Charlaine Harris - Real Murders

Robin had abandoned being polite and was beside himself to know what I was talking about. His eyebrows were winging around his face in interrogation. I kept waving my hand to keep him quiet.

“A witness to the murder?”

“No, a witness who saw him leave the hatchet in the alley.”

I remembered Lynn’s excitement when she’d talked to the young mother in the apartments. I was willing to bet that that was the witness.

“So what did she see?” I asked sharply.

“Listen, this is police business that I can’t tell you about in detail,” Arthur said flatly.

“I’m sorry if I’m trespassing, but I’m deeply involved in this, up to my neck, according to Lynn Liggett and your boss Jack Burns.”

“Well. You’re off the hook now.”

“This is hard to soak in. I can’t believe it’s all over.”

“I’m going home to sleep,” Arthur said, and the exhaustion made his voice slur. “I’m going to sleep and sleep and sleep. And when I get up, we’re going to talk about going roller skating.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Listen, I just remembered that my little brother Phillip is coming tomorrow and spending the weekend.”

“Then we’ll take him with us,” Arthur said smoothly, scarcely missing a beat.

“Okay. Talk to you later.” I was smiling as I hung up; I couldn’t help it. “It may be over, Robin,” I said, almost crying.

His mouth fell open. “You mean, we don’t have to worry anymore?” he asked.

“So it seems. An eyewitness places Benjamin Greer, the member of Real Murders who wasn’t there the night Mamie got killed, depositing the briefcase in the culvert. And he has confessed to everything, except sending the candy, which he says Morrison Pettigrue did before he killed him. I’ll have to call Mother. Pettigrue thought Mother was a terrible capitalist.”

We discussed this truly stunning development up and down and sideways and forwards, until I began to yawn and feel drowsy.

“Did I hear you mention that your brother is coming?” Robin asked tactfully.

“Yes, his name is Phillip, he’s six. From my father’s remarriage. Dad and his wife are going to a convention in Chattanooga this weekend, and I’ve been scheduled for a long time to keep Phillip. Things were getting so grim here I was thinking about calling Dad and cancelling or going to keep Phillip at their house, but now I guess it’ll be okay to have him here.”

“You two get along? What do you do when he’s visiting?”

“Oh, we play games. We go to the movies. He watches television. I read to him, things he can’t read himself yet. One time we went bowling. That was a real disaster, but fun, too. Sometimes he brings his ball and glove and we play catch in the parking lot. I’m not very good at that, though. Phillip is a real baseball freak, he brings his cards every time he comes and we go through them, while I try not to yawn.”

“I like kids,” said Robin, and I could tell he was sincere. “Maybe Saturday we can all go to the state park and have a picnic and hike one of the trails.”

That would be an hour drive to and from, plus allow maybe three hours for the hike and picnic, I figured rapidly. I could be back in time for roller skating, but Phillip would probably be exhausted from the park, and I might be, too. “Maybe playing-is it called goofy golf?-would be better. I noticed a new place out on the highway into the city when I drove in Monday.” That felt years ago now.

“I saw that, too,” Robin said. “Maybe Saturday afternoon?”

“Okay, he’ll love it. Come meet him tomorrow night,” I offered. “I promised to make pecan pie-that’s Phillip’s favorite. What about 7:00?”

“Great,” said Robin agreeably. He leaned over to give me a casual kiss. “I’ll see you then.” He seemed preoccupied as he left.

I locked the back door after Robin left, and checked my front door, though I seldom used it. If this whole imbroglio had had one effect, it was to make me permanently security conscious.

It had been a busy day even without the constant strain of living with a murderer in close proximity. Today we’d found the hatchet in Robin’s briefcase, I’d had the weird confrontation with Gifford Doakes and the eerie scene in the library with Perry. I wondered if Sally was right in her optimistic belief that no one at work besides me had noticed that Perry was unravelling. I hadn’t exactly been in the current of office gossip the past week, being mostly the subject of it, I was sure.

Then Arthur had called with the bombshell about Benjamin.

Benjamin the loser. Benjamin the murderer?

As I made up the bed in the guest room for Phillip- though he usually ended up getting spooked at spending the night in a strange place and came in my room-I realized anew how abnormal the week had been. Usually, when I knew Phillip was going to make one of his four or five annual weekend visits, I spent several days preparing. I stocked all his favorite foods, planned lots of activities, checked out an armful of children’s books, consulted the local movie schedules. I overdid it.

This was probably the appropriate amount of preparation for a six-year-old’s visit; I made a bed for him, checked to see if I had the ingredients for his favorite dessert, and decided to take him to his favorite fast-food place for lunch on Saturday. And I looked forward to seeing him, this unexpected brother I had acquired after I’d become an adult. In the middle of the awfulness I’d seen lately, and the anxiety I’d suffered in so many unprecedented situations, having Phillip to visit seemed like a welcome return to normality.

Benjamin Greer.

I tried to believe it.

I woke up smiling. It took me a second to remember why, but when I remembered, I grinned all over. The murders were at an end. I had convinced myself in my sleep that Benjamin was confessing because he had done it and wanted the attention and infamy, not because he hadn’t done it but wanted the attention and infamy anyway. After all, he had announced his candidacy for mayor, that should have given him enough fuel to run on for a while. It was Friday, I didn’t have to work this weekend, Phillip was coming, I was interested in two men and what’s more they were both interested in me. What more could a twenty-eight-year-old librarian ask for?

I made myself up with great care, had some fun with my eye shadow, and picked my brightest skirt and blouse to wear. It was a definitely springy set, white with yellow flowers scattered all over, and I let my hair hang loose with a yellow band to hold it back.

I had a large breakfast, cereal and toast and even a banana, and sang on my way out to my car.

“You’re chipper this morning,” said Bankston, who was dressed in a very sober suit befitting a banker. He was smiling himself, and I remembered I’d seen Melanie’s car pull out of the parking lot very early this morning.

“Oh, I have reason to be! You may not have heard yet, but someone admitted to the murders.”

“Who?” Bankston said after staring at me for a moment.

“Benjamin Greer.” Then I wondered belatedly if I was betraying a confidence. But my assurance returned when I remembered Arthur hadn’t asked me to keep it quiet, and I hadn’t told him I would. Also, I’d already told Robin, who would have throttled the news out of me if I’d hung up from my conversation with Arthur and refused to tell him. Wait; I wasn’t even going to say exaggerated things like that to myself anymore.

Bankston was thunderstruck. “But he was just in to see me last week to get a loan for his candidate’s campaign! Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned that. It was a private transaction, bank business. But I’m just so-flabbergasted.”