Lilac Avenue (30 page)

Scott saw a young teenager standing off to the side, looking as if he wanted to say something, but was afraid to.

“Who’s that?” he asked Kay.

“That’s one of Thelma Burchett’s kids,” Kay said. “They live up the holler.”

“Ask him if he knows anything,” Scott said. “I think I’d probably scare him to death.”

Kay went over to the boy, put an arm around him, and spoke a few words to him. He told her something, and she squeezed his shoulder, shook her head. She coaxed him over to where Scott stood. Scott reached out to shake his hand, and smiled at him.

“Hey, Buddy,” he said. “Did you see who did this?”

“Go ahead,” Kay encouraged the boy. “You’re not in trouble, and you won’t be in trouble for telling.”

“I saw Jumbo and his friends doing our house,” the boy said. “My mom’s really mad. They wrote something really mean about my sister. I don’t want to say it.”

“Jumbo Larson,” Scott said. “You’re sure about that?”

The young boy named all the kids he’d
seen, and Scott wrote down their names.

“Thank you for telling me what happened and who did it,” Scott said to the boy. “You let me know if anybody bullies you over this. I won’t put up with it.”

“They better be glad my dad was working the night shift,” the boy said. “He’s got a gun and he’s a pretty good shot.”

Kay hugged him and told him to go on home.

“This complicates everything,” she said to Scott.

“If Jumbo did this,” Scott said, “t
hat’s on him; not you or Marigold.”

“Poor Marigold,” Kay said. “So much for her role model family.”

When Scott got to Marigold’s house, she was on her way out. Marigold Larson didn’t like Scott, and had never been able to hide it.

“Chief Gordon,” she said. “I’d love to chat but I’m speaking at the Rotary Pancake Breakfast in Pendleton.”

“Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?” Scott asked. “As far as constituency goes, I mean.”

“If I become mayor, which my friends a
ssure me I will,” Marigold said, “I may seek a higher office at some point. It’s never too early to campaign further afield.”

“I need to talk to your son,” Scott said. “And I need you to be there because he’s a minor.”

“Speak to Jared?” she said. “Whatever for?”

“There was some vandalism in town last night, and someone saw Jared and his friends spray-painting some houses.”

“Impossible,” Marigold said. “Vicious lies to sabotage my campaign, more likely. I see Kay is up to her dirty tricks, already.”

“I doubt that,” Scott said. “I need to ask Jared a few questions.”

“He’s still asleep,” Marigold said. “He and his friends were in Pendleton at a church bowling party until late. Reverend Heuchler was chaperoning them; I’m sure he’ll vouch for them. Call him.”

“Please, Mrs. Larson,” Scott said. “Just cooperate with me and wake up your son. I’ll ask him a few questions and then you can go on to your event.”

“Well, I never,” Marigold said.

She turned on her heel and stomped up the steps to her porch.

“I won’t forget this insult to my family,” she said. “It would do you good to remember that I’m going to be mayor in just a few months, and a lot of my friends are running for town council.”

Marigold muttered and complained as she removed her keys from her tiny white handbag and opened the door to the house.

“Are you coming in?” she asked Scott, in an irritated tone.

Scott followed her inside, past her immaculately clean front room, down the hallway to a closed bedroom door.

“Jare-Jare,” she called out, in a baby-talk voice. “Honey, wake up, please. Mommy’s sorry to bother you, but the mean policeman wants a word.”

She opened the door to reveal a typical messy teenager’s room, with clothes strewn everywhere. Unfortunately for Jumbo, there were also several cans of orange spray paint on the floor, amidst the rubble.

Marigold gasped.

“Jared Raymond Larson,” she commanded, her voice now booming like her father’s deep bass. “Get out of that bed this instant.”

Jumbo woke up, disoriented, and slowly sat up in bed. He, himself, was well on his way to matching his grandfather’s height and girth.

“What?” he said crossly, until he saw Scott. “I didn’t do it!”

Unfortunately for Jumbo, in addition to the incriminating possession of cans of orange spray paint, he was also partially painted orange, on both hands, arms, and the side of his face, as well as some of his hair.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Scott started, as Marigold began to weep and wail.

When Claire arrived at the Eldridge Inn, Jeremy was standing just outside the side entrance, smoking a cigarette.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’ve decided not to work for us.”

“What was your first clue?” Claire asked him.

“Your refusal to sign the confidentiality agreement,” he said. “You won’t get paid for any of your work, of course, unless you sign it.”

“Fine with me,” Claire said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he said, flipping his cigarette into the driveway.

“Is any of it legitimate?” she asked. “I mean, does Anne Marie actually have any psychic abilities?”

“Sign your agreement and I’ll tell you,” he said with a smirk.

“No, that’s okay,” Claire said. “I think I know.”

“Let me tell you this,” Jeremy said. “She once warned me not to take a puddle jumper to San Francisco because she had a bad feeling about it. Even though it meant I couldn’t make a meeting that would benefit her, she insisted, and I didn’t go. The plane crashed; everyone on board was killed. That was enough to convince me.”

“My Aunt Bonnie is at least that psychic,” Claire said. “I don’t see any difference.”

“The difference is marketing,” Jeremy said. “The difference is taking that ability, something many people naturally have, and attaching a compelling story to it.”

“Anne Marie’s car wreck and coma,” Claire said.

“She saw Jesus,” he said. “He told her she should help people with her gift.”

“Or she hallucinated that she saw Jesus,” Claire said.

Jeremy lifted his shoulders and held out his hands.

“Something happened that facilitated a great change in her life,” he said. “However that manifested, you cannot doubt she was profoundly changed.”

“I heard she was a holy roller for a little while.”

“Same mountain, different path,” Jeremy said. “The difference is that Anne Marie believes in her story, and that sincerity reaches people. They see her as a connection to the divine. Everybody wants to find meaning, to get answers to the great questions. Anne Marie can give that to them.”

“For a price,” Claire said.

“There’s nothing wrong with energy flowing as symbolized by money,” he said. “Every televised evangelist preaches prosperity gospel; that’s nothing new. The money is for the ministry. In return, the ministry helps the people who give to it. The energy, symbolized by money, comes from and flows back to the people, if they practice the teachings, and keep the reactive mind from interfering.”

“You have an answer for everything,” Claire said. “What I saw yesterday looked a lot like brainwashing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with clearing the mind so that new, beneficial information, can take its place.”

“Beneficial to whom?” Claire asked.

Jeremy laughed.

“No one is in
here because they were coerced,” he said. “Any one of them can leave any time they want to. The volunteers are also here of their own free will. Ask any of them.”

“But there’s a constant pressure to go along with everything in order to belong, to be one of the chosen people,” Claire said. “They’re hurting and longing to be special, and they think she has the answers. You’re preying on vulnerable people.”

“Or we’re providing the answers they seek, which will improve their lives in immeasurable ways,” he said. “I think if you attended a whole weekend you’d feel differently by the end.”

“And my brain would have had a good, thorough cleansing,” Claire said. “No, thanks, Jeremy. I think I’ll keep my brain just like it is, full of questions and answers from lots of sources, not just the gospel according to Anne Marie.”

Jeremy smiled wryly and lifted up his hands, as if to say, ‘that’s your choice.’

“Tell me something else, Jeremy,” Claire said, her body trembling. “Did you kill Courtenay to protect Anne Marie?”

Momentarily his face registered fear, and then quickly the smiling mask fell back over it.

“Of course not, Claire. Our way of expressing spirit does not condone the taking of a life,” he said. “But you can depend upon this: whatever did kill her, she drew it to herself through her negative thoughts and toxic actions.”

“Anne Marie will do the same to you,” Claire said.

“Good-bye Claire Fitzpatrick,” he said. “Good luck to you in your future endeavors.”

“You’ll tell Joy, then?”

“I will,” he said. “It will be but the latest tempest in her teapot.”

By the time Scott locked up Jumbo Larson in a cell at the police station, a news crew had arrived in town, and was filming in front of Kay’s house. Afterward, Ed came down and told Scott about it.

“They’re going up the holler next,” Ed said.

“What’s their angle?”

“Hate crime in a small town,” Ed said. “It’s a text book case.”

“How’s Kay holding up?”

“Kay handled it really well,” Ed said. “She told them she didn’t plan to press charges as long as whoever did it agreed to get counseling. She said she wasn’t taking it personally, and she would pray for the person and their family.”

“That was sincere,” Scott said. “She wouldn’t say that if she didn’t mean it.”

“I agree,” Ed said. “This is going to make a helluva sidebar to Marigold’s
piece in tomorrow’s paper. I interviewed her yesterday after the IWS talk; she gave me her whole campaign platform.”

“Family values, that sort of thing?”

“Oh yeah,” Ed said. “It’s time to root out the criminal element in Rose Hill.”

“Of which her son is now a leading member.”

“I gotta go,” Ed said. “I have so much to do.”

“I’ve never seen you look so happy,” Scott said. “You must really love this.”

“I won’t lie,” Ed said. “This edition is turning into one of my favorites.”

“Your dad would be so proud,” Scott said.

“You know, I don’t remember ever seeing my dad get excited about anything he wrote; he was too worried about offending anybody or rocking the boat.”

“Even more reason he would be proud of you.”

Claire went back home for lunch and found Sammy watching a video in the living room while her mother was crying in the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” Claire asked her mother.

She knelt down next to her chair.

“Your father says he heard Doc sneak into the house last night,” Delia whispered.

“That was probably just Ed and me coming in late,” Claire said.

“I told him that, but he says he saw Doc sneak down the hall into my bedroom.”

“He must be hallucinating,” Claire said. “That’s new.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Delia said. “I would normally go talk to Doc, but I can’t do that anymore. If he’s acting like this now there’s no telling what he’d do if he found out I went to Doc’s office.”

“I’ll go talk to Doc,” Claire said. “You can’t live like this.”

“But what’s the alternative?” Delia said. “I can’t just put him in some institution somewhere. Can you imagine doing that to your father?”

“But he’s not at all like my father,” Claire said. “The Ian Fitzpatrick we knew and loved would never act like this. This man is someone I don’t even know.”

“I can’t do it,” Delia said. “Not until we can’t handle him anymore. I just need to try not to take it personally.”

“That’s an impossible demand,” Claire said. “I’ll go up there right now and talk to Doc. He’ll know what to do.”

“Ask him why you’re getting sick every day,” Delia said.

“Probably just stress,” Claire said, and she hoped that was all it was.

Doc Machalvie was not at work, but a note on his door said he was at home if it was a non-life-threatening emergency.
Claire walked up Peony Street to his house, and his wife, Doris, answered the door. She was glad to see Claire and asked about her parents.

“That’s what I’d like to see Doc about,” Claire said.

“Come on through,” Doris said. “He’s in the kitchen.”

Doc Machalvie had once been a very handsome man, and he was still very distinguished looking. Tall, with sparse white hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, he had a courtly air about him. Claire pictured
Sean Connery playing him in the movie of her life.