Shakespeare's Trollop Part 18

I was just prolonging the inevitable, but I had my pride.

I lost it when David clouted me upside my head.

"Claude!" I yelled through the ringing in my ears. "Claude!"

Becca-Sherry-was in the act of starting her kick when Claude came out of the hall bathroom with his gun drawn. She had her back to him, but David saw him, and I was at least vaguely aware Claude was there as I shook my head to clear it. Claude managed to knock Sherry off target by shoving her shoulder, and she sprawled onto Deedra's couch while Claude kept the gun steady on David. I scrambled, minus any dignity, from between Claude and the man and woman, taking care to keep low so Claude could shoot them if he wanted to.

He spoke into his shoulder radio, got back a lot of surprise, and repeated his orders in the calm, steady, Claude Claude way that kept him in office. way that kept him in office.

"I can't even leave the room, much less the town, you get in trouble," he said to me when he figured I'd gotten my breath back. "You want to tell me what this is all about?"

"She killed Deedra," I said. I opened the door David Messinger had closed, so the cops could come in. I could hear sirens coming nearer.

"Becca killed Deedra? Why?"

"She's not Becca. Deedra found that out."

The woman didn't say anything. She just glared and clutched her knee. I hoped I'd put it out on her. I hoped she was in tremendous pain. David had blood streaming from his nose, but Claude wouldn't let him reach for a handkerchief. David wasn't talking, either. Far too experienced a criminal for that.

"Well, while we chat with them about Deedra, we can book them for a.s.sault on you," Claude said thoughtfully.

"You need to watch this video." I gestured toward the VCR. "After your backup arrives," I added hastily, because I wanted Claude to stay focused on the moment.

He smiled in a grim, unamused kind of way. "Ain't a nasty video, is it?" he asked, his gaze never leaving David.

And Becca, Sherry, whatever-her-name-was launched herself from the couch. She would've flown right over the spot close to the door where I crouched if I hadn't caught desperate hold of her calf. My hands weren't large enough to get a good grip, but I slowed her down and managed to get a better one on her left ankle, the ankle of her uninjured leg. She went down half on top of me and I gathered myself and rolled. I put my forearm across her throat and she began gagging, her hands clawing at my shoulders and head. I kept my eyes shut and my head tucked, as much as was possible, and I pinned her legs with my own. I knew I had to do this myself; Claude couldn't take the gun off the bigger man.

"I'll kill you!" she said weakly.

I didn't believe she would. I believed she wanted to.

But she had tricks left. She concentrated her strength: Instead of fighting like a windmill, she fought like a trained fighter. She gripped my ears and twisted, trying to force me to roll over. I was wearing out, and wasn't as desperate as this woman, and I was going to go over any second. But I summoned the last bit of resolve I had and fisted my left hand, struggling to draw it back as far as possible. She was so intent on getting on top that she never saw what I meant to do.

I hit her in the head as hard as I could.

She made a funny noise, her grip relaxed, and her eyes went blank.

Then two men lifted me off.

It took a minute or two for things to straighten out about who the bad woman was and who the good woman was. Once Jump Farraclough and Tiny Dalton realized I was on the side of law and order (though it took some telling to convince them) they abandoned their intention of handcuffing me and instead cuffed the groggy Becca. Sherry. Whoever. Her wig had gone askew in the struggle, even as securely pinned as she'd had it. Underneath, her hair (dyed the same blond in case it happened to show, I a.s.sumed) was about an inch long. I wondered if her outstanding chest was her own, and what she would look like when the makeup was cleaned from her face; all the outlining, highlights, shadowing, and bright colors had recon-toured her features until only an expert in makeup could tell what she really looked like. An expert like Deedra Dean. Deedra had seen beyond the blue contacts, the push-up bra, the paint, the wig.

"Why didn't Deedra tell someone?" Claude asked me later that day. We were sitting in his office at the police department.

"Maybe she just couldn't believe the evidence of her own eyes. She must have been still unsure about what she'd seen; maybe she wanted to look at Sherry Crumpler again, real carefully, to make absolutely sure that what she suspected was true."

"Sherry is real clever, and she doesn't seem to have any problem with killing people if half of what she told you pans out," Claude said. "I guess she figured she better kill Deedra before her partner came into town, because David is much more like he looked on TV than Sherry is. Seeing David would have clenched all Deedra's suspicions."

"Maybe they'll tell on each other," I said, my voice as tired as the rest of me was.

"Oh, they already are. They each got a lawyer from the phone book, both of whom want to make a name for themselves so they can be in the update on television. I expect to hear from America's Most Wanted America's Most Wanted tomorrow at the latest." tomorrow at the latest."

"Can you tell me what they're saying?" I wanted to be as far away from the jail and the police station and Claude as it was possible to get when the media showed up.

"David's saying they would've been out of here a week ago if Joe C had died when he was supposed to. She set the fire, of course-Sherry did. She wanted to get that $70,000 inheritance. Then she figured if David showed up claiming to be her brother, instead of her boyfriend, he'd get another share of the money. Once she'd killed Deedra, she knew she better accelerate their plan to get the money and then she better get out of town. She'd planned, he says, to sell the apartment building once they were safely away, hire someone to handle the legal work. Just send her the paper for her signature. Then she could vanish. No one would think much of it."

I examined this idea for holes, finding only a few. "She could forge the real Becca's signature?"

"Just beautiful, apparently."

"And since no one from here, including family, had seen Becca or Anthony since they were little, no one ever imagined that she wasn't Becca? It never crossed anyone's mind to question her?"

"Seems to me," Claude rumbled, "that the real Becca must have been a lonely sort of girl. I guess Sherry, in disguise, matched a superficial description of the real Becca; blond, athletic, blue-eyed. But David says the original Becca had some emotional problems, had real trouble making friends. I guess she thought David was a G.o.dsend, and when his 'sister' was willing to pal around with her, and David was already buddies with Becca's bad-a.s.s brother, she thought her lonely days were over."

"Why did David pick a fictional job as a prison counselor?"

"Well, he'd know all about it, wouldn't he? If you'd been able to concentrate on the AMW story, you would've heard that David's been in and out of prison all his life. For that matter, Sherry too."

"She sure had a lot of nerve, living here as Becca for so long."

"It took nerve, but it was great cover. And if she could wait it out until David felt it was safe to join her, they stood to make a bunch of money-a combined $140,000 from the sale of Joe C's lot, plus what they got eventually from the sale of the apartment building. Until the story on television, which broke only days before David was due to arrive. He says she should've gotten in touch with him and made him stay away; she says she tried but he wasn't at the prearranged phone spot. So he came. On the whole, I think they felt pretty safe, pretty anonymous. Sherry's attempt to burn Joe C's house was only partly successful, but he ended up dying, and they thought it'd look funny if they left town before the funeral. But then you interfered."

"I just wanted to know what had happened to Deedra."

"According to David ... do you really want to hear this, Lily? It's strictly what David says Sherry told him."

I nodded. I looked down at my hands so I wouldn't have to watch his face.

"Sherry drew a gun on Deedra that Sunday afternoon, a couple of hours after Deedra came home from church and encountered her on the stairs. Sherry'd done a lot of planning in those two hours, when she saw Deedra wasn't going to call the police right away. The apartment building was empty, and though she couldn't be sure someone wouldn't show up any moment, it was a risk she had to take. She had to get Deedra away from the building; if Deedra died in her apartment, the investigation might focus more on the only person around that afternoon-the landlady. Sherry got Deedra to drive out to the trail off Farm Hill Road, which Sherry knew would put them right out of the city limits, so Marta Schuster would be heading the investigation. That would complicate things real nice, since Marlon had been hanging around Deedra so much lately. Once down the track in the woods, Sherry made her stop the car and get out and strip."

I could feel my face twisting. "Made her throw her clothes."

"Yep." Claude was silent for a long time. I knew Claude was trying, and failing, as I was, to imagine how Deedra must have felt. "Then, Sherry had made Deedra strip, she backed her up against the car, and when Deedra was in place, she struck her. One blow to the solar plexus. With all she had."

I drew in a long, slow breath. I let it out.

"While Deedra was dying, Sherry forced in the bottle and positioned her in the car. It took a lot of doing, but Sherry's a martial-arts expert and a right strong woman. As you know."

I breathed in. I breathed out. "Then what?"

"Then ... she walked home."

After all the talk about switching cars or having an accomplice, it was that simple. She walked home. If she'd stuck to the edge of the woods, she would've been all the way in town before she had to show herself. In fact... I tried to look at Shakespeare in my head, from an aerial view. By some careful planning, she could've come out in the fields beyond Winthrop Sporting Goods, and then it would be a stroll back to the apartments.

"Thanks to you," Claude continued after a long pause, "my wife is sitting in the house by herself, wondering when her brand-new husband is going to make it home."

I managed a smile. "Thanks to me, you're going to have your fifteen minutes of fame," I reminded him. "You caught two of 'America's Most Wanted.' "

"Because I had the trots," he said, shaking his head ruefully.

"Maybe you could leave that part out."

"I'd like to figure out a way."

"Let's say you were suspicious when we heard footsteps coming up the stairs and you concealed yourself in the bathroom so you could take them by surprise."

"That sounds better than telling them I ate some bad fish."

"True."

"Think that's the line to take."

"You got it."

"Now what, for you, Lily?"

"I have to work tomorrow." I sighed heavily, and heaved myself out of the extra chair in Claude's office. "I have to receive food and serve at Joe C's funeral."

"No, I mean ... longer-term."

I was surprised. Claude had never asked me a question about my life.

"You know Jack is the one." I said it plainly and quietly.

"I know. He's a lucky guy."

"Well, I just see that going on."

"Think you two'll get married?"

"Maybe."

Claude brightened. "I never would have thought it. I'm glad for you, Lily."

I wondered briefly why that idea cheered Claude. Well, they say newlyweds want everyone else to get married.

" 'Cause my wife"-and he said that phrase so proudly-"called him when she found out you were involved in this showdown, and he's sitting outside in the waiting room."

"Carrie ... called Jack?"

"She sure did. Just when you think she's a shy woman, she pulls something like that on you."

"He's here," I said, relieved beyond measure, and happier than I'd been in days.

"If you just open the door," Claude said astringently, "I wouldn't have to be telling you, you could see for yourself."

And I did.

Later that night, when the only light in my house was moonlight, I sat up in bed. Next to me, Jack lay only on his side, his hair tangling around him and his chest moving silently with his breath. His face, asleep, was peaceful and relaxed, but remote. Unknowable. I could only know the man he tried to be when he was awake. Who knew where his dreams took him, how far into his mind and heart? Farther than I could ever penetrate.

I stood, parted my curtains, and looked out the window. The lights in the upstairs apartment that had been Deedra's were still on; I guess the police had left them that way. It was a strange feeling, seeing those lights on again. On occasions I'd noticed them before, I'd always had a contemptuous reaction; she's entertaining again, she's entertaining again, I'd thought, and reviewed once again the host of risks she'd run in her promiscuity. I'd thought, and reviewed once again the host of risks she'd run in her promiscuity.

But it was not her weakness that had caused her death; it was one of her strengths that had killed her.

I wondered what that meant, what lesson could be drawn from Deedra's death. I considered for a moment, but it was either meaningless, or its moral beyond me. I remembered Deedra as she'd appeared in my dream, the remote control in her hand. Looking at a film of the inside of her coffin.

I let the curtains fall together and turned back to the bed.

CHARLAINE HARRIS is also the author of the acclaimed Aurora Teagarden mystery series, whose most recent installment is A Fool and His Honey. Fool and His Honey. Born in Mississippi, she now lives in Magnolia, Arkansas. Born in Mississippi, she now lives in Magnolia, Arkansas.

Also by Charlaine Harris

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Club Dead

Living Dead in Dallas

Shakespeare's Counselor

Dead Until Dark

Shakespeare's Trollop

A Fool and His Honey