For Every Evil (31 page)

Sophie nodded. She needed to know.

“All right. Several months after I’d opened the gallery, my cousin, who lives in Bloomington, brought in four or five drawings her eight-year-old daughter had done. She wanted to get them matted and framed for their family room. Her daughter had been given a bunch of pastels for Christmas and had really done some nice work. So I matted them. Before I could get them framed, Hale stopped by. He’d already informed me that he was always given special privileges by the other gallery owners in town. He liked to be taken into the back rooms and shown anything new or interesting. The day he came by, my niece’s drawings were propped against the easel. He walked straight up to them and began praising their freshness. Their charm. Well, what could I do? I just let him talk. When he asked for the name of the artist, I told him I’d have to check. He said if I ever got any more work by the same person, to call him. He’d come see it right away. And that’s how it all started.

“I played with the idea for weeks before I came up with a plan. I was going to humiliate him. I wanted him to go on record somewhere about the pastels and then I was going to tell the truth and show the world what a phony he really was. I don’t mean to suggest my niece has no talent, but she
is
eight years old. You get the point. So, I asked her to do more of them. I hung a few of my favorites here and there in the gallery. When Hale came in, I made up this story about a reclusive artist, Ezmer Hawks — named from Eric’s initials — who lived in northern Minnesota. Hale was even more excited than he’d been before. After he’d written some comments about Hawks in the paper, I knew I had him. All I had to do was reveal the identity of the artist and he’d be the laughingstock of his profession. Yet, by the time I had him right where I wanted him, I realized it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted to see him sweat. I wanted him to feel pain, to experience real fear. But what really made me reconsider my plan of attack was the realization that, in the end, I wasn’t convinced my little joke would last long enough to do him any true damage. That’s when I got the idea to bring back Eric.”

“Bring him back?” repeated Sophie.

“Sure. Why not? One afternoon, I showed my niece some photographs and I asked if she would draw some specific images. Over the next few weeks she did twenty or thirty. I took the best, had a rubber postmark made, and faked the mailings as if they had come directly from Soldiers Grove. Hale came in to look at the new drawings as soon as they arrived. Each time I doled out two or three more. Inch by inch, I was drawing him into my web. I also used the postmark for a letter I sent him — from Ezmer. You were there the day he got it. By then, he was terrified. He didn’t know
what
was going on. I think he may actually have believed Eric was still alive, come back to take his revenge. Since I had no proof of what Hale had done so many years ago, just a child’s memory — and our legal system, I should point out, places no credence in
that
— I didn’t want to just scare the shit out of him; I wanted to make him confess!”

“But, some might say it was an accident,” replied Sophie.

“The fall may have been, but what precipitated it wasn’t,” said Kate. “Besides, Hale was the adult! He should have seen the danger. And he should never have been harassing Eric in the first place! As for what he did to me — even though it was motivated by fear — it was vicious and unconscionable.”

Sophie had to agree. “Go on.”

“The night of John Jacobi’s opening, I made a phone call to Hale’s home. I’d gotten my cousin’s five-year-old son to recite a nursery rhyme into a tape recorder. You may know it. ‘For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none.’ “

“Of course,” said Sophie under her breath. It was all beginning to make sense.

“I found it in a book I was reading to the kids one evening before bed. I thought it was perfect. When I called Hale’s house, I waited until the phone was answered and then I played the tape through. I did it several times. I have no idea what specific effect it had on him, but I know he was growing more anxious by the day. I thought it would be only a matter of time before he cracked. But then I got impatient. The night of the party I was so angered by what he’d done to Ben Kiran, I decided to force his hand. I left a note in a catalogue I knew he would pick up. I will confess to a certain thrill when I saw him read it.” She stopped, forcing herself to look Sophie square in the eyes. “I’ll never know now what he was going to do because … someone got to him first. You must understand. I didn’t want him to die, I wanted him to
live
with what he’d done. I wanted the world to know! You’ve got to believe me, Sophie. You knew what kind of man he was! But —” She hesitated. “After his death, I got frightened. I knew if I told the police what I’d done, I was sure to be arrested. I had motive, opportunity — everything. Except I didn’t do it!”

Sophie just stared at her. She wasn’t sure what to think. “That’s quite a story.”

“It’s not a
story.
It’s the truth!”

She wanted to believe her. She knew her reticence must hurt. “I believe what you said about Hale and what happened at the camp. And I can see you’ve gone to some elaborate means to get back at him. But if you didn’t kill him, who did?”

Kate clenched and unclenched her fists. “How should I know? He must have had other enemies.”

Sophie could hear the desolation in her voice, but she wasn’t going to be sidetracked. She still had questions. “What about the attempts that were made on Ivy’s life?”

“What about them? Why would I want to hurt Ivy?”

“She was at the camp that same summer.”

“So?”

“Are you telling me she knew nothing about what Hale had done?”

Kate shrugged. “I have no way of knowing.”

“But surely you must realize those phone calls had some effect on her as well? Didn’t you care?”

Kate looked away. “I didn’t think of that. I never meant to hurt Ivy. She was one of Hale’s victims, too.”

Sophie shivered. What a way to view a man’s life — or your own. “The night he died, did you follow him to the gate house?”

“No!”

“But you threatened him in the note. What were you going to do if he didn’t call the police? And how would you even know what he’d done if you didn’t personally confront him?”

“I hadn’t thought that far.” Her teeth gnawed anxiously at her lower lip. “Stop pressing me!”

Sophie could tell Kate was at an emotional pitch. She was glad for Rudy’s silent presence. “All right, but listen to me for a minute. You’ve got an important decision to make. John’s planning to go to the police with what he knows first thing in the morning.”

Her head jerked up. “What?”

“And I must tell you, if he wasn’t going, I would be.”

She backed off the stool and covered her ears with her hands. “Why can’t you trust me?” she pleaded, accidentally bumping into the easel and knocking it to the floor.

“Kate, listen! If John goes to the police with his information, it will look pretty bad. But if
you
get there first, if you have a chance to explain everything from your point of view, I think your chances are much better.”

Kate picked up another of the pastel drawings and crushed it angrily in her hands. “One way or another that man has polluted everything he’s every touched.”

“Maybe,” said Sophie, keeping her voice very calm. She knew Kate was still stalling. “But what’s it going to be?”

Kate flung the paper to the floor. “All right, damn it! I’ll call them.”

“Good.” Sophie relaxed a bit. “When you’re done, I’ll drive you down to the station.”

“What? You expect me to call them now?”

“Why not?”

Kate stared at her.

“Look, you want me to believe you. Everything inside me wants that, too. But I’ve still got Rudy to consider.”

“I know!”

“So what’s it going to be? Rudy and I will be glad to stay with you if you want.”

“What do you mean,
Rudy
?” The light was beginning to dawn. “So that’s how you got in here.”

“Afraid so,” he said, stepping into the doorway.

Kate looked hard at him and then back at Sophie. “I can drive myself, thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re not too upset?”

“Just say what you’re thinking! You’re not sure I’ll go if you don’t take me there yourself.”

The truth was, Sophie wasn’t about to let Kate out of her sight until she was sure a full account had been made.

Kate placed an indignant hand on her hip. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”

“Our car’s out back,” said Rudy.

Kate glared at him.

“For what it’s worth, you’re doing the right thing,” offered Sophie. “Maybe it’s best to let some of the anger go now. Make a clean breast of it.”

“Who died and made you a fucking Zen master?” Angrily she reached up and took hold of the cord attached to the light fixture. “I realize you’ve been trying to find out who Hale’s murderer was just to establish your son’s innocence. But consider this: if you think there’s any possibility I’m telling the truth — any possibility
at all
— and if our friendship means anything to you, then you still can’t stop looking.”

It sounded like emotional blackmail. But Kate was desperate. And maybe she had a point. “I promise. I’ll do my best. I won’t stop.”

Kate gave the cord a yank. She moved toward Sophie in the darkness and brushed past her, muttering, “I guess it’s my turn to be skeptical. I don’t believe
you.”

The phone awakened Louie the next morning. He was lying across his bed, blankets and sheets in a sweaty snarl around his waist. It had been a bad night. “Hello,” he rasped into the receiver. He grabbed for the glass of water on the nightstand and found it empty.

“You sound terrible,” came Ivy’s voice.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing a hand over his whiskered face. “That about covers it.”

“Are you all right? I thought you told me you were getting better.”

He groaned. “Ivy, I just have the flu. My throat is sore.” That was an understatement. It felt as if he’d been swallowing gravel.

“What you need is some chicken soup.”

He felt his stomach lurch at the idea. “I’d rather have a brandy.” It was the only thing that numbed the pain, mental and physical.

“Louie?”

“What?”

“You’re drinking too much. You’re not used to alcohol. You don’t know what it can do.”

A sermon was the last thing he needed. “Well, I’m worried about you, too.” He swung his feet out of bed and glanced around for his robe.

“Why?”

“Because I’m having a terrible time figuring out how to break that will.”

“I told you to drop it. Max has several lawyers working on it.”

“And that’s another thing.” He reached under the bed for his slippers, but stopped as the pain in his stomach grew acute.

“What do you mean?”

He put a hand over the receiver to cover his gasp, waiting for the spasm to pass. “I mean,” he barked, realizing his voice wasn’t completely under his control, “that your relationship with that asshole surgeon has
me
concerned.”

Silence.

“Ivy?” Something was wrong. Normally she leapt to Max’s defense with sabers drawn.

“I’m here.” A pause. “You know what? I think you may be right. When you’re feeling better, I’d like to talk to you about … something.”

“Talk now — or forever hold your peace.”

“Don’t joke like that!”

He reached for the Maalox. “Come on, Ivy. What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

“It’s nothing. It can wait.”

“Is Max hurting you in some way?”

She started to sob. “Oh, Louie. My life is such a mess.”

“Then, tell me about it. We’ve never kept secrets. Maybe I can help.” He propped several pillows against the headboard and leaned back.

She sniffed but said nothing.

“You’re shutting me out.”

“And you’re sick. You should rest.”

God, why didn’t she stop harping on that? He
realized
he was sick. Only he knew
how
sick. “I had a visitor yesterday.” He decided to try another approach.

“Really? Who?”

“Sophie Greenway.”

“What did she want?”

“She’s worried about you, too.”

“Oh.”

“See, I’m not the only one.” He took a swig of antacid.

“You know, Louie, I respect her a great deal.”

“Really? Why?”

“She’s a Nineties’ woman. Confident. Smart. She has everything under control.”

“Do tell.”

“No, really.”