Yawning over coffee the next morning, Marty was watching Cora water her flowers next-door when Pam appeared, white-faced, at her kitchen door. “Thought I’d better tell you in person,” she began. “Your friend the postman was killed last night. They found him on a street near his home early this morning. Said it looked like a hit-and-run.”
Marty put her head in her hands. Not poor, silly Mr. Myrick! Paul had always been jealous, but surely he hadn’t been envious of the harmless, middle-aged postman! Then she remembered the book. Did Brad Myrick see who had been in her house the night before?
With unsteady fingers she phoned the police.
“Have you heard anything yet?” Cora asked as they sat on Marty’s porch in the waning twilight.
Marty shook her head. “The police are trying to get in touch with Paul’s parole officer. They have no idea where he went, of course, but I know. He came here.”
Cora had offered to stay the night and Marty accepted, glad of her neighbor’s comfortable presence. Pam had been with her all day, but Pam had her shop as well as her own family responsibilities. Across the street, Ed Crutchfield yelled at one of his boys as the lawnmower struck an object in the grass. Earlier, when he heard about Paul, he had come over and offered to keep an eye on her house, and Marty was grateful for the suggestion. Just then she didn’t care how unkempt his yard became.
“How did Lynn’s pictures turn out?” Cora asked over after-dinner coffee. “Am I on display in the post office yet?”
Marty laughed as she put down her cup. “I’m not sure the ones of you have been developed yet. They might be still in her camera, but I know she has some in an album. It’s in a box in her closet. I’ll get it if you’d like to see them.”
“Never mind! You’ve been through enough. I’ll find it. You just sit there and rest.”
Cora had already started upstairs before Marty could protest and she heard her open the door to Lynn’s room and close it behind her. How did Cora know which room belonged to Lynn when she had never been inside their house before? she wondered.
The telephone rang as her neighbor came downstairs, and she perched on the arm of the sofa thumbing through Lynn’s photos as Marty talked.
“Not bad news, I hope.” Cora glanced up as Marty replaced the receiver. “Why, you’re as white as a sheet, honey! What’s wrong?”
“It’s Paul.” Marty stared at the dark street outside. She mustn’t break down. Not now. “He knows we’re here alone.”
“But how? Are you sure? Where is he?” Cora let the album slide to the floor.
“Somewhere nearby. Watching. Don’t leave me, Cora. Please!”
“No, no, of course not.” The older woman patted her shoulder. “But what about Lynn? Isn’t she in danger, too? One of us should warn her.”
“You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. Oh, Cora, would you?” Marty gripped her neighbor’s plump, freckled hand. “I’ll be fine — really. I’ll call Ed Crutchfield — the police — just hurry!”
“Yes, yes, but where?” Cora quickly gathered her belongings as Marty rushed her to the door, spouting directions all the while.
She had the receiver in her hand as her neighbor’s car pulled away. The same officer answered who had just telephoned her about Paul’s death. Police had found him earlier in some distant fleabag hotel, dead of alcohol poisoning, he’d told her.
“Please send someone out to check on my daughter at Camp Daisy on Red Bridge Road,” Marty told him, “and I think you might want to look into the background of my neighbor, Cora Lundy, as well. If you’ll take a good look at that dent in her bumper when she gets back from her wild-goose chase in the next county, I believe you’ll learn who killed Brad Myrick last night.”
“How in the world did you know?” Pam asked after Cora was handcuffed and led away. “Sweet little gray-haired Cora! I never would’ve suspected.”
“Sweet little Cora just about had apoplexy when she thought Lynn had taken her picture,” Marty said. “We teased her about it — said we were going to put it on the bulletin board in the post office.”
“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen her photo in the newspaper, even with all the clubs she belongs to,” Pam mused.
“And then I said that about wanting to kill Paul,” Marty continued. “Honestly, I never guessed she’d done away with three husbands before coming here. They’ve been looking for her for years.”
Pam sat on the living room floor sipping tea. “Then it was Cora who moved the fern and broke your lilac. But why?”
“By accident, I think. She must’ve been trying to see if we were at home so she could get inside and find that film.”
Pam frowned. “But why the dead bird, the broken bottle?”
“When I started asking questions, she needed someone to blame,” Marty explained. “She knew I was terrified that Paul might find us, so he made a natural scapegoat. And I’d said something about Paul’s fondness for sour mash earlier. Remember the neighborhood Christmas party? Somebody was drinking it and I mentioned to Cora that I couldn’t stand the smell.”
Pam stared into her cup. “And poor Mr. Myrick probably saw Cora prying about here last night when he came to leave Lynn the book.”
Marty nodded. “I think so. And this morning when I thought she was watering her flowers, Cora was actually washing his blood from her car. I wondered why she’d be watering after that big rain we had last night.”
Pam looked at her in silence for a minute. “But Marty, when did you really know?”
“Not until the police called to tell me they’d found Paul. Cora had gone up to Lynn’s room, and it all came together. If it wasn’t Paul, then who was it? It was obvious that Cora wanted that film.
“Lynn was in danger, and so was I, but I couldn’t let her think I suspected a thing.”
“So you made her think he was really out there watching.” Pam smiled. “Cora must’ve been scared to death.”
“Not half as much as I was,” Marty admitted. “And if she only knew, it could all have been avoided.”
Pam frowned. “Only knew what?”
“I should’ve mentioned it earlier, but she made such an issue of it, I was afraid I’d hurt her feelings, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.” Marty began to laugh. “When Lynn took those photos of Cora, she forgot to put film in the camera.”
Copyright © 2009 Mignon F. Ballard
Too Late
by Nolen Harsh
Copyright © 2009 Nolen Harsh