by Peter Ponzo
was over," I mumbled. "I really thought it was over."
I stayed at Rita's house that Sunday night, and no letter came in the morning. She went to work and I stayed home, her home. I called Mr. Woolner that day. The inspector was out of town and I spoke to his assistant who was convinced I was joking about the pink letters. He said he'd investigate. Crap! He wouldn't do anything, I know that. I said I'd phone back when Mr. Woolner returned. He said there was no need, but I knew I had to speak to the inspector in person.
That evening I went back to my rooms in the basement of Mrs. Harris' house, but Rita phoned at six, then at seven, then again at eight ... so I let her pick me up in the old Chev and we stayed up most of the night, talking. By morning we had decided. I would leave Mrs. Harris and move in with Rita. It would be platonic, we'd share the expenses right down the middle, I'd wash the dishes and she'd dry, and we'd never ever cook Swiss Chard.
On Tuesday we both went to tell Mrs. Harris. She seemed to think we were getting married, and she cried and hugged Rita and I could swear that Rita hugged her back. Anyway, we let her think we were getting married.
By Friday I had moved all my things to Rita's house, and said goodbye a thousand times to Mrs. Harris. When I finally left for the last time, I carried a meatloaf to end all meatloaves. It was gargantuan, to last a week. When Rita got home I had the dinner table all set, the meatloaf steaming on a huge platter trimmed in gold, surrounded by a ring of Brussel Sprouts - which I love.
Rita wasn't impressed with the vegetables, insisting that we had agreed not to serve "that shit", but she tackled the meatloaf with such gusto that I wanted to cry, seeing her so happy, having forgotten all about the pink threats.
That was Friday evening. On Saturday morning a fourth pink letter was under the door. It said:
Sister of the devil, this man shall know thy wickedness.
I read it twice. This man? That was me!
I could hear Rita mumbling something about Connie Fenton. When I looked up, Rita was gone. She wanted to be alone, had gone to her room. I understood. She would cry, alone. I left a note for her, took the keys to the car and headed down Vine Street in the old Chev. Inspector Woolner was to be back in the office on Monday, March 8. I couldn't wait. Wherever he had been, chances are he would have returned this weekend. I was going to find out.
I knew exactly where he lived. I had walked by his house a thousand times. When I pulled up, he was shovelling the last bit of snow from his driveway. He didn't recognize me at first, then, when he did, he didn't seemed pleased to see me.
"Mr. Cleaver. To what do I owe this honor?" he said, leaning on his shovel.
"There are more letters ... here, see?" and I held out a handful of envelopes. He didn't even look at them. He just looked tired. Then he waved me toward the door and I waited while he removed his boots and placed them carefully by the step.
"Come in young man," he said. "More pink letters, I presume?"
"Yes, yes, pink," I stuttered. He knew! It was no surprise! Perhaps the pink killer had struck again, somewhere, recently, and the inspector had been out of town investigating the case.
"My asistant told me you had called," he said. "Sit here. Let me read them." I put the enevlopes into his hand just as a woman walked in, surprised.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you had ..."
"No, it's alright dear. This is Mr. Terry Cleaver. He has come with a problem."
"Hello Mr. Cleaver," she said. "Can I get you some coffee? Freshly made. Ian needs his coffee after shovelling snow." She winked at her husband and I wasn't sure what to say.
"No thank you, coffee," I mumbled. "Uh ... no, thank you."
After she left, Inspector Woolner sighed and dropped the letters on the table.
"It's as I expected," he said. "Just a matter of time ... sooner or later he'd show his hand again." He looked straight at me as though I knew what he was talking about. Then I knew what I had to say.
"But the priest is dead. Connie said that. And it's over ... should be over. Connie said that, too."
"No, it's not over," he said, staring at the ceiling. "Somebody killed Leah Farrel. Somebody else killed Father Pollicciano. The case is still open. We haven't had a new clue in months - to either murder."
Then I realized that I knew more than the Inspector. I couldn't contain my excitement.
"The jays killed Polly!" I cried, and I could feel my face redden.
"The what killed who?"
Connie's brothers, the jays, they had killed Polly - we all called him Polly. Jonah and Joshua wanted to protect Connie. Inspector Woolner didn't know that. I shouldn't implicate them. I had made a mistake in bringing it up.
"I'm sorry. I thought you knew who killed Father Pollicciano," I said.
He looked at me, frowning. "Who did it?"
It sounded like a grade B movie. I had to protect Connie and her brothers. "I don't know," I said. "Don't you know?"
He grunted and looked again at the ceiling.
"We're after two killers. Pollicciano may have killed Leah Farrel. I doubt it very much, but Clem Broden has everyone in the county believing it. Old Clem just won't let up with his Press stories. But then who killed the priest?" He looked at me, but I didn't know the answer. "I'll tell you who did it," he said, and I held my breath.
Just then, his wife walked in with his coffee and he sipped it slowly, staring at me over the rim of the cup. Then he got up, gathered the letters from the table and pointed to the door. "Mr. Cleaver, I'll keep these if you don't mind. Tell your lady friend not to worry. I'll keep a watch on her house. But tell her not to go out of town ... not for awhile, anyway."
When I got back home I felt a little better. The police were on to something, I was certain. It was just a matter of time before they caught up with the killer. Isn't that what the Inspector had said?
No, he said that it was just a matter of time before the killer showed his hand again - and now he had ... and it was now Rita's life in jeopardy.
I felt sick.
Rita Bullas
Why me? I didn't do nothin'. Whoever the shit is ... sendin' me pink letters ... he's in for a surprise. No way I'll sit back and take this crap.
Cleaver is nice. It's been good havin' him here. I can relax, think, plan my next move. I was real scared for a while ... well, sort of scared, anyway. Now I go to Dunnborne, talk to that bitch. She got pink shit too. She ain't so dumb. She knows something. So I go out the back door - so Cleaver don't see me - and bloody hell, my Chev is gone! So I storms back in the house to tell Cleaver - and bloody hell, he's gone!
Then I see the note and he's gone to see the cops. Nice guy, Cleaver. So I take the bus to Dunnborne.
I get there about ten and go straight to the bitch's house. First I check in the windows. Nobody home. I bang the door. No answer. Shit! I come all this way for nothin'.
I was sittin' for maybe ten minutes on the porch when I see her comin' down the street. I hide in the bushes. She comes up the drive, sets down her parcels on the porch, pulls out a key and opens the door, then she leans over the rail and says, "You can come in for tea if you like."
Is she talkin' to me? No way. I'm hid.
"Rita, please come in. I'll make some tea and we can talk." Then she walks inside and leaves the door open. What the hell. I go in and take a chair and spread out, casual, like I knew what was comin' off. When she comes in, she's got a pot and some cups. She sits on the chair, across a little table from the sofa.
"How nice to see you," she says.
"Yeah," I says.
"How's Terrence," she says.
Terrence? She calls him Terrence? Turd.
"Terry is fine, great. We're livin' together." I say it heavy and figure she gets my message.
"Yes, I know," she says.
Christ. She knows? Must be written up in the Press or somethin'. That shit, Clem.
"Yeah," I says.
"Some tea?"
I lean forwa
rd and look at her straight. "The pink letters - you got some. Now I got some!" I wait for her to say somethin', but she just pours the bloody tea. So I says, "How'd you feel? I mean, when you got the pink shit?" She hands me a cup then looks at me, quiet, sad. She's not bad lookin'. When I takes the cup she leans over the table and puts her hand on my knee. What's this shit?
"Rita, I know how you feel, truly I do," she says. "But it's over now. The evil one is dismantled."
Dismantled? What's that? The evil one? Who's that? I move my leg and she takes her hand away.
"It ain't over 'cause I been gettin' letters, pink ones," I says. "Just like you was."
"Let me tell you a story," she says, and I figure that I came to the right place. This is what I gotta hear: the story.
"I lived in Gobles with my father and two brothers. It was idyllic, but I wanted to live my life to the fullest, so I moved to Haversville. There I met a girl, Leah, and we became very good friends, best friends."
Like maybe you had your hand on her knee? I think to myself.
"Then, one day, I found Leah's body by the pond, off Blair Road. I knew somebody was after me."
"Wait a sec," I says. "Why you? How'd you know ..."
"Leah wore my pink bathing suit," she says right off. "The evil one thought it was me, swimming, with a pink ..."
"Who's this evil turd?" I say. Maybe I should talk nicer. "Who's this evil guy?"
"Father Pollicciano," she says. Before I have a chance to say anythin', she goes on. "I know it was him because I went to him after Leah was killed, and he knew everything. How could he know