The Pink Flamingo Murders (25 page)

“She doesn’t have any family. Her parents have been dead for years. She doesn’t have any close friends, except for Patricia, Margie, and me.”

Some friends, I thought. The police thought Caroline’s good friend Margie may have killed her. Caroline’s good friend Dina hardly had a good word to say about her. Even her good friend Patricia had only lukewarm praise for Caroline. It was a sorry mess all around. No funeral, no family to mourn her, and nobody knew who killed her, although there seemed to me to be more suspects than I knew what to do with. I counted them off: Margie; Dale and Kathy; Sally’s boyfriend, Darryl; and the four scary kids. I wondered if I should add Ron the Rehabber to the list. I’d like to know just how angry he was over her slick business deal. Of course I had no proof that any of them killed her. But right now Caroline’s ex-husband was acting the most despicably, so he was my chief suspect. Poor Caroline. I never thought of her as someone to be pitied, but it was sad that a man Caroline didn’t like was put in charge of her body. It was sadder still that he treated it with such contempt.

I wondered if Caroline had been killed as part of a series, and if so, what was her connection to Johnny Hawkeye, Scorpion Smith, and Otto. None of these deaths made sense. They didn’t fit into any pattern.

Well, if I couldn’t solve the murder, maybe I could meet my neighbors. I knocked on more doors, but no one was at home. I really wanted to talk to Sally. After Caroline’s ex-husband, she struck me as someone who might have a key to unlock this mystery. Maybe Sally was relieved that Caroline had driven off her awful boyfriend. Maybe she was still holding a grudge. Maybe she knew just how angry at Caroline Darryl really was. I had to know if Sally knew anything. I wished I knew where she worked. I’d stop by Sally’s house tonight, when there was a better chance she’d be home. Besides, I was too discouraged to continue. I didn’t want to go home, but I needed a phone to check my messages. I was probably the last person in America who didn’t have a cell phone. I hated how they invaded everything. I’d go to a meeting, and everybody’s briefcases would be ringing. At restaurants, people were talking on their cell phones instead of talking to their dinner partner. They had a phone in their ear when they walked down the street. I even saw a guy talking on the phone at the pool. I refused to be tied to a phone that way, which meant the local drug dealers and I were in a constant search for an un-vandalized pay phone. So, of course, I headed for Uncle Bob’s. Maybe I needed Marlene’s smart sympathy, too. I pulled into the parking lot and knocked on the kitchen window, so the cook wouldn’t start my “usual.” Uncle Bob’s had a good late lunch crowd of local car salesmen, businesspeople, and hospital workers. Marlene was still working. “Hi,” she said. “Just coffee?”

“Yeah, I already have a belly full of belly bombers,” I said.

Marlene grimaced. “Has your day gotten any better?” she said.

“Nope,” I said. “It’s gone downhill. Erwin did get Crullen as his lawyer, and Crullen is demanding two
hundred fifty thousand to settle. If the
Gazette
doesn’t settle right away, and Crullen files suit, he wants half a million for Erwin’s distress and damage to his reputation.”

“What reputation? He’s a letter-writing weirdo,” Marlene said.

“When Crullen finishes with him, he’ll be Mr. Chips,” I said gloomily. “Crullen has already made the stray cat into a treasured pet. Oh, and to top it off, we have the
Gazette
consultant’s latest halfwit idea, the Meet Your Neighbor list. I need fifty signatures and I have about three. I’ve been threatened, insulted, ignored, and had doors slammed in my face. I don’t want to meet any more neighbors. It’s been traumatic enough already. I’d forge the signatures, but I need so many, and I’m not sure I can fake them all.”

“So what are you going to do?” she said.

I shrugged. “I’ll think of something. Meanwhile, I’ll make some phone calls.” I took my coffee cup, notepad, and a pile of change to the little phone alcove near the cash register and started dialing. First, I checked in at the
Gazette
. No one was looking for me, thank goodness. Then I checked the messages on my office answering machine. I had one from Lyle and one from Pam Klein. I called Pam first, so I could spend time with Lyle.

“Are you okay?” Pam asked. She’d been on the edge of the crowd at Erwin’s house and seen the whole debacle.

“No,” I said. “I’m a mess. Erwin is suing.”

“What!”
she said. “What for?”

I told her the story. “That little creep,” she said. “I know he’s guilty of something. I’ll find out what it is.”

I dialed Lyle’s number at the office, but it was busy, so I went back to the table. Marlene handed me the stack of Meet Your Neighbor sheets. All fifty spaces
were signed and filled out in different handwriting. There was a huge smile on her rosy Irish face.

“What’s this?” I said. “How did you do this?”

“Meet your neighbors,” Marlene said, and threw her arms out to the tables at Uncle Bob’s. I saw business-people in suits, men and women in hospital white, college students, mothers with toddlers, tired older shoppers getting a bite to eat. They saw me and applauded. I bowed and applauded them back. I looked at the filled-out sheets. For the first time that day I felt some hope. I’d been saved by my readers.

“I took the sheets around from table to table and told everyone what was going on,” Marlene said. “They were glad to sign the sheets. You’re finished. Now, take the rest of the day off. And tomorrow, too. It’s Fourth of July, a holiday that should not be missed in St. Louis.”

“I’m allergic to crowds,” I said. “I refuse to go to the Fair St. Louis downtown and stand in the sun with a million people.”

“So don’t go.” Marlene shrugged. “Come along with us for the fireworks at night. I get a group of friends together every year. We don’t go all the way downtown into the crowds. We have an undiscovered place where we can see everything. You can’t miss the fireworks. Bring Lyle, too.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds like fun.” That’s what we needed—something simple and all-American. Fireworks on the Fourth of July, fried chicken and lemonade. Well, okay, beer for Lyle. I couldn’t quite see him swilling lemonade. Before I left Uncle Bob’s, I called Lyle’s office again. This time he was in. He was all sympathy when I told him of my harrowing last two days.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said. “Maybe you need a lawyer. Your own lawyer, not one of those
Gazette
clowns.” He named some names and we talked some
more, and I felt better. My life was reasserting itself. My readers had helped me, and Lyle was so comforting. We made plans to meet for the fireworks tomorrow.

“I know we didn’t plan it, but I’d really like to see you tonight, too,” I said.

There was an awkward silence. Then Lyle said, “I’m working late tonight, but I could see you after nine. It will take me that long to get back to the Central West End. We could meet at my place.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic,” I said.

“I always want to see you,” he said. “I want to marry you, remember? But my workload has been doubled because of that project. These long days are getting to me.”

“I’ll see you after nine,” I said, but when I hung up the phone the doubts set in, eating into my brain like acid. Lyle working late at a university the night before a holiday? Not likely. Universities weren’t corporations, or even newspapers, where the work had to be done no matter what. They were still civilized enough that people could take time off. So why was Lyle working so many hours? So he could be with the blond Pat? Is that why he put me off? I had to find out. I’d stop by Lyle’s office that night and find out just who he was working with. But how would I explain my visit? I had a book Lyle borrowed for me from the university library. I could say I had to return it to the university library before the holiday. The excuse sounded pretty flimsy even to me, but it was all I had to cover myself.

I went home and paced until it was time to go. At seven forty-five at night the university parking lot was almost deserted, except for two cars at the campus radio station and a few more scattered about. The campus was green and shaded by big, old trees, a perfect spot for strolling lovers. I would have enjoyed the walk, except for the ice in the pit of my stomach. What
if I found Lyle in a clinch in his office with that Pat person? Then I’d know, wouldn’t I? It was better to know. I’d rather be alone than be a fool like my mother, living with a man who lied to her. I opened the door to Lyle’s building. Inside, it was dim, cool, and shadowy. My footsteps echoed down the empty hall. I didn’t take the elevator. It would make too much noise. Instead, I walked up the back stairs to the fourth floor. I was puffing slightly when I got to the top. I could hear the voices coming from Lyle’s office, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying until I got a little closer. I paused and picked out the following sentences.

“I just don’t see that sex should be taken that seriously,” said a light, young voice. “I mean, like, if you screw around, it shouldn’t ruin your whole life. It’s just, you know, a little fun.”

“Is that all you see sex as, a little fun?” Lyle said, seriously.

I didn’t stop to hear the rest. I almost ran down the hall to his office. His door was partly open, but any halfway smart instructor did that. Lyle wouldn’t want to risk a complaint from a student that he attacked her behind closed doors. I peeked in. I saw Lyle talking intently to someone sitting in a chair, back to the door, someone young and slight with blond hair curling down past narrow shoulders, crisp white shirt, plain jeans. Ah, the innocent look. What man could resist that?

I threw open the door all the way and walked in without knocking. “Hi,” said Lyle, not looking at all surprised. “Let me introduce you to Pat—Patrick Sullican, who needs some quick journalism credits to transfer to Mizzou. We’re reading and discussing Tom Wolfe’s essay on the campus sexual revolution in the early seventies. But I’m afraid Pat has a low opinion of
ancient history. We’re just finishing up. I’ll see you after the holiday, Pat.”

Patrick shrugged, said good night, gathered up his books, and left.

Lyle was furious. “Are you happy now, Francesca, that you didn’t catch me with another woman? Or, since Pat turned out to be Patrick, are you convinced I’m gay and that’s how I’m cheating on you?”

“How? What? How?” I said. It’s all I could manage. Lyle had plenty to say.

“How did I know? I can read your face. You walked in here looking for trouble. You were stunned when Pat turned out to be a boy. You’ve been suspicious since the other night, when you heard me say good night to Pat. No, I take that back. You’ve been suspicious for weeks, but after Pat, you had something to pin those suspicions on. You don’t trust me, Francesca.”

“I do,” I said. “Lyle, this is so unfair. I’ve had a terrible day. Please don’t fight with me. Let’s talk about this at a better time.”

“What better time, Francesca? You always have a terrible day, because you work at a terrible place. I’ve asked you again and again to leave the
Gazette
. I’ll go anywhere, if you’ll leave. I’ll relocate to another city. I don’t care. I just want you out of there.”

“You may get your wish,” I said. “I may be fired.”

“No, they won’t fire you. You’re too much fun to kick around.” I must have looked shocked because he reached out and took my hand. “Francesca, I want to live my whole life with you—but not with this chaos. They’re just a big unhappy family substitute for your small unhappy family. Leave there, before it’s too late. I’m begging you. Marry me.”

“I want to marry you, Lyle. But I need time.”

“We’ve been dating three years,” he said. “How
much more time do you need? The love and trust we have is slowly dying. I can feel it.

“When we went out the other night, I tried to tell you what I was working on and why I was staying at the office so late, but you were so wrapped up in your own problems, you didn’t even hear me. Do you remember any of what I said? I told you about the advisor who had been giving bad advice to students for at least two semesters. She was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Now some of the faculty are trying to pick up the slack and help these kids graduate or transfer with the proper credits by giving them reading courses. They’re time consuming, but they’re the best solution we can come up with. Patrick won’t be able to transfer to the University of Missouri at Columbia next semester, unless I give him this reading class.

“But you thought I was cheating on you. Why do you suspect me, Francesca? Because you can’t see any man as anything but a rat like your father. He played around, so I will, too. Since the day we met, you’ve been waiting for me to be like him. Francesca, I’m asking one more time: Set a date to marry me.”

“I want to marry you, Lyle. I love you, but . . .”

He let go of my hand, or maybe I took it back. I wasn’t sure. “But you won’t, will you, Francesca? No matter how much I beg and plead, you won’t marry me, ever.” I saw that his blond hair was mussed, and he had a cute curl on his forehead. I longed to touch it, but I stood there, frozen. He began shoving papers into a briefcase.

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“I’m going to leave, while I can. Because I don’t want to star in your little psychodrama, Francesca. I’m not your father, but if we keep going on this way, I will be.”

“Wait,” I said. “You don’t understand. I love you. I just don’t want to marry you.”

“Because if you married me, and it worked, you’d have a future,” he snapped. “But you’d rather cling to the old, dead past than start a new life, wouldn’t you? You’d rather live with the dead.”

He stopped at the door, and now he looked more sad than angry. “Good-bye, Francesca, I’m sorry. So very sorry. Call me if you change your mind, but I don’t think you will.”

He grabbed his jacket and walked out. I followed him out of the room. He slammed and locked his office door, then walked down the hall. I stood there watching him, but I didn’t cry. Not one single tear. I wouldn’t cry for a man who refused to understand.