Vengeance Is Mine (16 page)

“What'd you say?”

“The truth. I admitted that Mayor Hollenkamp was murdered by the same person or persons who killed Ray Perini, Dale Kline, and Brian Nordstrom. Then I gave the people tips on how to protect themselves.”

Doug whistled as he turned the car around and headed back toward the station.

“That took guts, Steve. They'll be on your back now, until you catch the guy. Chief Schultz would have barricaded himself in his office and avoided the press until they dragged him out by the heels.”

Steve grinned, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Doug was right. It was one of the reasons the chief had held on to his job for so long. He never gave press interviews, and no one knew he was a lousy cop.

Doug turned in at the employees' entrance and pulled up in back of the station.

“Well, here we are. Good luck, Steve. They're all waiting for you in front, like a pack of hungry wolves.”

“Thanks, Doug.”

“Say, Steve? I was just wondering if there's anything I can do to help. I'm off duty, and you wouldn't have to pay me overtime or anything. You know, legwork, phone work, anything at all.”

Steve smiled, and this time the smile did reach his eyes.

“As a matter of fact, there is something. Drive Michele over to Judith Dahlquist's and then go home and put on something that makes you look like a college kid. The jeans, sloppy sweatshirt, tennis-shoe look. Come back here, and I'll give you a list of things to check out for me.”

Doug looked eager. “You're giving me undercover detective work?”

Steve nodded. “I'm too well known to nose around, and I need a good man to help me.”

“Thanks, Steve. I'll be back in two shakes. I really appreciate this. Chief Schultz never gave me anything but traffic.”

Steve got out of the car and bent down to kiss Michele. “Love you, honey. I'll call you at Judith's. Stay there, okay?”

Michele nodded. She didn't trust her voice. Steve had said he loved her. She hoped it was more than a casual remark.

Steve stuck his head back in the open window. “Oh, Doug? I'm authorizing overtime for you whether you put in for it or not. We'll let the city pay for a new paint job for your car.”

Doug was smiling as he backed the car out of the parking space and drove toward the exit.

“Steve's a great guy. A lot of us think he ought to be chief.”

Michele nodded. Steve was walking away, and she hadn't told him she loved him too. There was a lump in her throat, and she blinked back tears as she watched Steve disappear behind the corner of the building. She just wished he didn't look so much like the brave, doomed sheriff going off to meet the fastest gun in the West.

 

 

Bishop Donahue bit down hard on his carrot stick. Steven Radke had just appeared on
News at Noon
, warning the people to take precautions because there was a killer loose in St. Cloud. There was no killer, and there were no murders. He was God's servant, guarding this Christian community against evil. Why was it so difficult for people to understand the marvelous ways of the Lord?

“Oh, there's Margaret Whitworth.” Mother Superior pulled her chair closer to the screen. “Could you turn up the volume, Sister Kate?”

Bishop Donahue watched carefully. After a few minutes he knew that Margaret Whitworth, the Black Queen, was initiating an attack. Black's plan was ingenious, a tactic worthy of the evil master. It was imperative that he go to his room immediately to plan his defense.

Major Pietre looked eager as Bishop Donahue got up from his chair.

“Would you like to play computer chess now, Bishop Donahue?”

“A little later, Major, after I practice. I'd be embarrassed if I lost to the computer.”

Major Pietre winked at Sister Kate. “He's just modest, you know. I don't think the devil himself could beat Bishop Donahue at chess.”

Bishop Donahue forced a friendly smile. There were times when Major Pietre had an uncanny knack for speaking the truth. He was glad the major was crazy and no one took him seriously.

A minute later Bishop Donahue was back in his room. Sister Kate would leave him alone, convinced that he was practicing for the computer match.

His board was set up exactly as he had left it. Bishop Donahue sat down at his desk and studied the pieces. Yes, there was no time to waste. The Black Queen was in an advantageous position, but he would outwit her. If he could capture Margaret Whitworth tonight, the game would be practically his.

CHAPTER 18

Michele stood at the edge of the skating rink with Judith, Toni, Louise, and the two bodyguards Steve had assigned. The figure skating competition had been a complete fiasco. Only four contestants had entered, and their parents were the sole spectators. Naturally they all had received prizes. There were five trophies for the winners, and one still sat on the snack bar counter.

Judith sighed morosely. “I guess Steve was right. People are afraid to come out.”

Danny Beesman stood close to Judith. He managed to look hopeful.

“Maybe you'll get more people out tonight. Steve's putting on lots of extra men.”

“Maybe. How about a couple of hot dogs and some coffee, Danny? The least I can do is feed you for standing out here all afternoon.”

“That'd be swell, Miss Dahlquist.”

“You, too, Ken.” Judith motioned to Ken Menke, Louise's bodyguard. “You two might as well eat hearty. We've got over a hundred hot dogs in the warmer.”

Judith fixed coffee and hot dogs for all of them. Michele wasn't hungry, but she took one anyway. This had to be the most depressing afternoon she'd ever spent, and the hockey game was due to start in an hour. What had happened to Margaret's promise of an audience?

“Look at that!”

Toni pointed toward Division Street. A convoy of Winnebagos was turning on Twelfth Avenue South.

Judith gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe everyone's moving out of town.”

The first Winnebago turned on the access road to Lake George Park, and the others followed. One by one they drove past the parking area until they came to the open field by the hockey rink.

Michele gasped as the first Winnebago cut across the snow to the rink.

“They're turning in here. What's going on?”

Margaret Whitworth got out of the lead Winnebago and waved at them. She seemed to be directing traffic.

The first big trailer parked lengthwise at the end of the rink. The others followed, moving into position so that they entirely surrounded the area. There were twelve in all, two at either end and four flanking each side. Margaret smiled as she strolled casually over to greet them.

“The wagons are in a circle. And here come the settlers, right on time.”

“Oh, my God!”

Judith's eyes widened as a school bus pulled up to park in the lot. The door opened, and Carl Hunstiger got out. He was dressed in a coonskin cap with a shotgun tucked under his arm.

“Okay, get inside the circle. Move along now.”

The passengers were smiling as they got off the bus and headed toward the hockey rink. They had no sooner disembarked than another school bus pulled up.

Judith shook her head. “What's all this, Margaret?”

“Your audience. I told you I'd get them out. George Simonson donated the Winnebagos. I'm giving him a free commercial tonight. And the fleet of school buses was easy. Alex Cooperman's running for president of the school board again, and I promised to endorse him. Close your mouth, Judith, and start selling tickets.”

 

 

“Here's another delivery, Michele.”

Steve set a stack of pizza boxes on the counter and hopped over. The game was in the first quarter, and they'd already gone through three hundred hot dogs. Thank goodness for the steady stream of delivery vans pulling up outside the snack bar with extra food. Margaret had arranged it all. Every pizza parlor in town was sending out its best at a dollar over cost.

Michele grinned at him and started to dish out pizza. They were selling it by the slice at a fifty-cent profit. Along with the coffee, the beer, and the hot chocolate, they'd already made more in one night than they'd hoped for in the whole hockey tournament.

Louise came rushing up to the counter, Ken Menke on her tail.

“Do we have any more WinterGame buttons, Michele? Kenny worked out a promotion. He takes four buttons from each box and marks them on the back. Anyone who buys a button with Kenny's secret word gets a five-minute ride in a real police car.”

“They're under the counter, Steve. That big box on the left. It's a good thing Judith ordered an extra ten thousand.”

Steve lifted the box and handed it to Ken. “Good thinking, Kenny.”

“We give the kids rides every year for our community liaison project. I just figured we'd do it a little early this year.”

There was a slight break in the wave of snack bar customers, and Michele turned to find Steve finishing the last of a pepperoni pizza. It was his second one tonight.

“Aren't you full yet?”

“I'm getting there. Maybe I'd better save some room. I figured we could go to Perkins after the game for one of their special omelets.”

Michele laughed and kissed him between bites. She'd been wrong about buying food by the case. They'd have to order it by the truckload.

 

 

Margaret unlocked her front door and turned on the lights in the living room. It was a quarter to eleven, and she was completely exhausted, but she felt marvelous. Every bit of work had been worth it. Margaret knew she'd never forget the look on their faces when she pulled up with those Winnebagos.

“Grover!” Margaret called before she remembered. Grover was spending the night at the vet's for deworming. Even though she'd had him for only one day, the house felt lonely without him.

She slipped off her boots and left them smack-dab in the middle of the living-room rug. Her coat landed on the recliner, which was now Grover's bed. Margaret went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a bottle of Chardonnay on the bottom shelf, but Dr. Weston had been firm about avoiding alcohol.

The way Margaret saw it, she had a choice: She could be miserably healthy or happily sick. It was no contest. Margaret got out the corkscrew and opened the bottle. Chardonnay was one of her favorite wines.

Margaret poured herself a glass. She carried it into the living room and switched on the television. She was just in time to catch the eleven o'clock news.

It was a relief to get off her feet. Margaret stretched out on the couch and took a sip of her wine. It was an excellent vintage. Even though she was tired, it had been a thoroughly rewarding day.

Kevin Reilly's tape came on, and Margaret smiled in satisfaction. The coverage of WinterGame was perfect in every respect. As usual, Kevin had done a crackerjack job. Several large stations around the country had tried to hire him away, but Margaret paid him well, and Kevin was loyal. Margaret believed in rewarding her employees for their talent and loyalty, and she had arranged a special bonus for Kevin. If he was still employed at the station at the time of her death, he would become the new owner.

Some people might call it macabre, but Margaret took pleasure in planning for her own death. She had no immediate heirs, and her estate was hers to do with as she wished. She had a few surprises up her sleeve, and she wished that she could stick around just long enough to hear the reading of her will. It was undoubtedly the best piece she'd ever written.

The doorbell rang, and Margaret frowned. Who could be calling on her at this hour? She got up from the couch and pulled back the curtains slightly so she could see her front doorstep. A nun stood on the top step, her finger on the bell.

What on earth? Margaret was puzzled. She felt like refusing to answer, but that would definitely not be diplomatic. The clergy was probably protesting her coverage of WinterGame again.

Margaret gave a resigned sigh and reached for the lock. Then she paused. There was no reason why the nun couldn't come to the station during regular business hours. Ringing her doorbell at half past eleven in the evening was just plain inconsiderate.

Mind made up, Margaret turned on her heel and went back to the couch. Her station was running
That Touch of Mink
, and she didn't want to miss her favorite scene. Watching a drunken Doris Day in a hotel-room bed with an empty liquor bottle stuck on her toe was bound to be a lot more enjoyable than making polite conversation with the clergy.

The doorbell rang again during the commercial break, but Margaret didn't move from the couch. A few minutes later she heard footsteps at the side of the house, and then the back doorknob rattled as someone tried to get in. That nun certainly didn't give up easily.

When the bumper card came on for the late movie, the doorbell rang again. That did it. Margaret got up and stormed to the front door, fully prepared to give the persistent nun a piece of her mind. She yanked open the door and gasped as she confronted a uniformed policeman.

“I'm sorry if I disturbed you, Mrs. Whitworth, but Steve Radke sent me over to be your bodyguard. I'm Doug Phillips, and here's my identification.”

The handsome young policeman looked nervous, and Margaret smiled to put him at ease. She must have looked like the wrath of God when she pulled open the door.

“Did you walk around the back, Doug? I thought I heard someone try the door.”

“No, Mrs. Whitworth. I just drove up a second ago. Wait right here, and I'll check it for you.”

Margaret watched as Doug walked around the back of the house, shining his flashlight on the walkway. If Doug hadn't been at the back door, it must have been that rude nun. She'd definitely corner Archbishop Ciminski at the first opportunity to complain about the manners of the clergy.

 

 

Doug was cautious as he walked around the back of the house. He held his flashlight in his left hand, his gun in his right. The backyard was deserted now and Doug thought about going as far as the garage, but Margaret was in the house alone. Doug's orders were to protect her, not tramp around in the deep snow, looking for footprints.

After one last sweep of the yard with his flashlight, Doug turned back. A moment after he had left, two figures dressed in black emerged from their hiding place behind Margaret's garage. Doug was already inside when they hurried swiftly down the alley and disappeared in the darkness of the night.

Margaret was waiting by the door as Doug come in again. “The snow's trampled, Mrs. Whitworth, but there's no one there now.”

“Thank you, Doug. I was just getting ready to watch a movie. Do you like Doris Day?”

“Sure, Mrs. Whitworth. I just love vintage movies.”

Margaret laughed. As soon as Doug settled on the couch, she went into the kitchen for the bottle of Lafite-Rothschild she'd been saving for a special occasion. She was about to teach Doug Phillips the meaning of the word
vintage
.

 

 

Henry Corliss washed his hands and went back to his desk. He had been working steadily since seven this evening and he was finally on the right track. It was all due to that book he'd read describing Spilsbury's techniques when he was the home office pathologist for Scotland Yard.

His new digital watch gave two shrill beeps for the hour, and Henry spilled his coffee. He wished he could find the directions that had come with the watch. He'd pressed every button on the damned thing, and he still couldn't figure out how to shut off that beep. It was miserable wearing a watch that had the power to scare the hell out of him twenty-four times a day, but Edith had thrown away his beat-up Bulova.

It was midnight. Henry picked up the phone and dialed Steve's number. No one was home. He let the phone ring the recommended ten times and hung up. Steve must have stopped somewhere on the way home from the hockey game. By the time Henry finished up here, Steve should be home.

Henry poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. It tasted even worse than usual tonight. He guessed it hadn't been such a good idea to wash the pot. All the flavor must have come from the built-up residue. Now it would take another six months to get decent coffee again.

There was a can of Snappy Tom in the small refrigerator that Henry used to preserve specimens. His last assistant had been fond of Bloody Marys. Henry opened it and finished it off at a gulp. His ulcer would kick up, but it was worth it. The pepper in the tomato juice would keep him awake while he finalized his results. He had spent the past five hours measuring and doing research. Now he was ready to put it together.

Henry referred to his notes and carefully punched out the data on his computer terminal. He was using the new calculus program that everyone recommended. First he entered the specific density ratio of bone versus brain tissue, then the downward momentum achieved by raising the human arm to full extension before lowering it again, and finally the average force capable of being applied by the arm muscles in such a position. There was only one variable he hadn't been able to figure, but the computer could take care of that. It had to do with where the murderer had grasped the weapon. The business end of a baseball bat, grasped at the handle, could deliver a much more powerful impact than a shorter bat of the same heft. Henry had tried to compensate for his lack of information by devising a sliding scale that was exponential. Now everything was up to the computer. Henry punched in the code for the printout and leaned back in his chair, waiting for the results.

Seconds later the printer activated. Henry decided to wash his face while the computer did his work for him. It shouldn't take long to print out the possibilities for the length and height of the murder weapon.

The men's room at the end of the hall was deserted as usual. Henry stared at his red-eyed reflection in the mirror and frowned. He looked god-awful. He ran cold water in the sink, soaked a paper towel, and pressed it to his eyes. Two minutes should help reduce the redness. He didn't want the student nurses to think he'd been on a bender down here.

Five minutes later Henry walked back down the corridor. He opened his office door and stared at the paper that had spewed out of the printer in his absence. Thirty-two pages of calculations, and the printer was still going. He must have done something wrong.