I had a hunch Aubrey would try to frame Wayne F. Dillow. He had motive and opportunity and a wonderful old brick barbecue in his backyard where evidence could be planted without a fuss. My hunch proved correct. Aubrey arrived at Dillow’s a little after midnight. She parked far up the street and slipped through several dark backyards. Scotty Grant watched from a neighbor’s evergreens while she dribbled the copies with lighter fluid and then set them on fire. She let them burn for only a few seconds before dousing them with the Evian. She had done the same thing with the blood-stained overalls she planted in Darren Yoder’s hunting cabin. She was making it look like Wayne Dillow was trying to destroy evidence that would prove he poisoned the faith-healer who betrayed his beloved wife.
That Tuesday night at the paper Aubrey had pooh-poohed the circumstantial evidence in Dale’s story. But when she read the part of his story that reported all of this—what could she do but confess?
***
I left I-71 and took US36 into Marysville. The prison officials checked me in. It was the fourth time I’d visited Aubrey since she was sentenced in September. She is serving two life sentences for aggravated homicide. She will serve them without hope of parole. She will serve them consecutively. She is lucky. The prosecutor wanted death.
I was ushered into the same little room where Aubrey and I met with Sissy James. I sat on the blue sofa. When Aubrey came in she sat next to me. “How’s the flag-making business?” I asked.
Her answer was sharp and sarcastic, pure Aubrey McGinty. “I’m getting more patriotic by the day.”
I handed her the copy of the
Herald-Union
I promised. She unfolded it and scanned Dale Marabout’s latest story on Lionel Percy. Alec Tinker had not only rehired Dale after Aubrey’s arrest, he’d put him back on the police beat. For the last few months Dale had been joyfully covering Percy’s metamorphosis from much-feared police commander to hapless inmate shoveling out cow barns at the state prison farm in Grafton.
Percy’s troubles, by the way, began the same week Mayor Kyle Finn appointed Ted Duffy interim police chief. Duffy had spent a lifetime nurturing a reputation as a timid, go-along-to-get-along bureaucrat. But inside lived an ambitious man with a long memory. During his first week as interim chief, he met secretly with State Attorney General Eileen Bachelor. Her probe brought down Lionel Percy and two scooping handfuls of corrupt underlings. It also changed Mayor Kyle Finn’s re-election plans.
Aubrey refolded the paper and slipped it under her arm. “So, Maddy—what brings you to Disney World?”
I felt light-headed and clammy, like I had the flu. I wrapped my long arms around my waist and told her. “Well, there’s been a murder at Hemphill College—”
“I didn’t do it.”
Her sarcasm put me at ease. “It was an old classmate of mine, Gordon Sweet. We all called him Sweet Gordon because that’s the way his name appeared on class rosters. Sweet comma Gordon. Anyway, he went on to become a professor there. In archeology. He specialized in some kooky field called
garbology
—digging into landfills to see how average people really lived. He was an eccentric old Beatnik but as harmless as a marshmallow. The police are clueless.”
Aubrey’s eyebrows elevated ever so slightly. “And you want me to help you find the murderer? You’ve got some big balls for a tiny old woman.”
Saturday, March 17
Ike put my Darjeeling tea and a Ghirardelli chocolate on the table. It was almost closing time. The street was empty and so was his coffee shop. “How’d your visit with that crazy girl go?” he asked.
I patted the chair next to mine and he dutifully sat. I was tired from the long drive but I needed company. “It went fine,” I said.
He unwrapped the chocolate for me. “I’ll tell you one thing—if you’d bamboozled me the way you bamboozled her, I don’t think I’d be inviting you to my prison cell.”
“I wouldn’t accept your invitations if you did,” I said.
We both laughed. It’s hard to say whose laugh was sadder.
He slid the flat square of chocolate across the table on its foil wrapper, like a bribe. “You played that Aubrey McGinty like a fiddle, just like you play everybody else, me included.”
I broke the chocolate in two and slid the big half back to him. “You’re giving me way too much credit.”
Ike nibbled like a gerbil. “You and me are so much alike it’s scary,” he said.
“Alike? How are you and I alike?”
“Underrated and overlooked,” he said. “These young business-types that prance in and out of here every morning—to them I’m nothing but the old black guy who pours their coffee. Not a damn one of them knows I taught high school math all those years, that I probably taught their own mamas and daddies, that in a roundabout way I’m responsible for their own big-shot success. Old black guy pouring the coffee, that’s all I am.”
“And me, Ike?”
“You’re Morgue Mama. Keeper of the musty-dusty old files. What everybody forgets, is that behind that sour, tea-sipping frown you wear like a
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
sign, resides the shrewdest damn woman in Hannawa, Ohio.”
“What a lovely compliment.”
“I meant it to be. Aubrey McGinty was so impressed with her own sick genius, she couldn’t see you had a hundred times the brains she did. Hundred times the curiosity and a hundred times the guile.”
Ike got up and locked the door. He grabbed a whole handful of Ghirardelli chocolates from the counter and sat back down, resting his legs on an empty chair. “You ever ask her why she killed those men?” he asked. “The real, deep-down-in-the-soul reason?”
“I don’t have to ask her. I know why. At a very early age she learned that bad people take what they want from good people. So why shouldn’t good people take what they want from bad people?”
Ike nodded in slow motion. “You think she sees herself as a good person?”
“Aubrey is a good person,” I said, “except for that bitter little knot in her brain that kills people.”
Ike unwrapped another chocolate for us.
For other books, upcoming author events, or more information please go to:
To receive a free catalog of Poisoned Pen Press titles, please contact us in one of the following ways:
Phone: 1-800-421-3976
Facsimile: 1-480-949-1707
Email:
[email protected]
Website:
www.poisonedpenpress.com
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave. Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251