“What?”
“I have really long, hard periods, okay? Cramps you wouldn’t believe. And cramps or not, right now I have to keep this lousy dancing up, to keep the rent paid.”
“Well, I can handle that. Quit! I’ll take care of you.”
“Jim... you’re wonderful. But it is too soon to talk that way. Next week. I promise.”
That had been almost a week ago; several similar but briefer conversations had followed. Last night, out of desperation, he had gone to the club, looking for her; he was told she no longer worked there. He had even risked going to the Watergate, personally, to her apartment, where his knocking at her door went unanswered.
Now, early the following morning, he sat in his silk robe, brooding in his study, staring at the unlighted fireplace, scratching Tricky Dick around his collar.
“Sir...”
“Edward! I didn’t hear you. Where the hell’s my breakfast, man?”
“It’ll have to wait, sir.”
“Why in hell?”
“You should see the morning papers, sir. It’s... not good, sir.”
“What are you talking about?”
Edward, looking solemn, and dressed in a dark suit with dark tie that represented his street clothes, handed him the Washington Post.
The headline shouted RAWSON SUSPECT IN MURDER INVESTIGATION, and above it a smaller heading said: POLICE SOURCES SAY. Just glancing, he took in his own picture, and another of Vicki, under which were the words SUICIDE OR MURDER?
Edward spoke in a whisper: “She is the girl’s sister.”
“What...”
“Sheila Douglas.”
“What the hell are you saying, Edward?” Rawson was transfixed by this front page from Hell.
“Sheila Douglas,” Edward said slowly, as if speaking to a child, his barely audible voice nonetheless like a scream in Rawson’s brain, “is Vicki Petersen’s sister.”
“Edward...?”
“She took a job where her sister had danced, hoping you would return to the scene of the crime. She had reason to believe you would. Apparently, the late Vicki had told her all about you.”
“Oh my God.”
“When you take time to read that article, you’ll discover that Miss Douglas... actually, Miss Petersen, Sheila Petersen... has given the authorities tapes of conversations between myself... your ‘major domo’... and you, sir.”
“Oh. Oh God. Just two nights ago... we negotiated your latest raise...”
Edward continued in a barely audible, increasingly harsh whisper. “And we mentioned Miss Petersen’s murder, the other Miss Petersen that is, as the motivation behind that salary increase. Yes, sir. The little bitch has had this town-house bugged.”
“That’s impossible! And this story is impossible. If this had been brewing, my phone would have rung off the hook last night with police and reporters...”
“Have you seen your answering machine, sir? The little red light is blinking furiously.”
Rawson’s hand came to his face. “Oh my God, Edward! Where does that leave us?”
“I had hoped you might have some thoughts on that subject.” Edward sighed. “But since you don’t...”
Edward’s hand came out from behind his back and swung the wrench.
Rawson’s surprised expression, below his caved-in skull, remained frozen as he toppled off the couch onto the parquet floor, where blood began to spill, then pool, glisteningly.
Tricky Dick, the cat, startled, leapt from the couch, looking for safe haven. Edward didn’t consider the cat worthy of notice as he wiped the bloody wrench clean of his prints, thinking, For what good it will do me, and made his escape out the underground passageway.
His escape from the house, that is.
In the alley, the police were waiting. Edward sighed, put up his hands; in the police car, nearby, sitting on the rider’s side in front, was Sheila Petersen. She was smiling like the cat that ate the canary.
As for Tricky Dick, he was asleep in his bed in the corner of the kitchen. The only thing the tiny transmitter in his collar was picking up now was the deep, purring-like sound of the tom’s breathing.
World’s Greatest Mother
Mark Twain once came to town. He wrote about seeing the most magnificent sunsets here. Nestled serenely on the Mississippi River, our little city offers its citizens good quality life.
But all life ends, eventually. Sometimes abruptly.
My name is Joan Munday. My partner is Frank Lausen. We make up one-third of the six man — actually, five man, one woman — detective unit of the Port City Police Department.
It was Saturday, June 18, a day so perfect I could have killed to be out with Dan and the kids on the river: but instead, Frank and I were called to a new housing addition on the north side of town.
The homes in Mark Twain Meadows were expensive — by small town standards, anyway — with manicured lawns and well-tended flower gardens. The streets had quaint names — Samuel Clemens Road, Tom Sawyer Drive and Huckleberry Finn Lane.
We pulled up in front of 714 Pollyanna Place, and got out.
Walter, our crime lab technician, met us at the door. He was pushing fifty, balding, and looking tired.
“This way,” he said, turning.
We followed.
The living room was tastefully decorated — perhaps too tastefully; it could have been the showroom of a pricey furniture store: couch and chairs matching in fabric, pictures and knick-knacks coordinating in color, all working together in harmony to produce somebody’s idea of wonderful. Not mine. I couldn’t imagine anyone “living” in this living room.
And there was one person who obviously agreed with me.
He was stretched out on the floor, on his face, in front of the fireplace, like a big bear rug. About six feet, two hundred pounds, he wore black cowboy boots, blue jeans and a torn white T-shirt. His hair was blonde — except on the left side of his head, where it was now a blackening red.
Walter broke the silence. “A single blow to the head. His name is Travis...”
“I know who he is,” I cut in.
Every town has a bully. Travis Wykert was ours. As far back as junior high, his penchant for pounding those smaller than him had got him in trouble with the law. As an adult, he’d been brought up several times on assault charges, but no one would testify.
“That the weapon?” asked Frank. He was a sandy-haired, husky man in his late twenties — ten years younger than me. He gestured toward the couch, where a trophy lay encased in a clear plastic bag.
Walter nodded. “Wiped clean.”
“Went there,” Frank said, pointing to the mantle above the fireplace. “See the spot in the dust?”
I looked, and caught my reflection in the large mirror over the fireplace; should have spent a little more time on my hair this morning.
I crossed over and picked up the bagged trophy, a heavy bronze statue of a woman holding a baby. A plaque on its base read World’s Greatest Mother.
“Where’s the owner?” I asked Walter.
“In the kitchen,” he said, “down the hall.”
The kitchen, in the back of the house, was a bright, spacious room, so clean the cabinets gleamed. But like the living room, it too didn’t look lived in. There was nothing on the counters, not even a toaster. Lace curtains framed the windows, while flocks of country geese roamed the walls.
At a round, oak table sat three women. The one on the left, smoking a cigarette, was middle-aged. She wore dark slacks and a black turtleneck top. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was short, mannish. She wore no make-up.
The woman in the middle, in a white skirt and a blouse with kittens on it, was also middle-aged. Her hair was dark blonde, shoulder-length; her face was obscured, buried in her hands as she sobbed.