Dark Tort (20 page)

Tom helped the pedestrian to his feet. The man was tall, and wore a dark ski hat and coat. He leaned over the grille of a nearby pickup, coughing. I wished I knew what had happened or how badly hurt the guy might be. I looked up and down the street. A couple of inches of snow covered everything: the cars, the lawns, the houses, the pavement. Otherwise, there was no movement at all.

Blinking against the cold, I moved awkwardly toward Tom, who was now talking to the moaning man. Maybe Tom would want me to summon an ambulance or get the department car up here. But when Tom gave me a sideways glance, he held up his hand, indicating I should not come closer. I hugged my sides and waited.

The color of the pickup the pedestrian had landed on, or jumped for, was obscured by snow. On the pavement just beside the pickup sat a large, oddly shaped metal box. It looked as if the man had been holding the box when he’d been avoiding whatever vehicle had been coming down the street. So had the box skittered out of the man’s hands when he’d slammed into the truck’s hood? Maybe his load had been so heavy that he’d slipped on the ice, lunged forward, and lost his balance. But there had been that honking, the yelling.

Wait. The box on the ground was a computer. Or had been. I sure hoped whoever owned it had backed up his data.

Murmuring among themselves, Louise, Donald, and Claggs clomped quickly through the snow and down the street toward the spot where Donald had parked his black BMW. They seemed to be concerned about whether Donald’s car had been hit. Convinced the Beemer was okay, Claggs helped Louise into the backseat, then got in beside her.

Donald Ellis paused and looked back at us. Since he was standing right under a streetlight, I could see his sheaf of red hair hanging like a broom over his forehead. There was pain in his face, and perhaps some question as to what had happened. Something in the tilt of his head made me think he wanted to come back and help. But then he averted his eyes, climbed into his car, and drove away.

It’s Vic,” Tom said as he crunched through the snow to my side. “He’s insisting on bringing that thing in himself.” Behind him, Vic had ducked down to pick up the computer. “He was bringing it over when the driver of one of those supersized SUVs almost hit him. Vic’s sure the driver saw him, too. But that’s all he can remember.”

“ What?”

“Look, you’re freezing out here. Let me get Vic inside, then we’ll talk. Okay?”

I nodded and started back up the sidewalk. Then I turned. “Tom? I already have a computer. Why was he bringing me one?”

“It’s Dusty’s!” Vic’s voice as he lugged the computer to the curb was somewhere between a cough and a gasp. “Her mom didn’t want the cops to have it. She wanted you to have it.”

“Is that so?” Tom asked mildly as he helped Vic up onto the curb.

“Yeah.” Vic’s long legs were having trouble getting a purchase on the sidewalk. “She’s not thinking too great. I’m sure she didn’t mean you, Mr.—Officer Schulz. Oh God, I probably just screwed everything up.” When Tom stood him upright on the sidewalk, Vic put the computer down, leaned his head back, and took a deep breath. His exhalation came out as a cloud.

“Look, I’m okay,” he said, his voice still wobbly. “Let me bring in this computer the way I promised Mrs. Routt.”

After much shuffling and grunting, and a slip in the snow that almost spilled computer guts all over our yard, Vic manhandled the computer onto our dining-room table. He stretched his back, then wiped his hands on the seat of his jeans before running them through his curly hair. “I’m just trying to help Mrs. Routt, you know?”

A honk from outside interrupted us. It was the Vikarioses, pulling up in their Cadillac to pick up Gus and Arch. I called upstairs for the boys, who came tumbling down carrying backpacks and duffel bags.

“Thanks for dinner, Aunt G.!” Gus sang out. “Did you bring that D&D stuff, Arch?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” my son replied. To me he said, “Man, who was that mean lady?”

“Somebody I work for.”

Arch rolled his eyes in disgust. “And I thought school was bad.” We agreed I would call him the next afternoon. He wanted another driving lesson, he announced gaily. I held my tongue instead of saying how great that sounded (not). He told me he’d wait for my call. Before I could say I didn’t know when I would be done with Donald Ellis’s birthday party, he and Gus were gone.

Tom and Vic had passed me on their way into the kitchen. I followed them. Hot chocolate was in order, no doubt about it. Vic had brought over Dusty’s computer? I might have been tired before, but now I was wide-awake.

“Here’s the deal,” Vic said, once he had shed his cap, jacket, and boots, sipped some cocoa, and stopped shivering. “You know Mrs. Routt is not a big fan of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.”

Tom nodded. “Are you trying to tell me this is evidence she withheld from the detectives?”

“She wants Goldy to have it.” Vic’s tone had turned stubborn.

“Goldy can see it,” Tom replied evenly. “But tomorrow morning, I’m taking it down to the department. And I’ll try to convince our guys not to arrest Mrs. Routt for withholding evidence in a homicide investigation.”

Vic’s face turned pale under his freckles. He seemed to be struggling with a response when the phone rang. I checked my watch: almost eleven. This was turning into a very long evening.

“Is Vic there?” Sally Routt asked, her voice breathless. “He never came back, and one of the neighbors just called and said somebody was hurt in the street.” She snuffled, then started to sob. “I can’t, I can’t . . . take any more.”

“Vic is fine, Sally,” I reassured her. “We’re just going to let him rest for a minute. Then he’ll be on his way back over.”

“I’m just jittery about everything; sorry.” She stopped and took a deep breath, as if trying to keep her composure. “Colin can’t seem to stop crying, and I’m trying to get him back to sleep. It feels as if everything is falling apart.”

“Do you want to come stay with us? It would be fine, Arch is going over to his half brother’s—”

“I just would like you to send Vic back over. I know I didn’t want to see him earlier, but now he’s being awfully nice and helpful . . .”

“Right. I’ll send him back.”

When I told Vic that Sally needed him, he shook his head and stood up. “Yeah, I stayed too long.” Vic’s dark eyes caught mine. “Mrs. Schulz, you look awfully tired.”

I nodded grimly. I did feel numb from exhaustion, not only because it was getting really late, but because thinking about Donald El-lis’s party was draining what little late-night energy I had managed to summon after the visit from Claggs et al. In point of fact, I wanted this particular day to end as soon as possible. Still, though, what had Vic said? I’m just trying to help Mrs. Routt, you know? No, I didn’t know. Why, all of a sudden, was Vic Zaruski trying to help Sally Routt? Were they particularly close? Or was Vic trying to stay close to the investigation for other reasons? And furthermore: as long as I was being suspicious, had Vic really almost been run down by an SUV? Or had he staged a near accident to make himself sympathetic? Hmm.

“Just a sec, Vic,” I said. “Where’d Dusty get the computer? Do you know?”

“St. Luke’s parish office. The church was getting a whole new system, so they gave that old thing to Dusty.” His face became serious again. “Anyway, Mrs. Routt thought it might be useful to you in looking into Dusty’s death.”

“I’m not an alternative to the cops, Vic. Remember what Tom said? He’s taking it down to the department. In any event, even if I could get something out of that bashed-up machine, which is a pretty big if, I’d be guilty of concealing evidence and obstruction of justice and God only knows what else, maybe material witness after the fact.”

“You can give the cops information that might lead to an arrest, Sally says,” Vic continued. “She just doesn’t want embarrassing stuff about Dusty appearing in the paper, you know. In case she was, you know—”

“Having an affair with a client of H&J? Selling drugs? Swapping sexual favors for expensive jewelry?”

Vic shrugged. “Whatever. Look, I gotta go.”

“Tom,” I said after I’d closed the door, “do you trust Vic?”

He cocked his head and gave me his patented half smile. “I don’t trust anybody until we’ve got a strong case against a suspect in custody.”

“Right. Well, in the meantime, would you be willing to have a look at Dusty’s computer?”

“In the morning, Miss G. It’ll keep. Meanwhile, you look exhausted.”

I peered into the antique gilded mirror that Tom had hung in our front hall. The light shining through the crystal drops of our small overhead chandelier—another antique find of Tom’s—cast a prism across the front hall. My dark-circled eyes, pallid face, and head of flattened blond curls did not look too good.

“Exhausted, nothing. I look like hell.” I glanced back at the kitchen. “You go on up. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

“I need to take care of the animals first. Miss G., do not try to mess with that computer tonight. If you do, I’m going to carry you up to bed myself.”

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy,” I muttered as Tom moved quickly into the pet-care area adjoining the kitchen, where he was greeted by Jake and Scout. Instead of following him, I veered into the dining room. Fatigue or no fatigue, I was consumed with curiosity regarding Dusty’s computer.

I frowned at the big plastic-encased box with its small moss-colored screen. The thing was not just a dinosaur, it was a Tyrannosaurus rex that had fallen off a cliff. I didn’t recognize the brand, but that didn’t mean anything. Like most kids of his generation, Arch was the technological wizard of the household. And he was away, spending the night with his half brother. Since the next day was Saturday, he wouldn’t be home before Tom carted the thing off to the department. Dammit.

The plastic housing was dented and the screen scratched where Vic had slammed into the car on our curb. Probably won’t even boot, I thought as I plugged in the cord. To my surprise, when I pressed what I thought was the on button, the box started humming. But the screen remained dark. I checked the wires for a loose connection and tapped every button I could think of that might bring the thing to life, with no result.

Of course, I was desperate to know what Dusty had recorded, if anything. Perhaps she’d fingered someone she hadn’t been getting along with, even said how scared of him she was. Yeah, right. Maybe her hopes and dreams were recorded in a separate file. There might even be love letters. I imagined myself reading the inner workings of Dusty’s mind. A knot of grief formed in my chest and I rubbed my face. From the entry to the dining room, Tom cleared his throat. He held out his hand. I grasped it and followed him up to bed.

I woke during the night, not because of any noise, but because of the sudden silence. A monumental stillness blanketed our house and neighborhood. More snow, I thought. I’d been too preoccupied with disaster to check the forecast. Worse, I had an event to cater that day, a party that I’d be driving to in a van with only marginally safe radial tires. Then I remembered Dusty, and scolded myself for being upset about something as insignificant as the status of my wheels.

A sob erupted from somewhere in my gut. It took me more by surprise than it did Tom. Tom, immediately alert, pulled me in so that my back was warmed by his chest.

“It’s going to be okay, Miss G.,” he murmured. “You’re going to be all right. Everything will work out.”

I cried until I was too tired to cry anymore. Then I allowed Tom’s warmth to circle me like a mantle. Like the house, I fell into a deep hush.

When my alarm went off at five, everything outside was still quite dark. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to a window. About four inches of new snow nestled against the ledge. Not as bad as it could have been, I thought as my eyes inevitably sought out the little Habitat house where the Routts lived. A streetlight nearby barely illuminated the place, which was shrouded in darkness. Sally would be getting up this morning without her daughter there, without her daughter ever coming back. My mind jumped to the thought of the funeral. When would it take place? Too shocked with reality, no one had spoken of it the day before. I hadn’t a clue when the coroner’s office would release Dusty’s body. It was the weekend, so things could be backed up ...

Liquid concrete seemed to be pouring into my chest again, so I turned away and sat on the navy, burgundy, and cream Oriental runner Tom had placed in our bedroom for me to do my yoga every morning.

“You should not face the world if you are unable to give to the world,” André, my catering mentor, had been wont to say. No question about it, I did not feel able to face the world this morning, much less give it a thing. But I needed to go forward. I closed my eyes and prayed for Dusty and her family. Then I crossed my legs and surveyed my narrow piece of carpet. A few minutes later, I began with the cleansing breath and started to move, slowly, slowly through my asanas. Whenever thoughts raided my head, I put them aside with another cleansing breath. It helped.

Something else that would help was a major dose of caffeine, I told myself as I took a quick shower and zipped myself into a clean catering outfit of black pants and white shirt. The house felt cold as I stole down the stairs, and I tried to recall if Tom or I had remembered to turn on the heat. If either one of us had, and the heat wasn’t working, that meant there’d been a power outage because of the snow. If we’d lost power, then the espresso machine would be out of commission, and if I couldn’t have a four-shot latte before finishing up the prep for the Ellis party, I was going to have to find a tractor to drive into the house of the power company’s CEO.