Somebody Else's Music(113)

“There’s a lot of people I’d like to talk to,” Kyle said, “starting with Peggy. We’ll get to it this afternoon. Who is it you want to talk to?”

“The husband,” Gregor said. “Not Chris Inglerod’s husband. Peggy’s husband. What did you call him? Steve—”

“Stu Kennedy. You can’t interview Stu Kennedy.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, he’ll end up beating the flaming shit out of Peggy and you’ll have another murder on your hands.”

“There isn’t going to be any way you can prevent this man from knowing that his wife is at least peripherally involved in the attack against Emma Kenyon Bligh,” Gregor said reasonably. “She’s in the hospital now. She’ll be released this afternoon. It’s going to be on the news. It’s going to be in the newspapers. People are going to talk. And even if nobody talks to Mr. Kennedy himself, we are all going to have to talk to Mrs. Kennedy. At the very least she’s a material witness.”

“He’s too blasted to see straight most of the time,” Kyle said. “He could miss the whole thing. If we don’t tell him about it—”

“If he was really that blasted all the time, he’d be dead,” Gregor said. “So I must assume he’s like most alcoholics, even in the late stages, and has periods of lucidity. And I don’t even need him to be that lucid. I just need him to confirm a few things for me. You did say he was in the park the night Michael Houseman died?”

“A lot of people were in the park the night Michael Houseman died.”

“And so far, we’ve only talked to members of the witch’s coven,” Gregor said. “Except I shouldn’t say that, because it’s an insult to witches. Let’s go see Stuart Kennedy.”





2


Gregor had expected to find that the Kennedy house was much like the one belonging to Michael Houseman’s mother, and in some ways it was. For one thing, it was in town and not out in one of the subdivisions in Plumtrees or Stony Hill. For another, it was definitely small, a square little old-fashioned Cape without any of the extensions or dormers Capes often accumulated over the years. The lack made it somewhat at odds with its neighbors, all of which showed signs of having been worked on at least by their owners, and in one case—the house with the addition with two-story-tall Gothic windows—by a professional construction company. What really set the Kennedy house apart from its neighbors was more subtle, though. It was in the fact that its paint was peeling just a little. You could see it most plainly on the wide front porch. Other things were wrong, too, things you wouldn’t necessarily notice right away, but that stayed with you as an undertone: the mailbox nailed to the wall next to the front door was knocked off true; the rain gutters that ran along the front of the house were rusty around the edges; the railings on the porch were peeling wood along ridges that defined their decorative bevel. All in all, it was the kind of house that turns up haunted in one of the better horror movies.

Kyle Borden parked the police car right out front, at the curb, even though there was a driveway at the side of the house, leading to the back. The driveway, like the lawn, was well cared for. Either the Kennedys cared more for their lawn than their house, or one of them had had the sense to hire a yard service. The house’s front windows were washed, but blank. The house looked deserted.

“Well,” Kyle said, “you really want to do this.”

“I’ve talked to nearly everybody else who was in the park that night,” Gregor said, “except for Mrs. Kennedy herself, and she’s unavailable.”

“Stu’s probably unavailable, too,” Kyle said. “I don’t know how to break this to you, Mr. Demarkian, but Stu Kennedy is an alcoholic. And a drug addict. With a wife who makes very decent money, or at least what amounts to very decent money around here. He spends ninety percent of his time out of it, and the other ten percent you don’t want to know him. And this will get Peggy in trouble. I can guarantee it.”

“I’ve dealt with drunks and drug addicts before,” Gregor said. “Let’s go.”

“Besides,” Kyle said, not budging, “it’s not like we’re really all that concerned with Michael Houseman’s death anymore. I know you are, you’ve got a job to do, but right here with the Hollman Police we’re interested in who killed Chris Inglerod Barr and who nearly killed Emma Kenyon Bligh. So unless you can tell me that Stu is connected to one of those, I’ve got to say that I don’t see the point—”