by Carolyn Hart
Trudy was in tears by the time she finished. I assured her she wouldn’t lose her job and asked her not to tell anyone of our talk but to be ready to give her testimony to the authorities. Not, of course, that I thought such testimony from an employee of Kenneth’s would be enough to persuade Farris, but ultimately I was going to have enough evidence.
After Trudy left, I sat for a few minutes longer in the conference room. The killer was clever, cleverer even than I had imagined, still a vague and faceless creature hiding behind Francine.
How had Francine been persuaded to obtain the instrument of her destruction? Did she think the scarf would be used as some kind of evidence that Carlisle had come to her apartment, made a pay-off? Because, of course, she thought she and Mr. Wonderful would share all the money reaped from Carlisles and, at the same time, enjoy humbling the hated family.
For a moment, I felt a surge of sympathy for Francine. Then I remembered Amanda. Francine, because she had so few scruples, so little compassion, had destroyed Amanda. She had been willing to destroy anyone for her own gain. What she cannot have realized, until that last dreadful moment, was that she too was slated for destruction.
The killer, from the moment of meeting her and learning of her background, must have planned to use her to injure the Carlisles. He had not counted on Francine falling in love with him—and he was determined, at all costs, at any cost, to avoid marriage.
I was the only person in the world who knew who he was. But somewhere he must have left a trail that I could find.
I called Pamela.
She was a little defensive. “Gee, I’m sorry, K.C. I wish I had been able to come up with more. I know you need all the help you can get.”
“You’ve done a good job, Pamela. I want the name and address of Francine’s friend at the Cocoa Butter.”
“Sure. Hold on a minute.” She came back with a name and address. “I’ve been down there twice, K.C. Nobody answers the door. The neighbors don’t know and the manager of the Cocoa Butter is furious. She didn’t show up Thursday night.”
I wrote down the name, Kristy Gale, and the address in Huntington Beach. It was a fanciful name, of course, like so many girls who work in clubs. Her real name was probably Christine. I was pinning a lot of hope on Miss Gale. If she were really a close friend of Francine’s, there was the chance she had seen Mr. Wonderful. All I needed was a description.
Maybe she would be home now. I frowned. So she hadn’t shown up for work Thursday night. The news of Francine’s murder hit the late morning and early afternoon editions of papers all up and down the coast. Had Kristy Gale seen the news?
Then, more disturbingly, I wondered what she might have done. If she knew Francine’s lover, she might have called him; asked, perhaps, if he wanted to help with the funeral arrangements.
It would have shocked him, wouldn’t it, when he thought his traces were so well covered.
Traffic is always heavy on the coastal highway but I made it down to Huntington Beach in two hours. I drove too fast, driven by fear of what I might find. Then I would reassure myself. I had lived with high drama so many hours that I was losing my perspective.
I found the house, just a few blocks off the main street. The modest stucco houses with palmetto palms and tiny grass plots looked a little down-at-heel. Kristy’s house was in mid-block.
It was late afternoon. Four boys played touch football in the middle of the street. Television screens flickered in living rooms. An old man gardened next door. He stopped to watch me walk up on the front porch.
I knocked.
The old man leaned on his hoe, fixed me with an unwavering gaze.
I knocked again and wished a hole would swallow him up. How was I going to get in this house with him watching? I was determined to get inside. I was so absorbed I almost missed the tiny jerk of the living room drape.
The drape was still now, but I was sure it had moved. I felt a surge of excitement. Maybe Kristy Gale was here. Maybe she was safe, after all.
I knocked again, a determined knock.
The door began to open. It opened just enough for a frightened face to peer at me.
The shock of seeing her almost made me faint. I had thought the house was empty. And now, to see that unmistakable face.
I knew who she was, of course. There could be no mistake. I scrabbled in my mind for her name. What was it Kenneth had said?
“Kendra?” I whispered.
She pulled the door wider and looked at me hopefully. She looked so much like her father, the same sandy hair in small tight curls, the same broad generous face with a sprinkling of freckles, the same sea-green eyes.
“Did my mother send you?” Tears welled in her eyes. “Where’s Mother? Where is my mother?”
“Oh Kendra, baby,” I said gently, and I wrapped my arms around her and held her thin little body next to mine.
She knew then that Kristy (surely a dressier version of a girl who had grown up in La Luz as Christy Nelson) hadn’t sent me.
Kendra pulled back, lifted a frightened tear-stained face. “Do you know where Mother is? She left Thursday afternoon. She said she was going to La Luz and then she would go to work. But Buddy called and he was real mad and he said Mother hadn’t come to work. She hasn’t called or come home or anything.”
“No, Kendra,” I said slowly, “I don’t know where she is.” But I was afraid, terribly afraid.
Then I asked gently, “Kendra, was she going to meet someone in La Luz?”
She nodded. “Yes. The man Franny went with.”
I was close, so close.
“Do you know his name?”
Kendra frowned. “No. I don’t think so.”
My shoulders slumped.
“I saw him once. He and Franny came here late one night after Mother and Franny finished at the club. I was supposed to be asleep but they made a lot of noise, you know. Mother and her friends did, late at night,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I wasn’t supposed to come in. I think,” she said painfully, “that Mother didn’t want people to know she had a big kid like me. But sometimes, when I woke up, I would go outside and slip around and look in through the window, over there. Then I could see everybody and it was a lot of fun.”
“Tell me, Kendra, what did he look like?”
She described him.
I didn’t feel a rush of triumph. I felt, instead, sad and weary. For now I knew, beyond doubt. I had my link between Francine and La Luz. A double link, actually. Francine had known Kristy Gale. Had Kristy confided the truth of Kendra’s parentage? Yes, she must have. Then, when Francine met Mr. Wonderful, she told him, “Oh, you’ll be interested in this, you’ll like knowing this.” He had liked it a lot. Was that how the scheme was hatched? He would provide the dirt on the Carlisles and she would write the story, set them up for blackmail.
He hadn’t counted on Francine falling in love with him. More than that, she wanted marriage.
Kendra was tugging at my hand. “Please, what am I going to do? Mother has never gone off and left me before. I don’t know what to do until she comes back.”
Until she comes back.
I took a deep breath. “Kendra, I don’t know exactly what to say.” God knows that was the truth. “Did your Mother ever tell you anything about your father?”
“Not a lot,” Kendra said diffidently. “She said . . . well, Mother laughs and kids about things a lot. She’s really a happy person. All she ever told me was that it wasn’t exactly a mistake, but she and he didn’t stick together and he didn’t even know about me. She said when I was real old someday she would tell me. But,” and Kendra said this quickly, “she said he was a real nice guy.”
“Your mother must be real nice, too,” I said gently.
Kendra smiled and for a moment her face didn’t look pinched and frightened. “She is.”
“Well, I’m glad she told you that because I’m your daddy’s cousin. My name is K.C. I think I’d better take you home with me until we find out where
your mother is.”
Kendra was reluctant to leave, but I felt, every minute, a growing sense of danger. I had to find Kendra a safe place. It wasn’t here. And I had a horrid fear that her mother was never coming home.
We were almost at the outskirts of La Luz when the music on the radio was interrupted by a bulletin.
“The body found yesterday in La Pluma Park has been identified as that of a former La Luz resident, Christy Nelson. La Luz police have announced that Kenneth Carlisle, released on bail yesterday on another murder charge, has been picked up for questioning in regard to the death of Miss Nelson.” The announcer’s voice quivered with excitement. This was as much scandal as had erupted in La Luz since the First Methodist choir director ran away with a high school senior. “Station KOKX will keep listeners informed when further news is released.” The music picked up in mid-bar.
I slowed and turned into a parking lot.
Kendra huddled in the seat beside me. I reached out and put my arm around her. “I’m sorry, Kendra. I was afraid of this.”
“Kenneth Carlisle?” She said it raggedly, as if each syllable hurt her throat.
“That’s your daddy, honey, and he didn’t hurt your mother. I promise you that. No, the man who killed your mother is the man she went to meet in La Luz yesterday, Franny’s boyfriend.”
“Can’t we tell the police . . . ?”
“I don’t know, Kendra. We don’t have any proof.”
“But I saw him, I know . . .”
“How can you be positive that’s who your mother went to meet?”
Kendra screwed her face in thought. “Mother told me that she called the man, Franny’s friend, to see if she could help him and he wanted her to come to La Luz.”
Farris could say that Kendra would lie to protect her father, even a father she had never known. He would look at me and accuse me of orchestrating a defense.
“We have to do something,” Kendra cried.
“We will,” I said soberly. “Let me think.”
Kendra was one tiny link to the killer, but a tenuous one. There was one more link, one mistake the killer had made, that couldn’t be excused away. If I could just decide how to attack.
I drove across the parking lot to an outdoor phone and called Megan.
“K.C., thank God you’ve called! Have you heard . . . ?”
“Yes. But don’t worry . . .”
“Don’t worry?” Her voice shrilled with hysteria. “Don’t worry? They say he killed that girl, the one in the park. An anonymous caller called the police and told them Kenneth was involved with her years ago and now they think he killed her and Francine to hide the fact that Christy had his baby. It happened last night when I was gone, at the hospital. I told them about that phone call, but they don’t believe me . . .
“Megan, wait, listen to me.”
She stopped and I could hear her ragged breathing.
“Megan, I need help. You’ve got to trust me. I know who the killer is but I’ve got to have your help. I have Kenneth’s daughter here with me and I have to find her a safe place. If the murderer knew that she had seen him . . .”
“Of course, I’ll help.” The answer was swift and controlled, the Megan who could be counted on. “Bring her here.”
Kendra and I slipped in the back way. Megan met us at the door. She took one look and stepped forward to take Kendra in her arms. “You poor darling. I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry.”
I left them getting acquainted in the kitchen and I went to the library and sat down at Kenneth’s desk.
Megan came in a little later. “Kendra’s in her bath. Isn’t she a dear?”
“Yes. Yes, she is.”
Megan paused then said uncertainly, “I don’t want to bother you, K.C., and I suppose it doesn’t matter now . . .”
“What doesn’t matter?”
“The campaign.”
Oh yes, Kenneth’s campaign. But now he was in a race for his life. No, the campaign didn’t matter much. If I could prove him innocent, I would at the same time save his political future. I wondered, when it was all over, if that would matter much to Kenneth?
“I don’t know what to do. No one’s shown up, none of his political friends,” she said bitterly, “since he was arrested this afternoon. But the debate is supposed to start at nine. The TV station keeps calling and asking if someone is going to come in Kenneth’s place.”
The debate. Of course, the fall campaign had pointed toward tonight. Greg would be there. And Harry Nichols. The Beacon was sponsoring the debate and Harry would be the moderator.
The debate. Live before TV cameras on the stage of La Luz high school. Slowly, I began to smile.
Megan looked at me oddly.
“Don’t cancel,” I said abruptly, “I’ll go. I’ll take Kenneth’s place.”
“ K.C., that’s wonderful of you.” Then her face fell. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
It might, I thought. It just might matter a lot.
Megan left me in the library, to make some plans for the debate. I ran through it in my mind. My plan was a gamble, but it might work. It had to work.
It was just after eight o’clock. It took me fifteen minutes to track down Capt. Farris.
When he knew it was me on the line, he said impatiently, “Look, Counselor, there’s no point in your talking to me.”
“Farris, you’ve got the wrong man.”
“Tell it to the jury.”
“No, I’m going to tell it to the entire city of La Luz. Tonight. At nine o’clock. And, Farris, the murderer may not like what I say so I would appreciate it if you would come. La Luz high school. Nine p.m.”
“Oh, bullshit, Miss Carlisle . . .”
“If he kills me, it will be awkward for you, Captain.” I hung up.
I just had time to go by my office, put it all on tape, then drive to the high school.
Harry Nichols was arriving at the same time. He wore a charcoal gray suit and a pale yellow shirt and a blue grey tie. His dark face turned toward me in surprise. The crowd surged between us and I hurried a little. I didn’t want to talk to him now.
The lobby smelled of chalk dust and mold. I brushed past people beginning to straggle to their seats and went down the right aisle.
Greg was walking down the left aisle, stopping to greet friends and supporters along the way. He was taller than average. Handsome, vital Greg. Women clung to his hand, called after him.
I gained the stage and Harry was right behind me.
“Are you going to appear for Kenneth?” he asked.
I nodded. That was true. That was not all of it, but nothing more, obviously, had occurred to Harry.
Greg was in high good-humor by the time he gained the stage. It was only then that he saw me, standing by Kenneth’s lectern.
For a moment, his face was blank, then he moved quickly toward me, and, ignoring the crowd, gave me a quick hug.
“Hey,” he said good-humoredly, “I didn’t bargain to take on the pretty Carlisle.”
“Kenneth can’t come,” I said quietly.
Greg’s face furrowed. “Yeah. I know. I heard on the radio. I’m damned sorry, K.C. But look, we’ll just keep it on the issues tonight.”
“Right.”
Then the TV technicians were waving us to our places, holding up their light meters, flashing on the huge overhead lights.
Then the red lights glowed.
Harry began.
“Tonight the Beacon is hosting a debate between two candidates for Congress. On my left is Greg Garrison, attorney, former La Luz District Attorney, and present candidate. On my right we have a substitute for the candidate, Kenneth Carlisle, who has been unable to attend. In his place is his cousin, Miss K.C. Carlisle, a local attorney.”
The audience applauded and craned to look at me and I knew the buzz of talk was not about politics.
“Each candidate,” Harry continued, “will have three minutes to make a presentation and we will then submit in
turn questions which have been drawn up by a panel of political experts. Speaking first will be Mr. Greg Garrison.”
Greg was superb, projecting just enough sense of combat to be attractive. Never stuffy or banal, he came across as vigorous, articulate, persuasive.
When he finished, Harry turned to me.
I looked out at the sea of faces, then I began.
“My cousin, Kenneth Carlisle, is not here tonight because he is in jail.”
There was a gasp, it sounded like the sea sucking at rocks as the tide races out.
“He is being held on a charge of murder. The second murder charge he has faced in a week.”
Several thousand people watched me. I could feel their eyes.
“I want to tell you how this came about—and who planned and committed these murders.”
I saw Harry’s face jerk toward me.
“Six weeks ago, a woman came to town. Her name was Francine Boutelle. She was a night club dancer but, before that, she was a writer. A writer of exposes. But it was as a dancer that she made a friendship that would lead her to La Luz. She met a woman named Christy Nelson,” the audience rustled, moved, “who had known Kenneth Carlisle years earlier. Kenneth was the father of Christy’s ten-year-old daughter, although Kenneth wasn’t to learn of the birth until Francine Boutelle told him. Francine knew of Kenneth’s daughter from Christy. Francine thought this was interesting. She told it to a man she had met, an exciting and handsome man who lived in La Luz. They talked about this and about Francine’s work as a writer and one day this man suggested that Francine write a story about the Carlisle family and sell it to Inside Out, a magazine that specializes in racy exposes. Francine quit her job at the night club and came to La Luz.”