“You’re a pain, but I guess you already know I think that.” Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he got up and mumbled, “We’re keeping daytime surveillance on your mom’s house. I imagine at night Wonder Woman over here can handle it.”
There are a number of ways Keisha could have handled what I saw as a clear insult, but she looked him straight in the eye and said, “Ralph Hoskins is no match for me, believe me on that.”
When he was gone, she said, “I don’t like that man. Among other things I think he’s racist. But he’s looking out for your mama, and so I’ll go along.”
How did I get so lucky?
****
My talk with Buck Conroy, after his second interview with Ralph, was on a Thursday. That night Mike was off and after the girls were in bed we sat in the living room, me reading the newest Deborah Crombie mystery and Mike in a history magazine. But my book was open in my lap, and I was staring into space.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Thinking about Claire.”
Mike groaned.
“No, seriously. She’s, well, different since she’s back with the girls and Jim is dead. We’ve had lunch several times, and she’s like the old Claire I knew, not mysterious.”
“She’s still about to be indicted for at least manslaughter, if not murder.”
“Angus Mitchell advised her to plead no contest to manslaughter and held out the hope she might get probation.”
Mike harrumphed. “I doubt that…and I don’t think she should. She shot the guy, and I think she killed him.”
I stared at him. He was so tender-hearted about me and so cold about Claire. Sometimes I could see his point of view, but other times it baffled me.
As if on cue, Claire called about nine, asking if she and her daughters could come over. “Are Maggie and Em asleep?”
“I think so.”
“We have something to discuss that I don’t want them to hear.”
Now, that alarmed me. I told her to come on, but I added that Mike was home tonight.
She hesitated just a minute. “Oh…well, we’d like to come anyway. I hope he’ll understand.”
More alarming!
Mike looked up from his magazine. “What was that all about?”
I told him, and he frowned. “I’m not sure I want to stay for this.”
“Mike….” My voice held a plea. “We may need you.”
He sighed and put his magazine down, nonetheless frowning at me.
On the theory that busy hands lighten the heavy heart, I went into the kitchen to make sure there was chilled wine and some 7-UP.
When they arrived, they looked like they’d all three been crying, their eyes red and puffy, their faces splotchy. Claire held tight to Liz’s hand, pulling the reluctant child into the living room, while Megan followed. When I offered Claire wine, she said, “I brought a bottle. I think all of us need a glass, including the girls.”
Mike frowned. When I asked him if he wanted wine, he declined. I think he had this cop-like thought of not drinking in the company of under-age girls and not condoning serving wine to them. I opened a beer and put it in front of him. If he drank it, fine; if he didn’t I’d throw it out.
I poured small glasses of wine, brought them in to the living room, and went to make sure my girls were asleep and not listening. They seemed to be.
We sat in the overstuffed furniture in the living room, Liz almost cuddled into Claire on the couch, Megan huddled in one of the big chairs. I sat in the other chair, puzzled, wringing my hands, and drinking my wine faster than I should have. Mike stood, hands behind his back, staring at the floor.
Claire spoke first, “I don’t know where to begin…Liz?”
Liz looked down at her hands and shook her head.
“Liz, I can’t tattle on you. You need to tell Kelly and Mike yourself, and then we’ll figure out the next move.”
Liz looked up at me, tears trailing down her cheeks. In a halting voice, she said, “I put the Percocet in Mom’s pill case.” It all tumbled out, “I thought she was mean to Daddy and the Percocet would stop that.”
I was stunned. “Liz, did you know what Percocet is for?”
She shook her head. “Now I know it’s pain relief, like Mom’s shoulder. But I thought it would just calm her down. I found it one day when I was in the apartment out back,”—I never known she’d been there and I wondered if it was a time when Claire wasn’t home either.
“I…I just put it in with the aspirin Mom always carries. They sort of look the same.”
“So why are you telling us this now?” I was puzzled.
“Because I don’t want Mom to go to jail for killing Daddy. She didn’t do it. I did, but I didn’t know that was what would happen.”
The indictment hearing was the next week.
I got up and went to wrap my arms about Liz. “You poor baby. You were caught in such an unhappy situation. I know you know what you did was wrong, but you’re so right to save your mom.”
Claire spoke again, “I want to be sure she’s not just taking the blame to free me.”
I looked at them and decided honesty was best. “If it was Megan, I’d think that’s possible. But I think Liz is telling the truth.”
Megan still said nothing. She just sat, now looking anywhere but at her mother and sister.
Liz sobbed and said, “I am.”
“So, now what do we do?” Claire asked, and I wondered why I became the problem solver.
“Call Angus Mitchell?”
“I did. He blew me off, said he didn’t believe it, and I should still plead no contest to manslaughter,” Claire’s tone was bitter.
“Call Terrell Johnson?” I asked.
Claire, her face drawn and tired, thought for a moment. “Maybe. Mike?”
Just then, as predicted, Maggie and Em peeked around the corner from the bedroom hall. I sent them packing back to bed.
“What’s going on? Why are they here so late at night?” Maggie asked.
“To wake you up,” I said. “Now go back to bed and do not get out.” I said it sternly enough that she muttered, “okay,” and I guessed she didn’t hear the conversation.
Em was more trouble. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Is Miss Claire all right?”
“Yes, she will be. She wants you to go back to sleep.”
“But I want to know what’s wrong. How’s Miss Emily?”
“The cat is fine, and when it’s time we’ll tell you what’s happened. But now you go to sleep, and do not get out of this bed.” Again, my voice was stern.
When I came back, everyone was silent, and Mike stared at Liz. “Liz, could you and I go down the hall to talk?”
She nodded and followed him into our bedroom, while Claire and I sat wringing our hands, trying to make small talk and failing utterly. Megan was quiet.
Though it seemed like longer, Mike and Liz came back within minutes. “Claire, I recommend you call Terrell Johnson. And forget Angus Mitchell. As I see it, Liz didn’t mean for her father to die. In fact he wasn’t her target—you were. And she thought the pills would just make you sleep and you’d let Jim alone. She did it in defense of her father, not to kill him.”
“Manslaughter?” I asked.
“At the worst.”
Claire looked at Liz. “Do you hate me that much?”
Liz stared at the floor then hugged her mom. “I don’t hate you. I love you—a lot. But I had a hard time thinking you’d shot Dad and that he was innocent. Megan’s been talking to me, and I understand more now.”
“Nonetheless, shooting your father was a shameful act on my part,” Claire said, “and I thought of myself, not you girls. Something a mother should never do.”
They hugged and cried, and I was teary though Mike looked clear-eyed and said, “Call Terrell Johnson first thing in the morning.”
When they left, at almost one o’clock in the morning, Mike and I collapsed into bed. But as he fell asleep he mumbled, “Kelly, could you please stay out of criminal matters from now on?”
“I’ll try,” I whispered. But I knew that Ralph Hoskins bothered me, and the serial killer wasn’t caught. I’d just made a semi-promise that I couldn’t keep.
****
Mom’s opera date with Ralph was for Saturday night, but she never got to go. Friday morning, she called me to say she didn’t feel well and could I come right over. Of course I said yes, even though I was exhausted from our long and traumatic evening the night before.
“Mom’s not feeling well. I’m going over there,” I told Keisha.
She looked puzzled. “She felt fine when I left. Ate eggs and bacon and had great plans for needle pointing a pillow cover, since we told her she couldn’t garden outside alone. Which, by the by, she thinks is foolishness.”
“Well, I’ll call you when I get there and see what’s up. I doubt it’s serious.” And I wasn’t too concerned as I drove to Mom’s house—an upset stomach, a headache, some minor thing. But I knew that even though she wasn’t quite a senior citizen yet, we had to watch for more serious things—small heart attacks, stroke—what was it they said? Lift your arms, smile, speak a sentence, and something else. My imagination began to run away with me as I drove the five minutes to her house.
The door was unlocked, but I walked into an unexpected situation. Mom was seated in one of the dining chairs facing the door, her hands bound behind her with duct tape, and Ralph Hoskins stood over her, wielding a butcher knife from Mom’s kitchen. I recognized it as the sharp, good one I gave her last Christmas. His back was to the kitchen.
It took me a minute to catch my breath. “Mom, are you all right?” I started toward her.
She sobbed and blubbered, “Yes, but I don’t understand why Ralph’s doing this?”
He rubbed her shoulder in almost an affectionate gesture. “Kelly knows,” he said. He stood straighter and taller than I’d ever seen him, and he kept that knife close to Mom.
“What do you want?” I asked, trying hard to keep my voice strong in spite of the fact that all my muscles trembled.
“You set the police on me. That guy Buck Conroy. Now he’s got it all figured out, and I can’t let you or your mom get away with it.” His eyes glowed fiercely, and his voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky. He could have been on drugs, but I suspected it was just adrenaline. I felt my own kicking in too.
“Kelly….” Mom said. “Do something to reassure him. We don’t think he’s a murderer.”
“You don’t, my dear, but your daughter does, and this pains me more than you can know. I thought for once I could have a normal life and happiness with you.”
“I thought so too,” Mom wailed.
I worried that she would faint. After all, he held that knife close to her throat.
“Sit in that chair,” he said, pointing to another dining chair backed up to Mom’s, “and put your hands behind the chair. Otherwise I slit your mom’s throat, much as I hate the thought.”
He was a madman, and I didn’t know what else to do. I calculated my chances of charging him and getting the knife before he could use it, but they weren’t good—and I couldn’t take a chance with Mom. He planned ahead, placing another dining chair just close enough to Mom that he could hold the knife and duct tape my arms at one time. So I did as I was told. Surprising, to me, I was quite calm, convinced that somehow, someone, something would get us out of this. But meantime I needed to go along, so I sat in the chair.
“What do you mean that I know it all?” I asked. Once bound, I longed to reach out to Mom, to reassure her, but all I had was my voice. I realized how uncomfortable the duct tape and the position of my arms were. My shoulders and arms began to ache, and the tape made my skin itch. I wondered how long Mom sat in this position. She sobbed, but I suspected it was not from physical discomfort.
“You figured it out. You knew I killed all those nasty old women, including my own mother.”
I gasped at that. I had suspected but I was amazed he’d say it so blatantly. “You killed your mother?”
“Smothered her in her sleep,” he said. “She’d kept me under her thumb way too long. I was Ralphie, Mama’s boy—never dated, never married, never had a life of my own, because it was always, ‘Ralphie will take care of me.’ I couldn’t stand it any longer.” He paced, possessed now by the demons that haunted him all these years.
“And the others?” I asked as casually as I could.
