"I actually believe you. Their tub is avocado."
I got to my feet, dusting off my knees. I ignored Patsy Bolton. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Roller. Your cat killed your husband in a freak accident," I said. I assumed this would be good news.
"NO!" Geneva Roller yelled, and even the lawyer looked astonished.
"Geneva, this is a reasonable explanation," Patsy Bolton began, giving her client a formidable stare, but Geneva Roller had no emotional restraints.
"It was his first wife, that Angela. It was her, I know it! She went in the house while I was at the store, and she murdered him. Angela did it. Not my little Patpaws!"
I'd had disbelieving reactions before, of course, though most often these came when I'd discovered the death was a suicide. So it sure wasn't the first time I'd found that people invest a lot in their theories. In a Jack Nicholson moment, I very nearly told Geneva Roller that she couldn't handle the truth.
"I'll take my check back. I won't pay you a dime," she hissed. I was glad I'd sent Tolliver to the bank.
Looking over Geneva's shoulder, I could see our car turning into the cemetery. Relief gave me courage.
"Ms. Roller, your cat caused an accident, quite innocently. Your husband wasn't murdered. There's no one to blame," I said.
She launched herself at me, and the lawyer caught her by the shoulders. "Geneva, recall who you are," Patsy Bolton said. Her cheeks were red, and her brown-and- gray streaked hair had become a mess in the breeze that had sprung up. "Don't embarrass yourself like this."
With excellent timing, Tolliver pulled up beside me. Trying not to hurry, I climbed into the car while saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Ms. Roller." We sped out of the cemetery while Geneva Roller screamed at us.
"Got the money?" I asked.
"Yep. Good thing? "
"Yeah, she didn't want it to be an accident. I guess she was hoping for an A and E documentary. ‘Murder in Ashdown,' or something." I deepened my voice. " ‘The widow, however, suspected from the beginning that Farley Roller's death was a ‘not what it appeared to be,' kind of thing. Instead, all she has to blame is her stupid cat. Kind of a letdown, I guess."
"It's a lot more interesting to be the wife of a murder victim than the owner of a killer cat," Tolliver said, but I had to wonder about that.
four
WE'D already checked out of the Ashdown motel, so we drove straight to Sarne. Tolliver went directly to the sheriff's office, and seconds after we sat down in the chairs in front of his desk, the sheriff came in, yanking his hat off and tossing it on a table behind him.
"I hear you went to visit with Helen Hopkins yesterday," Harvey Branscom said. He bent over and switched on the intercom. "Reba, send Hollis in," he said. A squawk came back, and in a minute Hollis Boxleitner came in, carrying a mug of steaming coffee. I could smell it from my chair, but I didn't ask for any, nor did I look him in the face. Beside me, Tolliver stiffened.
"Mr. Lang, I want you to go with Deputy Boxleitner here. I'd like to talk to Miss, Ms. Connelly."
I turned to look at Tolliver, trying not to let my anxiety show on my face. He knew I would hate for him to say anything out loud. I like to keep my fears to myself. He gave me a very steady look, and I relaxed just a little. Without a word, he stood and left the room with Hollis.
"How'd you make contact with Helen?" the sheriff asked me. His face was set in harsh lines. I could see the shadow of white whiskers on his face, as though his cheeks had been frostbitten. Lack of sleep made the lines across his forehead even deeper.
"She called us," I said, biting off any color commentary. Tolliver had always advised me not to answer any extra when I talked to the police.
"What did she want?" asked the sheriff, with an air of elaborate patience.
"Us to come visit her." I read the expression on Branscom's face correctly. "She wanted to know who'd hired me, and why."
"Sybil hadn't told her you all were coming?" Branscom himself seemed surprised, and he was Sybil Teague's brother.
"Evidently not."
"Was she angry about that?"
We looked at each other for a long second. "Not that she said," I answered.
"What else did you talk about?"
I spoke very carefully. "She told us she'd had a bad life for a while, but that she'd been sober for thirty-two months. She talked about her daughters. She was proud of both of them."
"Did she ask you about their deaths?"
"Sure. She wanted to know how I knew, if I were sure how they were killed. She said she would tell their fathers."
Harvey Branscom had been lifting his mug to his mouth as I spoke. Now the mug was lowered back to the desk. "Say what?" he asked.
"She said she would tell the girls' fathers what I'd said."
"The fathers of the girls. Both of them.
I nodded.
"She never would tell anyone who Teenie's dad was. I always thought she just didn't know. And Sally's dad Jay left years ago, after she put the restraining order on him. Did Helen mention any names?"
"No." I was in the clear on that one.
"What else did she talk about?" the sheriff asked. "Be sure you tell me everything."
"She wanted to know how I do what I do, if I thought my gift had come from God or the devil. She wanted to be convinced I knew what I was talking about."
"What did you tell her?" He seemed genuinely interested to know.
"I didn't tell her anything. She made up the answer she wanted to hear, all on her own." My voice might have been a little dry.
"What time did you leave her house?"
I'd thought about that, of course. "We left about nine thirty," I said. "We went by the bank on the way out of town. We got to Ashdown and checked into the motel about two, two thirty."
He wrote that down, and the name of the motel. I handed him the receipt that I'd tucked in my purse. He copied it and made some more entries in his notebook.
"What time did she die?" I asked.
He looked up at me. "Sometime before noon," he said. "Hollis went over there on his lunch hour to talk to her about Teenie's funeral. He'd spoken to her for the first time in a year or two, when he went over to tell her what you'd told him about Sally. Which, by the way, I don't believe. I think you're just trying to mine for gold here, and I'm telling you, Hollis ain't a rich man."
I was puzzled. "He gave me money, but I left it in his truck. He didn't tell you that?" Maybe Hollis just hadn't wanted to tell his superior I'd asked for it in the first place—though why, I don't know. Sheriff Branscom didn't think much of me, and it wouldn't have surprised him at all that I'd wanted to be paid (for something I do for my living!). It would have confirmed his poor opinion. Yes, I expect even poor people who want my services to pay me. So does everyone else.
"No," the sheriff said, easing back into his creaking chair. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jowls. "No, he didn't mention that. Maybe he was embarrassed at giving money to someone like you in the first place."
Sometimes you just can't win. Sheriff Branscom would never join my fan club. It's lucky I'm used to meeting people like that, or I might slip and get my feelings hurt.
"Where's Tolliver?" I asked, my tolerance all used up.
"He'll be in here directly," the sheriff said. "I guess Hollis ain't finished up his questions yet."
I fidgeted. "I really need to go to the motel and lie down," I said. "I really need Tolliver to take me there."
"You've got some car keys," the sheriff observed. "Hollis'll bring him over when they're done."
"No," I said. "I need my brother."
"Don't you raise your voice to me, young woman. He'll be through in a minute." But there was the faintest look of alarm on the round soft face.
"Now," I said. "I need him
"I'll check," said the sheriff, and he could hardly get up from behind his desk fast enough.
Most places, I would've gotten thrown in the cage or taken to the hospital, but I had gauged this man correctly. Within four minutes, Tolliver came in, moving quickly. Because Hollis was watching, he knelt at my feet and took both my hands. "I'm here, honey," he said. "Don't be scared."
I let tears flow down my cheeks. "I need to go, Tolliver," I said softly. "Please take me to the motel." I threw my arms around his neck. I loved hugging Tolliver, who was bony and hard and warm. I loved to listen to the air going in and out of his lungs, the swoosh of his heart.
He raised me up out of the chair and walked me to the front door, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. The few people in the outer office eyed us curiously as we made our way to the door.
When we were safely back in the car and on our way, Tolliver said, "Thanks."
"Was it going bad for you?" I asked, taking my hands from my face and straightening in my seat. "The sheriff thinks I made up everything I said, but the motel receipt was pretty conclusive."
"Hollis Boxleitner has a thing for you," Tolliver said. "He can't decide if he wants to go to bed with you or slap you around, and he's full of anger like a volcano's full of lava."
"Because of his wife getting killed."
"Yep. He believes in you, but that makes him mad, too."
"He's gonna burn himself up," I said.
"Yes," Tolliver agreed.
"Did he tell you anything about Helen Hopkins' murder?"
"He said he found her. He said she'd been hit on the head."
"With something there, something already in the house?
