Marcie's Murder (22 page)

“God, no. That’s horrible.
I don’t treat patients off the record, and I didn’t hear about this at all.
” Gervais
pressed
a hand to her
chest
defensively. “Was it her husband?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out
,
”
Karen
said.
“You have any reason to think it might have been
him
?”

Gervais shook her head. “Often when a woman is being abused, it is by her husband. But no, I have no particular reason for thinking so in this case.”

“She didn’t mention anything the last time you saw her?”

Gervais glanced at the screen. “No.”

“I take it then,” Karen said, “that you
also
didn’t know she was three months pregnant.”

“
Ah, n
o
.
I did not.”
Gervais
sighed
. “This would not be good. I remember very well we talked about this subject several times. I thought she understood that unless she
made
the proper precautions
,
her life would be at risk.”

“Did you know her very well?”

“Not really. She came to me maybe twice a year. I remember she was a very lively person. She would have made a
n
interesting friend
,
I’m sure,
b
ut we never socialized. I only saw her here as her doctor.” She stood up. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I know.”

“If you didn’t treat her,” Karen pressed, “where else would she have gone? To another doctor here?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Maybe that free clinic the monks run down below here?”

“I have no idea. It’s possible, I suppose. I’m sorry, I just can’t help you any more than this.”

“Thanks
anyway
,” Hall said. He walked past Karen,
following Gervais to the door.

Karen rapped him on the arm. “Do you have a card, Hall? In case she thinks of anything else?”

Gervais turned and looked at him.

“Sorry,” Hall said, embarrassed, “I don’t have business cards
with me
.”
He saw a notepad
and pen
on the desk and grabbed
them
. “This is my name and number. Call me if you can remember anything else.” He tore off the page and handed it to her.

“Thank you.” She held out her hand for the pad. “I’ll need it for the rest of my prescriptions.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Karen rolled her eyes a
t
Hall
.

What a knob.

1
8

Although it was getting close to three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, Hank figured there was still plenty of time to
stop in
a few stores along Bluefield Street before
they closed
for the day.
H
is wardrobe was still sitting in the evidence locker at the
s
heriff’s
o
ffice in Tazewell and he needed a change of clothing
, in addition to a pair of shoes
.
He was wearing a pair of
ancient
Reeboks Branham had borrowed from Grimes, an arrangement that Hank would no longer tolerate.
On top of that
,
he’d spotted a gift shop on Saturday night that might have something Meredith would like. It had been clos
ed then but should be open now.

Hank headed north
from the police station
, walking past well-kept frame homes with front lawns and modest gardens showing their last bits of color for the season. It was a pleasant afternoon
. W
hite cumulus clouds mov
ed
briskly through the sky
,
which
was visible intermittently through the trees
lining
the street.
Although the cuts and nicks on his face had healed and he’d discarded the little bandage on his cheek this morning, h
e still had a few minor aches and pains from the beating that Askew had given him on Saturday night and was glad for an excuse to stretch his muscles and get a little fresh air.

He
reached
Bluefield
Street
and
head
ed
east toward the center of town. On this block were
Blankenship’s
pharmacy, the post office, and a bank. He went into the bank and used the ATM to withdraw some cash. Then he crossed the intersection and started walking up the next block.
He passed a hair salon, a dry cleaning business, an insurance office
,
and a church on the corner. On the next block he found a clothing store called Mary Ellen’s. It
appeared to
carr
y
only women’s
wear
but he
decided it was worth a look.

He walked past racks of summer clothing on sale until he reached the fall and winter wear and still hadn’t seen anything for men. He hadn’t seen a customer, either. At the back he found a cash register and a woman sitting on a stool
behind the counter
. She was in her
late twenties
, with straight black hair pulled back in a pony tail. She wore a brown cowl-neck sweater and jeans.
She
’
d been watching him on a video monitor that showed the entire store from a camera mounted in the ceiling somewhere. She moved lazily on the stool to look at him.

“Help you?”

“Do you have any menswear? Or is it just women’s?”

She slid off the stool and came around the counter. “Over here.” She led the way to a section
at the back
on the far wall that had a six
-
foot rack of shirts on one side and trousers on the other. She pointed to underwear, socks
,
and
pajamas
along the wall. “This is it.”

“Okay,” Hank said.

“Ninety-nine point nine-nine-six
percent
of our customers are women,” she said. “We have a little something for them to buy for their husbands and boyfriends while they’re getting their own stuff.”

“Guess I’m the point-zero-zero-four that likes to shop for himself,” Hank said.

“Yeah.” She smiled
faintly
. “Passing through town?”

“Sort of
.
” He flicked through the rack, surprised to find Joseph Abboud long-sleeved cotton shirts and
La
cost
e
polo
shirts.

“You look like a seventeen and a half neck size,”
she said.

“Correct
.
”

“Sleeve length
34 to 35.”

“Correct again.”

She shrugged. “It’s what I do. It freaks out the ladies, especially since I don’t lie and try to sell them something too small just to flatter them. I don’t think there’s anything here on the rack in your size, since the men around
this place
tend to be shorter than you are, but there
’s more stuff
in back. What would you like?”

Hank flicked through the rack and stopped at a pale yellow Abboud shirt. “That’s nice.”

“We’ve got.”

He looked at her. “Other colors?”

“Pale blue and white.”

“Okay, one of each. Yellow, blue
,
and white.” He went down the rack. “I wouldn’t mind a couple of polo shirts as well. Here’s a seventeen and a half. Forest green. Not my favorite
color
, but I’ll take it.”

She took it from him and draped it over her forearm. “Lose your luggage?”

“
You could say that
.” Hank went around the rack to look at the trousers. “I’d rather just get a few pairs of jeans, actually.”

She leaned back to look at him. “Thirty-six thirty-six.”

“Correct.”

“Wranglers okay?”

Hank nodded.

“We have.” She smiled. “And with jeans, I don’t have to ask which side you dress on.”

“You don’t have to ask that, anyway.”

“I could.”

“I’ll take two pairs.”

“Coming right up.”

“While you’re getting that stuff,” Hank said, “I’ll look at the socks.”

“I can help you with the underwear.”

“I can help myself, thanks.”

She went back through a doorway behind the counter
and came out a few minutes later
with his shirts neatly folded on top of the jeans. “Do you want to try these on?”

“No, they’ll be fine.”

“I like a man who knows his own sizes. It’s rare.”

He walked over to the counter and put down six pairs of black socks
, a plain black leather belt,
and three packages of boxers with two in a pack. “I’ll take these as well.”

He took out his wallet and removed his credit card as she began to ring them up on the cash register. “Seems like a pretty quiet town
,
”
he remarked casually.

“
Sure is
,
”
s
he said, trying several times to scan the bar code on a package of underwear.

“
D
id you know the woman who was murdered Saturday night?”

The bar code reader blipped. She set the package of underwear aside and looked at him. “No. Why do you ask?”

Hank showed her his
wallet
containing his badge and departmental identification.

“Damn!” she said. “No way! No way I had you for a cop. Son of a bitch!”

Hank
smiled
.

“Let me see it again
.
”

Hank held
out
the
wallet
a second time
. She took his hand in both her hands and looked at his ID.
“Hank Donaghue
.
”
S
he
let go of
his hand
and
frowned
. “I didn’t know her but I knew
of
her, of course. Everybody knew who
Mrs.
Askew
was
.”

Hank put the
wallet
away. “Are you Mary Ellen?”

“No,” s
he
laughed
. “Mary Ellen was my late aunt. My uncle owns this store
.
Jack Owings.
He named the store after her.
I’m Sarah Owings.” She held out her hand. “Glad to meet you, Hank.”

Hank shook her hand.

“Everybody knew Mrs. Askew,” Sarah went on, “because she was
a real interesting person
. And believe me, it’s a boring town.”

“She had an art gallery, didn’t she?”

Sarah nodded
, swiping his credit card
. “Next block up. Beside Gibson’s. It’s still vacant.”

“She had to let it go, I hear.”

“Yeah. No money in art around here. My uncle barely makes enough to pay his bills and
pay
me
on top of it.
This is
n
’
t exactly Richmond.”
She gave him back his credit card.

“I noticed. Why was she interesting?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She was beautiful and mysterious, the wife of the
c
hief of
p
olice. People said they fought like cats and dogs and
screwed
like minks. Who wouldn’t want to be as beautiful as Marcie Askew?
She was gorgeous.
But she had a tragic life,
I guess
.”

“Well
,” Hank said.

“Sorry I don’t know anything other than town gossip. But you could take me downtown to interrogate me.”

“Maybe
another time
, Sarah.”

She bagged the last of his purchases and
jotted
something
on the back of his receipt before stuffing it into the bag. “
My cell
phone number
.
In case you think of any other questions.”