The phone rang once. Twice.
It’s probably not her. It could be an Edith Neal. An Edwina Neal. Even an Elvira Neal.
Three times.
If it is Betsy Neal’s phone, she’s probably not even there. She’s probably on vacation in the Catskills—
Four times.
—or shacked up with one of the Zombie Bakers, how about that? The lead guitarist. They probably sing “Can Your Pussy Do the Dog” together in the shower after they—
The phone was picked up, and Tess recognized the voice in her ear at once.
“Hello, you’ve reached Betsy, but I can’t come to the phone right now. There’s a beep coming, and you know what to do when you hear it. Have a nice day.”
I had a bad day, thanks, and last night was ever so much w—
The beep came, and Tess heard herself talking before she was even aware she meant to. “Hello, Ms. Neal, this is Tessa Jean calling—the Willow Grove Lady? We met at The Stagger Inn. You gave me back my Tomtom and I signed an autograph for your gran. You saw how marked up I was and I told you some lies. It wasn’t a boyfriend, Ms. Neal.” Tess began to speak faster, afraid that the message tape would run out before she finished… and she discovered she badly wanted to finish. “I was raped and that was bad, but then I tried to make it right and… I… I have to talk to you about it because—”
There was a click on the line and then Betsy Neal herself was in Tess’s ear. “Start again,” she said, “but go slow. I just woke up and I’m still half asleep.”
- 47 -
They met for lunch on the Colewich town common. They sat on a bench near the bandstand. Tess didn’t think she was hungry, but Betsy Neal forced a sandwich on her, and Tess found herself eating it in large bites that made her think of Goober snarfing up Lester Strehlke’s hamburger.
“Start at the beginning,” Betsy said. She was calm, Tess thought—almost preternaturally so. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
Tess began with the invitation from Books & Brown Baggers. Betsy Neal said little, only occasionally adding an “Uh-huh” or “Okay” to let Tess know she was still following the story. Telling it was thirsty work. Luckily, Betsy had also brought two cans of Dr. Brown’s cream soda. Tess took one and drank it greedily.
When she finished, it was past one in the afternoon. The few people who had come to the common to eat their lunches were gone. There were two women walking babies in strollers, but they were a good distance away.
“Let me get this straight,” Betsy Neal said. “You were going to kill yourself, and then some phantom voice told you to go back to Alvin Strehlke’s house, instead.”
“Yes,” Tess replied. “Where I found my purse. And the duck with the blood on it.”
“Your panties you found in the younger brother’s house.”
“Little Driver’s, yes. They’re in my Expedition. And the purse. Do you want to see them?”
“No. What about the gun?”
“That’s in the car, too. With one bullet left in it.” She looked at Neal curiously, thinking: The girl with the Picasso eyes. “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re the one loose end. The only one I can think of, anyway.”
“We’re in a public park, Tess. Also, I’ve got quite the confession on my answering machine at home.”
Tess blinked. Something else she hadn’t thought of.
“Even if you somehow managed to kill me without those two young mothers over there noticing—”
“I’m not up for killing anyone else. Here or anywhere.”
“Good to know. Because even if you took care of me and my answering machine tape, sooner or later someone would find the cabdriver who brought you out to The Stagger on Saturday morning. And when the police got to you, they’d find you wearing a load of incriminating bruises.”
“Yes,” Tess said, touching the worst of them. “That’s true. So what now?”
“For one thing, I think you’d be wise to stay out of sight as much as you can until your pretty face looks pretty again.”
“I think I’m covered there,” Tess said, and told Betsy the tale she had confabulated for Patsy McClain’s benefit.
“That’s pretty good.”
“Ms. Neal… Betsy… do you believe me?”
“Oh yes,” she said, almost absently. “Now listen. Are you listening?”
Tess nodded.
“We’re a couple of women having a little picnic in the park, and that’s fine. But after today, we’re not going to see each other again. Right?”
“If you say so,” Tess said. Her brain felt the way her jaw did after the dentist gave her a healthy shot of novocaine.
“I do. And you need to have another story made up and ready, just in case the cops talk to either the limo driver who took you home—”
“Manuel. His name was Manuel.”
“—or the taxi driver who took you out to The Stagger on Saturday morning. I don’t think anybody will make the connection between you and the Strehlkes as long as none of your ID shows up, but when the story breaks, this is going to be big news and we can’t assume the investigation won’t touch you.” She leaned forward and tapped Tess once above the left breast. “I’m counting on you to make sure that it never touches me. Because I don’t deserve that.”
No. She absolutely didn’t.
“What story could you tell the cops, hon? Something good without me in it. Come on, you’re the writer.”
Tess thought for a full minute. Betsy let her.
“I’d say Ramona Norville told me about the Stagg Road shortcut after my appearance—which is true—and that I saw The Stagger Inn when I drove by. I’d say I stopped for dinner a few miles down the road, then decided to go back and have a few drinks. Listen to the band.”
“That’s good. They’re called—”
“I know what they’re called,” Tess said. Maybe the novocaine was wearing off. “I’d say I met some guys, drank a bunch, and decided I was too blitzed to drive. You’re not in this story, because you don’t work nights. I could also say—”
“Never mind, that’s enough. You’re pretty good at this stuff once you get cooking. Just don’t embellish too much.”
“I won’t,” Tess said. “And this is one story I might not ever have to tell. Once they have the Strehlkes and the Strehlkes’ victims, they’ll be looking for a killer a lot different than a little book-writing lady like me.”
Betsy Neal smiled. “Little book-writing lady, my ass. You’re one bad bitch.” Then she saw the look of startled alarm on Tess’s face. “What? What now?”
“They will be able to tie the women in the pipe to the Strehlkes, won’t they? At least to Lester?”
“Did he put on a rubber before he raped you?”
“No. God, no. His stuff was still on my thighs when I got home. And inside me.” She shuddered.
“Then he’ll have gone in bareback with the others. Plenty of evidence. They’ll put it together. As long as those bad boys really got rid of your ID, you should be home and dry. And there’s no sense worrying about what you can’t control, is there?”
“No.”
“As for you… not planning on going home and cutting your wrists in the bathtub, are you? Or using that last bullet?”
“No.” Tess thought of how sweet the night air had smelled as she sat in the truck with the short barrel of the Lemon Squeezer in her mouth. “No, I’m good.”
“Then it’s time for you to leave. I’ll sit here a little longer.”
Tess started to get off the bench, then sat down again. “There’s something I need to know. You’re making yourself an accessory after the fact. Why would you do that for a woman you don’t even know? A woman you only met once?”