Grave Errors

by Carol J. Perry

  “Stay tuned to WICH-TV for full updates of news and weather at eleven,” the studio announcer advised. Regular programming resumed with a fishing show, which is one of O’Ryan’s favorites.

  “I think I’ll go downstairs and chat with Aunt Ibby until Pete comes. You just enjoy your show,” I told the cat who made no comment, but focused rapt attention on the landing of a giant bluefin tuna.

  I found my aunt at her kitchen table working on her laptop, the yellowed pages of Tabitha Trumbull’s loose leaf handwritten recipe book spread open before her. I put the box of cookies destined for the library break room on the counter and helped myself to a diet ginger ale from the refrigerator. “Doing another chapter for Tabitha’s book?”

  “I am,” she said. “All that cookie making put me in the mood for it.”

  “It went well, didn’t it? Couldn’t have pulled it off without your help.”

  “I enjoyed it. They’re awfully nice girls.” She closed the laptop. “I’m sure you know more about what’s happening at the mall than you could say in front of them though. Can you share with your old aunt?”

  It was a relief to talk about it. I told her about the dreadful stuff that lurked in the ground in the wild woods beneath the milkweed. I described the portrait of Emily and repeated Billy Dowgin’s admissions to Pete about stalking me.

  “So it looks as though Trudy and Happy are in this mess up to their ears but there’s no proof?”

  “Looks that way so far,” I said, “with Emily and James both dead. But if the army digs up what you and I and are pretty sure is under there, they won’t be opening a mall anytime soon.”

  “Pete will figure it all out. Don’t you worry. Listen. Do you hear a cat crying?”

  I listened and heard a plaintive “Mew.”

  “O’Ryan is upstairs watching Wicked Tuna,” I told her. “That’s not him. Maybe it’s Frankie.”

  “She’s probably on the back steps,” Aunt Ibby said. “Poor thing hasn’t figured out how to use the cat door. Let her in, will you?”

  I stepped out into the hall and admitted the wet and bedraggled white cat. The wind had picked up intensity again and I looked around at the swaying trees in our yard. A pale gleam caught my eye. “Aunt Ibby,” I said, “There’s a light coming from the garage. Looks like one of us might have left our headlights or interior lights on.”

  “That’ll mean a dead battery for somebody in the morning for sure,” she said. “We’d better check it.” She took a terry cloth dish towel from a drawer and proceeded to wrap it around the shivering cat. “Could you do it, dear? My umbrella is hanging up right out there in the laundry room.” She reached for her handbag and handed me her keyring. We each carry keys to both cars, so an extra fob to my car was there right along with her key. “Better start whichever one it is to charge the battery.”

  I took the umbrella from its hook and picked up a flashlight, turned it on, then hurried down the path to the garage. I was surprised to find that the side door was unlocked. I was sure I’d locked it when I’d put the ’vette away earlier. Aunt Ibby must have forgotten to do it when she’d parked the Buick. I pulled the door closed behind me, collapsed the umbrella and spotted the source of light immediately. The interior lights of both cars were on.

  It was one of those moments when you know that what you’re seeing doesn’t make the least bit of sense.

  I froze.

  CHAPTER 45

  How could both interior lights be on? Was it possible that we’d each forgotten to turn ours off? Possible, but hardly plausible. I pressed a button on my fob and heard the familiar “pop” as the driver’s side door unlocked. Slowly I eased my way between the two cars, bending slightly to peer inside, my hand moving along the sweet curve of the Laguna blue beauty. Satisfied that the car was empty, I opened the door, reached across the streamlined instrument panel and watched as the elongated lamps on either side of the rearview mirror faded to the off position. The sudden darkness made me almost sorry I’d turned them off. Using the flashlight, I made my way back to the side door and the switches for the garage overhead light and the Genie garage door opener. If I was going to start two cars, I didn’t want to be in a closed space. I pressed the light switch. Nothing happened. The door opener didn’t respond either. I fought a rising feeling of panic.

  All of the interior lights, front and back, glowed within Aunt Ibby’s car. The Buick, facing the rear of the garage, required a regular key, so I had no choice but to walk around to the driver’s side door. Timidly, almost on tiptoe, I approached it, inserted the key in the lock and pulled the heavy door open. My aunt keeps a remote garage door opener resting on the dashboard. I sat in the driver’s seat, snatched the remote up and pushed the button. Nothing. I shook the thing. Tapped it against the steering wheel, listening for the familiar creaking sound of the garage double door rolling up and across the ceiling. It didn’t happen. But there was a sound. One I hope I never hear again.

  It was a crooning, a tearful, sad moan, coming from the woman who opened the passenger door and slid quickly into the seat beside me. I was surprised that such a large woman could move so fast. Trudy Shores held a remote control in her left hand and using it, easily opened the double doors. In her right hand she held a very large gun. Trudy Shores, who was supposed to be in Florida.

  “I’m so sorry about this, darling.” Tears streaked her face, making rivulets in heavy makeup. “I truly am. I don’t want to hurt you but I hope you’ll understand.” Her tone changed then, and the next words came harshly. “Start the car. Back out of here. Hurry up.”

  Watching her face, aware of the gun inches from my head, I did as she commanded, and I heard, rather than saw, the garage doors roll shut. Oliver Street is one-way, so I headed toward Bridge Street, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the slashing rain.

  Had anyone seen me leave? Aunt Ibby could have heard the car start, but she expected me to charge the battery. She’d think I’d decided to drive it instead of running the engine in the garage. She’d begin to worry after a while though. She’d call me.

  Great. My phone was in my apartment with no one to answer it except a TV-watching cat. My handy dandy alarm pendant was there along with it.

  “Go left, dear heart,” Trudy ordered, her voice all sweetness and light, her gun leveled at my right ear. “You’re so pretty. Such a smart girl too.” She sighed. Deeply. “If you weren’t so smart I wouldn’t have to do this. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” I said, looking in her direction. “I thought you were in Florida. What do you want?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t figured that out? You seem to know everything else about my business, Miss Nosy! You called my office asking questions. You snooped around in my diaper laundry. You cozied up to Emily’s sister. Now I might even have to get rid of her. Your fault. You should have gotten the message when I left the man in the graveyard for you to find.” No more sweetness and light—she aimed the gun with both hands. “I never went to Florida. Never got on the plane. Stayed in a little motel on Route One. Now my car is back where it belongs behind my real estate office. I walked over here tonight.” She squirmed in her seat. The realization that neither of us had fastened our seat belts flitted through my mind and I almost giggled at the incongruity of that thought.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, fighting to sound conversational, to pretend this was somehow a normal situation. “What do you want?” I repeated.

  “Why, it’s simple. I want my husband to be happy—like his name. He deserves to have everything he wants. He works so hard. I adore him. Do you know Happy? Have you met him? Don’t you think he’s wonderful? And so handsome!”

  “We haven’t met,” I said. I drove slowly, carefully. Visibility was terrible. I was mind numbingly scared. What did she want me to say? To do?

  “Really? Maybe I’ll show you a picture of him before I . . . well, maybe later.”

  “I saw him on television. At the football gam
e,” I offered, voice quavering a little. “He looked good.”

  “Oh, yes. The game. I gave him the ticket. I didn’t want him to be around to see what I had to do that night. You know. To the other nosy one.” She gestured with the gun. “Turn here.”

  Even through the driving rain the sign was visible.

  Howard Street Cemetery.

  I wheeled into the space beside the construction site. The workers hadn’t secured everything and pieces of builders’ debris tumbled in the wind. A barrel rolled past us and a sheet of plywood banged against the cemetery fence.

  “Oh my,” Trudy said. “We’re in for quite a storm I think.”

  “Hurricane force winds,” I said. “Maybe we should do this another time.”

  “No, dear. This’ll be fine. This way you’ll be all wet. Just like the others.” I didn’t look at her but I could tell she was smiling.

  She’s going to kill me. She’s going to admit killing Emily and James and then she’s going to kill me.

  “What others?” I said. She seemed to want to talk. All I wanted was time.

  “I felt terrible about the girl, you know. Sweet little Emily. I loved her like a daughter. I did. And darling James. Such a smart lad. Like you. Too damned smart.”

  The gun was almost touching my ear. Could I take it away from her? Her finger was on the trigger and she was a lot bigger and, I guessed, probably a lot stronger than I was.

  “James got away from me twice, you know. I was glad when I thought the gators got him. Saved me the trouble.” I watched her face. She pouted. “Then he turned up here. Wanted revenge for his little girlfriend, I suppose. I convinced him to meet me at the diaper place on Monday. Offered him a lot of money. I really wanted to tell him what a nice death she had, but I never did get around to doing that.” Pouting pursed lips were quickly followed by a bright smile.

  “The pills in the wine worked fine. Did I tell you how I got them? I made an appointment with an out-of-town doctor, bought a fake ID with my picture, her name. He wrote the prescription. No questions. She just had a little wine and went to sleep in a lovely bubble bath. She tried to get out of it at first. Stepped on her wineglass and cut her dear little foot. But never mind. I put her right back in the tub. It was beautiful. I wish you could have been there. His wasn’t so pretty, but it was quick. I hit him on the head with a hammer the minute he walked into the place. Knocked him out cold with one blow.” The crazy smile was back again. “He was heavier than she was, of course, so it wasn’t so easy to get him into the nice hot water.”

  “With the special detergent,” I said.

  “See? I told you you’re a smart one. Anyway it was all James’s fault. Showing off like that. Teaching that child how to take soil samples. Did you know that silly little Emily even gave me a library book about poisoned soil? I told her I’d give a little party in her honor. It was James who told me what he’d done though. Thinking I’d be grateful! Not so smart after all.” She touched my ear with the gun. “Get out now. Time to go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll have to walk. I about pulled my shoulder out of the socket shoving him over the fence, all soaking wet like he was. Easier if I just do it and roll you down the little hill. Right?”

  Stay in the car. Keep her talking.

  I heard the words in my head as plainly as I heard her words. I recognized the voice. It was Johnny. My poor dead Johnny. I looked up at the rearview mirror and saw Johnny’s eyes.

  It’s going to be okay, my love. I’m here. Keep her talking.

  “What were you going to do about the poisoned soil, Trudy?” I stalled. “How were you going to clean it up?”

  “Stupid girl!” She yelled the words. “Stupid girl! We’re going to cover it up. It will all be under the parking lot. No one needs to know. No one has to get hurt. Happy wants the mall. We’ve put all of our money into it. He deserves his beautiful mall.” The tears had started again, staining her cheeks with black mascara streaks. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Happy doesn’t know what I’ve done for him. With you gone nobody will know for sure. Anyway, they’ll be too afraid for their own lives to say anything after what happens to you tonight.”

  “Trudy. Mrs. Shores,” I said. “It’s too late to save the mall. The army corps is already over there, digging for the bottles. Didn’t you see the news?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No. I can show you. I’ll drive you there. There are trucks and lights and people.”

  “You’re lying,” she said again, not sounding so confident.

  I stole a look at the mirror again. Johnny was still there.

  Good girl. Keep at it. She’s folding.

  “I’ll show you. You’ll see. It’s too late to save the mall. But you can save your husband. The police have already brought him in for questioning.”

  “No! He didn’t do anything. It was me! And James and Emily and you. We’re the ones who did wrong.”

  “Your husband is probably so worried about you. He must know by now that you didn’t go to Florida. He might think you’re dead. That poor man!”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe anything you say. Get out.” She motioned with the gun. “Open the door and get out. Now.”

  Do as she says.

  I did. I turned off the engine and slipped the keys into my pocket. Opening the door, pushing hard against the increasing wind, I struggled to stand as the stinging, almost horizontal deluge tore at my hair and face and clothes. Again, I was surprised at the speed with which the woman moved across the front seat. She was behind me, gun prodding at my back within what seemed like seconds. “Move,” she said. “You’ll have to climb the wall. The gate is locked at night.”

  We walked, leaning into the wind, around the corner to where the lawn sloped to its lowest point on Howard Street. It was dark, but there was a street lamp partway up the hill.

  Somebody will see us.

  What if they do? Just a couple of silly women out for a walk in the rain.

  “You first. I’ll shoot you right here if you try anything. Don’t doubt me. I’ll do it. And I’ll get away with it too.” She laughed. “I always do. Now. Over the wall with you, sweetheart.”

  I slipped on the rough granite of the wall, grasping at grass and earth and pulled myself up. I was close to a gravestone, and leaned on it for support. The woman with the gun struggled too, for one brief moment, but not enough to allow me to run, to scream, to distract her some way. She was beside me in a flash.

  “Okay. March,” she ordered, nodding toward the opposite side of the cemetery. “That way.” I knew without asking that we were heading for the place where I’d tripped over James Dowgin’s body. I knew in my heart that Trudy Shores intended to leave my soaking wet dead body in the same spot.

  We approached the dark looming shape that was the Manning tomb. “Trudy. Mrs. Shores,” I said, no longer trying to sound brave. I was terrified and my voice betrayed that terror. “You don’t need to do this. Call your husband. He’ll understand. He’ll come here and get you. He’ll take you home where you’ll be safe.”

  “No. I know what I’m doing. All the blame is going to be on that artist kid. The building super I hired. The security guard I used. This is even the gun he carries when he’s on duty at the diaper place.” The laugh this time was loud and raucous, but lost in the wind. “Everyone knows he stalked the girl, Emily. He was jealous of James, and I made sure his fingerprints were on the cart I used to push James’s body down to my car. And his gun is going to kill you in this cemetery, where he’s been seen by half the city nearly every day for years!” For a moment, the gun was not prodding my back. “It’s a perfect plan. I know what I’m doing. I always know what I’m doing.”

  Run, my love. Run!

  I didn’t doubt Johnny’s voice. I ran. I knew I had to climb the iron fence, and it slowed me down for what seemed like ages. I made it over the top just as a shot rang out. I heard the bullet whiz over my head. It sound
ed to me like a million angry bees.

  I yanked the door of the Buick open and started the engine. I backed out of the lot, tires squealing just in time to see in the glow of my headlights one of the twins (Roger? Ray?), gun drawn, going over the fence I’d just climbed. He looked in my direction and, with his free hand, waved me away.

  What to do? What could I do? I had no gun, no phone, no way to help him. He was heading right for an armed, crazy woman inside that dark cemetery. Another gunshot rang out. I sped away, turned on my trouble lights, leaned on the good, loud horn of the old Buick.

  It didn’t take long—even in a pounding rain in near hurricane conditions—for a Salem police cruiser, lights flashing, to catch up with me. I pulled over, rolled down the window and shouted to the approaching officer. “Get help! Gunshots at Howard Street Cemetery.”

  He walked cautiously toward the car, reflective bands on a black rain jacket making his arm motions appear robotlike. “What’s wrong, lady?” His right hand wasn’t far from his weapon. I recognized him. A friend of Pete’s. He recognized me too. “Geez, Ms. Barrett. You okay?”

  I must have sounded hysterical—and perhaps I was, but I managed to convey what was happening. “A woman in the cemetery with a gun . . . shot at me . . . deputy went in after her . . . he’s alone . . . get help!”

  “We’re already on it,” he said. “Get out of here.”

  Then, as the old saying goes, “all hell broke loose.” More flashing lights, screeching sirens, a fire truck, an ambulance.

  I looked up at the rearview mirror. Johnny wasn’t there. I drove carefully, slowly, thoughtfully, through the storm toward Winter Street and home.

  CHAPTER 46

  It was well after midnight when Pete, Aunt Ibby, the Temple twins and I sat at Aunt Ibby’s kitchen table drinking coffee and eating cookies by candlelight as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened—even though there was a category one hurricane drawing near to the Massachusetts coast, the power was off, we’d been to the emergency room where Ray had been treated for a gunshot wound in his shoulder, we’d just come back from the police station where we’d given our statements, and Trudy Shores was on her way to the morgue.