Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  Becky sat up straight, shook her head, no. She hadn’t known a thing about it. And she wasn’t happy about that. “Why didn’t you tell me, Elle? I had a right to know if my name is on some killer’s list—”

  “But we don’t know that’s what it is. I didn’t want to worry you—”

  “You should have at least mentioned it. Don’t argue, either. You know I’m right.”

  I didn’t know, but I apologized and squeezed Becky’s hand.

  She nodded. Apparently, I was forgiven.

  Susan took a long drink, pushed her hair back again. “So let’s get this straight.” She read the list of women’s names and reviewed the connections between Ty and five of the seven. And she reminded us that three of those five had been killed since Ty’s release.

  “It could have been four killed,” Becky said. “Elle was almost run over by that car.”

  I heard the familiar thunk. Patsy Olsen flew onto the asphalt. Susan and Becky were talking, watching me. I swallowed wine.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Susan finished her drink. “I’ll put in a call to Detective Stiles and, as your attorney, I’ll give him the list. Meantime, the two of you be careful.”

  “How?” Becky’s eyes widened. “What are we supposed to do? Carry guns? Wear armor?”

  Susan folded her hands, looked us each in the eye. “For one thing, be alone as little as possible. I want you both to stay at my house until this is cleared up. You can share the guest room.”

  Becky and I exchanged glances. Really? Did Susan think the danger was big enough that we should pack up and leave our homes? Becky was already answering that she couldn’t impose, couldn’t leave her cat. I shook my head, no, thinking of Susan’s three demanding daughters, their constant turmoil and bickering. When they were home, I found it difficult even to drop in at Susan’s for coffee. Staying overnight was unthinkable.

  “Well, think about it. At least think about staying somewhere other than home. But whatever else you do, stay away from Ty.” Her eyes bored into me when she said that.

  “It’s not like I hang out with him.” I shifted in my seat.

  “Have you heard from him since your date?” Becky asked.

  “It wasn’t a date,” I snapped. “And no, I haven’t.”

  “Well, stay away from him,” Susan commanded. “And, while you’re at it, stay away from his mother, too.”

  “His mother?”

  “Yes. Rose Evans has as many connections to the victims as Ty has.”

  Again, Becky and I looked at each other.

  “Rose Evans? You seriously think she’s dangerous?” The idea seemed ludicrous. Rose was a ninety-five-pound drunk. According to Katie, she was rarely awake long enough to leave the house.

  “Anyway, why should we worry about her? Ty’s the one who was convicted of murder.” Becky’s skin was still flushed. Red blotches had erupted all over her neck.

  Susan leaned forward, lowered her voice. “What I’m about to say is just between us, okay?”

  Okay.

  “We all know that Ty confessed. His confession closed his father’s murder case.”

  So? We knew that.

  “But until he confessed, he wasn’t even a suspect. Guess who the main suspect was? His mother. Rose Evans was an abused wife and a heavy drinker. The night of the murder, she had fresh bruises and a gash on her head. She was at home with the victim and the knife that killed him. In other words, she had motive, means, and opportunity to kill her husband.”

  Becky and I sat silent. Rose? It made sense. She might have done it.

  Except that Ty had confessed. So, apparently, she hadn’t done it.

  “But if they had such a strong case against Rose, how could they accept Ty’s confession?” Becky didn’t understand.

  “His confession rang true. Ty knew all the details of the crime. And besides, he had as much motive, means, and opportunity as his mother did.”

  Nobody spoke for a moment. Becky sipped wine; I refilled Susan’s glass, then my own.

  Susan stared at the bottle. “I wasn’t handling the case, but I was in the loop. And honestly, I thought the confession was horseshit. I thought Ty was a skinny, abused teenager who was covering for his mother.”

  “But he confessed to murder, Susan. It’s serious, not like he covered up for a shoplifting charge.” I didn’t get it.

  “Think about it, Elle. If Rose had been convicted of killing her husband, even if she got manslaughter instead of murder, she’d go away for a long time, if not for life. Ty, his baby brother, and younger sister would be without any parents at all, and they’d end up in foster care.”

  My stomach fluttered, realizing what Susan was getting at. “So you think Ty confessed for the sake of the other kids.”

  “It crossed my mind back then that his mother must have pressured him to take the fall. By confessing as a juvenile, at most he’d serve five or six years. He’d be out by age twenty or twenty-one and still have his whole life ahead of him, and his mom would get to stay home raising the little ones. The family would be safe and intact. So yes, I thought it likely that Ty went away for his family’s sake.”

  Wow. Poor Ty. I could imagine him doing that, sucking it up, playing tough guy, a silent hero. But if Susan believed he’d been innocent back then, why did she suspect him of these recent killings?

  She answered without my asking. “My thinking has changed.” She toyed with her wineglass. “Knowing the family better, I doubt Ty was covering for his mother. Rose Evans is a neglectful self-destructive drunk. Not the kind of parent anyone would want to leave his younger siblings with. Certainly not at the price of spending years in jail.”

  I didn’t agree. “Rose might not have been perfect, but she was the better of the two parents. She wasn’t drinking as much back then. And she was the only mother Ty knew. I can see him taking the blame for her.” I pictured Rose shrieking at Mrs. Marshall, defending Ty. Maybe she and Ty had been close back then, and maybe Ty had imagined that, free of his father’s abuse, she would stop drinking and straighten up, taking care of the younger kids.

  But I remembered something he’d said: “My own mother’s afraid of me. She wants me out of the house.”

  If Rose had committed the murder and Ty had covered for her, why would she be afraid of him? Wouldn’t she welcome him home and spend her life trying to thank him?

  The waiter came by, asked if we’d like another bottle.

  I said, “Fine,” at the same time Susan said, “No.”

  I said, “I guess not then,” just as she said, “Okay, sure.”

  Becky finally said, “No thanks,” and asked for the check.

  He went to get it. For a moment we were quiet.

  “Bottom line,” Susan said, “we don’t know what happened. It might have been either of them, so stay away from them both, okay?” She emptied her glass. “And move into my guest room.”

  Becky huddled in her seat. I put my hand on her arm. “We’ll be okay, Becky,” I said.

  “Sure we will.” She swallowed the last of her wine. “As long as we stay bolted inside Susan’s guest room.”

  More silence. Susan’s idea about Rose bothered me. It didn’t fit—and as I emptied my glass, I realized what it was.

  “Rose might have killed her husband,” I said. “She had plenty of motive. But what motive would she have to kill the women on the list? And why would she start now?”

  “Who knows? Maybe she started now because Ty’s out.” Again, Susan pushed her hair off her face. “Maybe now his release triggered something in her, and she’s going after the women who’ve been important in his life. Or maybe they’re a sick kind of team, acting together.”

  That theory made no sense to me.

  “Susan’s right. Maybe it’s both of them,” Becky said. “Maybe Rose killed her husband, and Ty covered for her. And then being in juvey turned him into a hard-core criminal so now he’s killing people and she’s covering for him. Tit for tat.”

&nb
sp; No. She wanted him out of the house. According to Katie, Rose was afraid Ty would kill her in her sleep.

  I thought of little Seth, living in a house of murderers. Well, at least he had Katie.

  “Ty’s always been mean,” Becky went on. “Even as a little kindergartener, he was always in fights, hurting other kids.”

  Fine. So he’d been a bad boy. That didn’t make him a brutal killer. Or prove that he was planning to kill all the women whose names were on that list. After all, what did he have against Becky? Or me? Hadn’t he told me that I was the only one who’d ever been nice to him?

  My ringtone and Becky’s started at the same time. Becky looked at her phone and gasped. “It’s Jen. What should I say? She’ll think we planned to get together without her. You know how she gets.”

  Susan said something, but I didn’t hear. I was answering my own phone, taking a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Listening to high-pitched giggling, then silence at the other end.

  That night, Susan’s warnings reverberated in my mind. I bolted the door, locked the windows. Opened a bottle of Syrah and sat in the kitchen with knives at my fingertips. Thought about Joyce, Mrs. Marshall, and Stephanie Cross. Had they recognized their killer? Was it the same person who’d pushed Patsy Olsen off the curb? Had they had time to realize they were dying?

  What would it be like, having just seconds to think your last thoughts? Would you think at all—or would shock and reflex block out thoughts? Would you feel pain? My ringtone began.

  Becky was calling, checking to see if I was all right, telling me she’d gotten home safely. “Do you think Susan’s right? Does someone want to kill us?” Her voice was higher, thinner than usual.

  I said I thought we should be cautious.

  “I called Carlo,” she said. “He’s going to spend the night.”

  Carlo was an ex-boyfriend who was still in love with her. She’d thrown him out for being too possessive. I doubted that having him spend the night was a good idea.

  “He’ll be on the sofa, Elle. He knows the deal.”

  Okay, at least Becky would be safe. Carlo was a solid guy. No one would mess with him.

  “But what about you, Elle? Are you going to be okay?”

  I assured her that I was fine, locked up tight.

  I assured myself the same thing. Taking my wine with me, I went through the house, turned off lights. Stopped at the living room. Something wasn’t right. A chill rattled me as I realized what it was. The lamp on the end table was twisted. The cord faced the room, not the wall.

  I never would have moved the lamp that way.

  And that wasn’t all. The vase on the coffee table had been moved to the mantle.

  For a moment, I stood still, doubting my own eyes. Trying to convince myself that nothing was out of place. Then, wine splashing, I ran back to the kitchen and exchanged my glass for a butcher knife. I started through the house, room by room. Someone had been there, moving my stuff. Probably Jerry again. But whoever he was, if he was still in the house, he’d be sorry.

  Knife in hand, I moved down the hallway, punching numbers into my phone, making a call. Jerry picked up and began talking.

  “Elle? Did you get my emails? Have you signed the documents? What about that property? Have you thought any more about it? Because I’ll tell you this: it’s not going to be avail—”

  “Were you here?” I barked. “Did you come into my house again, Jerry?”

  “What? Please. Not that again, Elle.”

  I repeated my question, hoped that he’d say, yes, it had been him.

  “No. Elle. I haven’t been there. So what about the house?”

  “Don’t lie, Jerry. I know you’ve used the lock box key. I know you’ve come in before—”

  “I came in, yes, when I had a reason to. I told you. I came to improve your staging, but now the house is sold. Why would I come in?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I wouldn’t. I’d have no reason to. You act like I’m your boyfriend, the way you harp at me.” His voice was a whine.

  “You swear it wasn’t you?”

  “Oh my God, Elle. Look, I know you’re upset, what with your friends being killed, but remember, I’m a busy man. I have dozens of clients who want my time and attention—and by the way, their properties are worth ten or fifteen times more than yours. But even so, I do more for you than I do for any of them. Don’t ask me why. Okay, I admit it’s because I like you. But I’ve about had it with your crazy games of cat and mouse, hot and cold, inviting and accusing. So just tell me—did you sign the document I sent?”

  I took a breath. No, I hadn’t signed it. I hadn’t even seen it. I’d been out all day working.

  “Well, sign it, will you please?” He went on, suggesting we look at more properties, but I warned him not to come in without permission ever again and said I had to go. I clicked off before he could say anything.

  I stood in the hallway, gripping the knife, peering down the hall, up the staircase. The house felt empty, and I doubted that the intruder was still there. Still, I finished my search, going through every room, closet, and cabinet. I looked under the bed, behind the sofas. Found no one.

  My phone rang a few times. Jen called, miffed about not being included earlier. “It doesn’t matter that it was a legal matter. I still could have sat with you and had some wine.”

  Susan called to see how I was. “I’m seeing Stiles in the morning. Once he’s seen the list, you should expect a call.”

  Sometime after midnight, with every light in the house turned on, with my butcher knife and wine bottle, I went to bed. When the sun came up, I was still awake.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I was bleary eyed the next day. Twenty-three seven-year-olds had no sympathy. They bounced into class, full of energy.

  “Mrs. Hawwison?” Emily couldn’t say her r’s. “Look what I bwought for ‘Show and Tell.’” She held up a stuffed hippo.

  I’d forgotten. I’d asked the children to bring in something to talk about with the class.

  “Mrs. Harrison,” Millicent said. “Guess what? We’re getting a puppy!”

  “So?” Bobby said. “Our dog had puppies and we got five.”

  “I’m getting a new baby.”

  Kids talked at once, outdoing each other. I clapped my hands for attention, asked who’d brought items for “Show and Tell.” About twenty hands went up.

  Seth’s wasn’t one of them. He folded his hands in front of him, whispering. Talking to his father?

  I told the class that anyone who hadn’t brought anything could still take a turn and tell us about a special memory or possession. I looked at Seth to let him know I hoped he’d participate.

  That’s when I noticed his bruises.

  Casually, asking Emily to begin, I walked over to his desk to get a better look.

  As Emily and her hippo made their way to the front of the room, I checked out Seth’s wounds. They were worse than they’d been when he’d fallen “out of a tree” or “off a bike.” His arms were ringed with bruises near the wrists and above one elbow. His lip was puffy, and his cheek was blue and swollen under his eye.

  I didn’t say anything right away but, at recess, I held him back and asked what had happened.

  He told me he’d fallen off his bike.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I was trying to do a trick but I flipped.” His eyes aimed at the floor.

  I asked him straight out. “Seth, did someone hurt you?”

  He didn’t look at me, just shook his head slowly, no.

  He was lying, probably too scared to tell the truth. But clearly, rings of hand-shaped bruises hadn’t come from falling off a bike. I tousled his hair and sent him to recess, then headed to Mr. Royal’s office. According to protocol, I had to inform him first, even though I knew my assertion would fluster him, and he’d try to make it go away. He wouldn’t be able to, though. I wouldn’t let him.

  Like his brother, Ty, before him, Seth w
as being abused. I’d let Ty down, but this time I was going to do something to stop it, starting with making a call to the Department of Human Services.

  Early on Thursday morning, hours before the start of school, under dark clouds and intermittent rain, social workers showed up at Rose Evans’ home to remove Seth and Katie. Seth was temporarily placed with a foster family in the same school district. Katie was able to move to her friend’s house because Maggie’s mother somehow intervened, arranging for Katie to stay with them.

  I later heard that, while the children were moving out, Rose exploded. Ty and a neighbor had to physically restrain her. She’d raged all day, calling lawyers and officials until she was too drunk to speak.

  On Friday morning, when I got to school, she was waiting.

  “Bitch! I’ll kill you!” She stood across the parking lot, bellowing as I got out of my car. She yelled more, but she was far away, and I couldn’t understand her words.

  Few other cars were around. Clearly her yelling was intended for me. But why? Unless she’d found out that I was the one who’d called DHS. But she couldn’t have. That information was confidential, never to be released.

  Rose shouted something, put her head down, and charged.

  Fortunately, in her inebriated condition, she wasn’t particularly coordinated. While she teetered toward me through last night’s rain puddles, I unlocked my car and got back inside. By the time she rammed my door, I was safe in the driver’s seat. She stood outside my window, ranting, pounding the glass.

  “You had no right,” she shouted. “What made you think you had the right?” She slammed the window.

  I gaped at her.

  “Oh, don’t play innocent.” She bent over, her voice slamming the window, her face up against the glass.

  I saw the mole on her chin, the stray coarse hairs on her withered upper lip. Her flaring nostrils. Her spit on the pane. I looked away.