A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (29 page)

“It appears that way.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Isca Haines’ murder, does it? I mean, what if it was an angry client or something. We could all be in jeopardy. Officer, do you think we’re in danger?”

Give me a break!

“At this time, the department hasn’t ruled out a connection between the Haines murder and someone connected to her work.”

Which work?

“But since you weren’t employed here at the time, I think you’re probably safe. It’s never a good idea to let your guard down, though. Keep your car doors locked and secure your doors when you’re home.” He turned back to me and blew on the coffee.

Behind my back, Mr. Johnston had a coughing fit.

“I guess you got my report, reports, actually.”

“I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been at the station when the call came in. I wish you’d have called me directly. Want to tell me about it?”

“Which do you want first?”

“Let’s start with the phone cord.” He opened a small tablet and I nodded toward it.

“How many of those notebooks do you have?”

“Lots, why?”

“What do you do with them when they’re filled?”

“Put them in a box under my bed. Want to see?”

The box or the bed?
I blushed.

“There’s not much to tell. I got home last night, opened the door to the balcony to let the cat in and saw a doll with a piece of black phone cord tied in a bow around its neck lying where I couldn’t miss it.”

“Any chance the cat carried it up?”

“Dave asked me the same thing. I don’t think so. Porch Cat’s preferred gifts are dead birds and the occasional rodent. I’m domesticating him and domestic cats, on the whole, don’t kill many of either. They just have a bad rap. I can’t see him toting the doll up to my balcony, especially considering the weather last night.”

My words belied my nervousness and I forced myself to stop wringing my hands under my desk.

“And now the Vicar.” I told Kyle about meeting him at the nursing home and about his physical handicaps. “He’s an oily sort, but I can’t see him killing anybody.”

“You didn’t take to him?”

“He creeped the bejesus out of me.”

“Well, I’ll have a talk with him, anyway.”

“Ah—there’s one more thing.”

Kyle waited while I tried to find words to show me in the best light. After all, I had withheld evidence.

“A couple weeks ago I went to check Isca’s house and found a money clip in the garden. It belonged to Andy.”

“Andy Haines, the ex-husband?”

“Yeah. Then Andy saw it at my house and pocketed it without saying anything.”

“And you never thought to tell us?”

“I did. I just kept forgetting.”

Kyle sighed. “You’ll have to give another statement.”

“I know. I’ll do it after work.”

I had little else to add and walked Kyle to the elevator.

“Do you like garage sales?” He pushed the button.

“Love them.”

“A bunch of kids from the M. L. King center are putting on a big sale tomorrow to earn money for basketball uniforms. Want to go?”

“You bet. That’d be fun.”

The elevator doors opened and he stepped in and held the door for a moment. “Someone will contact you and arrange to pick up the doll. Keep your doors and windows locked. I’ll call you.” The doors snapped shut on his words.

The receptionist grinned. “Hubba hubba.” Just what Bob Newhart’s Carol would have said.

Back at my desk, paperwork filled the in-box. The financial field was probably the last I would have ever chosen in which to make my life’s work. Somehow, though, that was where I ended up, and I had learned to like my job and to find value in what I did. Mr. Johnston was so unendingly kind to his clients, helping them through death, taxes and the intricacies of social security and long-term care, I rarely lost patience with him. Lucky for me, he reciprocated. It was well after five when he finally left. I’d put in a ten-hour day and planned on putting in at least two more. A Post-it note from Missy stuck on my chair said an out-of-town client was coming in late. While my coworkers left for the weekend, I took the keys and crossed the street to a soup bar and coffee shop specializing in beans grown in Mexico.

Fresh roasted Mexican coffee was one of the world’s great, undiscovered treats. It had none of the burned-bean taste often associated with specialty coffees and was as smooth as Godiva chocolate. I had a cup with a bowl of chowder and some buttery slices of French bread. My love of food was from the Anne Frank syndrome--fear of being locked in an attic for three years with nothing to eat but rotten pea pods.

Finally, Caesar, the owner, started locking up and I went back to the office. The building’s lobby was still open and would remain so for another half an hour. After that, it took a key to access the door and elevator. In thirty minutes I’d have to go back down and wait for the client.

For a while I continued to answer the phones in case Mr. Johnston called with something he’d forgotten to tell me, but I knew his flight time and quit doing so after he was safely off the ground. I turned on Missy’s radio and started working on spreadsheets. The thought of spending the following day with Kyle eased the pain of possibly unpaid overtime. I had a great leather flight jacket and some new boots, both of which I rarely had an opportunity to wear. I sighed happily and hurried to finish the paperwork.

Later, I jumped when I looked up. A medium-tall, slender figure stood beside a large, potted ficus tree.

“My gosh, you gave me a start.” I stood up and nudged my chair back. “I’m Mercedes Mackaill, Mr. Johnston’s assistant.” I walked down the aisle, hand extended. “I’m afraid no one remembered to tell me who my appointment was with.” Then I stopped. “Why, Mr. Haines. For goodness sakes—what a surprise. How nice to see you.” A bold-faced lie. Mr. Haines looked like death eating a soda cracker
. Oh, please. Not something terminal. Not serious estate planning. It’s so complicated and it takes so long.

“Please, come sit down. How are you? How’s Mrs. Haines? I talked to Parker a couple weeks ago. He probably told you I did a lot of packing and clearing out at Isca’s. The women’s shelter’ was so pleased to get her things. They’re always in need.”

As I led the way to my desk, Mr. Haines had said nothing in response to my questions, and I was babbling.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

When he shook his head, I gestured toward a chair and took a seat. Bill Haines’ navy blue sport coat hung off his shoulders. His tie was unevenly knotted so the back was far too short for the front. His once beautiful white hair looked wispy and badly in need of a cut, but most of all, I noticed his eyes. The whites were shot with red. Did eye color fade? His certainly looked as if they had. Bruised-looking rings made half-moons underneath them, and he was thin beyond belief. He opened his mouth enough for me to see the gums had receded from his teeth, making them look enormously long. An odor of cigarette smoke clung to him.

What in the world has happened to him?

Then, as Bill Haines—Isca’s father—shifted his shoulders, black phone cord protruded from an inside pocket. His haunted eyes met mine, and I got lost in the swell of pupils.

Life-threatening fear was something you had to experience to understand. Though the usual clichés of spine tingling chills, tightened visceral organs, gasping for breath, of being frozen into inaction were the stuff of B-movies, I felt them all and more. The seat of my chair became warm and wet with urine as my bladder lost control.

“Harlot!” The word reverberated like a shot. “She was a harlot. Her mother’s daughter, spawn of lust.”

The force of his words shot spittle on my face. Bill Haines’ fingers flexed and rubbed on each other. His Adam’s apple jumped spastically. Did he smell the urine too?

“What?” My question was barely audible. I had no breath.

“Slut. Enticing men to unnatural actions—women too. Flaunting—advertising herself. Bringing up old memories. Bringing down shame on the family.”

With each of his words slowly and carefully enunciated, his stale breath assaulted my face. Conversations crowded my memory—the ladies at the funeral saying, “Andy didn’t think Dominic was his.” Someone whispering that Isca thought she might be adopted. My conversation with Isca’s brother, Parker, and his saying, “Dad can’t sleep nights. Mom’s okay, but Dad wanders around the house at all hours.”

Was it Bill Haines who followed me that night? The man’s breath had become labored and we had run a
long ways. Who shone the light in my windows, who perhaps threw the mutilated crow on my balcony? It was possible. He had been an active sportsman. Moreover, he had a den full of hunting gear. He also had a garage full of equipment left over from his days as a contractor. He could have had gallons of the white stuff that had been painted on my mirrors. Just like Andy, every time something happened, he was around.

Oh God. Oh God.

I started rocking. One of the things I’d removed from Isca’s bedroom was a large envelope from the department of vital statistics. If it was Bill Haines who broke into my apartment, he could have been after the envelope, only how would he have known about it? Did he see it at Isca’s house when he murdered her? If he had, why didn’t he take it then?

The wet chair turned cold as I rocked. How had he known I had it? Then I remembered. The phone rang. As I sat in Isca’s bedroom folding and sorting clothes, the phone rang and, like a fool, I’d answered it. My silly imitation voice hadn’t fooled him for a minute. I was in her house. I was carrying on just like her. Did he think I looked in the envelope and took it to turn over to the police? Had Isca been right? Had she been adopted, if not by her mother, than at least by the man she thought was her father? Was that why he could kill her, because she wasn’t flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood? Only, what did the document say? Who was Isca’s father?

“Mr. Haines.” I had to clear my throat and start over. “Mr. Haines. I don’t know what you mean. Isca wasn’t bad.”

“Whore.” He shouted at me as he half rose from his chair. “A whore just like her mother. Enticed them on, she did. Always had. I knew, you see. Knew her all her life. Enticed them on with her body.” He stopped staring into the past and stared at me. “I am the man that hath seen affliction. A wife that committeth adultery, a mother’s daughter that loatheth her husband. Ahhh.” He moaned and turned sad. “And the Lord said, ‘Thou dwellest in the midst of a rebellious house. Better that the poor walketh in integrity than be perverse.’”

Keep him talking. Keep him talking and try to think of something.

I licked my lips. “But, Mr. Haines, your wife is a good person. Isca was a good person. I don’t know why you’re saying these things.”

The woman he spoke of, the sweet-voiced, cinnamon-smelling lady I knew had no similarity to the one he described. If I believed his words, I might have thrown up. I looked into the face so close to mine and looked into the eyes of hell. Who knew if any of this was true or if it was part of a foul, sick mind? I didn’t, and I never would. I’d be dead.

“Liar.” Bill Haines stood and pulled on gloves. “They walked in sin. Sinners shall not stand in the assembly of the righteous.” He dragged me up and out of my chair by the wrist. “And the Lord saith, ‘Do justice for my sake.’” As he spoke, he reached for the phone cord. I tugged at him and a bone near my wrist snapped. The resulting pain was so intense, it made me monetarily lightheaded. That gave Mr. Haines a good opportunity to yank me away from away from my desk and away from any possible weapon. Cold air swirled around my wet legs. The coffee cup was still within reach, so I grabbed it and threw it at his face.

I missed.

The coffee flew over his shoulder and the cup bounced off something behind him. Between us was the chair he’d vacated. I stumbled over it and fell to my knees. The motion caught him off guard. His grip loosened enough for me to try and crawl a few feet. If I could get to the fire alarm and break the glass, I stood a chance. Only, where was it? My mind went blank. Near the emergency exit at the other end of the office.

Behind me, Bill Haines grabbed my skirt and pulled me down. I skidded and rug-burned my knees. He forced me on my stomach. His knee came down on my back hard enough to crack some ribs, and a hand grabbed my hair. Using my good hand, I clawed at his hand with all my strength. The skin tore. For a brief moment his grip slackened, giving me hope. However, he only let go long enough to get the phone cord, which he started working under my neck. I got the fingers of my right hand under it just in time and flung my left arm backwards, hoping to make connection. The blow was glancing but it hurt my hand like hell. At the same time I kicked my heels as far back and up as I could. At best, I made weak contact. His head was bent down close enough for me to grasp his hair. I pulled with all the strength I could muster. It wasn’t painful enough for him to drop the cord, so I dragged my fingernails down his face. He immediately jerked on the already-tight phone cord so hard I needed all ten fingers to hold it away from my neck. He grabbed my right hand and anchored it under his knee. Then he switched his grip on the phone cord and grabbed my left hand. Pain shot through me as my fingernails tore. The amulet Umma Grace had given me pressed into my breast. The last thing I remembered before passing out was the sound of his labored breathing.