The Listener (3 page)

Does she like fried mushrooms?

Yes.

That makes it easy. How about steak? Does she like steak?

Yes. T-bone is her favorite, with rosemary garlic roasted potatoes.

T-bone steak it is. As soon as I get home, I’ll dehydrate the Galerina autumnalis and grind them up, and you can dust them on the steak and mix them in the fried mushrooms. Symptoms won’t occur for six to twenty-four hours. That way, when they investigate the death, if they suspect poison, you can act innocent and say she likes to pick mushrooms, you cooked them for her, and she must have got a bad one.

Cornelia sat, riveted, waiting to hear what s/he was going to say.

Finally, s/he came back with
How long have you had the poisoned mushrooms?

I got them this morning! Really, dear, they grow everywhere. And what does it matter? We’ve been talking about this for *months.*

Not poison. We hadn’t discussed poison.

Poison is a natural.

I suppose. But—

Does she like dessert?

Yes.

Do you want me to pick up something at the bakery?

Yes. Yes, if she has to die, at least let her die happy.

This matter was beyond Cornelia’s ken. She didn’t know what to do. She supposed she should ask someone who would know. Someone who knew everything about real life.

Looking up, she beckoned Rainbow.

Rainbow looked behind her, both ways, then pointed to herself and raised her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Cornelia said. “You!”

The tourists craned their necks.

Cornelia realized she’d been too loud. A little more quietly, she said, “Rainbow, I have a question.”

Rainbow sidled over. “I wasn’t sure you knew my name.”

Cornelia was confused. “Of course. Everyone knows your name.”

“Okay, hon, don’t worry about it.” But Rainbow watched her with a pucker between her brows. “What do you need?”

“If you knew someone was going to commit a murder, what would you do?”

“Stop it.”

“How?”

“I’d knock ’em out with a swift slam to the cranium.”

Rainbow said it with such relish, Cornelia believed her. “No. I mean—if you’d overheard a murder being
plotted
, what would you do?”

“Oh.” Rainbow frowned as she thought. “Tell the cops. They’re the strong-arm enforcers of our capitalist government, but they do have their uses.”

Eagerly, Cornelia asked, “Which cops? The state patrol? The county sheriff? The Virtue Falls police?”

“Depends on where the murder is going to be committed.”

“I don’t know where. It’s local. That’s all I know.”

“Then probably the sheriff.” Rainbow placed her hand on her out-thrust hip. “You writing a book?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Why are you asking about the cops?”

Patiently, Cornelia said, “Because someone’s going to commit a murder.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Rainbow eyed her up and down. “How do you … ? No, never mind. Don’t tell me. What else do you need? Milk? Pie? Free advice for weird shit?”

“No.” Cornelia closed her computer and put it and her tablet in her backpack. She rolled up her desk mat, took her number-two pencils and put them, one by one, into the proper slots. “I know what to do now.”

Rainbow watched her in bewilderment. “You never leave until four thirty-seven.”

“That’s when Mason comes to get me. I need to report this crime before he arrives.”

“He’d wait for you … since you’re reporting a
potential
crime.”

Rainbow viewed Cornelia with such concern, Cornelia knew she was honestly worried. About Mason, she supposed. “There’s no need for Mason to wait. I’m sure the sheriff will handle the matter competently.”

“Yeah. Because that’s Sheriff Foster.” Rainbow sneered. “Competent.”

Cornelia didn’t know what Rainbow meant by that, but in fact, she was used to not understanding subtexts in conversation. Another reason why she preferred nonverbal communication.

Taking her backpack, Cornelia stood and walked out the door, leaving Rainbow staring worriedly after her.

September had turned the maple leaves yellow, and a few drifted and swirled as they dropped to the ground. The sun hung low on the southern horizon, and the Pacific Ocean put a nip in the air. Cornelia shivered, stopped, and pulled a wrinkled white sweater out of her backpack. She hadn’t worn it since last spring, but she kept it with her. Sooner or later, winter always arrived.

Cornelia fixed her gaze on her destination, the Virtue Falls City Hall, across the street and on the square and, of course, she tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and sprawled flat.

She didn’t drop her backpack, though; her computer and tablet were her most treasured possessions.

As she picked herself up, a ten-year-old boy rode by on his bike and jeered.

Some things never changed.

Cornelia dusted off her knees. She’d fallen partly in the parking strip; she had a grass stain on the elbow of her sweater. Mason would be distressed. He fussed about stuff like that; he liked her to look nice, and she appreciated his care.

She trudged around the square, watching her step, then walked up the stairs and into city hall. Inside, the dust and mildew made her sneeze. She dug out a tissue and wiped her nose, then stepped up to the front desk and said, “I’d like to see Sheriff Foster.” It occurred to her the sheriff might not see just anyone, so she added, “Rainbow sent me. Because I have information. On a murder.”

The desk sergeant narrowed his eyes at her. “A murder.”

“Yes. Was I unclear?”

“No. Not at all.” The desk sergeant picked up the phone. “I’ll see if Sheriff Foster will speak to you.” He stepped back, so she mostly couldn’t hear him, but he could still keep an eye on her.

She seated herself on an old wooden bench—really, it looked more like a church pew—and proceeded to thoroughly blow her nose, sniff, and blow her nose again. When she looked up, Sheriff Foster stood in front of her.

Like her, he had been born and raised in Virtue Falls. Unlike her, he was a minor celebrity, the first law officer at the scene of the famed Banner murder case, the man who had collected the evidence and brought Charles Banner to justice.

Cornelia had always thought Sheriff Foster didn’t look much like a celebrity; he was scrawny, freckled, and about her height. But there was no use judging him on his looks. Someone’s life depended on his law enforcement skills.

She stood up. She offered her hand, and when he didn’t take it, she grabbed his hand and shook it heartily. “Hello, Sheriff Foster, I am here to report a murder.”

Sheriff Foster looked down at their joined hands, then carefully removed his. “You’re Cornelia Markum, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes!” Good deduction. She felt better about him already. “How did you know?”

“I’ve seen you in the Oceanview Café.”

“Oh. Do you come in?”

With awesome patience, he said, “Every day.”

She inspected him again. He really was nondescript.

She expected him to take her to the back, someplace private where they could discuss her findings. Instead, he stood there in the lobby of the town hall where anyone could hear them. And the desk sergeant was leaning over the counter and plainly eavesdropping.

Sheriff Foster pulled out his notebook and his pen. “Did you kill somebody?”

“What? No!” Why would he think that?

“All right. Then whose murder do you want to report?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared at her. He clicked the pen once. “When did it occur?”

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

One of the other law enforcement officers drifted in from the back.

“Why do you know about it?” Sheriff Foster asked.

“Because I hacked into a text conversation and discovered two local residents are planning to kill their mother.” That was clear enough.

For a moment, Sheriff Foster appeared flummoxed.
“What
local residents?”

“I don’t know. When I hack into the texting, I can follow a conversation, but I can’t tell who’s talking.”

“What are the phone numbers?”

“I can’t tell that, either.”

“Can you tell where in the county these people are?”

“No.” She glanced toward the counter.

Two more law enforcement officers had appeared.

Sheriff Foster clicked the pen again.

He hadn’t written anything down.

“Then why do it?” he asked.

“For the insurance money, they said.”

He clicked and held. “I meant—why do you read other people’s texts if you don’t know who they are?”

“It’s frequently interesting; an insight into human behavior.” He seemed to expect more, so she added, “And if I can figure out who the texters are, it’s a brainteaser.”

He stared with a fixed gaze.

She added, “Bonus points to me.”

“So you have hacked into a conversation where a couple of siblings —”

“Or a husband and wife, either straight or lesbian. They seemed unnaturally close, and very fond of each other. Me and my siblings aren’t like that, but I know some are. One of them seemed mildly reluctant, but the other was determined.”

With awesome patience, Sheriff Foster started again. “You hacked into a conversation between a couple of people who intend to off an old lady, and you are reporting this as a crime.”

Was he not taking this seriously? “That’s right. As a law enforcement officer, I would think you’d want to apprehend the perpetrators.”

He shut his notebook. “I ought to arrest you as a hacker.”

“But I discovered a crime.”

“You committed a crime! You eavesdropped on a conversation between two unknown people who may or may not be thinking of killing another unknown person. It was a conversation. If I arrested everybody who said they wanted to kill someone, I’d have half of Virtue Falls in here!”

Had he
not
been paying attention? “But they’re going to poison her!”

He took a breath, then started again, and spoke more slowly. “The crime here is hacking, and you did it. If I turned you in to the FBI, do you think you’d still have your superimportant government job? I don’t think so!”

He was right. The government frowned on hackers.

Sheriff Foster continued, “So I’d suggest you get up and go home, and forget this stupid shit about people who are going to kill their mother.” He turned away, muttering, “Dumbest goddamn thing I ever heard.” He looked at the grinning officers hanging over the counter. “Go back to work!”

They scattered.

Sheriff Foster disappeared into the back.

Cornelia seldom felt humiliation. She seldom felt confusion.

She felt both now. She had done the proper thing, socially speaking, by reporting a crime before it happened, and she had been the object of mockery.

She groped for her backpack, walked outside, and checked her cell phone. The time was four thirty-six. She looked across the square. Mason pulled up in front of the Oceanview Café, a full minute early.

She would tell Mason. Mason would know what to do.

She walked across the square and to the driver’s-side door as he was getting out of the car. “I’m here,” she said.

At her unexpected appearance, he jumped in surprise and looked toward city hall. “Where were you? What were you doing?”

She walked around to the passenger side and waited.

As always, he first kissed her on the cheek, then opened her door.

She slid into the car and, as always, watched him walk around the hood.

As always, he was a very handsome man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with black, wavy hair and dark blue eyes. She particularly admired his chin, which appeared to be chiseled from stone. It had a dimple in middle, which softened the effect.

He got in, put the car in gear, and headed toward their home on the outskirts of Virtue Falls. “So—what’s up? Why did you change your routine?”

“I just had a very odd experience.”

“Why don’t you tell me over dinner?” He smiled rather tightly. “I would like to have some interesting conversation over dinner.”

Because of the day’s events, she felt moved to examine his comment with more intensity than she would normally. “Am I not a stimulating conversationalist over dinner? I am sorry. I will endeavor to do better.”

He glanced at her in seeming alarm. “It’s not that. We … um, it’s okay. We talk enough.”

She nodded. “Tonight I will offer up more than that usual report on my work, I promise.”

“Okay. I can’t wait.” He drove into the driveway, activated the garage door opener, pulled in, and shut the garage behind them. “I’ve made a great meal tonight.”

Cornelia’s stomach growled. “Excellent. I have an appetite.”

Mason hurried around and took her backpack. “That’s one of the charming things about you. You enjoy your food. A lot.”

They entered through the kitchen.

She smelled garlic and rosemary.

“You go get ready.” He put a large pat of butter in a skillet, placed it on the stove, and turned the burner on high. He got out another skillet and did the same thing on a different burner. “I’ll finish up in here.”

She went into their bedroom, put her electronic equipment away, went to the bathroom, washed her hands for the appropriate amount of time, and returned to the dining room. She sat at her place at their square table and listened as Mason rattled the pans. She didn’t know what she wanted most: the food or the chance to explain what had happened and ask what to do.

He came in, smiling tensely, holding a plate with a potholder. With a flourish, he placed it in front of her. “Be careful. The plate is hot.”

He went back to the kitchen and got his plate. He seated himself.

She picked up her knife and fork, and looked down at her meal.

“Tonight we’re going to enjoy ourselves,” he said. “T-bone steak, mushrooms, and rosemary garlic potatoes.”

Cornelia stared at the food. Stared, then lifted her gaze and stared at Mason.

Mason. Handsome, pleasant, shallow, vapid, lazy, easily influenced. She knew all those things. She also knew he liked her. Maybe loved her.