Murder My Love (9 page)

Chapter 8

When Rita, and her husband George, first arrived in Zephyr’s Cove they were virtually destitute. They had two children who looked nothing like each other, but no one questioned it. George was a much older man who was a carpenter by trade. He found a job in a window factory. Word spread that on weekends he was available to do odd jobs for neighbors. In short order, his side business grew. Rita set up a roadside stand by their home selling cakes and pies. She was not in competition with the Zimmer’s farm as she lived more than five miles distant from them. Rita Quigley knew her way around the kitchen. She often joked that George married her for her culinary skills. When they first met she wasn’t good at it, but she was well groomed as a child, and as time went on she improved considerably. Puttering in the kitchen became more than a pastime, it became her livelihood. The people of Zephyr Cove took an immediate liking to her. There was something innocent and charming about the teenager who came from Maine to set up house in their community. The ladies of the town accepted her graciously and admired how she struggled to care for her children. They never questioned how such a young girl could be the mother of two. Nor that she came with a much older husband. She told everyone that George was her second husband. She said she had been divorced soon after the birth of her first child, but she didn’t elaborate. That was a secret she would never divulge. It prevented her from forming close friendships. It was the kind of secret that could destroy any relationship no matter how superficial or deep. She never had much use for men except for their financial support and to provide her with children. The relationship with George could hardly be construed as romantic. In fact, it was quite pedestrian. In time, he supplied her with two more children and she was happy for the gifts, but Rita lived in an insulated world with secrets that were hermetically sealed in the darkest recesses of her memory. While the ladies of the town took to her, she remained distant by her own choosing. She was polite to everyone but bonded with no one, except for Frieda. When left alone, she brooded. She had developed a hard shell. She found it difficult to open herself to other women. She feared that exposing her inner feelings in an intimate relationship would lead to devastating consequences. She was well aware that she had isolated herself but could never understand why. She just accepted her fate as if it were preordained. Her friendship with Frieda had as much to do with her mothering relationship with Conrad as anything else.

George was a simple man. He was far from handsome. But he was kind and civil, a lumbering good-natured slob. The bar for his achievements was set very low. The threshold was easy to surmount. Contentment came easily only because his aspirations were ordinary. George met Rita through serendipity. It was when she was fifteen years old, soon after the birth of her first child. She was in the Bass Lake clinic for a postpartum checkup and he was there because of a laceration he’d incurred from a round saw. Rita made the first overture. She engaged him in conversation and it flattered him. Rita was well aware of his foibles. It was known about town that he lived alone, that he was not adept with women and that he was knowledgeable about wood. He worked. He earned money honestly.

Rita was pathetically unhappy having to live at home with an infant, with no hope of employment or means of escape. She pursued George and flattered him immensely. He had never enjoyed the company of women as he had with Rita. George offered her freedom. He asked her to marry him. She accepted immediately, having no concept of what a durable marriage entailed. He was almost fifteen years older than she, but that was not an impediment. He was a passport out of misery. She provided him comfort when he needed it and she went about trying to find a meaningful life for herself.

About the time Conrad Zimmer entered High School, Rita Quigley had delivered her fourth and final child. She announced to all that her family was now complete. As soon as her last baby was weaned, Rita began to work in earnest. Her husband’s job was secure but his income wasn’t enough to support the needs of so many children. Rita had no formal education so job opportunities were limited. She began by applying for a position at a motel ten miles south of the Cove. She knew how to make a bed, clean a toilet and run a vacuum cleaner. She had performed these chores all her life. The prospect of getting paid for it was enticing. It was a menial job but it did introduce her to the discipline of being on time, performing assigned tasks and budgeting for the needs of her children. She was very proud of the paychecks she brought home. For the first time in her life she felt like something more than a house frump.

Her shift began early and ended in mid afternoon. It allowed her the luxury of dropping by the high school to pick up her oldest son and daughter. Sometimes she’d linger, and watch how the children played, and interacted, as they left the school building. On most days it was a joyful experience. Rita looked at them wistfully and wished she’d had the same opportunity to learn and earn a degree. One day she saw a group of boys pounce on Conrad. They were beating him with their fists. Several girls ringed the fight, watching but not interfering. Rita got out of her car and hurriedly walked up to the melee. She grabbed two boys by their hair and pulled them off of Conrad, who was bleeding from his nose. She turned to the crowd and screamed, “Anyone who touches Conrad will answer to me!”

One urchin who was almost twice as tall as Conrad screamed at her, “None of your business!”

“I’m making it my business.”

The fresh-faced young man scowled, spat, and scurried away. The mob began to disperse and Rita ushered Conrad to her car. She drove straight to her home and began to wash his face. He had said nothing. She faced him.

“What was that all about?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing’!”

He hemmed and hawed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He tried desperately to summon the courage to tell her what had precipitated such violent behavior. At last, he said, “I braided Penny Singleton’s hair.”

Rita caught herself and choked back a laugh. She put on a stern face hoping Conrad would not have noticed. “You did what?” she said with mock surprise.

“I braid all the girls’ hair,” he said. “They all ask me because I know how to do it the right way.”

“I’m sure you do, Conrad. So why did they beat you up today?”

“Penny’s boyfriend saw me do it.”

Since the first time Rita had met Conrad she’d sensed that he was cut from a different bolt of cloth. He didn’t look like the others. His stature was distinctly smaller than boys of his own age. He didn’t play like the others. His interests were more aligned with what girls liked to do. In fact, she could not recall one activity he engaged in that conformed to what teenage boys do. She knew that it would be hopeless to try to explain Conrad’s behavior to his father. And as she thought more about it, she began to feel the same way toward his mother. Conrad’s parents knew how some farm animals of the same gender would nuzzle each other, but applying that concept to their son was beyond their capacity to understand or accept. Perhaps they’d blinded themselves to it. Rita vowed that she would be his protector, that she would guide him to feel good about himself. She knew what it was to be victimized. She swore she would not allow it to happen to someone she cared for so deeply. Perhaps it was feelings she herself had that were buried deep within her psyche. The turmoil in Conrad’s life brought back memories she had tried so desperately to suppress. The scenes in her memory flickered in her mind like a runaway reel in a movie theater.

Her mind drifted to an earlier time, when she was only fourteen years old, when she was living near Bass Lake in upper Maine. It was as if the chapters of a book were turned back to the beginning pages. She recalled that fateful day when a streak of sunlight pierced a row of pine trees at the crest of the mountain ridge. She recalled with affection when the first rays of sunshine caressed her face and cast their warm glow. She welcomed daybreak, especially in spring. She even set her alarm clock to coincide with sunrise so she could enjoy the glow that came over the mountain. She hit the snooze button, wallowed in the warmth of the sunlight for a moment then willed herself ten more minutes of sleep. She pulled up the blanket and snuggled in her bed. She so looked forward to that day.

She walked into the kitchen of the broken down shack she called home. It was located in the woods far beyond anything that could be called a town. Her father claimed he was a fisherman but spent most of the year in saloons, working just long enough in summer picking strawberries and unearthing potatoes to accumulate enough money for the remainder of the year. Once in a blue moon he would be employed as a helper on a lobster boat, but he was so unreliable that he was rarely invited to return. Her mother spent most of her time drinking at home or with him in the saloons. The little they earned, supplemented by welfare checks, barely sustained them. Rita was the oldest of six children. It was assumed that she would take care of her younger siblings. That’s the way it was done in rural Maine. Besides diapering the youngest, she tended to cooking and cleaning the house. She would purchase groceries, such as they were, from the cooperative market in town. It was two miles distant and Rita walked it twice a week. Her father had a truck but grocery shopping was ‘woman’s work’, so he never contributed to the effort. Schooling was haphazard and conducted only when the truancy officer threatened the parents with neglect.

She recalled the day that began so brightly. It was soon after she turned fourteen when she asked her father to teach her how to drive. Sam Quigley gladly obliged his daughter. He said he was proud of how she had blossomed into a beautiful teenager. He took notice of how she combed her hair and he paid particular attention to all the personal feminine products she purchased that looked so similar to the ones his wife stored under the sink in their bathroom. He knew the time had come when his daughter would do more grown up things.

On that bright summer’s day, Sam hosed down his beat up old Ford truck at Rick’s gas station. He filled the tank and cleared the front seat of debris, mainly of empty beer cans and old newspapers.

“Whatca doin’, Sam?” Rick asked. “Cleanin’ for your Missus?”

Rick pointed a finger at Sam and began to snicker.

“Button up, asshole, I’m learnin’ my Rita how to drive.”

“Well, at least she can’t do no more damage to that piece of shit you call a truck.”

Sam gave him the bird and drove off. He pulled into the dirt road leading to their shack and saw his Rita standing on the porch. She was wearing blue jeans and a flowered print blouse. She had tied the tails of the blouse together to reveal her navel. Her blonde hair was braided into two strands that reached her shoulders. Bangs were combed over her forehead. Although she wore no make up her blue eyes were clear as glass and her mouth pouted an innocent sweetness. Rita recalled how she greeted him that day. “Hi, Daddy!” Simple. Affectionate. Unassuming.

Sam smiled. “How’s my big girl?”

She felt a shiver of excitement when he said that. He could be gruff with her. Sometimes, he could be downright mean, especially when he drank too much. But the next day he would make amends by being extra nice. He would compliment her on her cooking or the way she did her hair. She knew it was a fraud, but it felt good when her father paid attention to her. Sam reached into his jeans and took out the keys. He held them high and rattled them.

“Who’s driving?”

Rita squealed. She grabbed the keys, ran to the truck, yanked open the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel.

“You coming, or am I gonna have to learn on my own?”

Sam laughed and climbed in on the passenger side. He reached back behind the seat took out a can of beer and popped the lid. He drank greedily from it. Rita bumped down the dirt road and found the highway. There was only a random car on the road. She’d driven straight at a modest speed for about a mile when Sam moved close to her. He opened another can of beer and took several swigs. He then put his arm around her shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just making sure you don’t drive us into a ditch.”

Moments later his right hand dropped the can of beer and found its way to her navel. He began to stroke her stomach. Rita stiffened but said nothing. Fear gripped her. Sam’s hand fell and landed between her thighs and he started to stroke one side, then the other. A wave of panic came over Rita but she was driving the truck and tried to keep her mind on the road. Sam instructed her to turn off the main road onto a dirt road that seemed to go nowhere. She drove deep into the woods. He demanded she stop the truck. There was nothing but pine trees and more pine trees endlessly encircling the truck.

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“Showing you my love, baby.”

Sam had exposed his engorged member and made his daughter relieve him with her mouth. She sobbed like a beaten animal, bewildered by what she was forced to do. She pretended she was somewhere else. She pretended that what she was doing was something good because it was her father who thrust himself on her. But the tears flowed even more. She believed in all her heart that it would end when he had finished. When she’d been at school, she had heard of such things going on but could never imagine it of her father. Sam’s eyes glazed over. He became even more consumed by lust. He got out of the cab of the truck, ran around to the driver’s side and pulled his daughter out of the cab. He led her to the rear by her braids, picked her up and threw her onto the flat bed. He tore off her blouse and groped her breast. He leered. He then pulled off her jeans and in an instant he was on top of her.

When it was over, Sam drove home while Rita sat in the passenger seat. She stared out the window and sobbed. Then silence. At last, Sam broke down and spoke first.

“I was just showin’ you my love.”

Rita continued to count the telephone poles as they passed by.

“We don’t need to talk about it,” he said.