Vultures At Twilight Part 23

Ada whispered, 'No name, no number?'

'I think so,' I said, matching her tone, not wanting my daughter to get involved.

'He called me at the hospital. But he said something, and then hung up. He's followed me here.'

'Who?'

'I don't know.'

'What does he say?'

I couldn't bring myself to say it.

'Tell me,' she persisted.

'Chris!' Barbara's voice came clear from the foyer; my younger daughter had arrived, drenched, but smiling.

'Lil.' Ada squeezed my hands, trying to get my attention.

I looked at her, at the concerned intensity of her dark-blue eyes. 'You're next,' I whispered. 'That's all he says.'

Before she could reply, Barbara returned with Chris. I sat and watched as my children approached. I felt like an actress, trying to portray 'normal', not wanting them to know how frightened I felt. Just focus on them.

'Mother,' Chris said, giving me a soggy hug and kiss before settling on the sofa by my wing chair, 'what have you done?'

'Well, I thought,' I said, struggling to keep my fear in check, 'I'd try something new.'

She chuckled and whispered, 'Don't do that again.' She took my hand in hers.

'I won't. I promise.'

'You're awfully warm,' she commented.

I shot a glance at Ada, who was clearly frightened by what I'd told her.

'Would you like me to open a window?' Chris suggested.

'No, I'm fine.' I felt like a parrot, which could only repeat the same phrase. I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine; the words had lost their meaning. I wasn't fine. I wanted them out of there and at the same time it felt so good to see them, to breathe their healthy scents, to witness their strength, their vitality.

'OK,' Barbara said, from behind the couch. 'You have to tell us what's going on. Because clearly you are not fine.'

'I beg your pardon?' I shot back.

'Don't start,' Chris pleaded. 'I'm not in the door thirty seconds and you two are going to start one of your p.i.s.sing contests.'

'Our what?' I asked.

'You heard me. You two have been doing it since I can remember. Yes I will. No I won't. Yes I will. No you won't. You can't make me. Yes I can. No you can't.'

'So this is how professors talk?' I asked.

'On a good day,' she quipped. 'Can we start again? I feel like I just stepped into the middle of something.'

'You know,' Ada said, coming to my rescue, 'the kettle's still hot, anyone want tea?'

'I'll get it,' Barbara said. 'You know, Mother, I don't know why you feel like you have to keep things from Chris and me. We're not children anymore.'

'I realize,' I said. 'I just wish you wouldn't try to boss me around. It's the last thing I need.'

'Barbara,' Chris chided, 'I can't believe that you would try to boss Mom around.'

'I'm not,' she protested.

'Yeah, right,' my youngest commented. She turned to Ada. 'When we were young and would play make-believe, Barbara would get all the neighborhood kids together and tell us what we had to say. It was the most heavily scripted make-believe there ever was. She was a total fascist on the playground.'

'I was not.'

I smiled at the memories, of looking out my kitchen window and seeing a gaggle of children hard at play. Chris was right. Barbara used to direct the others in a variety of convoluted games of make-believe, everything from pirates to Batman to elaborate marriage ceremonies. I could still hear her eight-year-old voice, ordering her playmates, 'OK, you say, "with this ring I thee wed", and then we walk down the aisle. But you stop us and say, "You can't marry her, because I'm the one who loves her", and then you push him out of the way . . .' It didn't seem to bother the other kids, her total domination. They'd play for hours only to be stopped by the dinner bells, which often sounded in unison at six o'clock. If I concentrated, I could still hear the voices of the neighborhood mothers calling their children to dinner.

'Enough said,' Christina commented. She turned back toward me. 'So what is going on?'

I shot Ada a warning glance. 'It's nothing,' I said. But knowing I had to give them something, added, 'I've been getting some hang-up calls. It's just an annoyance, some kid playing a prank.' Although I no longer believed that, but if I wanted to get my daughters safely out of town, I would not be sharing the truth.

'Don't you have caller ID?' Barbara asked.

'I do, but all it says is "no name, no number".'

'You can have that blocked,' Barbara said. 'I have all my phones fixed so only calls that can be identified come through. You wouldn't believe how many people try to fake it past my secretary, wanting to know if something has been cast. "Is there maybe a part for them?" "Have I considered so-and-so?" I screen everything. And if they're trying to block their information, I'm just not interested in hearing from them.'

'Geez, Barbara,' Christina chimed in. 'You've moved from call ID to caller totally paranoid. Although it's not a bad idea.'

'Did she tell you about the murders?' Barbara asked.

'No, haven't heard a word about it. What murders?'

I was about to pipe in with a suitably timed 'it's nothing', but I realized under the circ.u.mstances, my credibility would plummet.

'Sleepy little Grenville has woken up,' my eldest commented. 'There've been three murders.'

Christina looked at me. 'You've got to be kidding!'

'It didn't seem pertinent,' I commented.

'It's actually four,' Ada added, unable to keep quiet.

'What! Who?' Chris asked.

'Let's see.' Ada sipped her tea. 'First there was Philip Conroy, or at least we think he was first; they didn't find his body for quite some time. Then came Mildred Potts, Carl McElroy, and finally Rudy Caputo.'

'Jesus, Mother, why didn't you tell me?' Christina said accusingly. 'Wait a minute . . . Did you say Philip Conroy? Not . . . Oh, no.'

'I know,' said Barbara, 'it just doesn't seem real.'

'Why would anyone kill Philip?'

Ada couldn't help herself. 'That's what everyone's wondering. Lots of motives being tossed around . . . All the victims were antique dealers. Everyone in town pretty much knew them, or knew of them.'

'Is someone b.u.mping off the compet.i.tion?' Barbara wondered.

'Probably,' I said, wanting the conversation to die.

'Maybe,' said Ada, 'but it doesn't add up. Why would someone actually kill? It seems excessive.'

'You're right,' Christina commented. 'If you look through history, money is a great motive, but usually there's more to it; some sort of emotional context. Unless of course we're talking contract murders, in which case the person who pulls the trigger is strictly in it for the money and the motive lies with their employer.'

'What sort of emotional context?' Ada asked, warming to the topic.

'Powerful things, often s.e.xual in nature, even though that may not be what appears on the surface.'

'These weren't s.e.x killings,' I said. 'These were, with the exception of Philip, not attractive people.'

'Doesn't matter,' Chris explained. 'Although the disparity in types clearly eliminates the s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t.'

'How do you know so much about this?' I asked, wondering what my a.s.sistant-professor daughter was doing expounding on murder motives.

'Just an interest,' she said. 'I've even been toying with the idea of doing a Shakespearean-review course that would focus on homicide.'

'Like Lady Macbeth?' Ada asked.

'Exactly. Shakespeare's plays contain an encyclopedia of murder and motive.'

'So what do you think the motive is here?' Ada asked.

'Off the top of my head, I'd say it had something to do with small-town secrets.'

A swallow of tea went down the wrong pipe; I choked and coughed.

'Are you OK?' Chris asked, patting me gently on the back.

'What leads you to that conclusion?' Ada persisted, a concerned expression on her face as my coughing continued.

I carefully took a sip of tea, and tried to calm the flutters in my chest. Why do they have to talk about this?

Chris explained her reasoning. 'They all knew each other, moved in the same circles, right?'

'Yes?' Ada prompted.

'And if they're antique dealers they probably all buy up estates and go through people's belongings.'

'Also correct,' Ada said. 'In fact I'd gotten quotes from two of them; actually three if you consider that Tolliver is Philip's . . . was Philip's partner.'

Chris looked at Ada. 'That's a strange coincidence.'

'Don't look at her that way,' I said, having got my breathing under control. 'This isn't a.r.s.enic and Old Lace; we've not been poisoning the locals with elderberry wine.'

'I loved that play,' Ada remarked.

'I didn't say that,' Chris interjected. 'But you have to admit it's odd.'

'We've thought about that,' Ada said. 'Odd and scary. Anyway, you were saying.'

'Think about it, antique dealers are forever digging through other people's stuff. What if one of them found something they weren't meant to see?'

Ada shot me a look. 'What sort of thing?' she asked.

'Something big.' Chris said.

'Something worth killing over,' Barbara stated, completing her sister's thought.

The phone rang and there was silence. Barbara looked at me and then at her sister. Before I could get out of my chair, Barbara had picked up the receiver.

'h.e.l.lo?' she said. There was a long pause. 'I'll get her.' She cupped her hand over the receiver. 'It's for you, a Detective Perez?'

'I'll take it in the bedroom,' I said, not wanting them to overhear.

'Secrets, Mother?' Barbara asked.

'No, I want privacy.' As I walked to my bedroom I marveled at how quickly my oldest daughter and I were able to push each other's b.u.t.tons. I hated to think it, but I was glad that most of the year three thousand miles separated us. I loved her dearly, and she drove me crazy.

I picked up the phone, and yelled back into the other room, 'You can hang up now.' I waited before speaking, listening for the click. 'Mattie?'

'h.e.l.lo, Lil, how are you feeling?'

'Physically, I'm fine,' I said, settling on to the edge of my bed. I looked across at my reflection in the mirror. It was unsettling, as though I could see my skull beneath the skin. 'My nerves are shot, though.'

'Anything I can help with?'

'Not unless you can drive my daughters to the airport.'

'Car trouble?'

I laughed. 'No, I'm just not used to playing the invalid.'

'Oh. I think I have some news you might want to hear. I've been looking through those diaries; I don't think Wendy Conroy was talking about your husband.'

I let her words wash over me, like a balm on my jangled spirit. I didn't want to say anything lest she change her mind.

'You still there?' she asked.