Tolliver counted to ten. I could tell by the tiny movements of his head. "No," he said. "But I worry about you. You're a strong woman, but a strong woman still isn't as strong as most men." This was one of those simple biological truths that made me wonder what God had been thinking. "If he hadn't taken you to the cemetery, he could have taken you anywhere else. I would have been looking for you, like we track other people."
"If anyone in this world is aware that she might be killed at any moment, Tolliver Lang, that person is me." I pointed at my own chest, my finger rigid. "Amazingly, every day millions of women go out with men who have no ulterior motive whatsoever. Amazingly, almost all of them come home perfectly all right!"
"I don't care about them. I care about you. How you could ever trust anyone when what we see, so many times a year, is murder... ."
"And yet, you have no problem inviting a woman you just met into your room!"
He threw up his hands. "Okay, forget it! Forget I said anything! All I want is to know where you are, and for you to be safe!" He stomped out of my room into his, which required going outside; no connecting doors in this cut-rate motel.
I heard the television come on in the next room. What had we been quarrelling about? Did Tolliver really want me to sit in my room while he had fun? Did he really want me to turn down every invitation that came my way, in the name of safety?
I was pretty sure the answer, if you asked him, would be yes.
During the night, the phone by Tolliver's bed rang. I could hear it through the thin walls. After a moment, it stopped. I tried to imagine who could know where we were and what we were doing, and in the middle of imagining, I fell back to sleep. I ran the next morning, and in the cold crisp air it felt great. The hot shower felt even better. While I was dressing, Tolliver knocked on my door. After I let him in, I finished buttoning my blouse. I was wearing better clothes since we would be meeting the Ashdown client for the first time. This would be a cemetery job, and I wouldn't have to change. A quick in-and-out.
"The call last night," he said.
"Yeah, who was that?" I'd almost forgotten.
"It was the police in Sarne."
"Who in the police?"
"Harvey Branscom, the sheriff."
I waited, hairbrush in hand.
"We have to go back."
"Not until we do this job. Why, what happened?"
"Last night, someone went into Helen Hopkins' house and beat her to death."
I stared at Tolliver for a minute. I was so used to death that it was hard to produce a normal reaction to news like this.
"Well," I said finally, "I hope it was quick."
"I told them we'd have to finish our business here first, then we'd drive back up there."
"I'm ready." I tucked my blouse in my gray slacks. I pulled on my matching blazer.
"Hey, the jacket matches your eyes," Tolliver said.
"That was my intent," I said dryly. Tolliver always seemed to think that if I looked good, it was a happy accident. The blouse I wore with the gray suit was light green, with a kind of bamboo pattern on it. I put on a gold chain that Tolliver had given me the previous Christmas, and slid into black pumps. I fluffed my hair, checked my makeup, and told Tolliver I was ready. He was wearing a long-sleeved cotton pullover sweater in a dark red. He looked very good in it. I'd given it to him.
We met the client and her lawyer at the designated cemetery, one of those modern ones with flat headstones. They're cheaper, and more convenient for the mower. Though not atmospheric, the "park" look does make for easier walking.
The lawyer, a woman in her sixties, made it clear she thought I was in the business of defrauding the desperate and grief stricken. I was getting a lot of red flags, not only from the lawyer's attitude, but from the twitchiness of the client. Following our standard procedure when I got vibes like those, I endorsed the check and handed it to Tolliver, indicating he should go to the bank while I did the "reading." The situation was showing all the indicators of a bad transaction.
The client, a heavy, peevish woman in her forties, wanted her husband to have died of something more dramatic than a radio falling into his bathtub. (Bathtubs had been big this month. Sometimes I got such a run of one cause of death that it made even me nervous. Last year, I had a streak of accidental drownings - five in a row. Made me scared to go swimming for a couple of months.) Geneva Roller, the client, had her own elaborate conspiracy theory about how the radio came to be in the bathtub. Her theory involved Mr. Roller's first wife and his best friend.
I love it when the location of the body is known. It was a little treat when the client led me directly to her husband's grave. Geneva Roller was a brisk walker, and I could feel the heels of my pumps sinking into the soft dirt. The lawyer was right behind me, as if I'd cut and run unless I was blocked in.
We stopped by a headstone reading Farley Roller. To give Geneva her emotional money's worth, I stepped onto the grave and crouched, my hand resting on the headstone. Farley, I thought, what the hell happened to you? And then I saw it, as I always did. To let Geneva know what was going on, I said, "He is in the tub. He has - um, he's uncircumcised." That was unusual.
This convinced my client I was the real deal. Geneva Roller gasped, her hand going up to her chest. Her bright red lips formed an O. The lawyer, Patsy Bolton, snorted. "Anyone could know that, Geneva," she said.
Right, that was the first thing I asked guys.
"He's whistling," I said. I couldn't hear what Farley Roller was whistling, unfortunately. I could see the counter in the bathroom. "There's a radio on the counter," I said. "I think he's whistling along with the music." This was one of the times when I saw more than the moment of death. This was not the norm.
"He did that when he bathed," Geneva breathed. "He did, Patsy!" The lawyer looked less skeptical and more spooked.
I said. "There's the cat. On the bathroom counter. A marmalade color cat."
"Patpaws," said Geneva, smiling. I was willing to bet the lawyer wasn't smiling.
"The cat's bracing to leap over the tub to the open window."
"The window was open," Geneva said. She wasn't smiling anymore.
"The cat knocked the radio into the water," I said.
Then the cat leaped out of the window and into the yard while Mr. Roller came to his end. The bathtub was an old one, an unusual shade of avocado green. "You have a green tub," I said, shaking my head in puzzlement. "Can that be right?"
Patsy the lawyer was gaping at me. "You're for real," she said. "I actually believe you. Their tub is avocado."
I got to my feet, dusting off my knees. I ignored Patsy Bolton. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Roller. Your cat killed your husband in a freak accident," I said. I assumed this would be good news.
"NO!" Geneva Roller yelled, and even the lawyer looked astonished.
"Geneva, this is a reasonable explanation," Patsy Bolton began, giving her client a formidable stare, but Geneva Roller had no emotional restraints.
"It was his first wife, that Angela. It was her, I know it! She went in the house while I was at the store, and she murdered him. Angela did it. Not my little Patpaws!"
I'd had disbelieving reactions before, of course, though most often these came when I'd discovered the death was a suicide. So it sure wasn't the first time I'd found that people invest a lot in their theories. In a Jack Nicholson moment, I very nearly told Geneva Roller that she couldn't handle the truth.
"I'll take my check back. I won't pay you a dime," she hissed. I was glad I'd sent Tolliver to the bank.
Looking over Geneva's shoulder, I could see our car turning into the cemetery. Relief gave me courage.
"Ms. Roller, your cat caused an accident, quite innocently. Your husband wasn't murdered. There's no one to blame," I said.
She launched herself at me, and the lawyer caught her by the shoulders. "Geneva, recall who you are," Patsy Bolton said. Her cheeks were red, and her brown-and-gray streaked hair had become a mess in the breeze that had sprung up. "Don't embarrass yourself like this."
With excellent timing, Tolliver pulled up beside me. Trying not to hurry, I climbed into the car while saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Ms. Roller." We sped out of the cemetery while Geneva Roller screamed at us.
"Got the money?" I asked.
"Yep. Good thing?"
"Yeah, she didn't want it to be an accident. I guess she was hoping for an A and E documentary. 'Murder in Ashdown,' or something." I deepened my voice. " 'The widow, however, suspected from the beginning that Farley Roller's death was a 'not what it appeared to be,' kind of thing. Instead, all she has to blame is her stupid cat. Kind of a letdown, I guess."
"It's a lot more interesting to be the wife of a murder victim than the owner of a killer cat," Tolliver said, but I had to wonder about that.
four
WE'D already checked out of the Ashdown motel, so we drove straight to Sarne. Tolliver went directly to the sheriff's office, and seconds after we sat down in the chairs in front of his desk, the sheriff came in, yanking his hat off and tossing it on a table behind him.
"I hear you went to visit with Helen Hopkins yesterday," Harvey Branscom said. He bent over and switched on the intercom. "Reba, send Hollis in," he said. A squawk came back, and in a minute Hollis Boxleitner came in, carrying a mug of steaming coffee. I could smell it from my chair, but I didn't ask for any, nor did I look him in the face. Beside me, Tolliver stiffened.
"Mr. Lang, I want you to go with Deputy Boxleitner here. I'd like to talk to Miss, Ms. Connelly."
I turned to look at Tolliver, trying not to let my anxiety show on my face. He knew I would hate for him to say anything out loud. I like to keep my fears to myself. He gave me a very steady look, and I relaxed just a little. Without a word, he stood and left the room with Hollis.
"How'd you make contact with Helen?" the sheriff asked me. His face was set in harsh lines. I could see the shadow of white whiskers on his face, as though his cheeks had been frostbitten. Lack of sleep made the lines across his forehead even deeper.
"She called us," I said, biting off any color commentary. Tolliver had always advised me not to answer any extra when I talked to the police.
"What did she want?" asked the sheriff, with an air of elaborate patience.
"Us to come visit her." I read the expression on Branscom's face correctly. "She wanted to know who'd hired me, and why."
"Sybil hadn't told her you all were coming?" Branscom himself seemed surprised, and he was Sybil Teague's brother.
"Evidently not."
"Was she angry about that?"
We looked at each other for a long second. "Not that she said," I answered.
"What else did you talk about?"
I spoke very carefully. "She told us she'd had a bad life for a while, but that she'd been sober for thirty-two months. She talked about her daughters. She was proud of both of them."
"Did she ask you about their deaths?"
"Sure. She wanted to know how I knew, if I were sure how they were killed. She said she would tell their fathers."
Harvey Branscom had been lifting his mug to his mouth as I spoke. Now the mug was lowered back to the desk. "Say what?" he asked.
"She said she would tell the girls' fathers what I'd said."
"The fathers of the girls. Both of them. Plural."
I nodded.
"She never would tell anyone who Teenie's dad was. I always thought she just didn't know. And Sally's dad Jay left years ago, after she put the restraining order on him. Did Helen mention any names?"
"No." I was in the clear on that one.
"What else did she talk about?" the sheriff asked. "Be sure you tell me everything."
"She wanted to know how I do what I do, if I thought my gift had come from God or the devil. She wanted to be convinced I knew what I was talking about."
"What did you tell her?" He seemed genuinely interested to know.
"I didn't tell her anything. She made up the answer she wanted to hear, all on her own." My voice might have been a little dry.
"What time did you leave her house?"
I'd thought about that, of course. "We left about nine thirty," I said. "We went by the bank on the way out of town. We got to Ashdown and checked into the motel about two, two thirty."
He wrote that down, and the name of the motel. I handed him the receipt that I'd tucked in my purse. He copied it and made some more entries in his notebook.
"What time did she die?" I asked.
He looked up at me. "Sometime before noon," he said. "Hollis went over there on his lunch hour to talk to her about Teenie's funeral. He'd spoken to her for the first time in a year or two, when he went over to tell her what you'd told him about Sally. Which, by the way, I don't believe. I think you're just trying to mine for gold here, and I'm telling you, Hollis ain't a rich man."
I was puzzled. "He gave me money, but I left it in his truck. He didn't tell you that?" Maybe Hollis just hadn't wanted to tell his superior I'd asked for it in the first place - though why, I don't know. Sheriff Branscom didn't think much of me, and it wouldn't have surprised him at all that I'd wanted to be paid (for something I do for my living!). It would have confirmed his poor opinion. Yes, I expect even poor people who want my services to pay me. So does everyone else.