If Martin hadn’t happened, I would certainly have accepted, just to sample the experience. I would have stopped short of bed, I told myself firmly. I put out fresh food and water for Madeleine, who was still hiding somewhere in the townhouse, sulking about the great indignity done her at the vet’s.
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And the phone rang again.
This time it was Sally Allison.
“The police searched the Hunters’ house and came up with zilch,” she said without preamble. “Oh, thank God. Maybe he’s not such a suspect anymore?”
“Could be. The afternoon Idella Yates was killed, he was in the hardware store without a break, in full view of at least three people at any given moment. And he says he did look at the Anderton house with Tonia Lee, but on a different day. That’s how his fingerprints got on the night table.”
“Is it okay for you to be telling me this?” “If you don’t tell anyone else. Otherwise, Paul will have my guts for garters.”
“I understand.”
“I know you’re a friend of Susu’s, so I just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks, Sally. Listen, did you ever date Franklin Farrell?”
“No,” she said, and laughed. “I didn’t want to be a cliché. He tries to date you when he thinks you’re espe- cially lonely, or rebounding from a relationship, or if you’re a little stupid. I understand he really wines and dines you before the Big Move, but when he called me, I was too scared I’d join the ranks to accept.” “Just wondered.”
“Oh, did you get that newspaper article I sent you?” “Oh, shoot. I forgot to check my mail yesterday. I’ll bet it’s out there. I’ll go see.”
“Okay. If you don’t get it, call me.”
I reached in my mailbox eagerly and came out with
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a handful. Yes, here was the article Sally had sent me as she’d promised. There was Martin’s picture. I sighed absurdly. Martin, I read, had a background in agricul- ture (I assumed that was his being raised on a farm); a distinguished service record, including two purple hearts (that explained the scars I hadn’t yet asked him about); and a long work history with Pan-Am Agra . . . a brief chronicle of his steady rise through the ranks followed . . . then a noncommital statement of Mar- tin’s, about his plans for the plant.
There wasn’t anything much to it, really, but for some reason it was very exciting to read about my— well, whatever—in the paper. So I read it over. And over.
“Isn’t that strange,” I said out loud.
Martin had mentioned casually to me that he had gotten out of the Army in 1971. This article stated that he’d begun work at Pan-Am Agra in 1973. What had Martin been doing for those two years? I wondered.
Chapter Twelve
A
Little tasks consumed the rest of my day. I had to stop by the dry cleaner’s and go to the grocery store with a list of ingredients for the supper I was going to cook Martin the next night. I did my laundry and a lit- tle ironing. I sent Amina and her husband a “congratu- lations” card and a copy of Dr. Spock’s famous book on baby care.
And I went by the library to check out some books. Every time I went into my former place of employ- ment, I felt a pang of regret. There were so many things I missed about working there: seeing all the new books first (and free), having a chance to see and learn about so many people in the town I wouldn’t run across oth- erwise, the companionship among the librarians, just being in the presence of so many books. What I didn’t miss was the companionship of Lillian Schmidt. So of course it was Lillian who was at the ~ 16 9 ~
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checkout desk today. I politely asked after Tonia Lee’s mother and got a blow-by-blow account of Mrs. Purdy’s collapse after the funeral and her continued de- pression, Mrs. Purdy’s relief on hearing there had been an arrest, Mrs. Purdy’s horror and disbelief on hearing who was being questioned, Mrs. Purdy’s confusion on hearing that there was no concrete proof against Jimmy Hunter.
“Oh, that’s great!” I said involuntarily. Lillian was affronted. Her oversized bosom heaved under its striped polyester covering. “I just think it’s one of those technicalities,” she said. “I bet they’ll be sorry when some other woman gets killed in her bed.” I forbore remarking that the bed Tonia Lee had been killed in was not exactly her own. “If someone else does die, it won’t be because Jimmy Hunter wasn’t ar- rested,” I said firmly if confusingly, and picked up my books.
By the time I got home and unloaded my car, it was a little after four, and becoming dark and colder. This was getting close to the time of day Tonia Lee had been killed. With no other car having been seen in the drive- way, the police had thought Mackie might be involved, since he ran every evening at this time. I thought the theory was sound, even though they’d had the wrong person. This evening, I’d walk myself. Just to see what could be seen.
Twenty minutes later I was shaking my head and muttering to myself. The streets were practically teem- ing with walkers and joggers. I had had no idea that the residential areas of Lawrenceton were so busy at an hour I normally associated with winding down and
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preparing supper. Every other block, it seemed, I passed another walker, or a runner, or a biker. Some- times two. Everyone in town was out in the streets! Arms swinging energetically, Walkmans (Walkmen?) fixed on ears, expensive athletic shoes pounding the pavement . . . it was amazing.
I was heading toward the Anderton house, of course, walking at as swift a clip as I could manage. I passed Mackie, running in a sweatshirt and gym shorts, pouring sweat in the chilly air; he gave me the quick nod that was apparently all that was expected of runners. Next I saw Franklin Farrell, keeping trim for all those ladies, run- ning at a more moderate pace, his long legs muscular and lean. No wonder he seemed so much younger than I knew he must be. True to his nature, he managed an inti- mate smile even through his careful breathing. Eileen and Terry marched by together, weights on their ankles and wrists, arms swinging in unison, not talking, and keep- ing a pace I knew would have me panting in minutes. This was much more interesting than my exercise video. All these people, including half the real estate community, all out and about at the time the murderer must have arrived at the Anderton house. Even Mark Russell, the farm broker, strode by, in an expensive walking outfit from the Sports Kitter shop. And perfect Patty Cloud, bless my soul, in an even more expensive pale pink a silky-looking running suit, her hair drawn up and back into a perky ponytail with matching pink bow. Patty even jogged correctly.
And here came Jimmy Hunter on a very fancy bike. “Jimmy!” I said happily. He pulled to a stop and shook my hand.
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“Susu told me you came by yesterday when every- one else was staying away,” he said gruffly. “Thanks.” “Are you okay?” I asked inadequately. He’d been through such an ordeal.
“I will be,” he said, shaking his head slightly as though a fly were circling it. “It’s going to be hard get- ting over this feeling that everyone was against me, that everyone believed I’d done it, right off the bat.” “Susu okay?”
“She’s tired, but she’s regrouping. We have a lot to talk about. I think we’ll leave the kids with their aunt and uncle for a while.”
“I hope everything—” I floundered. “I’m really glad you’re home,” I finally said.
“Thanks again, Roe,” he said, and wheeled away. Seconds later I was in front of the Anderton house, its Select Realty sign still stuck forlornly in the yard, doomed to be frosted and snowed upon all winter and covered with the quick grass of spring and the weeds of summer, I was sure.
I didn’t think the Anderton house, or the little ranch-style where we’d found Idella, would sell any- time soon.
After all, these deaths hardly seemed to be the work of a random killer, striking where he could find a woman alone.
I wondered if anyone had seen a car at the house where Idella’d been found.
A client arriving by foot would have been unusual, even unnerving, especially to Idella, who’d already been made nervous by Tonia Lee’s death, who’d al- ready heard that the police suspected someone of arriv-
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ing at the Anderton house on foot . . . surely she’d have run screaming from the house instantly? Yes, if it had been a random client who called to set up an appointment.
But not if it had been someone she knew, someone who said, maybe, “My run (or my bike ride) takes me by there, so I’ll see you at the Westley house,” or some- thing of the sort. And what more impersonal place to kill than someone else’s empty house? You could just leave the body where it fell. The killer hadn’t had a chance to divert suspicion, hadn’t had the opportunity to move Idella’s car somewhere else; since it had been dusk, not dark, when Idella had been murdered, her car couldn’t have been moved without the driver being seen. Idella had had to be silenced quickly or she would have told what she knew . . . and Donnie Greenhouse thought she knew who’d killed his wife. There he was now, as if my thinking of him had conjured him up, alternately walking and jogging, dressed in ancient dark blue sweats. He was danger- ously hard to see in the gathering dark. I could just make out the features of his face.