Part 34 (1/2)
For a minute, as she wheeled the cart out the automatic doors of the store, Keely wondered if Dan would call when he found out what had happened. When Detective Stratton had asked her to account for her whereabouts at the time of Maureen's death, she had offered Dan's visit to her house, her call to Betsy, and her conversation with the security guard at the courthouse as alibis. When Detective Stratton called Dan to check, Keely knew that Dan would confirm her story. Still,Keely felt her face flame at the thought that her rudeness might have caused both Dan and Nicole to withdraw their offer of friends.h.i.+p. She put her groceries in the trunk and tossed the paper, facedown, on the seat beside her.
She drove home, wondering why it mattered whether Dan would call. She and the kids didn't need new friends-they were going to move away, anyway. As if to reaffirm this conviction, Keely saw, on reaching her driveway, the red Ford Taurus of her Realtor, Nan Ranstead, parked there. For a minute, her heart sank. She just wanted to go into her house and hide from the world. At that moment, she didn't care whether there was a buyer for her house or not. Keely pulled her SUV in behind Nan's car. She was starting to get out when she saw Nan open the front door of the house and come hurrying down the driveway toward her.
”Mrs. Weaver,” she said, ”I tried to call you. We were looking at a place a few streets away, and these nice people saw your sign.”
”You're supposed to give me a little warning. Don't you have my cell phone number?” Keely asked.
”I know. I didn't have it with me,” Nan confided. ”Listen, do you think you could keep yourself occupied for a little while so I could have time to show them the house? They really seem to like it.”
”I didn't even have a chance to pick up,” Keely protested.
”It looks fine,” said Nan. ”All I need is about half an hour.”
”I guess so,” said Keely hesitantly. Part of her wanted to object, to say, ”Not today,” but Keely realized that the Realtor was only doing her job, and there was no point in making it more difficult for her.
”This could be the one,” Nan said, crossing her fingers hopefully.
”All right,” Keely agreed glumly. She got back into the front seat of her SUV, longing for the privacy, the shelter of her house.Oh Lord,she thought.Now what do I do?She hesitated, then backed out of her driveway and then turned up the street, going as far as the Warners' drive. She pulled in and looked curiously at the house. All the windows were closed and the curtains shut. A newspaper, still in its plastic wrapper, sat on the doormat, and mail stuck out of the mailbox. There was no car in the driveway. It looked as if the Warners had departedsuddenly, and Keely found that strangely troubling.Where could they have gone?she wondered.And why should I care?
For Dylan's sake,she told herself. In a few hours, it would be time to get Dylan, and find out how his school day went. She remembered thinking this morning that Nicole would be there to ease his reentry. But apparently Nicole was not around. Dylan was on his own today. They all were.He'll do fine,Keely told herself, and wished she could believe it. Her nerves were jangled at the thought of him in a hostile environment. Kids could be so cruel. She had a feeling the time would crawl until she could go get him and bring him home.
She drove slowly back by her house, wis.h.i.+ng she could get back inside. She stopped in front, but Nan Ranstead's car was still in the driveway, so obviously the people were still examining her house.Maybe Abby and I could just sit here while we wait,Keely thought. But as she sat there looking wistfully at her property, she heard dogs begin to bark.
Evelyn Connelly was closing her front door behind her, holding her dogs on their leashes as they strained angrily toward the curb where Keely sat. Startled from a sleepy trance by the barking, Abby began to cry. Evelyn, dressed in her sweatsuit and pearls, turned and met Keely's gaze with a glare, her narrow eyes sharp with the hostility that was in her puffy face.
Keely felt her face flush as she quickly looked away from her neighbor's baleful gaze. Without thinking about where she was going next, Keely pulled the Bronco away from the curb. She hated to feel intimidated by her neighbor.I'm not intimidated,she told herself.I just don't need a scene today. I need some peace.
As she turned out onto Cedarmill Boulevard, she glanced at her dashboard and realized how right Dylan had been. The gas gauge was almost onE. All right,she thought,I'll get some gas. I need to do it. I might as well do it now. That'll take up a little time.
Keely hunted up a gas station and pulled in beside the pump. She rolled down her window and turned off the ignition. Then she turned and handed a children's book from the floor beside her back to her fretful baby. Abby, strapped into her car seat in the back, took the book from her mother's outstretched hand and then began to chortlecheerfully as she pressed the b.u.t.tons on a talking book and cows mooed in response.
No one came immediately to service her vehicle, but Keely was in no hurry. While she waited for someone to come to pump the gas, she picked up the paper on the seat beside her. She grimaced again at the sight of the grotesque photograph of Maureen, then she began to read the accompanying story.
In the short time he'd had, the reporter had been thorough. He began with a description of some of the difficult cases Maureen had prosecuted. He referred to the tragic death of Maureen's twin brother, Sean, twenty years earlier on mischief night. He detailed Maureen's subsequent mental breakdown, her treatment at Blenheim, her recovery, and her decision, as a result of that experience, to become a prosecutor. The article mentioned that she was well known for her zeal in prosecuting teenage offenders and quoted her as saying once, ”It was a teenager who killed my brother-I'm sure of that. No one was ever arrested for the crime, but those were the days when teenage delinquents were treated as pranksters, before people realized how violent and out of control teenage boys can be. Now, after Columbine, we've learned our lesson. I may never be able to punish Sean's killer, but I will never go easy on a criminal-I don't care how young he is.”
Keely looked up, staring out the winds.h.i.+eld. She hadn't known much about the mysterious death of Maureen's twin. It appeared to explain Maureen's persecution of Dylan, she thought.
She continued to read, her scalp p.r.i.c.kling at the account of Maureen's engagement and subsequent heartbreak at Mark's hands when he chose to marry Keely. In what the article deemed an ironic twist, it detailed her own discovery of Maureen's body. The reporter had left out the part about Maureen stalking Mark. The article hardly needed to include it. As it was, the story painted an unflattering portrait of Maureen as a lonely, unstable woman, her role as a determined prosecutor possibly a disguise for a troubled spirit. In a way, it was kind of comforting to Keely. It was further confirmation that she and Dylan had been victims of this woman's excessive, unwarranted zeal.
”Can I help you?” The voice of the gas station attendant interruptedher thoughts, and Keely looked up to tell the guy she wanted a full tank of regular. Her heart jolted in surprise at the sight of the acne-scarred face, the skunklike hairdo, and the hooded eyes. He stared back at Keely as if he were trying to place her face. Keely beat him to it.
”You,” she said accusingly.
Wade Rovere's snakelike eyes widened as he recognized his customer.
39.
Phil, I'm glad you could make it. Come on in.” Phil Stratton had received an urgent call from the local police department when he arrived at his office in the courthouse. Phil relied heavily on the work of the local police, and most often it was he who was calling Captain Ferris, requesting results from the local investigations. This time the situation was reversed. Phil felt pretty sure that this was connected to Maureen Chase's suicide. All the law-enforcement professionals in the county were still reeling from the shocking news.
Phil entered the police captain's office and was told, right away, to close the door behind him. ”What's up, Dave?” Phil asked.
”Have a seat,” said Dave Ferris. He was nearly sixty, but still trim, dressed in a tie and neatly pressed white dress s.h.i.+rt, with a full head of grizzled brown hair and a mustache. The only clue to his age was the trifocals that caused his eyes to look large and liquid.
Phil sat down in front of the captain's desk.
Dave pursed his lips and then picked up a doc.u.ment and handed it across to Phil.
”I just got these reports from the lab,” he said. ”Preliminary results of Maureen Chase's autopsy.”
”It's hard to believe, isn't it?” said Phil, shaking his head.
”I've gone over all the reports this morning. She was apparently fixated on this attorney who died, Mark Weaver?”
”Oh, yeah,” said Phil, leaning back in his chair, prepared to give the police captain a few of his insights into the situation. ”I suspected there was a problem but-”
Dave interrupted him. ”And this Weaver guy's wife was the one who found her?”
Phil frowned. ”Yeah. They had kind of an . . . acrimonious relations.h.i.+p, you might say.”
”Phil, how closely did you question the Weaver woman?”
”I questioned her. I mean, I treated it just as you would a homicide. I asked her why she was there, determined her whereabouts earlier in the evening.”
”She has an alibi,” Dave said.
Phil s.h.i.+fted around in his chair. ”Well, yeah. I mean, actually a pretty . . . airtight alibi. We have people who can account for her comings and goings.”
”Phil, there're going to be some additional tests blood tests made on the body. Toxicology tests.”
Phil looked at Dave in surprise. ”What for?”
”Apparently, during the autopsy, the M.E. found a puncture wound.”
”A stab wound? There was no blood.”
”No. Like a hypodermic needle. She may have been drugged.”
”Drugged?” Phil frowned and dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. ”Oh, Dave-she probably took something. There were tranquilizers and Prozac and . . . a bunch of stuff in her medicine cabinet. Maybe she injected herself with something-you know, to steady her nerves-before she went ahead with it.”
”I'm afraid not,” said Dave. ”She didn't inject herself.”
”What do you mean? Why not?”
”Look at the report. The puncture wound was in her neck.”
Phil felt as if his collar were tightening. ”Well . . . maybe she . . .”