Consider the Crows (28 page)

Carefully, Carena went down the steps and along the icy walkway that was even more treacherous in the dark. A noise made her start to turn, then a great white blizzard of pain exploded through her head. She slid down on frosty billows of white.

21

E
LBOWS ON THE
desk and head propped on her hands, Susan studied Dr. Fisher's autopsy report on Audrey Kalazar. Nothing much in it that she didn't already know. A bulb flickered in the overhead light. Death was caused by a depressed fracture of the occipital region of the skull. The weapon was something with an acute right angle point. Must have been a hell of a blow. What had a right angle and was heavy enough to do that kind of damage? No water in the lungs. Time of death was hedged around with all sorts of qualifiers—temperature of the surround, immersion in water, stomach contents, decomposition of soft tissues—and had occurred seven to ten days prior to examination.

Roughly, the same time as Lynnelle had been killed. Big news. Susan had assumed as much. Stretching her arms, she rotated her wrists and arched her back until her spine creaked. Nothing to indicate where Audrey had been killed. Not at the well, or in the woods. So. Audrey murdered, site unknown, body loaded into her own car, body disposed of and car abandoned in a field several miles away. The killer had a good long hike in the rain. Anybody I know have pneumonia?

Nothing turned up in the search of the woods either time. Except a bauble of blue feathers from a key chain found by Carena Egersund. Was that pertinent? The bulb flickered. Damn bulb. Blue feathers. Blue birds? Did that bring anything to mind? Yeah. I didn't remember to fill the bird feeder this morning. Herbert Ingram liked birds, all kinds, presumably that included blue birds, and he had a muffler with blue birds on it.

She lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. Okay. Great strides forward. Shit. If I continue to work this diligently, I might conceivably have the answer by the time I'm eighty-six. Then I can scrape up Parkhurst from his nursing home, wheel him out to the appropriate cemetery and we'll read the Miranda warning to the perpetrator's tombstone.

Dr. Kalazar's suitcase had clothing enough for the planned three days away; underwear, pantyhose, nightgown and robe, one very proper calf-length dress of burgundy silk, a suit in a dark gray, silk blouse, toothbrush, comb and cosmetics. The purse had her wallet; driver's license, credit cards and two hundred dollars in cash. No airline tickets. The killer destroyed them? Why? The briefcase; pens, pads of paper, conference schedule and her speech. “The Roll of the Educator in Preparing Our Students for Today's Changing World.”

Fascinating, Susan thought.

The bulb flickered. Goddamn it. She stood, stabbed out the cigarette, scattering ashes, and stomped out to the supply room for a new bulb.

Standing on the desk, she tried to remove the defective bulb by feel because if she looked at it, it blinded her. A truly smart person would have turned it off first. Using a Kleenex to keep from burning her fingers, she fiddled with it and finally twisted it free, then slotted in the new one and waited for a flicker. Ha. Success.

Assuming the bulb was defective and not the fixture. Dust coated the old bulb and she gingerly rubbed a clean streak along its length. Assumptions weren't necessarily true. Change it slightly and what have we got?

Oh my. Pieces that fell into place, answers that made sense of troublesome questions. Some, at any rate. Audrey's demand for flawless compliance. An airline reservation for Sunday instead of Saturday. Audrey's death. The odd lack of curiosity about Audrey's disappearance.

“View pretty good from up there?”

As she spun around, the bulb slid from her hand and exploded against the desk. A sharp sting pricked her cheek. She climbed down and dusted her hands together, muttering, “You need to wear cleats on your shoes.”

“What were you doing?” Parkhurst pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out to her.

“Thinking,” she said darkly.

“Hey, some people sing in the shower, others think on desks.”

“Very funny.”

He gestured with the handkerchief.

“What's that for?”

“You're bleeding.”

“Oh.” She touched a finger to her cheek and looked at the blood, then took the handkerchief and patted at the scratch.

“Anything interesting come to mind up there?” he asked.

“Oh yes. The voice of Frannyvan.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Maiden aunt,” she explained. “Very smart lady. She used to say, what's the use of running when we're on the wrong road.”

“I see.”

She smiled quickly. “Old German proverb. Where she heard it, I don't know; she was Dutch. But it has finally occurred to me that we're not getting anywhere because we're on the wrong road.”

“Is that right?”

“Drop the comedy and pay attention. We've been chasing around finding motives for Lynnelle's death. Then Audrey's body turned up.”

Shaking glass slivers from the autopsy report, she handed it to him. “Since Lynnelle's body was found first, we thought hers was the first death. Nothing in there confirms that.”

“So?”

“Audrey was killed first.”

Parkhurst glanced through the report. “Are we making assumptions again?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “But this time we're right.”

He tossed the report back on the desk and crossed his arms.

“Audrey died because she was meant to die. Lynnelle died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She saw the killer. Maybe with the body, more likely, just there. Out there in the woods, in the rain. When Audrey turned up missing, Lynnelle was going to remember.”

“Why weren't both bodies in the well?”

“I don't know. I would guess Lynnelle appeared after those old rotten boards had already been replaced. They'd have to be taken up again. That meant more time. It was raining hard. The killer still had to get rid of Audrey's car and walk home. Also the dog was loose. Very friendly dog, but even so that had to be worrisome. Get your coat.”

It was snowing hard when they came out of the police department. “I'll drive,” Parkhurst said and steered her to the Bronco.

As they pulled away, the radio crackled with Marilee's soft southern voice sending an officer to check on a barking dog. A few seconds later, “Another fender bender, guys. You better sort that out first.”

*   *   *

Cold, Carena thought. Freezing. She tried to move and hot bright pain exploded in her head. Headache, I have a headache. Noises. Barking. Alexa barking. Voices. No. One. One voice. Whispering, mumbling.

“Oh God, oh God.”

Constant mumbling.

“I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please. Oh God, please forgive me.”

Eyelids won't open. Important. Something important. Have to open my eyes. Arms won't move. Crying. Someone crying.

“I don't want to. I don't want to.”

When she slitted her eyes open, light flooded in with needles of pain. She squeezed them shut, then tried again. Garage. I'm in the garage. No wonder I'm so cold. On the floor, lying on the floor.

A blurred figure sat cross-legged on the floor beside the Volvo. Breath hissed through bared teeth.

Carena tried to move, rolled onto her elbows and raised her head and shoulders. Pushing hard against the floor with her hands, she managed a sitting position. The effort made her dizzy, sparks of pain skittered across her skull. She moaned.

“You're awake.” A gasp of horror. “You're not supposed to be awake. Oh God, what am I going to do?”

“You hit me.” Carena slumped against the wall and peered at her hands. Tied. She tried to move her feet. Tied.

“You knew I killed Lynnelle.”

“I didn't.”

“You did!”

“Of course, I didn't,” Carena said in her reasonable school teacher's voice.

“Yes, you did.”

This can't be happening. We're squabbling like little kids. Did not! Did too! “How could I possibly know?”

“It just came out. I don't know how it happened. About the broken pumpkin.”

“What pumpkin?” Carena was beginning to lose patience.

“Yours! She saw it. At your house!”

A pumpkin? At my house? On Halloween? I didn't have a pumpkin. I don't think I did. Wait. Yes, I did. A pumpkin, because they're so pretty. Just a pumpkin. I didn't carve it. It sat in the kitchen window until it rotted.

Carena felt herself getting angry. Lynnelle never saw it. She never came— Oh. The small ceramic figure of a crying ghost holding a broken pumpkin. Lynnelle had been charmed by it.

“That doesn't mean I knew anything.” Carena's mind was filled with white cotton and back in there somewhere was a frantic voice shrieking, you're arguing with a killer who's trying to convince you you know she's a killer.

“I thought it maybe would be all right. You wouldn't realize.”

Realize what? Carena tried to make sense come through the pain in her head. Lynnelle saw the ceramic pumpkin and mentioned it to her killer. The killer couldn't have known any other way. But that's silly. Not any kind of proof. Unless the killer had already stated she hadn't seen Lynnelle that night. Still wasn't evidence of anything, only the merest of indications.

“And then you said that about frost on the pumpkin.”

Stupid habit of prattling quotations. Maybe back in my subconscious I did know and that's why the line came to mind. And maybe right now I should pay attention here.

Mumbles in that eerie whispery voice. “… liked Lynnelle. I did. She was my friend. I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm so sorry. If only she hadn't been there. Bad, that was bad. Why doesn't that dog shut up!” She slapped the floor with the flat of her hand.

Carena jumped and jarred loose slivers of pain. She's going to kill me. I should do something. Be scared. Get away. How? Against the opposite wall beyond the car, was an old push-type lawn mower, coiled garden hoses, screwdrivers, pliers. Screwdriver? How could I get it?

On this wall, a snow shovel, handle end on the floor, broad metal scoop propped upright, all the way down by the overhead door. She shifted and moved a tiny bit.

Steady muttering. “We have to wait. You weren't supposed to wake up.”

“Wait for what?”

“The car,” she screamed. “The car won't start. It has to be suicide.”

“No.”

“Yes. And then they'll think you killed Lynnelle and you were sorry and you killed yourself and then they'll stop asking
questions.
” The voice grew shrill on the last word, then softened again to a thin hair-raising keen.

“And then it'll be over, it'll be over. Oh God, it has to be over.” She rubbed her face in the crook of one arm. “It'll be all right. Don't worry. It'll be all right. It'll start. We just have to wait. And then it'll start and then I'll untie her.”

Never thought I'd be glad the old Volvo wouldn't start. Carena twisted her hands and pulled hard, rubbing back and forth. Nobody's going to believe I killed myself. Not with marks on my wrists. Suicides don't tie themselves up. With all the twisting and pulling, she managed to move another half-inch closer to the shovel.

The bowed head jerked up, the eyes were hard and glistening. “She came to my house.”

“Lynnelle?”

“Dr. Kalazar! Her face was all red and she kept shouting and waving the airline tickets. Wrong, I got it wrong, the date. The last straw. She kept saying, the last straw. I tried, you know. I tried. But I was so worried about Belinda and sometimes a mistake and— It was so hard to concentrate. And she said—and she said. And there she was in my house yelling at me. Don't bother. On Monday. Don't come back.”

In her mind, Carena saw the nameplate on Edie's desk; Edith Blau Vogel. Blau was German for blue and vogel meant bird. Cold seeped in through her corduroy trousers and she clamped her teeth to keep them from chattering.

“I couldn't be fired. I have to have money. The detective—who's going to find Belinda and he's very expensive. I explained, you know. I did. I explained. I couldn't be fired. And I told her about Belinda. My baby. And I said please. I did. Please, I said. I won't— I'll be more careful— And I tried to tell her about Bob, about Bob—and she said—” Edie's voice flattened. “Anybody stupid enough to marry a man like that deserves what she gets.”

Her shoulders slumped in huddled misery. “I didn't mean to,” she whispered so softly Carena could barely hear.

“Belinda's little wooden stool. It's red. It's so cute. It has this little rhyme on it, all about brushing my teeth and watching TV and any job that's bigger than me.”

Edie's white face seemed frozen in despair. “Scared. So scared. The old well. Nobody will ever find her. It was so awful. Dark. Raining. And she was so heavy. Cold.” She shivered. “I had to take off the boards. Splinters.” She looked at her right index finger and rubbed the Band-Aid. “And then—and then—Lynnelle. I didn't want to, but she was
there.
”

I'm going to die, Carena told herself. Her sluggish mind viewed the situation with remote horror. Even if she could reach the shovel, she didn't know what she could do with it. Her feet were tied. If she tried to stand, she'd fall. Her hands were tied and so cold they were numb. She made another small slide toward the shovel.

Edie was enough aware that she pivoted a fraction on her rear. “I'm sorry,” she said in a natural voice.

Carena's breath caught; the change in tone scared her as nothing else had.

“I don't want to. I hope it doesn't hurt.” Tears ran down Edie's face.

Carena rolled onto her side in a fetal position, shoved hard against the wall with her feet and sprawled toward the shovel.

Edie leaped up. Carena got one hand around the wooden handle.