Authors: Charlaine Harris

Dead Over Heels (16 page)

She said a few more words, then traipsed down the sidewalk and slid into the car. Stanford Foley watched her with a happy face. I handed Sally the keys, and she started the motor under the watchful beam of her new swain.

When Sally had finished smiling and waving, and actually reversed the car, I asked in an acidic voice, “When are you and Stanford going out?”

“Oh, Roe,” she said in a wounded way, “can’t I enjoy a man’s company for just a little minute?”

“Not when I’ve been yanking my muscles all to pieces for you,” I said, and I meant it.

“So, tell me about it. How long did it take? I couldn’t believe it when I looked out the window and the Toyota was back.” Sally could be tactful when she chose, and she could tell she’d better choose now.

I gave her as long an account of my ordeal as I could, since it had lasted only ten minutes.

“How’d you do with Mr. Foley? Other than the obvious.”

“He’s really a sweet guy. Did you know he lives in half of that little building? I think the line between being at home and off duty, and being at work and being alert, have kind of blurred for Stanford.”

“I saw he was wearing earphones.”

“That seems to be his main pleasure, listening to music on that Walkman set. He likes country and western.”

“He play it loud?”

“I got the feeling he does.”

“So did he even hear you park the car in the lot?”

“No.”

“Did he know I’d moved the car?”

“No.”

“Did he even look out in the lot and ask how you’d gotten out to the airport?”

“No. He was in the living quarters when I knocked on the door. He had the earphones on, and he was singing along with the tape. It took him forever to hear me. He never looked out the window the whole time I was there.”

“He could have missed the car or truck with Jack in it completely, then.”

Sally nodded, her attention focused on turning back onto the interstate.

“How does he know it was Jack who reserved the plane?” I asked.

“Jack called. He said to reserve the plane for ten o’clock on Monday morning. He asked if anyone else had reserved a plane for that morning, because he might have the Piper up for a while.”

“So Foley told him there were no more reservations.”

“Right.”

“How come Mr. Foley’s so sure it was Jack that called?”

Sally looked over at me sharply. “Well, because that’s who he said he . . . Oh.”

“Right. Who’s to say it was Jack? Couldn’t the killer have made the reservation? All he’d have to know is that Jack used this airport.”

“You mean it was planned in advance.”

“Why not?”

Neither of us spoke for a minute, viewing with distaste bordering on nausea the murderer plotting with such care, perhaps seeing Jack often in the time between the call and the fall.

“Well,” said Sally, shaking herself and pulling out to pass a pickup that was surely going over the speed limit, “I’ll have to think about that some more. Later. Hey, I hear your friend Angel is pregnant!”

“Yes, she found out a few days ago.”

“That’s great! Shelby Youngblood’s pretty old to be a first-time dad, isn’t he?”

“He’s the same age as Martin.”

“Then you and Martin better get on the stick, girl. I had Perry so young that when I see these women having them late now, it seems funny to me. I know your mother would like a grandkid of her own—her husband’s got three now, doesn’t he?”

“She enjoys John’s grandchildren a lot.” I turned to look out of the window at the secondhand car dealers and fast-food places that were beginning to line the road from the interstate to Lawrenceton.

“So what about your own?”

I kept my face averted. “Sally, I can’t have children.”

Horrified silence.

“Roe, I’m so sorry.” We’d come to a stoplight. Sally patted my hand, and I restrained the impulse to slap hers.

“You’ve checked with specialists, I’m sure.” Still, there was the question in her voice.

“Yes. I don’t ovulate and I have a malformed womb.”

Laying it on the line.

“Roe, I don’t know what to say, except I’m sorry.”

“That’s all anyone can do,” I said, trying to keep the tears out of my voice.

“How long have you known?”

“Couple of months.”

“How’s Martin reacting?”

I took a deep breath, trying to stay composed. This was too new a sore to touch without considerable pain. “Martin wasn’t sure he wanted more anyway. You know he has a son, Barrett, who’s an adult now. So starting over had limited appeal for him.”

Sally finally seemed to realize I didn’t want to stay on the subject. “Well, I’ll take you out to lunch when we get back, as a thank-you. And then I have to take the bag back. How about Beef ’N More?”

She pulled in neatly beside my car in the
Sentinel
parking lot.

I sat there with my eyes shut tight, waiting for the storm to begin.

I could feel Sally shift in her seat to look at me. She said sharply, “What?”

“Um. The bag is still in the plane, Sally.”

“
What?
”

“You never said anything about putting it
back
in the car, Sally,” I said defensively. But I could feel the corners of my mouth turn up, and I was suppressing a laugh.

“Don’t you dare smile! That was Sam Edgar’s punching bag! He gave me strict orders . . . you mean, it’s still sitting in the airplane?” She couldn’t quite believe me.

“Uh-huh.”

Unable to suppress it anymore, I began to laugh. After a second of staring at me with her mouth hanging open, Sally starting giggling, too.

“Which one is it in?” she gasped, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“One of the little red-and-white ones.”

“Oh, dear. Oh no. How am I going to get it back? How am I going to explain it to Stanford?”

“Sally, my dear,” I said, sliding out of the Toyota, “that is your problem. I guess our lunch is off now?”

Sally was shaking her head in exasperation, but still smiling a little, as I pulled out of the parking lot.

M
artin was in the storage shed at the back of the garage when I got home. He had indeed been to the Athletic Club; he was still in his workout clothes.

Since he was soaked with sweat and smelled accordingly, maybe my hug was a little sketchy. “I thought I’d finish mowing the yard,” he explained. “You and Angel didn’t get to finish last week, and the backyard looks . . . peculiar.”

It certainly did. I strolled across the covered walkway leading from our house to the garage, and looked at the yard for the first time since Jack Burns had made his reentrance into my life. Martin had already been at work; I could see he’d filled the depression in the sod. You could see the mowed trail in the grass where Angel had let go of the lawn mower when I tackled her.

I shuddered, and was glad to answer Martin’s irritable call. He’d discovered the can of gas for the lawn mower was nearly empty, so I had to run back into town to get more. When I returned, I saw that Martin had gotten out the trimmer and started to clean up the edges of the yard and the tall grass around the stepping-stones in the front. The trimmer cord had gotten stuck and he was working over it with grim intensity.

“We are too used to having Shelby and Angel around,” Martin said, after struggling with the trimmer for several more silent, tense minutes. I’d been watching him work with, I hoped, an encouraging air, but I’d been contemplating retreating into the house on some pretext. I could tell Martin was very close to losing his temper, a rare and awful occurrence.

“I’ll mow, if you want to keep working on that,” I said helpfully.

Martin told me in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to see the trimmer or touch it again as long as he lived.

I gathered that he would rather mow.

“Well, I’ll fix lunch,” I offered, trying to think of something out of the ordinary that I could produce with speed.

“Only something light,” Martin said, pouring gas into the mower tank with the same concentration he did everything. “Remember, we have the Pan-Am Agra banquet tonight.”

“Oh, right,” I said, trying not to sound as depressed as the thought made me feel.

The downside of being Martin’s wife was having to attend so many
dinners
. We had to go to dinners in private homes given by plant officials, we had to go to annual dinners for the boards of this and that (naturally Martin was asked to sit on many boards), we had to go to charity fund-raising dinners . . . the list went on and on. And since Martin was a vice president of Pan-Am Agra, the highest-ranking local executive, I was expected to be the first lady, so to speak.

I am naturally polite and have decent table manners since my mother brought me up right. And I like to wear pretty clothes and get some attention, because I am a human being. But the constant feeling of being under observation, the anxiety that I might embarrass Martin, and above all the numbing sameness of these events, had dimmed my enthusiasm pretty quickly.

I trailed into the kitchen to make a fruit salad and checked my calendar. Yes, I’d written in the dinner and at the same time had made an appointment with Benita at the Clip Casa to have my hair put up, and I had to be there in twenty-two minutes.

I chopped fruit with vigor, left the kitchen in a mess, and yelled to Martin out the back door to let him know where I was going. Martin had left the garage door open since he’d been tinkering with the trimmer, and Madeleine, as always, had taken advantage of the situation to put paw prints on Martin’s Mercedes. I told her again how stupid that was, wiped off the paw prints with a rag, ejected the cat from the garage, backed my car out, and pressed the automatic closer while Madeleine was still sulking on the stairs to the Youngbloods’ apartment.

Benita was idly picking at her orange hair when I hurried in the door. I was four minutes late, and on a Saturday that was a sin. But I was contrite enough to talk her back into a good humor and she so seldom saw me that she had a great fund of family happenings to relate.

The beauty shop atmosphere was soothing, and my muscles, strained from their session with the punching bag, let me know they were glad to rest. The smell of the chemicals and the pastel decor, Benita’s drawl, and the drone of the hair dryer made me feel sleepy and content. Benita decided my ends needed trimming, took care of that, and began the long process of putting my mass of hair up. All I needed to do was say “Really?” or “Oh yes,” from time to time. I flipped through a magazine, as always surprised and a little dismayed at what other females apparently found interesting—or at least the publishers thought they would—and planned what I’d wear that night. A few other women connected with the Pan-Am Agra plant came into Clip Casa to get beautified for the banquet, and I was polite to everyone, but I didn’t feel like talking and didn’t initiate any conversation.

By the time I left the beauty parlor it was late in the afternoon.

I cautiously surveyed the backyard and observed it had been mowed and trimmed. With considerable relief, I went in the kitchen door, and found the kitchen completely clean. I crossed the hall to the study, and found Martin wrapped in his golden brown terry robe, watching the news. He switched off the set and got up to give me a kiss and walk around me to view my hair. Benita had slicked it back, braided it, and wound the braid into a knot at the nape of my neck.

“You look great,” Martin murmured, closing in from behind to kiss my neck. I shivered pleasantly and we both looked at the clock on Martin’s desk.

“Will you be careful of my hair?” I asked strictly.

“As careful as can be,” Martin said, not letting up on the neck work.

“Beat you up the stairs,” I said.

But gee, he caught me.

Chapter Eight