. Every time they come around, they bring the whole media circus with them.”
Icy needles of sleet pit-pitted against the windshield and she turned on the wipers. At Eleventh Street, she turned left, the quickest way to get to Harper and then pick up Highway 10 to get to Jack’s farm. Hampstead was built on small hills and with the streets icing up, she had to conc
entrate on her driving.
As they passed the fast-food places and used-car lots at the edge of town, the dark seemed to thicken and press like a barrier the car had to push at to get through. The road climbed gently, but even though the rise wasn’t steep, the car didn’t have four-wheel drive and it wanted to slide back.
“Surely, the police don’t think Bernie’s guilty of anything.” Like smothering a little girl. Cass didn’t know Gayle Egelhoff and after twenty years she didn’t really know Wakely anymore either, and while she was sorry about their deaths, it was the little girl that haunted her. How could anyone hold a pillow against the face of a little girl, feel that desperate struggle for air, and keep pressing until the fight stopped.
“Who the hell knows,” Todd said.
Saturday night, Cass thought, when Bernie came to pick her up for Eva’s party, the dog had wanted to tear him apart. He’d been wearing a jacket he’d borrowed from Todd. The next time Bernie had come, Rosie greeted him with ecstatic whimpers and slobbery kisses.
Could the jacket have set her off? If Rosie was injured trying to protect her owner, she’d might remember the attacker’s scent. Was it Todd who Rosie wanted to tear apart? Todd hit the dog? Todd killed Gayle?
45
Just as Susan was thinking maybe she’d call it a day and leave for home, her phone buzzed. Now what? “Yes, Hazel.”
“Call from a Bernie Quaid,” the dispatcher said. “Says he’s found a suicide note from Cass Storm.”
“Where is she?”
“He can’t find her and he’s worried.”
“Tell him I’m on the way. Parkhurst still here?”
“Yep.”
“Reporters still around?”
“Does a hen lay eggs?”
“Tell Parkhurst to pick me up at Tenth and Main.”
“Take a coat. Big storm moving in.”
Susan slipped on her trench coat and kept a wary eye out for the media as she hiked the block and a half to the downtown area where Parkhurst was waiting.
“What’s up?” he said as she climbed in.
She told him as he drove to Casilda Storm’s house. Bernie, one hand on the dog’s collar, had the door open as soon as the Bronco pulled up in the driveway.
Up in Smoke Page 29