If Looks Could Kill (34 page)

"Chris, I don't have time to get to theater here," he said blackly. "I'm certainly not going to provide it for your little town."

Chris took to doodling again, this time concentrating on tracing concentric circles. Slow, smooth, soothing lines that belied the frayed, desperate state of her patience. Soft blue patterns to offset Trey's uncharacteristic surliness and Chris's incomprehensible suspicions.

"It's just that you've been gone from work so much lately," she said quietly. "They wanted to know dates and times... just to be sure."

"Yeah, right."

Chris expected more from him. She hoped for answers without having to betray herself with the questions. Trey wasn't cooperating. He merely waited while Chris drew and ignored the exchange out at the desk between Eloise and somebody wanting roses.

Chris hadn't slept much in almost a week. She was sore and stretched and jumpy, seeing things that weren't there, knowing full well that she was going to have to walk over to the bank and face something she hadn't in fifteen years. Expecting that she was going to be called over to the police station any time now when the St. Louis cop showed up. She wasn't sure which unnerved her more. By now, though, it was a moot point. All terror tasted the same after awhile.

"Trey?"

"I've been missing work because of Phillip," he blurted out ungracefully. Chris could hear the ragged edge of grief in his voice and caught herself just shy of begging him not to burden her even more. "He died Friday."

Chris dropped her head into her hands. "Oh, Trey. I'm sorry."

"He had AIDS. The police can come check with anybody at the hospice. I haven't been in St. Louis butchering brewery workers. I've been sitting with him."

She didn't know what else to say. She wasn't close enough to him to offer real solace. She hadn't known Phillip to be able to reflect on his worth or loss, couldn't call on a God to comfort or redeem. As usual, she battled that flash of guilt. Instinctive, searing, unproductive as hell. In the end, all she was able to give him was another, "I'm sorry."

"You might want to let Dinah know," he said. "I haven't been able to get hold of her."

* * *

"You pressing charges?"

Chris nodded. "You bet your ass I am."

Mac turned to the reporter. "I know you wouldn't think of leaving town until the judge can see you around two. He's not real fond of people breaking and entering in this county."

"I thought the lady was in some kind of danger, Sheriff," Franklin said. "Just doing my civic duty."

"Chief," Mac corrected him, leaning back in his chair. "The sheriffs down the block."

Franklin's irrepressible grin reappeared. "Well, while I'm here..."

Mac just shook his head. "I don't think you're going to find a whole lot of cooperative people."

The reporter consulted the battered little notebook he'd pulled from his jacket pocket. "How about a Reverend Sweetwater?"

Both Chris and Mac turned on him in unison. "Harlan?"

Franklin beamed like a kid. "Yeah, that's him. Know where I can find him? He's the one who dropped the story."

"Harlan?" Chris demanded, her voice just a little too shrill for Mac's taste. Her whole demeanor just a little too frazzled. "Harlan called you?"

Franklin didn't seem to know how to look apologetic. "Said something about the real story on C. J. Turner." His mouth quirked. "Any comment?"

Chris came right to her feet. Mac intercepted her just shy of impact. "Old Tyme Faith in Jesus Church," he instructed calmly, a hand on Chris's arm and a determined eye on the reporter. "I'd go there right now if I were you."

Franklin held out for one more try. "You'll be around later?" he asked Chris.

Chris made another try for him. Franklin escaped by inches.

"You can't really be surprised," Mac offered diffidently once the door had closed again. "You have been asking for it."

That brought her to rigid attention. "Of course I've been asking for it," she snapped, pulling out of his grip. "You think I should stand by while that pompous son of an egg-sucking, maggot-ridden, pox-infested bitch does his best to do over the town in his image?"

"I get the idea."

She was shaking and wild-eyed. So far removed from the cool, composed woman he'd tried to shoot that first night that Mac found himself upshifting from concern to real worry. A serial murderer on your ass would be enough to give anybody an off day, but this was working on levels so deep she couldn't even share them. Levels only hinted at with that little story about her mother. Mac really hoped he could get this all cleared up before it broke her right into little pieces.

"You want to sit down?"

Chris paced a little more. "Actually, I wondered if you might want to swing by my place."

Mac saw Sue, out in the front room, lift her head a fraction of an inch. Probably thought she was sneaky or something.

Chris waved an aimless hand. "I wasn't sure you really wanted to let the entire city know about your computer activities. Maybe we could grab the modem and computer and go to your house."

Mac didn't even need to think about it. She was strung so tight she was humming like a high wire. Definitely not in any shape right now to go the distance with a lifer like Garavaglia. He'd eat her up and spit her out. Climbing to his feet, Mac grabbed his hat.

"Sue, I'm on the radio," he announced, pulling it out of his desk and clipping it to his belt. A reassuring pat to the holster, and he was ready to go.

"What if that policeman gets here from St. Louis?" Sue asked over her shoulder as the two approached her. Mac and she exchanged brief, telling glances he hoped Chris didn't see.

"Send him over to Harmonia Mae's."

That even got a chuckle out of Chris. "He's not going to thank you for that."

"I thought I'd start a tradition."

"You thought you'd figure a way to keep outside police from coming back."

Mac flashed her an unrepentant grin, relieved at her irreverence. "Those big city jocks just got no business down here, ya know?"

Outside on the streets of Pyrite, spring had officially arrived. Trees were in full bud. The storms that had swept through had turned shoots into flowers. Grass had taken on a decidedly green tint, and the air was warm and moist. The breeze was fresh, pushing high, white clouds before it. Mac sucked in an appreciative breath. He couldn't get enough of the country smells. Even the ones from Oz.

"Looks like a good day to go fishing," he mused, thumbs hooked into belt as he matched Chris's quick pace along the sidewalk.

She looked over, still distracted. "You fish?"

"Well, I always thought I'd like to when I got the chance."

"I always thought I'd go horseback riding."

They walked on, settling their rhythms into the rhythms of the town, nodding hellos to people they passed, answering questions, deflecting curiosity. Mac noticed that the camps were beginning to be drawn to either side of Chris. Luella stepped out of the Kozy Kitchen to ask if Chris was all right after having an intruder in the shop the night before. One of Harlan's flock made a sniffing remark about people getting so far above themselves they thought no one would notice them sitting out at all hours drunk on the sidewalk. Chris soothed Luella and ignored the little lady in the flowered polyester. She walked a little faster, though, her heels clicking like castanets. Her hands were shoved deep into her jeans and her head was bent a little.

"Mac?"

"Yeah?"

She was addressing the sidewalk. Too uncomfortable, obviously, to face him with her question.Mac listened very carefully. It took her a minute to continue.

"You know how I was up in St. Louis when Mr. Weaver was murdered?"

"Yeah."

She walked deliberately, missing the questioning looks of the librarian as she passed by without an answer to her hail.

Finally Chris lifted her head. "I was in St. Louis every time somebody was murdered."

Mac damn near stumbled to a dead halt. He needed a cigarette. He needed an interrogation room and a lot of silence to play this right. Instead he had Main Street and witnesses. He opted for discretion. "And?"

Chris shot him a startled look. "And?" she echoed.
"And
isn't that an amazing coincidence?
And
aren't there a few questions you have to ask me?"

"Yeah. When did you find out?"

"Yesterday. It's easy enough to verify. I stayed at the Ritz most of the times on my American Express card. I did a lot of research—"

"Chris..."

"Dinah was there—"

That did bring him to a stop. "What?"

She faltered to a halt a couple of steps on. He'd obviously reacted to the wrong piece of information. She blinked like somebody'd just awakened her from a nap. "Pardon?"

"Dinah?" he asked, trying not to sound too interested. "What was she doing in St. Louis with you?"

Chris shrugged. "I'm not a huge fan of big cities. Dinah would rather have her toenails removed with a hedge clipper than visit rural America. St. Louis was always a good compromise. We meet up there when I go for research."

"Three times in the last two years?"

"Jacqueline is negotiating for reprint rights."

Mac could feel his palms begin to itch. "She knows your books pretty well."

Somehow that was what brought Chris around. Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped. Her face lost a lot of its color as she took in Mac's implications. "It can't be Dinah," she whispered, shaken.

"Would you feel better if it's you?"

Then, just as suddenly, she was on her way again, hands stuffed in pockets, attention solidly on the sidewalk. Damn, Mac wished they'd already made it to her house before all this started coming down.

"Why did you want me to know?" Mac asked, eye out to intercept any other interruptions.

Chris gave her head a brusque shake. "You'd have found out. I thought I'd save you the time."

And
? he thought. This time he just waited. They were half a block from Chris's house and only had to make it past the Marshall place before he had privacy and isolation in which to conduct a real interview.

"And..." she continued on a half sigh. "I know the books pretty well, too."

Mac gave her a little breathing room. "Yeah."

She turned to him, and he realized how very fragile she was right now. Friable as paper-thin skin, all that brass and defiance dangerously eroded by the past few days. Mac literally held his breath, afraid of losing more than just the truth.

"Do you think there really was somebody in my store last night?" she asked.

Mac wanted to stop again. He wanted suddenly to blow off the investigation and just reassure her that everything was going to be all right.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked, his steps slowing no more than a few feet from her front door.

Her expression didn't ease any. Her eyes were large and dark and unsettling. Her posture betrayed the pressures building up in her. For the first time Mac actually thought to wonder whether Chris had reason to suspect herself of the crimes.

"It's why..." she looked away, sought space. Mac gave it. "I just can't tell this stuff to Sue. She wouldn't understand."

Mac should have been amazed that she'd think to come to him first. He wasn't. They were both fish just a little out of water here. Survivors. They understood each other in ways none of the people raised and nurtured in the safe, known world here would understand.

"Harmonia should be able to keep Garavaglia busy for a while," was his answer.

She dug up a slightly battered smile, and pulled her house keys out of her pocket. And turned to find Shelly sitting on the doorstep.

Shit. Goddamn fucking lousy timing. Mac saw the situation sized up in the girl's eyes even before she'd climbed to her feet and knew he wasn't going to get within ten fucking feet of the truth this morning.

Chris headed right for her. "Shelly, what's wrong? Why aren't you in school?"

Mac knew Shelly was here to bring disaster to Chris. Even so, the girl managed to smooth down her black miniskirt and settle right into posture for him, hips out, head up, hair back. Eyes as brittle as frozen metal, only the kind of kid she'd attract would never notice.

"Hi, Chief," she cooed, twisting a little on her high-heeled boots. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Reining in his irritation, Mac pulled his own pose, the one he'd copied right from L. J. Hands on hips, eyebrows gathered, head forward. The "man in charge" pose. He didn't need there to be any chance of Shelly's getting the wrong impression.

"Shelly." Another thing he'd learned from L. J. More than one word was superfluous at any given time.

Chris barely waited out the little display. It seemed she could see through that facade even in the condition she was in. "Honey?"

Shelly swung her attention Chris's way. Mac was sure she was trying to look judgmental as hell. She only looked lost. "I have a pass," she insisted sharply. "I'm... Tracy and I, anyway..." Her head dropped and she shuddered. "Have you seen my mom?" she asked, her voice small.