I slept for eight straight hours, interrupted once by the dog barking to go out and the cat scratching to be let in, but since I have no pets it was obviously a dream, from which I awoke with a final distillation of last night’s whiskey throbbing in my brain. A shower and a pot of coffee had me feeling halfway real again, until I fetched the morning newspaper and caught the front page. Sometime overnight one of the amusements at the carnival had burned to the ground, possibly the result of faulty wiring, though the fire inspector wasn’t ruling out arson. The story carried a photo of firefighters hosing down the scorched ruin of Castle Spookula.
I called Fred Meecham’s office, and Courtney told me that Meecham was over at superior court, at a hearing in a different case, but that he wanted to speak with me. He expected to break around noon. I said I’d try to meet him at the courthouse, or phone him at least, and Courtney said she’d get a message to him.
Although last night hadn’t brought any “Aha!” moments, the appearance on the scene of Rag Tyme Shows had opened a new front for exploration. I wasn’t optimistic that another visit with Troy Pepper would be fruitful; still, it was a logical place to start. As I’d tried to explain to
Courtney, when you didn’t have a road map, often the only approach was to go in whatever direction drew you, eliminating destinations as you went, and hope that eventually you got somewhere. If Pepper was being set up for the killing as part of some weird takeover attempt by Hackett and Spritzer—although frankly, the concept seemed weak—he might have some idea why.
The trees were spangled with yellows and oranges and arterial reds, though in six weeks’ time, with wind and one good drenching rain—a real October reaper—the leaves would be sopped all over the streets like the tears of autumn, where car tires and pedestrian feet would beat them to a brown paste. For now, however, September was in her glory. At Bihoco I was too early for the swarms of lovers and families, so I had the waiting area to myself. I wasn’t sure that Pepper would even agree to see me, but after a few minutes he came in, his cheeks stubbled and wan against the bright jumpsuit, his red-rimmed eyes evasive, and I wondered if it was the sleepless look of a man tormented by guilt. He sat across from me, and I asked if he had seen the news.
He nodded. “On the TV in the mess hall.”
I mentioned Rag Tyme, and he professed to know very little about the outfit beyond the fact that people had brought up the name on occasion. “So who are they?” he asked.
“There have been some feeble attempts at explaining them,” I said, “but they’re all variations on a theme that spells ‘loan sharks.’ They’d bristle at the idea, of course. Their contracts apparently pass legal muster. Did Flora ever mention them?”
“No. What are you saying?”
“Tell me about Ray Embry.”
He blinked. “Rogo the Klown works for them?”
“Have you had any problems with him?”
“I hardly know the guy.”
“Can you see him having any reason to get you in trouble?”
“What?” He frowned. “I can’t say I’m crazy about him—I think he’s a pain in the ass … but no.”
If true, it confirmed my feeling that Rag Tyme’s appearance wasn’t connected with the killing. I was fishing, plain and simple, but my questions
had thrown Pepper off balance; they’d chipped his stony silence and gotten him speaking more than monosyllables. I didn’t spend time wondering why. “I spoke with Flora’s friend Lucy Colon. She said that she thought Flora seemed nervous about something the last time they talked. She seems to think that the cause was you,” I said.
“Me?” He licked his lips anxiously.
“It’s not an unreasonable idea.”
His brow knit. “I don’t even know the woman. Anyways, I told you. I’d never hurt Flora.”
“Yet she took out a restraining order.”
“That was in the past, a mistake.”
Now I was the one to keep silent, waiting for him to go on. Which, after a pause, he did. “I don’t know … nervous. Well …” He sighed. “When I saw Flora on Sunday morning, she seemed a little scared.”
“Did you ask her about it? Or tell anyone else?”
“I was waiting for her to tell me, if she wanted to. But I don’t think it was about me.”
“Why’s that?”
“We’d talked a little about that time in New Jersey—the restraining order, how I was supposed to keep away from her. Though I didn’t even know where she was then. But she said it was a mistake.”
“A mistake. The restraining order? Or coming here to Lowell?”
“Both, I guess. I don’t know if she said it, but I think she meant because it caused her more trouble.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him. “You didn’t ask her?”
“I guess I was a little scared, too.”
“What about?”
He lowered his eyes, and I waited for them to come back, but they didn’t. He went on staring down. “Thinking … maybe she was seeing someone else, and she was scared to tell me. Or maybe she was worried because she was going to break something else off.”
“Why would she fear that?” I looked at him, but he wouldn’t look up. “Was she seeing someone else?”
Now he did look at me, and his voice was a murmur. “I don’t know.”
I thought about that. If there were another person, would that person hurt her? Would he have killed her? I let out a breath. “Come on, Troy. I need something here if you’ve got it.”
He looked away. I thought of what Fred Meecham had said about Pepper not being a very persuasive witness. He seemed to lack energy, and I couldn’t see him convincing a jury that the case against him was wrong. We sat there in a sluggish little pool of silence, and then from my shirt pocket I took a juror ballot card and laid it on the ledge between us. Pepper stared at it a moment. “What’s this?”
“The fruit of Mary’s womb. It was in a statue on an altar in Flora’s apartment.”
“How’d you—” He broke off. “What’s it supposed to mean?”
“I was hoping you’d explain it to me.”
He looked at the card again, examining it as intently as Moses Maxwell did the Times crossword puzzle, then shook his head blankly. “I don’t know.”
“These places with the T beside them—were you with her on those dates?”
“Huh? I don’t know. No.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“What’s going on?”
“I talked to Sonders already. The show was in Connecticut on two of those dates, en route elsewhere on the other. You were traveling, right?”
He shrugged.
“Possibly you called Flora and talked by telephone.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Definitely maybe!” I wanted to reach through the barrier and grab him and drag him forward and bang his head. I actually felt my hands twitch with the impulse. Controlling it, I said, “Give it to me straight. What happened on those days? What’s this mean? T is you, right?” My voice had risen. The guard glanced our way.
Pepper looked at the card, but he only frowned. I put the card away. He didn’t move, thinking maybe, then said, “Pop’s in bad trouble, isn’t he?”
“Pop?” His response surprised me. “What about you?”
“But Pop … tell me.”
“Yeah, he’s in trouble. Maybe worse than he knows.”
Deep lines etched themselves in his face. The guard signaled that our time was up. Pepper rose obediently. As he started to turn away, he stopped. He leaned toward me. “Pop’s got other stuff to worry about. Make him forget about me.”
I rose, too. Was he telling me something? But he turned and went out with the guard.