Carlene Thompson - Don

Alison looked venomously at Nick. "I can't bear for strange men to touch me. Let go!"

He released her and she sagged. Lily came forward to help. Remarkably, Alison draped an arm over her shoulder as her eyes began to glaze. Mentally, she was no longer with them.

Three minutes later Nick and Natalie stood alone in the room. Lily had helped Viveca get control of Alison, who had begun to scream methodically and tonelessly. They led her out to Viveca's car. Oliver had tottered out behind them looking like a man in shock. Natalie felt chilled to the bone by the awful scene. She stared at Nick. "What in the name of God was all that about?"

"I don't know," Nick said slowly, "but I'm afraid if Alison Cosgrove isn't our killer, she just signed her own death warrant."

Nick pressed the doorbell for the second time. A lamp burned in the living room and another in an upstairs room. He heard faint sounds of a television rattling on. He looked at his watch. 9:05. Too early for most people to be in bed. He raised his hand to ring the bell again when the door flew open. A hawk-faced woman with white hair in pin curls glared at him. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Mrs. Fisher?"

"What if I am?"

"I'm Nick Meredith, the sheriff, and-"

"I knew it! What's she done now!" the woman demanded fiercely. "As if I don't have enough to worry about!"

"Ma'am, I wonder if I might come in and speak with you."

"You can talk from out there on the porch."

Mosquitoes and moths floated and fluttered around the porch light next to Nick's head. Besides, the woman looked ill and not too steady on her feet. He thought she needed to sit down. "Please, ma'am, I think we'd both be more comfortable inside-"

She began to cough violently. He reached forward, not knowing what to do besides pat her on the back, but she smacked his hand. "Night air," she choked out.

"Do you need a doctor?"

"I'm sick of doctors. I.D."

"What?"

"Show me some I.D. and you can come in."

Nick flashed his badge and photo identification. She nod ded and allowed him inside. She clutched a worn flannel robe around her scrawny body with one hand and coughed into the other. Nick stood watching, feeling alarmed and utterly useless. "Mrs. Fisher-"

She glowered him into silence. He watched uncertainly as she hacked for another minute, then trailed off into a series of gulps and snorts. Finally she slammed the front door behind him and motioned him into the living room. "You can sit down but I'm not turnin' off the TV," she announced in a grating, truculent voice. "This is my favorite show. It's a rerun of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. This channel shows all reruns. I don't like modern shows. They don't make any damned sense. What about you?"

"What do I like to watch?"

"Wo! What about you being' here? It's about Dee, right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Fisher."

The woman had sat down on the ratty armchair directly in front of the television. Nick started to sit on the plastic covered couch when she yelped, "Stop!" He halted halfway down. "While you're up, get me a beer. I drink right out of the can. No use dirtyin' glasses if you don't have to. Get yourself one, too. I don't care if you're on duty. I won't tell no one."

"I'm not on duty and I'd like a beer."

"Yeah, whatever," Mrs. Fisher said absently, transfixed by the character of Mary Richards wailing "Mr. Grant.' Nick went in the kitchen with its worn linoleum and myriad of handicrafts hanging on every available wall space. The entire lower shelf of the refrigerator held a cheap brand of canned beer. Nick removed two cans and carried them back to the living room. Mrs. Fisher took hers without looking at him. "Thanks. Nothing like a cold beer before bed, I always say."

"Yes, I enjoy an occasional beer in the evening myself." Nick wasn't sure why he sounded so prissy, but Mrs. Fisher cast him a suspicious look from behind her bifocals. To make up for it he took a hearty swallow and let out a loud, appreciative sigh. "Damned good!" Well, that was even worse. Mrs. Fisher cast him another dubious look. So far he wasn't off to a good start with her. It would be better to forge ahead bluntly rather than keep trying to play up to her. At this rate she'd throw him out.

"Mrs. Fisher, your daughter Dee lives here, doesn't she?"

"You know that or you wouldn't be here. What's she done?"

"Nothing." Mrs. Fisher emitted something between a burp and a disbelieving grunt. "I'm telling you the truth, ma'am."

"If she hasn't done nothin' then why're you here interruptin' my show?"

"I'm sorry about my timing. Dee isn't here now, is she?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Because I know you're not well but you came to the door."

Mrs. Fisher's thin mouth twisted. "Not well. That's a good one. Lung cancer. I'm dyin'. I got four months, tops."

"I'm sorry."

"My doctor bitches at me 'cause I smoked all those years. Well, I'll tell you same as I tell him. Them cigarettes was about the only joy in my life. Them and my beer."

"Not your family?"

"I had two husbands run out on me. Left me all alone with three kids, Dee being' the youngest by the last no-good. I tried with them three, but not a damned one turned out worth a grain of salt."

" Dee is a nurse. She takes care of you."

"For free room and board. She doesn't fool me none. That's all she hangs around for, though sometimes she tries to be nice. Tells me she appreciates all I went through for her. But it's pure bullshit1"

"Are you sure about that, Mrs. Fisher?"

"Yes, I am sure, Mr. Policeman who comes in here drinkin' my beer, interruptin' my TV, and doesn't know nothin' about me!" She stared at the television hard for a moment, then let out a cackle as the character Ted Baxter bumbled through the newscast. "I swear he's a case!"

"Yes, the show is a classic," Nick said vaguely. He'd made her mad, temporarily losing her. Maybe the way to get her back was through the sitcom. "Who do you like best? Mary or Rhoda?"

"Mary! Rhoda wears gaudy clothes and those silly scarves on her head." She looked at him. "Why? Is Rhoda your favorite?" It wasn't a question-it was an accusation.

"Oh, no." Actually, when he was young Rhoda had been his favorite. She seemed like more fun. "Mary is so…"

"Perfect." Mrs. Fisher smiled in approval. "I hoped Dee would grow up to be like her, but Dee has a bad streak like her daddy."

"A bad streak?"

"Well, don't tell me you haven't heard about her stealin' them drugs from the hospital. Lord, was I embarrassed when she got caught! Everyone knew. Then she started raisin' hell about Dr. St. John. That's 'cause he's the one blew the whistle on her." Her voice softened slightly. "She was off her head about that Farley boy dyin'."

"Eugene Farley?"

"Yeah. I met him once. Handsome as the devil. Manners like you've never seen. Treated me like a real lady. He had class." She shook her small head with its helmet of pin curls. "I knew he'd never stay with Dee. She was way outta her league. I told her over and over."

I'll bet that did a lot for her ego, Nick mused with a twinge of sympathy for Dee.

"When he gave her the heave-ho, I thought she'd lose her mind," Mrs. Fisher went on. "Like to scared me to death 'cause I was already gettin' sick, and if Dee went to pieces, who'd look after me? Gave me quite a few sleepless nights, I can tell you."

Because you were worried about yourself, not your daughter, Nick thought scornfully. If Paige had been on the verge of a breakdown, the last thing her mother would have been worried about was her own welfare. He forced himself to sound polite. "But everything turned out all right and Dee is taking good care of you."

"Good care? Hah!"

"She's not taking good care of you?"