A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (27 page)

“So delightful to have Reverend Garr back.” Mrs. Elston sipped her tea.

“Has he been gone long?”

“Umm, I can’t remember, but it seems like it.” She turned to Mrs. Reims. Lucille choked on her cookie and spewed crumbs before she nodded.

“I wonder if he knew Isca and has heard about her death.”

“They only met once, just before she died. He usually visits during the day and she came at night. He first came to us early this spring. He conducts services in the chapel when he’s not visiting missions.”

“He brings the most wonderful slides.” Swannie Fisher closed her sewing basket. “Mostly from Costa Rica. That’s in Central America, you know.”

I did. I also knew, for a fact, that right in the middle of downtown San Jose there was a legal whorehouse. My folks sent me a postcard of it accompanied by a few pithy remarks about the age and nationality of the tourists who seemed the most interested in it. Were the facts sliding into place? Isca got a 900 phone line. A man calling himself the Vicar began calling. Isca was murdered and coincidentally the Vicar left town to visit missions. Holy men of all denominations were in and out of assisted living facilities. However, the Vicar must not have had a regular congregation if he had missions to visit

Or a personal mission needing attention
.
Missionary work or the missionary position?

I couldn’t see him trolling for sex in a bar, but I could see him paying for sex. I wondered where his previous church had been, or if there really had been one. Did he have a formal arrangement with the nursing home? If he did, maybe he and Mrs. Cruise had created some sort of tax shelter for themselves.

As I struggled with my thoughts and my crocheted shells, I smiled. Isca often punctuated her conversations, especially in social situations, with a variety of accents and voice imitations. What a shock it would have been for him if he’d sailed into the parlor one day while Isca was doing Katherine Hepburn or Bette Davis.

“Well,” Anne Millie’s words brought me back to the room. “My eyes are tired. I think that’s enough for me.”

I looked at the clock. It was nearly eight. We’d been working for two hours and my chain was turning into tidy rows of shells. The only problem was I was afraid to leave the well-lit, well-populated parlor and cross the dark parking lot to my car.

Reluctantly, I shoved the two inches of needlework I’d completed into my purse, picked up the nearly-empty cookie tin and stood. Choruses of “thank you,” “see you in two weeks,” and a couple of yawns followed me into the nearly empty corridor. Until the last fifteen minutes or so, it had been a nice evening. It might be interesting to get the ladies to write up their histories. The tidbit about Whitworth College alone would make a great story for the local newspaper.

My footfalls seemed unnaturally loud in the hall. Abandoned walkers lined the walls. All the lights were dimmed. Near the empty receptionist’s desk, I stopped to get out my car keys. After a moment’s digging around, I realized my pepper spray was missing. Probably at home in my jacket pocket
. I don’t know why I bother with it. It’s never where it’s supposed to be.
I stuck the key between my thumb and forefinger, but before I could open the front door, a Rumpelstiltskin figure appeared from nowhere. Reverend Garr’s arm reached around me to hold the door.

“I thought you might like an escort to your car.” He took my elbow firmly in his hand. “The parking lot isn’t as well lit as it should be.”

Oh my God! I’m gonna die.

The door closed behind us and we stepped into the shadows. I matched my steps to his and, for a moment, we were silent. Then the vicar sighed. “You have a very expressive face, Mercedes. Entirely without guile.”

Guile? Who says that anymore? Who even knows what it mean
s
?

Why didn’t I run? The vicar’s gait was slow and awkward. He dragged his foot in the built-up shoe. I could easily beat him to my car. So, why didn’t I? Because, like most people, I was a slave to social convention. In the movies and on TV, people were always spitting when surprised, throwing drinks or slapping other people’s faces. That was showbiz. People didn’t do those things in real life, and I would have felt like a fool. So, like the spineless heroines I despised, I let him hold my elbow and set my pace to his. Step, drag, step, drag.

“Amazing coincidence, what?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t dissimulate, Mercedes. You know what I mean. Amazing coincidence I stumbled onto Isca’s talents both on the phone and then here.”

I only half heard his words. The parking lot had been three-quarters full when I arrived. Now it was nearly empty. Soft rain fell and fog blurred everything more than five feet away. Anemic parking lot lights were completely inadequate.

“Isca only guessed. If she ever knew that it was you who was calling, she was murdered before she could tell me.”

Could I slash his face with my car keys? It would take a quick, coordinated move. No. The arm he firmly held was attached to the hand with the keys.

“She was very talented. Really quite talented at what she did. I’m not an easy man to satisfy, you know.”

“No, I don’t. And I don’t want to.” I finally wrenched my arm from his grip and stepped way. “Did you kill her?”

“What do you think?” Thrown off balance at my movement, he staggered and struggled to remain standing.

Out of his clutch, I felt safer—able to catch the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“You had motive. It would have been easy enough to find out where she lived and, since she lived alone, there were plenty of opportunities. You probably had your ticket to some mission somewhere already bought. The only part I don’t know for sure is how you knew Isca and your phone-sex partner were one in the same. Was she doing imitations and you walked into the room?”

My face was wet and my hair hung in strands. The Vicar wore a hat, but moisture coated his face. Without taking his eyes off me, he reached up to fasten the top button on his raincoat. The buttonhole resisted his fingers.

He should cut it open with a razor blade.

“You’re right, of course.” He gave up on the button and we resumed walking. “I did have motive. One word to from her to Muriel and our arrangement here would have been over.” He reached toward a pocket.

“Don’t.” I made ready to swing my purse at him.

He smiled and continued the motion, withdrawing a handkerchief to wipe his face.

“As to how I knew, well, you’re right. I walked in on her one day when she was doing voices for the ladies. Had them in stitches. With a little effort, she could have been a comedian, I think. She was really that talented.” The Vicar seemed sincerely regretful. “And if I had asked, Muriel would have given me her address but, you see, my dear, I didn’t want it.”

I shivered at his words, at the penetrating fog and rain and at the tragedy of the whole thing.

He didn’t seem to notice. “You have to understand I trusted her. A sort of honor among thieves. Granted, disclosure of her sordid little hobby wouldn’t have damaged her much, but she liked coming here and talking with the ladies. There were parts of her life that were very unhappy and so, by mutual agreement, we kept it our little secret.”

“How do I know that? Why should I believe you, anyway?”

“Because the evidence is right in front of you.”

“Huh?”

“Look at me. Take a good look. What do you see? I’ll tell you what you see. You see a man with a short leg wearing a shoe with a built-up heel. A man who walks with a limp—who couldn’t run if his life depended on it. You see a man with one good arm and one broken arm. It’s broken because I have
osteogenesis imperfect
. It’s a genetic bone disease. My bones break easily. I read the newspaper articles. She was chased around that room. She was beaten but she also fought back. And someone with two good arms and two good hands tied that phone cord around her neck. Not a cripple, Mercedes. Definitely not a man with only one good arm.”

Chapter 24

No doubt about it. The Vicar had really put a very believable spin on the situation. I know very little about the capabilities of the physically challenged. Be that as it may, he was so slight and frail looking, it was hard to picture his being able to cause the kind of havoc I’d seen and it had been obvious she put up a fight. What his words really meant were with him out of the picture, Andy was the prime suspect.

The vicar made a gesture. He took my elbow and continued escorting me to my car. At the door I stood uncomfortably until he stepped back. “Do you really think I’m capable of performing a Ted Bundy act?” He turned up his coat collar and returned to the top button, this time with success. “I’m not going to club you and push your prostrate body into the car. However, it is flattering you think I’m capable of such a physical challenge.”

“Yes, well…” I was at a loss for words. “Thank you for the escort. I’m sure I’ll see you here again.” I unlocked my car door, got in and quickly locked it. As I pulled away, the Vicar stood where I’d left him, staring at my car with a slight smile.
What can he possibly have to smile about?

Out of the parking lot and onto the road, I slowed down. The light rain had turned into a deluge. Washington had several different kinds of rains that only a native really recognized. There was the big-drop, short-lived and not particularly wet rain; the heavy, clothes-soaking, hair-flattening mist and the rain where drops leaped off the pavement like Jackie Joyner taking hurdles, to name a few. Even under an umbrella it was often impossible to keep dry. I drove home in a Jackie Joyner rain with the windshield wipers on high and static interfering with the radio reception. Once home, there was no place to park. Sane people were already settled in for the night and had taken all the places.

I drove up and down the side streets, even some of the alleys I usually avoided.
Where’s a good street-emptying sports event when I need it?
The wind kicked up. Fog, coiling among the shrubs, slowly disappeared. Trees swayed back and forth, moaning. As I passed my door, I noticed the entryway light was out. There was, however, enough light from other sources to show someone standing under an old cedar tree. Though the narrow road took most of my concentration, I had a quick impression of a slender figure in dark clothes. Reminded of the night I was followed, the sight made my gut constrict.

Two blocks away, in front of the Hob Nob, a Honda pulled out and I pulled in. The restaurant had an outdoor phone booth and I hoped Dave was home. I grabbed an umbrella, checked the street and sidewalk in both directions and got out. My fingers fumbled with the coins. I fed the phone and dialed. Dave answered on the second ring.

“Do me a favor, huh? Wait in the lobby for me. I’m parked in front of the Hob Nob and there’s someone hanging around out front of our building.”

“Sure. Give me thirty seconds.”

“Thanks.” Bless him. Dave rarely wasted time on inane rhetorical remarks such as, “what kind of a nut would be hanging around outside on a night like this?” or “what does he look like?”

I turned up my collar, checked again for lurking perverts and took off running.

The next time I visit Hathaway House, I’m wearing sensible shoes.

The storm had come on with such force, surface water had nowhere to go. The grates were inadequate, and full gutters carried discarded paper cups and all sorts of other debris to the lowest spot in the road. It was impossible to avoid stepping in puddles, so I didn’t try. The umbrella was useless for protection from the rain, but I was ready to use it as a weapon if need be. However, when I got to the cedar tree, the figure was gone.
What the heck?
I almost doubted myself. Not quite. I knew what I’d seen and I didn’t know what was more frightening, his presence or his sudden disappearance.

Dave stepped out of the well-lit lobby and watched from the porch.

“Thanks.” While I caught my breath, I shook the useless umbrella. “That light was out when I drove past.”

“It was turned off.” Dave looked around. “Smell the smoke?”

“Cigarettes.”

He held the door and I ducked through. “Whoever it was, he’s gone now.”

“He
was
there.”

“I don’t doubt you.”

We mounted the stairs, Dave two ahead of me.

“Where’s Francisco?”

“Out.”

“Oh.”

He stopped to let me catch up. “Out on a wiring job. He’s hoping to get on full-time as an electrician with this company who hired him to work tonight. Then he can give up the gym. The people who own the building where he’s working want the work done after business hours.”

Oh good. Of all of Dave’s lovers whom I’d met, I liked Francisco the best.

“I met the Vicar tonight.”

“Isca’s vicar?”

“At the nursing home. Come in for cocoa and I’ll tell you.” I opened my apartment door, walked out of my wet shoes and hung my coat on the hall tree. Dave got the cocoa and milk out.

“I was at the retirement home where Isca did volunteer work.” I turned on the stove and started mixing sugar and vanilla in cold water. When Dave was around, I made cocoa from scratch. “Some of the ladies there have a sewing circle and make baby blankets for the children’s hospital. The Vicar has some sort of connection with the home and its owner, a lady named Muriel Cruise. He’d been on a trip and stopped in to say hi.”