Charlaine Harris - Dead Over Heels

I kept my face turned toward Martin and an indulgent smile pasted on my lips, but I was more interested in scanning the faces I knew in the crowd. Paul was looking at Martin, but as if he weren’t really seeing him. It was obvious that his thoughts were far away. Perry was not paying any attention at all; if I was right, he and Jenny were up to something under the tablecloth. And Arthur was neglecting his young date to glare at Martin as though my husband were saying derogatory things about Arthur’s ancestry. Marnie Sands was listening to make sure her boss did her proud, and the Andersons were whispering anxiously to each other.

Martin gave me my cue as name-drawer for the door prizes, all donated from local businesses that Pan-Am Agra patronized heavily. There were ten prizes to distribute this year, and I had to reach in the bowl, draw out a slip with a name scrawled on it, and search the crowd for whoever looked happy when I called the name. Then I unhooked the string attaching one of the giant eggs to the tree and handed it to the winner, who was supposed to open the egg on the spot so everyone could admire the donated largesse. It was kind of nice to be able to give people things that made them happy, especially at no expense to myself, and I enjoyed this part of the evening, though deciphering the scribbled signatures on the slips of paper could sometimes be a problem.

One of the recipients happened to be seated at Arthur’s table, and as I called the man’s name I noticed that Arthur was staring at me as if he hadn’t eaten his dinner and I was a barbecued chicken breast.

I had the strongest yearning for a water gun.

At last, the evening dragged to an official end. The couples we’d been sitting with said ceremonious good-byes, Martin excused himself to congratulate the Employee Services man on his organization of the event, and I was alone for the first time in what felt like years. I surreptitiously opened my compact below the table level to check my face for wear and tear, discovered a crumb of roll on my cheek that must have been there for an hour, and took care of that little problem. I spotted a clean napkin and polished my glasses, wondering how long the E.S. man would keep Martin talking, and if there were actually blisters on my feet. And then I was no longer alone.

True to her word, here was Bettina Anderson, who had fared even worse than I in terms of visible wear- she had a prominent grease stain on the skirt of her green dress. She was just as tense, just as wired up, as she had been earlier in the evening.

I felt sorry for her, and very wary.

“You have to help me, Aurora,” she said earnestly. Her heavy mouth had lost its lipstick and her nose needed powder. She clutched my arm, and I gritted my teeth to endure the contact.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said evenly.

“Jack Burns died in your yard. Did he say anything before he died?”

Back to Jack Burns again. I tried not to see him falling. His funeral was tomorrow, and I dreaded the thought of it. “No,” I said wearily. “Bettina, I’m sure he was dead when he fell. He couldn’t have said anything.” She looked unconvinced. Stung clean out of courtesy, I said, “And besides, what business is it of yours?”

“I’m so scared,” she said. Now that I believed; I could feel her fear.

“He knew about us,” she said. For one horrifying moment I thought she meant Jack Burns had knowledge of an affair between Bettina and my husband.

Then I was back in my right mind and I put a couple of things together.

“Is your husband the one in the Federal Witness-?”

“Hush! Hush!”

I looked around. There was no one within ten feet.

“How’d you find out about that?”

“That was just the rumor…”

“Someone’s talking, oh, God!”

“So John is the one?”

“Not John! Me!”

“What-?”

“I was the bookkeeper for one of the shell businesses run by Johnny Marconi.”

“Wow.” I gaped at this ordinary woman who had helped bring down a vicious man involved in peddling every kind of vice, a man who was a murderer many times over.

“So did they find out from Jack before he died who we were, where we were?” She stared at me as if she could will me to know the answer.

“I don’t know,” I said, wishing I had a better reply to give her.

“Dryden can’t find out, no one can find out, and we sit every night and wait for them to come.”

“Mr. Dryden must have seen the autopsy reports,” I said. “Did they show Jack was tortured before he fell?”

“No. But some things would have been obliterated by the fall,” she said. “And they might have threatened him with a knife or something, without actually using it, before they killed him.”

I cast around to think of something comforting to tell this woman.

“They would have come by now if Jack had told them,” was the best I could come up with. I tried to picture Mafia hit men from Chicago traveling to Lawrence-ton, Georgia-asking questions at the Shop-So-Kwik. My mind boggled.

“Did your husband work for Pan-Am Agra in Chicago?” I asked.

She stared at me for a moment. “No, but he had a similar job at a similar company, and he was familiar with Pan-Am Agra’s benefits, and he knew they had a plant down here and another in Arkansas. Either would have done, but it happened they needed a safety director here, so it was arranged. No one locally knew who we really were, except Jack Burns. Or so we thought.”

This was all as interesting as could be, but I became aware that her husband and my husband were waiting for us, making weary conversation. If Bill Anderson had wanted to have the same conversation with Martin that his wife was having with me, he showed no signs of it now. Martin saw me look at him, and wiggled his watch arm, his signal that he really wanted to leave.

“I wish I could tell you something either way,” I said honestly.

“Dryden doesn’t think we’ve been compromised. But we’re going on vacation, starting tomorrow, and the watch will be kept for anyone asking questions. We’ll be back. I would hate to move, but we just may have to. You know,” she added as she rose to her feet, “if you tell anyone about this, we may end up getting killed. I tried to talk to your husband, but I think he could tell we had secrets, because he wouldn’t meet with me privately, and Bill couldn’t make up his mind whether or not it was a good idea to talk to Martin. He figured that anything you knew, you would have told your husband, and he knows Martin better; and I’d just met you that one time, at our house. Now you know about us, and our lives are your property. But I had to ask if you knew anything, had seen anything. We have to know. We just have to.”

And without further ado she walked slowly away, a stout red-haired woman in fear for her life, whom I’d always known as the boring and self-effacing Bettina Anderson. She put her hand on her husband’s arm, said something to him quietly, and Bill shook hands with Martin in leave-taking.

I wondered what her christened name was. I wondered how her husband felt about hiding with his wife. I wondered if they had grown children in Chicago, what those children had been told.

“What was that all about?” Martin asked. I’d been so preoccupied I hadn’t noticed him approaching, and I jumped. “They’ve been asking me weird questions for a week,” he continued, “and wanting to meet with me privately without either one of them telling me why. After Bill was foisted on me by the Chicago guys, I smelled something strange about the Andersons, and I just don’t want to be involved in whatever trouble they’re in… after all my own problems with our government.” We exchanged a look; that was a time we didn’t talk about anymore.