by Dana Cameron
I quickly told him my part of the story, and he noted it down. He looked concerned, confirmed Pam Kobrinski’s name and number, then asked Chris his side of things.
“And there were no more shots after you called out?”
Chris shook his head. “Nope.”
“Okay.” The policeman excused himself and spoke into his radio for a few moments. When he returned he announced, “I’m going to check out back. I doubt there’s anyone still around though.”
We waited inside until he was done, about twenty minutes, then Burke returned and he and Chris spoke away from me and Nell before he departed.
“I want to go pick up the kids,” Nell announced suddenly, watching the cruiser depart. “I want to see them right now.”
Glancing at the clock, Chris said, “They won’t be ready for another—” But then he got a look at his wife’s face. “Right. It won’t matter if they leave a bit early today. Emma, I think—”
“I’ve got to get out of here.” I hugged them both, and after reassuring them both that I was fine, and being reassured in turn that they were both fine. I headed for the door.
“Drop by the house before you head back home, okay? Some weekend. A real visit, with lunch and drinks. You can see the kids.” Nell was trying hard not to seem relieved that I was going, but wasn’t protesting. Neither was Chris. I couldn’t blame them in the least.
“Right.” And hold the gunfire, I added silently.
When I got back to Shrewsbury, I called Pam Kobrinski, who wasn’t at all thrilled with my description of my afternoon, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her that it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong. She informed me that she would indeed be speaking with Chris’s friend the cop and warned me that I might be asked for more information. I agreed quickly, but inside, my heart sank. Just thinking about what I’d had to go through in the trial of a murderer who’d gone after my sister not so long ago was enough to make me want to limit my participation as much as possible, but I knew that she was right. It was my responsibility.
I made yet another sandwich, went back to my room, and tried to write, as if it would be easier to work now, but that was a faint hope at best. So, trying to ignore my throbbing cheek, I began to write down the new ideas that were flooding my head. I took out a piece of paper and began writing down the names of the people who were in this mess with me, and then I started writing why each one might be a likely candidate for murderer.
Paul Burnes: Obsessed with Faith. Long history of weird, probably mutually abusive relationship—crime of passion? Good motive. If not absolutely confirmed as liar then certainly unreliable. Coincidence, his showing up just after Faith’s death? Attacked Sasha—why? Thought she was Faith? Or is something else going on here? Very charismatic—could have poisoned Jack (if Jack saw him). Did he trash my room? Pull me off the stepladder? Problems: Access to the library (especially to see Jack’s note for me)? Could he have talked Faith into meeting him before he killed her? Time problem with arrival? Awfully convincing in his denial at the station. He gets released, I get shot at…
I loitered over Paul for quite a while before I took a deep breath and began working on the folks at the library. I didn’t want to think these things about most of them, but if I was going to do things properly, I wasn’t going to let my own biases get in the way. That was just bad science.
Harry Saunders: Has access to everything. Knows the worth and could easiest of anyone remove things without being caught. Dragging his feet over the problem with alarms? Too well dressed for librarian’s salary? Waited to tell the cops that the books were being stolen.
I paused there, realizing that I would need two lists—all of the things I’d written for Harry had to do with the theft, and nothing to do with Faith or Jack. I kept writing dutifully:
Everything’s been happening at the library. Motive for killing Faith or Jack? Knew them both…Problems: Is he strong enough to have held Faith under water? Motive? No clue there. Books another story. Did he get caught by Faith? What was she doing out there? Did they have some sort of affair while she was here? He looked really broken up the day she died. What about Jack? How would Harry have known I was in Redfield?
Sasha Russo: Obviously very upset about something. Connection with Paul??? Didn’t press charges against him after attack…Stronger than she looks—Fed Ex box. Looks superficially like Faith—significant? Passionately involved with Harry—motive for killing Faith, she said he was distraught over her death—could be jealous of Faith because of Harry’s interest in her? Certainly seemed to be. Has been in several places where thefts have occurred, has access to the library and the grounds. She was in Philadelphia when similar thefts occurred. Seen over me after pulled off stepladder—did she do it? Problems: too good to be true (likes my work). Motive? She’s said she’s broke, she also mentioned that there will be cuts, and if she’s the last hired, would she be first fired? Is she stealing the books and selling them off?
Here I hesitated again. I thought about erasing the line about liking my work, but left it in anyway. Underlining the most damning thing, which was that she showed up in two places where similar thefts had taken place, led me directly and all too easily to my next suspect.
Michael Glasscock: Obsessed with women—vague about previous relationship with Faith. Connection between this and Faith’s looking like Sasha or vice versa? Shows up in both places where thefts occurred and where Sasha has worked. Also charismatic. Also rude, cynical, brilliant (knowledge of books, all stolen were his period—religious/philosophical??), scatological, arrogant, moody = violent??? Remember what Harry said about his book being cold, inhuman. If he turned his mind to crime, it wouldn’t be a problem for him. Smartass. Sits alone in the dark being enigmatic. Hand hurt after Faith found—also, didn’t spend night in Boston with Wife #3 as he planned? Seems too suspicious of Sasha? Perked up when I mentioned things happening at library—nerves for himself, or interest in my observation? Was there when Gary cleaned out his locker—planted books to implicate him?—there when I was pulled off stepladder; Jesus, he found Jack, there in the house when Faith’s diary went missing and my room was trashed????? Motives? Broke from alimony, stolen books either his subject (so he has only access to them or can sell them). Affair with Faith? Knew Jack professionally before we met here—competition, some other knowledge? I don’t know yet. Murders to cover up thefts? Crime of passion, viz. Faith? Said they had a complicated past. Problems: Has same access I do, that is, not to stacks. Has been truthful about everything, including fact that he doesn’t entirely trust me and fact I shouldn’t trust him—Ten Little Indians crack. Bizarre, self-confessional attitude = distraction from inherent truth? Said I should consider leaving for safety—mine or his??? Again, shortly thereafter I am shot at—did he see my note? How would he have found me out there?
I was startled at how much I had written so quickly, and that started to make me nervous. How much had I been ignoring, possibly to my own peril? Casting an educated eye over what I wrote about Michael, I was struck by two things. I had written more personality traits down about him than any of the others, and if I had been reading an entry like that in Madam Chandler’s diary, I would have suspected her of some sort of interest. And I had filled up a goodish space with far too many damning coincidences. Holy snappers.
After I sat pondering that for a few more minutes, I realized that a part of my visceral attraction to Michael could be chalked up to my romantic associations with libraries. After all, I’d met Brian at the library in grad school, and certainly libraries had afforded some private spaces for necking in my life before that. But that alone wasn’t enough to account for my reaction to him, and I soon saw that it was the way that Michael lived—seemingly devoted to his work, taking little responsibility for students or even his wives, for that matter, not much caring how he appeared to people—that was appealing to me now. Who wouldn’t see the allure of being that selfish, while juggling a spouse, a house, and a job? It wasn’
t so much that I wanted Michael, though he was attractive; it was more that I wanted the luxury of his attitude. I sighed; my life was so nearly ideal, if only I could manage juggling it all a little better.
Chewing my pen’s cap, I considered writing down the names of the interns that I’d run into, or the other security guards, but dismissed them. I just didn’t know enough about any of them. But there were two others that should definitely be placed on the list:
Mr. Constantino: Jerk. Vain. Arrogant. Bigot. Not nice. Doesn’t like women with any kind of power, me or Kobrinski, and probably not Faith, either. Access to everything—dragging his feet over problem with alarms? Enough brains to sell stolen books? Motives: More for thefts than murders, don’t know his relations with Faith or Jack? Strong enough to drown Faith, but why? Framed Gary with books? In league with Gary about books? Problems: A menace to polite society, but is he the murdering type?
Gary Conner: Ditto above, with bells on. Has access to everything, books found in his locker. Problems: Motive for murders? Found messing about at Faith’s murder scene, then called Constantino first, not cops. Did he have the brains to take the books found in his locker? Problem with encyclopedia vs. Mather or Jonathan Edwards?? Violent, has it out for me. P. K. thought enough of that to warn about his release (and then shots go whizzing past my head—how did he know I was going to be out there?). Did he trash my room? Pull me off the ladder? Knows the grounds. Take the diary? Why? Also, what connection between him and Faith or Jack?
Once again the phone outside began to ring, and this time I went to answer it with relief: I was getting more questions than answers with my little exercise. That of course was all too common an occurrence in archaeology and it was much less pleasant an experience in murder investigations. But by the time I got out into the hall, the phone had stopped ringing. I leaned over the banister to hear Michael on the extension in the front hallway.
“No, she’s not in. I’ll leave her a note. Yeah, bye.” Michael hung up and, I noticed, did not bother to write a note for anyone.
“Hey, was that for me?” I shouted over the railing as I descended the stairs.
“Leaping Vishnu!” My gloomily cloaked colleague staggered a few steps and clutched at his chest. “Goddamn. Through too many years of being chewed on by members of your sex, Emma, my heart is merely a tattered, flapping piece of gristle, a pump not fit for a goldfish bowl. Certainly not made to take that kind of shock!” He paused a moment, thoughtfully. “I think I just wet myself.”
I scowled. “Knock it off, Michael. Was that for me?”
He pulled a face at me. “You, you, you, that’s all you ever think about. You wouldn’t have a spare Depends on you, would you?”
“Michael!”
He seemed distracted still, suddenly pulling out a notepad on which he scribbled a few notes. “Yes, it was for you. Call your husband. Tomorrow. He’s going out now. He’s changed hotels. What’s with the bandage on your face? What happened to you?”
“I cut myself shaving,” I said impatiently. “What hotel is he going to?” I was anticipating another showy display of his eidetic memory.
“How should I know?”
I looked at him doubtfully, my skin shivering. “Brian didn’t tell you?”
“Yes, he did. I’ve just forgotten. You scared it out of me.”
“So how am I supposed to call him? Were you even going to bother giving me the message?”
“Yes, probably. I’m generally good about that sort of thing. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. It won’t happen again. Dial star six nine, if you have to. Now if you don’t mind…” He started to go upstairs.
I stomped my foot; since it was bare, it hurt like hell. I didn’t care. “Damn it! Do you have any idea of how bloody inconsiderate that was? What if there’s an emergency?”
“You anticipating one, Emma?” he said nastily. “I said it won’t happen again.”
“Yeah. Well. It better not.” I muttered at his retreating back. Michael, I’m trying hard, but you’re not doing a damned thing to save yourself.
Tortured thoughts like that didn’t help my writing any, the whole rest of the day, and I went to bed in a foul mood, taking the usual precautions. I called Brian’s cell phone and left him a message.
By lunchtime on Thursday I was feeling reckless, ordering two grilled cheese sandwiches along with a cup of Nancy’s high-test coffee while I told Pam Kobrinski about what I’d found in the diary. Her reaction to my plan for Monday’s talk reminded me of one of a cat nearly stepping into a puddle of perfume. Disgust was replaced by horror, which gave way to disbelief on Pam’s features.
“That’s got to be the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” she said.
I didn’t really expect that she would be over the moon about my plan, but that rather hurt. “There are obvious parallels between this case and the one in which Madam Chandler was involved,” I explained. “There’s the diary, the notion that none of the evidence is quite what we think it is, the intelligent, strong-willed woman within a small community. I thought that if I hinted at some of the similarities and then just let the killer’s imagination take over…” I sniffed. “I thought that it was pretty slick, all things considering.”
“Slick doesn’t count for much when your ass is on the line!” Kobrinski slammed her coffee mug onto the table. “I don’t see how getting the killer riled is going to get us any closer to the truth. I mean, do you think someone is going to jump up and confess? Worse yet, maybe, jump up and take a shot at you? Oh, wait!” She gestured at the bandage on my cheek. “Maybe he already has!” Her eyes and mouth narrowed with disgust. “Jesus Christ on a pony!”
I carefully finished the last bite of my sandwich before I answered her; her sarcasm was best ignored. “Most everything I’ll be saying is completely innocent. Everyone knows there is a lot of police attention here right now. The murderer will have to be very careful and not give himself away before he can find out what I really know. I figure, I’ll just keep my eyes open for any extra attention and then call you. Right away.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” she muttered stubbornly.
“Have you got a better one?” I shot back.
“No.”
“Are you going to be there on Monday?”
“You gonna go through with this whether I am or not?”
“Pretty much.”
She sighed and pulled out her Tums. There was only one left, so she went up to the counter to buy another package. I could tell she was stalling.
“You just bought one of these six packs,” Nancy said. “You eat them like they’re candy, Pam. You gotta take better care of yourself.”
“It’s my butler, Nance. He was late with my bonbons and pedicure this morning and it throws my whole day off,” Pam replied lightly, to the proprietor’s laughter. She sat down again with a scowl for me and began peeling the paper off the newly purchased roll. “I don’t like it.”
“What’s the scoop with Paul Burnes?” I said when she plopped back down, to change the subject.
It wasn’t a happy change, as far as Kobrinski was concerned. She looked completely haggard. “He was flying somewhere over the Midwest when Faith was killed. He didn’t land at Logan until after the outside time limit for the time of death. I was able to hold him only until I got a positive make on him from one of the flight attendants.” Her last statement sounded like it was being rung from her. “It couldn’t have been him.”
He, I corrected her grammar mentally, for the sake of something to distract myself. I pushed the crumbs around my plate, gathering them into little piles while I took in her news. I wasn’t surprised, but now I had to come to grips with a new disturbing scenario.
“Tissue of lies,” the words Paul had used to describe Faith’s stories, her diary, rang in my ears over and over again. “He’s one hell of a good actor; he believed himself.” Faith’s words also returned, like the memory of a bad dream. I couldn’t tell who was lying and who was being honest. Eit
her I believed Faith’s story, and ignored everything that everyone at the library had to say about her and what I knew about her talent for exploiting her audience, or I believed Paul wasn’t acting in front of the two-way mirror, and had to admit that I had been used by Faith as an accessory to their grotesque relationship.
A surge of anger engulfed me, and I thought about that night I had spent in front of the fire listening to Faith’s story. I felt used, like I was being laughed at for a sucker, even though I had no idea of how much of anything was true. I resented not knowing how big a fool a dead woman thought me, and hated myself for thinking such things of a woman who’d claimed to be battered.
But maybe, I thought, inspiration suddenly spilling over, it wasn’t the facts as I experienced them, but the truth of the little world that Paul and Faith embraced as their own that I really needed to understand. Whatever emotional fallout seeped out past the confines of their twisted relationship just wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It still sickened me to think of the hurt that these two people inflicted on each other, but there was that backward, Looking-Glass logic that was perhaps remotely comprehensible if it was—well, the way they were together. Their own private drama, a mutually destructive symbiosis.
Faith’s missing diary became more important than ever, if we were ever going to unsnarl this tangle of hurt and deceit and, more important, find out who else might have been involved with her enough to want to kill her.
“You okay?” Pam said wearily. I could tell she was at the end of her rope. She had nothing else to go on. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she never would have let me see her like this.
Sighing, I reached into my coat pocket and took out my folded list of suspects and suspicions. Carefully smoothing out the creases, I slid it across the table to her without a word. Behind me, I could hear the hiss of the high-power dish sprayer, the clink of heavy dishes; orders were called out and the sizzle of the grill answered them.