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17
I must have gasped, for both women turned toward me. "Sorry," I said and stood up again. "I just realized I'm late for an appointment." With a minimal exchange of polite words, I left Joey's mother and sister. His father still hadn't reemerged, so I asked them to say goodbye for me.
Hot as it was outside, I was glad to get back into my car. The key was unsteady in my hands, but I put it into the ignition on the third try and slowly made my way out of the complex, shuddering as I passed the fountain. I turned into the first side street and pulled over, letting the motor run so the air-conditioning would work.
It couldn't be Michael, I told myself. He had no reason to kill them. But I remembered his eyes when he told me he wanted Betsy's happiness and the grandchild-to-be more than anything else in the world. And Michael had kept after me about the prescription record. Was it to find out how much I knew? Could he have been pursuing the same information from Joey? Maybe he was after Tim Barnard, too. I would have to warn Tim.
Warn people against Michael? I couldn't believe the turn my thoughts had taken. But I knew I must tell Tim discreetly to be careful about revealing professional information to anyone except the police.
This was getting worse all the time. First the police had suspected Denise and, I admitted to myself, at one time I had wondered about her. Now it was Michael.
I gripped the steering wheel but left the car in neutral. Frank Moreway questioned you, too, I told myself. Why are you so disturbed about Michael?
But this was different. Michael had invited Joey out to dinner on the eve of his murder, and I couldn't think of any legitimate reason. As far as I knew, they had never even spoken to each other, although Michael might have noticed Joey at the funeral and at Food Go.
This could all be part of Michael's scheme to bring the murderer into the open by appearing to know too much. But that didn't make sense either, because it meant he'd suspected Joey, which was absurd.
It's only absurd now that someone murdered Joey, I thought. I considered what Denise had told me about Joey's attempts to borrow money from Harry Stokes. What if Joey had been responsible for Harry's death and Michael had found out? Then, in a rage, Michael had drowned Joey.
Michael didn't have rages. He had a very even disposition. Thirty years ago, that inner voice said. How do you know what kind of a man he is today? And there was something else; something Michael had said was bothering me, and I was too upset to figure out what it was.
I forced my hands to a normal position on the steering wheel and moved into drive. Avoiding the heavy traffic on Scottsdale Road, I kept to side streets as much as possible and drove slowly home. My answering machine showed calls from Denise and Tim. Nothing from Michael.
Denise, I knew would be at Food Go at noon, so I didn't bother returning her call. Her message asked me to see her at the coffee shop before I clocked in, so I'd have to leave for work soon.
I called Tim at the store. He wanted to be sure I would be there on time, because he had an appointment. After reassuring him, I decided to get to Food Go early enough to eat lunch at the coffee shop and see what Denise wanted. Then I'd still have a chance to sound out Tim and try to urge caution. As for Michael, I wouldn't be able to contact him today, but maybe he'd come into Food Go later. If he had nothing to hide, he might even tell me about his dinner with Joey.
Now I remembered what was bothering me. Michael and I had already talked about Joey's death, but he'd never mentioned the dinner. I tried to think of a reason for Michael's reticence, but each idea that came to mind was more sinister than the one before.
When I arrived at Food Go, the coffee shop was still busy with the lunchtime crowd, but it was past one o'clock and I knew they'd be thinning out soon. Denise brought over my usual tuna salad and iced tea but couldn't stop to talk. I dawdled over the food, waiting for her to have some free time.
After a while, the tables occupied by twenty- and thirty-somethings from nearby office buildings emptied out. Four senior citizens at the nearest table to mine stayed on, but they had finished eating and only wanted their coffee cups refilled from time to time.
Denise walked over with the iced-tea pitcher. "I'm glad you're here. We need to talk." She stood with her back to the seniors and mouthed the words. I could barely hear her.
I shrugged toward the other table. "They're too busy talking to each other to pay attention to us."
"Maybe."
"What's happening, Denise?"
"I'm worried."
That didn't surprise me. Who wouldn't be worried after a co-worker was found murdered, especially since Denise also lived next door to another possible victim?
She remained at my table with the pitcher in her hand, continuing after a quick glance to be sure her manager wasn't in earshot. "I have no alibi."
"You're being silly now. How could anyone who lives alone be expected to have one for the middle of the night? I don't have an alibi either, but it never occurred to me that I'd need one."
"Well, it should have occurred to you," she told me firmly. "All of us will be questioned. When I think what they put me through when Harry Stokes died ... And this will be worse because this time there's no longer any doubt. A killer is walking around."
"You're melodramatic again."
"And you're an ostrich with your head in the sand."
I didn't want to quarrel with Denise. And far from worrying about her whereabouts Sunday night and early Monday morning, I could think only of Michael and the contradiction between where he'd said he was and where he really had been.
"Let's not argue, Denise. I just can't understand why you seem to want the police to suspect you."
"I don't want it. In fact, I'm terrified." Her voice was still so low that I had to strain to hear the words. "But it's not the police I'm afraid of. What if the killer thinks I saw something Sunday night?"
"At the Stokes's? What does that have to do with Joey?"
"They always hang around there. All of them—Richard and Nancy, Sheila and her boyfriend—I see them come and go."
"What about Betsy?" I hesitated and added, "And her father?"
"Oh, I didn't remember telling you about her father. Did you know he's that good-looking older guy we saw with her at the toy store?" Her disappointment showed as she put the question to me.
"Yes, I know. Someone else told me," I said, without elaboration.
"He was gone all weekend. As soon as he wasn't around to protect Betsy, the others started arriving. First Richard and Nancy. I can always recognize that leased Mercedes of his. Typical of Scottsdale—the guy has no job and he drives a sixty-thousand dollar car."
I was impatient with her. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"Just that they were arguing with Betsy. She came running across the two driveways to my door to get away from them. And they followed her. It was terrible."
Two young mothers, each with a toddler by the hand, entered the coffee shop, and Denise had to seat them and take their orders. I thought about her story. Although she hadn't had a chance to give me the details, I doubted whether any confrontation of Denise with the Stokes family related to Joey's death. Now, if one of their family had been killed that night ...
I looked at my watch. Time to check in, especially since I wanted to talk to Tim Barnard before he left for the day. As I retrieved my time card and put it into the machine, I wondered whether Denise had seen Michael at all that weekend. Was she really sure he had been away the entire time? Even so, it wouldn't be much of an alibi. If he'd returned quietly from Tucson on Sunday night, he could have easily avoided his daughter's home and the people who knew him.
And then there was Denise. Was she telling me about all the people she'd observed over the weekend to give the impression that she'd been home all the time? Was it a ploy to defuse suspicion about her own whereabouts? More confused than ever about the murders, I unlocked the door to the pharmacy and walked in.
"You're early," Tim said. It was the way he usually greeted me when I was on the late shift.
"You said you had an appointment."
"Yes, well. I do have to leave on time today."
The pharmacy seemed quiet for the moment. Better say what I had to before the telephones started ringing and people lined up at the window for their prescriptions. Still, I hesitated because it was never easy to talk to Tim, and I knew he'd take offense now.
"People have been asking me what we filled for Harry Stokes."
"What kind of people?"
"You know, relatives, the police." I tried for humor. "Sometimes it seems like everyone and his sister."
"Well, you're the manager here. Why would they talk to me?"
It was a sore point with Tim that I was the pharmacy manager; he had made it clear on more than one occasion that he felt he could do a better job. He wanted to set the schedules, and he wanted to attend store meetings with managers from the other departments. That was one reason why I never asked him to change shifts with me unless I absolutely had to.
"I'm not here all the time."
"Well, neither am I."
"Tim, this is important. I think Joey was killed because of something he found out about Harry Stokes, and I don't want you to put yourself in danger."
"I can take care of myself."
Despite his brave words, I could see that Tim's jaw was clenched. I wanted to make sure he'd be careful. "Joey probably didn't feel threatened either," I told him. "Listen, Tim, I'm trying to figure out what's happening, but meanwhile I felt I had to warn you."
"And the police? Why haven't they warned me?"
"I don't think they've made the connection."
"If the police aren't worried, then neither am I," Tim said.
I turned away to help a middle-aged man at the window. He handed me a prescription for 30 Mevacor, informing me that it was to lower his cholesterol.
"This cholesterol business is nonsense," he said. "My doctor is overreacting."
I wondered what his count was but decided I had no right to ask. He was still complaining as I turned to the computer. Both phones had started ringing, but Tim had already removed his white jacket and was studiously ignoring them. I answered the phones and returned to my customer, who was tapping on the window to get my attention.
"How much will it be?"
I looked it up and gave him the price-"Ninety dollars for thirty tablets."
"No way am I going to pay that much when my doctor just wants me to try them. Give me ten."
"Ten will be thirty-five dollars."
"That's outrageous. Can't you do simple division? Ten should be only thirty dollars."
"Sir, a larger size of most things you buy costs less per unit. The Mevacor is three dollars a tablet when you get thirty, but it works out to three-fifty a tablet when you buy ten."
"Highway robbery," he muttered. "Give me back that prescription!"
As I went to help several more people who'd appeared at the window, I was thankful he wasn't shouting his displeasure. Too bad he hadn't showed up during Tim's shift. I thought about how much I missed Joey, who would have remarked cheerfully that it takes all kinds, a comment I'd heard so often from him. Joey was gone, though, and now I'd antagonized Denise, too.
But Denise didn't stay angry for long. During her break, she came by just long enough to invite me to her house after work. "Some people who want to talk to you will be there," she said. She wouldn't give me more information, and I was too busy to press her. So at nine o'clock, I went through my closing procedure, clocked out, and drove to her house.
I suppose I expected to see Michael and his daughter there, but instead found Denise's other neighbors, Verna and Raymond Branden, the ones I'd met at the funeral. Verna Branden was a thin, white-haired woman who seemed to take as much interest in the Stokes family as Denise did. She explained to me that she and Raymond were block-watch captains. I could see they were serious about the job.
"So much crime today, you know." She peered expectantly at me, and paused until I nodded in agreement. "We had two burglaries in the neighborhood so far this summer. Of course, both houses are owned by winter residents, so no one was around at the time. Why, if Raymond and I hadn't noticed the broken windows, I don't know what would have happened." This time she looked toward her husband for confirmation.
"The police won't catch them anyways," her husband said, lips curving down in a sour expression.
"Burglary is bad enough, but to have a murder on the block ... And that Richard Stokes had the nerve to tell me to my face that we're in the block watch because we're nosy." She waited for a reaction from Denise and me, but we said nothing. "Everyone knows we're supposed to check up on all the houses in this cul-de-sac. I don't see other people volunteering to do the job."
"Don't worry, Verna. The rest of us are glad to know you're looking after things," Denise said. "Especially when we have to be at work."
"Everyone thinks when you're retired you have nothing else to do. I can tell you Raymond and I have plenty to do with our time. We're just trying to help our neighbors."
I thought of my own neighbors. Jean and Jerry Flint live just west of me in a territorial-style home. Despite the high block fences separating houses on our street, occasionally we walk outside to our mailboxes at the same time and exchange a few friendly words.
To the east, Gloria and Ken Woodman have added Spanish archways and bay windows, giving their house a distinctive look. The Woodmans aren't home much, but we wave to each other whenever we happen to pull into or out of our driveways simultaneously.
Unlike Denise's neighbors, only Jean and Jerry walk around our street—and that's because they own an Irish setter. I don't often meet them because they walk Justinian in the early mornings and late evenings. Yet, even though we rarely socialize—both couples are busy with grown children and grandchildren—I know I can count on the Flints and Woodmans in an emergency. They were so good to me during Bob's last illness.
"They don't appreciate our help," Raymond was saying when I tuned back in. "They're all so afraid we'll gossip about them. I don't know what they have to hide."
Denise brought over dishes of chocolate-swirl ice cream with peanut butter cookies on the side. It was now past ten P.M., and I accepted mine gratefully, remembering that I hadn't had anything to eat since lunch.
"I know you don't want to get involved with the police," Denise said to the Brandens, "but I'd like Ruthie's opinion about what happened Sunday night."
The Brandens looked at each other in surprise. I wondered why they thought Denise had asked all of us to her house at this late hour, if not to hear their story. They seemed in no hurry to speak; yet I could tell that Verna was bursting with her news.
"Denise said she told you about the big argument over there." Verna nodded toward the Stokes house.
"Just that Betsy rushed over here to get away from the others."
"Who knows what might have happened if Raymond and I weren't passing by? We kept them from following her into this house. I tell you the way Richard Stokes looked, I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to strangle me."
"I was right there, wasn't I?" Raymond asked.
"It was like a lynch mob," she continued without acknowledging him. "I never had much use for Betsy, marrying poor Harry for what she could get out of him. But four against one isn't right. She didn't know what to do, but I said, 'Just go on over to Denise's, and I'll take care of these bullies.'"
"Did they hurt her?"
"Not when they saw those big flashlights Raymond and I carry. I held mine up like a club. And they stood back, I can tell you."
"What did they say?"
"They didn't dare say another word. The son and his wife got into their Mercedes, and the daughter got on her boyfriend's motorcycle, and that was that."
"Betsy should have called the police," Raymond said.
"I wanted to call them, but she wouldn't let me," Denise told him. Their comments lacked the intensity I would have expected, which convinced me they had all been exchanged before.
"What were they arguing about?"
"She didn't want to talk," Denise said. "But Verna and Raymond heard enough to guess the rest."
"We were just making our rounds. About ten-thirty, it was. Most people are watching TV at that hour or asleep. We never hear conversations. And hardly ever arguments."
"These houses were well built," Raymond added.
I suspected if the Brandens missed anything that went on in the neighborhood, it wasn't because of negligence on their part. But unwilling to put ideas into their heads, I couldn't ask what I most wanted to know. Did they see Michael on Sunday night? Instead, I listened to their story.
"They must have been in the front room because we could hear them shouting. I mean, we couldn't tell who it was or what was happening—it could have been a burglary in progress—so we went up the front walk to make sure everyone was okay."
Denise interrupted. "Did you know that Betsy's pregnant?"
I acknowledged that I knew and waited to hear more. Verna appeared to be gathering her strength by cramming one cookie after another into her mouth. I wondered how she stayed so thin.
"It was awful," she said. "Richard kept asking whose baby she's carrying. 'You killed Dad so he wouldn't find out the truth about the baby. I know it's not his.'
"'You're crazy,' Betsy shrieked at him.
"'If you think you can get away with this, you're the one who's crazy. We'll see to it that you don't get a cent of Dad's money.'"
"That was the first we heard about a baby," Raymond said.
Verna picked up the story again. "I was afraid for Betsy. Richard was accusing her of murder. But he sounded so violent, I'm sure he's really the one who did it."
"Anyways, I rang the doorbell," Raymond said, "but no one answered at first. Then Betsy called out to wait a minute. It all happened so fast; the daughter-in-law opened the door a crack, and Betsy pushed her aside and ran. That's when Verna and me kept them from following her."
"Where was her father when all that was going on?" I asked. Although Denise had already told me he wasn't around, I wanted to see if the Brandens would corroborate her information. I waited, wondering what they would say about Michael, afraid that Betsy had said something to implicate him in Joey's death.
"I asked her that first thing," Verna said. "She told me he had a dinner appointment and he never came back."
"Dinner appointment," Denise said. "I thought he was in Tucson."
"Maybe the dinner date was in Tucson," I said, but this new discrepancy between Michael's account of his whereabouts and Betsy's words when she was at her most distraught hit me like a blow to the head.
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