Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly

by Paula K. Perrin

  “That was blown out of all proportion!”

  “Don’t get mad, Liz, just think.”

  I took a deep breath. “I was afraid they were going to get married right out of high school.”

  “Do you think Jared understood?”

  “Not then, he was pretty angry. But after Meg went east to college, he started dropping by. We’ve become friends, sort of.”

  “Who’s left?” he mused. “Kirk and Meg. I suppose you’re going to say neither could possibly wish you harm.”

  “That’s right.” Though I couldn’t help thinking of what Fran had told me about Kirk.

  “I can see why you’d say that about your niece, but what about Kirk? Excused on religious grounds?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Do you think he likes you?”

  I shrugged. “Priests have to like everyone. So in that way, I suppose he does.” I walked back to the front of the car and gazed down the narrow road to where it dipped to the creek.

  The grass swished as Gene followed me. “What bothers you about him?”

  “I don’t know. I guess—somehow I feel accused of something by him.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve never thought about it before, but since you asked me, that’s the best description I can give.”

  I thought of his reaction to Annamaria’s death and the intense way he’d asked after Meg yesterday. I remembered how strong he was, that he’d been up this morning when I’d passed the church. If he’d cared to keep track of any of us, puttering around the church would have given him a ringside seat to observe Macrae comings and goings.

  “I’ve gotta get back.” Gene opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

  “I’ll walk back to The Bird,” I said.

  “No. You need to tell me what you did when you got there this morning.”

  An icy chill swept over me. Fran’s dead. It had receded while I stood in the sunshine talking to Gene. I slumped into the police car.

  In silence he took me back to Fran’s.

  Officer Millay spoke quietly with Gene for several minutes when we got there. Gene slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Good work.”

  He came around the car and opened the door for me. He led me into the lobby of the newspaper office saying, “Okay, Liz, let’s get this over with as quickly as we can.” His brisk tone meant it was business: him cop, me witness.

  After I’d described my actions, we stood still in the midst of the coming and going of his troops.

  He sighed. “So anything else happen while you were here alone?”

  “No, I’ve told you—wait! The phone rang.”

  “Before you called 9-1-1?”

  “Yes. I was just going to do it.” I sagged into one of the upholstered chairs. “The voice said, ‘How does it feel?’”

  “What does that mean?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. He said it twice.”

  “You’re saying ‘he.’ So it was a man?”

  I thought. “I don’t know. It was muffled, strange, hard to understand—”

  “If you heard the voice again, would you know it?”

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed my forehead. “Maybe.” I shifted. “I just don’t—”

  “Do you think whoever it was thought they were talking to Fran?”

  I shivered. “They laughed when I said Fran was dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I thought back. I wrapped my arms around myself. “I don’t know.”

  He sighed again and sat in the chair next to me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” he said, patting me on the back as if I were a child. “When did you turn off the alarm here in the office?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “I never thought of it. Doesn’t that mean that somebody—”

  “We don’t know what it means, yet.” He rubbed his hands together.

  “Oh, the phone—” I said. I clutched his soft flannel sleeve.

  “The phone?”

  “Fran unplugged it last night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She said she was going to, and then I tried to get hold of her and couldn’t. She must have unplugged it.” I stared at him. “How could it ring this morning?”

  He shook his head. “We’ll check it out. You’d better go now,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone the details you’ve told me, okay?”

  I nodded.

  Sharply, he said, “You can’t trust anyone right now. Do you realize that?”

  I stared blankly into his intense blue eyes. “All right,” I said, my voice small.

  “Come in and give a formal statement later.”

  The sun blasted into my face as I stepped out of the office. I stopped and groped in my purse for my sunglasses.

  About twenty people stood in the parking lot beyond the police cars. A couple of kids were weaving around the crowd on their skateboards as I walked to my car.

  I collapsed on the seat and rolled down the window.

  Fran’s cold, slack body lay in the back of the coroner’s van that was pulling out of the parking lot and driving away from me.

  As I watched the van turn the corner, shock and listlessness burned away. Anger filled me like molten metal. Someone had murdered Fran. Someone was going to pay.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I started the station wagon and drove across the parking lot. The basso profundo bellow of a yellow Cadillac’s horn stopped me at the curb. Alisz pulled into the driveway next to me. She rolled down her window to peer at me. “So here you are. Your mother has had us combing the underbrushes, and you were here at the heart of the action all along.”

  “Fran’s dead,” I said, my voice rising in an unintended whine.

  “I know,” she said. Her lids lowered, and she blinked rapidly. Her voice changed from matter-of-factness to sympathy, “Yes, your mother told us when she sent us to find you.” She gestured at the official vehicles clustered in the parking lot, their lights still flashing, and said, “It looks like a movie set.”

  “It’s not,” I snapped.

  Her sallow cheeks flushed with pink, and she said, “I know that. Didn’t I lose my best friend yesterday? More than anyone else, I know what you are going through.” Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel. “Your mother wants you home right away.”

  We were silent a moment and then she said, “Are you all right to drive? Would you like to ride with me?”

  “No. Thank you. We’ll probably need to have the car handy,” I said.

  “Then I’ll follow you and see if there is anything I can do to help.” The yellow Cadillac stayed behind me through town.

  Neighbors and friends spilled from the parlor into the hallway and out onto the porch. As I mounted the steps to the house, Alisz at my side, people fell silent. Our footsteps on the glossy green boards pounded like drums.

  Kirk, clad in formal priestly black, stepped out of the silent wall of people and reached for me. He said, “I’m so sorry about Fran. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I stared at him, the innocent round face, strong arms, grasping hands. All the better to kill you with, my dear. I shook my head to clear it. I forced my stiff lips to stretch in a smile. “Coffee, please.”

  “Coming right up,” he said, moving away.

  I turned toward my mother. Dressed in black, she sat in her faded wing chair beside the fireplace. The portrait painted of her the summer before she met my father stared down into the crowded room. I sometimes wondered how my mother could bear the comparison of the fresh, beautiful, painted face crowned with Titian hair to the ravaged countenance she presented to the world now. “Tell us what happened, Liz,” she said.

  Then Meg came sobbing, “Oh, Auntie Liz, Auntie Liz,” and threw herself at me.

  My arms wrapped tightly around her as if she were five years old again. Gentle hands steered us toward the
plush comfort of the love seat, and we huddled together.

  Feeling Meg’s body clenched in grief, my horrid suspicions of her evaporated. Whatever else had changed in Meg, her ability to love had not.

  “What caused Fran’s death?” Mother asked, rubbing at her swollen, distorted knuckles.

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “The door was locked. No sign that anyone else had been there.”

  “A real mystery,” Alisz said.

  Quickly Jared asked, “What did Gene say?”

  I shrugged. “Nobody told me anything,” I said.

  “Surely we can find out if they have any clues?” Alisz said.

  I rocketed to my feet. “This isn’t a game! You think Gene is going to let us in on his investigation as if it were the mystery play? Fran is dead!”

  She took a step back, her posture rigid. “I was not meaning this was a game. How can you say that?” She groped behind her, and Jared stepped forward to take her hand.

  From the window seat, Jill Ferguson chimed in, “We only want to know that we’re not going to be murdered in our beds tonight.”

  Meg pulled me down beside her again. Her eyes were red and swollen, her skin blotchy, her breath sour from her hangover. She managed a small smile. “Aunt Liz, they’re here to help.”

  “Of course we are,” Kirk said, returning with coffee. “We want to do whatever we can.”

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered.

  Kirk put a bone china cup into my hand and patted my shoulder heavily before going to sit beside Mother.

  I looked around—everyone from the play rehearsal but Victor, Sybil and Gene was here. I hadn’t noticed Laurel at first. Wearing a pink dress and an extravagant scarf of swirling pastels, she stood quietly among the crowd on the stairway in the hall.

  I’d snapped at Alisz, telling her this wasn’t a game. If only this were a game of Clue, I thought. I couldn’t count the number of games I’d endured when Meg was small. Logic eliminated all suspects but one. Questions asked. Answers given. The guilty accused. Logic.

  “Maybe we can help Gene by organizing our information,” I said. “I was with Fran yesterday afternoon until 6:30. Did anyone see her after that?” Question asked.

  Silence stretched as people looked at each other. The Seth Thomas clock ticked on the mantel.

  Alisz said, “She came to get information on—”

  “Yes, she said she might come to the bon voyage party,” I said.

  “It was not a party, not with Annamaria—”

  “It’s just such a habit—”

  “Because I wouldn’t want people to think—“

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jared said, shaking his arm free of his mother’s grip. “It was pretty quiet when I got there, most everyone had heard about Annamaria.”

  “What time did Fran arrive?” I prompted.

  “Nearly seven,” Alisz said. “Donna was angry when Fran insisted on getting brochures and ticket information. Donna wanted to go home.”

  “How long did Fran stay?”

  Jared said, “It was sometime after seven. She went with Laurel and me for dinner.”

  Fabrics rustled as people turned to look at Laurel on the stairs.

  “We went down to Beaches,” she said, her voice soft. It was a restaurant down on the Columbia River.

  “How long did you stay?” Kirk asked.

  Laurel and Jared exchanged a look.

  “Fran had driven separately,” Jared said. “She took off about nine or so.”

  “Did she say where she was going from there?”

  They shook their heads.

  I got up and crossed to the doorway, looking up at Laurel. “Surely she said something, didn’t just leave.”

  Laurel fidgeted with her scarf. “She didn’t say anything—just—I think—she had to get her beauty sleep, something like that.”

  I scanned faces and asked, “Did anyone see Fran after that?”

  After a moment, heads shook. Jill Ferguson’s eyes filled with regret—she could find nothing to say. Kirk studied his black wing tips. Mother’s pale face and compressed lips told me how distasteful she found this.

  So, answers given. Was I any further ahead? And how to apply logic to such sparse information? I needed more.

  Fran must have gone somewhere else after she’d left Beaches, because she didn’t call my answering machine until after midnight, and she’d been looped when she called. She never drank alone. So where had she gone?

  Despite Mother’s pinched face, I persevered. “Did anyone see her yesterday earlier? Did she say anything about plans?”

  Kirk said, “She drove by the church in the afternoon, asked if I’d seen you. I told her about running into you at Sheila’s. She said it was no help.”

  That sounded so much like Fran it hurt. I smiled despite the sting in my eyes.

  Laurel said, “She came by the library, too, in the afternoon. She didn’t want to talk about the play.”

  “Didn’t you see Fran earlier, Mom?” Jared asked.

  “Yes, she came by, asking for Liz, but Liz had been gone a long time.”

  I turned slowly, searching faces, feeling helpless, wanting an answer now. “When I went to Fran’s this morning, I saw some of you already up: you, Kirk; Laurel, and Alisz. Did any of you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  They shook their heads.

  Mother’s voice came from her corner, “Thank you all for coming. It’s such a comfort knowing that Warfield hasn’t changed, that we can still count on our friends. But if you’d excuse us now, we need a little quiet time.”

  Laurel moved down the stairs, her scarf drifting after her. “I’ll be glad to stay if that will help.”

  I thanked her and told her I’d call her later. I stood just inside the parlor doorway beside the upright piano. As people passed, they offered condolences and help. Meg came to stand beside me. I put my arm around her waist.

  Jill Ferguson reminded us she was right next door, “just in case.”

  Outside, cars moved from the curbs, truck engines roared to life.

  Alisz put one cold hand on my arm in a comforting gesture. “We have both lost our best friends. I know how you are feeling, I will stay and make you lunch. It will make you feel better.”

  Mother said, “Thank you so much, dear, but I must have time alone with my family, you understand?”

  She nodded, her eyes downcast.

  Kirk remained standing at Mother’s side.

  Suddenly I could see what Fran had meant yesterday about my mother’s place in town, about her manner. Oh, God, I thought, I hope I’m not like that.

  “I’ll walk you out, Alisz,” I said. We went down the porch steps into the sunshine. “It was so good of you to come over. I really appreciate it.”

  “If there is anything I can do … “

  I shook my head, unable to speak, and patted her arm.

  I turned back to the house.

  The front hall seemed dark, so I left the door open to the clean air and bright sun.

  “Liz? Please come here,” Mother called.

  She still sat in her wing chair.

  I crossed to the Tiffany lamp that stood at the end of the sofa and clicked it on.

  “Sit down, Liz,” Mother said.

  “In a minute.” I moved to the game table in the corner by the bookcases and turned on the lamp there.

  Kirk still stood by Mother’s side. He, just as much as the others who’d been in the play, was a suspect. Didn’t she realize that? His eyes were intent on Meg who had drifted to the window seat.

  The fronds of one of the Boston ferns that hung in the bay window touched Meg’s auburn hair. Absently, she brushed at it. The pot swayed gently above her, shifting light and shadow in the room. “These things are due for a haircut,” she said.

  I sat on the sofa. “I don’t think we’ve groomed them since you left last September.”

  Mother said, “I received a telephone call earlier. That’s why I se
nt people to look for you. I tried to call Gene, but he was not in his office. I didn’t know about Fran at the time, of course.”

  “It wasn’t heavy breathing, was it, Grandmother? We can call the phone company for you and—”

  Mother waved her hand as if batting at an annoying fly. She looked at me, her brown eyes searching mine. “Someone called and said, ‘Tell Liz it is just beginning. Soon all her pretty ones will die—she will have no one.’

  “I said, ‘Who is this? What are you talking about?’

  “The person just laughed and said, ‘Suffering comes not from the sacrifice of the first-born but the best loved.’” Mother’s face was white. “These deaths are aimed at you, Liz!”

  My head whirled. “Fran’s dead because someone hates me?”

  “Andre, too,” Meg said.

  I looked down at my hands clenched in my lap. “This is crazy!”

  The four of us looked at each other in silence. I found myself wondering how Mother’d been able to sit through all the visitors so easily, keeping the phone conversation secret. Studying her pale, drawn face, I realized it hadn’t been easy.

  “Who’s doing this?” I cried.

  Only the ticking of the clock on the mantel answered me.

  Kirk cleared his throat. “What the caller said sounds like a quote, doesn’t it? Anybody recognize it?”

  We all shook our heads.

  “Did you recognize the voice, Claire?” Kirk asked.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps a woman.”

  I said, “Was there an accent?”

  She hesitated. “Perhaps. Like someone trying to mimic a southern accent?”

  I jumped up, ran down the dim hallway, into the kitchen and dialed the phone.

  “What are you doing?” Mother’s voice called after me.

  “Who are you calling?” Meg was right behind me, Kirk on her heels.

  “Gene.”

  Of course he wasn’t in. I left a message for him to call as soon as possible.

  “Why did you jump up like that?” Meg asked.

  I became aware that I was rubbing my forehead again. “Because—wait, I don’t want to do this more than once.” We trooped back to the parlor. “Sorry, Mother,” I said. “Your phone call might be connected to a phone call I got at Fran’s, so I tried to call Gene.”