“YOU WON’T GO away?” Rachel stood by the bathroom door, clutching her clothes.
“I’ll be right here.” Annie smiled. “I promise.”
Rachel left the bathroom door ajar. Annie dropped onto a patchwork sofa, squares of turquoise and amber overlaid by circles of lime and marigold. She leaned back on the comfortable cushion, weary to the bone.
Rachel’s beamed room, with a sloped ceiling to the south, glowed with colors reminiscent of New Mexico, the walls a dusty peach, Navajo throw rugs in scarlet, black, sand and gray, a rustic four-poster bed made of bleached wood bone white as a cattle skull. Donkeys laden with brightly colored pottery marched across the sandstone comforter.
The room was divided by the sofa into a sleeping area and a cozy nook with a TV, stereo, computer, printer, bookcases and—Annie counted—a stack of fourteen board games, everything from Pin the Tail on the Donkey to Monopoly to Scrabble. Chinese checkers were atop one bookcase. A snowman piñata hung from the central beam, a red porkpie hat, round black eyes, pink buttons, green boots.
A sweet and childlike room with only hints of a girl halfway to womanhood, the fashion magazines splayed open, the clutter of makeup bottles and brushes on the dressing table, a pair of high heels tossed in a corner.
Listening to the hiss of the shower, Annie forced herself to think. Persuading Rachel to shower and dress was the first step on a long road. Next was breakfast though Annie knew that Rachel would push most of the food away. Annie glanced at her watch. Just past eleven. Rachel was still grappling with the initial shock of her mother’s death. She’d not asked any questions yet. Those questions were sure to come. Moreover, Pete Garrett would talk to Rachel. Annie was sure Pete would be gentle, but he would have his own questions, several that Annie imagined only too clearly:
Was there any disagreement between your mother and your stepfather?
What was the nature of their quarrel?
Annie pressed her hands against her temples. Rachel had no inkling that Pudge was a suspect. Annie looked at Billy, who was waiting patiently in the hall. There was no way to warn Rachel. Besides, what could be said? How could Annie explain what was as yet unexplainable? Why had Pudge run away from Happy’s room carrying something and hurried through the garden and taken the rowboat? How did Happy’s blood stain his pants leg? Why did he remain silent? Annie knew all the questions, but she had no answers. She pushed up from the couch, her mouth and throat dry. How would Rachel react when she understood the import of those questions? Her mother dead, her adored stepfather under suspicion of the brutal crime…was there any way to shield Rachel?
Billy looked through the open doorway, his gentle face kind, but his eyes alert.
Annie knew he would call her back if she stepped into the bathroom, closed the door. “We’ll go downstairs when Rachel’s dressed. She needs some breakfast.” And maybe there would be a moment alone, a chance to warn Rachel.
The shower cut off. The stall door banged. In a moment, the hair dryer buzzed. Rachel was brushing her hair, the ebony curls lustrous and fine, when she stepped into the bedroom. Her face was puffy and splotched and she looked very small in an oversize red-and-green-striped T-shirt and floppy denim pants, but there was an air of determination about her. Perhaps Billy, knowing Pirelli was on duty downstairs, would simply stand at the top of the steps, watch them descend. Maybe Annie could tell Rachel not to mention Pudge’s quarrel with Happy, though no doubt others in the household had already reported that encounter to Garrett.
Before Annie could speak, Rachel burst out, “I need to talk to the police. I know who killed Mother.” At Annie’s shocked look, Rachel nodded her head vigorously. “I started thinking. I stood there in the water and it was like my mind opened up and everything came clear. I mean, why would anybody kill Mother? Then I knew.” She bolted toward the door, looked up at Billy. “Are you the police?” Her voice quavered with eagerness.
Billy’s face was serious and kind. “I’m Sergeant Cameron, miss. Chief Garrett will be glad to talk to you. If you’d like, we can go downstairs and find him. He’ll be glad to hear what you have to tell us.”
“I know what happened.” She looked back. “Annie, come on.” Rachel headed for the stairs.
Annie followed, Billy close behind.
A brisk voice rose up the stairwell. “…want to be clear, sir, that our search is with your permission and that you agree there has been no coercion of any kind.”
Annie grabbed Rachel’s arm. “That’s Chief Garrett.” When they reached the second floor, the hallway was crowded, the chief, Pudge, and Max standing in front of a door across the hall from Happy’s quarters.
Happy’s door was closed and sealed, a police tape strung in an X across the panel. Annie realized the initial investigation was complete, but Garrett had likely sealed the door with the intention of bringing in a bloodstain expert. The police tape also meant Happy’s body had been removed.
Rachel stared at the closed door, her eyes huge, her lips quivering. Annie slipped her arm around Rachel’s thin shoulders. Pudge was facing the door to his room and didn’t see them.
Garrett nodded toward Pudge. “If you will open the door—”
Rachel pulled away from Annie, darted across the hall and flung herself at Pudge. “Oh, Pudge, Pudge,” and she began to cry.
Pudge wrapped his arms around her. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He looked down at her dark curls, his eyes wet, his face crumpled.
Annie’s chest ached. She knew what Pudge meant. She was sure she knew what Pudge meant. He offered solace and comfort to a child faced with horror. But Annie didn’t like the ferret-sharp look on Garrett’s round face. Pudge didn’t mean he was sorry because he had killed Happy. And what could be said? The usual bromides: It’s going to be all right, Everything works out for the best, I’ll take care of it—none of them applied here.
Rachel clung to him. “I wish it hadn’t happened.”
“I know.” Pudge’s voice was soft. “But we can’t change what’s happened.”
The dark head burrowed against him. “Pudge, you won’t go away, will you? Please don’t go away.”
“I’m here, Rachel.” Pudge looked over her head at Annie. “And Annie’s here.” The warmth and thankfulness in his face brought tears to Annie’s eyes. “Now listen, kid.” He held Rachel away from him, looked soberly at her tear-spattered face. “We’ve got to get through some hard days, but we’ll do it. Don’t worry about the past. I’m here for you.”
Annie felt cold. No blast of arctic air could have chilled her as completely as Pudge’s words. Don’t worry about the past. She couldn’t pretend that she was an authority on her father. But those words didn’t ring right to her. Why should he urge Rachel not to worry about the past? A sudden horrific vision surged through her mind. Rachel and her mother had quarreled. Rachel was hotheaded, passionate, undisciplined. She had been very angry with her mother.
Annie stared at her father and her stepsister. Everything shifted into place: Pudge running from Happy’s room, Pudge rowing out into the Sound, Pudge with a smear of blood on his pants. Annie could feel the muscles in her face tighten. What would happen if she spoke out, if she asked Pudge what he had found in Happy’s room?
It was almost as though she had spoken. Pudge’s head jerked toward Annie. Warning blazed in his eyes, warning and a plea.
Annie stood frozen. She wanted to shout out that Pudge was innocent, that he would never have hurt Happy. The words ached in her throat. But if she spoke…Her eyes moved to Rachel.
Rachel nodded solemnly, her thin, tear-streaked face full of resolve. She swung around, stepped toward Garrett. “Mr. Policeman, I can tell you what happened.” Her quavery young voice hung in the utter quiet of the hallway.
Pudge took two quick steps, grabbed her arm. He pulled her close to him. “Rachel, hush.”
Garrett barked. “Step away, sir. Let the child go.” His hand dropped to the pistol in his holster.
Pudge loosed his hold, but he spoke fast and hard. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s just a kid and she’s upset. Listen,” Pudge looked desperately at Rachel, then at Annie, his face working. “Listen, I…” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I killed Happy. I didn’t mean to. We got mad and—and she threw something at me and I didn’t know what was happening—”
Annie knew what was happening. Despair washed over her like a smothering wave. Pudge must not do this. He must not. There was only one chance that she could save him. One chance….
“Dad,” she cried out.
It stopped him. He rubbed his face hard with his hand. “Annie”—his voice was broken—“please forgive me.”
Rachel pressed the palms of her hands against her cheeks.
Garrett jerked his head toward Billy Cameron, who pulled out a notebook and a pen and began to write.
Max said sharply, “Pudge, shut up.” His eyes were shocked and sad as he looked toward Annie.
“Dad, why don’t you tell us about it,” Annie’s tone was gentle, as if she spoke to someone who had been very ill and was just coming back to consciousness. “You went in Happy’s room this morning. About eight o’clock. Alice saw you. She saw you come out. Was that when you and Happy quarreled?”
She was aware that Garrett gave her a brief, hard stare, then fastened his probing gaze on Pudge.
“And”—it hurt to say it, but she had to continue—“when you hit her? Tell us what happened.” She willed him to talk, wishing she could yank the terrible words out of his mouth, make him speak before he thought it through and realized that if there had been an angry shouting match, things thrown, Alice would have heard. And, more than that, that he had not been in Happy’s room long enough for a quarrel and a violent death.
Pudge avoided Annie’s eyes. He stared down at the floor and talked fast, “I don’t exactly remember. It’s kind of a blur. I went in and she started saying ugly things and she threw a cushion at me and I grabbed…” He stopped, his mind obviously racing. “I grabbed a poker from the fireplace. I didn’t mean to do it. Then it was too late and I ran out of the room.”
“Eight o’clock this morning?” Garrett walked up until he stood only inches from Pudge. “You killed Mrs. Laurance at eight o’clock this morning?”
Max took a step toward Garrett. Annie shook her head. Max stopped, his eyes puzzled.
“I guess that’s right.” Pudge looked at Annie. “Alice saw me? Yeah, that’s right.”
Garrett spit out two questions, his voice hard and angry. “Eight o’clock this morning? That’s when you struck her with a poker?”
Pudge hunched his shoulders. “It was…” his face looked abruptly sick. “There was so much blood. I grabbed an afghan from the end of the bed and wrapped the poker in it. That’s why I took the boat. I had to get rid of the poker.”
Nothing sounds more true than lies mixed with truth. “So much blood…” Yes, Pudge went into that room and he found Happy dead and he ran with…what? Not a poker. But something he felt he had to get out of that room.
Rachel stared at Pudge in utter disbelief, too shaken for tears.
Annie watched Rachel. Whatever Pudge found, it must have belonged to the girl. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered now was time.
Annie walked up to Garrett. She stood within inches of the police chief and her father. “Pete, tell him what time Happy died.”
Garrett’s eyes blazed. “How do you know?”
“Billy and I were on the stairs when Dr. Burford came down.” She met Garrett’s belligerent gaze without flinching. Annie didn’t like the look in the young chief’s eyes. Garrett was mad and getting madder.
Garrett’s cold stare moved to Pudge. “I want to inform you of your rights under the Miranda decision.” He spoke slowly, clearly, his eyes never leaving Pudge’s face. Then he asked, “Do you understand, Mr. Laurance?”
“Yes.” Pudge’s answer was harsh.
Max held up his hand. “Pudge, wait, you need to talk to—”
Pudge interrupted. “No. I want to get it over with.”
“Okay, Mr. Laurance.” The chief’s voice was calm and careful. “What time did you kill your wife?”
Pudge looked at Annie, at Max, at Happy’s closed door. He mumbled, “This morning, around eight. Hell, I don’t know exactly. What difference does it make? You can ask Alice. I’ve told you what happened. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Rachel stumbled toward Annie.
Annie opened her arms, held the girl tight and took a moment to whisper, “It’s all right. It’s all right. Pudge didn’t do it. He couldn’t have.” She raised her voice. “Pete, you know he’s innocent.” She heard Rachel’s soft sigh, felt the girl’s thin body relax against her.
Garrett folded his arms across his chest. His voice was clipped. “You do understand there is a severe penalty for lying to officers investigating a crime, Mr. Laurance?”
Pudge’s head jerked up. He had the look of a man rapidly reviewing what he had said and wondering where he made a mistake.
Garrett was as hungry for battle as a gored bull. It took great effort, but he held himself together, managed to speak in a level, even tone. “I’m going to charge you with obstructing justice, Laurance, and you are going to go to jail. But right now, I want some truth. You went in that room. You took the weapon. What was it?”
“A poker.” Pudge’s voice was stubborn. His eyes defied Garrett.
“What else did you take?” Garrett, too, knew there had to be a reason, a compelling, awful reason for Pudge’s actions.
Pudge’s lips set in a hard, tight line.
Garrett nodded toward Billy. “Get Tyndall.” Joe Tyndall was the fourth member of the small police force. “We’re taking him”—he jerked his head at Pudge—“into custody. Tell Pirelli to get the magistrate on the phone. I want a search warrant. I’m not going to let some slick lawyer throw my case out because we searched without a warrant.”
Pudge gestured at his door. “Search away. You won’t find anything.” He spoke with utter confidence.
Billy spoke quietly into his handheld radio.
“We’ll wait.” Garrett’s head jutted forward. “And we’ll look, Mr. Laurance. Don’t worry about that. And you’re going to be in jail until you decide to tell the truth.”
Rachel tugged at Annie’s arm. “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Why did Pudge say he…” she couldn’t say the words. “Why?” She stared at Pudge, her eyes wide and frightened.
Annie picked her words carefully. She spoke quite clearly and distinctly. “I think he saw something in your mother’s room that worried him. I think he was afraid the police might—”
“Annie!” Pudge cried out. “No.”
Annie whirled to face Pudge, still holding to Rachel. “Look at Rachel, Pudge, look at her. She loved her mother. She didn’t do this.”
Pudge lifted his hands in a plea to Annie, his face sagging in despair.
For a sickening twist of time, Annie wondered if she’d gambled and lost. She’d felt certain Rachel was innocent, that the shaken, miserable girl she’d consoled could not possibly be a murderer. But Pudge had been here in the house; he’d seen their quarrels; he knew Rachel far better than Annie did. And Pudge had run with a weapon, he’d run hours after Happy died, but, unless he killed her, he had no way of knowing how much earlier she had died. Should he have noted the darkening of the bloodstains, the rigidity of the body? He wasn’t a man accustomed to violent death. He’d entered a room, found Happy brutally dead…and seen what?
Just for an instant, shock moved in Garrett’s eyes, then he stared at Rachel.
Rachel understood, too. “You mean…” Her face creased into disbelief; then, slowly, it softened. “Pudge—you lied for me? Oh, Pudge, I didn’t hurt Mom. I was so mad at her, but I wouldn’t hurt her. Pudge”—Rachel’s eyes glowed—“you lied for me.”
Garrett took it all in and Annie knew he would root and dig until he knew everything that had happened, until he learned about Rachel and Mike and Marguerite and Happy and Pudge, every quarrel, every threat, every burst of anger. As for now, his eyes studied Rachel with steely objectivity. Kids kill. It happens, sadly, too often in a world where violence is celebrated in graphic detail as entertainment, and children grow up watching murder and cruelty on an everyday basis. Want to be a man? Make my day, blow somebody away. Pissed? Buy an AK-47, it isn’t hard to do, and you’ve got a superb hunting weapon if your quarry is human.
Garrett’s suspicious gaze swung to Pudge. Pudge was still high on Garrett’s suspect list because Pudge could be dissembling, knowing that a confession to murder at a time long past the crime would be taken as a sign of innocence. “You heard the girl. So tell me about the weapon, Mr. Laurance.”
Pudge still hesitated, remembered horror in his eyes. “I…” he swallowed, shook his head.
Rachel darted to him, clutched his arm. “It’s all right, Pudge. Tell them.”
Pudge looked into her pleading eyes. “Rachel, I’m sorry. I should have known better.”
Rachel stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek.
His arm around Rachel, Pudge looked shamefaced at Garrett. “I guess I was a damn fool. But if you’d seen…” He took a deep breath. “I went to Happy’s room and opened the door.” His eyes darkened with remembered horror. “I saw Happy. It was terrible. She was…” He glanced down at Rachel, stopped.
Rachel shuddered. “I know. Alice came up to my room and she tried to make me stay, but I ran down the stairs.” Rachel pressed her hands against her face.
“Don’t,” Pudge urged. “Don’t remember that. Think about your mom the way she was. Remember her smiling.”
Garrett didn’t interfere. Instead, he waited and watched. Annie wished his face wasn’t quite so hard and disbelieving.
Rachel dropped her hands. “You found Mom.” She looked at Pudge. “Why did you run away?” Her voice was full of dread.
Pudge rubbed a hand hard against his eyes. “Just stupid. That’s all. I was afraid…Anyway”—he lifted his head—“I saw the poker there on the floor and one of your sweaters was lying not far from the sofa. I saw the sweater and I guess my mind snapped. I grabbed it and the poker and wrapped them up in an afghan and ran. I guess I’m just a damn fool.” Pudge sounded sick at heart.
“Was the sweater stained?” Garrett’s voice was sharp.
“No. Not at all.” Pudge shoved his hands through his hair. “It was dumb, but the minute I saw Rachel’s sweater, I panicked. If I’d had time to think, I’d have known better. I didn’t think Rachel hurt anyone. But—” he said miserably, “I thought the police might think so. Anyway, I grabbed the afghan, like I said, and wrapped it around the poker and the sweater and ran.”
“One of my sweaters….” Rachel looked puzzled. “What color was it?”
Pudge was still for just an instant too long.
Pete Garrett gave him a hard, thoughtful stare.
Rachel blinked uncertainly.
“Blue,” Pudge said finally.
“But I—”
“I’m not exactly sure.” Pudge spoke fast. “It doesn’t matter. I—”
“It does matter, Mr. Laurance.” Garrett swung toward Rachel. “I’ll ask you to check your clothes. See if there’s a sweater missing.”
Rachel simply nodded.
Annie was sure there was no missing sweater. Whatever Pudge saw, it wasn’t Rachel’s sweater. She was sure of it, and so was Pete Garrett.
Pudge lifted his head, his face stubborn. “Whatever. I don’t remember the color exactly. Anyway, I thought it was Rachel’s. Maybe I was mistaken.” He sounded relieved, as if facing the memory lessened its impact.
“Maybe you were.” Garrett’s tone was icy. He looked at Rachel. “We want to find out who killed your mother.” The words were gentle, but Garrett’s eyes were coolly observant.
Rachel’s pale face was determined. “Well then, let me tell you who did it.”