Damon Thomas was a colleague from the history department who’d team-taught an American lit class with Mack last spring. He was handsome and charming, an innovative, popular teacher. His wife, Nessa, an RN at the hospital, was the only woman there whom Kate considered a friend, although they didn’t see much of each other, only meeting for coffee or lunch once or twice a month. The two couples had exchanged dinner visits several times, but they’d never gone elsewhere together. “Damon doesn’t like to go out much,” Nessa had confided. “It makes him nervous. He thinks everyone’s looking at us.”
Everyone was, of course. The Thomases were the only black people in Glencove, and sometimes little towheaded children in this small town, ethnically mostly German and Scandinavian, gaped and pointed.
“Well, you’re two gorgeous people,” Kate had told her somewhat lamely.
“Indeed we are. But that’s not how Damon interprets it.”
Then there were Margaret and Finn Leary. Margaret was a broad-shouldered, red-haired woman, a hospital administrator; Finn was a construction foreman, even broader-shouldered, with a drinking problem. He’d been on the wagon for a year, but tonight he’d fallen off resoundingly at Terry’s urging. With a sigh, she heard their two hearty voices now, raised in a tuneful rendition of “The One-Eyed Reilly.” Thank God the twins were upstairs playing video games in Jake’s room.
Finally, and last to arrive as an ominous darkness spread over the pink southwest, were the Shirleys. Slight, trim George was disguised as a jaunty cowhand—Australian-style duster, stone-washed jeans, silver-trimmed black boots with matching shirt, all topped off with a wide-brimmed Stetson that made him look, as Kate’s father had once said of someone else, like a chicken under a shed roof. Marilu wore a lamb’s-wool coat and under it a little black dress that showed a great deal of beautifully toned leg.
And the good times commenced to roll.
Actually, the cocktail hour went pretty well, with everyone murmuring polite small talk about nothing, marred only by Stanley’s wordless glare boring a hole through the generously bosomed Ruth Ann as she bounced and giggled at Terry’s focused attention. Mack, taking note of this, suggested a tour of the house, so they all trooped off except for Nessa, who’d seen the house already and stayed to help put the finishing touches on dinner.
But when everyone was seated around the big oak table, it all took the wrong turn that Kate had anticipated. First came Ruth Ann’s announcement about her new dietary status. Then, as the meal began, Kate noticed Terry’s face as he put a big forkful of mashed potatoes and gravy into his mouth. He opened his eyes wide, closed them tight, and swallowed with what could only have been reluctance.
Quickly, Kate took a bite from her own plate, swallowed hard and stood up. “Everybody!” she commanded. “Do not try to eat those potatoes!” It was obvious what had gone wrong—the kids had a shaker full of sugar and cinnamon for their breakfast toast, and somehow she (no, Mack, but she’d take the blame) had gotten hold of that.
From there, things went south fast.
Terry, refreshing his palate with wine, had poured a glass for Finn and insisted that he drink it. “It’s just wine, for God’s sake,” he’d chuckled. “A man can have a little wine, can’t he?”—implying that only a confirmed sissy would refuse wine. And Finn, despite his wife’s sudden stiffening in her chair, took the bait, knocked back what Terry had poured and held out his glass for more.
“Damn fine wine, McGraw,” he exclaimed. “Hell, yes, a man can have a little wine.” Margaret bowed her head.
A silence followed, and then Ruth Ann piped up. “Mrs. Shirley, I just loved your last book!”
Marilu smirked. “Why, thank you…Ruth, isn’t it? I’m so glad to hear that! I wasn’t quite sure…some writers find the second novel the most difficult, I’ve heard, but for me it was the third, and so I wasn’t quite sure….”
“W is for Wasted!” Ruth Ann exclaimed. “What a perfect title! So original!”
The smirk faded. “That’s not me, that’s Sue,” Marilu snapped.
“Oh.” Ruth Ann deflated visibly.
“Mine is The Killer Wore Practically Nothing.”
Ruth Ann brightened. “Oh, but I read that one too. It was great! Who would have thought it was the butler that did it!”
“The butler?” cried Terry. “How original! But, sweetie, now you’ve ruined the surprise for the rest of us—if we’d intended to read it, I mean. And you told me you were reading Atwood! I’m impressed with your range!”
“It’s been very well reviewed,” said Marilu, paling, her tone softly ominous.
“Indeed it has,” her husband said. “The Killer Wore Practically Nothing is on the short list for the Edgar, or so a little bird told us, Mr. Carver.” George stuck his nose in the air with a so-there-mister-smarty-pants look.
Stanley, who’d been drinking silently since the young couple’s arrival, co-signed. “An award ditchly reserved,” he pronounced. Kate, to his left, moved the bottle unobtrusively to her left, where Damon seized upon it.
“Oh! You mean you finished it, then?” Ruth Ann stared at her husband in amazement. “After you said…I mean….” She looked down, confusedly.
Another silence, during which Marilu glared at Terry. Finally Stanley broke it. “This dressing is really salty, isn’t it,” he remarked. “Where’d the wine go?”
“The greens are so tasty,” Margaret Leary said, as if he hadn’t spoken.
“That’s because Nessa brought them,” Kate told her.
“Ah,” said Margaret, as if this explained everything. Damon glared at Kate. What did I do? she wondered.
“Thanks,” Nessa said. “But actually Damon had more to do with it. It’s his mom’s recipe. He shopped for them and cooked them and carried them in.” She laughed. “All I did was help clean them, so if you find a bug, you can blame me.”
“Why, bless mah grits!” Terry’s drawl was straight out of Song of the South. “Yo’ mama sho know how to cook!” he exclaimed.
A gasp went around the table. Damon looked at him in disbelief.
“Bro,” Terry added, in a conciliating tone.
Mack had had enough. “Terry, are you trying to be offensive, or does it just come naturally? Why don’t you shut the hell up?”
Damon shoved his chair back and stood to his full and impressive height. “My mother,” he said, “would spin in her grave if she knew I’d fed her greens to a peckerwood like you. And I am not your brother. Let’s go, Nessa.”
“Damon, please, sit down,” his wife begged. “Don’t make it worse. He can’t help it, I guess.”
“I didn’t mean anything,” Terry said. “I mean, I was just trying to be friendly. I apologize, guy. Sincerely. Shake, okay?” He reached across the table, knocking over a full bottle of wine. Defeated, the history professor took his hand briefly and resumed his chair. Everyone else sat like chastened children. Kate set the wine bottle straight and went quietly to the liquor cabinet, where she extracted two bottles of whiskey. We’re going to need these, she thought.
When she returned to the table, Terry was still looking puzzled. “What’s a peckerwood?” he whispered to Mack.
* * *
Somehow, with the help of strong drink, they’d gotten through the rest of the dinner. Kate had refused help putting the leftovers away, but now Nessa came out anyway and, as they loaded the dishwasher together, Kate apologized. “I didn’t know what an idiot that man could be or we’d never have asked him. He’s usually just—oh, funny. Harmless. But that was truly inexcusable. I’m so glad you got Damon to stay.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Nessa said. “Damon overreacted. All Terry was trying to do was be, you know, folksy. Hip. Brotherly, maybe—show us he speaks our language. I get that kind of thing once in a while at the hospital. We’re fish out of water, here in this very white little town, and people don’t know how to deal with it. He really didn’t mean anything. And”—she glanced out the window—”we’re not going
anywhere tonight, anyway. Nobody is, I’m afraid. Look at it out there.”
“I know—I looked. Thank goodness we’ve got all these rooms. Let’s see—you and Damon, the Learys, and the Shirleys in the guest rooms. I’ll put the twins together in Jake’s room and Terry can have Jodi’s. Those two silly kids can sleep on the couch—Stanley’s going to pass out there pretty soon anyway, if he makes it that far.”
“That’ll work,” Nessa agreed. “And, you know, it’d be politic to put the Shirleys in the big guest room. She needs a little pampering, after that business about her book.” She giggled. “The butler—how original, really. That was kind of funny.”
“True. And what was up with that? Terry may not have meant to insult you and Damon, but he really drove a knife into Marilu. And she was more upset than she had any right to be. I don’t get it. I wouldn’t have thought he’d even have heard about her book.”
Nessa looked at her. “You mean you don’t know?”
“What don’t I know?”
“She did a reading in Spring City last year and your friend Terry was there. They were an item for several months, and then he dropped her—for the young woman who didn’t come with him tonight. You mean you didn’t know about that?”
Kate was aghast. “I had no idea. Honestly. We’d never have invited him.” She shook her head. “And that’s not all—we didn’t know about Stanley, either. Or at least I didn’t.”
“What about him?”
“He was in the Boys’ Home and flunked Terry’s class. Twice. It’s obvious he hates the man.”
Nessa giggled again. “I thought it was about him ogling Ruth Ann.”
“That, too. And then teasing Finn into drinking. Finn’s likely to be the only person here who doesn’t want to kill him. At least not tonight. Oh, God, Nessa, I am never going to celebrate Thanksgiving again.” She sighed. “And now I’m going to go out there, assign rooms, and hope they take the hint. Please, you and Damon stay down here and talk for a while, if they do.”
But in the dining room they found the Shirleys back in their expensive outerwear. George looked grim. “Kate, Mack,” Marilu said as if by rote, “it’s been just lovely. Wonderful meal. We hate to eat and run, but we really must be going now.”
“Oh, no,” Kate insisted. “You can’t leave in this storm. The road would be impassable. Mack, look outside and tell them the road would be impassable! We have a very nice room all made up for you—rooms for all of you—and in the morning….”
“See?” George said. “I told you we couldn’t make it.”
Marilu rounded on him. “We’ll make it. What’s that SUV for, if it can’t go through a little snow? What’s four-wheel drive for, then? We’re going, George.”
And despite Mack’s report that they couldn’t make it and shouldn’t try, they went. Kate watched anxiously as the great gas guzzler romped and bucked down their lane and onto the road. Two down, five to go, she thought, turning away. And we can put Ruth Ann and Stanley upstairs. Then we can try to repair things with Damon.
She went back to the table and looked around. Margaret Leary had refused coffee and was sitting rigidly with arms folded across her considerable chest. Ruth Ann was having her fourth beer, evidently with little or no effect; Stanley sat weaving in small arcs, glassy-eyed. Damon, Nessa, and Mack each had a cup of coffee. Terry and Finn were pouring each other shots of whiskey and talking, apparently in Irish, although it seemed that Finn was the more fully conscious of the two. She beckoned Mack into the kitchen.
“I’m going to go up and put Jodi in Jake’s room,” she said, “in whichever bunk he isn’t using. Then maybe you and Damon can drag Stanley up to one of the guest rooms, and Terry next—he’s obviously not going to last much longer, so put him in Jodi’s bed. Hopefully Ruth Ann will go with Stanley, and I think Margaret can handle Finn. After that, you and I can stay down here for a while with the Thomases. Have a nightcap, maybe. Does that sound like a plan?”
“It does. And my sincere apologies for inflicting this party on you.”
She grinned. “Well, you owe me one, babe. And it can’t last much longer—surely the storm’ll be over in the morning and the plows will come through. We’ll have breakfast and then shove them all out the door.”
It almost worked.
Mack and Damon each put a hand under one of Stanley’s unresisting arms and carried him upward, his toes bumping on the risers. Ruth Ann stayed behind to whisper to Kate, “I don’t know what’s the matter with him! He hasn’t had that much to drink, really. One gin and tonic before dinner and then three glasses of wine—I counted. I’ve never seen him do this.”
“Oh, honey,” Kate said, “he had a lot more than that before. I made him two drinks myself and Mack made him at least two. And I think I saw him fixing another.”
Ruth Ann nodded. “But that’s the only one he drank. He poured the ones from you and Mr. McGraw in your plant over in the corner.”
My begonia, Kate groaned silently. “Well, then I don’t know what’s the matter with him either. But you’d better get up there and see that he doesn’t fall out of bed.”
So four down, and then five, when Damon and Mack repeated the process with Terry, who by this time was semicomatose.
But as they disappeared up the stairs there was a knock at the door. The Shirleys stood there, George pale and shaken, Marilu fuming. “You should’ve let me drive, since you can’t,” she was hissing as Kate stood back to let them in. There was no sign of the SUV in the lane—not that Kate could see clearly, as the blizzard was blowing harder than ever.
“We told you so!” boomed Finn with a jovial laugh, as Kate led the two shivering, snow-covered travelers in to the table. “Nightcaps all around! Have you got another bottle?”
“He’s in Jodi’s bed,” Mack announced from the hall. “Dead to the world, thank God. Rest in peace, Terry.” Then, as he and Damon stepped into the room, his jaw dropped. “George! Marilu! What happened?”
“We went off the road,” George said in a small voice. “About a quarter mile from here.”
“You went off the road, you mean,” Marilu told him. “And it was at least a half mile. If I hadn’t kept pulling you up and urging you on, you’d be out there in a snowbank now, freezing to death.”
Kate went to the liquor cabinet for another bottle.
* * *
Eventually everyone was in bed, George and Marilu in the master suite, the other two couples in the remaining guest rooms, Kate and Mack on the hideaway in the living room. “You owe me one, all right, buster,” Kate said as they crowded together on the lumpy mattress. But Mack was already asleep.
* * *
The sun rose on tall drifts leaning against fences, burying cars. But it rose, and so did most of the guests, who appeared, haggard in some cases, looking for coffee. Kate, starting breakfast with Mack’s help, heard Damon and Nessa arguing in whispers. “You want to be her housemaid?” came through clearly. And when after a low, angry reply Nessa came into the kitchen, Kate shooed her out again.
“Go sit down,” she said. “I’m going to bring you both coffee, and Mack’s frying bacon and eggs.”
“I want to help.”
“You’ll help if you can engage those savages in pleasant conversation. Everybody’s down but Finn and Terry, and the news says the roads are all closed out here. But they should be cleared by this afternoon.”
After a few more minutes, Finn stumbled down the stairs, drank a quart of juice, went into the bathroom and was heard groaning. Mack turned the radio way up. The twins appeared, gazed out the window in delight, and demanded to go outside.
“All right, after you finish your breakfast.” Kate drew Mack aside. “Why don’t you go up and check on Terry? Jodi wants her clothes, so get him out of there ASAP, okay?”
But Mack was gone for a long time, and when he returned he looked very strange. “Kate,” he whispered, “come with me, please.”
Puzzled, she followed him upstairs. He turned do
wn the hall and stopped, putting his hands on her shoulders.
“Kate,” he said, “be cool now. Terry’s dead.”
Kate’s heart gave a big lurch; her knees buckled and Mack grabbed her.
“Did he—was it—”
He shook his head. “Not an accident. There were—marks. And a pillow over his face. I called the sheriff and they’re sending someone out in a helicopter. They said not to tell anyone. So I’m going to go down and say he’s sick. You stay here, if you will, in the hall, and I’ll send the kids up. Tell them to play in Jake’s room. The cops should be here before long. I’ll come back up when I can.”
Kate gasped. “But someone—one of them down there—”
“Yeah. One of them already knows.”
* * *
Dan Russo had lived in Glencove all his life except for the college years. He’d been a deputy in the Glen County Sheriff’s Department for three years, and had been a detective in his own mind since he’d first read about Sherlock Holmes at age ten, seventeen years ago. Murder was not uncommon here, but truly interesting murders were, so as the hospital chopper blew snow in all directions and hovered just over a clearish area of road close to a giant SUV in the ditch, Dan was excited.
“I’ll call when it’s time to get the body,” he told the pilot. “Then try for closer if you can—we’ll have to carry it out on foot, looks like.”
He hopped out, the copter lifted and tilted, and Dan slogged through drifts to and up the McGraws’ lane. Outside the door he was met by a pale young woman in jacket and boots. “Hi, I’m Kate,” she said. “We told everyone you’d be an EMT coming to check on—on Mr. Carver, to see if he needed to be airlifted out.”
“I’m Dan,” Dan said. “Good. I’ll go look at the body first, if you’ll show me where. No introductions.”
They hurried through the living room, ignoring the ogling, whispering guests. A young black woman followed them to the stairs. “I’m an RN,” she said. “If I could be any help—” Her eyes flashed to the insignia on his coat.
The Killer Wore Cranberry Page 17