Six
Singer eased slowly towards Lauren,
not wanting to startle her. “Put the gun down. Please.”
A puzzled look came over Lauren's face. She glanced down at the firearm. “Oh,” she said and set it on the coffee table.
Singer sprang forward and picked up the revolver.
Lauren barely seemed to notice. “Do you really think it was an accident?”
Singer walked backwards away from Lauren, holding the gun in front of her with both hands. “No, it wasn't an accident.” Singer bumped into something. She turned and placed the heavy revolver on the table behind her and planted herself firmly between it and Lauren. “I think it was suicide.”
Lauren threw her hands in the air and gave a snort of disgust. “Don't be ridiculous. John would never kill himself. He might kill someone else but not himself.”
“Would he accidentally shoot himself?”
“Not even dead drunk and tonight he wasn't as drunk as normal.”
Singer watched closely. “Then if it wasn't suicide and it wasn't an accident, it has to be murder.”
Lauren gave a sharp little gasp as her hands went up to cover her face and she sank down to the couch behind her.
An eerie whine, followed by scratching, came from the second entrance to the room. Singer swung wildly, scrambling for the gun and pointing it at the door.
Lauren ignored the noise, smoothing back her hair and saying, “I'll call the police.”
“We got a minute.” Singer kept her eyes on the door. “What's out there?”
“Missy.”
“Missy?”
“My dog, a miniature poodle.”
“Having met you, I would have expected at least a Rottweiler.”
“We have to call the police.”
“Johnny can't be helped. We need to chat.”
“About what?”
“Well, we're two . . .” Singer hesitated, then her mouth twisted into a grin. “Two ladies with a problem.”
“You're no lady, and I haven't got any problems, not anymore.” Lauren went around the coffee table and started for the door. “My troubles just died.”
“Just 'cause he's dead doesn't mean he still isn't going to bring you grief.”
Lauren stopped and swung around to face Singer. She opened her mouth to speak but then crossed her arms and waited for an explanation.
Singer nodded and again placed the gun behind her on the table. “You were here when he was shot. You were the only person in the house besides Johnny, so you just became the most likely candidate for his murderer.” Singer pointed at Lauren. “Being alone, that's your problem.”
“Who says I'm alone?”
“Honey, if you weren't the only person in the house, someone else would be in this room with us right now.”
“So if that's my problem, what's yours?”
Singer said, “I'm here and I got dumped in this. When did you last see Johnny alive?”
Lauren lifted her arm and studied her watch. “Almost two hours ago, around eleven thirty.”
“So, tell me where you really were.”
“Excuse me? What business is it of yours?”
“Look at it this way, if there's just you and me here with a dead body, which one of us did it?”
“It wasn't me,” Lauren whispered. Her eyes went to the gun. “I didn't kill John, so that leaves you.”
Singer laughed. “And it wasn't me, that's for sure. So who was it?”
Lauren's forehead wrinkled. “I don't know. I didn't hear a thing.”
“How could you not hear a gun being fired?”
Lauren's eyes shifted. “I was in my room with the
TV
on. Loud.”
“If you can't lie better than that, we're in big trouble.”
“What do you mean âwe'?”
“You weren't in the house, were you?”
Lauren's jaw hardened and her chin went up.
Singer raised a hand to stop Lauren speaking. “You were outside with the dog. I heard it bark, thought it was the hound of the Baskervilles.” Singer laughed at her fear. “And your hair's still wet from the fog. You were out there for a while.”
“So, Sherlock, tell it to the Mounties.”
“Mounties? What have the Mounties got to do with anything?”
“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police are in charge on the islands. When they get here you just tell them I was outside when Johnny was killed. That's an alibi. We can alibi each other.”
“They'll want to know what took you out in this weather and who you were with.”
“I was walking the dog.”
“I didn't meet any cars. So he's still up here someplace.”
“Who is?”
“The guy you were meeting,” Singer said. “The guy you're protecting.”
Seven
“You're only guessing.”
“And that's what the Mounties will do too.”
“I'm alone here.”
“Aw, but when you opened the door, you thought you knew who you'd see. It must have been quite a shock to see me there. So who were you expecting?”
Lauren pointed her finger at Singer. “Maybe you killed John and then went outside. When I came in the room you knocked, pretending you had just arrived. That's it, isn't it?”
“Possible. Or maybe I just have really bad timing. What do you think? Did Johnny let me in, or did I just walk in?”
“It works either way; the doors are never locked. How do I know you didn't kill him?”
“The same way I know you didn't.”
“And that is?”
Singer smiled. “Because you have an honest face.”
Lauren gave a bark of laughter. “You aren't fooling me. By giving me an alibi, you give yourself one. You don't want the Mounties digging around anymore than I do. So what have you got to hide?”
“I'm just trying to save myself some hassle and the cops a little time. That's all. If they suspect us, they won't dig any deeper for Johnny's killer. Might just as well start them off right.”
“Very public spirited of you.” Lauren folded her arms. “Just why are you here anyway?”
“Johnny invited me. I called him a few days ago, said I was heading in this direction and I'd like to talk about old times.”
“He didn't say anything to me.”
“Slipped his mind I guess. He just told me to come ahead.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well to be honest I was hoping to hit him up for a few bucks for old times' sake. That's why I'm here.”
“So out of nowhere, after how many years, you just show up?”
“Yup.”
“He never mentioned you. When did you last see him?”
“Twenty years ago, back in the seventies, like I said before.”
“How did you know where to find him?”
“Oh, I've always known where Johnny was.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Singer knew she'd made a mistake, knew it was an admission that would come back to haunt her. Usually she was better at hiding the truth but exhaustion was taking its toll.
Singer hurried on. “This is what I think we should say. I came about eleven. Johnny introduced us, we talked for a bit, and then he came in here while you made me a sandwich and showed me around. We took the dog out for a minute. Later we came in and found Johnny. We were together the whole time. That will stop the cops from wasting their time on us. How's that sound?”
Lauren's forehead wrinkled in concentration and she worried the inside of her cheek. “I could just tell them the truth, just say I was outside.”
“So was I, but wouldn't it be better if we were outside together? They'll check our hands to see if we've fired a weapon but as long as we haven't we're home free. You haven't fired a gun lately, have you?”
Lauren gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Guns were John's obsession not mine.”
A little tension left Singer. “I remember he always had firearms, was always taking potshots out the window at mailboxes and signs as we drove from gig to gig.”
Lauren nodded. “That sounds like him.”
“Johnny once got us kicked out of a motel when he shot at a lamp. He missed the lamp and nearly killed the guy in the next room. If the guy had been sitting up in bed instead of lying down, Johnny would have killed him.”
“That's John, all right.” Lauren's eyes went back to the office where her husband's body lay.
“Let's get out of here.” Singer bent and picked up her backpack. “We'll call the cops from another room.”
Lauren's next words stopped her. “Oh my god, what if the murderer is still in the house?”
Eight
Their eyes lifted to the
coffered ceiling as if they might be able to see who or what was hiding there.
“How many rooms are there?” Singer asked, still examining the ceiling.
Lauren ticked them off on her fingers as she answered, “Five bedrooms, six baths, kitchen, this room, which is supposed to be the family room.” She pointed to the room with the body before continuing, “John's office, a media room, studio, living room, and dining room.”
“And I live in a van,” Singer said before she remembered that Beastie might be gone.
“John kept weapons in half of those rooms,” Lauren said.
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Exactly. If there's someone else in the house, they have their choice of things to kill us with.”
“We'll take this with us.” Singer picked up the revolver.
“I'm not going out there,” Lauren protested. “It's too dangerous. There's a phone in John's office; I'm going to call the Mounties from there.” Lauren headed for the office and got as far as the door to the study before she lost her conviction. She lingered with her hand on the latch. Finally, Lauren shoved back the door.
Beyond Lauren, Singer could see John Vibald's corpse. The smell of it filled her nostrils.
Lauren gave a sharp intake of breath and said, “I can't.”
“Best not to anyway. The less we touch in there the better.”
Lauren turned away from the body and clamped her hand over her mouth.
“Are you okay?”
Lauren lowered her hand and wrapped her arms around herself. “I don't think I really took it in until now.”
“Shock.”
“It's like a nightmare I can't wake up from.” She glanced at Singer. “I was mad when I went in there to speak to John.” The words were said in a tone that was confessional.
“Why?”
Lauren's eyes slid away from Singer's. “Doesn't matter now.”
“Where was the gun?”
“On the desk. I picked it up. I . . . well I don't know why. I got even angrier because he was dead. Crazy, it was like he'd cheated me out of having my say.”
“Shock is weird like that. Why did you come to the door with the gun?”
Lauren stared down at the body and didn't answer.
“Were you afraid of who might be at the door?”
Still no answer.
Singer turned away from the repulsive sight spread out on the floor. “We need to phone the police, but let's do it from another room.”
Holding the revolver in front of her, Singer went towards the hall door and waited for Lauren. When Lauren joined her, Singer inclined her head towards the door. “Open it.”
Lauren scrunched up her face. “But what if . . .” Her wide eyes were fixed on Singer.
Singer pointed at the door with the gun and nodded again. Lauren moved to the side and reached slowly for the grip in the wood panel. Pressed tightly against the wall and out of sight of whatever waited for them, she slid the door back into its pocket.
Nine
A white mop on four
legs ran into the room before the door was fully open. Scooting past Lauren, the small dog skidded to a stop and scrambled to turn on the hardwood. That's when the dog saw the body through the still-open office door, planted all four feet, and began to howl.
Lauren hurried to the whimpering and shaking dog. “Missy,” Lauren cooed, squatting to the animal and stroking her. “Poor baby.”
Singer's laughter filled the room. Lauren looked up in surprise and then picked up the dog, cradling her pet in her arms, and came to join Singer at the door.
Lauren's forehead furrowed. “What's funny?”
Singer tucked a frizz of hair behind her ear. “I never thought it would be something so small. I nearly wet myself when I heard her bark.”
“Missy would never hurt you, she loves everyone.”
As if to prove it was true the little dog leaned out to Singer with its small, pink tongue extended.
They stepped cautiously into the flagstone foyer. A broad stairway climbed to the left. On the right was the front door and across the flagstone floor was a closed door.
Lauren pointed left, down a hall that ran the length of the grand staircase, and said in a quiet voice, “The kitchen has a phone.”
They ran down the hall to the brightly lit kitchen that shone like it had come off the truck the day before, all gleaming granite, stainless steel, and white marble.
Singer turned in a circle, taking in the kitchen. It was outside of her experience of the world. “Holy shit! How many people work here?”
Lauren picked up the phone and began punching numbers before she answered Singer's question. “Only one, Fern Utt. She comes in every morning for three hours. And her son, Foster Utt, comes two afternoons a week to cut grass and do odd jobs.” She leaned back against the counter and waited for someone to answer her call. “Then of course there's me, I'm full-time.”
Lauren lifted the mouthpiece from under her chin. “My husband has been shot,” she said and then she began to answer questions.
Singer listened intently to Lauren's half of the conversation, half expecting Lauren to tell the Mounties about the strange woman who had killed her husband.
“They're on their way,” Lauren said as she hung up the phone.
Singer let out the breath she'd been holding. Lauren hadn't betrayed her but that didn't mean she wouldn't. “I'm starving,” Singer said. “Mind making me a sandwich?”
Lauren's face registered surprise.
“You made me one before we went out with the dog. Remember? That's supposed to be our story. So let's do that. It will make the account more real.”
Lauren nodded and went to the fridge and started taking things out.
“And where's the bathroom?” Singer put the revolver on the bar.
“First door on the right,” Lauren said, pointing down a second hall leading out of the kitchen. She started to turn away but stopped. She studied Singer.
Singer waited.
Finally Lauren made her decision. They were strangers but they needed each other. She nodded. “There's a guest bedroom next to the bathroom. You can drop your bag in there. It will look like you planned on staying.”
The musty bedroom
had a cold, unused feel to it, like a tourist motel in the off-season. Singer tossed her bag on the peach bedspread. A remnant of good manners said it wasn't polite to set her scruffy belongings on the pristine cover. She smoothed out the comforter before she rethought her tidiness. The police were coming. Best not have it too perfect. Who knew what they'd check on? She stretched out on the bed, moving her body about to wrinkle the top. She stood up and checked out the effect. She reached into her bag and brought out the man's flannel shirt, removed cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket, and then dropped the shirt on the bed. It gave the room a nice, lived-in feel, like she belonged here and hadn't a care in the world.
In the kitchen
the smell of coffee filled the room. On the bar beside the revolver was a ham and cheese sandwich with pickles. To Singer this was a feast. The cost of getting to Glenphiddie Island was only slightly more shocking than the price of the expensive ferry food.
“I haven't eaten since lunch,” Singer said. She didn't tell Lauren that lunch had been a half-eaten apple and some crackers someone left behind on a picnic table at the ferry station. Life had taught her to take what was on offer before it was gone and being sensitive about other people's leftovers was a luxury Singer couldn't afford. Such feelings were for regular folks, people like Lauren, who would find eating other people's food disgusting.
When the last crumb had disappeared, Singer said, “Mind if I smoke?”
Lauren was polishing the already gleaming granite counter. “It's your funeral.” She dropped the cloth and reached beneath the sink for an ashtray. She set a garishly painted ceramic ashtray down in front of Singer. “Go crazy.”
Singer moved the ashtray closer. “I think someone potty trained you way too early. It's given you an uptight, pain-in-the-ass attitude.” Singer pulled a cigarette from the pack she'd stolen off an orange plastic table in the ferry terminal food court. “Are you always mad at the world?”
Lauren sighed. “Sometimes it seems like it.”
Suddenly the sound of sirens filled the room.