(1T) Real murders Read online

  “So Wallace was arrested?”

  “And convicted. But after he spent some time in prison, he was released by a unique ruling in British law. I think a higher court simply ruled that there hadn’t been enough evidence for a jury to convict Wallace, no matter what the jury said. But prison and the whole experience had broken Wallace, and he died two or three years later, still saying he was innocent. He said he suspected who Qualtrough was, but he had no proof.”

  “I’d have gone for Wallace, too, on the basis of that evidence,” Arthur said unhesitatingly. “The probability is with Wallace, as you said, because it’s usually the husband who wants his wife out of the way…yet since there’s no clear-cut evidence either way, I’m almost surprised the state chose to prosecute.”

  “Probably,” I said without thinking, “the police were under a lot of pressure to make an arrest.”

  Arthur looked so tired and gloomy that I tried to change the subject. “Why’d you join Real Murders?” I asked. “Isn’t that a little strange for a policeman?”

  “Not this policeman,” he said a little sharply. I shrank in my chair.

  “Listen, Roe, I wanted to go to law school, but there wasn’t enough money.” Arthur’s family was pretty humble, I recalled. I thought I’d gone to high school with one of his sisters. Arthur must be three or four years older than I. “I made it through two years of college before I realized I couldn’t make it financially, because I just couldn’t work and carry a full course load. School bored me then, too. So I decided to go into law from another angle. Policemen aren’t all alike, you know.”

  I could tell he’d given this lecture before.

  “Some cops are right out of Joseph Wambaugh’s books, because he was a cop and he writes pretty good books. Loud, drinkers, macho, mostly uneducated, sometimes brutal. There are a few nuts, like there are in any line of work, and there are a few Birchers. There aren’t many Liberals with a capital ‘L’, and not too many college graduates. But within those rough lines, we’ve got all kinds of people. Some of my friends—some cops—watch every cop show on television they can catch, so they’ll know how to act. Some of them—not many—read Dostoevsky.” He smiled, and it looked almost strange on him. “I just like to study old crimes, figure out how the police thought on the case, pick apart their procedure—ever read about the June Anne Devaney case, Blackburn, England, oh, about late 1930’s?”

  “A child murder, right?”

  “Right. You know the police persuaded every adult male in Blackburn to have his fingerprints taken?” Arthur’s face practically shone with enthusiasm. “That’s how they caught Peter Griffiths. By comparing thousands of fingerprints with the ones Griffiths left on the scene.” He was lost in admiration for a moment. “That’s why I joined Real Murders,” he said. “But what could a woman like Mamie Wright get out of studying the Wallace case?”

  “Oh, a chaperoned husband!” I said with a grin, and then felt a sharp pang of dismay as Arthur reopened his little notebook.

  Almost gently, Arthur said, “Now, this murder is real. It’s a new murder.”

  “I know,” I said, and I saw Mamie again.

  “Did they quarrel much, Gerald and Mamie?”

  “Never, that I saw or heard,” I said firmly and truthfully. I’d always believed Wallace was innocent. “She just seemed to be keeping an eye on him around other women.”

  “Do you think her suspicions were correct?”

  “It never occurred to me they could be. Gerald is just so stuffy and…Arthur? Could Gerald have done this?” I didn’t mean emotionally, I meant practically, and Arthur realized it.

  “Do you know why Gerald says he was late to the meeting, why Mamie came on her own instead of riding with him? He got a call from a man he didn’t know, asking Gerald to talk with him about some insurance for his daughter.”

  I know my mouth was hanging open. I slowly shut it, but feared I looked no more intelligent.

  “Someone’s really slapping us in the face, Arthur,” I said slowly. “Maybe especially challenging you. Mamie wasn’t even killed because she was Mamie.” That was especially horrible. “It was just because she was an insurance salesman’s wife.”

  “But you’d figured it out last night. You know that.”

  “But what if there are more? What if he copies the June Anne Devaney murder, and kills a three-year-old? What if he copies the Ripper murders? Or kills people like Ed Gein did, to eat?”

  “Don’t go imagining nightmares,” Arthur said briskly. He was so matter of fact I knew he’d already thought of the possibility himself. “Now, I’ve got to write down everything you did yesterday, starting from when you left work.”

  If he meant to jolt me out of the horrors, he succeeded. Even if only on paper, I was someone who had to account for her movements; not exactly a suspect, but a possibility. Then too, my arrival time at the meeting would help pinpoint the time of death. Though I’d gone over this all the night before, once more I carefully related my trivial doings.

  “Do you have a good account of the Wallace killing I could borrow?” he asked, rising from the couch reluctantly. He looked even more worn, as if relaxing for a while hadn’t helped, just made him feel his exhaustion. “And I need a list of club members, too.”

  “I can help you with the Wallace killing,” I said. “But you’ll have to get the list from Jane Engle. She’s the club secretary.” I had the book on hand I’d used to prepare my lecture. I checked to make sure my name was written inside, told Arthur I’d have him arrested if he didn’t return it, and walked with him to the front door.

  To my surprise, he put his hands on my shoulders and gripped them with no mean pressure.

  “Don’t look so dismal,” he said. The wide blue eyes caught mine. I felt a jolt tingle up my spine. “You caught something last night most people wouldn’t have. You were tough and smart and quick-thinking.” He caught a loose strand of my hair and rolled it between his fingers. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  As it turned out, we spoke somewhat sooner than that.

  Chapter Five

  I’d noticed a moving van parked in front of Robin Crusoe’s apartment when I let Arthur out. Out of sheer curiosity, when the phone began to ring, I decided to take my calls on my bedside phone, which had a long cord, so I could stare out the front windows at the unloading. And the phone was ringing nonstop, as the news about Mamie Wright’s murder spread among friends and co-workers. Just when I was about to dial his number, my father called. He seemed about equally concerned with my emotional health and with whether or not I still felt I could keep Phillip.

  “Are you okay?” Phillip himself said softly. He is a shrieker in person, but unaccountably soft-spoken over the telephone.

  “Yes, brother, I’m okay,” I answered.

  “’Cause I really want to come see you. Can I?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you going to make pecan pie?”

  “I might, if I was asked nicely.”

  “Please, please, please?”

  “That’s pretty nice. Count on the pie.”

  “Yahoo!”

  “Do you feel I’m blackmailing you?” Father asked when Phillip relinquished the phone.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Okay, okay, I feel guilty. But Betty Jo really wants to go to this convention. Her best friend from college married a newspaperman, too, and they’re going to be there.”

  “Tell her I’ll still keep him.” I loved Phillip, though at first I’d been terrified to even hold him, having no experience whatsoever with babies. To give Betty Jo credit, she’s always been all for Phillip’s getting to know his big sister.

  After I’d hung up, the rest of the day gaped ahead of me like a black cave. Since it was my day off I tried to do day-off things; I paid bills, did my laundry.

  My best friend, Amina Day, had just moved to Houston to take such a good job that I couldn’t grudge her the move; but I missed her, and I’d felt v
ery much an unadventurous village bumpkin before I’d stepped into the VFW kitchen. Amina wasn’t going to believe I’d had a bona fide shocking experience right in Lawrenceton. I decided to call her that night, and the prospect cheered me.

  Now that the first shock of last night had worn off, it all seemed curiously unreal, like a book. I’d read so many books, both fiction and nonfiction, in which a young woman walked into a room (across a field, down the stairs, in an alley) and found the body. I could distance myself from the reality of a dead Mamie by thinking of the situation, rather than the person.

  I picked out all these distinctions while eating a nutritious lunch of Cheezits and tuna fish. All this thinking led me back to the depressing conclusion that so little had happened in my life for so long, that when something did I had to pick at it over and over. No moment was going to sneak by me unobserved and unanalyzed.

  Clearly, some action was called for.

  With the taste of lunch in my mouth it was easy to decide that that action should take the form of going to the grocery store. I made one of my methodical little lists and gathered up my coupons.

  Of course the store was extra crowded on Saturday, and I saw several people who knew what had happened the night before. I found myself reluctant to talk about it to people who hadn’t been there. I hadn’t been asked to avoid mentioning the murder’s connection to an old murder case, but I didn’t see any sense in having to explain it to ten people in a row, either. Even the minimal responses I made slowed me down considerably, and forty minutes later I was only halfway through my list. As I stood at the meat counter debating between “lean” and “extra lean” hamburger, I heard a tapping noise. It grew more and more imperative, until I looked up. Benjamin Greer, the only member of Real Murders who hadn’t been at the meeting the night before, was tapping on the clear glass that separated the butchers from the refrigerated meat counter. Behind him, gleaming steel machines were doing their job, and another butcher in a bloodstained apron like Benjamin’s was packing roasts.

  Benjamin was stout with wispy blond hair that he swept up and over his premature bald spot. He’d tried to grow a mustache to augment his missing scalp hair, but it had given the impression that his upper lip was dirty, and I was glad to see he’d shaved the thing off. He wasn’t very tall, and he wasn’t very bright, and he tried to make up for these factors with a puppylike friendliness and willingness to do whatever one asked. On the down side, if his help was not needed, no matter how tactfully you expressed it, he turned sullen and self-pitying. Benjamin was a difficult person, one of those people who make you feel ashamed of yourself if you dislike him, while making it almost impossible to like him.

  I disliked him, of course. He’d asked me out three times, and every time, feeling deeply ashamed of myself, I’d told him no. Even as desperate for a date as I was, I couldn’t stomach the thought of going out with Benjamin.

  He’d tried a fundamentalist church, he’d tried coaching Little League, and now he was trying Real Murders.

  I smiled at him falsely and damned the hamburger meat that had led me into his sight.

  He hurried through the swinging door to the right of the meat. I steeled myself to be nice.

  “The police came to my apartment last night,” he said breathlessly. “They wanted to know why I hadn’t come to the meeting.”

  “What did you say?” I asked bluntly. The bloodstained apron was making me feel unwell. Suddenly hamburger seemed quite distasteful.

  “Oh, I hated to miss your presentation,” he assured me, as if I’d been worried, “but I had something else I had to do.” Put that in your pipe and smoke it, his expression said. Benjamin’s words were as mild and apologetic and his voice was as abased as usual, but his face was another matter.

  I looked inquiring and waited. Definitely not the hamburger. Maybe no red meat at all.

  “I’m in politics,” Benjamin told me, his voice modest but his face triumphant.

  “The mayoral race?” I guessed.

  “Right. I’m helping out Morrison Pettigrue. I’m his campaign manager.” And Benjamin’s voice quivered with pride.

  Whoever Morrison Pettigrue was, he was sure to lose. The name rang a faint bell, but I wasn’t willing to stand there waiting to recall what I knew.

  “I wish you luck,” I said with as good a smile as I could scrape together.

  “Would you like to go to a rally with me next week?”

  My God, he wanted me to kick him in the face. That was the only explanation. I looked at him and thought, you pathetic person. Then I felt ashamed, of course, and that made me angry at myself, and him.

  “No, Benjamin,” I said with finality. I could not offer an excuse. I did not want this to happen again.

  “Okay,” he said, with martyrdom in his voice. “Well…I’ll be seeing you.” The hurt quivered dramatically just under his brave smile.

  The old reply came to the tip of my tongue, and I bit it back. But as I wheeled my cart away, I whispered, “Not if I see you first.” As I slowed down to stare at the dog food bags, just so he wouldn’t look out the window and see me speeding away as fast as I could move, I realized there were a couple of funny things about our conversation.

  He hadn’t asked any questions about last night. He hadn’t asked who had been at the meeting, he hadn’t said how strange it was that the only night he’d missed was the night something extraordinary happened. He hadn’t even asked how it felt to discover Mamie’s body, something everyone I’d seen today had been trying to ask me in roundabout ways.

  I puzzled over it while I selected shampoo, and then decided not to worry about Benjamin Greer. Instead, I would get mad at the shelf stockers. Naturally, every kind of heavily sugared cereal based on a cartoon show was at my eye level, while cereal bought by grown-ups was stacked way above my head. I could reach them, but then the stockers had laid other boxes down on top of the row of upright boxes. If I pulled out the one I could reach, the others on top of it would come toppling down, making lots of noise and attracting lots of attention. You can tell I know from experience.

  I turned sideways to maximize my stretch and stood on my tiptoes. No go. I was just going to have to switch brands or start eating cereal that tasted like bubble gum. That horrible thought galvanized me into another attempt.

  “Here, young lady, let me get that for you,” said an unbearably patronizing voice from somewhere above me. A huge hand reached over my head, grasped the box easily, and like a crane lowered the box into my cart.

  I gripped the cart handle as if it were my temper. I breathed out once deeply, and then in again. I slowly turned to face my benefactor. I looked up—and up—into a comically dismayed face topped by a thatch of longish red hair.

  “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” said Robin Crusoe. Hazel eyes blinked at me anxiously from behind his wire-rims. “I thought—from the back, you know, you look about twelve. But certainly not from the front.”

  He realized what he’d just said, and his eyes closed in horror.

  I was beginning to enjoy this.

  A fleeting image crossed my mind of us in an intimate situation, and I wondered if it would work at all. I couldn’t help it; I began to smile.

  He smiled back, relieved, and I saw his charm instantly. He had a crooked smile, a little shy.

  “I don’t think we should talk like this,” he said, indicating the difference in our heights. “Why don’t I come over after I get my groceries put up? You live right by me, I think you said last night? You make me want to pick you up so I can see you better.”

  That so closely matched a certain image crossing my mind that I could feel my face turning red. “Please do come over. I’m sure you have a lot of questions after last night,” I said.

  “That would be great. My place is in such a mess that I need a break from looking at boxes.”

  “Okay, then. About an hour?”

  “Sure, see you then—your name’s really Roe?”

  “Short for Aurora,” I e
xplained. “Aurora Teagarden.”

  He didn’t seem to think my name was unusual at all.

  “Coffee? Soft drink? Orange juice?” I offered.

  “Beer?” he countered. “Wine.”

  “Okay. I don’t usually drink at this hour, but if anything will drive you to drink, it’s moving.”

  Feeling naughty at having a drink before five in the afternoon, I filled two glasses and joined him in the living room. I sat in the same chair I’d taken that morning when Arthur had been there, and felt incredibly female and powerful at entertaining two men in my home on the same day.

  Robin, like Arthur, was impressed with the room. “I hope mine looks half this good when I’ve finished unpacking. I have no talent at all for making things look nice.”

  My friend Amina would have said I didn’t either. “Are you settled in?” I asked politely.

  “I got my bed put together while the moving men were unloading the rest of the van, and I’ve hung my clothes in the closet. At least I had a chair for the detective to sit in this morning. They carried it in right as he walked to the door.”

  “Arthur Smith?” I was surprised. He hadn’t told me he was going to interview Robin after he left my place. I’d shut the door assuming he’d get in his car and drive off. He must have left Robin’s apartment before I started spying out the front upstairs window.

  “Yes, he was checking up on the way I happened to come to the club meeting—”

  “How did you know about it?” I interrupted with intense curiosity.

  “Well,” he said with reddening face, “when I went to the utility company, I got to talking with Lizanne, and when she found out I write mysteries, she remembered the club. Evidently you told her about it one time.” I hadn’t imagined Lizanne was listening. She’d looked, as usual, bored. “So Lizanne called John Queensland, who said Real Murders was meeting that very night and visitors could come, so I asked her…”