Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly

by Paula K. Perrin

  “I have to find Meg.”

  “That’s what everyone’s saying today. Kirk came to find her, Fran dropped by again and asked for her. She left your purse on the stairs. A policeman I hadn’t met before came by.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He just wanted Meg. You’ve seen Gene?”

  I nodded.

  “Does he have any information about the murder?”

  “If he does, he’s not saying.” I bit my lip and winced. “Where was Fran headed?”

  “I don’t know. She was upset, asked for Meg, and when I said I didn’t know where she was, she said she’d go upstairs and put your purse in your room.” She pushed at a couple of pins that held her hair up. “I told her since she was under suspicion of being an envelope thief, she couldn’t go up there. She gave me such a look. As if I were serious!”

  Mother smoothed the grey comforter that lay across her lap as she said, “Everyone is acting strangely!” She looked tired. “Don’t forget you said you’d take the casseroles by,” she prodded.

  “I will,” I said as I shut her door. I scooped up my purse and ran up the stairs to my room and closed the door. My answering machine had hit its capacity—all the messages were from eager newshounds. I tried calling Fran and still got answering services.

  I rubbed my forehead, frustrated.

  Outside my open window birds sang in the apple tree right over the bright red, yellow and white primroses on Mr. Dickens’ grave. The birds’ chirping sent little shards of glass through my ears to attack what was left of my brain.

  I went into the bathroom, crossed the black-and-white checkerboard linoleum to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. For the first time the poppies on the shower curtain seemed too bright a red.

  Where had Meg gone? I asked myself, picking the red bath rug off the floor and folding it neatly on the end of the claw-footed tub.

  Meg’s telephone rang. We never answered each other’s phones, but under the circumstances, I was tempted. A moment later mine rang. I ran to get it, willing it to be Fran or Meg. It was Patricia Vico asking for Meg.

  I wondered if Jared and Meg had gone climbing and remembered Gene’s comment about it being an expensive sport. I gave her a weekly allowance, but it wasn’t much because I hoped privation would force her into school or a real job.

  I stood on the landing, contemplating the blank white face of Meg’s bedroom door. She never used to close it; now it opened only to allow her passage.

  Sunshine poured in through the window on the other side of the landing. I felt suffocated. I walked over and opened the window. Beside the window stood a door to an exterior staircase. During his senior year in high school, after Dad left, George used to sneak out that door and down those stairs to meet his friends.

  Late one night I’d heard the familiar, oily sound of the doorknob turning, but no sound of the latch popping. The door rattled in its frame as George shook it and cursed.

  I went out on the landing to join him in staring at the jagged end of the key Mother had somehow broken off in the lock. The filigreed head of the key lay on the floor. The door had never been opened since.

  I turned and stared at Meg’s door. I feared that if I went into her room, 19 years of trust would go out the window. But I needed to know more. I needed to find a way to help Meg. I barged through the door.

  The first thing I noticed was how many posters of climbers and sheer rock walls Meg had tacked up. Hilary Clinton, Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, her former idols, lay buried under tons of rock.

  Multi-colored ropes, a harness hung with gleaming carabiners, climbing shoes, T-shirt and shorts reeking of old sweat, covered the seat of an oak armchair. So she wasn’t climbing.

  Her open suitcase heaped with clothes lay on the floor in front of her closet. She was planning to run away! I waded through the clothes littering the floor and saw that dust coated the inside lid. Apparently she’d never finished unpacking when she came home.

  Pushing aside Grandmother McDowell’s wedding ring quilt, I sagged onto Meg’s unmade bed.

  No one knew Meg as I did. She had been mine since she was four months old. How could I have let all these days since her return go by without doing something? Because she’d been so angry when I tried. How could I have let her anger intimidate me so? Because I was so afraid of losing her.

  Her old library table was the only piece of furniture not piled with stuff. Other than a thick layer of dust, it held only a stack of heavy beige envelopes addressed to Meg in black ink. They were from Benjamin Montrose at Harvard. Fran and I had met him on our trip back east last fall. He and Meg had been so much in love.

  The top envelope was unopened. So were the others beneath it. The three letters on the bottom of the stack had been addressed to Meg at her Wellesley dorm.

  Meg had said she and Benjamin had broken up, giving the impression it had been his idea. Why would he have written all these letters? I slipped my fingernail under the tip of one envelope’s flap. I withdrew it.

  I looked around. Maybe a trained detective could find a clue to where she’d gone today, but I couldn’t.

  I closed her bedroom door behind me, grabbed my purse, and ran down the stairs.

  “Liz? You haven’t forgotten the casseroles, have you?” Mother called from the kitchen.

  I had.

  I didn’t feel like dealing with the casseroles after sitting in that room full of despair upstairs, but the only plan I could come up with was to ask around town for Fran and Meg, anyway.

  “Now, take them right away. They have chicken in them, and you know how fast that spoils.”

  “Yes, Mother. If Fran calls, will you ask her where I can reach her?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And if Meg comes home, keep her here.”

  As I drove back to the Vico’s I kept a sharp eye out for Fran’s Mustang and Meg’s little white cabriolet. Annamaria’s sister opened the door, and I thrust the first casserole into her hands and fled.

  I went back to the car, picked up the second casserole and walked toward Alisz’s where the weedless lawn stretched fresh and green to the border of small pink azaleas against the brick facade. A small, pastel sign announcing a new line of cosmetics seemed a decorative rather than a commercial detail in one corner of the sparkling front windows.

  I sighed as I went up the walk, hoping Alisz wasn’t home, but she jerked the door open almost as soon as I rang the bell.

  She wore a calf-length denim skirt, white Nikes, and a short-sleeved khaki blouse. Why did she always choose colors that heightened her sallowness? “I just got back from my walk,” she said.

  I held up the casserole. “From Mother.”

  “How nice,” Alisz said, starting down the hall, leaving me to follow.

  My first impulse was to just drop the darned casserole there in her entry way, but I obediently followed her down the hall, my flats clacking against the hardwood floor.

  She continued on to the family room. I turned left into the kitchen and smacked the casserole onto her white-tiled counter.

  It had always been my opinion that Hugh had brought too much of his doctor personality into this house. The kitchen, with its white cabinets, white appliances, white floors, could have been an operating room, or, with all the mini blinds drawn as they were against the bright day, a morgue. I snapped on the kitchen lights and walked around the cooking island to the dim family room.

  Alisz sat in an oversized tan corduroy chair, smoke curling from the cigarette she held in her left hand, her engagement ring managing to catch light even in this subdued environment.

  I rubbed my arms. “It’s cold in here,” I said.

  “Because you have not been exercising,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m a little warm.”

  One of Jared’s biology texts had been left open on the arm of a brown and white plaid couch overburdened by needlepoint pillows. “It must have been lonely, walking without Annamaria.”
>
  She took a long drag on her cigarette, making the tip glow, then blacken. “She only walked two or three times a week. Often there was something else she had to do. I walk every day, so I am used to going alone.”

  “I’m sorry about Annamaria. I can only imagine how you feel. There’s nothing like a best friend.”

  The smoke from Alisz’ cigarette masked her face.

  The house was utterly still. Not even the sound of birds or children playing penetrated the drapes.

  “Laurel said you were arranging to continue with the play,” I said.

  “You find that in bad taste?”

  I shrugged, stood up, walked to the empty fireplace, studied the needlepoint reproduction of Van Gogh’s sunflowers over the bare mantel. “Mother was saying just the other day you hadn’t stopped by in a long time.”

  “The play has taken a lot of time. Everyone has invested a lot. It can be a tribute to Annamaria.”

  I turned. “And Andre.”

  “Of course. In any case, Claire could come visit me.”

  “You know how hard it is for her to leave the house. She only goes out for church and doctor’s appointments.”

  “And funerals.”

  The last time I’d been in this house was with Mother on a hot, bright day last summer when this room had been packed with Hugh’s friends and noisy with the frantic conversations of a wake.

  “If she can make it up the steps to your church, this house, all on one level, cannot be so difficult.”

  “It seems so funny Andre agreed to be in the play,” I said. “I’d have thought he would be totally obsessed with his run for the senate.”

  It was her turn to shrug. “It was an easy part, no lines, just—” She paused, head cocked in thought.

  “Ad-lib?”

  “Yes, thank you,” her voice was acid, “you’ve always been so kind to give me the correct words.”

  I stared at her.

  She concentrated on stubbing her cigarette out in the amber glass ashtray. She lit another cigarette.

  “Do you mind if I open a window?” I said, crossing to the patio door, pulling back the ochre drape, and sliding the door open.

  She didn’t reply.

  I stood there soaking in the fresh air and the sunshine and watching a pair of robins at the far edge of the broad expanse of velvet lawn. I felt a sense of wrongness, but thought maybe it was my reaction to the huge chip that had always balanced comfortably on Alisz’ shoulder. I felt impatient and unappreciated. It wasn’t as though I didn’t have things to do besides tote casseroles around the county. She’s just lost her best friend—be patient.

  Without turning, I asked, “You haven’t seen Meg today, have you?”

  “No. Is something wrong?”

  “No, not really. Patricia was looking for her,” I said. “You’re right about Andre’s part being easy, just mingling with the crowd before the play starts, chatting as if he’s there to watch a variety show.”

  “You will keep Annamaria’s part as Ethel?”

  “I wish you’d find someone else.”

  “But now you have altered the dress and learned the lines.”

  “That was only because it was an emergency. You’ll have time to cast someone else.”

  “You are not ashamed of your play, are you?”

  I laughed. “No, it just scares me to death to try and remember lines in front of a bunch of people. Remember how I nearly flunked English junior year when I couldn’t give speeches?”

  “Yes, the only time you were not better than everyone else.”

  I clutched the cold aluminum frame of the door. Carefully I said, “If you don’t want me here, just say so.”

  “I only meant that you were always good in school.” Cigarette smoke wafted past me as she moved to stand at my shoulder. “We have been friends since second grade. Surely you can forgive me if I am not so careful in my speaking today, considering what has happened.”

  My shoulder hunched. I took a step out onto the flagstone patio, and it was then I realized what had made me so uneasy. “Hugh’s fountain! What did you do to it?”

  She had slipped on a pair of sunglasses before following me outside. “He was a doctor, Liz, not a stonemason. His fountain leaked in a thousand places, so I had it removed.”

  Grief stunned me. Slowly I walked to the edge of the patio. Just a few weeks before his death I’d run into Hugh at the pet store, looking into a tank of goldfish.

  “Come help me choose my denizens of the deep,” he’d said, smiling into my eyes.

  Together we’d chosen six fish, the ones whose markings most appealed to us. He’d insisted that I accompany him home to view their launching. He’d said I had to see this architectural wonder, no one was home to help him celebrate. He’d been so proud of the fountain, an elaborate three-level construction with water falling here and dribbling there.

  “I collected all the rocks myself,” he said. “Alisz complains I never stay home, so I’ve spent months pottering around back here. Hadrian had nothing on me. This will amaze people for thousands of years.”

  While the goldfish floated in their plastic bags, acclimating to the water in the lowest pool, Hugh fixed gin and tonics for us. We sat in the sun. We’d laughed so much. When we leaned over the water, opening the plastic bag and letting the fish loose, our hands met, and Hugh’s fingers, warm in the cold water, closed around mine.

  “Liz,” he said, his voice coming from deep in his chest. “Liz.”

  I’d looked into his eyes, seen everything, felt everything. I’d fled.

  Now his fountain was gone, he was gone.

  Alisz was saying how much easier it was to care for the lawn without having to trim around the fountain’s bulk.

  I took a last look around the perfectly smooth, green grass, and turned to Alisz. “I’d better get going and let you rest. If there’s anything we can do for you, please let us know.”

  We walked back into the amber-tinted family room and down the dim hallway to the front door. There, Alisz laid her hand on my arm. “Please come by next week. I will make us lunch and we will talk about all the silly things we did in school. All right?”

  “Sure,” I said, pulling the front door open and stepping onto the flagstone path.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I saw a white car with the distinctive, boxy shape of a VW Cabriolet rolling out of sight along the curve of the street.

  I shouted, “MEG.” No results, but not surprising considering how loudly she played her tapes.

  Praying all the neighborhood kids were in school, I screeched a U-turn, zoomed past the golf course and caught a glimpse of brake lights flashing red before the car turned east.

  The will-o’-the-wisp Cabriolet led me into the little town of Hockinson where the chances are high you’ll get a ticket if you speed. I sped anyway and was rewarded by the sight of the car topping another rise heading north. I chased her around curves, past fields, barns, and grazing cows. I honked my horn a couple of times, but she didn’t hear. I’d never known Meg to drive so fast.

  We turned east again and kept Salmon Creek company as it burbled alongside the road. I lost sight of her on a long, twisting grade.

  Finally I spotted the Cabriolet parked next to an old blue station wagon on the shoulder of the road.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I said. I pulled up behind the car. A narrow dirt path led through a break in the berry bushes that lined the road.

  The embankment dropped down about ten feet to a narrow beach along the creek. A young woman wearing a short black skirt and white blouse picked her way over the rocks toward the dark-haired man dressed all in black who waited for her.

  Why hadn’t I realized it was Laurel’s Cabriolet? Because they were as alike as two peas in a pod. Because the car had pulled away from Annamaria’s and I’d expected Meg to go comfort Patricia. Because I had to find Meg.

  I backed up quickly. My cheeks burned as I made my way back to my car. What was I embarrassed
for? My mistake was innocent. Their meeting was not.

  In view of Andre’s murder, their meeting seemed positively sinister. Perhaps I should try to listen to their conversation? But there was no place to hide, and if they did conspire to kill Andre it might be dangerous if I was caught.

  I went straight to the police station just as any good citizen would.

  Gene was sitting in his Uncle Jed’s chair talking on the phone. His red hair had furrows in it from a recent combing. He gestured to his visitors’ chairs while he concluded his conversation. As he hung up, he said, “Have you brought Meg in?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “I need to see her. Soon.”

  “Gene, I just saw a suspicious thing.”

  His blue eyes narrowed. “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Laurel and Victor meeting on a deserted beach.”

  One shoulder lifted. “Big deal. Jeez, you make me so mad when you try a cheap trick like this,” Gene said, his fingers raking his hair. “You’re like a mother killdeer trying to lure me away from Meg. Don’t you think I’d like to clear her?”

  “Would you?”

  He stood abruptly, Jed’s chair skidding back on its broken caster. He planted his large hands on the desk and leaned over them. “What in hell do you think of me, anyway?”

  “I think you’re looking for someone to arrest.”

  “And just anyone would do?” He turned away, turned back, his blue eyes blazing, “Someone—probably someone from the cast—killed Andre just minutes before you went down that hallway, and that someone might have killed you, too, if you’d gotten there a little sooner. Have you thought of that? Now cut this bullshit attitude that I’m out to hang just anyone so I can look good.”

  “I don’t care what you do to ‘anyone,’ I care what you do to my niece.”

  “There’s evidence, Liz. Hard evidence that needs to be explained by Meg. If you want to help her, get her butt in here.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Sorry, I can’t tell you.”

  I tried to stare him down, but my eyes began to fill with tears. Quickly I turned away.

  “You always could dish it out, but you never could take it,” he said.