19

THE FIRST TIME the mayor called on Friday morning, Susan was in the shower and she dripped on the carpet while she listened.

“What the hell is going on? Audrey Kalazar is an important person in this community. How could this happen? Is this the kind of image we want to send out to the world? The vice-chancellor of Emerson College! Murdered and stuffed in a well. It’ll be on the news. In the papers. What are you doing about it? I want it taken care of immediately. You understand? Immediately.” He faded away muttering threats and regrets and the possibility of her quick dismissal.

Not if I can help it, she thought grimly. I might not want to spend forever here, but you won’t give me the axe. I’ll leave when I’m damn good and ready.

The second time he called, she was munching toast and she listened to it all over again while she watched the kitten dip a paw in her coffee. The awful part was, she halfway agreed with him, felt a sense of responsibility.

“Don’t forget the fair opens this afternoon,” he said with an abrupt change in subject. “At least make sure that comes off without a hitch.”

“I’m sure there won’t be any problems.” George was taking care of all that; he had everything under control.

When the mayor hung up, she dumped the coffee in the sink and headed for the hospital.

The snow had stopped, but the streets were full of ice and slush and that meant on top of everything else, the day would be full of fender benders the officers would have to sort out.

*   *   *

Owen Fisher, in surgical greens, was just completing the external exam of Audrey Kalazar’s body, and dictating his findings into a cassette recorder, when Susan entered the autopsy room. He switched it off and looked at her.

“The settling of the blood along the right side of the body indicates she’d been dead for some hours before she was dropped in the well,” he said. “Primary cause of death appears to be blunt trauma, the mechanism most likely subcranial hemorrhage.”

Susan tried to take shallow breaths through her mouth to avoid the full impact of the odors, but it didn’t help a whole lot.

“Notice the dilation of the right pupil,” he said. “She was alive when she was hit.”

“Was death immediate?”

He nodded. “Nearly instantaneous. Not much clotting. No vomiting or bite marks in her mouth. Nothing that suggests seizures.”

He made an incision from ear to ear across the scalp and peeled it away, front and back, to expose the skull. The high-pitched shriek of the saw tearing through bone made Susan’s teeth ache. When he turned the saw off, the sound still buzzed through her head. Neatly, he removed the top of the skull and thoughtfully studied the surface of the brain before he switched on the recorder. “Skull fracture with associated subdural hematoma.”

With both hands he lifted out the brain and weighed it, then made thin slices, examined them under a strong light and put samples in bottles. He made a Y-shaped incision and opened the chest and abdominal areas, then removed each organ, described it and weighed it, sliced each one and put samples in bottles. Except for the very beginnings of arterial sclerosis, Audrey had been in good health. He scooped out the stomach contents and bagged them for the lab.

Susan was very interested in what the lab might find in its analysis of stomach contents. She knew from talking with Keith—assuming he wasn’t lying—when Audrey had last eaten. The lab results would tell approximately how many hours had passed before she was killed; that might be the closest Susan would get to time of death.

When Dr. Fisher had switched off the recorder, Susan asked about the weapon.

“Right-angle corner, heavy enough to cause the skull damage with one hit. Smooth. Hard enough that there was no fragmentation. She was struck one blow, from the front, probably by someone right-handed.”

When Susan left the hospital, she drew in great breaths of fresh cold air. Not a whole lot of help; that particular smell stuck with you. She lit a cigarette to try to cover it, but it was still there, way back in her throat.

At her office, she yanked the blinds all the way up to let in the watery sunshine, stacked the reports of the two murders on her desk, got herself a mug of coffee and started at the beginning. How did these murders fit together?

Nick Salvatierra and his drug peddling. Lynnelle suspected. Did Audrey also know?

Stepfather Herbert. Maybe had a reason to kill Lynnelle, but Susan didn’t know what it might be and she could see no reason to off Audrey. Even if somehow Audrey knew about the sexual abuse—and that was unlikely unless Lynnelle told her; even more unlikely—no reason to kill Audrey. In Susan’s experience, sex offenders simply denied, they didn’t kill the accuser.

Keith Kalazar and Terry Bryant, Jen’s mom. That made more sense than anything else, but for Jen’s sake Susan hoped it wouldn’t turn out that way.

Carena Egersund and all this business of the illegitimate child.

Susan shoved both hands through her hair. From what they had so far, she might as well put all these names in a hat and draw one. Bloody hell, what am I not seeing?

Shuffling through paper, she found her cigarettes and lit one, leaned back to blow smoke at the ceiling. A spider was working a web on the light fixture; most inept spider she’d ever seen. It clumsily examined the site, then fell three feet straight down, clung to the thread by one leg and flailed the others frantically in the air. Laboriously, it climbed back up the thread and fell again.

“I know just how you feel,” she said.

A tap sounded on the door. “Am I interrupting something?” Hazel, with a white carnation in her auburn hair, came in carrying a square plastic container.

“Not so’s you’d notice,” Susan said.

“Here.” Hazel plopped the container on the desk. “You skipped lunch again.”

Susan looked at her watch; three-thirty. Eating wasn’t something she felt much like doing after watching an autopsy.

“Eat it. It’s good for you,” Hazel said with motherly firmness.

Susan moved a handful of reports and the budget stared blank-faced up at her. With two murders on her hands, it was way down on her list. Try to work on it at home this evening, she thought and removed the lid of the container; carrots, cauliflower pieces, two apples and a pear, a small dish of almonds. She picked up a carrot stick and crunched a bite. Right about now the mayor should be all set to give his speech for the opening of the fair. The one that started out, “We are a community, a fine community with caring in our hearts,” and ended with “helping those less fortunate among us.”

She decided to skip it and read reports while she munched through Hazel’s offering. As the afternoon went on, the sun gave up its feeble attempts and let the clouds take over. She switched on the desk lamp.

The phone rang, startling her and she snatched the receiver. “Yes, Hazel.”

“The mayor’s on the line. He sounds upset.”

He was not only upset, he was sputtering. “Get yourself over here! Now!”

“Mr. Bakover—”

“The community center.” He hung up with a bang.

She pushed a button to get Hazel. “Where’s George?”

“We’ve had a slew of minor traffic incidents. He went to help.”

*   *   *

The parking lot at the side of the brick building was almost full; the Helping Hand Fair was one of those not-to-be-missed occasions. Some considerate volunteers had shoveled the lot clear of snow, leaving the mounds heaped along the curb.

Everything looked quiet and normal. Whatever the problem was, it hadn’t spilled outside. For a moment, she hesitated between using the rear door, or trudging around to the front. The rear, she decided when she slid from the pickup and the wind hit her; the rear door was closer, and the temperature had dropped again. A solid blanket of clouds completely obscured the sun and the wind was fierce. People were going in and out the back door and none of them seemed concerned with anything more than getting out of the cold. She slipped and slid across the walk and reached the door just as two teenage girls, bundled up in parkas, were coming out. Each held a small shiny-decorated box and they were poking through them with fits of giggles.

Susan grabbed the edge of the door before it could close. One of the girls looked at her and elbowed her friend.

“I’m looking for Mayor Bakover,” Susan said. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“I don’t know, but if you go that way,” the girl gestured over her shoulder at the flight of steps leading down, “be careful of the goats. One of them bites.”

They scooted off barely able to keep upright for their laughter. Susan went into the entryway and the wind whipped the door shut behind her. The flight of steps that went up had a door at the top, propped open, and she could see people milling around, hear the loud buzz of conversation. All ordinary. A corridor to the left led off to the coatroom; no activity there.

She trotted down the stairs and went into the large room crowded with people. Here too, nothing seemed out of the way; the room had been partitioned into booths along the walls and in the center with aisles through them for the people to pass by and peruse the goods. After the gloom of outside, it seemed brightly lit from the overhead lights, and some participants had added lights of their own to better display their wares. The place smelled of perfume and wet wool and baked goods and popcorn.

Mrs. Mayor stood surrounded by a group of indignant and gesturing ladies and she zeroed in on Susan at the same time Susan spotted her. Without a word, Mrs. Mayor cruised through the ladies like an icebreaker. She wore gray today, skirt and sweater and the ever-present strand of pearls, every hair as perfect as the last time Susan saw her.

“I just told you, didn’t I? I told you, there would be trouble. Having those kids involved! This is what comes of it. Martin is looking for you upstairs.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Those kids! The very idea! Never have we had anything like this. It’ll probably get in the paper.”

“Kids.” With a sinking feeling, Susan looked at several four- or five-year-olds playing tag around the legs of the adults, and knew they weren’t the kids under discussion.

“Are you trying to be smart with me, young lady?” Mrs. Mayor gave her a withering look that had probably been in her family for generations.

“I don’t understand what you’re upset about.”

“Upset?” If anybody as refined as Mrs. Mayor could be said to screech, this was it. “Booth twenty-seven. Those college kids. Just you go and see what they’re doing. I want them out of here. I want them arrested. You just come with me. I’ll just show you—”

Before she could steam off with Susan in tow, a timid soul with gray hair trapped in a bun scurried up. “Oh dear, Rita. The popcorn machine seems to be jammed again and all those youngsters are waiting. Really they’re getting very impatient. And I must say, I can’t blame them.”

“Oh, my heavens, do I have to do everything? Don’t fuss, Dora. I’m coming.” Mrs. Mayor shook her finger at Susan. “You just go and take care of it. I’ll let Martin know you’re here.”

What the hell could “those college kids” be doing? Selling kisses? Auctioning their underwear? So far, panic hadn’t set in. Outside of the clutch of irate ladies around Mrs. Mayor, nobody seemed unduly bothered. She noticed Henry Royce, the Hampstead Herald’s editor, wandering around with what passed for a smile on his jowly face. He stopped to talk with his lanky, shaggy-haired photographer.

Susan meandered past booths of pottery, knitted baby sweaters, cookies, cakes and jars of pickles, and found booth twenty-seven way in the back. Whatever was going on, they were getting a lot of attention. Two goats, one with horns, were tethered to each side of the booth by a short rope. They had lettered signs hanging around their necks, but she couldn’t read them; one sign had twisted to the side, and Nick Salvatierra was standing in the way of the other. She noticed everybody but one little girl was giving the goats a lot of space.

This what the fuss was about? Get rid of the goats; livestock shouldn’t be around all this food. Across the aisle, the lady in the booth displaying bouquets of paper flowers was looking at all the activity around booth twenty-seven with, Susan thought, a certain amount of envy.

The little girl, about four years old, clutching a bag of popcorn, stood staring solemnly at the goat with horns, now and again munching a kernel of corn. The photographer snapped her picture. The goat snaked out its head, snatched the popcorn and ate it, bag and all. The little girl just watched with grave interest.

Only college kids were gathered around the booth; laughing and joking, shoving each other and pointing. Julie Kalazar wasn’t there, but the three R’s stood behind an array of jewelry spread out on the table; more jewelry hung on the makeshift walls at the sides and back. On one end of the table were decorated boxes like the ones the teenagers had. The jewelry glittered and glistened in the light; earrings and brooches, all made with round flat discs an inch and a half in diameter, covered with sequins and beads and small stones; bright glittery greens, reds, blues, gold and silver; some with small jaunty feathers. They were attached to three-by-five cards.

“The cops,” Nick said with a sardonic smile, and stuck his fingers in the back pockets of his jeans. “Link arms. We shall overcome. Go limp when they drag us away.”

“Oh, chill out, Nick.” Renée shot him an irritated look and pushed thick curls of red hair away from her face. She wore earrings of bright emerald green that flashed when she moved, and had a feathered brooch of blue and green stones pinned to her black jumpsuit.

“Ask why she’s here,” he said. “I’ll lay you odds it’s not to buy jewelry.”

“I’ve had a complaint.”

“Imagine that. And here we’re being all law-abiding.”

“Nick—” Renée said.

He shifted and crossed his arms.

“I don’t see why,” Renée said to Susan.

Robin, fiddling with the end of her long blond pigtail, had on red earrings with gold stars and quarter moons, a red brooch on her gold sweater.

Roz, with a look of wary defiance on her face, stuck out her chin, making her earrings, silver sequins with long strands of gold beads, dance and tinkle. They looked very fetching with her long slender neck and short-cropped dark hair. She too had a brooch pinned to her overlarge white sweater. “We refuse to leave,” she stated.

“You can’t make us,” Renée said. “We followed all the rules. We made all this.” She gestured in a circle around the display. “By hand.”

Roz gave a snort of laughter. Renée looked at her, then back at Susan. “We paid the entry fee. And we’re donating all the money. We’re not selling any of this.” She patted the stack of AIDS information pamphlets. “Just giving it away, if anybody asks. We’re not pushing it. It’s just sitting here.”

“What are you doing?” An indignant mother grabbed the little girl’s arm and yanked her away; the little girl stared back over her shoulder with a bemused expression.

“The goats?” Susan thought they must have stayed up all night, every night, getting all this stuff made.

“Here.” Renée handed her a card with a brooch of iridescent blues and greens. COMING AFFAIRS was printed on the card.

“Watch it,” Nick said. “You’ll get run in for bribing a cop.”

“Light off, Nick.” Renée glared at him and he grinned and backed away. The goat nipped at him and he jumped smartly to one side.

Susan read the hand-lettered sign hanging around the goat’s neck. Do you really love me, Billy? She looked at Nick, looked at the three R’s, then sidestepped two paces to read the sign on the horned goat. I kid you not. Laughter fizzed in her throat. Now, she was getting an inkling of why Mrs. Mayor was so incensed.

“There you are!” Mayor Bakover bore down on them, face red enough to suggest an impending stroke. “I was waiting for you upstairs. We cannot have this!” He banged his cane against the wooden floor with a resounding thump. “What kind of example is this? There are children here!”

“Yeah,” Nick muttered. “Better they should get AIDS.”

The mayor turned on him with a furious scowl, then swept the three R’s with the same look. “I’ve informed them they are to leave. They have refused. Get them out of here. And remove all this—” Words failed him.

“We won’t go!”

“We’re entitled…”

“You can’t…”

“What laws have we broken?”

“Living in a police state.”

Before the situation could get any hotter, Nanny goat took the matter out of Susan’s hands. Nanny calmly ate her tether and trotted off to greener pastures. On the way, she paused to sample some silk-screened fabrics. The woman at the booth shrieked and made shooing motions. Nanny moseyed along to the pies and settled in. A crowd packed around, hooting and yelling.

The mayor spun on his heel to see what all the commotion was about and the end of his cane struck Billy on the rear. Billy, bucking and lunging, pulled down one side of the flimsy partition. It crashed over on the three R’s. Earrings and brooches scattered. Billy took off. Nick grabbed at him and got bitten for his troubles. Billy, kicking and bucking, overturned the pie table and careened into a row of jams and jellies. Jars tumbled and shattered. Like a rodeo cowboy, Susan tackled Nanny, who was headed determinedly for a blueberry pie. Nanny twisted her head and bleated indignantly in Susan’s face. A flashbulb exploded.

Oh shit, Susan thought, I’m going to see my picture in the paper.

*   *   *

It wasn’t until hours later that she had a chance to look closely at the jewelry the three R’s had made. The flat round discs beneath all the sequins and stones and feathers of Coming Affairs were condoms. The bejeweled boxes held undecorated condoms, lubricant, and instructions for the use thereof.