Privy to Murder Page 15

  “What did JT say? What kind of evidence does he say he has? Do you have a good lawyer?”

  Frank raked his hair back, then looked at his hands. “They’re basing everything on some pictures they say were sent in anonymously which supposedly showed me running from the outhouse. Donna said something about the knife they found next to the body being mine. She’s really turned into a piece of work.”

  “What do you mean?” I leaned forward, waiting to see if he confirmed my feelings about Donna.

  “When I married Maggie, Donna was a sweet little ten-year-old. I know all girls change when they become teen-agers, but she stayed quiet and nice until a few months ago. Then she began talking about her new boyfriend. Her behavior changed six months ago, but not to the point that Mag noticed.” He rubbed his face, obviously tired.

  “How’s she different?”

  “Things you might expect with a new boyfriend, sexier clothes, more make-up, that kind of thing. Her attitude also changed, and that’s harder to explain. After Maggie died, she started openly wearing the fancier clothes and stayed out all night several times. She wants more money, says it’s rightfully hers since it was her mother’s. She has a tougher way of talking, as if she’s emulating someone else.”

  “Have you met the boyfriend she talked about?”

  “No? Have you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I wouldn’t even be surprised if she made him up. It’s so weird. Aren’t boyfriends supposed to pick you up, come over, be seen. I don’t think things are kosher on that front.” Frank stood up to walk over to the window before he remembered we were in the basement. “I have to know what’s going on. I need your help.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of help? I’m not a lawyer.”

  “I know that, Tali. But something’s going on. Donna gave those pictures to JT instead of showing me. She’s the one who told JT that the knife by Mag’s body is mine?”

  “Well, is it?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t kill her. No one killed her with it. “

  “How do you know?”

  “Because that big old Celtic knife is too brittle and dull to kill anyone unless you clubbed them with the handle.”

  Frank leaned closer. “I have a key to the house under the first stepping-stone in front of the back porch. I need you to go look, especially in Donna’s room, for anything you think is significant. I didn’t kill Betty Ann.”

  I shook my head. “Frank, if I do that I’ll be breaking and entering. I’ll be in more trouble than I can deal with right now.”

  “It’s not breaking and entering if you do it with my permission. It’s my house, not Donna’s. Just be sure she’s not there.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that, stake out the house? I’m not a PI.”

  “She’s coming to visit later. I’ll find out what she’s doing and when. Then I can call you on your cell. I can’t tell you what to look for but maybe you’ll know if you see it. After the picture and knife bit, I just don’t trust Donna to tell the truth any more.” His shoulders drooped. “I don’t know what I’ve done to her to make her lie about me. I’ve tried to be as good a dad, step-dad as I know how to be, not good enough I know.”

  I felt sorry for him, couldn’t help it. And I didn’t get any bad feelings about him, at least not anything evil—not that my ability to read anyone had been so accurate lately. I sighed. “Call me on my cell and I’ll try to get away long enough to go on a scavenger hunt, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Something to prove I’m not a murderer would be nice.”

  “And exactly what might that be? Are you expecting a signed confession to Mag’s murder to be lying around? Or a diary entry that talks about drowning Betty Ann? You may not be a murderer but you’re nuts. It’s never that easy. We wouldn’t have Unsolved Mysteries on TV or people locked up for twenty years, accused of crimes they didn’t commit.”

  “Gee, thanks for the encouraging words, Tali. I know I’m not reliable. I flirt too much. I drink too much. I love too many women. I know I was out of line with you. Can you see past that and help me in spite of it?”

  “Okay, okay. I can’t promise I’ll find anything but I’ll try. If I end up in jail, in trouble or dead, you will so be in deeper shit than you are now. Now, I’m getting out of here before I start liking the place.”

  I took the elevator back up to the ground floor. I couldn’t wait to get out into fresh air and take deep breaths. It wasn’t just the air, it was the raw emotions that bounced off the walls. The air was oppressive, textured with the fear and despair flowing from every pore of the inmates. Light didn’t penetrate all the way. It was as if the light bulb output was filtered through a dark cloth. I wasn’t sure if anyone else felt the same way but I couldn’t have stayed down there one minute longer.

  Even the hot and heavy afternoon-sun-warmed air was better than that artificial atmosphere inside. I walked down to the Perked Cup and treated myself to a cold, sweet, frozen coffee drink with extra espresso and piled high with whipped cream. Loved it. One of the many vices I love most.

  Now I just needed to sit and wait for Donna to talk to Frank so he could call me and tell me when to go to his house and search the place. Nothing could be any simpler. Nothing could be more stupid. My brain had gone to mush between trying to plan for the Calf-roping Ball, murders, ghosts, and playing detective.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Why did I say I’d do this, I asked myself, as I rolled down to the ranch house, engine off in a silent approach? How do I get myself into such stupid situations? I’m a smart, educated woman. Why would I let someone like Frank talk me into such a stupid, stupid trick? We won’t even go into what JT or Mumsie would say. And why did I think a silent approach would make a difference? It was broad daylight, for God’s sake.

  My thinking continued along this line while I parked the truck. I looked under the stones for the key, avoided the pool, and opened the back door, praying Donna was really in Dallas.

  The kitchen had every convenience. The refrigerator had an icemaker, ice water spout, and TV built into the front. The chrome stove had a grill. The sink would have been shiny like the rest of the appliances but was piled with dirty dishes that overflowed onto the counters.

  Neither Donna nor Frank were housekeepers, but they could at least afford to have someone come in to clean. I stood still. No sound, not a television left on, not even the sound of the birds from outside. The dining room ceiling arched up with crown molding around the edges. The long table was surrounded by chairs and hadn’t been used for eating. Magazines, newspapers, mail littered the top.

  The house felt empty, unused, unloved. I passed the messy living room. Still no feelings, no real emotions, certainly nothing positive. Then again, nothing evil. I turned and went up the stairs toward where I thought I’d find bedrooms, or an office.

  How can I search when I don’t know what I’m looking for? By my feelings maybe, by touching things. I moved silently up to the first door and opened it. It must have been Mag’s room, all satin ruffles, bright colors, and totally trashed by someone. Anger boomeranged from wall to wall. I didn’t need to touch anything. I couldn’t tell if the anger was Mag’s or belonged to someone else, maybe whoever had trashed the room. So many emotions bounced off the walls that I couldn’t get anything useful.

  The next must have been Frank’s, connected to Mag’s room, but separate. Masculine, greens and browns, not a lot of emotion there, some confusion but nothing too dark either. Traditional furniture, dark woods, nothing that really screamed Frank. Mag owned the decorating.

  I walked across the hall to touch the door opposite when I heard a scrape and jumped back like I’d been burned. Even standing statue-still, my heart pounded its way out of my chest. Fear, adrenalin pumped through my body. No further sounds disturbed the silence. I took in a gulp of air. I’d been holding my breath.

  Damn, I’m not made for this. I’m going to have a heart attack before I get out o
f here.

  I pushed open the last door and stood there with my mouth open. Donna might be grown with more money than she could handle, but the room looked as if a ten-year-old lived there, a neat ten-year-old. Teddy bears lined the room, alternating with china dolls. Their vacant faces stared at me. Butterflies, flowers, fairy posters were tacked all over the walls, some hand colored with crayons.

  On the desk was a combination TV-DVD player next to a computer. I powered up, clicked on the internet icon and on the address bar to get a sites-visited list. MySpace, a couple of singles’ sites, a blog of some kind, and the State Penitentiary. That was strange. Why on earth would she be going to that kind of site, and several that listed prisoners? Good Lord, what was the child into? Frank was right to worry, but I wasn’t sure if he was worried about the right things.

  Donna might not be a murderer, or trying to frame her step dad, but something was wrong. The emotions in the room were at war with each other. Innocence mixed with something dark and murky. Nothing else came up that I could get to. I looked out the windows. Daylight was disappearing fast. I needed to get out, even if I hadn’t found anything more incriminating than feelings.

  I whirled around and left the room, closing the door behind me. I’d just started down the stairs when I heard a loud whisper. “Bitch.” And felt a hard shove against my lower back before I could confront the person. I grabbed for the banister and missed, tumbling down the stairs all the way to the bottom. I tried to look up to the top to see who pushed me and saw no one.

  I landed hard. I couldn’t catch my breath, or speak or move. Oh shit. What did I break? Stabbing pains shot down my back and left leg and through my right shoulder. I tried to move, and groaned when pain shot up into my neck. Oh, God. I couldn’t die here. I had too much to do. I had to move. I couldn’t stay here. What if the person who pushed me was just waiting for me to show signs of life, ready to attack again?

  Moving became essential. I had to get up and get help. Pain ached in my right hip. My cell was cutting into me. I lay still, afraid to move, afraid not to. Was the pusher still up there? Did I pass out? How much time had disappeared on me? I felt fuzzy and I hurt. If I moved what would happen? If I didn’t, Donna would come home, find me helpless and who knows what.

  What if Donna had pushed me? If so, wouldn’t she be down here to finish me off? I wiggled my feet, made fists. So. Good. I didn’t seem to be paralyzed. I’d landed face down. Something wet was under my head and my lip felt funny. Oh, goody, a fat lip for the ball.

  I rolled onto my back, waiting for a wave of pain. My vision spun out of control, focused again. I moved onto my side. Pain shot through my back, but not so I couldn’t move. I looked down at my shirt. Blood dripped onto it, faster than I liked. Damn, I liked that shirt, too.

  A thump echoed through the house and I scrambled to my feet. A puddle of smeared blood decorated the marble at the foot of the stairs. One of the large gold mirrors that surrounded the entryway reflected a wild-haired, bloody version of me. I ran for the back door, correction, hobbled to the back door. One ankle objected to my moving at all. The hair stood up on the back of my neck at the thought of another sneak attack as I attempted to leave.

  There was no way I could clean up the mess, erase all evidence of my visit. Someone knew I’d been there and had gone to the trouble to injure me. I ignored the idea that they had been trying to kill me. Even though the kids’ dad might want to, he wasn’t that crazy. Donna would want to, but would she? I could have an enemy I didn’t know, most of us do at some point or another.

  I lurched to the truck, awkwardly hoisted myself in and took off. I had my cell. I could call JT and tell him I thought someone had tried to kill me, but I couldn’t prove anything more than the fact that I bled in someone else’s house. I couldn’t prove that I didn’t just do my klutz thing and fall, trip over my own big feet.

  * * *

  I’d promised to be home for a late supper. Then I had to finish centerpieces. I looked in the rear view mirror. No one followed. My lip wasn’t bleeding any longer. I’d have to sneak into the house and try to clean up the best I could before Mumsie demanded a detailed explanation. I had to think of a good story for the split lip. Luckily, a lip can heal as long as the laceration doesn’t extend into skin. I could adhesive strip it tonight while I slept.

  “Are you ten?” Mumsie asked while she cleaned and dressed my lip. “Did you think you could just sneak in and pretend nothing had happened? You think my IQ just dropped a hundred points when you and the kids moved in? This is not rational thinking.”

  Mumsie’s tirade lasted from the time I limped into the back door, through the first aid, changing of bloody clothes, and half-way into finishing supper.

  “By the way,” she said, “Cherilyn is on her way with something for you. She says she found interesting information on the computer about Frank.”

  She made me sit and drink tea while she chopped onions and diced tomatoes, enough for salsa as well as to top the tacos. The kids loved traditional hard tacos. I like soft ones. Both seasoned ground beef and cooked spiced chicken sat in pans on the stove. She put the tomato and onion in covered containers to wait for supper and pulled out avocados for guacamole.

  After dinner and cleaning up, Mumsie and I adjourned to the deck to watch the sunset. I gimped along, favoring my hip and knee.

  I groaned, sipped my gin and tonic, and sighed. “What a day.” I settled into my chair, ignoring all the sore muscles, planning the hot, jasmine-scented bath I planned to soak in later.

  Mumsie shook her head. “Kid, you will be the death of me, you know. You have to start looking and thinking before you leap.”

  I made a face. “I know. It was stupid. But Frank looked so pitiful and gave me permission as well as access to the key. I have to do something. It will kill Frank if he has to be locked up, Reneé as well, but I don’t know that she would admit it right now, knowing how foolish I think her affair is.”

  Mumsie watched the wine shimmer in her glass as the setting sun lit it up. “We really can’t judge her, you know. Neither of us are perfect, nor have we made great choices at times. I’ve always admired your loyalty to your friends but I truly worry about your impetuous nature.”

  “I know you do, and I didn’t move home to disrupt your life. But I have to figure out what’s going on with the murders and get our lives back to semi-normal. Besides, someone is coming after me, after us. I cannot just sit back and wait for that to happen.”

  A frown creased Mumsie’s face. “Don’t forget, we do have the sheriff’s department. JT may be gruff sometimes but he’s a good man and I’m certain he’s working hard to figure out what’s going on.”

  I shifted in my chair again, wincing as different muscles shot pains here and there. “I know, but he has tunnel vision where Frank is concerned, and it wasn’t Frank who pushed me down the stairs this afternoon. He’s in jail. And, it was a woman I saw in that vision.”

  “Make sure you tell JT that.”

  “I’m already in trouble with JT for compromising the knife found at the site. I don’t know how concerned he will be.”

  “I think you underestimate him. He cares about you still, even if part of him resents the fact you chose Frank over him and then ran off to Dallas.”

  I stared at her.

  She snorted. “Do you still think I’m too stupid to know what’s going on in front of my eyes, then or now? Come on girl. I’m not senile, or deaf and dumb.”

  “Never thought you were, I promise. I’m going to soak in a hot tub and try to work out the soreness and bruises.”

  I kissed her on the top of the head and started in. Then I turned around. “Seriously, Mumsie, I do appreciate everything you’re doing, your willingness to give up your peaceful life and take us in. I do appreciate it, more than I can ever say or pay you back for.”

  Mumsie raised an eyebrow. “No getting saccharine on me now. Besides, it’s just what families do, they take care of each other.”


  I grabbed a soft, light gown and went into the large bathroom to run a bath. The jasmine oil was gone so I settled for lilac, a little sweet but very spring-like. I ran the water hot enough to steam, lit a few candles, and lowered myself into bubbles. Water helped me think, get ideas.

  Chaos proved I’d forgotten to lock the door by pushing her way in, putting paws up on the edge of the tub and batting at the bubbles. As long as she didn’t fall in and drown, or catch fire in open flames, she was welcome.

  My brain was too fried to think coherently. I drifted, wishing I could drift away with the bubbles, forget about everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Friday morning, I got up and dressed in one of my most eye-catching pair of jeans, a white tank to show off the little tan I had, and a sheer print shirt tied at the midriff. Now, in spite of everything else I needed to do and things I’d promised myself not to do, I stood in JT’s office listening to him ream me up one side and down the other.

  “You could have been killed, you little idiot.”

  “Mumsie said that already.”

  “Fine. But you ransacked the place without a search warrant, almost ensuring anything you found would be thrown out of court.”

  “I had permission from Frank.”

  JT sighed and shook his head. “From the suspected perp. I don’t think that would help your case and would not have made searching Donna’s room legal. None of which alters the fact that someone tried to kill you. What if they go after your son or daughter or mother next? You have to stay out of this. I don’t understand why you are so hell-bent to defend Frank anyway. He cheats on everyone he’s near, including your best friend. He’s the one with all the motives.”

  I leaned forward to put both hands on the desk. “JT, Frank was in jail when I was attacked. What are the odds that we have two killers, two murders, after this many years of almost none? It doesn’t make sense. I don’t care who the evidence points to. It seems circumstantial at best. Or am I wrong? Do you have DNA lurking around like on CSI. Some trace element from Frank’s shoes that prove he was the only one who could have entered and left the outhouse at the time of the murders?”