Annie frowned. “Trust me. I only tell him what he needs to know.”
Seeing something out of the corner of her eye, Thea added, “You’d better not tell Joe, either.”
A look of puzzlement crossed Annie’s face, “Why would you think…?”
Thea laughed. “Because he’s at the back door. That’s why.”
Aunt Dorothy beat her to the door to let in the boy who was huddled there in a bright yellow, hooded rain slicker. “Joe, come on in,” she said, pulling open the door. “Is it raining again?”
“Only a little,” Joe said, stamping his feet on the mat and pulling the hood off. “But it’s getting real windy. Like maybe there’s another storm coming.”
“Then what are you doing out in this weather?” Annie asked. “Shouldn’t you be finishing your homework?”
Joe stepped into the kitchen, unsnapping the front of his slicker. “I don’t have that much to do,” he said, his voice sheepish.
Annie stepped toward her son, pressing her hand against his cheek. “Then what’s the matter? Are you sick? If you are, you definitely shouldn’t be out riding around.”
“I have something to tell you,” Joe said, keeping his voice low as he gazed at his mother.
Annie’s hand dropped away. “What?”
Joe looked around. “Where’s Mrs. Prentice? I don’t want her to hear this.”
“She’s in the den watching TV,” Thea said, stepping closer to the boy.
Aunt Dorothy tiptoed to where she could peer into the den before joining them. She nodded her head. “She’s fine. Now, what is it, young man? What is it you don’t want her to hear?”
Joe took a deep breath. “Some kids were talking at school today. I overheard them. They were saying things about Mrs. Prentice.”
“What things?” Annie asked.
He blinked at her. “They said she was crazy. That she pushed Mr. Prentice over the cliff, and then last night...” He hesitated, his gaze flicking from his mother to Aunt Dorothy, back to his mother and then resting on Thea, “They said she attacked the other Mr. Prentice with a baseball bat and killed him.” He lowered his eyes and grimaced before he added, “And that after, she went running through the neighborhood beating up on cats and dogs and even chasing some squirrels.”
“Oh, Joe,” Annie sighed. “What did you do?”
“Well,” he said, his tone becoming more combative, “I couldn’t just let them repeat stuff like that. So I told them they were wrong. That Mrs. Prentice isn’t crazy, that she has Alzheimer’s and that makes you forget things, it doesn’t make you crazy.” He took a breath before continuing with even more animation, “And besides all that, she didn’t kill either Mr. Prentice or his cousin—or, or any animals, either.”
“What did they say to that?” Annie asked.
“They didn’t,” he said. “They looked kinda confused. So I told them that they’d better not repeat any more of those lies or Mrs. Prentice could sue them and their parents would all lose their houses.” He grinned. “And that really shut them up.”
When he stopped speaking, Thea gave him a smile that was quivering with all the emotion she felt. “Way to go, Joe,” she said, her voice cracking as she reached out to give him a hug.
CHAPTER 34
Annie and Joe left around five, slipping past a lone TV crew that had returned to haunt the house after the rain had stopped. Aunt Dorothy had graciously volunteered to spend the night to spell Thea with caring for her mother. Feeling guilty that she had taken up so much of her aunt’s time and energy, at first Thea declined, but finally gave in when she realized that she had not had a single moment to herself in well over twenty-four hours.
After dinner, she had gone into George’s office and listened to all the messages on the answering machine. Most of them were from the media and she fast-forwarded through those, concentrating instead on the numerous calls from friends and family. Of those, there were two that stood out: one from Bob Rutledge and another from Whit Collins.
The call from Bob expressed polite concern and left a number, “Just in case you need anything that I might be able to help you with.” Very correct, very unemotional. Thea wondered why he had bothered to call, unless he got his jollies from allying himself with murder suspects. She erased his message.
Whit Collins’s voice actually quivered in his message, but it also sounded as if he had his hand around the mouthpiece, afraid that someone would overhear. What he said was, “I hope that you and your mother are all right.” Deep breath and then, this was the quivering part, “Maybe we can have that lunch sometime soon.”
Thea stared at the answering machine as if she could divine his motives from the dull red glow of the LCD numerals. She played the message again. The quiver in his voice seemed even more prominent this time. She decided she would call him back—tomorrow, when she hoped she would feel somewhat better equipped to deal with whatever histrionics he might be up to.
She made a note of his number, and then turned on George’s computer to log in and check her e-mail, which she had neglected for several days. As she scrolled through the unread messages, mostly spam, she came upon an e-mail from her computer guru back in California. He wrote that he hadn’t responded to her before because he’d been out of town on an extended, and much-needed, vacation in the mountains. He had taken his laptop with him, but his wife and son had dared him not to open it and he had managed to make it through an entire week without it.
Thea chuckled, visualizing her friend squirming and casting longing glances at his sleek, little machine as it sat gathering dust in the corner. She fired off an e-mail to him, telling him that she still hadn’t been able to crack George’s password to his journal and did he have any suggestions.
Then, gritting her teeth, she went to the website of the local paper and began to read the accounts of Bud Prentice’s murder. The details were pretty much as she knew them to be, but there were things in the newspaper’s coverage that added a particularly lurid tinge to the facts, words like “crushed skull” and “blood-spattered weapon.” She thought about the crazy rumors that Joe had related to them this afternoon and realized that the calm, objective reporting in the paper that she remembered from her childhood and, thus, her own model for journalism, had over the years been changed into a slightly more adult, but just as bloodthirsty version, of that wild-eyed schoolyard gossip. With a sigh, she turned off the computer and left the office, joining her mother and Aunt Dorothy in the den.
Before she sat down, she checked the street outside. The news crew was gone, but the dark car was back. It hadn’t been there the previous evening, but tonight she could see it again, parked in the usual spot across the street. As Thea stared out at the shadowy vehicle, her anger boiled over. She closed the curtains with emphasis and turned around.
Aunt Dorothy was sitting on the couch reading a book, but she looked up at Thea, a question written on her face. “Is it...?”
Thea went to sit next to her aunt and kept her voice down. “Yes, the car is there. And I’m tired of this. I’m going to do something about it.”
“Call the police,” Aunt Dorothy urged. “There’s been a murder here. They’ll have to come out.”
“Yes, fine, I will call the police. But first I’m going to get the license plate of that car,” Thea said, her eyes sparking as she told her aunt about the plan she was devising on the fly.
Minutes later, she exited the back door wearing a dark, heavy jacket of George’s. In one pocket was a flashlight and in the other were a pen and a small notepad. She made her way through the hedges and backyard gates on George’s side of the street, all the while hoping that none of the neighbors would look out and report her as a prowler. She didn’t want the police, not just yet, anyway.
Working her way up the block, she kept away from the streetlight at the corner, and was eventually able to cross to the other side of the street. Here, it was easier going, as there was an alley that ran behind the houses. When she reached the back
of Mrs. Metcalfe’s house, she crossed the yard and ducked down, following a hedge that ran all the way to the front sidewalk.
There, she peeked around the corner of the hedge, ready to crouch down and duck walk to the back of the car. But it wasn’t parked in front of Mrs. Metcalfe’s anymore. Had she miscalculated? Was it the wrong house?
She leaned out farther, looking up and down. This was the middle of the block. The corner streetlights didn’t reach this far and, under the canopy of trees, the darkness was much blacker than she’d expected.
She couldn’t see a car. Had the driver spotted her and pulled away?
Damn! But it had been a kind of half-assed plan, anyway. If the driver had seen her flashlight while she was getting the license number, he (or she, Thea reminded herself), might have backed up and run her over. Not too smart.
Disappointed and feeling a little foolish that her James Bond plan hadn’t worked out, she straightened up and stepped off the curb to cross the street to George’s house. As she walked she probed the shadows with her eyes. Was there a darker shadow under that tree in front of the Carlson’s? No. Wait. Was that something hidden by the bushes in front of the Maxwell’s? No, but why weren’t their carriage lamps on tonight? How about that hedge over by the Keegan’s driveway? Too dark to tell. No way to make out the contour of a car.
Halfway across the street, she heard an engine rev. It sounded nearby, so she whirled around to look for headlights. But there were none, even as the engine’s throaty growl grew into a vicious roar. Oh my God! It had to be nearly on top of her! Where was it?
Then, tires screaming like a banshee, twigs snapping like rifle shots as it cut the corner of a hedge, the great, dark shape of the car was there, bearing down upon her. She froze for the barest of moments, then dove toward the far curb. As the car passed, it felt as if a giant hand had shoved her, and then she was tumbling, rolling over until she came to rest in the gutter.
From her vantage point she could see the car moving through the glow from the streetlight at the far corner, the driver not even bothering to tap the brakes as it raced away.
Aunt Dorothy was at the back door when Thea staggered toward it. “What happened?” she cried in agitation, pulling Thea inside. “I heard a car racing down the street and then there was a thump.”
“That was me,” Thea acknowledged, breathless. “I was the thump.”
Aunt Dorothy gasped and fell silent, her eyes raking over the wet, dirty patches on the jacket and pants Thea was wearing.
“I’m okay,” Thea reassured her. “I managed to get out of the way—mostly.”
“Dorothea,” her aunt said, her voice shaking, “are you sure you’re not hurt?”
Thea shrugged out of the jacket. “I’ll probably have some more aches and pains tomorrow, but I’m fine.”
Reaching for the jacket, Aunt Dorothy said, “I want you to call Jerry Anderson.” Her eyes blazed with a certitude that Thea knew meant she would brook no argument.
Thea pointed to a business card sitting on the counter near the kitchen telephone. “His cell number’s on the back. Would you dial it for me?”
Twenty minutes later Jerry Anderson was seated across from Thea in the breakfast nook, while Aunt Dorothy ran interference with Mother, who was clearly disturbed by his presence.
The detective was not attired in his usual sports jacket and tie, but was wearing jeans and an old gray sweatshirt that had some white paint spatters on one sleeve and a couple of dark splotches near the neckband.
Thea had been surprised when he showed up at the door. She thought he might send out a patrol car with a couple of uniformed officers, but she never expected that he would come himself—especially since it was clear that he was off-duty.
She’d brewed some decaf coffee and they were going over the sketchy details she’d given him over the phone. “You didn’t recognize what kind of car it was?” he asked, his pen poised over his notebook.
“The car…I don’t know,” she muttered, trying to sound more together than she felt. “It must have been hidden someplace…waiting, watching for me to cross the street. I’m guessing that it was hidden in a driveway that’s bordered by a hedge. I couldn’t see it until it was right on top of me, but I could hear it…and—and I could kind of feel it coming toward me…it seemed almost supernatural, you know, like that car in Christine…” Her voice trailed off as she realized how stupid that must sound. She darted a glance at him, expecting to see skepticism in his eyes, but was surprised to see gentle amusement there instead.
“Scary movie,” he said.
She nodded. And felt less like a fool.
“What can I tell you?” she went on, working it out from her memory. “It’s big, it’s black, and it’s got tinted windows. But I can’t recall any hood ornament on the front.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Which means it probably wasn’t a Mercedes, because I’m pretty sure I’d recognize that logo.” Which more or less eliminated Whit Collins, she thought to herself. Except, of course, he could always have driven another car.
“Probably not a Lexus, either,” she said, realizing that crossed Dan Biggs off the list, too. Maybe.
“When you say ‘big,’ do you mean long like a limo or high like an SUV?”
“No, neither. It’s a sedan, but a full-size sedan.”
He made some notes, and looked up. “Do you think the driver meant to hit you or just scare you?”
Thea frowned. “I’m not sure. The way it was bearing down on me I’d say the driver was intent on hitting me—instead of only grazing me the way it did. But if that was true, he could have turned around and come back for me while I was lying in the gutter....”
“So it seems like it was more important for him to get away.”
“I guess.”
He let out an impatient sigh. “Look, I’ll have a patrol car drive past on an intermittent basis, but after tonight, he’ll probably never come back.” Then, shaking his head, he added, “But this person is not behaving predictably, so I can’t really say that for sure.”
“I know,” Thea agreed. “I can’t figure it out. What’s the purpose of watching the house, and doing it in a way that they’re certain I see them?”
He held her gaze for a moment. For some odd reason, she noticed gold flecks in his irises as they caught the light. They lessened the steeliness of his stare.
“I know I’m supposed to be the expert on this,” he said after the pause, “but I have to admit that I’m a bit...” He extended a hand in front of him, palm up.
“What?” Thea gave him a quick smile. “Puzzled?”
He grinned back at her, and she realized she’d never seen him smile before. It was much warmer than she would have thought him capable of. A sly feeling stole over her, the feeling that somewhere along the line, perhaps even in the last few minutes, they had become equals. It was a good feeling.
CHAPTER 35
As predicted, Thea woke up the next morning aching pretty much over every inch of her body. But with Aunt Dorothy seeing to Mother’s needs, she was able to take a long, hot soak in the tub. That made a big difference, and then she tossed down a couple of ibuprofen with her coffee and felt almost human.
After breakfast, Thea cautiously approached the living room window, hoping that the news crews had moved on, and that she could throw open the draperies to the liberating illumination of the day’s brilliant sunshine. Instead, she was dismayed to see two figures approaching the front door. Peering through a crack in the still-closed draperies, she was both relieved and annoyed to see Luanne Varner and Mattie What’s-Her-Name picking their way up the slippery steps of the front porch. Relieved because they weren’t reporters; annoyed because she really wasn’t in the mood to deal with the domineering Luanne and the just-plain-craziness of her sidekick Mattie.
The doorbell rang, and Thea debated with herself whether or not to even answer it. When the chimes rang out again, Aunt Dorothy’s head appeared around the doorway to the foyer. “Repor
ter?” she mouthed silently.
Thea shook her head. “Worse.”
Aunt Dorothy’s face clouded in confusion for a second, and then she chuckled. “What could be worse?”
As the doorbell chimed again, Thea sighed. “You’ll see.”
Pasting a phony smile on her face, she went to answer the door.
Mattie’s finger was on the doorbell button and she glared at Thea as if she were disappointed that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to push it again.
“Oh, Thea dear, we’ve been so worried about you!” Luanne blurted out, reaching for Thea’s hands and squeezing them between her own. “We’ve called and called, but there must be something wrong with your answering machine...”
Extracting her hands, Thea reached behind her and pushed open the door. “Won’t you come in,” she said, realizing there was no way she was going to get rid of this pair. She ushered them into the den, where she was surprised to discover Mother sitting upright in the recliner with the TV off, and an expression of semi-alertness on her face.
“Mother,” she said, “look who’s come to see us—”
“George’s friend,” Mother interjected, her gaze directed squarely at Mattie.
“That’s right,” Mattie said, crossing the room and pulling up a chair to sit next to Mother. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“We were here before,” Luanne said. “We came to the…ah, party you had a few days ago.” She had pointedly left out the explanation that the “party” had been after George’s funeral.
Thea noticed a flicker of emotion cross her mother’s face, but she couldn’t quite decipher what it was. Wariness? Recognition? That animal instinct of caution and recoil when someone moves into your space? And then it was gone, replaced by her usual half-befuddled, half-blank expression.
What Has Mother Done? Page 19