Touchy and Feely (Sissy Sawyer Mysteries) (4 page)

She held up the other card, of the man and the boy in the graveyard, in the snow. ‘Les Visages Endeuillés. The Faces of Mourning. This card predicts that dozens of people are going to die. Dozens! As many people as snowflakes.’

Trevor gently took the cards from her and laid them back down on the coffee table. ‘Momma, this is nothing but hocus-pocus.’

‘You can say whatever you like, Trevor. But you mark what I’m telling you. Something terrible is going to happen round about here, very close by, and I could be the only one who’s aware of it. How do you think I’d feel, if I was sunning myself in Florida, and I heard that people in Litchfield County were dying like flies?’

Trevor opened his mouth and then he closed it again without saying anything.

‘You do understand, don’t you?’ said Sissy. ‘My talent . . . it gives me a great responsibility, too.’

‘So what exactly is going to happen?’ Trevor demanded. ‘An earthquake? A plane crash? A SARS epidemic?’

‘I can’t tell you, Trevor. Not yet. I’ll have to read the cards again; and then
again
, probably. As this terrible thing comes closer—whatever it is—the cards will be able to give me much more detail.’

‘Momma—even if you’re right—what can you do about it? You’re a sixty-seven-year-old woman with angina.’

‘I don’t suppose I can do anything much, my darling. But at least I won’t have run away.’

 

S
teve walked across the filling-station forecourt with an awkward hobble. He had pulled on his boots too quickly and his right sock had bunched up under his instep. Doreen followed him, zipping up her coat. Two patrol troopers were already here, red-nosed and nervous, as well as four or five people who looked like passing motorists, and a pair of truckers, and a boy with a moose-like nose wearing a shiny blue Sunoco windbreaker.

The victim was lying on his back with his blood frozen in a zig-zag pattern aross the concrete. A light fleece of snow covered his chest, and snowflakes clung to his eyebrows. His eyes were still open and he looked vaguely mystified, as if he couldn’t understand why he was unable to get up.

Steve looked down at him, and then circled around him, tilting his head one way, and then the other. He was a big man, six foot four, with wiry black hair and a rough-cast face, with deep-set eyes and a nose like a pug, but he moved with considerable delicacy, as if he were following waltz steps painted on the ground.

One of the troopers approached him, wiping his nose with the back of his glove. Steve took out his badge and held it in front of the trooper’s face, too close for him to focus. ‘I’m Detective Steven Wintergreen, in case you were wondering. This is Detective Doreen Rycerska.’

‘Oh. Sure. I’m Trooper Baxter Patrick. And that’s Trooper Willy Jones.’ Both troopers looked about seventeen years old, with creamy boys’ complexions and rosy cheeks. Baxter Patrick had gingery hair and Willy Jones had a little black mustache that must have taken him about six months of hard straining.

‘Do we know exactly when this happened, Trooper?’

‘Three-oh-seven. Willy and me was out looking for a stolen quad bike. We was less than five minutes away, at Allen’s Corners.’

‘Talked to any of these people yet?’ Steve asked him. ‘Which of them were eyewitnesses and which weren’t?’

‘Only the cashier saw it actually happen. The victim’s spouse was in the vehicle at the time, but she happened to be looking the other way.’

‘And these others?’

‘Stopped to help, when they saw that there was something wrong.’

‘Nobody touched anything?’

‘The victim’s wife gave him CPR, that’s all.’

‘Some people watch too much TV,’ said Doreen. Doreen was small and pasty-faced and sharp-featured, with unusually pale eyes. ‘CPR’s not much help for missing brains.’

Steve looked around the gas station, and across the highway, to the abandoned diner, and the woods. ‘Anybody see anything? Anybody hear a shot?’

Trooper Patrick shook his head. ‘According to the cashier, the guy just dropped.’ He opened his notebook and said, ‘Howard Stanton, aged forty-seven years old, realtor, 1441 Pine Vista, Sherman.’

They heard a siren approaching. An ambulance pulled into the filling station, followed by a Jeep from the coroner’s department. Steve walked over to the Ford Explorer where Sylvia Stanton was sitting in the passenger seat, with a plaid blanket wrapped around her. She was being comforted by a plain-looking woman with greasy blonde hair. Sylvia’s eyes were wild and she was shaking as uncontrollably as if she had Parkinson’s disease.

‘Mrs Stanton? My name’s Detective Steven Wintergreen, Connecticut State Police. This is Detective Doreen Rycerska. We’re deeply sorry for your loss, Mrs Stanton.’

‘I could take her home,’ said the plain-looking woman.

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you. She’s in shock. We’ll take her to the hospital and have her checked out.’

‘She needs warm milk with a shot of brandy in it,’ the woman persisted. ‘My mother gave my father warm milk with a shot of brandy in it, when he sawed all his fingers off.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Doreen. ‘You know, if ever I—’ and she loosely flapped her wrist.

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Steve told the woman, and smiled. The woman nodded, and then scowled at Doreen. Doreen took no notice. Doreen was used to being scowled at. Her husband Newton had walked out on her the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and taken the children, and the dog, and the First Connecticut savings book. She badly missed the savings book.

Steve took hold of Sylvia’s hands. ‘Mrs Stanton, we’re going to get you to the hospital, but first I have to ask you a couple of questions.’

Sylvia stared at him, still shaking. ‘I didn’t see anything. I was trying to tune the radio. I didn’t even see him fall down.’

‘You didn’t notice anybody lurking around the filling station?’

‘Nobody. No.’

‘You didn’t see any passing vehicles on the highway, moving very slowly, maybe?’

Sylvia shook her head.

‘How about stationary vehicles?’

‘There was nobody else here. We were the only customers.’

‘Did you hear anything? Like a car backfire?’

‘I didn’t see anything and I didn’t hear anything. I only looked around because Howard seemed to be taking such a long time to pay for the gas. That’s when I saw him, lying on the ground. I thought . . . he’s fallen over, why doesn’t he get up?’

‘And you didn’t see anybody else in the vicinity? Or any vehicles?’

‘Not that I can recall, no.’

Doreen said, ‘Mrs Stanton, do you know of anybody who might have wanted your husband dead?’

Sylvia blinked at her. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m asking you if anybody bears your husband any kind of grudge. Somebody he’s been doing business with, maybe.’

‘Of course not! Howard’s a Rotarian!’

Doreen was about to say something, but suddenly there was a whining noise from the back of the Explorer.

‘Oh, the poor little thing’s woken up,’ said Sylvia. She reached over and lifted the Labrador puppy into her lap. ‘My daughter’s Christmas present. We just drove down to Norwalk to collect it.’

Steve said, ‘OK, Mrs Stanton. We get the picture.’ He beckoned a young woman paramedic to take care of Sylvia, and led Doreen away.

Doreen hissed, ‘He was a Rotarian and so he didn’t have enemies?’

‘We’ll talk to her again, don’t worry. She’s too shocked right now to make any sense.’

‘Well, I believe in striking while the iron’s hot.’

‘I know you do. But
I
believe in finding out more about the guy’s background before I start asking questions like that. She might tell us that somebody at work was out to get him, but we have no way of validating it, not yet.’

He walked around the back of the Explorer and Doreen reluctantly followed him. The cashier was shuffling from one foot to the other, as if he needed to pee. He was so edgy that Steve could almost have believed that
he
had shot Howard Stanton.

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Willis Broward. Willis like in Bruce Willis.’

Steve wrote that down. ‘Well then, Willis. You actually witnessed Mr Stanton falling down?’

‘That’s right. He pays for his gas, OK, and he’s walking back to his car. He turns around to look back at me and then he just pitches over. It’s like somebody hits him with this invisible baseball bat. Whop.’

‘Which way did he fall?’

‘This way. Same way he’s lying now. Only he drops onto his side. His wife jumps out of her vehicle and she’s screaming and she turns him over and starts hitting him in the chest.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I come out here to see what’s happening but when I see the guy’s brains is spread all over the floor I go right back in and call 911.’

‘Did you see anybody hanging around here? Like,
before
this happened?’

The cashier sniffed and shook his head. ‘I was watching TV.’

‘You didn’t see anybody running away? Or a vehicle, maybe, driving off at speed?’

‘There was nobody, man. The guy just dropped. Maybe there was a sniper or something, out in the woods.’

‘OK,’ said Steve. ‘We’ll need to talk to you later.’

The cashier hesitated for a moment, and then he said, ‘I’m real sorry he’s dead and all, but the guy was a jerk.’

‘Oh, yes? What makes you say that?’

‘He won’t use my pen to sign his credit-card slip. He says I might be carrying some kind of disease.’

‘And
do
you?’ asked Doreen.

 

F
eely stood by the highway for over two hours but nobody stopped for him. Nobody even slowed down. His chin was so rigid with cold that he couldn’t unclench his teeth, and his sneakers contained nothing but ice-sculptures of human feet. He would have to give it up, and make his way back to the center of town.

He closed his eyes. ‘Oh Mary Wonderful Mother of God please help me to go North and fulfil my destiny. But, if you would prefer me to do otherwise, I will acquiesce and go to wherever your diamantine wisdom directs me. Amen.’

He was already struggling back up the bank when a dark-colored Chevy appeared out of the snow and slithered to a stop in the layby where he had been standing. It took almost twenty-five yards to come to a halt, and when it had stopped it stayed at an angle, its exhaust smoking scarlet, as if it were a vehicle from hell, and Jack Nicholson was driving it.

Feely hesitated. He wasn’t sure if the car had stopped for him or not. But it stayed by the side of the highway, with its engine running, and after fifteen seconds had gone by, it gave him an impatient blast on its horn. He slithered back down the bank, and approached the passenger door.

The window was rolled down. Feely smelled cigarette smoke and alcohol. ‘You looking for a ride?’ asked a dry, scraping voice.

‘Yes, sir. I’ve been standing here forever and I’m glacified. I’d almost surrendered all hope.’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘I don’t have any special destination in particular.’ Feely shielded his eyes with his hand but the driver remained in silhouette.

‘No special destination in particular? I like the sound of that. Why don’t you climb in, and we’ll go there together.’

Feely cupped his hand under the door-handle, but as he did so, the central-locking system clicked shut.

‘One thing, before I let you in,’ said the driver. ‘I want your assurance that you don’t suffer from any unusual personal odors.’

Feely tugged open the neck of his windbreaker and sniffed. He smelled of damp sweatshirt, and cooking fat from Billy Bean’s Diner, but that was all. ‘No, sir, I don’t think so.’

The door clicked open. ‘Welcome aboard, in that case. Do you like Jack Daniel’s? Shot of Jack Daniel’s, that’ll make your bells jingle.’

The Chevy snaked away from the roadside in a shower of slush, and the man put his foot down until the speedometer needle was hovering at sixty.

‘Hell of a day to be going anyplace,’ he remarked, cheerfully. ‘Let alone noplace at all.’

They sped due northward with the snow battering the windshield like a swarm of locusts. Feely glimpsed a sign saying Boardman’s Bridge, but the only signs of human life were a few unlit farmhouses, and snow-covered cars, and fields, and then they were gone.

The man drove so fast that he couldn’t possibly have seen anything before he hit it. A cow, a parked truck, a fallen tree: it made Feely’s forehead tingle to think about it. He tried to fasten his seat-belt, but he couldn’t find the buckle, so he twisted the belt around both hands like a bellringer and prayed to the Holy Virgin that the road was clear up ahead of them.

‘Am I
scaring
you?’ the man asked him, in that glasspaper rasp.

Feely said, ‘No.’

‘You don’t have to lie to me, son. If you’re scared you should say so. But let me tell you that there’s nothing to be scared about. Once they’ve taken everything away from you, what’s death?’

‘I’m not nervous,’ said Feely. ‘I’m just speculating.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Thinking. Like, if
I’m
not going to any destination in particular, and
you’re
not going to any destination in particular, and the weather’s so inclement—why are we in such a hurry?’

‘Hah! Because we have to make tracks, my friend, that’s why. We have miles to go before we sleep; and we have a whole lot of very necessary things to do.’

Feely hung onto the seat-belt as the man steered the Chevy round a long left-hand curve. He could feel the tires losing their grip on the road, and the tail-end of the car starting to slide away. The man frantically spun the steering wheel clockwise, and then counter-clockwise, and the car swayed and dipped and eventually straightened up.