Roll Over and Play Dead (15 page)

“That’s right, and I’m staying until you tell me the truth about Daryl Defoe. The guest room will do fine.” I took the tray into the living room and set it on the coffee table. “I do have a date later,” I added, “with a man. We’re both single, you see, and even though he’s a detective at the Farberville CID, no one thinks anything about it. I’ll admit he doesn’t stumble out of my house at six in the morning, singing loudly while he zips up his trousers, but we have no qualms about going to dinner or a movie.”

She accepted a cup of tea and sat in the armchair. I waited, feigning patience, while she stared at the amber liquid and sighed several times. “If I tell you the truth, will you promise to keep it a secret?” she asked quietly.

“If you convince me that I ought to,” I said.

“I’m married. It happened a long time ago, and I realized almost immediately that it was a mistake. He didn’t have what it took to get through college, and when he finally dropped out, he found a factory job, started drinking heavily, and pounded out his frustrations on me.”

“When was this?”

The cup rattled in the saucer, and her head remained down. “Fifteen years ago. We were living in Missouri, and one morning while he was benumbed with a hangover, I threw some things in a suitcase and caught a bus back home.”

I took off my shoes and curled up on the sofa. “What was his name, and why haven’t you gotten a divorce?” I asked in a deceptively mild voice.

“Uh…Gary,” she stammered. “Gary Gallager. I don’t know where he is now, but I’ve always been afraid that if I filed for a divorce, he’d learn where I was and come after me. It’s like being in the federal witness protection program, I suppose.”

“Is Daryl in it?”

She gave me a quick frown. “No, and I’m not either. Look, I’ve told you the truth—I’m a married woman, so I can’t date anyone without committing adultery. My reputation is vital to the welfare of the animal shelter.”

“But no one knows you’re married,” I pointed out.

“Some day Gary may show up, looking for me. He could use the adultery as grounds, and then it would be public knowledge.”

“Oh,” I said with a sober nod. “Why did you go to NewCo this morning?”

“To pick up the USDA file.”

I waggled my finger at her. “No, no, no. One of the sheriff’s deputies told me they found that file in your office. What were you searching for, Jan?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“I’ll borrow a nightgown and have the drugstore deliver a toothbrush.”

She stood up and went to the window. Her back turned to me, she said, “Newton Churls raised pit bulls for fighting, and he attended fights across the state line. He also made book with locals, and I thought I might find a ledger with names and transactions. He’s dead, but we can still nail the jerks that support the inhumanity of dogfighting. I was going to take what I found to the newspaper and try to get them interested in an exposé.”

Sipping tea, I tried to decide if she was lying. The story about Gary Gallager wouldn’t withstand scrutiny through cracked sunglasses, and I wasn’t sure about the alleged ledger, either. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” I asked.

“Because,” she said, still facing the window, “I think there are some newsworthy names in it, and I want the proof in my possession before I mention its existence. I don’t want to be beaten by some hulk in a pickup truck, have the shelter burned down, or even alert certain people who could make sure I never left NewCo.”

“Whose names?”

When she turned around, the light from the window silhouetted her and her face was difficult to see. “I will not mention a single name until I have the proof. You can order a toothbrush, but let me warn you that my three dogs sleep on the bed in the guest room, and the mousetrap in the corner is there for a reason.”

“Did you tell the sheriff that you’re married?” I asked, changing gears.

“No, and I don’t want anyone to tell him. It’s my private business and it doesn’t have anything to do with the pet thefts or Newton Churls’s death. I didn’t shoot Daryl, and I didn’t hear anything or see anyone. If you don’t mind, I’ve had an unpleasant day, and tomorrow will be worse because we’re going to be forced to put down the animals from NewCo. It has to be done, but it upsets the entire staff.” She put the teacup on the tray. “I’m going to call the hospital, take a bath, and knit several miles of muffler to relax myself.”

I suggested aspirin, and left. As I drove in the general direction of my apartment, I thought about her story and decided at least some of it was pure fabrication. Since having me as a houseguest was not the most appalling thing imaginable (I’m tidy and well-behaved), I further decided her motive was unknown but important.

There was no way to verify the existence of Gary Gallager, who might or might not be a real person, and therefore might or might not reside anywhere in the country. She claimed she’d fled from him in Missouri, but why would she return home and continue to use her married name if she was frightened that he would track her down? Even if that was true, she was confused about her dates, because, according to the envelope in her bedside table, she’d been Jan Gallager twenty years ago. All in all, it was not a very adept lie; I surely could have produced one worthy of a thick romance novel, if not a miniseries or trilogy.

When I arrived home, Caron was on the telephone in her bedroom, shrieking about Rhonda Maguire. I made a drink, tried to distract myself with the newspaper, and was lost in roiling thoughts when Peter knocked perfunctorily and came into the living room.

I fetched him a beer and we settled down on the sofa like an ancient married couple.

“Committed any more crimes this afternoon?” he asked.

I considered the question. “Do you enjoy my company?”

He nuzzled my neck and assured my earlobes that he did, and very much indeed, thus allowing me to rule out what Jan might have deemed blackmail. I wanted to ask his opinion about the latest developments, but timing is everything when dealing with a man who thinks himself sensitive.

“Tell me about your mother,” I commanded.

The nuzzles grew more intense, and I was barely listening as he said, “She wants to meet you.”

“What?” I croaked. I flung myself to the far end of the sofa. “Why?”

“She’s just curious, and you of all people ought to understand how that operates,” Peter said, glumly eyeing the space between us. “I told her a little bit about you. I’m always convinced what I say never registers, but all of a sudden she’ll regurgitate some tidbit and demand more information.”

“What did you tell her?”

He held up his hands. “That you were an attractive and intelligent widow, a terrible cook, a mystery novel reader, a martyred mother, and a meddlesome snoop.”

“Well, I’m not,” I sniffed, “and I don’t like the idea of you talking about me to anyone, including your mother.”

“She’s institutionalized, Claire. She’s not going to demand you appear for an inquisition. She wasn’t all that fascinated, for that matter. She sent me away because she was expecting a message from Ulf, a twelfth-century Norse sorcerer.” He paused, then frowned and said, “Now what?”

“Meddlesome.”

“And why was the Book Depot closed at five o’clock this afternoon? Aerobics class? A séance?”

Tricky. “I was running an errand for a friend,” I said with a vague gesture. “What am I going to do about Miss Emily’s dogs, Peter? She’ll be home in less than two weeks. The dogs may have been dissected by then. I’m not meddling this time—I have a responsibility to find Nick and Nora, and Sheriff Dorfer’s not even interested. He’s got Arnie, and that satisfies him. Colonel Culworthy, Vidalia, and the Maranonis are visibly aging from the worry. I wish I could dismiss the thefts with a kind yet condescending smile, but I can’t!”

He seemed a little startled by my outburst. “The thefts took place within the city limits, so we can consider them within our jurisdiction. However, the chief’s going to say pretty much what the sheriff did—there are too many other crimes requiring our attention. I’m on a homicide now. Nothing mysterious, but something that demands my time and creates stacks of paperwork. Homicides come before dognappings.”

“The theft of the basset hounds will cause Miss Emily to have a heart attack,” I said.

“My hands are tied.” He looked at them, then leered at me. “Actually, they’re not. And if you’ll meet me in the middle of that cushion, I’ll prove it to you.”

“Whatever will your mother say?” I murmured, accepting the invitation. He tended toward tedium in certain matters, but he did other things with great charm.

After he’d left, I carried glasses into the kitchen, checked the locks, and turned off the light in the living room. I’d intended to go to bed, but I found myself at the front window, looking at the shadowy trees, the branches of which were beginning to take substance as buds neared opening. The sidewalk was vacant; the lawn in front of Farber Hall a rolling expanse of mottled camouflage…like Daryl’s jacket in the photograph at Jan’s house.

A pickup truck with one headlight drove by. I couldn’t remember the current term, but in my high school days we’d called them cockeyes, and kept a tally. One hundred cockeyes and one was granted a wish, at least in theory (I didn’t find a red Jaguar parked out front the next morning, nor, one hundred cockeyes later, was I asked on a date by the president of the Latin club, a
damnum sine injuria
if ever there was one). I doubted I could spot ninety-nine more before Miss Emily stepped off the carbon monoxide-belching bus and called for Nick and Nora.

The sheriff wasn’t going to do anything, and Peter couldn’t. Meddlesome or not, that left only amateurs, and we were a sorry bunch. Vidalia, faithfully doing Astra’s chart. Colonel Culworthy, leading commando raids. The Maranonis, one vague and the other vitriolic. And Daryl Defoe, unconscious from a bullet wound to his chest.

Which put me back where I’d been a few hours earlier, when I was trying to figure out Jan’s need to lie. As I ran through the story, something occurred to me. If she’d come home to Farberville, it was reasonable to assume she’d grown up here. I had a wispy memory of something in a previous conversation about recognizing Churls…who’d acted as if he’d recognized one of the commandos on our first visit.

But Jan hadn’t been with us.

I couldn’t ask Churls (unless Ulf could be persuaded to intercede), but I could find out about Jan’s past, if she had been reared in Farberville. The high school had been on the hill in the south part of town for a long time; I didn’t know when it was built, but I’d roamed the dim corridors at one time, due to an untimely demise in the teachers’ lounge, and it was obvious the first seniors by now had attended their offsprings’ graduation ceremonies.

I didn’t need to prowl for graffiti in the rest rooms in the basement, however. There was a record of everyone who’d attended, complete with organizations, awards, and snippety predictions, and it was accessible without the necessity of yet another felony. Since primeval times, each year there had been a copy of the Farberville High School
Falconnaire
—and I knew where to find them.

I tiptoed down the hall. Caron’s room was dark and the only sound was a snuffly snore. I grabbed a jacket, my purse, and the car keys, made sure the front door was locked securely, and went around the back of the house to my car.

As I drove to Willow Street, I spotted a cockeye in the rearview mirror. That left only ninety-eight, should I have misjudged Miss Emily’s penchant for hanging on to every last scrap of anything that came into her hands and had printed words. Her house was dark, as was Culworthy’s next door. One light was on in the second floor of Vidalia’s apartment house; as I watched, a woman carrying a baby paced past the window, neither happy.

The key was in the mailbox. I went inside, made sure the curtains were closed, and snapped on a lamp. Although what I was doing was perfectly legal, it didn’t particularly feel that way and I wasn’t certain the sheriff hadn’t assigned someone to watch Daryl’s apartment upstairs.

The yearbooks were in a bookcase in the bedroom, and went back forty years. Jan was somewhere around forty, I decided, as I did a bit of mental subtraction, took volumes from 1965 to 1973 from the shelf, and settled down on the living room sofa.

To my regret (and Miss Emily’s, I was sure), the high school journalism budget precluded indexes. I blew the dust off 1965 and waded through the faculty and administration, teams, cheerleaders teetering on shoulders and prominently displaying their pompoms, and finally found the section of individual pictures grouped by class.

The freshmen were aptly named. Their faces were dewy, some with lingering remains of childhood puffiness. There was still a hint of terror in their eyes, as if waiting for an upperclassman to harass them or to lose their way to the library. Smiles were tentative, and Peter Pan collars abounded. No Gallagers, no Defoes.

The sophomores had survived the tribulations of ninth grade and gazed back coolly, despite a higher incidence of acne. No Gallagers, no Defoes. The juniors were smug, and the seniors made it clear they’d assumed their adulthood and learned how to engage in all the vices befitting this new status. No Gallagers, no Defoes.

Jan might have transferred to the school after 1965, I told myself with more optimism than the memory warranted. I poured myself a glass of Miss Emily’s sherry, stretched, and reached for 1966.

In 1969, I began to doze. Nixon was president, Armstrong had taken one giant step, Yasir Arafat was getting ready to cause grief to the newly elected Golda Meir, we’d learned how to pronounce Chappaquiddick, and several of my friends had driven to a farm outside Woodstock. We’d met Big Bird and Doonesbury for the first time.

And Jan Gallager was a junior at Farberville High School.

I rubbed my eyes for a minute, banishing ghosts, and peered at the picture. Her hair was long enough to be pulled back in a severe ponytail, but the smile was as friendly, the eyes as wide, the forehead as broad. Jan was in the band, belonged to the French Club and Mu Alpha Theta, and worked as a monitor in the office.