Death Notice (23 page)

He tried to focus, attempting to ease his mind with one of his favorite operas. But it was useless. After an hour of nothing
but jitters, he faced the fax machine. Its front panel contained a single green light—an unblinking eye, staring back at him.

Gazing at the light, not blinking himself, Henry realized the machine was a physical representation of dread. It was the anticipation that unnerved him, not the machine itself. He would receive another death notice from the Grim Reaper. He was sure of it. What remained frustratingly vague was when it would arrive. And whose name it would contain.

The fax machine suddenly hummed to life. The green light finally blinked—slowly, steadily. A signal something was about to be sent.

Unlike the pulsing green light, Henry didn’t dare blink. He kept his eyes wide open as the fax machine purred. A soft click emanated from its depths. A sheet of paper being lifted into place. That was followed by a muffled whir as ink spilled across the page. Then, as swift as an arrow to the heart, the fresh fax slid facedown out of the machine.

Henry reached for it, then hesitated. Hand hovering over the paper, he remembered how blithely he had grabbed the death notices for George Winnick and Troy Gunzelman. Both times, he hadn’t known he was reaching into a trap.

Now he did.

Now, every fax the machine spat out was a potential spider bite, sharp and venomous.

Yet the caution made him feel foolish. Not everything he received was dangerous. It could be an innocent fax, most likely from Deana and the McNeil Funeral Home.

He was right on one count. When Henry finally picked up the fax to read it, he saw it
was
from Deana, although not associated with the funeral home. It was a handwritten message thanking him for the previous night.

Henry fell back into his chair, feeling relief and confusion. He was relieved that the fax wasn’t from the killer, but he was
confused that Deana would thank him for such a miserable time. During their brief date, he had debated the grieving process before running away mid-kiss. Some great time he was. Deana Swan would be better off directing her affection toward someone else.

He tore up the fax. As he scattered the pieces into the trash, he heard another member of the Swan family.

“Hiding another secret? It seems you have a lot of them, Henry Goll.”

Henry’s back stiffened. “Can I help you with something, Martin?”

Martin Swan didn’t answer, instead saying, “That was one hell of a press conference. Chief Campbell looked like a deer caught in headlights. But it was nice of her to give you a shout-out like that. Almost as nice as you helping the police all this time without telling me.”

He stepped into the tight office, forcing Henry to back up against his desk to make room for him. It also kept him in his chair, an obvious tactical move on Martin’s part. For once, Martin Swan could be taller than Henry.

“It was police business. I wasn’t allowed to tell you.”

“Just how much do you know about these murders?”

“Not much at all,” Henry said. “I got a death notice. I gave it to the police. When I got another one, I did the same thing.”

He decided not to mention all the other bits and pieces he knew, including the fax machines left at his door.

The reporter stared at the palm of his left hand, tracing its creases with the index finger of his right. His gaze was so intent that at first Henry thought Martin had blocked him out entirely. But when he spoke again, it was clear that was far from the case.

“You could have told me off the record. I thought we were friends, Henry. I mean, you did go on a date with my sister.”

“It was hardly a date,” Henry said, a little too defensively.

“She told me you kissed her.”

Actually, Deana had kissed him. But Henry saw no point in arguing that with Martin.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“Yes and no. Deana really likes you. And that’s understandable. You’re smart, athletic,
handsome
.”

He drew out the word until it was almost a hiss. The sound of it made Henry flinch. Martin noticed and smiled.

“If you don’t want me to date your sister, just say so,” Henry said, unable to tamp down the irritation rising in his voice.

“You can date her,” Martin said. “I wish you both all the happiness in the world. But Deana’s been through a lot. I don’t want to see her get hurt. So you’d better be honest with her.”

“About what?”

Martin continued to fidget, this time rubbing the skin at the bumps of his knuckles.

“Do you ever miss being a reporter?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“That’s surprising. I did a little research. Looked up some of your old investigative pieces. You were good, Henry. Amazing, actually. You would have done great work writing about these murders.”

“I’m an obituary writer. Not a reporter.”

“But if you decided to go back to reporting, this would be the perfect time to do it,” Martin said. “Especially since you know more about these murders than you’re letting on.”

Henry at last understood why Martin had invaded his office. As the reporter covering the murders, he was naturally jealous of anyone who had more information than he did. Henry had been the same way when he was a reporter. The fear of being scooped, even by an obituary writer, was a powerful motivator.

“I’m helping them as much as I can,” Henry said, adding, “Which isn’t much.”

“Do you know if the police have any suspects?”

Henry did, but he wasn’t about to mention Lucas Hatcher. The last thing Chief Campbell needed was Martin tipping off her primary suspect.

“I have no idea.”

“When you get an idea, tell me.”

Martin moved out of the office, giving Henry more breathing room. But he didn’t leave. Not by any means.

“For that matter,” he said through the open doorway, “tell me if you hear anything valuable. It’s really in your best interests if you do.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I might have to tell Deana about your wife,” he replied. “I think she’d be interested to know that you killed her.”

Pleased with himself, Martin walked away. Henry stayed motionless, listening to the reporter’s fading footsteps in the stairwell. When they vanished completely, he collapsed back into his chair.

Martin Swan knew the truth. Soon Deana would, too. And then everyone would.

His secret would be out.

Too rattled to stay at work and too reluctant to go home, Henry took to the streets. He walked quickly, trying to shake away his problems. That didn’t happen. Instead, his mind was crammed with thoughts battling for prominence. Martin’s sly threat and Troy Gunzelman’s death jostled with thoughts of Gia and Henry’s intense attraction to Deana.

All of it, the whole damn headache-inducing mess, was so great Henry thought he’d go mad. He knew about madness. It was a staple of most of his favorite operas. Yet they
never addressed his type of situation. In the operas, characters went insane held captive by one great obsession, usually love. They weren’t encumbered by several of them, all of them equally heavy. That left Henry with no frame of reference, no idea how to tame the intensifying vortex in his head.

So he walked, his pace never wavering as he moved locomotivelike across the sidewalks of Perry Hollow. First, it was Main Street, which was quickly clearing out as evening approached. Next, it was across the town square, equally as empty. It wasn’t until he hit the side streets that Henry realized someone was watching him.

He knew because of a strange sensation he couldn’t explain, let alone describe. It was a warmth at his back, as if a laser had been pointed there. When he turned around, he saw the shape of a man walking about a hundred yards behind him. The same man had been behind him on Main Street and in the square. Henry had just been too preoccupied to notice it.

But now he couldn’t help but notice.

He was being followed.

Immediately, he thought of the two fax machines dumped outside his apartment. Kat had been worried about that. Henry wasn’t.

Until now.

Now, he wondered if the man following him was the same person who had made those deliveries. And if so, Henry didn’t want to find out what was now on his agenda.

He glanced back again. The sun was positioned behind the man, so all Henry could see was a silhouette. If he wanted to get a good look at his tracker, he’d have to be blunt about it.

Turning around, Henry started running toward him. The man didn’t stop walking. He kept moving forward until Henry could make out a pink face, a police uniform, a cross affixed to the fabric.

It was Deputy Carl Bauersox, who nodded and said, “Evening, Mr. Goll.”

He pronounced it
ghoul,
although Henry knew it wasn’t intentional. That rudeness was a product of the
Gazette
staff alone.

“Are you following me?”

The deputy’s face turned a darker shade of pink. “Sorry about that. Was just wondering where you were off to.”

“Why?”

“Chief’s orders.”

Henry should have known. Kat’s concerned thoughts had turned into concerned actions. Now she had the police tailing him.

“How long were you going to follow me?”

“Until you got home safely.”

“And then?”

“Then I was told to hang around a bit and see if you left your apartment. If you did, I was supposed to make sure you made it safely to wherever you were going.”

“Why don’t you just give me a police escort?”

His sarcasm flew right over the head of Carl, who said, “I’ll ask the chief about it.”

“Instead, tell Chief Campbell I can take care of myself,” Henry replied. “Better yet, I’ll tell her myself. Point me in the right direction.”

Carl did, telling him where Kat lived. When Henry resumed walking, he heard Carl take two footsteps behind him.

“Don’t follow me, Carl.”

The deputy backed off and reluctantly switched direction, trudging toward Main Street. Henry moved forward, crossing several more blocks until he reached a two-story house with a patrol car parked in the driveway. Just past the car was something else unusual—a girl.

She was difficult to spot, hiding in the shade of a maple tree in Kat’s front yard. Standing with her arms at her sides, she stared at the grass at her feet. She seemed to Henry like someone hypnotized—silent, motionless, the living dead.

Henry stopped and called to her.

“Hey, are you okay?”

The girl didn’t answer, which caused more alarm than if she had.

He approached her cautiously. Creeping into the yard, he said, “Hello? Can you hear me?”

It wasn’t until Henry actually touched her that the girl responded. He tapped her on the shoulder and she spun around, terrified. Henry took in her tear-smeared raccoon eyes, her too-skimpy clothes. Her skin was porcelain pale, just like his. Going by skin tone alone, they could have been brother and sister.

“Is something wrong?”

The girl’s white face moved up and down in a tentative nod. She then twisted her neck to glance toward Kat’s house again.

“Do you know Chief Campbell?”

The girl nodded again.

“Do you need help?”

This time she started to shake her head. But she changed her mind halfway through it, and the shake transformed into another nod.

“Troy,” she said. “It’s about Troy.”

“Troy Gunzelman?”

“I think—” Sobs interrupted her words, releasing the sentence in fits and starts. “I-I think I-I know who killed him.”

After the bad news about the fax machine, Nick Donnelly volunteered to make dinner, an offer Kat couldn’t refuse, even though she knew there would be two additional mouths to feed. But when he arrived and found out her son and his best friend would be joining them, he took the news in stride, saying, “Good thing I brought a ton of food.”

His good nature continued throughout the evening, entertaining James and Jeremy with jokes and stories while he made eggplant parmesan. The boys loved the food, grateful not to be subjected to the Hamburger Helper and tater tots that Kat had been planning. After dinner, Nick even offered to do the dishes, which Kat politely—and regretfully—turned down.