Authors: Rett MacPherson
“It doesn't really matter, in the end, what I think. It's what you think of yourselves. After all, you're the only one that has to look at yourself in the mirror.”
Just then that damn mad terrier ran from behind the bushes and tried to get out the gate, smearing my bare legs with mud in the process.
“Damn it, Sparky. Get down!” Rita yelled.
One of those weird things happened to me then. It wasn't déjà vu, but something similar in feeling. My brain released some little speck of information from wherever it had stored it. Just a flash, but just enough.
“Rita, when did Sparky get his shots?”
“On Friday.”
“Jeff picked him up Thursday?”
“Yeah, and kept him overnight. He'd return him the next day after the visit. Why?”
“No reason.”
I arrived home, shaken and reeling from information. Some of which I wish I had never heard. Sheriff Colin Brooke's car was out front, and I could just imagine how he must have felt inside my house, with my mother, her ex-husband, and four other musicians.
When I entered my home, Dad raised his eyebrow. That means “Hiya kid” without having to stop picking his guitar. I walked quickly through the living room and into the kitchen, to find it empty. Of course, Mom had to be on the back porch. Where else could she go to get away from the racket?
Mom wore her lavender pantsuit, and Sheriff Brooke wore his usual jeans and T-shirt, and was sitting in a chair opposite Mom.
I could tell the minute I stepped onto the porch that either something was wrong or I'd interrupted something. I must have been wearing the day's events on my face because my mother immediately said to me, “What's wrong?”
“Nothing. Well, all sorts of things, but that's not relevant. What's up?”
“I just came by to tell you,” Sheriff Brooke said, “that the plates I ran down belong to a golfing buddy of Ortlander's.”
“And what about the car on Norah's street?”
“A pizza delivery.”
“Oh. Strikeout.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I'm going upstairs for a minute,” I said, and walked through the kitchen back to the living room.
“Hey, Torie,” Uncle Melvin said. “Wanna sing some more?”
“Nah,” I said, rounding the banister to head upstairs. “I've had my evening in the spotlight. Enough to last me, oh, at least the next ten years.” They all laughed, and as I stepped onto the landing upstairs, I heard one of them say that I was a halfway decent singer. Which is actually a compliment in the highest regards.
I got in the shower and let the hot water run over my head. I stood there immobile for at least ten minutes, just running the events of the last two days through my head.
Jeff had lied about the last time he saw his mother. He said that he saw her last on Thursday when he picked up the dog. But the dog was at Norah's house that morning because Fern had heard it on the phone. Which meant that for some reason he didn't take the dog to the vet for its eleven o'clock appointment, but picked it up later, because the dog was then missing when the police arrived.
No dog Thursday night. Dog Friday morning. No dog Friday afternoon.
Why would he lie? Unless he had no real alibi and got scared and made one up.
Rita was definitely having an affair with John Murphy, who by the way still had no alibi, and I was seriously beginning to doubt his sincerity at being so shook up. An affair, I could forgive him. But with Rita?
And what of the ominous Michael Ortlander? Definitely violent tendencies. He'd committed murder at least four times before, and according to Rita, had actually answered Norah's ad. Something that she probably could have told me, if the damn delivery boy hadn't had incredibly bad timing and come to the door just as I called her that Thursday night.
And of course, the one thing that I was trying to keep completely out of my mind was Sylvia. Why had Hermann Gaheimer left her a million and something dollars? Why had he written, “my beloved Sylvia”? I didn't think anybody had ever referred to Sylvia as “beloved” in her life. “Old battle-ax” seemed much more appropriate. All right, I'll say it. Could they have been ⦠lovers?
No. Then why? Hermann had been married, had children for God's sake, and he gave everything to a twenty-something neighbor?
I got out of the shower and picked up the phone and dialed the number that was on the veterinarian's receipt that I still had sitting on my desk.
“Animal Care, Terri speaking.”
“Yes, this is ⦠Rita Schmidt,” I said. “I'm trying to get my mother's accounts straightened out and I was wondering if you could help me with a receipt that I have.”
“Who's your mother?”
“Norah Zumwalt. The dog is a terrier named Sparky.”
“Oh, hello, Rita. Didn't recognize your voice right away.”
“I've got a cold.”
“I hate summer colds.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Which day were you concerned with?”
“May the second,” I said.
“Oh, I see your confusion,” she said. “Jeff called and had the appointment moved to Thursday that week, because he had something to do on Friday. That's why the receipt has the wrong date on it. Did you need anything else?”
Which meant he returned the dog on either Thursday night or early Friday morning. So what happened to it Friday afternoon? It was gone when the police arrived and somehow Rita ended up with it. It was my guess that whoever returned the dog to Rita was the person who killed Norah. Or maybe Rita took the dog with her after killing her mother?
God, that was a terrifying thought. Especially after I'd just confronted her with her affair with John Murphy. On her property no less.
“Hello,” Terri asked. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
I hung up the phone and stood in my towel, pondering just what this could mean. Jeff's sudden lack of an alibi was quite damning.
“Hey, baby,” a voice said from behind me.
I screamed and turned around with a jump. It was Rudy.
“Are you undressed for me?”
“God, no,” I said. “I mean, I didn't mean it like that. You scared the pee out of me.”
“You look like you've seen a ghost,” he said.
“I think I just discovered who killed Norah. Based on Rita's answer to one vital question.”
He rolled his eyes. “Who is it?”
“Depends on Rita's answer, but it might be Jeff.”
“Her own son? Well, I hope you figure it out soon because we'd like to have you back,” he said smiling. “By the way, Sheriff Brooke called.”
“He did? He was just here a few minutes ago.”
“Your mother said he left forty-five minutes ago.”
I must have really been zoned out in the shower. I couldn't believe that much time had passed. “What did he want?”
“He said for you to meet him up in Arnold at a place called the Dump. Said he had to show you something that you would find interesting.”
“Why there? I mean, that place is a dump, no pun intended,” I said. “Besides, didn't it flood?”
“No, I think they sandbagged and they saved it.”
“All right. I'll try not to be too late, though. I have the museum opening tomorrow, and I don't have the article finished yet,” I said.
After I dressed, I headed downstairs. The first thing I noticed was that it was quiet. I went in the kitchen and found Mom. “Hey, where's Dad and the gang?”
“Crashed out on the back porch.”
Taking a peek out the back-door window, I saw Dad lying on the hammock, with Uncle Melvin lying directly under him on the floor. Just how they slept as children. Bob Gussey was asleep in the rocker, one of the chickens pecking at his shoes. Pete Ramey sat sleeping upright in the swing, with Josh Rizzoni curled up on it with his head in Pete's lap. After they slept off the last two days of beer and music, they'd get up and start all over again. When they were young, this was an “artist” thing. Now, I think they were just trying to relive their youth. Which I suppose is fine.
“I'm headed up to Arnold to meet with Sheriff Brooke. I hope I'll be back pretty soon.”
“Okay. Rudy's parents are bringing Rachel and Mary home early tomorrow morning on their way to church.”
“Good. I really miss them.”
“They've only been gone a day.”
“No, I mean I've been so wrapped up with Norah's murder and such that I just haven't given them the appropriate attention,” I said guiltily. “I think I may have figured it out, though. I think I might know who killed her.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Well, it depends on one piece of information. I think it might have been Jeff.”
“Oh, God. How horrible. Well, if you're right then that makes up for everything,” she said. “Your children will understand that you've done something really important. Maybe not now, but someday they will. And they'll be proud of you.”
“Really? Good, I feel better,” I said. I kissed her on top of the head. “I'm going. Tell Rudy that there is a chicken loose out there. See if he can get her put in the coop.”
It was late evening by now, and the sun had started to set. I'd half expected that Rudy was wrong and the Dump would actually be closed. It sat right on the Meramec River, and I didn't think it was worth saving. But the river was held at bay about two feet from its doors by sandbags piled like a perfect fortress all around it. I guess if man wants a beer, come hell or high water, he'll get one.
I couldn't imagine what it was the sheriff wanted to show me. Maybe he had something new on Ortlander, but I knew that Ortlander was not the one that killed Norah. It was either Jeff or John, and I didn't really want to call Rita and ask her which one of them had dropped the dog off. I wanted to let Rita cool off from our conversation earlier. I also thought I'd let Sheriff Brooke handle it from here on out. I'd done my best. I had got him his angle that he didn't have, and in the end it had nothing to do with Norah's family tree. I was finished with this.
I threw my purse on my shoulder and entered the Dump, waiting a few seconds to let my eyes focus through the thick fog of cigarette smoke. I glanced around and didn't see Sheriff Brooke. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen his bright yellow car outside either.
When my eyes adjusted, I saw a set of eyes staring at me, as if he were in a trance. It was John Murphy. And he was staring at my pretty little neck as if he were Count Dracula.
I turned to leave the bar. I could only think of one reason that he would be in this bar. He had killed Norah Zumwalt. Before I had the chance to make it to the door, a hand landed on my shoulder. I knew it was John before I even turned around. I breathed deeply, trying to steady my shaking hands, and turned to face him.
“What a coincidence,” I said. “I'm meeting Sheriff Brooke here.”
“Don't play stupid,” he said, cutting my game plan in two. “I made that call to your house.”
Funny. If somebody would have asked me two days earlier to describe John Murphy, I would have said that he was a handsome man. Now, he looked twisted and sadistic, nearly ugly.
“Everybody knows where I am. I've also told several people about you. They'll figure it out.” I don't suppose I have ever been more terrified in my whole life than I was when he spoke his next sentence.
“I don't care,” he said.
It was at that moment that I knew he'd kill me. He was afraid of nothing and had nothing to lose. There was no Achilles' heel that I could find, no crack in his armor.
That made him the most dangerous man alive.
Before I could react, he yanked me by the hair of my head and spun me around the room.
“Help!” I yelled. “I don't know this man!”
To my horror, the men in the bar raised their glasses and cheered in respect for a man that knew how to keep his woman in line.
“Help!” I said. I kept hoping to hit the right frequency that would signal somebody in the bar that this was for real.
“That'll teach her to keep her sweet ass home!” somebody yelled.
My purse beat against my side, reminding me of the letter opener that I'd shoved in it days before. I'd never taken it out. Once in my purse it's in there for life. John pulled me out the door of the bar. I had this perverted notion that I'd actually be better off alone with him than in that bar.
It was warm outside. Muggy. He still had my hair locked in his fingers. We were now headed to his car. I knew if I ever got into it, I'd never get out of it alive. Just look what he'd done to Norah.
I reached into my purse, but the letter opener eluded me. My breathing was constricted from fear, and my hands shook. My right hand closed on an item in my purse, but it wasn't the letter opener. A bottle of something ⦠breath freshener.
“Let go of me,” I managed. “Please.”
We were two feet from his car, John making sounds more animal than human, when he paused to reach for the door. I fumbled with the bottle, flipping the lid off with my thumb. I didn't wait for just the right momentâI wasn't thinking that clearly. I just aimed the container in the direction of his face and hoped that it got in his eyes. I sprayed over and over. Finally, it hit where I wanted it to.
Releasing me instantly, he called me everything he could think of. Finally, I found the letter opener. I tried to run, but he clutched the bottom of my purse, so I just let it slide off my arm. I was running. Freedom felt great. I reached my car. Sickness set in when I realized my keys were in my purse. The purse that hung at the end of John Murphy's hand. I glanced around and ran in the only direction I could: toward the river. I flew over the wall of sandbags and into the water, which reached my knees. I thought I'd run along the riverbank and lose him. Then when it was safe I'd find a street and go for help. There was just one problem. There was no riverbank, due to the flooding. There was muddy, stinking water everywhere.