“Did you think Beverly was physically threatening you?” Arthur asked quietly. He was sitting back in his chair, his gaze locked on me in a way I’d once considered flattering and exciting.
“I had a second of worry.”
“Weren’t you glad your bodyguard was there to handle it for you?”
I could feel my eyes fly open even wider, my shoulders stiffen.
Arthur looked pleased to get such a response. “Did you think we wouldn’t figure it out, Roe? Back when the Julius family turned up, we checked out your friends the Youngbloods. Shelby Youngblood and your husband have quite a history together, don’t they?”
“Martin and Shelby have been friends since Vietnam.”
“Involved in some murky doings after that, weren’t they?”
“What are you getting at, Arthur? You know Martin was out of town last night. Are you implying that one of the Youngbloods attacked Beverly Rillington because she gave me a few bad moments in the library?”
“There are telephones in Chicago.” Arthur had been leaning negligently back in his chair. Now he abandoned the relaxed pose and leaned forward, his hard eyes still fixed on me.
“So you’re saying that my husband was so upset that I had a few words with Beverly-in front of many witnesses-that he told the Youngbloods to beat her up.”
“I didn’t say that. But it seems pretty coincidental that after a decade of giving people grief, Beverly Rillington gets beaten within an inch of her life just after a quarrel with you and your bodyguard.” He gave the last two words a twist that was distinctly unpleasant. I began to think that Arthur had gone off the deep end of the pool without checking to see if there was any water.
“You’re certainly not suggesting that I did it,” I said reasonably, though I felt anything but reasonable. “I think Beverly has a few inches and pounds on me.”
“No,” Arthur said, never letting up on the stare. “No, not you. But someone who cares for you.”
I started to say, “What about someone who cares for Angel?” Because it seemed to me that Angel had been insulted publicly too, and if the theory that the incident in the library had sparked this attack held any water, Angel could be the inspiration for the beating far more feasibly than I. No one ever forgot Angel.
But expressing this would be tantamount to pointing the finger at Shelby, at least in Arthur’s present state of mind.
“So. You’re sure I didn’t hurt Beverly. So-why am I sitting here being questioned if you are telling me you’re sure I didn’t do it?”
And without pausing to give him a chance to respond, I gathered up my purse and stalked out of Spacolec. My back was tense with expecting him to call me at any moment, but he didn’t.
Like most of my grand gestures, this one was ruined by the situation I came upon out in the parking lot. Instead of sliding into my car and speeding away with a spray of gravel, I had to deal with two more angry people.
Angel was standing in front of her car, her face expressionless but her attitude tense. Beside her, talking into a radio, was Detective Paul Allison, who for once looked agitated. On the hood of Angel’s car, giving the impression of a spilled bag of garbage, was a battered black imitation-leather purse, gap-mouthed and leaking the miscellany of a woman’s life: comb, wallet, Kleenex, crumpled shopping lists, a tube of mints.
I recognized it. It was Beverly’s purse, surely the purse that had been stolen from her during the attack the night before.
Chapter Six
“Is this your car?” Paul Allison said sharply, hanging up the radio in its place in his vehicle, a tan Ford, pulled in next to Angel’s.
It took me a moment to realize that Paul was speaking to me.
“No,” I said. “Mine’s this one.” I pointed.
I’d known Paul, at least to speak to, for years, and he’d never changed; he was about five ten, slim, with light blue eyes and thin light hair, worn cut short on the sides and combed straight back. Paul was in his mid-forties. He had a sharp nose and a square jaw, thin lips and a pale complexion. If you were a civilian, you had to know Paul for a while for him even to register; he was that nondescript in appearance.
But from the time I’d dated Arthur, I knew Paul was unpopular among his fellow officers who saw Paul as being secretive, self-righteous, and charmless. Paul didn’t drink or smoke, and barely had tolerance for those who did; he didn’t hunt, or watch football, or even buy nudie magazines. His brief marriage to Sally had been his only one. Apparently, law enforcement was Paul’s life, as it had been for his former boss, Jack Burns.
“I told you it was my car,” Angel said with barely maintained patience.
Since I was keeping a sharp eye on Paul, I could see rage roll over his face like a tidal wave. He was so angry I was surprised to see there wasn’t a gun in his hand, that he wasn’t ordering Angel down on the ground.
“Paul!” I said sharply.
He blinked and looked at me. I put myself right by Angel. His eyes went from Angel down to me, back up to Angel, with the strangest expression.
Being weighed and found wanting was never a pleasant experience, even being found wanting by someone you didn’t give a flip for. I sighed before I said, “Could you explain why this purse is here?” It seemed safe to talk now; Paul’s face had resumed its normal color and his eyes were focused and sane again.
“I was just about to ask this woman the same thing,” Paul said, in a much calmer voice.
“I’m Angel Youngblood,” she said, in an equally cool way. “I found this purse on the hood of my car when I came to get in after coming out of the Law Enforcement Complex, and then the convenience store.” She nodded her head toward the Shop-So-Kwik about thirty feet from the end of the Spacolec parking lot. She had a little bag in her right hand. She waved it.
Paul made a gesture, and in response, Angel opened the bag. Inside was a little package of Tostitos, a Diet Coke, and a giant cookie in its own cellophane wrapper. “Hungry,” she said by way of explanation.
I had
“So the purse was exactly like this when you returned?” Paul asked. His voice resumed its normal flat, faintly sour tone.
“No, I opened it and poked in it to try to see who it belonged to,” Angel said with perfect logic. “I looked around the parking lot first to see if I could spot a woman who might have put it here, but when I didn’t see anyone, I looked inside. I was just about to open the snap on the wallet when you popped out of your car.”
Paul pulled a pencil out of his shirt pocket, turned the purse over on the hood of the car, and levered out the wallet. He stuck in the end of the pencil to work the snap, and unfolded the wallet with it. It fell open to a driver’s license. The picture and the name were that of Beverly Rillington.
I wasn’t surprised, since I’d been sure I recognized the purse. But Angel drew in a sharp breath, the equivalent of a scream for those of us who don’t count on danger as a way of life.
“Maybe we’d better go in and talk,” Paul said, and I didn’t think he was making a suggestion.
“No.” My mother would be arriving with troops if I didn’t get home and call her, and there was no sense in making more of this than necessary.
“What?” Paul had a puzzled expression, as if he hadn’t quite understood what I meant by “No.”
“When I drove into the parking lot and stopped by Angel’s car, the purse wasn’t there. When Angel went by my car, the purse wasn’t
Paul’s thin mouth curved in a reluctant smile. It was the first time I’d had a glimpse of what Sally had seen in him.
“Okay, Roe. But if you didn’t leave the purse on Mrs. Youngblood’s car, and Mrs. Youngblood didn’t, who did? Why?”
Angel looked down at me, and I knew our blank gazes were a match. But Angel could see when a thought reached my brain, and shook her head, a tiny gesture as firm as a hand clapped over my mouth.
