Eine Kleine Murder (19 page)

Chapter 34

Nervoso: In a forcible, agitated style (Ital.)

I almost screamed when another knock sounded on the door. I was still leaning against it. How long had I been there? I yelped, then jumped up and peeked out the peephole. Relieved, I snatched the door open.

“Daryl! Hi. It's good to—”

“Hello,” he glowered, and pushed into the room, much as Mo had done. I had never seen such a dark look on his usually open and friendly face. “I just saw Mo coming out your door on my way here. What the hell was he doing here? How long was he here?”

“Well… I'm not sure that's any of your business.”
I shouldn't snap at Daryl like that. But isn't anyone in a good mood today?
“What are you doing here?”

It was good to see him. How could I have ever thought that Mo was better-looking than Daryl? Mo had a brooding handsomeness, but Daryl had that gorgeous, glinting, dark red hair and those darling freckles.

“I came by to talk to you,” he said. “I thought maybe… But if you're seeing him, never mind.” He vibrated with energy.

“I'm not ‘seeing' Mo. Don't be ridiculous. He's a creep. You know that. What's the matter with you?”

“I don't know, Cressa. I'm sorry.” He looked away for a moment, then chafed a hand over his face as if he were trying to rub his freckles off.

“You must think I'm crazy. Maybe I am.”

He opened the door to leave and started to make his way outside. He looked to the right and stopped, then took a step back.

“There's a cop out there, Cressa.”

I came to the doorway and stood beside him, peering out, our heads close, almost touching. Two Henry County deputies had just emerged from Eve's cabin. One of them held her by her left elbow. The other walked ahead and opened the back door of their cruiser. She looked so small, like a shriveled prune next to the deputies.

“Good God,” I breathed. “I wonder if this is because I… That was quick.”

It was Daryl's turn to ask what was wrong with me.

“I'm afraid maybe… Maybe it's something I did.”

He turned and gave me a steady, calm gaze. His eyes were a darker green than I remembered.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” He put a warm hand on my shoulder. I wanted him to put the other hand on my second shoulder.

Under different circumstances I could be attracted to you. Maybe even these circumstances. If only you didn't act so oddly sometimes.

“Come back in,” I said. “I have to tell someone.”

I leaned on the counter and Daryl stood behind one of the stools, his foot propped on a bottom rung.

“God, you look good in that skirt and top, Cressa.”

That made me smile.

“I noticed Eve chopping leaves on her cutting board the other day,” I began. “I later realized they were rhubarb leaves. Freddie and Pat's kids were over there eating lots and lots of cookies that same day and they've been extremely sick ever since. They're all at the Moline Hospital now. I ate just one of the cookies and felt horrible afterward. Then today I went over there and pinched a couple of them, the ones with the dark flecks in them—the dark flecks that I think are poisonous rhubarb leaves. I took them to the sheriff's office and told him what I've just told you.”

“Because of Eve's children, right?”

“Yes. I heard about what happened.”

“That was a long time ago. Her husband is still in prison for it, you know.”

“I know.” I jiggled my foot and pondered a moment. “But what if he didn't kill them? What if she did? Or even if he did do it, what if she has gone off the deep end because of it, and has started to poison people herself?”

“How do you figure?”

“Think about it. It must have been horrific for her when they died. And ten times worse to know her own husband killed them. Agonizing over that for years and years could eventually affect her mind.” I could see that glassy stare in my mind. “She got awfully strange when she mentioned her kids to me.”

I started to pace the room as I babbled. Why was I rattling on like this? Because Daryl was there? “But she was chopping up rhubarb leaves that day. And they are poison. And after I gave them to the police to analyze, here they are arresting her.”

“You must be right.” He turned to face me, then took a step toward me. I backed up. “At least about her poisoning the Fiori kids.”

I dropped to the daybed as my knees gave way again.

“I hope I did the right thing. If they've arrested her and she didn't do it, I'll feel awful. She's such a social outcast already.”

“The courts will examine the evidence. Nobody's going to be convicted of anything just because you suspect them.” He smiled.

I relaxed a notch. “I guess so.”

“Everybody's a little crazy lately. It's been hard to keep your sanity around here. Is that six o'clock?” he asked, looking at my wristwatch. “Can I turn on the news?”

“I don't know if I want to see it. Oh, go ahead. Maybe Eve will be on it.”

He picked up the remote, perched on a stool, and switched on the set.

An earnest newsman was launching the report.

“This breaking news just in from Crescent Lake at Alpha, Illinois, our top story this hour. A female resident of the Crescent Lake complex was taken into custody just minutes ago on suspicion of allegedly attempting to poison several children who also reside at the complex. They are currently at Trinity Hospital in Moline where their condition is not known. There may be as many as six children involved.”

The footage of the lake that I had seen on the last broadcast rolled over the screen.

“A spokesperson for the Henry County Sheriff's Department said the suspect will be questioned, but has not been formally charged with anything. Preliminary lab results show the children were possibly fed tainted cookies baked by the woman, whose name is not being released at this time.”

The female news anchor took over from the male. “Viewers will recall the case, sixteen years ago, of the Evans children, who were fatally poisoned by their father on Halloween, in order to collect the insurance money on them. Henry Evans is presently serving a ninety-nine year sentence at the state penitentiary in Joliet. His wife, Evangeline Evans, is a resident at the Crescent Lake resort.”

Here they flashed a video labeled “Henry Evans” that must have been taken many years ago. A young man glowered toward the camera as he was marched down a narrow hallway in shackles.

“It is not known whether this incident has any connection to the recent murders at the same complex, where three people have turned up dead, but police are not ruling out the possibility.

“We have been asked to repeat the sheriff's request that anyone with information or knowledge relating to these deaths please report to their office in Cambridge.”

“Cute,” said Daryl, shooting me a glance. What an interesting color of green his eyes were. “They didn't say it was Eve, but there isn't anyone who lives in Alpha who won't be able to figure it out.”

“At least they didn't have cameras here when she was taken away. And they didn't say my name.”

“Your name?” asked Daryl.

“Yes, as the person who turned in the cookies for lab analysis. I wonder if Eve knows what happened. My name was given out as the discoverer of the other bodies. I don't think I care to be mentioned on television again. I don't need any more connection being made between me and the weird stuff going on around here.”

“I see your point,” he agreed.

Chapter 35

Ballet de la Nuit: Dance of the night (Fr.)
Répète: Repeat (Fr.)

I peeked out the side window at Daryl's retreating form. He had a nice build, especially from the back: broad shoulders tapering down to his neat, narrow hips, and a very nice rear. He walked away into the twilight.

I wished I could ask him about the fire stuff. Maybe another time.

Dusk was beginning to fall. I had a lot of questions milling around in my mind about Toombs's murder. If all the murders were connected, more information about his death ought to shed light on the others. And Toombs's was the only one I had any leads on.

If only I had paid more attention to the area where I found the body.

There was something there that struck a discordant note. Something that stuck out like a
forté
brass entrance half a beat too soon.

I really would like to look it over once more. It's not that far from where Grace and Ida were found, either. I need to see both places again.

Eve might have seen the tractor going over there the night before I found him, the night he was killed. A hidden thought of something overlooked was nagging at the back recesses of my mind. I didn't know what it was, I only knew it had something to do with the place where I had found Toombs.

I tugged a sweater over my head for the chill that I knew would descend, grabbed my flashlight, and scurried down the steps and across the dam in the lowering dusk. So far, I hadn't seen anyone. My cell phone still didn't work in this area, but I knew my pepper spray would.

When I reached the other shore I examined the ground, and, as I remembered, tire tracks led through the dirt to the edge of the woods.

Of course, that didn't mean anything. Tire tracks were all over the place from the mowing Sheila did.

Nothing here rang a bell, not even a small triangle. No, what was bothering me was in the woods. I batted at the barrier of greenery and found the path. It was easier this time. A lot of county and state personnel had been here after the discovery of the body, so the trail was trampled.

Something rustled off to my right. I whirled around, then stood still, but I didn't hear the sound again. I checked behind me. No one was around. The water lay calm and I heard only the half-hearted twittering of a few birds thinking about bedding down for the night.

There was no yellow police tape at this point; it must have been farther into the woods. Still, I hesitated, afraid to approach the crime scene.

But I knew there were no officials at the lake. None of their vehicles were here. Who would ever know if I just walked in? I wouldn't disturb anything. Anyway, they'd already examined everything. They wouldn't post a guard, would they? No, I decided they wouldn't.

I plunged into the woods and hurried along the dirt trail. Darkness would fall soon. When I was almost to the spot where I had discovered Toombs's corpse, I faltered, then stopped.

The terror of that morning returned. Gorge rose in my throat again. I swallowed the bitter tasting bile down and forced myself to think.

Just ahead on the path, the fluttering yellow tape that closed off the area where the body had been caught my eye.

Maybe it was seeing the tape that did it; I realized the large yellow object in the thorns was what had been bothering me.

It had been, I remembered, behind me at least twenty feet. I picked up a long stick and backtracked. After poking around in the bushes for a few minutes, collecting nothing more than a few more scratches on my arms, in spite of my sweater, I gave up. It wasn't there. I knew what it was, though. A bright yellow thing had been in these bushes. The yellow cushion from Sheila's tractor.

I shone my flashlight into the undergrowth, but it was definitely not there, the tractor cushion that had fallen off with Sheila's difficult dismount the first time I met her. The one that was now replaced with a red cushion. The old one, the bright yellow one, had caught my eye the day I found Toombs, even though it had been shielded by the shadowed growth.

I took a moment to think the situation through, carefully.

The mental image of the cushion wavered and swam before my eyes. I held my reeling head with both hands to keep it from spinning off my body. An annoyed squirrel ran halfway down a tree trunk and accused me of trespassing with a shrill clatter.

Think, think!

I was dizzy. Deep, slow breaths. Okay. No panic.

The cushion must have come along with the body when it was dragged in here. But how did it get under this bush? Was it hidden here on purpose? If that were the case, the killer must have come back to dispose of it. Could it have fallen unnoticed?

And did this mean, positively, that one of the Weldons killed Toombs? No, it only meant the tractor was used to get him here. It's possible someone else used it to haul the body over here. Maybe Eve did, and invented that story implicating Wayne and Sheila. Her story was fishy. Could she see well enough in the darkness to tell who was on the tractor? She hadn't seen a body on it.

Eve was probably strong enough to drag a dead person along a path for a bit.

As I dabbed at the bright drops of blood where the thorns had punctured my arms, I pictured Eve's wiry arms with the folds of loose skin hanging from them. I could also picture the strength evinced when she viciously whacked at the rhubarb leaves with her sharp kitchen knife.

Toombs's shoes had been muddy on the sides, like they had been dragged along the ground.

Did that leave Wayne Weldon out? Wouldn't he be strong enough to carry the body some other way? Unless it was so bloody he didn't want to soil his clothes with it?

I swatted at the battalion of buzzing mosquitoes attacking my legs and arms, even through my clothing; I hadn't taken time to put on insect spray. I clawed at my arms, remembering Martha Toombs scratching her bites. She had an awful lot of them. Did she get them over here?

Before the bugs ate me alive, I had to move on. I left the spot where the cushion had lain, but took note of the surrounding trees and bushes.

It occurred to me that the police might have taken it. I made a mental note to ask Sheriff Dobson if they had found it.

A shudder went through me. What if the murderer saw me going over here? Would he think I was getting too nosy, finding out something poking around this place? And I'd been back to the place where Gram and Grace died, too.

Maybe I should stay away from this side of the lake.

I made my way back toward the edge of the woods, but a sound halted me before I reached the clearing. I clicked the flashlight off and listened. Someone was close by. My nape prickled. Had the killer followed me here? Had he or she watched me search for the cushion?

The growth was especially dense at the edge of the clearing, but I parted it, slowly, quietly, to see who was there.

A man's voice muttered curses under his breath as he stomped around the grassy area, bent over, inspecting the ground. One end of a boat was pulled onto the land. The small waves made sinister sucking sounds against the sides. I squinted through the gathering gloom, trying to discern his features. As he straightened, I recognized the tall, thin form of Al Harmon, his face an angry red.

What on earth is he doing here?

Frightened, I stood perfectly still, cringing in the brush, afraid he would notice me. I didn't want anyone to know I had been messing around near the police-tape line.

He neared my hiding place. I sucked in a breath.

Did he hear that?

He raised his head and tilted it, listening. After a few agonizing moments he turned away, climbed into his rowboat, and shoved off.

It would be too long before his boat was out of sight of the earthen dam, though, which I had to cross to get back.

What could he have been doing over here? Looking for the yellow cushion? Did Al Harmon kill Toombs in one of his fits of burning rage? He could have used the tractor. Anyone could have. The keys were always left in the ignition.

I watched his slow progress and made up my mind to go the long way around the lake to avoid being seen. Especially by a killer.

Darkness thickened as I stumbled along, reaching the tape again and passing it, treading on an unfamiliar part of the path. It was heavily overgrown here and the mosquito situation didn't improve one bit. They were feasting on my arms and clusters of them clung to my skin beside the blobs of blood trickling from the gouges the brambles had made when I poked the stick in to try and find the cushion.

I came to a depression in the path. It dipped so low the lake flowed over it slightly, just enough to make the dirt turn to thick goo. Boards had been placed over this area in the past, but they were mostly rotted and broken. My loafers were not the right shoes for this hike.

I picked up two pieces of board and tried to place them strategically. I succeeded somewhat in making a bridge, but a little of the ooze squelched up onto my shoes.

Night was falling in earnest as I hurried to get out of the woods before it was so dark I wouldn't be able to find the path. I was afraid to turn on my flashlight again; someone might see me. The insects were fierce in their attacks and I swatted almost continuously, trying to keep them out of my eyes.

A beetle crawled up my neck and I almost screamed. Swallowing the cry I wanted to make, I slapped it off me. Another one crouched on my arm. I looked up. They must be falling from the trees. I shivered, then shook the second one off.

Why had I decided to do this? Was insanity contagious in this place? Why had I ever come here? How could I even think of staying on in Gram's cabin?

I tripped over a tree root and landed on my knee, hard. I cursed, wiped my hands off, and kept on. I had to get out of the woods. More mud sucked at my shoes. Overgrown branches whipped my face and caught my sweater. And the insects didn't stop. My sweat, I was sure, encouraged them.

Night creatures started to stir. I heard small animals skittering along the ground, and a distant owl. I sobbed. But only once. I told myself I had to march on.

At last I reached the end of the forest. Darkness was almost complete.

The path came out of the woods onto the paved road outside the complex. Grateful to be out in the open, I looked back to the one black amorphous mass of branches and leaves against the faint luminescence of the sky. I tried to get my bearings and had a flash of panic when the lake buildings weren't anywhere in sight. A few feet up the lane, however, I could see the turn onto the gravel road of the resort. I breathed a sigh of relief and headed that way.

I hiked around the end of the lake, my stomach complaining about the smell. This end of the lake was shallow and stagnant, the water covered with green scum in the daylight. The brackish water was black at night.

As I walked, the rising moon poked above the treetops and sent shafts of faint light into the water.

And that moonlight would illuminate me, too. I would be visible soon. At least there were no houses at this end of the lake.

I reached the main complex and made my way past the beach area, treading on the grass beside the gravel so I wouldn't make any noise. Where the road forked, the right-hand branch would be a shorter distance to my cabin, but it would also go past the Harmons' place. After Al's suspicious behavior in the clearing, I was reluctant to let him know I had been in the woods and had seen him. I took the left branch, past the Toombses' and on around. Martha and Hayley weren't usually outside, so I felt safe going past their places.

As I neared the Toombses' house, I heard an odd noise. It sounded like metal scraping against something. I stopped, then crept forward until I saw, around the corner of the house, a silhouetted figure with a spade, prying up the stepping stone nearest the front door. The metal of the spade glinted in the light from the newly risen moon, and the figure grunted as it heaved the stone up and turned it over.

The person reached into a pocket and, stooping, deposited something where the stone had been, then rose and replaced the rock, stopping often to scratch arms and legs.

My eyes widened in amazement and I tensed as Martha Toombs—I could see the outline of her rollers—walked straight toward me. Had she seen me? She turned to go to the carport and I relaxed. She hung the spade back on its hook.

Martha returned along the stone pathway, still not aware of my presence, stomped on the last stone a couple of times, and entered the house.

Wow. I guess it's true what stage people say. If you don't move, you aren't seen.

I had taken exactly three steps when a vehicle started up not too far away. I turned to see a state trooper car driving out of the complex from the other fork.

Now what?

I managed to reach the cabin without anyone seeing me. I was filthy from my muddy, buggy walk. Sweat dripped down my back, partly from heat, partly from fear of being caught. I stunk of fear.

A long shower did much to restore my equilibrium. I curled up on the daybed, rubbed my bites and scratches with salve, then, noticing the time, turned on the TV as I sat up to scrape my shoes with a table knife.

The ten o'clock news had relegated the Toombses' story to the third item, but it was still there.

“New developments in the puzzling deaths at Crescent Lake. Autopsy reports confirm the latest victim had poison in his system at the time of death. It is not yet known whether he actually died of the poison or of the knife wounds, either of which would have been sufficient to cause death.

“The weapon found earlier has been identified as a fishing knife belonging to Alvin Harmon, a resident at the Lake. Harmon was taken in for questioning this evening.”

No! Not Al Harmon! My knife clattered to the floor. That must have been the departing police car I saw. Picking him up.

“According to police reports, Toombs was last seen alive by his wife when he left their house at dusk to consult with the caretakers, Wayne and Sheila Weldon, who live a short distance away, also in the complex. The Weldons deny seeing him that night.