|
22
I wanted to credit Denise's imagination with working overtime again, but I thought about Joey. Suppose he had said the same words last week. Would anyone have believed him? It was time for amateurs like us to stop taking risks. Yet I was sure the answer lay in my prescription files, the files just about everyone had wanted to see. If I could figure out who the killer was, I could clear Denise from suspicion. And Michael most of all, I added, acknowledging in that moment how important he still was to me.
"Then you should go to Detective Moreway immediately," I told her firmly.
"That's easy advice, but I could get into a worse mess that way."
"Call it easy advice or whatever you want. It's the only sensible thing to do." I tried hard to convince Denise without letting her see that I was afraid, too. "Let's look at the worst case. If you go to the police and they jail you, at least you'll be alive and able to prove your innocence. But if the murderer really is after you, you won't get that chance."
Denise didn't respond and I couldn't recognize any other emotion through the fear that still predominated. "I'll have to think about it," she said.
"Meanwhile, maybe it would be better if you tell me what you suspect. Did you catch a glimpse of the other person? Or see a familiar car when you parked yours? Did the noise you heard suggest who could have been there?" I fired my questions at Denise, waiting for answers but getting only a shake of her head after each one.
"You can't exactly wear a signboard saying, 'I know nothing about it,'" I told her.
"Let's get out of here." She scooped her handbag and the check and started for the cash register. The cashier waited patiently while we added the tip and divided the check between us. Denise dropped all the loose change out of her wallet as we left the register and walked into the Village Inn parking lot.
Her nervousness was so obvious that I offered to help. "Why don't I follow behind you in my car?" I asked her. "I'll wait until you're safely inside the house?" Too bad neither one of us has a car phone, I thought. But I could make plenty of noise and rouse all Denise's neighbors if anything went wrong.
My offer seemed to calm her somewhat, but I saw her look into the back seat of her car before she opened the doors. I did the same with mine.
When we pulled into Denise's driveway, I watched carefully as she made her way inside. No one appeared to be around and about in her neighborhood. My own neighborhood was also quiet, with no lights showing at the Flints or the Woodmans when I arrived home. My hands were shaking when I unlocked the door leading from the garage into the kitchen.
* * *
The next day, Thursday, my schedule changed to the early shift. I found it hard to get started that morning. My beige- and coffee-colored print dress seemed lifeless, and I added a coral-and-gold necklace and matching earrings to feel more cheerful. I barely made it to Food Go to open on time, dreading what the day would bring, convinced I'd hear terrible news about Denise. The morning was a quiet one, and I was thankful for it. For once, customers and phone calls alike came one at a time. Before Tim arrived at two o'clock, I was completely caught up with my work.
I wondered if he'd refer to yesterday's conversation, but he mumbled a greeting and stationed himself at the computer. This was normal behavior for Tim, and I felt a surge of relief that he, at least, was acting the way he always did.
Denise didn't approach the pharmacy during her breaks and I had neither breaks nor lunch hour to spend in the coffee shop, even if I had wanted to. When my shift was over, I debated with myself about heading there but went directly home instead.
I popped a frozen ravioli dinner in the microwave, quickly changed to my bathing suit, and jumped into the pool to cool down. It felt wonderful. I didn't even bother drying off but went right into my kitchen to turn the cardboard tray around in the microwave. During the remaining three minutes of cooking, I poured ice cubes into a glass and added a diet cola. Even when eating alone, I sometimes dressed the table with a pretty placemat and matching cloth napkin. Today, I ate directly from the cardboard tray on a piece of paper towel. I felt like I was waiting for something to happen, but I didn't know what.
When the doorbell rang, I quickly threw a housedress over my bathing suit, and looked through the decorative glass inset of the front door. It was Detective Moreway. I felt a sharp twinge of fear at the sight of him, certain that something had happened to Denise.
He followed me into the kitchen and apologized for interrupting my dinner. Dinner hardly seemed the right word for the remaining bits of ravioli cooling in the cardboard microwave tray, sitting on a paper towel that was now spotted with tomato sauce. I was embarrassed but tried not to show it, offering Frank Moreway a can of diet cola, too. He asked for ice water instead.
I thought of all the detective stories I'd read in which the police refused drinks from suspects. Did ice water count, I wondered. On the other hand, it must still be over 105 degrees outdoors and he looked as though he needed the ice water.
"Please finish your dinner," he said.
"I'm done," I told him as I scraped the remaining ravioli into the disposer and threw tray and paper towel into the trash container that I keep under my kitchen sink.
We both sat at the kitchen table. All the fizz had left my diet cola, but I drank it anyhow. The silence was unbearable, and I found it hard not to ask him what was uppermost in my mind.
"Were you off today or on an early shift?" he asked.
"You must have checked with the store before you came out here." That's a stupid answer, I thought. Why do you want to antagonize him?
"I'm asking because I did call the store, and they said you weren't there." I could tell he was making an effort to be patient.
"I was on the early shift, nine to four."
"And what about Mrs. Seaford? Was she at work today?"
"I didn't see her."
"And when did you see her last?"
"Yesterday." I hoped he would assume I'd seen her only at Food Go and wouldn't try to pin down the time, but he was persistent.
"Can you give me some details?"
I told him we'd gone out for coffee after work. It was not up to me to reveal our conversation. He listened carefully but wanted to know more.
"I understand Mrs. Seaford was on the day shift and came back to the store to meet you. Wasn't that unusual?"
"Not when you consider what's been happening."
"So her purpose was to talk about the murders?"
"Of course. We talk about them all the time. Isn't that normal?"
He didn't answer. "I also understand you were at the Stokes house yesterday before you went to work."
Now I was getting annoyed. "Are you following me around?"
"Why? Do you have something to hide?"
That remark angered me, but I forced myself to remain calm. "Tell me what this is all about, please. I can cooperate better if you don't play games with me."
"Suppose you give me a rundown of your visit to Betsy Stokes."
"You're still not revealing your reasons for these questions. I don't want to repeat private conversations without knowing what's going on."
"Will knowing my reasons change what you have to say?"
"No, but it will help me focus on what's important. I'm sure you don't want all the trivialities."
"I'll be the judge of that," he said, then relented enough to tell me that he wanted to hear about Sheila Stokes and Scott Robbins.
I wondered how he knew about their visit to Betsy and Michael. Or mine, for that matter. Perhaps he's already questioned some or all of the people involved, I thought. Five people had been present during the visit he was asking me about, and I supposed he would compare our stories. This must be the basis of police work. I nearly asked Frank Moreway if he'd ever seen Rashomon, the Japanese film in which each eyewitness gives a different version of the same crime. Could any group of people ever agree on what they'd seen and heard?
Although these reflections passed through my mind very quickly, they didn't solve my problem. I decided to be frank about Sheila and Scott's visit, omitting only Scott's accusation at the end.
Detective Moreway listened, taking notes from time to time. When I finished, his eyes held mine for a moment. "And what exactly did Scott say that caused Michael Loring to kick him out of the house?"
"He didn't kick Scott out," I said indignantly.
"Maybe not physically. But wouldn't you agree that holding the door open until Scott and Sheila left was the psychological equivalent?"
"They could have ignored Michael. It's not even his home."
"And if that led to physical action?" Frank Moreway asked.
"I don't understand what this is all about. Did Scott and Sheila file some sort of complaint? Are you trying to say that it's against the law to hint that you want unwelcome visitors to leave?"
"Mrs. Morris, you're evading the original question. I asked what Scott said directly before the confrontation."
"I don't remember," I said stubbornly.
Frank Moreway flipped back a few pages in his notebook. "I've been told Scott threatened to speak to me about Michael Loring. And he intended to claim that Michael killed Harry Stokes so Betsy could inherit."
He waited then, but I was silent. "Does that jog your memory?"
"Detective Moreway, everyone has been accusing everyone else. Either I ignore the accusations or I will never be able to trust my friends again."
"And is Michael Loring your friend?"
Another tough one. I decided to follow my advice to Denise and tell the truth. "We went to school together many, many years ago. Until recently, I hadn't seen him since that time."
I was afraid the next question would relate to the strength of that relationship, and who in today's society would believe Michael and I had not had an affair? But Frank Moreway changed the subject again.
"What vehicles do you own?"
The question was so unexpected, I hesitated for a fraction of a second. "I only own one car, a Honda Accord."
"Model year? Color?" He was writing in the notebook again.
"A ninety-seven, white."
"What about your friend, Denise?"
I jumped up and rushed to his side of the table. "You must tell me what's wrong. What happened to Denise?"
"Just answer the questions, please."
"She drives a black Ford. An older one. I don't know the year."
"Does she have another vehicle?"
"Not that I know of."
He continued questioning me about other people and their cars. I remembered Michael's Lexus but had no idea what the others drove other than Scott, who had some kind of motorcycle. Then I recalled the Brandens had mentioned Richard Stokes's Mercedes but this was not first-hand information. Again, I asked what it was all about.
"Would you like to tell me why you're so concerned about Mrs. Seaford?"
"Because she's very nervous. I guess I picked up on that." I had no intention of revealing what Denise had told me last night at the restaurant. Thank God, no one else was present during that conversation.
"When did you first meet Scott Robbins?"
I was really bewildered now. His questions didn't seem to have any purpose. I wondered whether he was disorganized or trying to trip me up in some way.
"The first time I saw him was at the funeral. Harry Stokes's funeral. I didn't really meet him until yesterday."
"But Denise knows him well?"
"I have no idea."
"What about Michael Loring?
"I've already said before that Michael turned up here the other week, and it had been years since I saw him." I knew my voice sounded plaintive, but the strain was beginning to show. No wonder they say people will confess to anything after relentless questioning.
I tried again. "Isn't it about time you told me why you're asking me these ridiculous questions about people's cars?
"These aren't ridiculous questions, Mrs. Morris. Scott Robbins was seriously injured this morning. He was on his motorcycle; it was a hit and run."
|
