J. Jance: Day of the Dead

There was a tap on the door. “Are you ready?” Diana asked. “It’s getting late.”

“Then you’d better come help me with this damned tie,” Brandon grunted.

Diana opened the door, and her reflection joined his in the mirror. She was so beautiful that seeing her took Brandon’s breath away. She was dressed in a deep blue full-length taffeta gown that complemented every inch of her still slim figure. In the cleft at the base of her throat a diamond solitaire pendant hung from a slender gold chain. That single piece of jewelry had cost more than Brandon’s first house. Her auburn hair, highlighted now with natural streaks of gray, was pulled back in an elegant French twist.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said.

She smiled back at him. “You’re not so bad yourself. What’s the trouble?”

“The bow,” he said. “I’m all fumble fingers.”

It took only a few seconds for her to untangle and straighten the tie. “There,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Now let’s get going.”

Brandon picked up his jacket from the bed and shrugged his way into it as he followed his wife down the hall. “Which car?” he asked. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours,” she said.

They drove east from Gates Pass and into downtown Tucson to the community center where the Tucson Man and Woman of the Year benefit gala was being held. The honorees, Gayle and Dr. Lawrence Stryker, were friends of Diana Ladd’s dating back to her days as a teacher on the Tohono O’odham Reservation. Now a local luminary, Diana had been asked to give a short introductory and no doubt laudatory speech. Brandon’s plan was to go, be seen, and do his best to be agreeable. But when it came to Larry and Gayle Stryker, he intended to keep his mouth firmly shut. That would be best for all concerned.

Larry Stryker sat on the dais overlooking the decorated ballroom filled with candlelit banquet tables and listened as Diana Ladd stood at the microphone and spoke about old times.

“As some of you know, in the early seventies I went through a rough patch. I was teaching on the reservation, had lost my husband, and had a brand-new baby. Not many people stuck with me during that time, but Larry and Gayle Stryker did, and I’ll always be grateful for that. Over the years it’s been gratifying for me to see what they’ve done with their lives and to watch as they’ve turned a single idea into a powerful tool for good.”

Larry searched the sea of upturned faces until he caught sight of Brandon Walker sitting at one of the foremost tables. The former sheriff, looking uncomfortable and out of his element in what was probably a rented tux, sat with his arms folded across his chest. Their eyes met briefly. Brandon nodded in acknowledgment, but there was nothing friendly in the gesture-on either side.

Former sheriff. That was the operant word here. While Diana Ladd spoke of the good old times, Larry was free to let his thoughts drift back to those times as well. Fortunately, no one in the room-most especially Brandon Walker-was able to read his mind.

Larry Stryker had no idea how long Gayle had been gone. Truth be known, he’d been half drunk when she left the house. He’d had to be before he could find the courage to tell her what had happened-what he’d done. He had no idea how she would react-hadn’t given himself time to think about that. Instead, he blurted out the bad news and waited for all hell to break loose.

For a moment there was absolute silence between them, then she had looked up at him with her green eyes flashing sparks of fury. “Give me the keys,” she said, holding out her hand.

“The keys?” Larry stammered. “What keys?”

“The car keys, stupid. What keys did you think I meant?”

So that was it. Gayle was leaving him, and why wouldn’t she? Given the sordid circumstances, what else could he expect? Without a word, Larry reached into his pocket and retrieved the keys to his beloved Camaro. Feeling defeated and lost, he dropped the ring of keys into her upturned hand.

“Where will you go?” he asked.

“Go?” she flung back. “I’m going to clean up your mess. I’m going to take care of it.”

With that, she had stalked out of the house and driven away. That had been hours earlier-sometime after school but still in the afternoon. Larry had sat there in the living room in front of a blaring television set all evening long, but he heard nothing. Saw nothing. Instead, he sat there envisioning how everything he had ever wanted-everything he had ever dreamed of and worked for-was going up in flames. The years he had spent struggling to make ends meet in college and in medical school meant nothing. Evidently his marriage was over as well. And it was all because he’d been stupid-and now he was going to be caught.

Sometime after midnight, when the Tucson TV station Larry wasn’t watching finally went off the air, he got up and turned off the set. Then he sat there in the dark, brooding and waiting for whatever would happen next.

It was at least an hour after that when he heard the sound of rubber tires crunching on the gravel driveway and the grinding noise as the garage door opened. Amazed to think Gayle had come back to him, he leaped up and rushed to the kitchen to meet her. He flung open the door to the garage just as Gayle got out of the car.

One glimpse of her was enough to stop Larry Stryker in his tracks. She was covered with blood-dried blood. It was everywhere-on her face, in her hair, and on her clothing and shoes.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened? Did you wreck the car? Are you hurt?”

“Good,” she said, wearily acknowledging his presence without answering his questions. “You’re still up. Bring me a trash bag and a roll of paper towels.”

“But…”

“Come on, Larry. Do something right for a change. And a dish-pan of water, too, so I can start cleaning up.”

He did as he was told. By the time he returned from the kitchen with the towels and water and the trash bag, she had started undressing. He put down the pan of water, then stood speechless and holding the bag open while she dumped in her Levi’s jacket, her shirt, and bra. She followed those with her shoes, jeans, and panties.

Finally he found his voice. “My God, Gayle, what have you done?” he whispered hoarsely. “Tell me.”

“What do you think I’ve done?” she retorted. “I did what I told you I was going to do. You had a problem. I took care of it.”

She turned away from him, leaned down into the car, and removed something from the backseat. When she faced Larry again, she was holding a butcher knife by the handle. Larry saw it and knew that it was theirs-the one from the wooden block that sat on the kitchen counter.

“You’ll probably want to clean this up while I go take a shower.”

She started toward the door while Larry stared down in astonishment at the bloodied knife in his hand. This was a nightmare. Surely it couldn’t be happening, and yet…

“You didn’t…” he began.

She turned back on him. “Didn’t what?” she demanded. “Didn’t let you wreck everything we’ve worked for?”

For some reason all the muscles in both Larry’s hands quit working at once. He dropped the trash bag, letting the bloodied clothing spill messily onto the floor. The knife slipped from his other hand. It fell to the concrete floor and landed on its tip. The top inch or so of the steel blade shattered while the rest of the knife spun out of reach under the car. Leaving them where they fell, Larry followed his naked wife into the house and down the hall to the bathroom.

Gayle had turned on the shower in the tub and was stepping into it when Larry entered the room behind her. Seeing him, she shook her head in resignation. “Well,” she said, “as long as you’re here, you could just as well come wash my back.”