The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  Vickie Ann knew, but she wasn’t going to tell Patsy that Jim had seen her talking to Coby in the garage. “No, what?” she said.

  “Clara Trent,” Patsy said. “Clara Trent came over here and got him all stirred up, and now look at what’s happened. It’s her fault.”

  Vickie Ann wasn’t going to argue. She closed her eyes, and Patsy left to continue the search.

  Vickie Ann lay quietly until she heard Patsy’s car start up and drive away. She gave it a few more minutes before she got up and went to the phone.

  When Coby answered she said, “Daddy?”

  “Yeah. What is it, Vickie?”

  “Daddy Jim has run off,” Vickie Ann said in a voice choked with tears. “He saw you and me in the garage, and he’s taken his revolver with him!”

  “What the hell are you telling me?” Coby said.

  Vickie Ann managed to stammer out the outlines of the story. “That gun is loaded, Daddy! What am I going to do?”

  “Dang,” Coby said. “Can you still get that money tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Because Vickie Ann, I’ve made some promises to some people based on what you said you’d do.”

  “I can’t help it! He knocked me out cold, Daddy! My head hurts!”

  “All right, girl. Listen. Where do you think he went?”

  “I don’t know! He’s not in the neighborhood. Patsy and I searched, and now she’s gone off in her car to look some more.” She hesitated a moment and said, “I’m afraid he’s gone looking for you, Daddy. I’m afraid he’s going to try to shoot you.”

  She heard Coby exhale deeply. He said, “Girl, if that old fool shoots me I deserve to get shot. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, he might hurt somebody else! Or hurt himself! He could shoot himself by accident!”

  “Yes, he could do that. He most certainly could,” Coby said in a quiet voice. He went on, “Vickie Ann, you be real careful. And bear something in mind. You’re going to need to get that money out of the bank for me and have it for me tomorrow, all right? No matter what. You understand me, don’t you?”

  Vickie Ann drew a shuddering breath. “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s my good girl. Now, I got to go right now, but you keep me informed about this situation, all right?”

  “I will.” Vickie Ann’s voice was just a whisper.

  Coby broke the connection. Vickie Ann stumbled to the sofa and lay down.

  7

  Clara turned the last dog-eared page of a six-months-old issue of Good Housekeeping magazine and returned it to the rack on the wall. The only occupants of the waiting room besides Clara were two frail-looking women with white hair, who sat across the room holding one another’s hand. They hadn’t spoken at all since Clara had arrived, simply sat holding hands and looking down. Praying, possibly, Clara thought, although their eyes seemed to be open. There was a television set mounted on the wall, the sound blessedly muted. The shows featured seemed to be about home renovation, an endless progression of demolition and rebuilding and happy endings. So where am I in that circuit, Clara wondered. I think I’m stuck on demolition, and I’m not at all sure I’ll ever be anywhere else.

  She hadn’t noted the time when she said a hasty farewell to Aaron at the waiting room door. She had been here at least a couple of hours, maybe three. There was a bathroom nearby, and several vending machines along one wall. The chairs were comfortable, and although the magazines were old, there were plenty of them. Although being here was strange, and she felt like an intruder in one of Aaron’s most private moments, she would still rather be here with him than back at the Villas.

  Her opinion of Aaron had evolved, she realized. At first she had taken him to be stubborn and unfeeling, determined to pursue his version of justice no matter the cost. Now, she didn’t see it quite that way. He still wanted justice, he still wanted a solution to the murder of Alice Rhodes, but his mind wasn’t closed. What Aaron wanted most was to do the right thing. Nobody could expect more than that. She re-settled in her chair, leaned back and closed her eyes, and got ready to wait some more.

  Her mind surged for a while, invaded by thoughts, speculations, fears, memories. Eventually, it settled on the Warning from a Friend message: They are going to come after you for the murder of Alice Rhodes. The person who sent that message had known Ronan, or at least had known who he was. The person had known how to find him. And the message was not really a threat, but exactly what it called itself— a warning.

  And Ronan, it seemed to Clara, had taken it seriously. He had not thrown the note away, but had kept it and concealed it in The Book of Alice. Clara had no way of knowing when or how Ronan got the message, but sometime after he received and concealed it he died unexpectedly. And Clara had begun to wonder if there was a relationship between the two events.

  Someone came into the room, and Clara opened her eyes. It was Aaron. He walked over and sat down in the chair beside hers. His eyes were pink, but he seemed calm. “She’s gone. It’s over,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was pretty quick. They said it was like she hung on until I got here, and then she passed.”

  “It’s very sad, though. It has to be.” Tentatively, Clara touched the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  To her surprise, he took her hand and held it between his. His palms were warm. He said, “I wanted everything to be different. I had it all planned in my head, how she’d come to my retirement dinner, and I’d get her an orchid corsage.”

  “Plans—” Clara’s voice trailed off. She wanted to say that plans don’t work out, hopes get dashed, our dearest dreams come to nothing. But she wasn’t going to say something like that to Aaron right now.

  “Plans don’t always work out,” Aaron said. “That’s life.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “I’ve done all the paperwork. I’ve called my daughter,” Aaron said. “The funeral will be in St. Elmo, so there’s arrangements to make. But we can leave and go back now.” He squeezed her hand and let it go. “Thank you for coming with me.”

  “I—” Clara wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you for letting me come with you, Aaron.”

  “It’s a sad day. It’s better not to be alone,” Aaron said.

  Clara drove toward St. Elmo while Aaron made phone calls— to the funeral home, to the Sheriff’s Department, and also to someone named Stacey. The conversation with Stacey had a different sound, Clara thought— a businesslike, almost angry tone. After a brief announcement of his mother’s death he said, “She always liked you, so I thought she would want you to know.” Shortly after that, a curt “Thank you. Good-bye.”

  After that call, Aaron put his phone away and stared out the passenger-side window. After perhaps twenty silent minutes he turned to Clara and said, “I’ve been thinking about the message that was sent to Ronan. It’s very peculiar.”

  Clara was surprised at the change of subject. “Are you sure you want to talk about it now?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Why not? It takes my mind off things.”

  “Sure. Fine. What about the message to Ronan?”

  Aaron said, “Well, the message was from somebody who knew a lot about what was going on.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Clara said. “And the person who sent it also knew how to reach Ronan. I mean— when you started looking for him, how did you find out where he was?”

  “It was simple. I put his name in a search engine, and your art gallery came right up in the results. Nothing to it.”

  “Anybody could do it.”

  “If they remembered his name,” Aaron said. He went on, “What gets to me is that part about They are going to come after you. I mean, ‘They’ means me, right? Ronan was being warned about me by somebody who knew the case was being reopened. And it’s almost as if that person was giving him a chance to escape.”

  “You said a lot of people knew.”

  “More tha
n should’ve known,” Aaron said. “I’m going to find out who did this. I don’t like it at all.” He was silent for a few minutes, staring out the window before turning back to Clara. “How do you think Ronan would have taken this?” he asked.

  Clara lifted her shoulders. “I think he took it seriously,” she said. “It seems that he saved the note, folded it up and hid it in The Book of Alice.”

  “Do you think it would’ve scared him? Upset him?”

  “I don’t know,” Clara said. “Ronan didn’t show his emotions. It all came out in his painting. But I can’t imagine he would’ve been pleased to get that note.”

  “What I’m getting at—” Aaron turned in his seat to face her. “Would he commit suicide because of it? If he thought the cops were closing in on him?”

  Clara glanced his way. “He might do that if he was guilty,” she said. “But do you have any reason to think his death wasn’t from natural causes? Because that’s what I was told at the time, and I believed it.”

  “I think we should look into it,” Aaron said. “I’d like to know if anything was missed.”

  “I agree,” Clara said. “I need to know.” She kept her eyes on the road, and they continued in silence.

  8

  Leo Swain was lying on his bed in his trailer near Luton’s Landing, with his notebooks scattered around him. The windows were open, letting in the hot breeze that stirred the palmettos outside. He had just finished reading through his autobiography, Confessions of a Humble Man. More accurately, he had finished reading up to the point where he had stopped writing, which had happened when Clara Trent appeared at Margene’s.

  Reading his entire book was Leo’s latest tactic to get the writing flow started again. At this point he was beginning to lose hope.

  Leaving the last notebook open beside him, Leo stared at the low and dingy ceiling of his trailer. Thinking back over his work, Leo began to get a feeling that he had completely missed the mark. His book was called Confessions of a Humble Man, but in truth he had not confessed anything. As he saw it now, Leo’s life for the past forty years had moved in a huge circle, starting at the Gulf Dream Lounge and ending in exactly the same geographic location, at Margene’s MiniMart. He had gone away— run away— for good and sufficient reasons, but after his years of wandering he had been drawn back here. He had discovered that the Gulf Dream Lounge had been wrecked by Hurricane Eloise, and been replaced by Margene’s MiniMart. He had set himself up in his little trailer in the woods, truly becoming what he already was— a loner. When his savings got low, he asked for a job at Margene’s. He had become the night shift clerk, and he had started writing his book. It was as close as he had ever gotten to contentment.

  Even a night clerk at Margene’s couldn’t miss the news that the murder of Alice Rhodes had been solved at last, and Ronan Trent declared the killer. When Leo heard, he had felt it was for the best. Because things should end somehow, even if they ended imperfectly.

  Yes, even if imperfectly. Leo ran his hands over his face. Clara Trent had put a stop to that line of thinking. Asking him about the Gulf Dream Lounge. Staying at the Villas. Clearly, nothing was finished as far as Clara Trent was concerned.

  As Leo lay on his bed, something like a message floated into his mind. It was as clear and bright as if it had been written in neon on the ceiling: You can’t keep on writing the book because the story isn’t over. There it was. Simple.

  The story isn’t over, the message said. You can’t write a confession without confessing.

  Leo felt despair closing over him. He was still staring at the ceiling when he heard heavy footfalls outside. Someone or something was running through the woods. The next moment, he heard pounding on his door. A woman cried, “Help me! Please help!”

  Leo’s impulse was to ignore her, but when the pounding continued, he opened the door. Standing there was a woman with brassy dyed hair, her face red with weeping. She screamed, “Oh, please help me! Please!”

  Seeing the woman gave Leo a feeling of dread. He said, “What’s happening, ma’am?”

  She cried, “It’s Mr. Jim! He ran off, and I was looking for him— ” She broke down in sobs. “Somehow, he got all the way from town to Luton’s Landing, and— I think he’s dead! Please come!”

  Leo closed the door of the trailer behind him and followed the woman through the woods. There was a path, but she didn’t take the path. She barged through the palmettos, the briars, churning along like a lunatic, and Leo could hardly keep up. By the time he saw the glint of the canal through the trees, he was wheezing.

  The woman gestured toward the muddy water. “There! Just off the end of the dock! I couldn’t reach him!”

  Leo saw what at first resembled a bundle of clothing floating slowly toward the middle of the canal. There was a paddle lying in one of the boats moored nearby. He took it, ran to the end of the dock, and managed to direct the bundle— which he now saw was the body of an old man— toward the dock. He caught hold of the back of the man’s belt and dragged him along beside the dock up into the weeds on the edge of the canal. It was a skinny old man, his wet white hair plastered down, his eyes half open.

  “Oh Lord, oh Lord,” the woman cried. “Oh, Mr. Jim!”

  This is it. The end of everything, Leo thought. He said, “What happened, ma’am?”

  The woman, kneeling beside the body, said, “He ran off. I was looking for him. I couldn’t find him in town, and I thought maybe he’d found his way out here somehow. He wasn’t right in the head.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked at Leo. “My name is Patsy Orr,” she said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Leo said automatically. He didn’t mention his name. He said, “This will have to be reported, ma’am. I don’t have a telephone. Do you have a cellphone?”

  Patsy Orr dug in her handbag and brought out a phone with shaking hands. Leo continued to crouch by the body while she made the call. He heard Luton’s Landing, and Yes, Mr. Jim Tuttle and drowned. She ended the call and said, “They’re on their way.”

  Leo nodded. He said, “Ma’am, I just remembered I left my stove burning back at the trailer. I better go turn it off before it catches something on fire. I’ll be right back.” He got to his feet.

  Patsy Orr looked numb. She said, “This is the second time I found a dead body. I found Mr. Jim’s daughter’s body. My friend Alice. Years ago.”

  Leo took a step backward. “I’ll be right back,” he said again. Everything was over. He left her there and started through the woods.

  9

  Clara continued driving on the return trip from Tallahassee while Aaron made phone calls about funeral arrangements for his mother. They hadn’t talked much more. Once, Aaron said, “She was a good mother.”

  “I’m sure she was,” Clara said.

  “My father was the sheriff for a long time. I wasn’t as good as he was in a lot of people’s opinion, but I don’t think she ever felt that way. She was my biggest booster.”

  “You’ll miss her.”

  “Yeah. I sure will.”

  They were still twenty minutes from St. Elmo when Aaron’s phone rang again. He answered and was still for a short while, listening. Then, sounding tense, he said, “Oh my Lord. I’m just on my way back to town from Tallahassee. Do you want me to go out there?” After a pause he said, “Well, if you’re sure. Keep me informed, all right?”

  He ended the call and turned to Clara. “Very bad news,” he said. “Jim Tuttle is dead. Patsy Orr found him at Luton’s Landing, drowned.”

  “What?” Clara’s fingers closed convulsively on the steering wheel.

  “Take it easy,” Aaron said. “You want me to drive?”

  “No. No, I’m OK.” Clara took a breath. “What happened?”

  “It’s a real mess. Jim conked Vickie Ann on the head and knocked her out, and he managed to get a thirty-eight revolver out of a locked cabinet. Hell, I didn’t even know he owned a gun. I guess Vickie Ann had the key, and he took it. Anyway, Patsy went driving
around looking for him, and she found him out there floating in the canal. God knows how he got to Luton’s Landing from town. Obviously somebody gave him a ride.”

  “But— that’s unbelievable,” Clara said.

  “Yes. It’s unbelievable, but it seems it’s true,” Aaron said. “I guess old Jim was going out there looking for Coby, some notion like that. Who knows what he thought he was doing. So maybe he fell into the canal, and that was that. He was pretty shaky on his pins. The gun hasn’t turned up. Probably buried in the mud at the bottom of the canal.”

  Clara was having trouble taking this in. “You said he hit Vickie Ann and knocked her out?”

  “Hit her with his cane.”

  “Is she OK?”

  “Far as I know she is. She’s alive, anyway.” He went on, “I told them I’d come, but they said it’s in hand until tomorrow.”

  As they continued toward the beach, Clara’s mind was racing. Another tragedy had befallen the family of Alice Rhodes. Had she herself caused Jim Tuttle’s death somehow, by coming to St. Elmo and stirring things up? The thought was devastating.

  At last they turned off the highway and took the side road up to the Villas. “I’m coming in with you,” Aaron said as they pulled into the extra parking space beside Clara’s car.

  Clara turned off the engine and sat for a moment. She felt worn out and sad. They got out of the car and Clara was reaching into her handbag for the key when Aaron said, “It’s open.”

  He gave the front door a push and it opened a crack. “Didn’t I lock it when we left?” Clara said.

  “The lock isn’t very secure. I found that out before, remember?” Aaron pushed the door again and stepped inside. Then Clara, behind him, heard him say, “Careful, Clara. Somebody’s been here. Let me have a look first.”

  Clara waited at the door. After a few minutes Aaron returned and said, “It’s not good, but nobody’s here now. Come on in.”