Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly

by Paula K. Perrin

  I shook my head. I turned from the door to look at him. “You had an affair with Fran, how can you even ask this?”

  He looked startled, then smiled. “If you don’t know if Andre swung both ways, how am I supposed to know about Fran?”

  “Good point. Okay, not that it’s anyone’s business, no, Fran and I are not lovers, never have been, never will be. Yes, we love each other. I can’t imagine a day going by without talking to her.” A pain in my heart reminded me of the fight we’d just had. “She’s the funniest, smartest, most loving person I know. If I were a lesbian, I’d certainly choose her to be my partner, but I just don’t have urges in that direction.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I had to ask.”

  Feeling drained, I pulled his desk chair out. Something was wrong with one of its casters, and I had to muscle it away from the desk so I could sit. “This is a dreadful chair,” I said, shifting on its lumpy seat.

  Gene smiled fondly. “It was Uncle Jed’s.”

  Jed had been chief for years. After his death, a series of incompetents had held the post for extremely short tenures until Gene took over.

  Resting my elbows on the desk, I cradled my face in my hands. “This is a nightmare.”

  “Hey, there’s not a rubber hose in sight.” He tipped his chair back. “Did you ever know Andre to take drugs?”

  This was one question I’d been expecting. “He’d had a real problem with substance abuse before he left Hollywood,” I said. “He’d gotten clean. It was important to him.”

  “You never saw him smoke marijuana?”

  “No.” I hesitated. It had occurred to me that Meg’s mood swings might be drug-related. She’d been taken into custody with some other kids during a drug raid in college, but she’d been let go, and she swore she didn’t use anything. I didn’t see how Gene could know that, but just in case—a pinch of truth might do some good. Staring at the dimness inside my cupped hands, I said, “Barry smoked marijuana.”

  “Andre allowed that on his property?”

  “Yes. It helped Barry with the nausea.”

  Finally he said, “Now what about these trips you and Fran take together?”

  I spread my fingers and looked through them at him. “What has that got to do with Andre?”

  “Could you just answer?”

  “We go on vacations. We enjoy traveling together.”

  “Where do you go?”

  I shrugged, folded my hands on the desk. “Last fall we went east to do the changing leaves thing and to visit Meg at school, meet her boy friend, and visit Fran’s alma mater. The spring before we went to Hong Kong and Japan.”

  “Where do you get the money for these trips? They sound pretty spendy.”

  “Annamaria was great at finding good prices.”

  “They still cost.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how do you two come up with so much money?”

  “I’ve never asked Fran. I assume James left her money.”

  “And you?”

  I stared at him.

  “Look, I know you and your mother went through rough times after—” he paused, then plowed on, “your father left. Now you spend money without a thought. You sent Meg to an expensive school, for example. I’ve gotta wonder.”

  “Because I might have been blackmailing someone?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  I shook my head. “Mother’s got a great head for business. If she’d been physically able to work, she could have saved Grandfather’s store. I assume she has some investments.”

  “You don’t know for sure?”

  I shook my head.

  “What about you?” His gaze was steady, remorseless.

  I stared down at my hands, drew an arrow on the cold grey desktop with my sweaty finger.

  “Jeez, have you been blackmailing someone?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, then, what can be so bad?”

  My face grew hot.

  “Spit it out, Liz.”

  “I write,” I mumbled.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  I looked up at him. “I write,” I said loudly.

  “What do you write?”

  “Romance novels.”

  “And you get a lot of money for that?”

  “You wouldn’t believe how much.”

  “I’ve never seen your name on a book.”

  “I use a pseudonym.”

  “What is it?”

  “That is truly none of your business.”

  He sat straight and glared.

  “Look, it would be hell if it got out. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep my identity secret.”

  “No one knows?”

  “My agent, of course.”

  “Anyone in town?”

  I hesitated. “Meg knows, and Fran. They promised to carry the secret to their graves.”

  “And you make a lot of money?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned, put his hands behind his head, elbows out, and leaned back in his chair. “How’d you get into that racket?”

  “Back when I was still librarian, one of the assistants was writing true confession stories for the magazines and making extra money, so I tried it. After awhile I started a story that kept stretching and stretching until it was a novel. I sent it off and sold it, and then other books that kept selling and selling.

  “The really irritating thing is, I can’t for the life of me sell the books I want to sell.”

  “What kind of books are those?”

  I hadn’t meant to say that.

  Gene leaned forward. “Come on, you’ve gone this far.”

  I shook my head.

  He smoothed his moustache, trying to hide a smile.

  “Don’t laugh at me!”

  “I’m not.”

  “And don’t you dare ever tell anyone.”

  “I won’t, but why did you write the play if you’re afraid your secret writing identity will get out?”

  “It wasn’t smart. I guess—I just needed something to do.”

  He gave me a long look.

  “Can we get this over with?” I demanded.

  He said, “Where does Meg get her money? She a writer too?”

  “She works as a sub at the library.”

  “She can’t make much that way.”

  “No. I give her an allowance.”

  “How much?”

  I told him.

  “Cousin Claire give her money?”

  “Not since she dropped out of college.”

  He frowned. “I’ve seen her rock climbing gear. It’s not cheap. How does she—”

  “A lot of it was Hugh’s. Alisz gave it to Meg when she started climbing with Jared and her last summer.”

  Gene stared down at his boots, studying their polished toes, then looked at me. “Just one thing more, Liz, and I’m sorry to ask, but I have to.”

  My shoulders tightened in dread.

  “Could your father have come back?”

  “What?”

  “Have you seen—”

  “Never mind, I heard you.” I stood. The big black chair barely moved, so I had to grip the desk for support while I shoved the chair with the backs of my legs. I walked around the edge of the desk and out the door. I barely heard Gene saying, “I’m sorry,” through the roaring in my ears.

  I walked down the gloomy hallway, through the empty lobby, out into the sunshine. No black Mustang at the curb.

  I realized I’d left my purse in Fran’s car. I was stranded without a penny. I didn’t want to go home, but I needed something to comfort my stomach. I went east on Main Street past the high school.

  Warfield Community Library, a small, charmless, brick building, sat across the street on the corner of the high school property. Laurel and Alisz stood talking at its door. I hurried across the intersection. I passed a gas station and the Italian restaurant, and came to Sheila’s In, a small white cottage.

  I opened the gate in t
he white picket fence that would be draped with red roses this summer. I bent to pet the white Persian drowsing in the sun before continuing up the walk. I opened the front door and saw I was in luck—no other customers because it was early for lunch.

  Sheila had removed the interior walls in the front of the cottage to form the dining area. Mismatched wooden chairs and tables she’d picked up at garage sales provided seating.

  “Hey, Liz, how’re you this morning?” Sheila called, sticking her head over the louvered half-doors that led to the kitchen. She’d recently colored her hair blonde. She looked nice enough, but I missed the familiar grey.

  “Disorganized. I forgot my purse. Will you let me in?”

  “Oh, sure, hon.” She came out of the back, wearing, as always, a black skirt, a white blouse, and a pink apron that matched the pink napkins on the tables. She set a mug shaped like an elephant’s head in front of me, the coffee sloshing to the rim but not over. A cobalt blue mug saying “Imagine a World Beyond War” held her coffee.

  She sat down across from me. “So I heard you found Andre’s body,” she said, her blue eyes expectant.

  There was no use resisting Sheila. Years ago she’d ruled the high school cafeteria, and there was not a kid who dared leave so much as a paper napkin on the table or the next day Sheila served Brussels sprouts.

  Yet any kid who forgot his lunch money, and some like Alisz who simply had no money, never went hungry while Sheila was in charge.

  While I told Sheila about finding Andre, several people came in, got themselves menus from the pile next to the cash register and seated themselves.

  “Who do you think done it?” she asked when I’d told her all I could think of.

  “I can’t imagine any of us doing it.”

  “Victor’s got my vote. Never did like that guy.”

  “From what I’ve heard he’s more interested in theater stuff than anything else. Why would he kill—”

  “Victor’s no stranger to using his fists. I seen his wife with shiners more than once, poor little thing.”

  “Then she should divorce him. No one should stay in that kind of relationship.”

  She patted my hand, “That’s right.” She rose and said, “So what do you want for lunch?”

  “What’s the soup?”

  “Vegetable beef.” After years of clam chowder on Fridays, Sheila had declared she would never serve it again.

  “That sounds great.”

  Sheila gathered orders on her way to the kitchen, moving quickly now that she’d gotten her ration of gossip.

  I wanted Fran. I needed to apologize. She and I had never had an argument before, not even in Mexico when we were beset by Montezuma’s revenge in a shared room with a single bath.

  I went to the pay phone in back and got answering services at her apartment, the paper, and her cellular phone.

  She’d been gone when I came out of the station. That meant she hadn’t talked to Gene. What was she up to?

  When I returned to my table, the soup was waiting. I’d just picked up my spoon when Kirk walked in. He’d changed into a purple Hawaiian shirt, jeans and Nikes. He glanced around, said a general hello to the others in the room, and crossed to me. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

  Another inward sigh. “Be my guest,” I said.

  “Do you know where Meg is?” he asked just as Sheila arrived.

  “I seen her this morning,” she said. “With Little Bunny Foo Foo. Glad to hear you people’re shortening that name—what a burden to a dog.”

  “I hope she had him on a leash,” I said.

  “A rope.”

  “What time was that?” Kirk asked.

  “About seven.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” Kirk asked.

  “Nope. She had her some coffee and a roll and left.”

  “She must be home by now,” I said.

  “No, I just went by. Your mother hasn’t seen her.”

  I was surprised Kirk hadn’t invited himself for lunch. He often arrived at our house at mealtimes.

  Sheila asked him if there was any further news about Annamaria’s death.

  Not having gone to high school under her reign, he managed to give little information.

  After she took his order and left, I asked him why he wanted to find Meg.

  He hesitated, before saying, “Patricia could use her support.” Sheila brought his soup, and he began to eat, almost, it seemed, with relief.

  Eventually Kirk broke the silence, “Do you know what religion Andre practiced?”

  “Paganism, probably,” I said. “Why?”

  “I’ve been wondering about his funeral.”

  I shrugged. “Barry was an atheist by the time he died. He didn’t believe AIDS could exist in a world in which there was a god. But I don’t remember Andre ever expressing an opinion.”

  “He owned the rectory and the church. I believe it would be right to hold a service for him there.”

  “I thought the church owned the church and the rectory,” I said. The Bishop’s Committee, the advisory council for our church, met in our house monthly because Mother was a member, but I never paid attention to the business end of religion.

  He shook his head. “No, he bought them when the Catholics moved. He intended to open a restaurant or boutique or offices, but he agreed to let us rent when it was decided to start a mission here.”

  “What’s going to happen to us now?”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see what’s in his will,” he answered.

  “Maybe we’ll have to close down. Are there enough people to sustain—”

  “We’re not going to give up!” Kirk said. “I’ve—we’ve worked too hard to get established here.” He spoke so vehemently I was surprised. His manner was always calm and rational—and passive.

  We both addressed our soup. Today there seemed to be unexpected conflict no matter what I said.

  I finished my soup quickly, said good-bye to Kirk and thanked Sheila. “I’ll come by later to pay you.”

  “When you get around to it’s fine, hon.”

  As I walked away, I smiled at how horrified Mother, with her morbid fear of debt, would be to know I’d just eaten on credit.

  I walked down to the library. Meg worked there on-call, and I thought maybe I’d find her, but Laurel said she hadn’t seen her. Today she wore an extremely short black skirt with a demure white Victorian blouse, her strawberry blonde hair piled on her head, pearl earrings in her ears.

  Her thin arms covered in goose bumps as we stood in the shaded entry, Laurel sighed. “My staff hates me. I’ve had them phoning all morning to let everyone know the play is postponed.”

  “You’re going to go ahead with the play?”

  “Well, Sibyl wants me to cancel it, but Alisz said Annamaria would want us to have the play go on. The trouble is going to be finding someone willing to play the corpse.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I cut across the high school grounds. Big mistake. I’d gone to this high school as had my brother George, and, on the same grounds but in a different building, so had our father before us.

  My father walked out of our lives on a cold, rainy December night the year I was fifteen. Mother and he had had yet another “discussion,” as Mother called them.

  Dad had slammed out just as he always did, to take a walk and cool down, only that time he’d stomped down the hall, right past me where I crouched on the stairs, and he’d slammed out the front door. Always before, he’d gone out the back. He never returned through either door.

  Just before Christmas Mother discovered that Dad had been taken in by an investment scam and had lost most of her money.

  George had been furious. He’d had visions of being a big man on campus, and to him, that meant plenty of spending money. He’d had several football scholarships to choose from, but none of them were as generous as he wished them to be.

  Mother said, “My children will go to college, make sure of that.”

>   And so we had, though Mother never revealed how she’d managed it. She lost my grandfather’s store but hung onto the house. She went back to her maiden name of Macrae. George stuck with McDowell. On the Fourth of July that year, I switched to Macrae. Insofar as it was possible, I never thought of my father again.

  Now Gene was asking about Dad. Why?

  I passed the gym where muffled shouts, squeaking shoes, and bouncing balls gave evidence of life within. I crossed Parkway, skirted the white wall of the bowling alley and plunged into the shade of towering sickly pines, remnants of a forest that used to be. I emerged into the glare of sunshine on cement in Warfield Retirement Center’s broad driveway.

  Beyond the retirement center lay the cultivated strip where Mother allowed the retirees to garden. It was the only property in town, besides our house, that I knew for a fact my mother owned. And I knew that only because the retirees had asked her permission for their garden.

  Dad had wanted to develop the land Mother had inherited. Mother would not allow it.

  My head ached, the glare on each blade of grass stabbing my eyes. I rubbed my forehead.

  Gene’s questions made a big neon arrow pointing straight to Meg. I bit my upper lip.

  Every vague feeling of unease suddenly crystallized into certainty: In her fragile mental state, Meg would not survive the threat of jail let alone its reality. All the things I’d been denying—her lethargy, her inability to choose the simplest things, even what to have for breakfast, her gaining weight and wearing the same sweat suit day after day—came together into a frightening picture.

  Whatever else was wrong with her, whether she’d lied about drug use or not, Meg was severely, perhaps suicidally, depressed. What if I’d waited too long, lulled by her interest in the play, hoping she’d get better, that she’d reveal, in her own time, what was wrong? I had to do something. If it came to clapping her in a mental hospital before the police could get their hands on her, that’s what I’d do.

  I was breathless by the time I burst into our kitchen which was fragrant with the aroma of chicken and mushrooms sautéed in wine and butter.

  Mother’s voice came from her room, “Liz?” She was resting on her bed, the radio on her nightstand tuned to the classical station.

  “Has Meg come back?” I asked.

  “No, I haven’t seen her.”