Caught Redhanded. Gayle Roper

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СКАЧАТЬ and stepmother sat in a rather rigid studio portrait. Beside them a ceramic cat that was washing an extended back leg lay toppled on its side.

      On the floor, beside a stone cat sitting with his tail curled about his paws, lay a picture, facedown. Much as I was dying to see the photo since you never know what might be a clue, I didn’t touch it. I hoped William would appreciate my discipline.

      In the neat, white kitchen a copy of today’s Philadelphia Inquirer lay on the table, opened to the puzzle page. Someone had begun working the Sudoku with a mechanical pencil that had a very worn eraser. The only other item not tucked away in a cupboard was a small glass with orange juice residue in the bottom. The back sliding glass door stood open, the screen pushed to the side.

      Can you say escape route? I was willing to bet this was the swishing sound I’d heard when I first arrived. I gave a little shudder. I had scared someone off, someone I was very glad I hadn’t met, given today’s circumstances.

      I peeked in the single bedroom where a faux brass bed stood, neatly made and covered with an Amish quilt in shades of blue and yellow. Blue and yellow curtains hung at the windows and once again everything was neat as could be—except for the night table whose drawer was wide open. An alarm clock and a book lay on the floor beside the toppled bedside lamp.

      I looked in the bathroom last and there the mess left no doubt that someone had taken things or at the very least been looking for something specific. The medicine chest had been emptied into the sink, its door left gaping. Bottles, toiletries and a box of bandages lay in a heap; the toothbrush holder lay on the floor.

      I wondered which one of Mrs. Wilson’s they had made the mess.

      I went back to the kitchen and stared at the open sliding door. Hot, humid air poured in, melding with the crisp air-conditioning. The view out the door was the backs of another five-condo unit, separated from Martha’s by a row of conifers that had grown both tall and thick. I wondered if people were at home in those units and if one of them had looked out at the right time to see who had run from Martha’s place.

      I stepped outside and felt my ankle turn again. At this rate I’d be walking down the aisle with a cane.

      I looked down at the concrete slab that passed for a patio and saw I’d stepped on the edge of a book. I bent and picked it up without thinking. I grimaced, but the damage was done. My fingerprints were stamped on the red leather cover with or over someone else’s, someone besides Martha.

      I grabbed my shirttail and held the book in it. Using the material to protect the pages, I riffled through it quickly. It was a diary or a journal, the kind with all blank, lined pages. Its pages were more than half filled with a pretty, straight up and down penmanship. By the dates marking each new entry, I could see Martha wrote in it frequently rather than daily. When I glimpsed the name MAC, I knew it was time to call William and grabbed my cell.

      I’d just pressed the 9 of 911 when the glass door on the powder-blue unit slid open, and Mrs. Wilson stepped out.

      Without a thought, I dropped the journal into my purse. No way did I want her to see it and ask questions about it, maybe even demand I leave it here. It was something for William’s eyes only.

      I needn’t have worried. She didn’t see me. Her eyes were red, and she kept sniffing and wiping her nose with a crumpled wad of tissues. She stood staring at the conifers for a few minutes. Then she took a long, shuddering breath.

      “Are you all right, Mrs. Wilson?” I asked.

      She jumped and turned, her eyes wide and fearful. Her hand came up to cover her heart when she saw it was only me.

      “You scared me out of ten years,” she gasped. She patted her chest rapidly. Then as fear fled, I could see suspicion replace it.

      “What are you doing here? Why are you in Martha’s house?” She began to move slowly backward toward her door. “I never saw you here before.”

      “Sure you did.” Maybe she wasn’t as sharp as I’d thought. “We talked out front.”

      She shot me a scathing look. “I know that. Before today. And you shouldn’t be here. No one should be here. Martha’s dead.” It was a wail. Clearly she’d cared for Martha. “I called the police and told them there had been people here. I told them you were here.”

      “Good,” I said, holding out my phone. “I was about to do the same thing.”

      She blinked, uncertain what to think of me. I couldn’t blame her.

      “How did you learn about Martha?” I asked.

      “That phone call? That was my friend Jennie. She heard about it on the TV.” Tears filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her wrinkled cheeks. “She was so nice.”

      “That’s what I hear.” I smiled sadly. “I wish I had known her.”

      Mrs. Wilson drew back like I’d slapped her and I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

      “If you don’t—didn’t know her, what are you doing here?” She shook her finger at me. “You go away. Right now.”

      “I want to wait for the police,” I said.

      “No. You go. Now.” Her voice quavered with distress, but her eyes were determined. She stepped back until she was at her door. She leaned, clearly reaching for something just inside. When she drew her hand out, I stared in disbelief at the object she held. She clutched the burglar bar for her slider and she swung it through the air with all the panache of a knight wielding his broadsword.

      “Go,” she ordered as the rush of air from her mighty swing brushed my face.

      “But—”

      “Go!” She took a step toward me, her weapon raised. Clearly her years with Sergeant Major Wilson and the army had rubbed off on her.

      Feeling like a Great Dane being chased by a miniature dachshund, I went.

      FIVE

      Being chased by an amazingly spry eightysomething-year-old lady was very unnerving, especially by one as intent on bashing me as Mrs. Wilson. When I jumped into my car, I half expected her to use her burglar bar on my windshield.

      Instead she stood panting on the front walk and I had visions of her keeling over on the spot from a massive coronary; all the blame would be mine.

      “But, honestly, officer, she came after me.”

      “Yeah, right. Hands behind your back.” Snick, snick clicked the cuffs. “You have the right…”

      As I drove away, I watched her in my rearview mirror in case she did collapse. The last I saw of her before a curve in the road hid her from view, she was giving the bar a final shake in my direction.

      Now that I was safe, I became very curious about the man who had lived so many years with a woman as feisty as Mrs. Wilson. Had the sergeant major been Special Forces or some such highly trained group? Had he come home from work each day and taught her all he knew? Was their home life the Wilson version of Clouseau and Cato in the original Pink Panther series as they stalked each other from room to room?

      I had just taken my seat at СКАЧАТЬ