Eine Kleine Murder (26 page)

The boat that held the two policemen pulled up beside him just as he went limp. They reached down and hauled him up by his shirt. He came to as they pulled him into the boat. He resisted them, but was easily subdued by one of the burly officers.

Daryl, hovering nearby in the paddleboat, watched as Wayne was taken away. Then he turned to me. “Wanna lift?”

“You bet. But can I get on that thing from here?” He pulled and dragged until I was sitting on the other seat. My laughter released the tension in every muscle, every bone of my body.

“I've never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life,” I said before collapsing like a wet rag. Daryl did all of the pedaling back to the dock.

Sheriff Dobson himself helped me out of the paddleboat, his cold blue eyes as warm as I'd ever seen them, then snapped handcuffs onto Wayne where he stood with his head down, between the two younger policemen.

Daryl helped me up the steps. My legs were made of seaweed. That thought probably occurred to me because there was a good bit of it clinging to me, even streaming down from my hair. A paramedic looked me and Wayne over and pronounced us fine. Wet and bruised, but fine.

Sheila stood, handcuffed, up at the road, guarded by another trooper. Silent tears coursed down her huge baby-soft cheeks.

The other officers brought Wayne up to the road and one of them read the Weldons their rights.

“We don't need an attorney. What you arrestin' us for anyway?” said Wayne, his voice hoarse. “She tried to kill me. See, there are marks on my neck. Why don't you look in her cabin?” He tilted his head up and gave a sly look to Chief Bailey, then pointed his handcuffed hands toward me.

“Wayne,” said Sheila with a touching tenderness. “I already told them.”

“Told them what?” he snarled. “What did you do that for? She's got the bloody tractor cushion in her cabin.” He turned to Sheriff Dobson. “What does that sound like to you?”

“Another stupid move,” he said softly. “And can you tell me, what does a tractor cushion have to do with anything?”

I was glad that cushion wasn't actually in my cabin. If it had been in the bushes when I went back to look for it…

“It's all covered with his blood,” yelled Wayne.

“I see. Whose blood? And how would you know a thing like that?”

Wayne clamped his mouth shut and jutted his chin out.

“It's probably my old yellow cushion,” said Sheila, still trying to calm Wayne. “We thought we'd lost it in the bushes over there, remember? Wayne, I've already told them everything. About you using Al Harmon's fishing knife, and dragging him over there.”

“He was firing us.” Wayne wailed. “He walked into the trailer and fired us. Sheila said he couldn't do that. He said he could, too.” Wayne sobbed. “He said he could do anything he wanted to. ‘Your precious parents were so much better than me,' he said. ‘Well, I turned out better than them in the long run, didn't I? I'm the one who burned your cabin down.' He said that. He told Sheila he killed her mother! And that just about killed her father, too, for losing her.”

“Yes, I know,” said Sheriff Dobson with a weary sigh. He scratched the top of his head and his hair stood up in a swirl. “Your wife has told us all that. Including the part about you murdering Martha. Why on earth would you kill poor Martha?”

“I knew you should'nt've called to tell ‘em Martha was dead.” Wayne's eyes implored Sheila, too late.

“I had to. I couldn't just let her lay there.”

“Martha told her,” Wayne jerked his head in my direction, “she knew who killed her old man. I heard her say it when they were at the beach. She woulda gotten us caught. Damn you, Cressa, for finding him so soon. I wanted the ants and the flies and the possums and the ‘coons to eat him. I wanted him to rot!”

Wayne's shoulders slumped and he deflated. Then started sobbing. “I didn't know everything would go so far. I didn't want to kill Martha, but what could I do?” He raised his tear-streaked face to Sheila. “What happened to us, Sheila?”

“Didn't do you much good killing her, did it?” Dobson said.

“I'm so, so sorry,” Wayne blubbered. “Sheila, babe, what are we gonna do?”

“You're both going to the Henry County jail. You come, too, Miss Carraway,” he added to me. “I'll need a statement.”

“Could I get dry clothes first?” I thought to ask.

Daryl pointed to my feet. “She doesn't even have shoes on.”

“Sure,” he said absently, leaving with the others. “Don't be too long.”

Daryl propped me up on the walk up the hill to my cabin and came in with me.

“Thanks for saving me again,” I said.

“Looks like you had already saved yourself. Again. Wayne was almost a goner by the time the cops got there.”

A drop of cold water ran down my back. I was glad I hadn't killed him. I knew I had tried, though. That was going to bother me for a long time.

We shared a quick embrace, then I went into the bathroom and warmed up with a hot, fast shower. As I finished dressing, Daryl walked in through the front door carrying a large canvas.

“I was going to bring this over to show you this afternoon. It was in my car. I want you to see it after you get back from the sheriff's office.”

I smiled. I had caught a glimpse of the front of the painting before he turned it to the wall. It was a portrait of me.

“Wait here,” I said as I picked up my car keys, wincing at my skinned palms, and, after a soft kiss, started out the door.

“I will not,” he said. “I'll drive you.”

Chapter 45

Coda: A “tail”; hence, a passage ending a movement (Ital.)

I stood at the window and looked out from air-conditioned comfort at the dusty city sidewalks and wilted trees. The heat wave had begun two days ago and promised to keep up for quite awhile. The gentle days of early summer had now given way to an unseasonably hot July.

“Do you take sugar?”

I turned around and smiled.

“No, thank you. Plain.” I tried to sip the iced tea, but glugged as though I hadn't had a drink for hours.

“I don't know why I'm so thirsty. It's only a forty-five minute drive in from Alpha.”

“But it's a hot one today. The AC makes me thirsty.” Daryl's father heaped a spoonful of sugar into his own glass and swirled the mix with a soft clink of his spoon.

“Have a seat,” he said, leading the way to the dining room, furnished with antique spindle chairs and a massive sideboard. “Any friend of Darry's is a friend of mine.”

I suppressed a chuckle. Here was someone who called him “Darry” with no repercussions.

Daryl and I took seats at the table, set for the three of us probably early in the morning.

Olaf Johannson's hair was gray, but his complexion didn't look like he'd ever been a redhead. Daryl must have inherited his coloring from his mother.

“We got news here in Moline of the murders, but maybe you can fill me in,” said Olaf, passing me a plate heaped with cut sandwiches. “Daryl didn't want to worry me with the details. He didn't tell me anything.” He gave his son an affectionate look.

“I knew you'd fuss about me, Dad.” Daryl smiled at his father. It was as wide as the one he'd given me this morning in bed on the cabin's porch. Daryl saw me hesitate with the platter in my hands. “Those are Dad's special concoctions, rye bread with pimento cheese and ham, and tuna for good measure.”

I noticed they also contained leaves of lettuce and slices of tomato. I took two halves and was pleasantly surprised when I bit into the first one.

“What was all that confusing business with Eve Evans and poisoning?” asked Olaf.

I told him what I had put together from the authorities and the locals. “It turned out she had been hospitalized for acute depression after her children's deaths and her husband's arrest, but hadn't ever gotten over the fact that he poisoned and killed their children. How could you ever get over that? She started fantasizing her children had needed to be killed. That was her way of dealing with it. But eventually, she got to thinking all the kids, Hayley's, and Freddie and Pat's, were hers, or something. She was really very, very confused.”

I continued with the sandwich and helped myself to some pickles and olives from a dish in the middle of the round wooden table while the men polished off the rest of the sandwiches.

We moved back to the living room. I stole several glances at the artwork, framed and raw, that covered the walls of Olaf Johannson's small apartment. A photograph on the bookshelf caught my eye. Yes, Daryl had his mother's looks. A laughing young woman glanced up at the camera with warmth and affection. She had curly red hair.

Daryl and I sat on the couch. After making sure we were well supplied with more iced tea and store-bought chocolate chip cookies, Daryl's father took what was obviously his favorite chair, flanked by a small table that held the TV controller and a few magazines. He propped a pillow behind his back, shifting his weight and settling in with a satisfied sigh.

“Someone said Eve lost track of what year it was?” Daryl's father lifted his grizzled eyebrows.

“Pat Fiori told me she thought Eve was reenacting her children's murders, in a muddled way, by attempting to murder the other children,” I said. “The Fiori kids are outgoing, not a bit shy, and ate a lot of the poisoned cookies she gave them. Hayley's girls were such timid little things they only took a few bites and didn't become ill.”

“The sick ones are better, aren't they?” asked Olaf.

“Oh, yes,” answered Daryl. “They recovered completely. It remains to be seen whether charges will be filed against Eve. Since she was locked up in the mental hospital anyway, after being permitted to attend Grace's funeral, and I doubt anyone will bother.”

“What a business.” Olaf shook his head with a sorrowful look. “Eve was always a delicate woman. She deferred to Henry in everything. He was a strange man… secretive. He moved here from California and no one really knew him. After Eve got married, he didn't want her to see any of her old friends, so she mostly stayed home and raised those kids. She sure got a bum deal.” He stirred his tea absently. “Say, I heard Smiley Harmon was in the hospital, too. Is he okay?”

“He's out now,” I said. “He just went in overnight. He had a bleeding ulcer. Used to have one years ago, he said, and it flared up again.

“He went to the doctor shortly before Grace's murder and the doctor actually told him he ought to leave the lake area and do some traveling. He started obsessing about their future there and their conflicts with Toombs.” I remembered how I had suspected him because of his fiery temper. But only slightly. “Then, when Grace died and no one investigated at first, that aggravated his old ulcer all over again. Now that he knows what really happened to his wife, he feels he can deal with everything else. I saw him last night. He's back to fishing and making fires at night.”

A bright abstract, swirls of blues and greens, caught my eye and I rose and went over to it.

“I don't know why,” I said, “since I can't tell what it is, but this appeals to me.”

“It's the color of your eyes,” said Daryl.

“My mismatched eyes.” I laughed.

Olaf's chest swelled and he came to stand beside me. “That little gem won a blue ribbon.” He glowed with pride. Daryl had inherited his smile from his father.

“Dad, it was only the local fair,” protested Daryl.

“But it's an indication of things to come. Mark my words, son.” He turned to me. “So tell me, according to the news reports, you practically caught Wayne single-handed.”

“More like, he almost caught me.” I laughed and turned from contemplating Daryl's work. “I was talking to Daryl on the phone just as I figured out who killed Toombs, then Wayne came up behind me and tried to kill me, too.”

“I called the cops as soon as the connection broke,” said Daryl. “I knew something was very wrong.” He put an arm around my shoulder.

“Thank God you did,” I said, snuggling against him. “I couldn't have lasted in that water much longer.”

“More like Wayne wouldn't have lasted much longer with you strangling him. Geez, your hands are strong!” He caught my palms in his and squeezed. I laughed and squeezed back, my blisters from June mostly healed. A tremor ran through me, in spite of my joy at being together with these two delightful guys. I had wanted to kill a man.

“But how did you know it was Wayne and Sheila?” Daryl's father asked me.

“Well, it was pretty confusing, since Toombs had been poisoned
and
stabbed. The autopsy analysis on the poison didn't come in for a long time. I was pretty sure Eve had poisoned the children, therefore I thought she might have poisoned Toombs, too, but I didn't know why she would. Of course, I didn't know why she'd poisoned the children, either.” Daryl and I returned to the couch.

“Eve told me, though,” I continued, “she saw Wayne and Sheila late at night transporting something with the tractor to where I found the body the next day. She figured all along it was them. But I didn't know whether I could believe her or not. She's so… off.”

“I guess that's as good a word as any for her,” said Daryl's father, rising to refill our glasses, then settling back into his big stuffed chair.

“I did see tracks from the tractor tires over there, though,” I said. “And then I remembered seeing the tractor cushion near where the body had been. And I noticed the Weldons had bought a new red one.” I shook my head. “Martha told the police she poisoned him. But later the coroner's report said he had died of stab wounds, not poisoning.” I sipped the cool tea. Daryl's dad made good tea.

“What really told me it might be Wayne and Sheila,” I said, “was piecing together the facts that Al Toombs had been obsessed with Sheila's mother. Also that he had been on his way to fire them that night. I wasn't absolutely positive, though, until Wayne overheard me on the phone with Daryl and began to chase me. He told me all about it while he was trying to kill me.”

“Boy, you just never know, do you?” said Olaf. “I guess you were lucky Darry showed up with the cops when he did.”

“Those cops drove me crazy,” Daryl said. “The first thing they did was drive to the trailer and question Sheila. I was going nuts thinking Wayne must be somewhere with Cressa.” He squeezed my hand again. “I kept asking if we could go look for you. Finally they sent me out with a detective, then we spotted you pretty quickly.”

“I don't know quite how to say this,” I said slowly, “But I have mixed feelings about the whole thing.”

“What do you mean?” asked Daryl. “I know exactly how I feel about the whole mess.”

“I agree with how Martha felt about Toombs being dead. But I'm not glad Martha's dead. I wonder what would have happened if we could have figured it out sooner. Maybe Martha would still be alive.” I turned to Daryl and he nodded, considering what I'd said.

“She might. But she would have faced attempted murder charges,” he said. “And you can't change the past.”

“If only. I'll never, ever be sorry Toombs is dead,” I continued, raising my voice slightly. “Even if that makes me a bad person. He was a murderer himself. “First Norah Grey, then my grandmother, then Grace. Maybe more, who knows. Like maybe his first wife? She was never seen again. I probably would have been happy Wayne killed him, if Wayne hadn't killed Martha and tried to kill me.”

“And,” added Daryl, “it's such a great thing to find out after all these years who really set that fire.”

“I'm glad it's over.” I could finally relax at the lake. When I had started out to surprise Gram that day, I had been looking forward to a peaceful interlude.

“More tea?” asked Daryl's father.

“No, Dad. I've got to get back to Alpha. I'm expecting a phone call.”

“You still trying to set up that exhibit in Chicago?” he asked with obvious pride in his voice.

“Still trying.”

Daryl and his father exchanged a quick embrace.

“Good luck, son,” he called as we left. “Bring Cressa back to see me sometime.”

“Will do,” Daryl promised.

We left together and Daryl walked me to my car.

“I only have one more question,” he said. “Your mention of seeing the tractor cushion in there made me think of it. What was Wayne talking about when he blubbered something about that cushion?”

I laughed. “That was the craziest thing. I was sure it was a real clue. And he thought I had it and I thought he had it.”

“Who did?”

“Little Rachel and Rebecca had moved it and taken it to a place in the woods where they play house. They liked the yellow color and thought the brown blood splotch was from the dirt. The police retrieved it from there, and it proved to be the cushion with Toombs's blood on it that was on the tractor when they transported his body.”

There was one more thing I needed to do. Daryl and I had taken separate cars so I was alone in mine on my way back to Alpha.

Just before I got to the town I turned left into the Alpha Cemetery. After I cut the engine I sat for awhile. I fished my locket out of my purse and fingered it, putting off my task. After Daryl managed to retrieve it for me, I threw away the chain Mo had stolen. He had broken it, and I didn't like the thought of his hands all over it, anyway.

A shade tree played leafy patches of shadow across the hood of my car. A robin
cheerio
-ed from a branch. Even the breeze was perfect, bringing a touch of coolness up from the valley beside the grave site.

Gram's headstone glinted in the sun. I got out of the car and knelt to trace the carving: her name, Ida May Swenson Miller, and the dates of her birth and death.

“Gram,” I whispered, my tears starting to flow. “At least I know who killed you. Thank God the police were able to match the fingerprints on the lenses of Grace's glasses to Al Toombs. They had his prints on file from two domestic disturbances filed by his wife years ago. You probably know all about those.

“I sure got in trouble with Sheriff Dobson. He told me, once again, that the chain of custody was compromised by both Al and me transporting the glasses. But at least he agreed the combination of the fingerprint evidence and the testimony Martha gave me before she died points to him as your killer.”

The quartz in Gram's headstone sparkled in the sunlight.