Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  The town’s public library had lured him in at an early age. The quiet, the sense of history, realization that knowledge on any subject was waiting on the shelves had been more seductive than the playground. As a teenager, he’d been way too cool to admit his addiction to books. When kids from school caught him skipping down the steps, he’d roll his eyes, grouse that he was running an errand for his mother.

  After his dad died, Mick had haunted the high-ceilinged reading room, flipping through magazines on subjects from antiques to zoology. When basketball became too painful because he expected to glimpse his father watching from the doorway, he quit the team and hid out every afternoon in the stacks. There he’d pull out a book at random, read for a while then re-shelve it and wander until another title snagged his interest.

  He didn’t tell his mother, afraid she’d chide him for being a quitter. Or worry that he was a fag to prefer the solitude of books to the jostle of the basketball court. When she’d surfaced from mourning, she’d noticed he wasn’t bringing home wrinkled uniforms and smelly socks to be laundered. He’d mumbled that he was just hanging out with some guys. That made her worry about drugs. Finally, guilt compelled him to confess that he was a bibliophile. She’d laughed with relief and tried to hug him.

  There was a phone book stuffed in the top shelf of the bookcase. Mick looked up the address of the nearest public library: the Eagle branch of the Indianapolis Public was just a few streets away.

  He locked up, ambled north on Falcon, then along West Thrush Street. Didn’t see either a falcon or a thrush, just knots of waist-high kids squealing as they scooted along the sidewalk. Many of them were heading in his direction, up Brewer to the library. He nodded and followed along. Breathed deeply. It was an open, inviting kind of town. A good place to begin a lasting relationship, without nosy neighbors or competing suitors.

  Inside, an African American woman with her hair straightened then frozen into a flip gave him the once-over. Peered at him through scratched lenses of oversized bifocals. She didn’t smile, but concluded that being a cop he could be trusted even though he didn’t have a city library card. She directed him to the periodicals archives before resettling behind the reference desk. “Computer access to the Internet is in the room through the arch.” He nodded without turning, sought out a vacant table.

  Hayes’s research on Peyton Madison was locked inside Moore’s computer. Mick had no urge to duplicate it; he could wait for a few hours to read it. But he was curious about the profile in Life magazine. The rag was famous for its photography. Good chance there’d be a family snapshot and that it would be revealing. That was one lesson that had stayed with him from undergraduate days at RISD. Really good photographers revealed more than a frozen second in time.

  The magazine was rumpled from being packed in a cardboard archival box along with other reminders of a happier period. He blew dust from the upper edge, flipped the pages over until he found the article, “Peyton Madison: Southern Gentleman and Master Chemist.”

  The first page was a collage of photos featuring Madison II with various business associates. Businesslike with good posture, he kept a slight distance between himself and fellow workers. The casual shot in a chem lab looked staged: boss getting chummy while approving underlings’ efforts. Another, more formal pose in the boardroom finished off the page.

  Page two was dominated by an eight-by-six-inch black-and-white family portrait. Beneath it was a lengthy caption. It identified Madison and his new wife, Teresa Maria, née Ignacia, holding their infant son, Peyton Madison III. They were posed alfresco in a spacious suburban yard with their even more spacious home as backdrop. The write-up mentioned that this was his second family. His first wife, Ingrid (née Thierman), and son, Karl, had died while on vacation in the mountains above Rio. Friends felt that the tragedy had prompted Madison to move to America for a fresh start at life. Given his second wife’s coloring and her surname, Mick was willing to bet that Madison had brought her along from South America as a souvenir. The strain around her mouth indicated that it might have been a difficult transition.

  After obtaining a grainy photocopy, he pulled out a seat in front of a computer terminal. Unleashing Google, he brought up the search engine and typed in Browning. That produced entirely too many hits. He added, Ian. That linked the two names in 12,036 articles, each of which contained an Ian or a Browning, which was often a gun. Switching the names around to Ian Browning and dropping the comma resulted in a more manageable eight hundred and ninety-six references. Most concerned a duffer by that name who was a monthly contributor to Fly Fishing and Tackle Magazine. Another Ian Browning distributed self-help motivational CDs, DVDs and videos with titles like: Do It For Yourself, By Yourself.

  He scrolled page after page of the same irrelevant drivel. Mindless torture. Before signing off, he jumped to the last page of entries, the oldest ones. Sort of like reading a magazine beginning at the back cover, which he did, suspicious that the important news was slipped in where casual readers would overlook it.

  Almost all of the older citations referred to articles by or about some Irish banker, Robert Browning, a heavyweight in the world of finance. The items were published in an impressive cross section of international business magazines, but it didn’t seem to help much until one headline mentioned that the banker had a son. Ian didn’t speak with any discernable accent, but he could have been born in the British Isles and not live there. Farther down, a second article named the son: Ian Browning. A direct hit.

  Mick clicked on the link and found himself reading a 1982 article from the Irish Independent. It dealt with the shocking death of Katherine Browning, fifteen-year-old daughter of prominent banker, Dublin financier, Robert D. Browning. The girl had been discovered dead at a house party on May 22nd. According to the newspaper article, she’d attended the party with her brother, Ian, who was helping police with their inquiries. It was feared that alcohol and Ecstasy had played a role in her tragic death.

  A few days later, The Economist confirmed that the untimely and tragic death had resulted from a reaction to the recreational drug. Her brother admitted knowing that the drug was circulating the party but was unaware that his sister had consumed any. He was not charged with any drug-related offense. The between-the-lines tone berated him for not being more vigilant in watching over his sister. A small photograph showed a thin-shouldered adolescent leaving the police station flanked by two upstanding businessmen in fine woolen overcoats.

  Thirteen

  Rebecca fumed all the way to the city, south down Sixteenth Street to Meridian, then straight to Circle Center Mall. Jo’s conversation, his solemn tone, echoed inside her head. She heard loud and clear the scolding he hadn’t quite delivered. Jo was irritating because he was right. She knew he was; she accepted that. But it didn’t fully explain why he was so annoyed with her.

  Yes, she should call her parents—Robert and Pauline—but not yet, not from Indy. The conversation hanging over the three of them was like a thundercloud that wouldn’t go away. The humidity was impossibly high, air alive with thunder and the threat of lightning. She needed to be in the heart of the tempest when it broke, not hundreds of miles away. She didn’t want the impact diluted by distance, muffled through the phone wires.

  She should also call Dorothea Wetherly. Her newly acquired grandmother adored her. Irrationally, Rebecca blamed the woman for most of her pain and confusion.

  The clerk at Nordstrom’s helped distract her from fretting over Jo, Mrs. Wetherly and her parents. She was a well-preserved sixty, dressed in a fitted charcoal dress with three-quarter-length sleeves, sensible leather pumps and a name badge that said Mrs. Lacey. When Rebecca hesitated, trying to explain about the party and justify her immediate need for a new dress, Mrs. Lacey grinned wickedly and said she had just the thing. She would be right back.

  She returned to flaunt a shimmery wisp of nothing in a color never matched by Crayola. A shade somewhere between champagne and copper mesh, it glowed like the hi
ghlights in Rebecca’s hair. She ran the cloth through her fingers and disappeared into a changing room.

  The neckline skimmed her chest, dainty cap sleeves hugged her biceps. Cut on the bias, the fabric clung to every pound of her, from breasts to knees, before flaring out and down to skim the floor. Mrs. Lacey handed her a pair of neutral pumps so she wouldn’t step on the hem. When she moved, the dress stretched and flowed like it had a life of its own.

  “Just the thing indeed.”

  “Indeed. Did you notice the embroidery?”

  She’d been too busy staring at the sex kitten in the mirror to take in the finer details of the dress. Over the past weeks she seemed to have slimmed down while filling out in all the right places. Maybe she’d been wearing coveralls so long she’d forgotten what her body looked like.

  Mrs. Lacey pointed out a discrete lotus flower embroidered at the center of the neckline. It had been hand-applied in matching silk thread. Its stem curved down across her left rib cage, circled lower around her waist to her right cheek then slithered down to end just above the knee. The skirt was slit from there down. Like it needed to be any more seductive. The dress would get a reaction from a statue. Even Hagan might take note.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at the price tag; she’d probably need smelling salts. The cost didn’t matter, she was taking it. No other dress could possibly look this good or make her feel so fabulous. Jo, if he were here, would encourage her to buy it. Or maybe not—under the circumstances. Of course, if he were here, the circumstances would be different. She might be buying it for him. And Jo would appreciate it. He would even know the significance of the lotus flower.

  In the mirror, the tissue-thin cloth shimmered along her body. Her face was lightly tanned, which was becoming. The frown line between her eyes wasn’t. Why was she scowling? Because Jo wasn’t in Indianapolis; or because Hagan was? She should be glowing, reveling in the anticipation of an elegant evening out. Champagne, four-star fare in the company of beautiful people. Being courted by the press. Ian on the pole. Hagan in a tuxedo.

  She rubbed at the crease next to her right brow, well aware of the mounting insecurities that caused it but still wishing it would go away. Broadly put, she worried too much over past mistakes; fretted over future ones. Her grandmother had a similar crease, a crack that would deepen to a gash then suddenly vanish. Had it been etched on her brow by the same kind of doubts, by mistakes she’d made regarding her daughter? My real mother. Rebecca stretched her neck, relaxed her shoulders, smiled at the mirror. Then laughed, watching the line dissolve as the tension ebbed. Totally erased by a flicker of joy. She should smile more often.

  She should be smiling now about her grandmother of two months. Dorothea Wetherly was a woman of intelligence, spirit and tenacity, to whom she genuinely liked being related. It was repositioning the rest of the family tree that was troublesome. At thirty-seven, how do you cope with learning that the couple who raised you aren’t your parents? Relatives—a biological uncle and an aunt by marriage—but not the parents you always assumed they were.

  What hurt most was that Uncle Walt, with whom she’d spent nearly every summer of her life, had known and never said a word. It must have been hard for him to lie to her, even by omission. He was honest to his own detriment; she had the tax records to prove it. Yet he’d never told her that Jamie, his youngest brother, was her father, and Nicole Wetherly, Dorothea’s only child, was her mother. The couple had died just when their lives were beginning.

  Her throat constricted. The damn crease returned as her eyes misted over. She squeezed them shut, sighed to release the tightness. When they blinked open, the dressing room was suffused in deep blue, as if the sea that had claimed her parents’ lives was encroaching, washing over her. She sniffed, shook her head, watched the wall of waves sparkle with reflected light.

  Then it spoke. “It needs a bit at the neck. I have just the thing.”

  She jerked around. Standing behind her was a stranger wearing an electric-blue Shantung silk dress with long sleeves, a short skirt and the price tags still attached. The woman could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty-five. She stood at least five foot ten, without an ounce of fat. Her hair was pure silver, cut in a pixie fringe to frame large hazel eyes. She had a generous mouth and plump cheeks in a narrow face. A network of what her mother called “character lines” crinkled around her eyes.

  The woman tugged at the cowl neckline draped low on her chest then twisted around. The roll of cloth vanished behind, leaving her back bare to the waist. It was a back worth exposing. “What do you think?”

  Rebecca nodded. “It looks fabulous.”

  “It’s not too youthful?”

  “No youngster could have earned the right to wear that dress.”

  The woman regarded her quizzically in the mirror, then laughed. “You may be right. I have earned this. Here, let me show you what I have.”

  She rummaged in her handbag, pulling out pens, lipsticks, mini-tapes, leather cigarette case, Day-Timer. Dumped them all on the corner bench.

  By the time Mrs. Lacey returned, the stranger was dangling a delicate chain loosely around Rebecca’s throat. Thin strands of gold and silver were twisted like DNA into half spirals linked together. Its airy feel suited the dress. Mrs. Lacey agreed that it was quite the perfect finishing touch. The stranger nodded, said that it was settled, clasped the necklace in place and started to walk away.

  Rebecca protested. “Wait, please. I can’t accept it, how would I return it? I don’t even know your name.”

  The woman in blue stopped. “How rude of me not to introduce myself. I am Elise Carlson. You’re Rebecca Moore. We’re attending the same party tonight. You can return the necklace afterward.”

  Rebecca felt herself flush.

  Elise patted her arm. “Don’t fret. We haven’t been introduced. I saw you at work in the pits. A female mechanic is something of a novelty. Even for other women. We’ll talk more tonight. Ciao.”

  Fourteen

  When Moore emerged from the bathroom smelling of gardenias and looking like a Hollywood goddess Mick’s first thought had been that Edith Head must still be alive and designing. Okay, that was his second thought. His first thought stalled between Oh, my God, and an instant jolt of testosterone. The lame comment that won out was, “What did you do with Moore, the mechanic?” It did not win him points. Walking to the car, he ached to pull at the bow tie suddenly choking his throat. Maybe rip off additional items of clothing while he was at it—starting with the gold dress.

  On a bad day, clad in stained jeans and a work shirt, Moore was too sexy to be ignored. Not that he tried. He was intoxicated by her. Why else would he be in suburban Indianapolis decked out in a rented tuxedo going to a pretentious party with a gaggle of car nuts none of whom he knew? The scene was a blistering reminder of stuffy cotillions he’d been forced to attend at the country club every holiday season after his father was killed. His grandparents ceased inviting him the year he joined the police force. That was the same time they rescinded their offer to pay for graduate school and he took up smoking.

  Mick helped Moore lower herself into the car, tucked the flimsy fabric under her warm thigh, enjoyed a glimpse of cleavage, before she zipped up the Orvis waxed hunting jacket. Even that incongruous wrap didn’t mar the effect. He smiled, reflecting that he might enjoy the evening after all. She was no homely, teenage airhead with a trust fund. He was no longer a tongue-tied gawky adolescent.

  He blamed his lack of finesse with women on his father. Patrick Hagan had the insensitivity to die when his son was barely fifteen. Bereft of male guidance, Mick had spent his formative years—those pustule-prone days when boys start approaching girls for more than help with their homework—with no role model. There was no harried male to shout “Darling, I’m home” each evening. No man in the house putting cool moves on his mother, making her moan in the dark on summer nights. No father to coach him, feed him lines he could try out on the neighborhood girls
. He’d done his share of dating, before and after his brief marriage, but had never given the art of seduction much thought. With Moore radiant in the passenger-side bucket seat, it was difficult to think of anything else.

  The glow lasted for all of the thirty-minute drive to the restaurant, probably because they didn’t talk. They’d left the rental heap on the street and taken the Corvette even though it was minus a top. Wind noise and rattles limited the conversation to directions about where to turn. Moore didn’t try to grill him about his day snooping at the track. She seemed willing to have a night off. Leave the shop talk for tomorrow.

  Once on the freeway he poked along in the inside lane, free to admire her profile. She’d done something to her hair in the bathroom. It glowed. Tossed by the wind, the unruly waves wedged out from her neck in back, bounced forward to caress her cheekbones. Great cheekbones. Graceful neck. And that full bottom lip. He flicked his eyes forward as he changed lanes. She wasn’t so shabby from there down either.

  He exited Route 76 onto city streets. Feeling like a high school senior on the way to his prom, he reached for her hand at a light. She let him hold it. Warm, thin fingers with blunt nails. Soft. Hands that didn’t feel like a mechanic’s. Not that he’d held hands with that many mechanics. The corner of her mouth lifted as she shot him a sidelong glance. He grinned back over the rumbling exhaust until the light changed.

  He turned left where Moore pointed, guided the car into the public parking garage next to the Circle Center. She ditched the field coat behind the seat. They rode the elevator down, standing close, feeling self-conscious in evening dress.