The Second Mouse (21 page)

The second time had been a slight improvement, if dissatisfying in other ways. Too much booze, an argument, a handy baseball bat. He didn’t remember much beyond feeling the bat’s reverberation as it contacted the other man’s skull. He’d stumbled away from that one, making no effort to avoid capture. But while there had been cops and an investigation, they’d touched him only peripherally, the victim having led a complicated life too full of potential lethal enemies. The whole affair had slipped away like the stupor that had given it birth.

High Top had been the best one yet, even though merely the result of a spontaneous urge. Still, Mel had been sober, and his victim had responded well, the obnoxious little shit.

Mel shifted in his seat, growing impatient. Apparently, Banger was hitting it off with his customers—either that or they’d knocked him off and made their escape through the bathroom window.

The thought made him uncomfortable. Had he brought Ellis into this, he would have had someone watching the back—a maneuver he’d certainly used in the past to good effect.

But he didn’t have Ellis. He hadn’t wanted him. Ellis was getting weird on him, changing in a way that made him uneasy. He’d once been the perfect student—cooperative, appreciative, submissive, and willing. He’d never challenged Mel’s primacy, never come up with ideas of his own, never done anything other than be the textbook sidekick. He was strong, obedient, held his liquor, and was good in a fight.

But not since they’d all moved to Bennington.

The Three Musketeers. That’s what Mel had once called them, but whatever that had meant then, it was no longer true.

Which made him think of his wife, another pain in the ass. The list of disappointments with that one was growing daily, and he knew in his heart that before much longer, the habit of having her around notwithstanding, he’d have to dump her.

Or maybe do something more creative . . . He smiled in the darkness of the cab, considering the possibilities.

There was movement by the door of number 32—a reflection from the distant streetlights as it swung open. Against the dim glow of the room inside, a shadow appeared briefly before vanishing just as fast. For a moment, watching Banger’s dim outline slipping along the balcony, Mel regretted that his plan hadn’t been simply to kick into the place and work all of them over, like in a movie, maybe even threatening them with one of the M–16s.

But even he had enough tactical sense not to do that. Too many unknowns. Plus, he wouldn’t have gotten away with it, not for long. Burying a little toad like High Top was easy enough—nobody to miss him, even with Ellis wringing his hands. But a roomful of people?

Best to stick with the plan—just as with High Top, go after the nobodies, the people who, in the eyes of those who knew them, were just as prone to go wandering as to go missing.

Mel slipped quietly out of the truck, his eyes on the shadow working its way down the stairs, his heart beating to the call of his own primordial lethal urge.

Chapter 18

J
oe rose from his plastic seat as a tired, heavyset woman entered the employee break room and blinked at him without curiosity. She was wearing a brightly colored vest adorned with a large sticker announcing, “Hi, I’m Lilly, I’m Here to Help.”

Rarely had Joe seen a person more in need of what she was professing to offer.

He approached her with his hand held out. “Mrs. Morgan?”

She didn’t smile, and her hand was soft, moist, and cold in his. “I go by Kimbell.”

He hesitated. Not only did this differ from what he’d been told, but it made him wonder what might be going on in the Morgan household to have prompted it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was misinformed. No offense, I hope?”

“I just changed it back,” she said, standing before him like an upended duffel bag.

He stepped back and swept his hand over a scattering of chairs adorning the otherwise empty room. “Would you like to have a seat?”

The faintest sign of a smile appeared. “I may never be able to stand up again.”

Still, she sat, surprisingly daintily, on the nearest chair.

“Can I buy you a soda from the machine?” he offered.

“I’m fine.”

Joe sat opposite her, a synthetic table between them. The room was a display of bland colors and polymers. Joe assumed that every aspect of it, from the acoustic tiling to the fake wood paneling to the rows of robotlike vending machines, was the result of either a metal press or a plastic molding machine.

He introduced himself, slipping a business card across the table to her. “Do you prefer to be called Lilly?” he asked.

She took the card but didn’t even glance at it, holding it instead like something she’d found on the floor and didn’t know how to throw away. “No. They call me that here.”

“Ms. Kimbell, then?”

The faint smile returned. “That sounds nice.”

“Great. I guess you know why I’m here.”

The smile faded. “Michelle, I suppose.”

He sat back and crossed his legs, hoping to introduce an element of friendliness into an otherwise sterile environment. “Yeah, that’s right. I heard she and Archie were very much in love.”

The approach caught her off guard. She stared at him for a moment, nonplussed, before answering, to his own surprise, “I guess that’s right. I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Why not? Wasn’t it true?”

“I think it was.” She seemed to be considering it for the first time.

Joe didn’t say anything, letting the silence work for him, as he often did.

“We didn’t talk about them much that way.”

“You and Newell?”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t like her much?”

This time she actually produced a noise like a laugh. It was her only response.

“Was that always the case?” Joe asked. “I mean, I know it was after Archie died and Michelle wasn’t paying any rent, but how ’bout before?”

Lillian Kimbell tightened her lips before saying slowly, “There was always some tension.”

Joe thought back to his one visit to the Morgan house on Gage Street, and to the disparity between the grubby TV set-chair combo and the rest of the room, jammed with delicate figurines and kitschy bric-a-brac, all dust free and neatly arranged. Tension, indeed.

“How about you, Ms. Kimbell? How did you feel about Michelle?”

Her expressionless eyes settled on his for a long, measured moment while she appeared to weigh her options. Joe considered the possible reasons behind her taking back her maiden name and hoped that one of them might play in his favor now.

“I liked her,” she finally said, adding, “right up to the end.”

He tried tipping her a little further. “Your husband wouldn’t like hearing that.”

“Screw him.”

It was said softly, almost tentatively, but Joe burst out laughing anyhow, creating the happiest expression he’d seen on her yet.

“That must’ve been tough on you,” he said then, “being so at odds with Newell.”

“I’m always at odds with him,” she said, this time bitterly. “First with Archie, then with Michelle. Now with everything.”

“Is that why the name change?”

She nodded without comment.

He paused before suggesting vaguely, “The thing with Michelle really did something, didn’t it?”

“Yes.” The word was said so quietly, it almost vanished in the hum of the overhead lighting.

“Marked an end?”

“I guess it did.”

“Are you going to leave him?”

She hesitated before admitting, “That’s not what women like me are supposed to do.”

“But you’re thinking of it.” He said it as a statement.

“I guess so, yes.”

Now that he had her on the threshold, he tried opening the door wider. “Why?”

The potential was there for her to close down and ask him to leave. She’d never met him before, he’d been asking strange questions, and the entire point of the interview remained as unclear as ever. And yet, not only had she kept pace with him, not challenging the reasons behind his visit, but she seemed to be warming to the age-old comfort of confiding to total strangers what you’d hesitate to tell your closest friend.

It clearly wasn’t easy for her. Joe watched as his business card was unconsciously reduced to a small lump between her kneading fingers. She studied the tabletop, forming her thoughts, before she finally said, “Something happened—changed.”

“Between you and Newell, or him and Michelle?” Joe asked pointedly.

“Both. All of it. He got so angry.”

“At her?”

“Yes. It was more than the money. We’re not that bad with the money. There’s enough.”

Joe leaned forward, suddenly tense, fearful that now would be the very moment when a coworker would come barging in and destroy the mood. “Ms. Kimbell, I hate to pry here. This is all so terribly personal. But it means a great deal to me to really understand exactly what happened. Did you ever think your husband’s fury at Michelle might have been for another reason? I don’t want to be insensitive here, but I also don’t want to tiptoe around—do you think he might’ve made a pass at her?”

To his relief, she took it in full stride. “I wondered that. If he did, I don’t think it worked.”

“Is that why you said you liked her up to the end?”

She nodded. “Like you said, she always loved Archie. So did I. I’ll always feel in my bones that it was Newell who killed Archie.”

Joe was comfortable with the assumption that she wasn’t being literal—that the father’s harshness had merely driven the son to drink and an early grave. It was a startling one-liner, though, given what he suspected Newell had done to Michelle.

“Did Newell go out to see her after Archie’s death?” he asked, keeping on track.

He knew he shouldn’t have been so unreasonably hopeful, but he was still disappointed when she looked up at the white acoustic ceiling and gave a hapless shrug. “I’m here most of the time. I barely noticed when he went on a trip with his buddies a while ago.”

“How ’bout right after she died?” Joe persisted. “How did he react?”

She scowled. “That’s what really did it for me—made me decide. He was so happy, it almost made me sick. It was the first time I saw him as a cruel man. Before, I always thought he was just kind of useless.”

Joe reviewed what he’d learned—supportive of their theory, but frustratingly shy of hard evidence. He considered asking her outright if she thought Newell had killed Michelle, but he knew that it would merely upset her and result in nothing useful. Besides, she had enough in her bag of dark thoughts.

Instead, he extracted a mug shot of Mel Martin and slid it across the table. “Have you ever seen this man in the company of your husband?”

She looked quite startled at the harshness of the image before her. “Lord. I’ve met some of Newell’s friends. None of them look like this. Newell’s been with this man?”

“He sold him his truck.”

She made a face. “Oh, that old thing. I was happy to see that go. Always left oil on the driveway. Noisy and smelly, too.”

“So he never even described the man he’d sold it to? Or discussed him in any way?” Joe asked hopefully, knowing he was grasping at straws.

She settled the issue by smiling gently at him. “Newell and I don’t discuss.”

Lester Spinney wasn’t having much luck. He’d checked the few dirt roads that might reasonably house anyone who’d notice traffic going to and from Michelle’s, and hadn’t hit a single person yet who’d even known of her or Archie, much less seen Newell’s ex—and Mel’s current—truck. People lived isolated from each other out here by design, it turned out. Everyone he met was perfectly happy not to know the first thing about their neighbors.

It was therefore with no great optimism that he finally pulled up to his last planned stop—a complicated jigsaw puzzle of Swiss chalet, Norman keep, and modern glass—and swung out of the car to make his pitch.

But he never got to it. Before he’d traveled halfway up the front walk, a bright-faced, spindly couple capped in matching snow-white hairdos threw open the broad wooden door and stood beaming at him like something out of a B-level fairy tale.

“Don’t tell us,” the male half ordered, his hand in the air like a circus barker’s. “The car looks strictly standard issue.”

“And the clothes,” his companion chimed in, adding, “I hope you won’t be offended, but they’re practical and inexpensive, aimed toward respectability.”

“Yes,” agreed her mate. “Like an aspiring junior clerk out of Dickens.”

She laughed as Spinney stood there, smiling politely and waiting for the routine to wrap up, although as a cop, he had to appreciate the way they thought.

“So what do you say, George? The poor man’s on pins and needles.”

George looked thoughtful for a moment. “Hard to say with any certainty . . . State employee, for sure.”

She clapped her hands once and kept them clasped against her narrow chest. “Yes, just what I was thinking. But from what branch?”

Lester, far from pins or needles, nevertheless hoped all this would play to his advantage. “Police,” he confessed. “Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

The couple burst into laughter, George saying, “Oh, I never would have gone there. Thank you so much. You don’t look like a policeman at all, young man. I was just about to embarrass myself—I won’t tell you how.”

Lester waved that away with his hand, displaying his badge with the other, for the record. “Not a problem. I have that effect on everybody. My name is Spinney, by the way.”

“Mr. and Mrs. George B. Heller the Third,” said the woman, extending her hand before abruptly withdrawing it with the words “Oh, my. Does one shake hands with the police? I don’t know the rules.”

“You do with this one,” Lester said, playing out the formalities with both of them.

George Heller asked, “To what do we owe the pleasure, Officer? Have we done something wrong?”

“No, no. Not at all. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the neighborhood.”

Mrs. Heller laughed. “You mean the neighbors, not the neighborhood.”

Lester conceded with a smile. “You got me.”

“Is it poor Michelle Fisher?” George asked. “We knew the police were looking into that. We even heard they’d been by when we were out of town for a couple of days. We were sorry to have missed out.”

Spinney felt an instant warmth for both of them, like a thirsty man might who’d finally reached water. “It is. Strictly routine—something we do with all unattended deaths. Do you mind talking about it?”

Mrs. Heller broke into a broad smile. “Goodness, no. George and I live to gossip. We love to watch the comings and goings around here—gives us something to do in our old age. But before we go on, wouldn’t you rather come in and have some tea or something?”

Lester accepted, and they all trooped into the eccentric house, eventually settling in a nicely appointed living room-kitchen combination with a huge picture window overlooking the road.

“This is where George and I do most of our busybody business,” his hostess explained as she went to work preparing the tea.

Her husband and Lester chose deep armchairs facing the view. In fact, Lester did feel a little as if he’d just bought a skybox seat at a ballpark. The house sat up high over the road, and the vegetation had been trimmed to afford the best advantage over quite a piece of real estate. The peaks of several houses could be seen nestled among the treetops.

“This is beautiful,” Lester murmured.

“We like it,” George stated. “We could have set it up to take in just the woods and fields, but we like people. We’re from the city originally, and we’ve always enjoyed watching our fellow human beings.”

His wife chimed in, “We used to walk in the park every weekend, trying to come up with little life stories for everyone who caught our eye.”

“And sometimes,” he added, “when we could get away with it, we’d even ask them about themselves, to see how much we got right. We ended up being pretty good.” He paused before admitting, “Of course, around here it’s a little harder. We only get to see cars go by—sometimes strollers walking their dogs or something. And people are a little more reserved here, too.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “They think we’re very strange.”

Lester was taking this all in while he surveyed the room, inventorying the usual assortment of family pictures and decorative artifacts. At some point, quite clearly, someone in this family had done a lot more than simply look out the window. The whole house spoke of serious income.

“So,” he began, feeling that the niceties had been given enough free play, “what can you tell me about Michelle Fisher? Did you know her well?”

“Didn’t know her at all,” George said flatly.

“We never got to meet her or her boyfriend,” his wife agreed, still hard at work at the butcher block island separating the kitchen from the room’s observation platform. “We just watched their comings and goings—got a feeling for their life. They seemed very happy together. We always noticed that.”

“That’s true,” George concurred. “And you could tell that Archie especially had been around a bit, which made us all the happier that he’d found her. It’s hard to believe they’re both gone . . .”