Dead Wrong (21 page)

Mara nodded, feeling her face flush and hoping he meant it. The last thing she wanted was to be repayment of someone else’s debt.

He went out the front door, her bag and the dog bag under his arm, Spike trotting next to him on the leash. Mara checked the French doors one last time, then started out, stopping to lock the front door. She paused, the key in her hand, then pushed the door open and went back inside.

She ran up the steps to Julianne’s room. Standing in the doorway, she glanced around, then walked to the little white armoire upon which Mara herself had painted the little violets. She swung the door open all the way so that she could better survey the contents. Making her selection, she tucked the item into her shoulder bag and left the room.

“Forget something?” Aidan asked as she crossed the lawn.

“I just wanted to make sure all the windows were locked, that’s all.” She waved to Mrs. West, her elderly neighbor, who was emptying her trunk of that day’s purchases from the nursery. “Give me just one more minute. . . .”

Mara walked across the strip of grass that separated her driveway from her neighbor’s.

“Mrs. West, I can’t believe you have room for one more plant in that garden of yours,” Mara teased as she scooped up a flat of some red, feathery plant from the trunk of the car.

“Oh, there’s always room for another plant or two”—the old woman smiled, showing off her dimples—“or forty-eight. Now, when I go back tomorrow, I’m going to pick up another flat of those celosia for you. I think they’d be nice in a bed along your garage.”

Mara paused and looked over her shoulder. “There is no bed along the garage.”

“There will be by the time I finish.” She brushed her hands together, palm to palm, a satisfied grin on her face.

“Mrs. West, you really don’t need to plant things in my yard. As much as I appreciate it.”

Her neighbor waved her off. “As you pointed out, I’m running out of room in my own yard. And I love to make new flower beds. It makes me feel so creative.”

“I don’t know what to say, except thank you.” Mara knew when to give up. “Would you like these out back near your porch?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. West placed the pot of pink impatiens she carried next to the flat on the porch. “Now, do I see that nice young man is visiting you again?”

“Oh . . . yes. He’s really a friend of Annie’s—”

“So he said.” Mrs. West’s eyes twinkled. Any fool could see that Annie was nowhere in sight.

“And actually, we’re . . . we’re taking a little trip. A business trip, you see—”

“You and Annie’s friend?”

“Yes. And I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking in my mail for the next few days.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all, dear. You just go on and have a nice ‘business’ trip with Annie’s friend. You and Spike both. I see he’s there in the backseat. You could leave him with me, you know. He’s no trouble. If you think he’d interfere with . . . whatever business you need to tend to.”

Mara burst out laughing. “You are not very subtle, Mrs. West. And Aidan is very much a friend. To Annie and to me.”

“Just a friend?” The woman frowned. “Nothing more?”

“Nothing more,” Mara assured her.

“Pity . . .” She shook her head slowly. “He’s quite a hunk.”

They stopped at a market on the other side of Lancaster, two hours into their trip. Aidan went inside and, finding the deli counter still open, picked up two containers of soup, a few sandwiches, and several bottles of soda and water. They ate in rapidly fading daylight at a picnic table set up in a grassy area adjacent to the store and made small talk. Mara walked Spike on the leash before they set off again. When she returned to the car, Aidan was checking the map.

“How do we get to where we’re going?” she asked as she lifted Spike into his little dog bed, which Aidan had placed on the floor behind the driver’s seat.

“We’re going to swing out to Harrisburg and pick up Route 76. Take that clear across the state and into Ohio.” He turned the key in the ignition and watched her buckle her seat belt. “Ready?”

“All set.” She smiled at him, and in spite of himself, it occurred to him that bringing her along on this trip might not have been such a bad idea after all.

“Feel free to look for another station on the radio.”

“What, you don’t like hip-hop?”

He rolled his eyes.

Mara leaned forward and scanned for something a little more to Aidan’s liking. She found a pop station and stayed with that.

They rode in silence for nearly twenty minutes before Aidan asked, “Do you hear something? An odd noise?”

“It’s Spike. He snores.”

“He snores, he can’t sleep without his blankey, and he travels with his own little bed. It’s like having a little person along.”

“He thinks he is a little person.” She rested her head against the headrest and gazed out the window. The sun had set behind the rolling hills, but the last fingers of light stretched upward from the horizon. Lavender and orange, set in a gray-blue sky.

“Were you planning on stopping somewhere?” she asked after they had moved onto the highway and were headed west.

“You mean, stop somewhere for the night?”

“Yes.”

“I was planning on driving straight through.” He gestured with a nod of his head toward the backseat. “There’s a blanket there if you’re cold. You can tilt the seat back and sleep if you get tired.”

“That’s fine.” She reached behind her and grabbed the blanket. It was soft and down-filled and fit around her nicely. She searched for the mechanism that would allow the seat to recline. Finding it, she lowered her seat halfway. “And you know, I can drive, if you want to rest for a while.”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.”

“What’s the name of the town we’re going to?”

“Lake Grove.”

“Am I allowed to ask what’s there?”

“Sure. This is not a secret FBI mission. It’s really just a sort of follow-up. No big deal.” He checked his rearview mirror before pulling into the left lane to pass a pickup.

“How do you do that sort of thing? How do you know where to start?”

“You find someone in the area who might still have connections to the person you’re looking for. In this case, that person is Curt Gibbons. I’m hoping that Chief Tanner—”

“Who’s Chief Tanner?”

“He was with the Lake Grove PD for fifty years or so. Retired several years ago after a long career as chief.”

“He must know a lot about what happened over the years. Why didn’t you just call him?”

“Tanner doesn’t have a phone. Figured that after having been its slave for so long, he’d had enough.”

“I can understand that.” She closed her eyes, and the slight rocking motion of the car lulled her. “Are you sure you want to keep driving straight through? Really, we could take turns. I don’t mind.”

“No, I’m anxious to get there.”

And besides, he acknowledged to himself, after all this time, it felt good—damn good—to have a destination again.

For the second time in less than two weeks, Curtis Channing was getting ready to leave town. The map was spread out over the single bed, his eyes tracing the route south. His work here was done, and he was anxious to move on now. While he felt reasonably certain there was no way the events of the past month could lead to his door, he was restless without a plan.

He wondered how long it would take to drive to Louisiana. He’d heard there was a serial killer spreading chaos along the bayous. He thought it might be fun to go on down there and share his special kind of mayhem. That would really shake up those southern boys, wouldn’t it, when they realized there were two serial killers in the neighborhood?

Louisiana it was.

He began to hum as he finished his packing. He’d already quit his job and called his landlord to let him know he’d be leaving town tomorrow. It was already ten p.m., but he didn’t have anything to hold him here in town.

Like he said, his work here was done. . . .

He turned off the light on the small desk and looked around to make certain that he was leaving nothing behind. Placing the duffel bag near the door, he looked under the bed. The only thing there was a toothpick that he’d dropped a few days earlier and hadn’t been able to find. He flicked it into the small trash can near the desk and checked the closet one last time. Content that he had everything, he started down the steps.

He was just at the second floor landing when a door opened.

“Hey, Curt, man, where you goin’?” The drunk who lived in the room two from Curtis’s stuck his head out. “Where you goin’?”

“Moving on, Buddy. Moving on.” Curtis barely paused.

“Well, you wouldn’t be leaving without a good-bye, would you? Come in and havva beer. Drink to your safe journey.”

“Thanks, Buddy, but I don’t have time—”

“Sure ya do. Everybody got time for one beer.” Buddy swayed a little in the doorway. “ ‘Sides, I just hadda pizza delivered. Have a slice, you won’t have to stop for dinner. . . .”

The smell of the cheese and pepperoni wafting through the doorway made Curtis’s mouth water. He hesitated, then decided a quick bite now would save him time later.

“Sure, Buddy. Thanks. I think I will join you after all.”

Curtis swung his duffel through the doorway and left it near the door. Buddy’s room was considerably larger than his own and boasted an alcove that held two chairs and an ottoman, upon which rested a box from the pizzeria around the corner.

His host motioned for Channing to take a seat while he rustled around in a brown paper bag for paper plates and a package of napkins.

“Here. Help yourself,” Buddy told him. “I’ll get you a beer. Get myself one while I’m at it.”

Buddy had clearly had plenty, but there was no point in mentioning it.

“Feel free to turn on the television there, Curt. I always watch the news this time of the day. You watch the news?” More rustling of the bag.

“Once in a while.”

“You ever watch Channel Five? See that girl, Candy what’s ’er name? She is hot, don’cha think?” Buddy popped open a can and passed it to his guest, then popped the second for himself. “I knew a guy once, worked at the station, said she’s a real snob, though. Don’t talk to no one.”

The room may have been slightly shabby, but the television was top of the line. The reporter appeared almost life-size.

“. . . the bizarre developments in this case,” Candace McElroy was saying. “Channel Five has learned—exclusively—that it appears the Mary Douglas killer may have missed his true target after all.”

Channing’s hand gripped the can in a reflex action. What was she saying?

“. . . also looking at a possible connection between Judge Styler and a woman who worked within the family court system, but official police sources will not confirm or deny that rumor . . .”

Channing stared at the screen. Next to him, Buddy was still babbling on about how hot that Candace McElroy was and how he’d seen her in the park one day wearing short-shorts.

“However, the attorney for Teddy Douglas, who had been arrested for the murder of the three Mary Douglases, has told me that his client will be released from custody within the hour.”

“Candace, have the police confirmed that Judge Styler and the Mary Douglas victims were killed in the same manner, as we reported here this morning?” The anchor back at the station cut into Candace’s broadcast from the front of the police station.

“Burt, neither the police nor the D.A. will officially confirm
anything
on this case right now. Now, my source tells me that a press conference may be scheduled for tomorrow morning. Perhaps some of this will be cleared up then.”

“Thanks, Candace, for that exclusive report. Now, in other news . . .”

The anchor faded away, just as Buddy’s chatter faded away, and Channing was left to contemplate this most unwelcome—this most
unexpected
—news.

He exhaled softly and reached for another slice of pizza. Well, at least he hadn’t turned in his key, and he had the room until the next morning.

Bayou country would just have to wait.

CHAPTER
TWELVE