Wicked Fix (36 page)

only two." I pulled a pair of rubber boots onto my feet.

"One of them Willow picked up," Ellie said, following

my thought. I'd described this to her. "And the

other one, Heywood got." She pulled her own rain

gear on and took an umbrella from one of the other

hooks.

"Marcus had a one-in-three chance of choosing the

one that was harmless. So," she concluded, "maybe

Marcus was just lucky or something."

"Right," I said, pulling on my rain hat. "Or something."

Tomorrow morning, the weekend would be over.

Ordinarily, the town's visitors might stay longer, but

lousy weather combined with the news that Eastport

harbored a murderer would make the causeway look

like the Long Island Expressway.

And somehow I had no doubt that one of the first

cars onto the mainland would contain a tall, statuesque

blonde, heading for the hills.

"Let's," I said grimly, "go find Willow Prettymore."

The Motel East was a low, well-kept structure

of dark wood with a blacktopped parking

lot and manicured landscaping. The lot

was full of cars, most with out-of-state

plates, the blacktop awash and the shrubberies bent in

the driving wind. We made our way among them and

headed for Willow's door, which was around back facing

the water.

The wind howled as we struggled to keep on our

feet; the tide was so high that the bay itself surged

nearly onto Sea Street, below the granite ledge the motel

was built on.

Then the door opened, and whatever Ellie said got

us in.

"I don't know what you're doing here," Willow

began, "but I am very upset, and I wish you'd just--" :

"Shut up," I gasped, still busy catching my breath

after the maelstrom outside. Her jaw dropped, and she

fell silent.

The room was huge, equipped with two queen

sized beds, three armchairs, bureaus, and a big TV. A

kitchenette held a small sink, a microwave, and a coffeemaker.

Pulled up in front of the television were the

two young blond kids I'd seen earlier, now in thrall to

the screen.

A bottle of Cutty Sark and an ice bucket stood on

the sink. "You can't ..." Willow tried again. Ellie

walked over to the sink, poured a stiff slug of Cutty,

and handed it to Willow.

"This is my friend Jacobia. You're going to talk to

her, or tomorrow we're going to start reminding people

why your nickname used to be 'Willow the Pillow.'

I believe it had something to do with lying down," she

finished sweetly. "Isn't that right?"

Willow took a slow, furious swallow of her Cutty

Sark. "You always were a holier-than-thou little

bitch," she grated in low tones. "I knew I shouldn't

have come back here."

So much for the image. I glanced at the kids but

they were watching a wrestling match with the sound

turned up loud. No husband was in evidence. "Have

the police been here?" I asked.

"Just Bob Arnold," Willow replied resentfully.

"He thinks we'll have to stay an extra day, for the state

police. I told him it was inconvenient and he got extremely

huffy with me."

She took another gulp. "As if it's any concern of

mine what goes on among the locals."

She gave the final word a scornful twist, and suddenly

I realized how hard it would be, trying to figure

out who might've wanted to poison Willow Prettymore.

I, for instance, had only known her about

three minutes, and I wanted to put a couple of cyanide

laced ice cubes in her Cutty, just for the fun of it.

"Be that as it may," I began. She was wearing Joy

perfume, full makeup, and enough gold jewelry to sink

a battleship.

"I'd still like to know what puts you in the same

category as Heywood Sondergard, Weasel Bodine,

Mike Carpentier, and Reuben Tate. I mean, in the

sense that I think someone wants to kill you all, and so

far has succeeded three times out of four."

That widened her eyes, all right. If she wasn't acting.

I was lying a little bit myself. But only a little bit. I

went on:

"Someone dosed the last two glasses of lemonade

very fast, as they were passing by the drinks table. And

as you and Heywood were already nearly in the act of

reaching for the glasses."

I'd been thinking hard on the way down to the

motel. "To be sure," I finished, "that the right people

got them."

"But ... how?" She stared at me in shock.

"Have you any idea how little rat poison it takes to

kill a person?"

Or whatever it was, and I didn't know how much

it took, either; all I knew was that it smelled like the

stuff. But maybe Willow did know; she'd been standing

by that drinks table, too.

"Palm two doses," I theorized, "preferably folded

in slips of paper so it doesn't get on your skin. Then

... just walk along, dropping the stuff in. Toss the

paper slips in the trash."

I sat down at the Formica-topped table in the

kitchen area. "The killer would have come prepared,

hoping for a good moment. Maybe even mutilated

Molly Carpentier's doll, to get attention focused elsewhere.

The timing didn't quite work out, maybe, but it

worked well enough. And when the moment arrived,

bingo."

I smiled at her. "Neat, sweet, and complete. Only

you didn't happen to drink from your glass. How," I

finished, "convenient."

"Oh, now wait a minute! You don't think I had

anything to do with--"

"I don't know. I'm trying to find out. And until

now I must say you haven't been very helpful. I'm

wondering why not. And don't," I added, "give me any

nonsense about your reputation. I'd think helping to

solve a murder would do wonders for it, but you

haven't bothered."

"Mike Carpentier hasn't been attacked," Willow

retorted waspishly. She refilled her glass, sat across

from me at the table. She hadn't invited me to sit, but I

had decided to anyway; for all her glossy image she

was a little short in the manners department.

"Maybe he's behind it all," Willow added, her

voice filled with venom. "He's nuts enough."

"Oh, but he has. The doll mutilation was pretty

graphic. I'd say it went beyond distraction. If I were

Mike, I'd be wondering if it was meant as some kind of

a preview."

I was cold, damp, and not feeling like standing on

much ceremony. Someone should have taught Willow

that the high-class society ladies she was apparently

trying to imitate were generally more hospitable, and

less jewel encrusted, than she imagined. I got up, found

the coffee and equipment, and started the coffeemaker

while Willow regarded her whiskey glass sullenly.

"I'm not saying you've all been attacked at the

same time, you see," I went on. "Or even to the same

degree, so far."

On the television, large men in spandex grappled

with each other. Ellie had joined the children and was

watching the wrestling match with the air of one raptly

learning about social customs on Mars. She glanced up

absently, intent on the sight of one very large man pretending

to stomp hard on another very large man's

throat.

"Is this," she wanted to know, "real? Or faked?"

"Neither," I said. "It's Greek theater. You know,

struggle and climax and catharsis, and all that."

"Oh," she replied comprehendingly, and returned

to studying the spectacle as if she were an anthropologist.

"The police are going to question you very

comprehensively," I told Willow. "Along with your husband.

Where is he?"

She shook her blond head impatiently; probably he

was out somewhere trying to buy a case of bananas,

maybe some peanuts. Willow's perfect pale hair had

escaped its chignon, and her pink lipstick was thick on

the plastic whiskey glass.

"We had an argument," she admitted.

Darn, and I had missed it: all that jungle chest

beating. At the supper he'd sat apart from the rest,

glowering like something out of a traveling circus.

"He didn't want to come in the first place. I

wanted to show off, he said. I just wanted people to see

that I'd ... that I'd ..."

A sob escaped her. I poured her some coffee. She

sipped it, made a face, drank more. "I'm sorry," she

muttered. "I'm not usually so disgusting. But Ellie was

right," she went on a little drunkenly, and I thought

the Cutty bottle was turning out to be a stroke of luck.

"When I grew up here, I was the town slut."

She looked up miserably. "I just wanted them to

know I'm not Willow the Pillow anymore. Is that so

awful?"

"No," I said, pitying her suddenly. "It isn't." Just

then it occurred to me what I didn't see anywhere in

the room.

"Urn, Willow, may I use the bathroom?"

She nodded, and I found my way to the facilities.

Closing the door, I locked it as quietly as I could, the

sound from the TV covering me. As I'd hoped, Willow's

purse hung on the hook behind the door.

A quick rummage was all I had time for: keys, wallet,

usual credit cards, and a driver's license. A couple

of hundred in cash. No handy tin of Acme rat killer.

But at the bottom of the bag was an interesting discovery:

a small orange plastic bottle of Valium tablets.

Three or four of them rattled lonesomely around in the

bottom of the bottle.

Which made me wonder: Victor had written Reuben

Tate a prescription for sedatives. But was that the

sedative Tate had in his system when he died? The definitive

toxicology tests, Bennet Berman had informed

me, wouldn't be back for a couple of weeks.

Tucking the bottle away swiftly, I flushed, ran the

water, and went back out to the kitchenette. Either the

Cutty had begun making Willow feel even more talkative

or she'd decided it was time to blow some smoke

at me; I couldn't tell which.

"My husband is in business with all the right people,"

she sniffled.

Visions of organ-grinders danced in my head; with