Very industriously, she painted a butterfly that had turned into a flower at the rim of the funnel. She meant to paint flowers all around the rim.
Daddy’s gnarled fingers plucked at her arm. She turned to look at him.
“In as much as,” he said, “heretofore within the above fore-mentioned in lieu of notwithstanding therefore prior to unless hereby.” Tears were sliding down his face and dripping off his chin.
Rubbing a hand over her face, she discovered her own face was wet with tears. I can’t just sit here and cry. I have to do something about Daddy’s gun. Get rid of it somehow? How? Drop it into the river? Bury it?
And get caught doing it. Oh, yeah, that would really help.
How could she get rid of something that might point to the killer?
She heard the front door open downstairs and stopped breathing.
“Ellen?”
She let out a long breath. Nadine. “In here.” She shoved the drawer shut and got to her feet on rather shaky legs. Grabbing up a T-shirt, she rubbed it across her face and dropped it on the bed. She brushed off the seat of her blue jeans, pulled her shirt straight, and went into the living room.
“Hi.” Nadine, in jeans and a white blouse with damp spots on the shoulders where the baby had drooled, had a diaper bag over one shoulder and a squalling Bobby in a carry cot. “I saw your car and— Ellen, are you all right? You’re white as a sheet.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Come on in here and sit down. You look like you’re going to fall over.” She shepherded Ellen into the kitchen, set the carry cot on a chair, and nudged Ellen into the adjacent one.
“You need a glass of water.” Nadine took a glass from the cabinet and turned on the tap. No water came out. “Oh, damn, I forgot.” She unzipped the diaper bag, pulled out a baby bottle, and poured the water from it into the glass. She set the glass in front of Ellen.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. Bob’s studying for an exam, and this guy”—Nadine nodded at Bobby, waving pudgy fists and squawking—“has been yelling all morning. I thought I’d stay here awhile, where his fussing wouldn’t bother anybody.” She plugged a pacifier in the baby’s mouth and sat down. “What happened?”
Ellen picked up the glass and took a sip. “Oh, God, Nadine, I wish I could tell you.”
“Just tell me.”
She wanted to, there was nothing she wanted more than to tell somebody what was upstairs in her dresser drawer. She was afraid. She didn’t want to get Nadine in trouble. Her knowledge of anything legal was hazy, but she didn’t want to make Nadine an accessory to anything. “Adam was here,” she said.
“Here? What was he doing here?”
“He said he came to see me.”
Nadine smiled softly. “Well, you knew it would happen. What other reason would he have to come back to Hampstead except to see you?”
Ellen rubbed angrily at her face. “I don’t know. I don’t know that I believe anything anymore. Not even that airplanes can fly.”
The baby squirmed and made small, mewling noises. Nadine gathered him in her arms and cooed at him. “What was it like to see Adam?”
“Damn it,” Ellen said angrily. She took a breath. “Good. He looked good. I wanted to hurl myself at him and tickle my fingers through his curls. Incidentally, he needs a haircut.”
“So why didn’t you? Hurl yourself.”
“Oh, hell, Nadine. Because I hate him.”
“Doesn’t sound like hate to me.”
“Well, it is. How could it be anything else after what happened?”
“What did happen? You never really explained.”
Ellen slouched back in the chair and took another slug of Bobby’s water. “Oh, it all just got too much. Seemed like we fought all the time. Mostly because we didn’t have any money. And seemed like no matter how much we tried, we couldn’t pay school expenses and rent and be able to eat.” She shrugged. “We tried, we really did try. I worked, and Adam worked, and we both tried to find time to study.”
She looked at Bobby nuzzling Nadine’s shoulder. “We just couldn’t do it. Dorothy didn’t like him, and after we started living together, she would no longer pay my school expenses.”
“I know that,” Nadine said.
“Then Adam just up and left.”
“Why?”
“The fights and no money.”
“Yes, but there must have been some final straw.”
“I guess so.” Ellen ran a shoe tip up and down the table leg. “Dorothy paid him to leave.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Well, it was pretty obvious. He was gone.”
“Yes, but—”
“Dorothy told me,” Ellen said flatly.
“Oh.” Nadine resettled Bobby. “Well, maybe—”
“Don’t even try to think up excuses. You’re entirely too nice, Nadine. You know that? You always believe there’s two sides. I don’t want any shilly-shallying in loyalty here. Anybody who would do that is a slime, and I don’t want anything to do with him.”
Bobby fussed, and Nadine moved him from her shoulder, cradled him in her arms, and gently jostled him. “Maybe you should at least hear his side.”
“I shouldn’t listen to a word he says. I shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of him.”
With little whimpering sighs, Bobby drifted off to sleep, and Nadine placed him tenderly in the carry cot. “Are you trying to stay here without any water?”
“No. I just came to see if Ackerbaugh was on the plumbing job and pick up some clothes. I’m staying at home.” Home. Still, after all my attempts to get away. Damn it, this is my home.
“It’s really weird, Nadine. I keep expecting Dorothy to be there. Or come trotting in and ask me why I’m not practicing my flute.”
“Why don’t you go someplace else?”
Ellen laughed with no humor. “I don’t think it will matter. The trap is closing.”
* * *
Osey knew a runaround when he heard one. He’d been on the phone for over an hour trying to pry loose the name of whoever had put the piece in the paper about the painting being sold. Hundred thousand dollars? Must be nice to have that kind of money to hang on your walls.
He was getting tired of trying to get hold of people who weren’t in, or were busy and would call back and never did. Shit. He might as well have gone to Kansas City in the first place. Get him out of the department. Air conditioning wasn’t working too well. On top of what you might call the general tension of the place, getting out began to sound like a right good idea.
He picked up the receiver again and punched in the number of the Kansas City Star, a number he was beginning to remember quite well. He wondered if maybe he wouldn’t save time by making a recording and just playing it every time he punched in the number.
“Detective Osey Pickett,” he said when the call was picked up. “Police Department.” This time he left out Hampstead. Maybe he’d get further faster if the other end thought he was dealing with the Kansas City police. “I need to speak with Jim Barnes.”
After clicks and buzzes, Barnes came on the line sounding harried and irritated.
Osey identified himself again and went into his story.
“Filler on page twenty-seven? Oh, for God’s sake.”
“It’s important,” Osey inserted.
Muttering came over the line; then Barnes said, “You working on a theft?”
“No, sir. I just need this information.”
More muttering and then more clicks. This time the phone was answered by a female voice. He didn’t catch the name. He went into his spiel again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t get your name.”
“Lisa Mona,” she said, real slow and drawn out, like she was speaking to an idiot. “And don’t bother with the jokes. I’ve heard them all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, right. Why do you want to know this?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give
out that information, ma’am.” He knew better than to mention homicide to anybody in the newspaper business. After some more palaver back and forth, she finally came across with the name of the gallery that had sold the painting.
Osey felt like whooping when he hung up, and took off for Kansas City in pouring rain.
An hour and a half later, he was at KCPD, letting them know he was on their turf and asking what they knew about the Jennings Gallery.
“Not a damn thing,” Sergeant Barker said. “Far as I can tell you, they’re lily clean. No smell of fraud or handling stolen merchandise, no complaints. Matter of fact, this is the first I’ve heard of them. You want some assist?”
“Not necessary.”
“Good. I got enough with our own crime.”
Osey thanked him, asked for directions, and found the place with no problem. Parking, on the other hand, was a mite problematical. He circled the block and was about to widen his field when a car backed out ahead of him. He swung in and thumbed coins in the meter.
He got soaked sprinting from the squad car to the door. He wiped his forehead and went inside. Uh huh. Not the type of place he generally spent a lot of time in. Soft classical music. Pictures all over the walls. Sculpture and glass stuff displayed here and there. Elderly male seated behind a counter, intent on perusing a catalogue.
Osey, careful not to bump anything—if he broke it, it would probably cost ten years’ salary—made his way to the counter.
The old guy shut the catalogue, lined it up true on the edge of the counter, and stood up. “Good afternoon. Anything I can help you with?” Standing, he didn’t seem much taller than sitting down. Fluffy hair the color of rain clouds, face as netted with wrinkles as a ripe cantaloupe. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie with gold tiepin, and gold cufflinks.
“I’m looking for Claude Jennings.”
“I am he.”
Osey hauled out his ID and laid it on the counter.
Jennings took a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his inside coat pocket—how had he read the catalogue?—and slowly unfolded the ear pieces, hooked them over his ears, adjusted the fit over the bridge of his nose, picked up the ID, and moved it back and forth as though to catch the light better.
Not a man to go off half-cocked, Osey thought, waiting patiently while Jennings compared the photo with the real thing.
“And what might it be that the police would like to question me about?” He removed the glasses and tucked them away.
“It might be about a painting.”
“I see.”
Osey thought he saw a twinkle in the small gray eyes and wondered if Jennings might not be having a little fun here. He explained what he was after.
“Ah, yes, the Barrington. I believe I did read about the death of his daughter.” Jennings made a tsk tsk sound and shook his head. “Such a tragedy. I didn’t know the lady myself. A family that has had more than its share of tragedy.” He tipped back his head and peered up at Osey. “You think the death has something to do with the painting? I find it hard to believe that is a possibility.”
“You did have the painting? You sold it?”
Jennings nodded slowly. “It has been many years since I’ve handled a Barrington. I must say, it was a pleasure just to hold one in my hands again.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Young man, that is not a very specific question. Are you asking me how it came about that I had one to sell?”
Osey grinned. “Well, you can tap dance some better than me, but that’s about it, yeah.”
The wrinkles rearranged themselves into a smile. “I used to know him. August. Many, many years ago. Before his death.”
“I figured.”
The wrinkles slid around again. “I sold many of his paintings. Most. Perhaps even all. You may have noticed, young man, that I’m getting along in years. I thought I’d never have one pass through my hands again.”
“How’d you get this one?”
“It didn’t take long to sell, I can tell you that.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“Why, the family, of course.”
“The Barrington family.”
“That is correct. It was quite an honor and a pleasure that they chose me after all these years.”
“Which member of the family are we talking about?”
“The youngest one. Ellen Barrington.”
16
“YOU WERE RIGHT about Ed Cole. He’s a piece of shit.” Parkhurst stood with his back toward the window. Rain was falling like a warning to Noah. He took three paces to the armchair in front of her desk, nudged it with his toe, and sat, resting low on his spine.
Susan shoved aside the stack of urgent messages she was working through, twisted sideways in the chair, and crossed her legs.
“I’ve been doing some digging,” Parkhurst said. “Little chats with the neighbors, visit to the emergency room. They know Debra well there. Her story is she’s clumsy. Accident prone.” He paged through his notebook. “Hell of a klutz. Broken wrist, cracked ribs, battered face. Those are just the highlights.”
“We ever get a domestic disturbance on them?”
“So far they’ve kept all their disturbing to themselves. But—” He leaned forward, opened his suit coat to tuck the notebook in the inside pocket, and leaned back again. “And you might find this interesting. The check on license plates turned up Ed’s car in the area at the time of the shooting.”
“Did it indeed.” Battering husbands spread their violence around on anybody who tried to help their wives. Friends, family; the wives weren’t safe anywhere. “If Dorothy was telling Debra to leave, get herself and baby into a shelter— Dorothy gave her a job. That got her away from him for some of the time. He wouldn’t be thrilled by that, and—”
Her phone rang, and she picked up the receiver. “Yes, Hazel.”
“Mayor on the line again. You want to talk to him?”
No, she did not. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to Mayor Bakeover. Or listen to him talk. “Put him through.” She aimed a thumb at the door. Parkhurst nodded and left.
“Miz Wren,” the mayor’s voice boomed in her ear. “I have left several messages.”
She spread out the pile of urgent messages on her desk, and there they were, four slips with the times noted.
“Are you on the point of making an arrest?”
“We are making progress,” she said.
He cleared his throat in a dismissing sound. “That sort of nonsense is what you hand out to the paper. I want to know what’s going on.”
She looked at the stack of reports on her desk: suspects questioned, area canvassed, preliminary autopsy report. “We’re in the process of gathering information,” she said. “Checking alibis, tracking down leads.”
“You cannot let this drag on. Dorothy Barrington was a valuable member of this community. Her assailant has to be found immediately. It’s not good for the town to have an unsolved murder. It makes us look bad, and it makes people nervous.”
One day, she thought with her teeth clamped, I’m going to say screw it, I’ve had it, I don’t work here anymore.
She unclamped her teeth enough to say, “Yes, Mr. Mayor, I understand.”
“Do you have enough people on it?”
“We’re covering all angles.”
“I hope so. Don’t limit yourself by concentrating on the family. Look outward.”
“Yes, sir.” Ah. Did this mean one or more of the Barringtons was grousing to the mayor?
“Keep me informed.”
There was a click. She took the receiver from her ear and grimaced at it. Barringtons were all valuable members of the community. The mayor didn’t like to upset anybody valuable.
She replaced the receiver and retrieved her raincoat from the coat tree in the corner. To keep the mayor from having apoplexy, she’d go and harass some non-valuable members of the community. Starting with the shelter for battered women. Now, there were people about
as non-valuable as you could get. She didn’t ask Parkhurst to accompany her. Generally speaking, these people didn’t care for males.
* * *
Susan picked up a cheeseburger at one of the fast-food places—she’d been doing that a lot lately and could feel Hazel’s disapproval just over her shoulder—and ate it on the way to Victory House. She slurped the last of the cola just as she pulled up in front, stuffed the wrappings and paper napkins inside the empty cup, and dropped it in the passenger seat.
The battered women’s shelter had started life as some family’s proud home and gone through several incarnations—apartment building, corner grocery, paint store—before getting to its present state: faded white paint, blistered and peeling, over a clapboard structure, wooden steps that made sagging creaks as she trotted up on the porch, weedy grass beaten down by rain. She poked the doorbell.
Several seconds elapsed before a female voice called from inside, “Who is it?”
“Chief Wren.”
“What is it you want?”
“I need to talk with Joyce Norvell.”
“Just a minute.”
Susan waited. Standard procedure; nobody opened that door without permission from a staff member, usually Joyce herself. Sure enough, moments later Joyce Norvell unlocked, unbolted, and opened the door.
“Is this really necessary?” Joyce said in a tart voice so in contrast to her grandmotherly appearance: sweet, round face, prim smile, short white hair, and plump figure. In contrast, that is, until you looked at her sharp, penetrating eyes. “It upsets the women to have police hammering on the door.”
“Better me than someone of the male persuasion.”
“Humph. That were the case, this door wouldn’t have opened.” She stepped back. “Come on in, if you must.”
Susan heard women chatting in another room and children’s voices as she followed Joyce into the kitchen. The floor had faded, mud-colored, cracked linoleum and a long wooden table stacked with what looked like breakfast dishes. A coffee maker sat on a counter along with a collection of mugs.
Without asking, Joyce filled two of the mugs, placed them on the table, and, before she sat down, transferred stacks of dirty dishes to the sink.
Family Practice Page 15