Wicked Fix (22 page)

they'll prosecute Victor for Reuben's murder, you can

bet on it."

"But ..."

"They can put a case together any way they want

to, and the way they'll do it is the way they think'll get

'em a conviction. They're not going drop a bird they

already got in the hand, to go off hog wild lookin' for

somebody else. No sir."

"But common sense ..." I began. Suggested, I

meant, that the deaths were connected somehow.

"Paddy Farrell says Reuben killed somebody that

way before," I told Arnold. "With a tie, I mean. That

right there makes a link of some kind, doesn't it?"

Arnold shook his head firmly.

"Heard the tie story myself, but be realistic. First

of all, no one knows for sure it's true, however much

everyone in town is so convinced that it is. Top of

which, that's a lawyer's job, try to get Victor out a' this

pickle with sense, common or otherwise. And it'll happen

at trial. If," he added roughly, "it happens at all."

He raised a stubby finger. "And it ain't guaranteed

to work then, either. Common sense--the idea that one

person killed both Weasel and Reuben, and that one

person couldn't be Victor 'cause his hand ain't bit--

that's one thing, but evidence is another. And they've

got good evidence against Victor for Reuben's murder."

He paused, and when he spoke again his tone softened.

"To them, old Weasel's tooth is neither here nor

there. But you might manage to make something of it,

nosy and bone stubborn as I know you are. And something

else."

I looked up, puzzled. "I watch, you know," he

said. "Town doings, it's my job to know all about

them. And when your ex came here, I know it put a

hitch in your git-along."

I nodded, smiling at the phrase. It was pure Arnold.

"I'd thought I was free of him. And then ..."

"And then," Arnold agreed. "But you didn't badmouth

him all around town, set him up so that people

here wouldn't accept him. You didn't take your pound

of flesh."

But I'd wanted to. Oh, I had wanted to. And that, I

suddenly realized, was why Arnold was telling me all

this: a good town cop, he'd been paying attention to

my behavior just as much as to anyone else's. Based on

it, he had made a decision to help me.

As much as he could. At this point, it was really all

out of his hands. He got up. "Guess I better go check

on Clarissa. Doctor says she could have that baby any

damned second, which I sure do wish she would."

Then he grinned. "Know what they're startin' to

call you and Ellie, hereabouts? On account of all your

interest in murder and mayhem and whatnot?"

As I've mentioned, it wasn't the first time Ellie and

I had nosed around into intriguing local doings. Just

the first time someone in my family was intimately connected

to them.

"No, what?" Embarrassed, I swiped moisture from

my face. Funny how you can take bad news and stay

composed, but one kind word and the waterworks

start running like the fountains of Rome.

"The Snoop Sisters," he said, and I burst out

laughing, as he had intended. Then he went out, paying

for his coffee at the register like any other citizen, leaving

me to think.

Which wasn't exactly easy; at the moment my

ideas felt more knotted-up than Molly Carpentier's

macrame. But from what I could see so far, the situation

boiled down to a pair of possibilities:

1. Two killers, one (in a prosecutor's eyes)

being Victor.

Or more likely:

2. One murderer and two victims with no

link between them, except that their deaths

seemed part of someone's attempt to send a

message.

I carried my glass back to the fountain.

"I'm so sorry for the difficulty you've been having,"

Bailey James said kindly. "I hope it all ends up

okay."

"Thanks," I replied. "I do too."

But not just for me, I added silently as I went out.

And not just for Victor, because the feeling I kept having

wouldn't stop:

The feeling that the message was meant for all

of us.

Heddlepenny House, a private home set up

as a bed-and-breakfast, was a tall Victorian

structure replete with gables, porches, bay

windows, and lots of elaborate carved trimmings.

Turning the knob on the hand-operated bell set

into the ornate front door, I gazed down Washington

Street past the massive granite-block post-office building

on the corner, to the water beyond.

A little red-and-black-painted dragger bobbed

jauntily on the light chop riffling the bay. Farther out,

the ferry churned faithfully along its route, sun glinting

off the windshields of the cars lined up on the deck, the

passengers bright splotches.

A man opened the door: handsome, fortyish, with

dark hair, a deeply cleft chin, and an attractive baritone

voice. "Come in," Marcus Sondergard invited

when I had introduced myself.

Guests had the run of the place at Heddlepenny

House so it was not unusual that Marcus himself had

opened the door. He led me to the parlor where an

older man stood gazing out the window, onto Washington

Street. Heywood Sondergard, Marcus's father,

was a tall burly fellow whose grooved, good-humored

face said he was in his late sixties, wearing a blue

chambray shirt with pearl buttons, faded jeans, and a

leather belt with a small but elaborate silver buckle. He

had a luxuriously thick head of silver-white hair, pale

blue eyes with bushy white eyebrows flourishing above

them, and a gaze that while sympathetic was also very

knowing.

"God is merciful," he intoned, his blue eyes darkening

at the mention of Reuben. I'd explained who I

was, the trouble Victor was in, and that I hoped they

might help me understand it.

"But He is also just," he went on. "I have no doubt

that young Mr. Tate is where he belongs. He chose to

reap the wind," Heywood said, "and he is sowing the

whirlwind."

The tongue of the belt buckle was shaped like a

cross with a rose vine twining up it: the rose of Sharon.

"Now, Dad," Marcus contradicted indulgently. "We

don't know that. The Lord works in mysterious ways."

"Hmmph," Heywood uttered skeptically, but subsided

for now.

"Dad," Marcus explained, "leans more toward an

Old Testament interpretation than I do. An eye for an

eye and all that."

His tone grew nostalgic. "Gosh, I grew up hearing

Reuben stories." He looked around fondly. "This was

our house, once, did you know that?"

I hadn't. Marcus went on. "When we lived here,

Reuben was the kid your parents always warned you

about. Dad was a minister here, so I suppose I got a

little more guidance than most local kids."

He glanced affectionately at the older man. "Dad

was very popular," Marcus added proudly. "Big attendance

at his services on Sundays, and he was wonderful

with the youngsters."

Marcus wasn't only big and handsome, I noticed

suddenly. He was powerfully built: thick neck, muscular

shoulders, broad chest tapering to a flat, narrow

middle. His forearms, under the rolled-up sleeves of his

white shirt, looked as solid as mutton roasts.

"Now, Marcus," the older man cautioned. "You

know what pride goeth before. I ran a youth group,

that's all. The boys and girls liked it because I made

sure it had plenty of music. Nothing so remarkable

about that."

"Dad's too modest," Marcus said. "But if he wants

to hide his light under a bushel, so be it. Anyway, after

Mother died the two of us were left on our own. Rattling

around this house like a couple of marbles,

weren't we, Dad?"

Heywood's deep voice rumbled agreement. "Decided

to take our ministry on the road," he said. "So

the Lord," he added, "sent us a Winnebago, and off we

went."

This back-and-forth explanatory banter was an act

they'd honed perfectly, I realized, though to be fair I

supposed that if I had to explain myself in a new town

every week, I'd get pretty good at it, too. A flyer on a

low table, exhorting me to hear the heavenly melodies

of the Bible Belters, said they'd done a dozen shows

over the past three weekends, in places ranging from a

tiny logging camp in the Allagash region to an art museum

in South Portland.

"We're looking forward to performing for the

home folks," Marcus said affably. "Would you like to

see our setup? It's all out in the Winnebago, but maybe

you'd like to see that, too. Dad did all the interior on it.

I'll show you if you'd like."

"Marcus, you brag about me too much," Hey

wood grumbled as we got up. But it was clear that he

was pleased.

For my own part, I thought Marcus wanted to talk

to me alone, so I followed his lead. The Winnebago

stood on a blacktop apron at the back of the house.

Along a picket fence making a border between the lane

and the yard, the season's last zinnias tangled in bright

profusion.

I stood at the end of the back walk, breathing fresh

air; the Sondergards were pleasant enough, but something

about their mutual admiration society felt a little

smothering.

Not false, exactly. Only as if the two of them were

old hands at circling the wagons and did it as a sort of

knee-jerk reflex. The feeling went on bothering me, as

Marcus welcomed me into the Winnebago.

"Goodness," I said inadequately, gazing around.

"You think of these things as being sort of claustrophobic.

But ..."

He led me through. The bunks were pods equipped

with reading lamps, TVs, stereo headphone sets, and

telephones, each snug and secret-feeling, wonderfully

private. The bath was the same: all you could want

tucked in so cleverly that you didn't perceive how small

the cubicle really was.

That left space for three compact but well

furnished common areas, one set up as a sort of meet