“What did you expect of that meeting Sunday night?” he asked abruptly.
“I don’t know what I expected. A miracle. I wanted someone to have an idea that would make the whole nightmare go away. Instead, someone went out and killed Morrison Pettigrue. My meeting really worked, huh?”
“That death was planned before the meeting. What bites me is that I sat there in the same room with whoever killed that man, hours before he did it, and I didn’t feel a thing. Even knowing a murderer was in that room…”He stopped, shook his head violently, and kept walking.
“Do the other police believe what you do, that one person is doing all this?”
“I’m having a hard time convincing some of the other detectives about the similarities of these two cases to old murders. And since the Pettigrue murder, they’re even less inclined to listen, even though when I saw the scene I told them myself it was like the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat. They almost laughed. There are so many right- wing loonies who might want kill an avowed Communist, only one or two of the other detectives are willing to accept that all these incidents are related.”
“I saw Lynn Liggett at the library today. I guess she was checking up on me.”
“We’re checking up on anyone remotely involved,” Arthur said flatly. “Liggett’s just doing her job. I’m supposed to find out where you were Sunday night.”
“After the meeting?”
He nodded.
“At home. In bed. Alone. You know I didn’t have anything to do with Mamie’s death, or the chocolates, or Morrison Pettigrue’s murder.”
“I know. I saw you when you found Mrs. Wright’s body.”
I felt a ridiculous flood of warmth and gratitude at being believed.
It was already late, and I did have to get ready, so I ventured, “Is there anything else you wanted to see me about?”
“I’m a divorced man without any children,” Arthur said abruptly.
Taken aback, I nodded. I tried to look intelligently inquiring.
“One of the reasons I got divorced… my wife couldn’t stand the fact that in police work, sometimes things came up and I couldn’t make it on time for something we’d planned. Even in Lawrenceton, which is not New York or even Atlanta, right?”
He paused for a response, so I said, “Right,” uncertainly.
“So, I want to go out with you.” Those hard blue eyes turned on me with devastating effect. “But things will come up, and sometimes you’ll be disappointed. You’d have to understand beforehand, if you want to go out with me too. I don’t know if you do, but I wanted to get this all out front.”
I thought: (a) this was admirably frank, (b) did this guy have an ego, or what?, (c) since he had said, “I don’t know if you do,” there was hope for him, though it had probably been just a sop thrown in my direction, and (d) I did want to go out with him, but not from a position of weakness. Arthur was a strength-respecter.
If took me a few moments to work this through. A few days before, I would have said, “Okay,” meekly, but since then I had weathered a few storms and it seemed to me I could manage better for myself.
I watched my feet pacing along the sidewalk as I said, “If you’re saying you want to go out with me, but that anything you’re doing is more important than plans we might make, I can’t agree to abide by such a lopsided- understanding.” I watched my feet move steadily. Arthur’s shoes were shiny and black and would last maybe twenty years. “Now, if you’re saying the police department has priority in a crisis, I can see that. If you’re not just providing a blanket excuse in advance to cover any time you just might feel like not showing up.” I took a deep breath. So far those shoes had not marched off in another direction. “Okay. Also, this is sounding very-exclusive, since we haven’t even been out yet. I would like to handle this one date at a time.”
I’d underestimated Arthur.
“I must have sounded too egotistical to swallow,” he said. “I’m sorry. Will you go out with me one time?”
“Okay,” I said. Then I didn’t know what to do. I looked sideways at him and he was smiling. “What did I say ‘okay’ to?” I asked.
“Unless I get assigned something I have to do, you have to remember this department is in the middle of a murder investigation…” As if I was going to forget! “… Saturday night? I’ve got a popcorn popper and a VCR.”
No first dates at a man’s apartment. By God, he could take me out someplace the first time. I didn’t feel like wrestling right away. My experience was limited, but I knew that much. Besides, with Arthur I might not wrestle, and I didn’t want to start a relationship that way.
“I want to go roller skating,” I said out of the blue.
Arthur couldn’t have looked more stunned if I’d told him I wanted to jump off the library roof. Why had I said that? I hadn’t gone skating in years. I’d be black and blue and make a klutz of myself in the bargain.
But maybe he would too.
“That’s original,” Arthur said slowly. “You really want to do that?”
Stuck with it, I nodded grimly.
“Okay,” he said firmly. “I’ll pick you up at six, Saturday night. If that’s all right. Then after we harm ourselves enough, we can go out to eat. All this is assuming I can have an evening off in the middle of three investigations. But maybe we’ll have it wrapped up by then.”
“Fine,” I said. I could accept that.
We’d circled the block, so we parted at our respective cars.
I watched Arthur pull out of the parking lot, and saw he was shaking his head to himself. I laughed out loud.
I hated being late and I was late for my date with Robin. I had to ask him to wait downstairs while I put on the finishing touches.
I’d bought the shoes and I was enchanted with myself. Robin didn’t seem surprised or put out at having to wait; but I felt rude and at a disadvantage, as if I should have something better to show as the end result of all this preparation. However, as I looked in my full-length mirror before going down, I saw I hadn’t turned out badly. There hadn’t been time to put up my hair, so I wore it loose with the front held back with a cloisonne butterfly comb. The blue silk dress was sober but at least did emphasize my visible assets.
I felt very unsure before I went down the stairs, very self-conscious when I saw Robin look up. But he seemed pleased, and said, “I like your dress.” In his gray suit he didn’t seem like the companionable person who’d drunk my wine, or the college professor I’d pelvically lusted after at the restaurant, but more like the fairly famous writer he really was.
We discussed the Pettigrue murder at our table at the Carriage House, where the hostess seemed to recognize Robin’s name vaguely. Though maybe she was thinking of the book character. She pronounced it “Cur-so” and gave us a good table.
I asked him to tell me about his job at the university and how it would jibe with his writing time, both questions he seemed to have answered before. I realized this man was used to being interviewed, used to being recognized. I only felt better when I recalled that Lizanne had “bequeathed” him to me, and right on the tail of that thought, Lizanne’s parents, Arnie and Elsa, were seated at the table opposite ours. The Crandalls, who had the townhouse to the right of mine, sat down with them.
I had a social obligation here, so I identified them to Robin and we went over to their table.
Arnie Buckley jumped right up, and pumped Robin’s hand enthusiastically. “Our Lizanne told us all about you!” he said. “We’re proud a famous writer like you has come to live in Lawrenceton. Do you like it?” Mr. Buckley had always been a Chamber of Commerce member and unashamed Lawrenceton booster.
“It’s an exciting place,” said Robin honestly.
“Well, well, you’ll have to come by the library. Not as sophisticated as what you’ll find in the city, but we like it! Elsa and I are both volunteers. Got to give our time to something now that we’re retired!”
“I mostly just help with the book sale,” Elsa said modestly.
Elsa was Lizanne’s stepmother, but she had been as pretty as Lizanne’s mother must have been. Arnie Buckley was a lucky man when it came to pretty women. Now gray-haired and wrinkled, Elsa was still pleasant to look at and be with.
I hadn’t known the Buckleys were friends of the Crandalls, but I could see where the attraction would lie. Jed
