Caveat Emptor and Other Stories Page 8

  “She can’t say anything folks don’t already know.”

  The discussion wandered at this point, and so did I. Not off to the trenches, mind you, or even off to determine the dimensions of the credenza and delve into the mystery of why a woman might want to make peace with her brother after ten years of estrangement. The grapevine was more than capable of producing a tidy solution sooner or later.

  Where I wandered was out to the skeletal remains of Turtle’s Esso station, where I could run a speed trap to make a little money for the local coffers and, more importantly, read a magazine. At five o’clock, I went back to the PD and tucked away my radar gun, called the dispatcher at the sheriff’s office to find out if I’d missed anything newsworthy (I hadn’t), and was halfway out the door when I noticed the blinking red rat’s eye of the answering machine.

  Approach-avoidance reared its ugly head. Was it the man of my dreams offering an escape to a Caribbean island? Was it a lawyer in Manhattan calling to tell me my ex-husband was so overcome with remorse that he was sending the money he owed me? Or was it the Pope?

  I pushed the button.

  “This is Ruby Bee Hanks, and I don’t know why I bother to call over there when all I ever get is this rude machine. I don’t know what the world’s coming to when people can’t bother to answer their own telephones.” There was a sharp inhalation before she took off once more. “Estelle and I are going out to Mary Frances’s house just before the ceremony to get everything ready for the party. We won’t get to the cafeteria until right at seven, so you need to go over early and save us seats on—”

  The machine cut her off before I could, although it was close. I locked up and walked across the road to my apartment having been warned much earlier that Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill would not be serving supper to the likes of me or anyone else. I could survive on a can of soup, since I’d be having chocolate cake and champagne punch within a matter of hours, I assured myself as I showered and changed into a skirt and blouse in honor of the honoree.

  I figured I’d best get to the high school fifteen minutes early in order to secure the best seats. Would Benjamin Frank be thinking the same thing? From what I could gather, the only place he’d get to on time was his own funeral—unless Mary Frances Frank did indeed teach him a lesson as she’d vowed. The adage about old dogs and new tricks came to mind, along with her comment that he would be “very, very sorry.”

  Abruptly I got it—credenza and all. My fingers felt numb as I finished buttoning my blouse, grabbed the car keys, and sprinted down the stairs and across the road. Mary Frances had not been making peace with her brother; she’d been making a deal. It was nearly six-forty, which meant Ruby Bee and Estelle were in as much danger as Benjamin Frank, and if my car balked, all three were in for one helluva surprise party.

  I squealed out in front of a pickup truck and jammed down the accelerator. The Franks lived in a farmhouse several miles out of town on a passable county road. Six-forty-two. Ruby Bee and Estelle might already be there, taping up streamers and setting out the punch bowl. Benjamin might be there, or still at his office in Starley City. Six-forty-five. Mary Frances had no idea Ruby Bee and Estelle might be in the house. Six-forty-eight.

  I turned off the highway and tightened my grip on the steering wheel as I bounced down the road. Six-fifty came and went. Biting down on my lip, I went even faster and therefore came within inches of crashing into the back of Ruby Bee’s car in the middle of the road. Dust caught up with me as I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel and waited for the adrenaline to abate.

  Ruby Bee stood up on the far side of her car. “What in tarnation’s going on?” she squawked. “You liked to kill the both of us! Driving like a madman on a narrow road!”

  I got out of my car and clung to the antenna until my knees quit knocking. “Where’s Estelle?”

  “As any fool can see, I had a flat tire. She went on ahead to see if Benjamin can come help us change it and get all the party food into the house. At this rate, there’s no way we’ll be at the cafeteria on time.”

  Six-fifty-eight. “How far is it?” I demanded.

  “You’re antsy this evening,” she said, her hands on her hips and a disapproving look on her face. “It’s nearly a mile further, and Estelle’s wearing high heels, but she should be getting there by now. If you’d stop gawking and loosen these lug nuts, we won’t need Benjamin’s help.”

  “Is he there?”

  “Now how on earth should I know a thing like that?”

  We both turned and looked up the road a split second before an explosion rocked the sky, the sound reverberating across the valley like distant cannon fire. Black smoke and an orange haze appeared above the trees. It was seven o’clock.

  Mrs. Jim Bob stood behind a podium, her hands clutching the edges as she leaned into the microphone. “And our only hope for the future lies in the moral education of our youth, who need to learn about respecting their elders and staying out of their begonias,” she was saying as I came into the room.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but there’s been an accident. I need to speak to Mrs. Frank.” Scanning the faces in the audience, I hurried up to the front row as Mary Frances Frank stood up. I asked her to accompany me to the back of the room.

  “There was an explosion at your house,” I said, then stopped, ignoring the murmurs of uneasiness and Mrs. Jim Bob’s shrill comments about being interrupted.

  “I thought I smelled gas,” she said without hesitation. “I mentioned it to Benjamin this morning, and he said he’d call the gas company. It’s a good thing nobody was home.”

  “Then your husband is here?”

  “Well, I believe he ought to be on his way by now. He called from his office at six and assured me he’d go by the house to take a quick shower, then come right here. I made a point of reminding him how important it was for him to be here at seven, then arranged for Mrs. Jim Bob to give me a ride.” She regarded me with a level expression. “He may be running a few minutes late, but he should be here any minute.”

  “It’s already seven-thirty,” I said. “I had to wait at your house until a sherrif’s deputy arrived to take over. The volunteer fire department is on its way, but I’m afraid there won’t be anything to save. It was a powerful explosion. My first thought was dynamite.”

  “Why were you out that way?”

  “I went to warn Ruby Bee and Estelle to be away from the house at seven o’clock. Benjamin arranged a surprise party for you after the ceremony, and they were delivering the food on their way here.”

  Her face turned as white as her hair. “Oh, no … I didn’t know. I had no idea. Were they injured?”

  I gave her the look she’d given me years earlier when I’d tried to explain that my dog ate my term paper. “You’re damn lucky they weren’t. Ruby Bee had a flat a mile from your house, and Estelle went ahead to ask Benjamin to give them a hand. If she hadn’t lost a heel, she might well have lost her life.”

  “Thank God,” she whispered.

  “Benjamin’s car was in the driveway,” I continued coldly. “He must have been running late. If he’d been here as he promised, no one would have been hurt in the explosion.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes welling with tears, her lips trembling. “I told him over and over how important it was that he be here at the cafeteria at exactly seven o’clock. I really did.”

  I believed her. I really did.

  All’s Well That Ends

  Jack was looking at the flickery television set on a shelf above the bar when the woman sat down next to him. Her gender was hard to overlook, but he wasn’t into specifics, having long since given up hope of being approached by a gorgeous young actress in search of a passionate one-night sexathon. His sixtieth birthday had passed without such a phenomenon taking place. Not much had happened since, for that matter. He was older and grayer, although not especially wiser. For years he’d come to the corner tavern to have a beer, maybe two, and a little conversation. Depending
.

  “Can you believe that guy?” he said without turning his head. “It’s like he thinks this is gonna change our minds about his guilt. The only people in this country who believe he’s innocent are the twelve jurors. Where do they find wimps like those to serve on juries, anyway? I’ll bet not one of them’s ever read a newspaper. Hell, I’ll bet not one of them knows how to read.”

  “You’re Jack Julian, aren’t you?” she said.

  Now he looked at her. She had drab hair, yellowish skin, and dark, puffy circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. Her stained sweatshirt and lack of makeup suggested she wasn’t a hooker, but he wasn’t sure. Hookers were about the only women who came on to him—and they were usually junkies.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who made a point of reading your pieces in the newspaper. You were good.”

  “I suppose I was.” Jack beckoned to the bartender. “Give the lady whatever she wants to drink.”

  “Nothing, thanks,” she said. “I’d like to talk to you about Spider Durmond. You wrote as much as anybody about the case. You forgot to write about me.”

  “What should I have written?”

  “Maybe I’ll have a club soda.” She took a tissue from her purse and wiped her forehead, even though it looked to be as dry as parchment. “Let’s begin with the proposition that we both know he did it. This big, beautiful blond jock had a history of beating women, of roughing up photographers, of drinking too much and driving too fast and doing too many drugs. He bought off his one known rape victim. On the night of July fifteenth, he went to his estranged wife’s rented beach house and stabbed her to death. His alibi was laughable—he was home, alone. Spider never went to bed alone.” She took a shuddery breath. “You didn’t seem to buy that in your articles about the case.”

  Jack glanced at the television, which was currently depicting some event in which everyone wore shorts and ran incessantly. “And a few minutes ago, while the cameramen jostled for room and the reporters knocked each other into the bushes, Spider staged a press conference and promised to pay five million dollars for evidence leading to the conviction of the real killer. I used to think those of us in the media had ethics—you know, a common moral ground. No more than a fraction of an acre, perhaps, but a little bit. I retired just before that bus veered, crashed through the rail, and nosedived into the river.”

  He took a final swallow of beer. “Spider’s a wonderfully photogenic guy, broad smile, dimples, not too bright, helluva great basketball player and paid accordingly. Endorsements for everything from athletic shoes to cat food. The money pumped up his brain, made him think he was invincible. Shit, maybe he thought he was invisible, too. He went to Suzanne’s house, killed her, and then got all teary-eyed and claimed he was home with a cold. Jesus!”

  “You think he did it,” the woman said. “I know he did. I was there.”

  “Sure you were. Go peddle your story to a tabloid, baby. The trial’s over, the jury’s reached a screwball decision, and it’s too late for you to make any money off this. You’ll have a better chance with alien abductions in New Mexico or cattle mutilations in Iowa.”

  “The two of us can make five million dollars,” she said, then slid off the stool. “Think about that while I visit the ladies’ room.”

  Although Jack had been planning to leave, he sat. And thought. And got nowhere. She wasn’t a hooker, and she didn’t sound as if she was recently released from an institution guarded by burly men in white coats. Then again …

  He didn’t leave, though he wondered if he should have known better. “How’d you find me?” he asked the woman when she returned.

  She took a sip of club soda. “You wrote a column about this place. I thought it might be your local hangout. I’ve been coming for the last few days, hoping to spot you.”

  “But you waited until tonight to speak to me.”

  “The jury came in this afternoon.”

  “And so they did,” Jack said bitterly. “The trial lasted five months, and jury deliberations lasted two days. The evidence was so friggin’ obvious—his blood on the scene, her hysterical phone calls to her friend, his car spotted a block from her house when he swore he was home. The woman walking her dog at midnight when she heard his garage door open.” He waved to the bartender to refill his glass. “Why should I have written about you?”

  “I’m one of Spider’s ex-girlfriends.”

  “One of many. So what?”

  The woman sighed. “Three years ago, I met Spider at a party. I was a model then, doing layouts for magazines like Playboy and Vogue. Spider came on to me, and I liked it. We looked really good together, like a pair of tawny lions. He promised to introduce me to movie producers. Most models see themselves as the next Audrey Hepburn.”

  Jack regretted his decision to linger. Pulling out his wallet, he said, “And then he dumped you and now you want revenge. It won’t play in Peoria. It won’t even play in Long Beach.”

  “It went further than that. He was escorting me to clubs, taking me with him on road trips, making sure I was seen on his arm when he deigned to bless nightclubs with his presence. He took me to the Oscar awards.”

  He tried to imagine her on the cover of a magazine, or even posing in a designer gown. As for a centerfold, no way. Her breasts hung like deflated balloons. Her lips were as sensual as earthworms. “I’m having some trouble with this,” he admitted. “Spider made a point of being seen with good-looking women. Maybe you would have liked to—”

  “My name is Abbie Cassius.”

  Jack’s wallet fell onto the bar as he rocked back to stare at her. He knew the name quite well. He’d seen photographs of her. And there was a resemblance beneath her unhealthy, gaunt demeanor. The cheekbones were unattractively defined, but the nose was still straight, the green eyes wide-set and unblinking as they searched his.

  “Abbie Cassius?” he said numbly. “I’m sorry for not recognizing you.”

  “But you recognize the name,” she said, smiling. “I was a number with the so-called Spiderman. Now I’m ready to bring him down, at least financially. You game?”

  Jack shrugged. “Were he a PT boat and I a torpedo. I know he did it, Abbie. All but twelve human beings on this planet know he did it. He not only got away with it, but he’s trying to win back supporters with this five-million-dollar offer for the conviction of a nonexistent person. Pretty damn safe, isn’t it?”

  “You and I can screw him. It’ll take the both of us, but it can be done. Why don’t we find a more private place to talk?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, not sure how to assess her. She was ill, obviously; whether or not she was paranoid or schizophrenic or whatever would have to be determined. He’d covered the investigation and snooped where he could, but had never found definitive proof that Spider Durmond had murdered his wife. If this washed-out woman could make the case, so be it. Screwing Spider did not appeal, except in the literal sense. And that appealed very much.

  “Okay,” he said at last, “why don’t we move to a booth? If you have information, I’ll listen. You want something to eat?”

  “All I want is to teach Spider a lesson he won’t forget,” she said, heading for a corner booth. She waited until Jack had positioned himself across from her, then continued. “I don’t know what you remember about me. I dated Spider for several months, and there were rumors that we might get married. What never came out was that I have a son, now ten, his biological father out of the picture. Ben’s different; the clinical term is ‘autistic,’ and what it means is that he can’t relate in a normal fashion. He tries to love me as best he can, but there are episodes when all I can do is remind myself of that. At the time Spider was around, Ben was spending weekdays at a residential facility and weekends at home with me.”

  “This created a problem?” said Jack, hating himself for lapsing into his old habits.

  Abbie gave him a wry look. “Pull out a notebook if it’ll make y
ou more comfortable, or take notes on a napkin. Yes, Spider was pissed. He wanted Ben to idolize him like every other kid in America did. Ben was more concerned with astronauts and the space program; he couldn’t have told you which day of the week it was, but he always kept track of the current shuttles and wanted to talk about Mir and the space telescopes. It made Spider crazy.”

  “How crazy?”

  “Spider brought Ben a basketball for Christmas. When Ben reacted indifferently, Spider slapped him around. I became hysterical, and the whole thing erupted to the point that a neighbor called the police. I was ready to accuse Spider of everything from assault to child abuse when he made it clear that if I so much as pointed a finger at him, something bad would happen to Ben. Spider said that he had plenty of friends who enjoyed hurting little boys.” Abbie teared up, looked away. “So when the cops came, I told them that everything was okay. Spider swore that he’d give me enough money to get Ben the very best treatment—if I kept quiet.”

  “But he didn’t,” Jack murmured.

  “Ben lost hearing in his right ear, and he lost a lot more than that. Spider has never given us a nickel. I tried to talk to him, to remind him of his promise, but he hung up when I called and pushed me aside when I came up to him in public. Eventually he got a restraining order that barred me from attempting to make any contact or setting foot on his property. When I violated it, I was sent to the state mental hospital for evaluation. Thirty days in a snake pit. I don’t recommend it.”

  “I know the story. You didn’t have any way to make him pay you off. Why didn’t you just let it go?”

  “You remember how I used to look? Curves in all the right places, firm muscles, golden hair?” She paused until he reluctantly nodded. “And you didn’t recognize me when I sat down. It seems I have something called plasmocerciasis, caused by a microscopic worm found in the lakes and rivers in Brazil. It’s exceedingly rare in this country. At first I thought I had the flu, but when it got worse, I started going to doctors. A specialist at Walter Reed finally made the diagnosis, but the prognosis is grim. Antibiotics are ineffective. Odds are I’ll be dead in a year, maybe less.”