After this revelation, Catherine was literally speechless. She could only wait for Galton to continue. His eyes were resting on her intently, and she felt her hands begin to shake.
“I have one more question to ask you, then I’ll leave you to your Sunday,” Galton said heavily. “Have you gone to Leona with…any kind of problem? Since your folks died?”
Catherine felt like a mouse being played with by a big old cat. Her thoughts were slow. She stubbed out her cigarette as she tried to recall, though she was sure she had never taken a problem of any kind to Leona. Her mind wandered. She tried to imagine herself crying on Leona’s shoulder over some girlish difficulty, and decided that tears would have just rolled off that starched white shoulder.
When she looked at Galton again, she realized her long pause had cost her something. There was once again a look of sternness in his face.
That’s not fair, she thought despairingly.
“I would never take a problem to Leona,” she said. Her voice was as weary and watchful as Galton’s. Even to her own ears, she sounded unconvincing.
“I thought it would be better if you didn’t come down to the station again,” Galton murmured. There was a sadness, a regret, in his voice. He too was remembering the days he had swung her up in the air.
Catherine gave up trying. She had done her best, had cleared herself as thoroughly as she could. There was something, or perhaps several things, that Galton wouldn’t tell her. He had obviously figured she would be more open in her own home, in a private conversation; he had made a concession to her in that respect. Somehow she had failed to meet his standards.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I honestly think”-Do drag in “honestly,” Catherine!-“I have told you what little I know. And I think what happened to Leona is directly related to what happened to my parents. I don’t blame you for never finding out about them,” she added hastily. “I know you were a good friend to my father.”
She had touched him on the quick. She wondered if she had meant to.
“I tried,” said Galton bitterly. “You’re damn right I tried! But I know why Leona Gaites was killed: she was a blackmailer, and something else too. And that doesn’t have anything to do with Glenn and Rachel.”
He sat silent for a moment, visibly collecting himself. He looked so sad and worn that Catherine was unwillingly moved.
“You need some rest,” she said shortly.
“It’ll be a while before I get any,” he said.
He rose, stretched, ambled to the door.
“Catherine,” he said, one hand on the knob, “Why didn’t you leave town, honey? What’s kept you here?”
“You know, I’ve asked myself that just recently,” she said. “I only found out yesterday. When I was telling Tom Mascalco what happened to Mother and Father. I want the person who did it to be caught. And I want him to be dead. That’s why I stayed.”
“That Mascalco’s a pest,” said Galton. “His idea of his job is way too big. About that other, Catherine: it makes me sick to say it-you know how I felt about your folks-but I don’t think we’ll ever catch who did it. There’s nothing for you here. You shouldn’t have stayed-if you want unasked-for advice, too late.”
The complexity of being sheriff and suspect, family friend and bereaved daughter, tore at them.
“You be careful,” he said finally. “I don’t know what you’ve done, or what you know. I’ve known you to do some things that people thought were crazy. Well, in the Delta we’ve got a lot of crazies; known for it. Or maybe I should say eccentrics. Okay. But I’ve never known you to be bad or crooked. There’s a lot of crookedness, a lot of badness, mixed up in this mess. So watch yourself, Catherine.”
He shut the door behind him.
She didn’t know whether she’d been threatened or warned.
6
SHE WAS WATCHING the sheriff ’s car back out into the street when her telephone rang. Maybe that’s Randall, she thought.
“Catherine?”
“Sally?” Catherine asked uncertainly. She pulled out one of the bamboo-and-chrome dinette chairs and sat down heavily.
“Sure is, honey. I’m so sorry for you! You should have come and spent the night with us! I know you were scared out of your wits.”
How long had it been since she had talked to Sally Barnes? Sally Barnes Boone, Catherine corrected herself.
“I’m fine,” Catherine said, and made a face into the glass of the table. Once polite lies got into your blood, you never quit telling them, she thought.
“Well, I heard at church,” Sally was saying, “and I just couldn’t believe it…that poor woman! Daddy was so upset, that she was on that land he rents from you! He’d been riding the place that morning, but not close to that field, so he didn’t see anything. I just can’t imagine who could have done it. Someone from Memphis, I bet. Going through town to the fishing camps at the river.”
“I guess so,” said Catherine, who didn’t think so at all. “How is Bob?” She remembered, almost too late, that Sally had a child. “And the baby?” A little girl, was it?
“Oh, they’re fine, just fine. Chrissy’s cutting teeth.”
“I know she’s fretful,” Catherine said sympathetically. She had heard somewhere that this was the case with teething babies.
“Oh boy,” Sally answered feelingly. “But I want to know about you. How are you? What have you been doing? I can’t believe I never see you in a town this size!”
Because I have been taking care not to be seen, she thought to herself. I have been waiting.
She could hear a baby’s wail in the background, on Sally’s end of the line.
“Sally, thanks for calling, I really appreciate it,” Catherine said hastily. “But really, I’m not scared. I just happened to find…” she trailed off. “But it’s not like it was in my yard or anything. I’ll be fine. Thanks again. I can tell you need to go.”
The baby’s wails were reaching a crescendo of pique.
“Chrissy, hush!” Sally said faintly. “Bob, pick her up!” Sally’s voice grew louder. “Oh, Catherine, I better go, but you come see me real soon. I mean it, now!”
“Sure will. Tell Bob I said hello,” and Catherine hung up.
She absently noted that the top of the table was smeared. Her fingernails tapped along the glass as she considered what Sally had said. So Martin Barnes had lied to his daughter. He had said he had been out riding his place. Well, that was possible; every planter rode his acres, looking and assessing. But he had been near the shack where Leona’s body was lying. And Catherine had the impression that Mr. Barnes had not been driving from the direction of the shack but had pulled out from one of the houses by the highway. She tried to recall exactly what she had seen. No: she couldn’t picture precisely where the truck had been before she passed it.
Catherine shook her head. It was a stupid lie that Martin Barnes was telling. She could see no reason for it; he should have known she would report seeing him. Mr. Barnes was a good planter, but definitely not the smartest of men.
Maybe he was the guilty one. If he was not the guilty man…her mouth twisted. This was loathe-some. She wanted someone to be proved guilty; fast, so no more suspicion would be attached to her. But she couldn’t bear the certain knowledge that the murderer was someone she knew, someone whose face formed a part of her life. She had always known that, but she had never been able to accept it. She couldn’t think of anyone in Lowfield she imagined capable of beating a woman to death. Or of loosening an essential part in the car of the town’s best-known and most-loved doctor and his wife.
Could it be that Lowfield contained two murderers? That the deaths of her parents and Leona were not related? Sheriff Galton clearly believed the crimes were separate.
A familiar tension, resulting from the suspense of watching and waiting, caused Catherine’s muscles to tighten. She simply couldn’t picture someone she knew plotting the horrible death Glenn and Rachel Linton had suffered.
> Her hand came down flat and hard on the glass.
It left a print, and she retreated into wondering for the hundredth time why her mother had bought a glass-topped table. Catherine had gotten out the glass cleaner and a rag, turning with relief to the mundane little task, when she remembered telling Galton she was a rich woman. She shook her head again.
That was something you just didn’t say.
The doorbell rang as Catherine was twisting her neck to look through a shaft of sun, checking to see if she had gotten all the marks off the table.
Does everyone in town want to talk to me? she wondered crossly. For a well-known recluse, I’m having lots of company these days.
Molly Perkins, the coroner’s wife, was standing with a casserole dish clutched in her hands when Catherine opened the door. Catherine had automatically looked up, and she had to adjust her sights down to meet Miss Molly’s washed-blue eyes.
Miss Molly began instantly. “I am so sorry you had such a horrible experience. I know you’re upset. I won’t stay but a minute, I just wanted to run this over to you. I knew you wouldn’t feel like cooking.”
Food, the southern offering on the altar of crisis. Catherine was bemused by its presentation now. Finding a corpse must be close enough to death in the family to qualify.
“Thanks,” she said faintly. “Please come in.”
“Well, like I say, I won’t stay but a minute. I know you must be busy with company coming by and all.”
The plump little woman was trotting through the living room back to the kitchen.
“Company?” Catherine asked the air behind her.
But Mrs. Perkins apparently didn’t hear her.
Molly Perkins’s whole body tilted forward when she walked, giving her the effect of charging eagerly forward at life. Her enormous bosom made her appear in danger of falling flat on her face at any moment, which had added a pleasant suspense to her company when Catherine was younger.
Placing the casserole on the kitchen counter, Mrs. Perkins earnestly continued, “I do hope you like gumbo. All these years up here, and I still cook Cajun. I always fix too much for Carl and myself. I just got used to cooking a lot while Josh was growing up. Can’t change my habits now he’s married and gone, I guess.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said again, determined to get a word in somewhere. “And how is Josh?”
“We got a phone call from him and his wife Friday,” said Miss Molly happily. “They’re expecting. Carl is so excited. About that, and Josh is doing well in L.A.”
“I know Mr. Perkins is proud of him,” Catherine murmured. Her conversation with Perkins at the tenant shack was the only one she could remember that didn’t feature Josh: his job, his wife (beautiful and of good family), and his brilliant prospects.
“I do wish they were settled here,” Mrs. Perkins said wistfully. “That’s why we built that big house. Not many young people do stay in Lowfield, seems like.”
Catherine slid the gumbo dish back against the wall. She couldn’t think of anything to say. As she remembered Josh, who was a few years older, the last thing he’d do would be to settle down quietly in Lowfield.
“I thought I saw a police car here this morning. I hope you haven’t had any trouble?” asked Molly Perkins with a forced air of casualness.
So that was the “company”; that was the purpose of this visit. The food, Catherine thought quickly, was an excuse to unearth interesting facts to relate at the beauty parlor.
“No,” said Catherine calmly. “No trouble.”
Against the stone wall of Catherine’s face, the little woman was visibly stymied.
“I guess Jimmy Galton has been mighty busy,” she said nervously.
“I imagine,” said Catherine.
The ensuing silence lasted a moment too long to be comfortable. Damned if I’ll break it, Catherine thought.
“Well, I’ve got to be getting back; I hope you enjoy that gumbo.”
And Mrs. Perkins trotted top-heavily to the front door, with Catherine again trailing behind.
“I got a post card from the Drummonds,” Mrs. Perkins said abruptly.
“Oh?”
“They’re in Florence, Italy. They’ll be back in another week,” Mrs. Perkins offered. “They’re having a wonderful time, they say.”
Catherine nodded.
“Well, I hope you enjoy the gumbo,” Mrs. Perkins repeated desperately.
“I’m sure I will.” She noticed that Molly Perkins did not offer the quick hug and kiss that was customary on food-bringing visits.
“Can’t let all your air conditioning run out the door!” Mrs. Perkins concluded with artificial gaiety.
And off she trotted with an anxious backward glance at Catherine, who remained in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest until the woman had gotten down the walkway and turned right to cross the street to her own house.
When Miss Molly had entered the mansion’s front door, Catherine slammed her own violently. “Talk talk talk,” she muttered. Miss Molly had come to spy and pry, to report on Catherine’s mental state and demeanor. And yet Catherine knew the pigeon-breasted little lady had also been genuinely worried about her well-being.
The phone rang as Catherine stood in the middle of the living room brooding over this duality in small-town life. She was bitterly sure the caller was not Randall: How could it be? That was who she wanted to talk to. She decided it was another sympathy call from some high school classmate she hadn’t seen in years.
The irritating sound served to trigger the anger Galton and Molly Perkins had generated. Catherine said something that undoubtedly shocked the very curtains in her mother’s living room. She had never in her life been able to take a telephone off the hook. The alternative was to leave the telephone. Catherine marched out her back door and across the lawn to Tom’s house.
She pounded, rather than knocked, on the back door.
She was holding her heavy hair up off her neck, to take advantage of a slight breeze-maybe it would cool her down-when Tom answered. He was almost as surprised to receive a visit from Catherine as she was to be making one.
She had not entered the old office since Tom had moved in.
“Well, the landlady comes to call,” he said easily, opening the screen door for her to enter. “Just come this way through the foyer, and don’t scuff the marble.”
Catherine looked around as she went through the hall. Dr. Linton’s office had been a house before he bought it; now it was a house again. Her father had used the rooms at the back of the old house for examinations and storage. They were now Tom’s kitchen and bedrooms. The living room had been Dr. Linton’s waiting room; now it had cycled back. Catherine took stock of the reversion.
“You recognize, of course, my furniture period-Modern American Battered.”
Tom’s description was accurate. His couch and chairs were covered with mismatched throws, to hide the worst holes from sight-but not from sensation, as Catherine found when she sat down.
But the place was neater than she had expected. The couch, where Tom obviously had been lying, had a sad old trunk exactly centered before it to serve as a coffee table. On the trunk was a neat pile of magazines, a telephone aligned with the pile, and what Catherine supposed was a cigarette box beside a large cheap ashtray.
“You keep it nice,” Catherine offered.
“Oh, Mother Mascalco brought her boy up right,” Tom said with a grin. She noticed that Tom wasn’t sloppy in dress even on the weekend. He was wearing a sports shirt obviously straight from the laundry; and, amazingly, his jeans had creases. “The bed, I have to admit, is not made. You wouldn’t be interested in seeing the bedroom?”
Catherine shook her head with a smile. “We wouldn’t suit,” she said. “Besides, what happened to your fiancée in Memphis? I thought one reason you took the job here was because you could drive up to see her on weekends.”
“She dumped me,” Tom said, with an attempt at lightness. “Haven’t you noticed th
at I’ve been lurking around here the past two weekends?”
Well, yes, she had noticed, kind of. But she had vaguely assumed he had fetched the girl from Memphis for some weekend housekeeping. Tom’s visits to her house had been during the past two weeks, now that she came to think of it.
“Stuck here for nothing,” Catherine said, making a tactful effort to match Tom’s light tone. “Well, this job will look good on your résumé.”
“Yeah,” he said morosely. “Want something to drink? Beer, orange juice? I have some milk, too,” he added apologetically, “but I think it’s past its prime. Or dope?” He opened the cigarette box, and Catherine saw that it held at least fifteen rolled joints.
“Yes to the beer,” she said.
“Turning into an alcoholic,” Tom said with a mocking shake of the head, as he unfolded his lanky frame from the low couch and went into the kitchen.
“You better watch out with this stuff,” Catherine called after him, putting the lid back on the cigarette box. She wandered around the room, then followed him to the kitchen. It too was neat, without being exactly clean. “This little house sits in the county, you know,” she said “and you’d have Galton to contend with rather than the town police.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said incredulously. “Why isn’t the road in front of this house the city limit? There’s only cotton fields on the other side of it! I feel like a planter every time I go out the front door!”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said. She was looking around the kitchen, which her father had used for the shelving of medicines and supplies of plastic gloves and tongue depressors. The little stool Leona had used to get supplies from the top shelf was still sitting by the door. “The line runs right through my backyard.”
Tom shook his head darkly at this piece of town planning, and Catherine wandered back out into the living room. The office-the house, she corrected herself-was as familiar to her as her own home, and it felt strange being a guest in it.
Sweet and Deadly aka Dead Dog Page 5