Chase settled back on the couch. He knew where he was now. Miss St. John’s cottage. He recognized the chintz fabric, the jungle of plants. And the dog. The panting black mop sat near one end of the couch, watching him. Or was it? With all that hair, who could say if the beast even had eyes? Slowly Chase’s gaze shifted to the others in the room. Lorne. Ellis. Miss St. John. And Dr. Steiner, wielding his trusty penlight.
“Pupils look fine. Equal and reactive,” said Dr. Steiner.
“Take that blasted thing away,” Chase groaned, batting at the penlight.
Dr. Steiner snorted. “Can’t do much damage to a head as hard as his.” He set a bottle of pills on the end table. “For the headache. May make you a little drowsy, but it’ll cut the pain.” He snapped his bag shut and headed for the door. “Call me in the morning. But not too early. And may I remind you — all of you — I do not, repeat, do
“What wonderful bedside manner,” moaned Chase.
“You remember anything?” asked Lorne.
Chase managed to sit up. The effort sent a bolt of pain into his skull. At once he dropped his head into his hands. “Not a damn thing,” he mumbled.
“Didn’t see his face?”
“Just a shadow.”
Lorne paused. “You sure there was someone there?”
“Hey, I didn’t imagine the headache.” Chase grabbed the pill bottle, fumbled the cap off and gulped two tablets down, dry. “Someone hit me.”
“A man? Woman?” pressed Lorne.
“I never saw him. Her. Whatever.”
Lorne turned to Miranda. “He was unconscious when you found him?”
“Coming around. I heard his groans.”
“Pardon me for asking, Ms. Wood. But can I see that tire iron you were carrying?”
“What?”
“The tire iron. You had it earlier.”
Miss St. John sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lorne.”
“I’m just being thorough. I have to look at it.”
Without a word Miranda fetched the tire iron from the porch and brought it back to Lorne. “No blood, no hair,” she said tightly. “I wasn’t the one who hit him.”
“No, I guess not,” said Lorne.
“Jill Vickery,” Chase muttered.
Lorne glanced at him. “Who?”
The pain in Chase’s head suddenly gave way to a clear memory of that afternoon. “It’s not her real name. Check with the San Diego police, Lorne. It may or may not tie in. But you’ll find she has an arrest record.”
“For what?”
Chase raised her head. “She killed her lover.”
They all stared at him.
“This afternoon. It happened ten, eleven years ago. She was acquitted. Justifiable homicide. She claimed he’d threatened her life.”
“How does this fit in with anything else?” asked Lorne.
“I’m not sure. All I know is, half her job resume was pure fiction. Maybe Richard found out. If he did — and confronted her…”
Lorne turned to Miss St. John. “I need to use your telephone.”
“In the kitchen.”
Lorne spent only a few minutes on the phone. He emerged from the kitchen shaking his head. “Jill Vickery’s at home. Says she was home all evening.”
“It’s only a half-hour drive to town,” said Miss St. John. “She could have made it, barely.”
“Assuming her car was right nearby. Assuming she could slip right behind the wheel and take off.” He looked at Ellis. “You checked up and down the road?”
Ellis nodded. “No strange cars. No one saw nothin’.”
“Well,” said Lorne, “whoever it was, I don’t think he’ll be back.” He reached for his hat. “Take my advice, Chase. Don’t drive anywhere tonight. You’re in no shape to get behind a wheel.”
Chase gave a tired laugh. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“I can take him up to the cottage,” said Miranda. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Lorne paused and looked first at Miranda, then at Chase. If he had doubts about the arrangement, he didn’t express them. He simply said, “You do that, Ms. Wood. You keep a
Twelve
Light spilled from the hallway across the pine floor of the bedroom. Miranda pulled down the coverlet and said, “Come on, lie down. Doctor’s orders.”
“To hell with doctors. That doctor, anyway,” growled Chase. He sat on the side of the bed and gave his head a shake, as though to clear it. “I’m okay. I feel fine.”
She regarded his battered, unshaven face. “You look like a truck ran over you.”
“The brutal truth!” He laughed. “Are you always so damn honest?”
There was a silence. “Yes,” she said quietly. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
He looked up at her.
She sat beside him on the bed. “Tell me everything you learned today. About Jill.”
“Only what I read in the press file from San Diego.” He reached down and began to pull off his shoes. “The trial got a fair amount of coverage. You know, sex, violence. Circulation boosters.”
“What happened?”
“The defense claimed she was an emotionally battered woman. That she was young, naive, vulnerable. That her boyfriend was an abusive alcoholic who regularly beat her up. The jury believed it.”
“What did the prosecution say?”
“That Jill had a lifelong hatred of men. That she used them, manipulated them. And when her lover tried to leave her, she flew into a rage. Both sides agreed on the facts of the killing. That while her lover was passed out drunk she picked up a gun, put it to his head and pulled the trigger.” Exhausted, Chase lay back on the pillows. The pills were taking effect. His eyelids were already drifting shut. “That was ten years ago,” he said. “An era Jill conveniently left behind when she came to Maine.”
“Did Richard know all this?”
“If he bothered to check, he did. Only the last half of her resume was true. Richard may have been so dazzled by the whole package he didn’t bother to confirm much beyond the last job or two. Or he may have found out the truth only recently. Who knows?”
Miranda sat thinking, trying to picture Jill as she must have been ten years ago. Young, vulnerable. Afraid.
Or was the prosecution’s description a more accurate image? A man hater, a woman of twisted passions?
