Dead In Red (26 page)

“Walt didn’t want Veronica to get her hands
on it. He said he didn’t have a safety deposit box and asked me to
take it for safekeeping. It was only supposed to be for a couple of
days. She killed him that night.”

Had Walt finally told Veronica he was broke?
I could imagine someone with an obsessive personality being angry
and determined enough to try to seize Walt’s only real asset. She
must’ve tortured him until he told her what happened to the
ring.

“Anyway,” Gene continued, “Cyn and I talked
about it and decided to keep quiet. Cyn was ecstatic when that
homeless guy was arrested. But you kept poking around and she got
paranoid. We argued on Sunday afternoon. She went berserk after she
visited your brother. She was afraid she’d be accused of being an
accessory to the crime. She wouldn’t listen to me—to reason. She
left town. At first I thought she’d gone to Holiday Valley, but I
went out there and she hasn’t been around. I don’t know where she
is.”

And I wasn’t going to tell him. Yet, I
believed him. He wasn’t a killer, and he wasn’t a drag queen. He
was just a boy in a dress on Saturday nights.

Gene held his coffee under his chin, but
didn’t seem willing or able to drink it. The hands holding onto the
cup were small, soft, the nails short. They weren’t the bloodied,
masculine hands I’d been seeing for almost two weeks. Yet, when I’d
touched him, the vision had exploded across my mind.

A chill ran through me. It was Gene’s blood
on those glistening hands.

Like a
slaughterhouse,
Sophie had said.

“Why did Veronica think Walt had money?”

“He drove that big Caddy. She never saw
where he lived—how he lived. See, at first Walt was a sucker for
her, wanted to impress her. He told her that after his accident he
received a million-dollar settlement.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Nah, more like a hundred grand.”

“He must’ve eventually told her the
truth.”

“He did. She didn’t believe him. She’s
. . . one scary person.”

“How did you and Walt become friends?”

He laughed. “Golf. He told me one day we’d
play a round. Never happened.” His mouth sagged. “Never will
now.”

Walt hadn’t had many people in his life that
cared about him. Hell, I’m not even sure Tom really gave a damn
about him. But wimpy little Gene did. And now he was just as
vulnerable as Walt had been.

“I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

Gene looked over at me, his eyes bright.
“Thanks.”

“You’re not safe here in Buffalo.”

His gaze intensified, fear tightening his
lips. He’d seen firsthand Veronica’s handiwork.

“Does Veronica know about the Holiday Valley
house?”

He shook his head.

“It might be a good idea for you to go stay
there for a few days. Do you have clothes there?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Because I don’t think you should go
back to your apartment. I won’t say I’m great at reconnaissance,
but I can usually pick up a tail. I’ll drop you off at your car and
follow you out to the Thruway to make sure Veronica isn’t staking
you out. You stay put out there until at least Saturday. After
that—”

After that he’d either be dead or alive, but
the truth would be out.

“What do you say?”

He sighed, recapped his coffee. “Okay.”

# # #

CHAPTER 21

It was almost nine-thirty when, feeling punch
drunk, I staggered into Richard’s kitchen. He and Brenda were at
the table, finishing breakfast, and neither of them looked
happy.

“Where the hell have you been?” Richard
demanded. “Didn’t you think we’d be worried sick? Your car’s gone,
your bed hasn’t been slept in.”

“That’ll teach me to make the damn thing
every morning,” I said and collapsed into a chair.

“Did you sleep at all?” Brenda asked.

“Not since yesterday.”

“You want something to eat?”

“Toast, please.”

She got up to make me some.

“Well?” Richard asked. His eye wasn’t so
black this morning; it had turned a bit green with yellow
edges—healing.

Resting my elbow on the table, I leaned my
cheek into my palm and tried to keep my eyes open. “I went back to
Norwalk Street, found Gene Higgins.”

“And?”

“He says Veronica admitted to him that she
killed Walt and dumped him behind the mill. Poor kid’s scared
shitless.”

“With cause, I’d say.”

“He’s going to hide out at Cyn’s house in
Holiday Valley for a few days, but I don’t for a minute think he’s
safe.”

“Why not?” Brenda asked.

I sat up straighter, cleared my throat.
“That vision of bloody hands I keep getting—it’s Gene’s blood I
see.”

The toast popped up, and Brenda put it on a
plate, handed it to me. “I don’t see how you can eat it dry like
that.”

“I like it that way.”

“Want some milk with that?”

I nodded.

“What makes you think it’s Gene’s blood?”
Richard asked.

“I touched him and bang! There was the
vision. What I don’t get are the hands themselves. They’re very
definitely strong, masculine hands. And so far nobody involved in
this murder has hands like that.”

Brenda placed a short glass of milk in front
of me. “I could warm it up,” she offered.

“No, thanks.”

“What’ll you do next?” Richard asked.

I chewed and swallowed some toast. “Crash
for a few hours.”

“Oh, good,” Brenda said, “because the zipper
broke on one of the suitcases and I want to see if we can get
another one.”

“You don’t need me for that.” Richard
said.

“It’s your suitcase,” she deadpanned.

End of that discussion.

I gulped down the milk, grabbed my second
piece of toast and pushed myself up from the table. “If I’m not up
by one, give me a yell, willya?”

“Will do,” Richard said, resigned.

I threaded my way through the pantry to my
room off the back hall. I needed to call Tom, tell him I wouldn’t
be in before I could allow myself the luxury of sleep. And later in
the day, I’d have to turn my efforts to figuring out how to protect
Gene and corner Veronica.

And I didn’t have a clue how to accomplish
either.

* * *

Instead of
Richard, it was the telephone that woke me. It rang four
times and I grabbed it before voice mail picked up.
“What?”

“Do you always answer the phone that way?”
Maggie asked.

My grip on the receiver slackened. “When I’m
yanked from a deep sleep, yeah.”

“It’s almost one o’clock. What are you doing
in bed at this time of day? Are you sick?”

Eyes closed, I asked myself the same
question. Maybe. Subtle rumblings behind my eyes told me I’d better
take my meds when I got up, in hopes of staving off one of my
all-too-frequent skull pounders.

“I don’t know where Brenda is. You want to
leave a message?”

“Well . . . actually, I wanted to
talk to you.”

That statement warranted the opening of one
eye. “Oh?”

“I . . . kind of wanted to
apologize to you.”

The other eye opened. “What for?”

“Apparently it’s none of my business if you
risk your brother’s life.”

“Who told you that?”

“Richard.”

I blinked.

“He called me earlier this morning and very
politely told me to mind my own business.”

“And what did you say?”

“I apologized.”

I rolled onto my back, stared at the
ceiling. “Does this mean the two of us can move forward?”

“I’m not sure what it means.”

“Neither do I, but it might be fun to find
out. What are you doing on Friday?”

She laughed. “I’m the maid of honor at a
wedding.”

“What a coincidence. I’m the best man. I
meant after that.”

“I took the whole day off from work.”

“Me, too.”

“Then maybe we could spend the rest of the
day together.”

“How about the evening, too?” I
suggested.

“Maybe.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it sounds nice to me, too.” Did I
detect the hint of a smile in her voice? “Okay,” she said at last.
“I guess I’ll see you Friday.”

“For sure.”

The phone clicked in my ear and I hung up
the receiver. My grin of anticipation waned. Now if we all lived
until Friday, we might just have a happily ever after.

* * *

The first
time
my bony ass had ever settled in an Adirondack chair had been on a
trip to Vermont with Shelley. We’d stayed at a quaint country inn,
sucked in clean mountain air and decided that rural vistas could
entice us away from the city. That is, until Shelley realized that
cell towers and kosher delis weren’t available on
demand.

The sun had already maneuvered around ninety
percent of the deck when I’d gone to sit outside to soak in its
rays on Brenda’s new lawn furniture. She’d won that battle, but
still hadn’t convinced Richard that a hot tub was a necessity.

Sitting back, my face tilted toward the sky,
legs outstretched before me, arms limp on the long flat rests, I
lazed, inviting sleep to come. And maybe I even dozed for a few
minutes before something cold thwacked beside my hand.

“Don’t spill it,” Richard chided.

My eyes jerked open, my fingers closing
around a frosted glass. A lemon wedge floated amongst a cluster of
ice cubes. I took a sip. Unsweetened iced tea—just the way I liked
it.

Richard had taken one of the other rustic
chairs and sipped his drink.

“Where’s Brenda?” I asked.

“Ironing and packing for the trip. She’s
making it a ritual, taking pictures and everything. It’s
unnatural.”

No, it was Brenda’s way of coping with what
Richard and I were doing. She was worried, with reason, after what
had happened to Richard less than three months before. Yet she
loved him enough not to be clingy.

I leaned back in my chair, the sun warming
my face. “Shelley was the same way the first six months we were
married,” I said, lamely. It was later that everything soured. That
the mere thought of her made me angry. That she lied and cheated on
me and stole all our assets to feed her drug habit.

I put her out of my mind and wondered if
Richard realized just how lucky he was to have Brenda.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked, changing the
subject.

“Airplane tickets for Friday night.”

This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have.
I took another sip of tea, waited for him to continue.

“We have to wrap up this investigation of
yours. Fast.”

“I don’t know where to find Veronica until
tomorrow night.”

“It’s time you told the police what you
know.”

All the muscles in my body tensed. “I
haven’t got a shred of tangible evidence.”

“You’ve got pictures of Walt and Veronica
together. You’ve got Gene Higgins’s testimony.” Richard had adopted
his patient, comforting, reasonable physician’s voice, which tended
to piss me off.

“It’s not enough.”

Richard set down his glass, crossed his arms
over his chest, his expression dour. “To use an old cliché, I’m
caught between a rock and a hard place. You and Brenda.”

“No you’re not. Brenda’s your future. I’m
only a small part of your past, and damn lucky to still have a
place in your life. You can’t let whatever’s going on with me
influence the big decisions in your life.”

“That’s a crock, and you know it. If I
needed a kidney tomorrow, you’d be there for me—just like I’d be
there for you.”

I shook my head. “It’s a question of
priorities. It’s—” Useless to argue with him, my better judgment
screamed.

There were alternatives. I could call Sam,
tell him everything I knew and let him run with it. But that
wouldn’t stop the visions, the nagging feeling I’d picked up at
Walt’s apartment that told me to find the truth.

Sophie had more or less told me everything
would be over by Saturday, but that was a day too late for
Richard’s timetable.

I picked up my glass but found I couldn’t
take another swallow. I set it beside me on the deck. “Look, give
me two days. If I don’t have everything wrapped up by Thursday
night, I’ll share what I know with someone. Either Sam Nielsen at
the newspaper or the Amherst police. Will that satisfy you?”

He took a few moments to mull over what I’d
said. “I don’t like it. But I guess I understand where you’re
coming from, and I suppose I’ll have to accept it. What do we do
next?”

I let out a breath. “Hang out tonight at Big
Brother’s and see if Veronica shows up. She might socialize there
as well as perform. But it could mean a long night.”

“Hey, I’m up for it.”

After pulling an all-nighter and with only
three hours of sleep, I wasn’t sure I was.

# # #

CHAPTER 22

After supper I spent two hours pulling weeds,
which proved to be a satisfactory way of working off
aggression—tension—I wasn’t sure exactly what emotion prickled
through me. My bushel basket was full by the time I finished and
the garden looked beautiful. If I didn’t get around to mulching,
I’d have to do it again in another week, but the thought didn’t
bother me. It gave me a goal—a reason to live. The garden also
represented order, and that’s exactly what I craved.

The sun had set by the time I wandered
into Richard’s study. Brenda sat under the glow of a genuine
Tiffany lamp, a yellow pad on her lap, refining her final packing
list while Richard pored over the latest issue of the
New England Journal of Medicine
—still
boning up for the new job, I supposed.

“You about ready to head out?”

Richard set his reading aside. “Sure
thing.”