What’s the penalty for hitting your child with a cold skillet?
The girls went off to pick out clothes for the next day, arrange their books, and do who knows what? No homework on the first night. I poured wine for Keisha and me, and she said, “That Mr. Conroy called late this afternoon. I guess he talked to me since you weren’t there.”
“What’d he say?” I asked. The salad was made, green beans were in the steamer, and I sautéed the floured chicken breasts in butter and olive oil. In a minute, I’d add lemon and white wine.
“Said he’s frustrated. Hasn’t got a lead on the two old ladies, but he’s sure it’s the same person.”
Did that mean that Claire and I were both off the hook? Also the McLaughton son? I didn’t dare ask. I didn’t care about the McLaughton black sheep, but I wanted to be relieved of that nagging worry about Claire. “What’s he doing to get a lead?”
“He was pretty vague about that. But he said they’re doubling the daytime patrols in the neighborhood, watching for suspicious people, that sort of thing. He doesn’t think the killer will strike at night.”
“But he thinks he’ll strike again?” A chilling thought.
“Yeah, he does. And he doesn’t know that his guys—that’s what he said—can be in the right place at the right time.” She changed the subject. “How’s Anthony doing with the house?”
“Coming along fine. He thinks he’ll be through in mid-September.”
“You gonna’ tell your mama?”
“Sure.”
Keisha shook her head.
****
Mike came by that night, but I could tell he was troubled and distant. “I can’t believe it’s happening in my neighborhood,” he said.
I could have pointed out it wasn’t his neighborhood because he didn’t live here, but I knew it was “his” in the most personal sense. He drank a beer, sat staring into space, and at length said, “I’m sorry, Kelly. I’m just no good tonight. Got to go.”
“Nothing new on Mrs. McLaughton?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Still haven’t found that missing son.”
He shook his head again. “And some guy named…Landman…Lattimore …I don’t know. It began with an ‘La,’ he called me and wanted details on the case. I’m not giving them to private citizens.”
“I know him,” I said. “He’s realtor, interested in Chase Court. I’ll give him a call and see if I can tell what’s up.”
“Neighbors on Chase Court tell us there’s one guy—lives in a smaller house than the others—who is, ‘shiftless,’ their word. But you can’t accuse a guy of being a serial killer just because he’s lazy, and that wouldn’t give him motive for Florence Dodson. The whole thing is a mess.” He ran his hands across his head—it would have been Anthony’s gesture of despair, except Mike didn’t have that much hair.
At the door, he gave me a sweet kiss of longing and was gone.
Later, with Mike gone and my bed feeling lonely, the crunch of tires in the driveway brought me back to the present. I slipped to the window but didn’t see headlights. Then a car door closed softly, as if someone were trying hard to muffle the sound. Then footsteps crunched down the driveway toward the guest house. It wasn’t Claire—she’d come in early in the evening and after we talked a minute about her plans—no, she didn’t suggest moving out again—she mentioned she planned to turn in early.
The lights were all out in my house, but I flew through the familiar rooms to the kitchen and peeked out the back door in time to see the door of the guest house open and Jim Guthrie enter.
I went back to bed to puzzle about Jim Guthrie visiting his wife, and her admitting him. Were they meeting for a calm discussion of their divorce? I doubted that. Were they meeting for sex? Made more sense to me, but if they hated each other so much….I sighed. I could call Mike but what would I tell him? And he’d only tell me I was naïve—and then he’d tell me to get her out of there.
When Em woke me at two o’clock, the car was gone. I never did see what kind of car it was, just a sedan. I guess that was the noise she heard, but she sobbed, great gulping sobs. “I heard…a noise…and I know it’s that bad man. I’m…scared.” She was scared, shaking scared.
I put my arms around her and pulled her into my bed, trying to blot her tears with the hem of my T-shirt. “Did the children in your class talk about it today?”
She nodded, still sobbing. “One boy said it’s a vampire, and it’s gonna get tired of old ladies and come after children.”
“Em, Em, you know that’s not true. And you know you’re safe here in this house.”
Maggie came in, demanding to know what happened and why Em was crying so loud. I told her Em heard a noise—no need to tell her what I thought the noise was—and she was scared because of all the rumors going around school.
“Em, that bad person is just after old ladies,” Maggie scoffed. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
Em looked at her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am,” Maggie said with authority.
Still, they both spent the rest of the night in my bed.
****
The next evening Claire came in after the girls went to bed, a glass of wine in her hand. “Got a minute?” Her voice croaked.
I gasped as I looked at her. A bruise turned purple near her eye, and when she saw my expression, she loosened her turtleneck to show bruises on her neck. “Jim throttled me,” she said, still croaking.
“Omigosh! We need to call the police. That’s attempted murder, Claire. It will get you free from the assault charge, or at least reduce it.” A thousand questions raced through my mind. What happened? I opened my mouth but all that came out was, “Sit down.” Maybe last night’s visit wasn’t about sex, unless it was the rough kind. I didn’t like to think about.
She looked wryly at me. “No police. Get yourself a glass of wine. I think you look worse than I do.”
I poured myself another glass of wine, and we headed to the living room. By now, my senses were coming back. “Do you need help? An ice pack? I don’t have a raw steak.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be okay. My voice will come back by tomorrow.” She touched her face gingerly. “This will take longer.”
I knew she’d had a bruise the night she shot Jim, and I supposed that was not the first time. But I asked, “Is it…a pattern? Is he an abusive husband?” That also might help her defense, but we needed to have this incident on the record. “Claire, you’ve got to document this with someone besides me. After the incident on the front porch, this is important.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not an abused wife. Jim didn’t get violent very often, and I gave as good as I got. I wasn’t one of those wives who are cowed by their husbands, and I gave it back to him last night. I imagine he’s limping today. I can always claim self-defense, but I don’t think that looks good.”
I couldn’t imagine people living like that.
Jim came to see her about a possible settlement, and they argued. She’d turned her back on him—a mistake, she admitted—and he’d grabbed her throat. I remembered the drunken Jim on my porch, and I could picture the scene, see Jim, who was taller and much heavier than Claire, grabbing her, her hands trying to pull his away from her neck. But that wasn’t what she did—she drove her elbow into his ribs, startling him enough that he lost his grip. She whirled, kneed him until he doubled over, screaming, “Bitch, bitch!” When he recovered enough, he left muttering something about getting even.
“Claire, this increasing violence has got to stop. You’re the one who needs a restraining order. Let’s call the police right now.”
She held up a hand to stop me. “I’ll call Karen the lawyer and Terrell Johnson and I’ll lay low until my voice is okay and my face heals.”
I looked doubtful, so she spilled one more fact.
“I’ve talked to Angus Mitchell. He advises against reporting this. Strongly advises against it.”
“Why? He has Jim’s best interests at heart. Jim’s his client.”
“Jim’s his client, but that’s not where his interest lies,” she said, and then said no more. When she spoke again, it was in a different vein. “Can I tell the girls I walked into a door? They won’t know the old cliché, will they?”
“Sure. Tell them that, but Maggie figures everything out and tells Em.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Do you still want to go to the neighborhood meeting?”
Her eyes were like steel when she met mine. “You’d be amazed at the camouflage I can do with makeup. Yes, I want to go.”
Mike’s key turned in the lock, and Claire fled, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t tell.”
There wasn’t enough time for me to promise because there was no way I could keep this from Mike. He was upset—and angry. At Claire for causing the trouble, at me for still letting her stay in the guest house. He suggested I tell her my mother was moving down right away. I refused—Mom wouldn’t sleep alone in that apartment once she heard about the supposed serial killer, and I sure wasn’t sharing my bed with my mom, much as I loved her. He suggested I tell Claire I was worried about the girls, but she knew better. I wouldn’t ever let anything happen to my girls, but neither of the Guthries were threats to them. I was realistic about that.
It wasn’t one of our cozier evenings, and Mike left early, making me promise to call if I needed anything. He’d keep his cell phone on.
****
Mike and I were still sparring about the murders. He’d tell me to leave it alone, and I’d tell him I couldn’t, and he’d ask why, and I’d say because of Florence Dodson, because Fairmount was my neighborhood and I loved it and also made my living there, because it’s a nice place to live. And, besides, there were the scared old ladies, in fact an entire scared neighborhood. Women of all ages refused to go out unaccompanied after dark. They didn’t seem to realize that neither murder happened after dark. They lived in fear, even in the daytime. I thought I should call Mrs. Glenn, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. A call would seem to her a signal that there was reason to fear.
I did get one straight answer: the youngest son was still missing. The two other sons as much as said he was at odds with his mother and was pretty much a wastrel who spent his time watching TV, not working, and going out at night, on money his mother supplied until she recently cut off the funding.
Too much! I fumed. Too much of a coincidence if the police thought Mrs. Dodson’s nephew killed her and Mrs. McLaughton’s son was the villain. It just couldn’t happen twice within a month in one neighborhood.
Ralph Hoskins called with sinister talk about a serial killer. Even I protested that there was no evidence connecting the two murders, but he replied, “It’s a serial killer. I know it, and you know it. And the police aren’t doing anything. We must act.” I wasn’t sure who “we” was and how “we” should act.
“I can put a reassuring message on the neighborhood email,” I suggested. “Tell women it’s safe to go out, as long as they’re on the alert. There are increased police patrols. Ralph”—I presumed to use his first name—”they’re doing all they can, and they’re overwhelmed with citizen calls.”
“I know, Kelly, I know,” he replied, assuming we were now on a first-name basis. “I’ve urged people to call, keep expressing their dissatisfaction.”
I didn’t point out that only complicated things at the local police headquarters, but I did offer again to put out an email.
“Don’t make it too reassuring,” he said. “We want people to be on the alert. Tell them citizens are also patrolling in groups. Any interested citizens may call me at home.” He reeled off the number. “I won’t rest until this villain is caught.”
All I could manage to say was, “I admire your dedication.” Mike would go through the roof if I told him about this conversation.
****
One afternoon I sat in my office and listed what I knew about each lady. For Florence: she was a gardener, she had money we didn’t suspect, she had distant relatives who stood to inherit, she went to church, she wasn’t particularly frail.
My list on Mrs. McLaughton: she wasn’t particularly frail either, she loved to garden, according to her neighbors she attended church, she had a close family—three sons, one of whom had been at odds with his mother after sponging off her for years. I had no idea how much money Mrs. McLaughton was left with after being too generous with her son.
The only place their lives seemed to intersect was that they both liked to garden, but that was a dead end. Mike told me Mrs. McLaughton’s gardener had a firm alibi for the time of death. He’d worked for her early in the morning and then gone to a job as a busboy in an air-conditioned restaurant at ten in the morning—no dummy, he!
