Charlaine Harris - Real Murders

I ran smack into Sally Allison.

“Oh my God,” she said hoarsely. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you?” Without waiting for an answer she shouted at her son over my head, “Perry, what in God’s name has gotten into you?”

“Oh, Mom,” he said hopelessly and began to cry.

“He’s on drugs, Sally,” I said raggedly. She held me away from her and scanned me for injuries, letting loose a visible sigh of relief when she saw no blood. She saw the scissors still in my hand and looked horrified. “You weren’t going to hurt him?” she asked incredulously.

“Sally, only a mother could say that,” I said. “Now, you get him out of here and take him home.”

“Listen to me, please, Roe,” Sally pleaded. I was still frightened, but I was acutely uncomfortable, too. I had never had anybody beg me, as Sally unmistakably was begging me now. “Listen, he didn’t take his medicine today. He’s okay when he takes his medicine, really. You know he can come to work and perform his job, no one’s complained about that, right? So please, please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“About what?” asked a quiet male voice above my head, and I realized Robin had come in quietly. I looked up to his craggy face, his now-serious crinkly mouth, and I was so glad to see him I could have wept. “I came to check up on you,” he said to me. “Mrs. Allison, I think I met you at the club meeting.”

“Yes,” Sally said, trying hard to pull herself together. “Perry! Come on!”

He walked over to her, his wet face blank and tired, his shoulders slumped.

“Let’s go home,” his mother suggested. “We have to talk about our agreement, about the promise you made me.”

Without looking at me or saying a word, Perry followed his mother out the door. I collapsed against Robin and cried a little, still holding the stupid scissors. His huge hand smoothed my hair. When the worst was over, I said, “I have to lock up, I’m closing now. I don’t care if Santa Claus comes to check out a book. This library is closed.”

“Going to tell me what happened?”

“You bet I am, but first I want to get out of this place.” I hated detaching myself from the comfortable chest and enfolding arms; it had been nice to feel protected by a big strong man for a few seconds. But I wanted to leave that building and go home more than I wanted anything else, and with luck, we could repeat the scene at my place with amenities handy.

“Maybe,” Robin speculated between bites of a pretzel stick, “there’s more than one murderer.”

If we ever spent a night together, it wasn’t going to be tonight. The mood had faded.

“Oh, Robin! I can’t believe that for a minute. There couldn’t be two people that evil in Lawrenceton at the same time, doing the same thing!” One was bad enough; two would get us in the history books for sure.

He waved the pretzel stick at me emphatically. “Why not, Roe? A copycat killer. Maybe someone, for example, wanted the Buckleys out of the way for some reason, and after Mamie got killed he saw his chance. Or maybe someone wanted to do in Pettigrue, and killed Mamie and the Buckleys to cloud the issue.”

There was a certain amount of precedent for that, but more often in mystery novels than in real life, I thought.

“I guess it’s possible,” I conceded. “But Robin, I just don’t want to believe it.”

“Maybe, then, there’s more than one killer. I mean, a team of murderers.”

“Jane Engle said the same thing,” I recalled belatedly. “Two people? How could you look at anyone who knew you had done that, Robin?” I could truly not imagine saying,

“Hey, buddy, look at the way I socked Mamie!” I felt almost nauseated. That two people could agree on such a plan, and mutually carry it out…

“Hillside Stranglers,” Robin reminded me. “Burke and Hare.”

“But the Hillside Stranglers were sex murderers,” I objected, “and Burke and Hare wanted to sell the bodies to medical schools.”

“Well, true. These killings are apparently just for fun. Just to tease.”

I thought of Gifford and his hatchet. The killer was teasing in more than one way. “Wait till you hear this!” I exclaimed.

Robin felt better when I’d told him he and Melanie and Arthur had company in the category of Implicated Innocent. “Though it would be clever of this Gifford,” Robin cautioned, “to use his own ax, and then claim its use proved him innocent.”

“I wonder if Gifford is that clever,” I said. “Gifford is crafty, I think, but I believe he’s pretty limited in imagination.”

“And how well do you know him?” asked Robin, with a tiny edge to his voice.

“Not well,” I admitted. “Just through seeing him at Real Murders. He’s been coming about a year, I think. And he brings a friend named Reynaldo. Who apparently doesn’t have a last name…”

The phone rang, and I reached out to pick it up, surprised at getting such a late call. People in Lawrenceton do not make phone calls after 10:00 P.M. At least, not the people I know. Robin tactfully took the occasion to go into the bathroom.

“Oh, God, I just looked at my watch, were you in bed?” Arthur asked.

“No,” I said, feeling ridiculously awkward with Robin in my place. Why should I? I asked myself. I could see two men at one time if I chose.

“I just finished work and got back to my place. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you want to come over?”

The idea sent a certain tingle down my spine, but all the conditions that had applied to Robin were still valid; plus, Robin was showing no signs of budging. In fact, he’d just gone to the refrigerator and refreshed his drink.

“I have to work tomorrow,” I said neutrally.

“Oh. Okay. I get the message. Roller skating or nothing.”

Ohmygosh. I had almost forgotten. Well, I had some pretty good reasons for not thinking about a Saturday night date.

“You think you will be able to get off?” I asked cautiously.

“I think so. I have some amazing news for you. You sitting down?”

Arthur sounded strange. Like someone who was trying to be excited and happy and just couldn’t manage. And he hadn’t mentioned the discovery of the hatchet and briefcase.

“Yes, I’m sitting. What?”

“Benjamin Greer just confessed to all the murders.”

“What? He what?”

“He confessed to killing Mamie Wright, Morrison Pettigrue, and the Buckleys.”

“But what about the box of candy? Why did he do that? Mother doesn’t know him at all.”

“He says Morrison did that, because your mother is an example of what is worst about capitalism.”

“My mom-Morrison Pettigrue? I don’t believe it,” I sputtered disconnectedly.

“You don’t want this case to be over?”

“Yes, yes! But I don’t believe he did it. I wish I did.”

“He’s convinced a lot of the guys down here.”

“Did he know where the hatchet was hidden?”

“Everyone in town knows that now.”

“Did he know what it was in?”

“Pretty much everyone knows that, too.”

“Okay, who’d he steal the hatchet from, that he used to kill the Buckleys?”

“He hasn’t said yet.”

“Gifford Doakes told me tonight that it was his hatchet.”

“He did?” And for the first time Arthur’s voice showed some life and enthusiasm. “Gifford hasn’t been in here yet. As far as I know.”

“Well, he told me tonight at the library that his hatchet had been missing, and he asked me about that tape around the handle. I didn’t bring it up, in fact I’d forgotten about it.”

“I’ll pass that on to the men who are questioning Greer,” Arthur promised. “That can be one of our test questions. But for some reason, Roe, this guy is convincing. He believes it, I think. And we have a witness.”