Part 7 (1/2)
”I didn't say that. But it seems pretty coincidental that after a decade of giving people grief, Beverly Rillington gets beaten within an inch of her life just after a quarrel with you and your bodyguard.” He gave the last two words a twist that was distinctly unpleasant. I began to think that Arthur had gone off the deep end of the pool without checking to see if there was any water.
”You're certainly not suggesting that I did it,” I said reasonably, though I felt anything but reasonable. ”I think Beverly has a few inches and pounds on me.”
”No,” Arthur said, never letting up on the stare. ”No, not you. But someone who cares for you.”
I started to say, ”What about someone who cares for Angel?” Because it seemed to me that Angel had been insulted publicly too, and if the theory that the incident in the library had sparked this attack held any water, Angel could be the inspiration for the beating far more feasibly than I. No one ever forgot Angel.
But expressing this would be tantamount to pointing the finger at Shelby, at least in Arthur's present state of mind.
”So. You're sure I didn't hurt Beverly. So-why am I sitting here being questioned if you are telling me you're sure I didn't do it?”
And without pausing to give him a chance to respond, I gathered up my purse and stalked out of s.p.a.colec. My back was tense with expecting him to call me at any moment, but he didn't.
Like most of my grand gestures, this one was ruined by the situation I came upon out in the parking lot. Instead of sliding into my car and speeding away with a spray of gravel, I had to deal with two more angry people.
Angel was standing in front of her car, her face expressionless but her att.i.tude tense. Beside her, talking into a radio, was Detective Paul Allison, who for once looked agitated. On the hood of Angel's car, giving the impression of a spilled bag of garbage, was a battered black imitation-leather purse, gap-mouthed and leaking the miscellany of a woman's life: comb, wallet, Kleenex, crumpled shopping lists, a tube of mints.
I recognized it. It was Beverly's purse, surely the purse that had been stolen from her during the attack the night before.
Chapter Six
”Is this your car?” Paul Allison said sharply, hanging up the radio in its place in his vehicle, a tan Ford, pulled in next to Angel's.
It took me a moment to realize that Paul was speaking to me.
”No,” I said. ”Mine's this one.” I pointed.
I'd known Paul, at least to speak to, for years, and he'd never changed; he was about five ten, slim, with light blue eyes and thin light hair, worn cut short on the sides and combed straight back. Paul was in his mid-forties. He had a sharp nose and a square jaw, thin lips and a pale complexion. If you were a civilian, you had to know Paul for a while for him even to register; he was that nondescript in appearance.
But from the time I'd dated Arthur, I knew Paul was unpopular among his fellow officers who saw Paul as being secretive, self-righteous, and charmless. Paul didn't drink or smoke, and barely had tolerance for those who did; he didn't hunt, or watch football, or even buy nudie magazines. His brief marriage to Sally had been his only one. Apparently, law enforcement was Paul's life, as it had been for his former boss, Jack Burns.
”I told you it was my car,” Angel said with barely maintained patience.
Since I was keeping a sharp eye on Paul, I could see rage roll over his face like a tidal wave. He was so angry I was surprised to see there wasn't a gun in his hand, that he wasn't ordering Angel down on the ground.
”Paul!” I said sharply.
He blinked and looked at me. I put myself right by Angel. His eyes went from Angel down to me, back up to Angel, with the strangest expression.
Being weighed and found wanting was never a pleasant experience, even being found wanting by someone you didn't give a flip for. I sighed before I said, ”Could you explain why this purse is here?” It seemed safe to talk now; Paul's face had resumed its normal color and his eyes were focused and sane again.
”I was just about to ask this woman the same thing,” Paul said, in a much calmer voice.
”I'm Angel Youngblood,” she said, in an equally cool way. ”I found this purse on the hood of my car when I came to get in after coming out of the Law Enforcement Complex, and then the convenience store.” She nodded her head toward the Shop-So-Kwik about thirty feet from the end of the s.p.a.colec parking lot. She had a little bag in her right hand. She waved it.
Paul made a gesture, and in response, Angel opened the bag. Inside was a little package of Tost.i.tos, a Diet c.o.ke, and a giant cookie in its own cellophane wrapper. ”Hungry,” she said by way of explanation.
I had never never seen Angel eat food like this; tasty junk, but junk. seen Angel eat food like this; tasty junk, but junk.
”So the purse was exactly like this when you returned?” Paul asked. His voice resumed its normal flat, faintly sour tone.
”No, I opened it and poked in it to try to see who it belonged to,” Angel said with perfect logic. ”I looked around the parking lot first to see if I could spot a woman who might have put it here, but when I didn't see anyone, I looked inside. I was just about to open the snap on the wallet when you popped out of your car.”
Paul pulled a pencil out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket, turned the purse over on the hood of the car, and levered out the wallet. He stuck in the end of the pencil to work the snap, and unfolded the wallet with it. It fell open to a driver's license. The picture and the name were that of Beverly Rillington.
I wasn't surprised, since I'd been sure I recognized the purse. But Angel drew in a sharp breath, the equivalent of a scream for those of us who don't count on danger as a way of life.
”Maybe we'd better go in and talk,” Paul said, and I didn't think he was making a suggestion.
”No.” My mother would be arriving with troops if I didn't get home and call her, and there was no sense in making more of this than necessary.
”What?” Paul had a puzzled expression, as if he hadn't quite understood what I meant by ”No.”
”When I drove into the parking lot and stopped by Angel's car, the purse wasn't there. When Angel went by my car, the purse wasn't there. there. And what a senseless thing for either of us to do, put Beverly's purse out. We might as well go on and put the handcuffs on ourselves! Gee, here we are at the Law Enforcement Complex, let's put incriminating evidence on the hood of a car?” And what a senseless thing for either of us to do, put Beverly's purse out. We might as well go on and put the handcuffs on ourselves! Gee, here we are at the Law Enforcement Complex, let's put incriminating evidence on the hood of a car?”
Paul's thin mouth curved in a reluctant smile. It was the first time I'd had a glimpse of what Sally had seen in him.
”Okay, Roe. But if you didn't leave the purse on Mrs. Youngblood's car, and Mrs. Youngblood didn't, who did? Why?”
Angel looked down at me, and I knew our blank gazes were a match. But Angel could see when a thought reached my brain, and shook her head, a tiny gesture as firm as a hand clapped over my mouth.
”We're not detectives,” I said, looking at Paul. Angel unwrapped the cookie from the bag and started to eat it. Since her mouth was full, she had to shrug.
Though Paul fussed at us some more, he eventually hooked a pencil under the purse strap and carried it into s.p.a.colec. Angel had finished the cookie and opened the Tost.i.tos and the c.o.ke.
”Someone has it in for you,” I observed.
”How do you figure that?” Angel asked around a Tost.i.to.
”The flowers, sent to get you in trouble with your husband. The ribbon around the cat's neck, to let you know you weren't secure. The beating of Beverly Rillington after you had a standoff with her in the library. The placing of the purse on your car.”
”That's the oddest thing,” Angel said. She gave me a look full of significance. And I couldn't read it.
”h.e.l.l, it's all odd!” I said, puzzled. ”But you mean, because putting the purse out here was so open? Everything else could be done in the dark or long distance, so to speak.”
Angel looked away and finally nodded.
I had to restrain myself from asking her to explain all this Enigmatic she was giving me. We'd known each other for two years now, been neighbors for that time, and I thought we were as close friends as we could be, given the fact that she was my employee and we had very different characters. I did at least know Angel well enough to be sure that she would tell me what she was thinking when she was good and ready, and not a moment before. .
By the look she was giving me, I could tell Angel thought I was being as dense as I thought she was being secretive. Mutually baffled and exasperated, we got in our respective cars and went home, Angel obeying the speed limit meticulously all the way. I followed behind her, driving automatically. My state of mind might best be described as confused.
I couldn't help but remember Arthur's long absence, his return with the coffee. Had Arthur Smith planted that purse on the hood of Angel's car while she was in the market? If he thought discrediting Angel and perhaps by extension her husband and mine would somehow induce me to think more kindly of him, Arthur was not just mistaken, but seriously deranged.
I trailed slowly into the house, just in time to hear the phone ring. I dashed down the hall, past the stairs, to the second door on the right leading to our study/ library/television room.
”What now?” my mother asked in her cool voice. But I could hear the mixture of anxiety and exasperation underlying it, the two emotions that seemed to dominate in her dealings with me.