Thursday, June 8
Hallaway arrested me. She had the decency not to lead me away in handcuffs. The charges were stealing a boat and breaking and entering. I’d been fingerprinted, mug shot, divested of my shoes and socks, and put in a holding cell. There was only one other female in the cell. She’d been arrested for drunk driving. At least that was my guess, because she’d slept through my lock-up and odors reminiscent of a brewery were exuding from her.
I knew when they went over Weathers’s house, they’d find my fingerprints everywhere. What Hallaway thought about Weathers’s death, she wasn’t saying. But once they heard my message on Weathers’s answering machine threatening his life, she’d have every reason to suspect me. My only hope was that he was already dead by the time I’d called.
I had explained repeatedly to Hallaway before she arrested me what I was doing at his house.
“How’d my dog get there?” I’d asked her.
“You brought her.”
“You’ve got to believe me. There was a drawing.”
She had raised one eyebrow.
The police hadn’t found the drawing. Which meant someone had come back and taken it. Weathers was already dead. So who had taken it? And why? How had he or she known there was a drawing? Unless that person had left it, or Weathers had told him or her. Was that person the killer? Had I been wrong about Weathers?
“It was in Sarah’s studio,” I’d insisted. “A drawing of a hanged dog. Under the dog was written Death’s Door and the initials AW. Why would I make this up?”
There was that eyebrow again.
“Right now,” she’d said, jutting out her jaw, “you’re looking at breaking and entering and theft. Until bail’s posted, you’ll be spending the night with us. Maybe after a night in jail, you’ll tell us what you really were doing at Andy Weathers’s house.”
“You can’t think I had anything to do with his death,” I’d said as she escorted me out of the interrogation room.
Hallaway had wanted to put Salinger in the animal shelter. But Chet had offered to take her home with him until things got sorted out. I could have hugged him.
I sat up against the cold brick wall on the steel bench, listening to the middle-aged woman snore. She had coal-black hair that showed an even line of gray at her roots. Her face had that unhealthy, reddish glow of long-time alcohol abuse. She was wearing a loose, flowery dress she’d pulled over her legs and feet. I wondered what had set her life down that path.
As if she could hear my thought, the drunken woman let out a loud snort that woke her up. Her blurry eyes blinked open.
“Who you?” she asked.
“Leigh,” I answered. “And you?”
She closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
I had made my one phone call to Lydia. She had assured me she’d have me out before morning. I wasn’t assured.
Hallaway had given me the full criminal treatment, from making me lean up against the station wall while she patted me down, to having me stick out my tongue so she could check for a concealed weapon. She had stopped short of a full body-cavity search. She had me where she wanted me, and she was enjoying it. And it was all legal.
There were no windows in the cell. The only light came from the hall. I couldn’t sleep. It had become clear to me that I’d been set up. From beginning to end. But was it Weathers who had set me up? I’d been so sure about him. But who had disposed of the drawing? And why? What was this all about? I was beginning to think that maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe the two murders weren’t the work of a serial killer. Maybe there was a motive behind them. And somehow it involved Margaris’s development of the land and the Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly. But how did Weathers fit into all that? Was his death an accident, maybe even caused by Salinger, or did it just look like an accident? Had someone pushed him down the stairs? One thing I still felt sure of—he had written those letters to me. He’d been leading me somewhere. But where? Maybe Burnson was right. Maybe he was just a crackpot. Maybe he got in the way of the real killer.
I could feel the pressure of a migraine building in my head. They’d taken my purse along with my pills. I lay back on the cold bench and massaged my forehead. At least Salinger was safe.
I must have fallen asleep, because the rattle of keys woke me. For a minute I didn’t know where I was.
“Girard, let’s go.” Hallaway held the door open.
I sat up and the pressure in my head pulled, tightening like a vise. I padded after Hallaway down the hall in my bare feet. It must be morning, because light was coming through the windows. I put my hand up to my eyes to block it.
“Jorgensen, give her her stuff.” Hallaway sounded weary and angry.
I was shielding my eyes from the dots dancing in the light. “I can go?”
“For now,” Hallaway said.
“What about Weathers?” I asked. “Do you know what time he died?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Your friends are waiting. One of them saved your meddling ass. We’ll expect you in here for more questioning. You be here tomorrow morning at seven.”
Lydia was waiting for me in the reception area. “You okay?” she asked. “You look kinda green.”
“You ever spend a night in jail?” My head was so tightly banded, I felt nauseous.
“Well, thank you too.” Lydia held the door open for me.
“Sorry,” I said, walking into the spring day. “Where’d you park?”
“Over here.” She pointed to a truck across the street.
I hesitated. Joe was leaning against the truck.
“Who do you think convinced Hallaway you didn’t steal that boat?”
By the time Joe dropped Lydia at her shop in Fish Creek, my nausea was roiling. I didn’t know if I could make it home. I kept swallowing and concentrating on the sky.
As we passed a dairy farm off Route A, I called out, “Joe, pull over quick.”
Joe jerked the truck onto the shoulder. I jumped out of the truck, bent over, and vomited into the grass. I tried to straighten up, but the nausea rolled over me again. This time my stomach retched up bile. I didn’t think I could feel this bad and be alive. I knelt down in the grass and sat back on my heels waiting for the nausea to pass.
Joe got out of the truck and came around to where I was kneeling. I bent over again to vomit. Joe reached down and pulled my hair from my face. I pushed at his hands and tried to stand up. Then everything went black.
* * *
A faint lemony smell woke me. Everything seemed both too dark and too light. Then my stomach contracted and it all came rushing back. I put my hand over my eyes.
“You’re awake,” Joe said. He was sitting in a rocking chair beside the bed. He leaned toward me, a bottle of pills in his hand.
I moaned and turned my head away from him. On the bed stand was a lamp and a cup. Its lemony scent made the bile rise up in my mouth again. I swallowed hard.
“Take that away,” I said, turning back toward the room.
Dark blue walls, one small dresser, dark wood, matching bedstand, braided rug in front of the bed, and the rocking chair where Joe sat looking at me as if I were a bug under a pin.
“I’ll give you one of these for your migraine, but you need something in your stomach first.”
“I can take care of myself.” I sat up and reached for the pills.
Joe pulled away from me. “Jeez, Leigh. Don’t you ever stop fighting people?”
“Where’s Salinger?” I asked. “I’ve got to get her.”
I threw off the blanket and put my feet on the cool wood floor.
“Where are my clothes?” I asked, shivering in my underwear. My head spun. “I need my truck. You gonna drive me?” I held my arms tight, trying to steady myself.
He came around the bed and knelt down in front of me. “It’s okay, Leigh. It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I said, biting the side of my mouth. “It’s not okay. Nothing’s okay.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.” He knew enough not to touch me.
A cold sweat broke out over my body. I felt as if everything—the two murders, Weathers’s death—had rushed to the surface of my skin and I was drenched in them.
I sat there with my feet on the floor and Joe kneeling in front of me for what seemed like a long time. Finally Joe got up and walked to the door.
“I’ll pick up Salinger and bring her here,” he said. “But you have to eat something first.”
I lay back on the pillow and stared at the blue ceiling. There was a faint glow of stars pasted on it.
“Don’t leash her,” I called after him.