Consider the Crows Page 13

  “Well, she sees to it that he has the good life. Beyond that, I expect he just quietly eases around to whatever he wants.”

  “What has he been up to that I ought to know about?”

  “Now there, I can’t help you.”

  Susan sat straight and sighed. “You haven’t been very helpful, George.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. We try our best,” he said with a twinkle. “You’re always too impatient.”

  “Yeah. I want solid results within forty-eight hours or I slump into a decline.”

  “Go on home. Have a little something to eat, relax, watch a little television. Tomorrow might bring something new.”

  “That’s what I like about you, George.” She got to her feet. “Always optimistic.”

  “It all turns out the way it turns out,” he said with a dry whispery laugh.

  “Shove it,” she said. “And go home yourself.”

  It wasn’t very late, only a little after six-thirty, she thought as she collected her coat. That left a whole evening with nowhere to go at the moment on Lynnelle’s murder or Kalazar’s disappearance. A good time to get started on packing Daniel’s clothes. Busy hands allow the mind to roam; right-brain, left-brain stuff. Except handling Daniel’s things wouldn’t be a mindless task.

  It wasn’t like her to put things off. As a kid, she always wanted to be first to read her class report, first in line at the dentist, homework done at the beginning of Christmas vacation. Get it over with. She’d been putting this off for over a year.

  She started the pickup, turned on the headlights and pulled out of the lot, then dawdled along toward home. She could drop by Fran’s. She needed to talk with her again anyway. Fran was the last person to see Audrey Kalazar. Susan cut left instead of right at Main Street. If Fran hadn’t eaten yet, maybe she’d like to have supper someplace.

  Fran lived in one half of a duplex, a neat white frame with red brick facing that sat on the center of U-shaped Beacon Street. The owner lived in the other half, a man in his seventies who kept a fatherly eye on Fran and worried mightily about the constant turnover of males in her life. You need to marry a nice young man and settle down, he repeatedly counseled her.

  As Susan got out of the pickup, three teenage girls drifted by on the sidewalk. Their hairstyles were identical, skimmed flat on one side of the head and frizzed out in a wild bush on the other, as though they were passing through hurricane gales. The streetlight glittered on about six earrings apiece in the exposed ears. Susan smiled to herself. It was the sort of look that had the old folks shaking their heads. She caught a snatch of their twittering conversation.

  “So I go, ‘Anybody that diddle-head is unreal!’ and he gets this scrunched-in face and he goes like, ‘Hey, well how was I supposed to know…’” They trailed a cloud of heady perfume.

  Susan pressed a thumb against Fran’s doorbell.

  “You look tired,” Fran said.

  “That’s not tired, that’s hungry. You feel like going out for something to eat?”

  “I have wonderful stuff in the crockpot. Stew that’s been stewing itself all day. My mother’s recipe. Give me your coat.” Fran wore what looked like a kung fu outfit in dark-green silk that swished as she padded barefoot into the living room.

  Susan plopped into a low squishy chair of psychedelic greens and blues. Fran sat cross-legged on a couch piled with pillows of every possible color from white to pale yellow to oranges, reds, blues, greens, all the way to black. She liked vivid colors and unusual fabrics and surrounded herself with odd mixtures of each that somehow worked, in a stimulating sort of way.

  “You sure it’s only hunger?” Fran asked.

  “Yep. Well, maybe a little of putting off going home.”

  “Ah.” Fran looked at her with a squint of dawning perception. “You still haven’t gotten rid of Dan’s stuff.”

  “I can’t even bring myself to look at it.”

  “I could take care of it for you, if you want,” Fran said gently.

  “I can’t do that either. But thanks.”

  “Glass of wine?” Fran asked.

  “Why not.” Susan didn’t drink much; she didn’t much care for the taste of alcohol. Nicotine was her drug of choice.

  “You’re at it again.”

  “What?”

  Lowering her chin, Fran spoke in a deep ponderous voice. “All right, I have to do this. Now. Get in there and get it done.” She raked fingers through the glorious cascade of red hair. “Why do you beat up on yourself all the time?”

  “So I get things done.”

  “Why do you have to get things done? It’s highly overrated, if you ask me.” Fran unfolded herself from the couch and flowed into the kitchen. A moment later she returned with two glasses of red wine, handed one to Susan and reinserted herself among the pillows. “Drink your wine and stop fretting. When you’re ready, you’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, Reader’s Digest.”

  Fran grinned. “Any time.” She emerged from the pillows and padded off to the kitchen again. This time she came back with two steaming bowls of stew, put one on the table at Susan’s elbow and the other on the coffee table, then went back for hot rolls, butter and the wine bottle.

  Susan dipped a spoon in the stew and took a cautious taste. “Good,” she said and scooped up another spoonful. “Very good. I made stew once. It didn’t turn out like this.”

  “When your father dies when you’re twelve and your mother goes into the catering business, you learn to cook. How come you ended up being a cop?”

  “One of those quirks of fate that have the gods slapping their knees and howling with laughter.”

  “So tell me.”

  “I was trying to prove to my father that he couldn’t run my life. So I looked around and deliberately chose something guaranteed to make him furious. It turned out I was good at being a cop, and I liked it.”

  “Why stay here? Not that I’m not glad you’re here, but if I thought I could support myself in San Francisco, I’d be gone tomorrow.”

  “After Daniel died there didn’t seem any point to anything. And nobody believed I could handle the job. I had to prove something, and then—” Susan shrugged. “I’m still here.”

  Fran broke open a roll and smeared it with butter. “I heard you found Dr. Kalazar’s car.”

  “Actually, it was Sophie.”

  “Any idea why Audrey didn’t get on the plane to Dallas?” There was an odd note in Fran’s voice.

  “How do you know she didn’t?”

  Fran’s eyes slid away and focused on her bowl of stew. “Doesn’t everybody?” She stirred, rounded up a carrot and conveyed it to her mouth.

  Probably so. “Tell me again about seeing her on Saturday.”

  Fran told her.

  “I was hoping for something like she just happened to mention Rio de Janeiro is beautiful this time of year.”

  “Ha. The Audrey Kalazars of this world don’t chitchat with the likes of me.” Fran tilted up her glass and drained it. “What does Keith say?” Again that odd note.

  Keith? Susan looked at her. Oh damn. Fran was somehow involved? A part of Susan’s mind wanted to let it go. Another part, the professional part, suddenly stood at attention. “How well do you know Keith?”

  “Oh, you know, as well as you know people.”

  “Like him?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Susan wished she’d just gone on home. She took a sip of wine; it tasted sour. “How long have you known him?”

  “All my life, more or less.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  Fran stiffened. “You’re questioning me.”

  “Sorry. It’s my cop’s mind.”

  “I thought we were friends. You come into my house and eat my stew and all the time you have sneaky plans to question me like some kind of suspect.”

  “That’s what cops do, ask questions.”

  “Goddamn it. Friends talk to each other. They don’t set clever little
traps to fall into.”

  “Fran—”

  “Forget it. Just ask your damn questions. Go ahead. What do you want to know?”

  Sometimes Susan hated this job. “Since I’ve known you, you’ve had three different men in your life.”

  “So?”

  “New hairstyle, new color. And you’ve always told me about them.”

  “So?” Fran said again.

  “You haven’t mentioned the new man.”

  “So?”

  “Is he married?”

  Fran glared at her, opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, then said, “What if he is?”

  “Is it. Keith?”

  Fran gave her a long look as she struggled with herself. Susan kept quiet; she could see that Fran wanted to tell her.

  “No,” Fran said.

  “No?”

  “No, it’s not Keith.” Fran grabbed a pillow and crushed it to her chest.

  “Frances—”

  “I hate that name.”

  “I know.” Susan loved the name, because she’d loved her aunt Frances van Dorn.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with—” Fran waved a hand.

  “Then there’s no reason not to tell me.”

  “Damn it, I’ve never had a cop friend before. Is this how it goes?”

  Oh, Fran, I’m afraid so.

  Fran plopped the pillow in her lap and picked at the cording. “It’s Osey,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  Fran raised her head, eyes snapping. “You heard.”

  “Osey?”

  “You see?” Fran pointed a finger accusingly.

  “Why all the secrecy? Osey’s—” She stopped; Osey was Osey.

  “That’s exactly why. You’re about to make a joke. He’s not your dashing hero type.”

  “He’s a good—” Susan was about to say a good kid and then thought she might have an inkling why Fran was embarrassed.

  “Right. Kind, loyal, trustworthy and true or whatever all that boy scout stuff is.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Fran gave her a wry little smile. “He’s too young.”

  “Why did you say he was married?”

  “I didn’t. I was just mad. How could you think I was that dumb?”

  “Look, Fran, I’m sorry.” Susan struggled out of the clutches of the chair, reached for the wine and topped off her glass. It kept her from smiling fondly; and she sure didn’t want to do that. Fran would never forgive her.

  “Well, don’t be so quick with your suspicions. I’d never take up with a married man, and if I did it wouldn’t be Keith. He has to ask Audrey’s permission to go out and mail a letter.”

  “You think he’s unfaithful?” Something like seventy-five percent of married men were, but that left the other twenty-five percent.

  “Oh, he probably has some sweet young thing he meets in remote places.”

  “Who?”

  “No idea. He hit on me once. I make travel arrangements when he does book tours, sees his editor, whatever. He asked if I’d like to meet for a weekend in New York City. When I said no thanks, he pretended it was all a joke.”

  As Susan finished her stew and mopped up the last spicy drops with a piece of bread, she wondered who, if anybody, Keith had been romancing and if it had anything to do with Audrey’s disappearance. All they had to do was find out. Simple.

  Sure. Just like they’d been so sharp this far.

  14

  AS SUSAN SWITCHED on the kitchen light, she braced herself for the latest kitten destruction, and looked around in surprise. The kitchen was no more of a mess than it had been when she’d left. Only so long could you tell yourself your mind was on higher things, then you had to start wondering if you weren’t simply a slob.

  The whole house was just as she’d left it, except the damn cat was gone. She searched from one end to the other. Could it have sneaked out when she left that morning? The poor little thing would freeze. In the bedroom, she pulled open a drawer for a flashlight to check outside and a furry little brown face stuck itself around the lamp to peer into the drawer.

  “Where the hell have you been?” The amount of relief sluicing over her exposed a worrisome sense of ownership. She changed into jeans and sweatshirt, then devoted thirty minutes to the kitchen; clearing the table, stacking dishes in the dishwasher and wiping countertops. With a great sense of virtue she enjoyed a long hot bath, then took herself off to bed and snuggled under the down comforter.

  Sleep eluded her. While her mind chewed over the possibility of Keith and weekends of illicit romance, errant thoughts flitted around the idea of Fran and Oliver Charles Pickett, affectionately known as Osey. Pretty brave of Keith, if he was dillydallying someone. Audrey was not a woman to quietly look the other way. She was more apt to be enraged and start handing out punishment. The thought of Mrs. Vice-chancellor enraged was awe-inspiring. Was any of this connected with Lynnelle’s murder?

  Outside, the wind blew and tree branches rubbed against the house with a dry creak. Ask Parkhurst, maybe he’d come across some grapevine hearsay. When she drifted off, she dreamed a black panther with glowing yellow eyes was chasing her with loud eerie screams through thick trees.

  She woke sticky with sweat. Hair-raising panther cries came from downstairs. Leaping out of bed, she headed for the door, smacked a toe on her way through and stumbled downstairs. In the living room, the kitten yelling its head off, clung like a burr to the top of the drapes. Jesus. How could anything so small make so much noise? It didn’t want to let go either and once free dug all its needle-sharp claws into her shoulder.

  Nothing like a jolt of adrenaline to ruin a night’s sleep. She stacked pillows behind her head and groped for the lamp switch, squinted at the sudden light. Three-thirty. She read Keith’s book Sins of the Fathers until her body stopped jangling. The wind died down and she finally felt sleep creep over her. Just before her mind shut down, she thought somebody had said something she should remember.

  She didn’t wake until eight, feeling logy and irritable. She pulled on sweatpants and sweatshirt, did a few desultory stretching exercises and kicked herself out for a run, telling herself how good all this was for her, how much it was going to clear out the mental cobwebs. The sky was a pearl gray, making it seem earlier than it was and not improving her mood. She pounded heavy-footed for three blocks, puffing like a steam kettle, frigid air biting into her lungs. Screw it. It was too cold. She headed for home at a fast walk.

  Jen, in jeans and red ski jacket with the hood up, came clattering down her front steps, textbooks clutched in her arms. “Hi,” she said in a disgruntled fashion.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Mom won’t let me do anything.”

  Oh oh, this could be sticky. Susan didn’t want to make any critical comments about Mom.

  “I have to come straight home from school all the time. I can’t do anything. I can’t go to the library, or feed the ducks. I can’t even go over to Judy’s. All because of some stupid old killer.”

  “She worries about you.”

  “I guess.” Jen kicked at dead grass with the toe of her Reeboks. “You going to catch this guy?”

  “Sure.”

  Jen didn’t seem satisfied.

  “Are you scared, Jen?”

  “Nah, what would a stupid old killer want with me?” She shifted her books to the other arm. “Is it dangerous being a cop?”

  “Sometimes maybe, but not very often.”

  “What if something happens to you?”

  Oh, that’s what this was about. “I’m very careful so that nothing will happen to me.”

  Jen scowled. “Like look both ways and don’t talk to strangers?”

  “You got it.”

  “Was Dan careful?”

  Tread very softly here. “Yes, Jen, yes he was. But sometimes things do happen. Not very often though.”

  Jen’s yellow-green eyes showed the scorn she thought that was worth. “Why can�
�t you let somebody else do it?”

  “It’s my job, Jen.”

  “Have you ever been hurt?”

  Oh shit. Don’t lie to a kid. Don’t scare the hell out of her either. “Once.”

  “Bad hurt?”

  “Pretty bad. But, hey, I’m still here.”

  “Well, you just better watch out, that’s all.” Jen stomped off.

  It’s hard when you’re eleven. And maybe it never gets easy; if you care for someone, you’re at risk.

  She showered, brushed her hair and applied some makeup to cover the ravages of too little sleep, then dressed in a charcoal suit and pale blue blouse. As she munched through a bowl of Cheerios, she glanced over the newspaper. Headline:

  DEATH SPREADS FEAR.

  Fearful that a killer may strike again, business people are hiring security guards and residents are staying home and talk of carrying guns for protection.

  “Just what we need,” she muttered, shoved the paper aside and picked up Keith’s book to read while she finished her coffee. The thought she’d had just before falling asleep poked around in the back of her consciousness and finally surfaced. Casey. Jen had said Mom was talking on the phone with Casey.

  Susan closed the book over one finger and looked at the cover. Keith C. Kalazar. K. C. Casey? Drink some more coffee, your mind’s still asleep.

  The thought stuck with her while she brushed her teeth, wouldn’t let go. It’s ridiculous. Not possible. A wild hare. Comes from not enough sleep, making some nonsensical jump between O.C. and K.C.

  All right. It’s nonsense. Go talk with the woman and rule it out.

  Drawing in an irritated breath, she slipped on her trenchcoat, grabbed her shoulder bag, told the cat not to have any wild parties and paced up the street to the next block.

  The house was a white woodframe with a steeply pitched roof, a porch that ran the length of the front and a large many-paned window that looked out over the porch.

  “Oh, Susan,” Terry Bryant, Jen’s mom, said with a start of surprise. Her usual twinkly smile was a little brittle around the edges. She’d been a high school cheerleader and never quite got out of the habit. She blinked her mascaraed lashes.

  “May I come in for a minute?”

  “Oh well, yes, I guess so.” Terry flipped back the fluffy brown hair that curled down around her shoulders. “I’d offer you some coffee, but I really need to get to work.”