If an autopsy could show Deedra had been punched while she was standing, that would surely be important. There probably weren't that many men, and even fewer women, in Shakespeare who could deliver such a blow, or who would even realize such a blow could be fatal. But if Deedra had been punched while sitting or lying down— in either case resting against a hard surface—well, that feat could be performed by a much larger pool of people.
Just at the moment I couldn't quite visualize how such a sequence of events could have occurred, but it was possible. Among the many things the sheriff had neglected to mention was Deedra's artificial violation. Was that postmortem or antemortem?
When I thought about it, a lot depended on the answer to that question.
And why had she been left out in the woods? It was really bad for the case for my innocence that the place she'd been dumped was off a road I frequented. There were other homes and businesses out on Farm Hill Road, sure. There was a car repair shop not a quarter of a mile beyond Mrs. Rossiter's house, and an antique/craft/flea market barn not a mile beyond that. That made me relax a little; the finger wasn't pointing so obviously at me.
Where had I been the night Deedra was killed? That would've been a Sunday. Last Sunday, though it seemed at least a month ago. Jack hadn't come that weekend; I'd done my usual chores on Saturday, the same list I was trying to complete this Saturday: two quick cleaning jobs, straightening my own house, shopping for groceries. I often followed that up by cooking for the coming week and freezing my meals. Yes, I recalled, I'd cooked Saturday night so I'd have a whole day on Sunday to do nothing much besides go work out, do some laundry, and finish a biography I'd checked out of the library.
And that had been exactly the program I'd followed on Sunday. No unexpected callers, no public appearances except the gym for an hour on Sunday afternoon. Janet and Becca had been there; I recalled speaking to both of them. I'd watched a rental movie on Sunday evening, and I'd finished the biography. No one had called. Typical Sunday evening for me.
What did all this boil down to?
I knew Deedra, and I took karate. I was somewhat familiar with the location where the body was found.
That was all.
And those same conditions applied to lots of other people.
No, I wouldn't let Sheriff Schuster get me panicked.
Not yet.
I'd automatically finished putting away my groceries, but I felt too unsettled to begin preparing my meals for the next week. It was almost suppertime, and the shadows of the tall trees in the arboretum across the street were making fringed patterns on the pavement. I tried to think of a reason to go out so I wouldn't be walking aimlessly. I decided to go see Joe C in the hospital. He didn't hear well over the telephone, anyway.
It was cool enough for a jacket. Track Street was quiet when I went out the front door. Carlton had mowed his grass for the first time, and the fresh smell released a puff of peace inside me—natural aromatherapy. That smell, when I was little, had meant home and Father and the proximity of summer. My troubles shifted, a bit; the burden was lighter.
A Bible verse flashed across my mind: "My yoke is easy, and my burden is light." The Book of Matthew, seemed like. I thought about that as I strode past Shakespeare Combined Church. After I'd been raped and scarred so horribly on my abdomen and chest, while the resulting terrible infection laid waste to my reproductive organs, my parents' minister had come to see me in the hospital. I'd sent him away. My parents had thought, maybe still thought, that I'd refused the consolation of religion because I was raging at fate. But it wasn't that I was asking, "Why me?" That's futility. Why not me? Why should I be exempt from suffering because I was a believer?
What had enraged me to the point of transforming my life was the question of what would happen to the men who had done such terrible things to me. My hatred was so strong, so adamant, that it required all my emotional energy. I'd shut down the parts of me that wanted to reach out to others, to cry about the pain and the fear, to be horrified because I'd killed a man. I'd made my choice, the choice to live, but it wasn't always a comfortable choice. I was convinced it wasn't the godly choice.
Now, pausing at the four-way stop a block away from the modest Shakespeare hospital, I shook my head. I always ran up against the same wall when I thought of my situation then; chained to a bed in a rotting shack, waiting for the man who'd abducted me to come claim me again, and holding a gun with one bullet. I could have shot myself; God wouldn't have liked that. I could have shot my abductor, and did; killing him wasn't good, either. I'd never thought of a third option. But in the years since then, from time to time I'd thought I might have been better off using the bullet on myself.
At that moment, in that shack, the look on his face had been worth it.
"What else could I have done?" I whispered out loud as I threaded through the cars in the hospital parking lot.
I still had no answer. I wondered what Joel McCorkindale would think of to say. I knew I'd never ask him.
Visiting hours were almost over, but the volunteer at the front desk seemed quite happy to give me Joe C's room number. Our old hospital, always in danger of closing, had been expanded and updated to suit modern medicine, and the result was a maze hard to decipher even with a floor plan. But I found the right room. There were people standing out in the corridor, talking intently in low, hushed hospital voices; Bobo, his mother, Beanie, and Calla Prader. If I had learned the family tree correctly, Calla was a first cousin of Bobo's father, once removed.
I was not ready to see Bobo again and almost spun on my heel to walk away until they'd left, but Calla spied me and was on me before I could blink.
I don't expect much from people, but I did assume she was going to thank me for saving Joe C from the flames. Instead, Calla raised her hand to slap me in the face.
I don't allow that.
Before her hand could reach my cheek, I'd gripped her wrist and held her arm rigid. We froze in a tense tableau. Then the fury seemed to drain out of Calla, taking her energy with it. The rush of angry color left her face, and even her eyes went pale and empty. When I was sure the purpose had left her, I released her wrist, and her arm dropped, dangling down by her side as if her bones had gone soft.
I looked over Calla's shoulder at Beanie and raised my eyebrows. It seemed apparent to me that Calla had just now found out about Joe C's will, and I wondered once again where she'd been when the fire started.
"I'm so sorry," Beanie said, mortified almost beyond speech. "Our whole family owes you thanks, Lily." And that must have choked her, considering the conversation we'd had when she'd terminated my employment. "Calla is just... beside herself, aren't you, honey?"
Calla's eyes had never left my face.
"Did you know, too?" she asked me in a low voice.
I couldn't complete that sentence mentally. I shook my head at her.
"Did you know that he's left me nothing? Did you know, too? Everyone in town seems to know that but me."
Normally I tell nothing but the truth, though I don't throw it around easily. But I could see that it was a good time to lie.
"No," I said, in a voice just as low as hers. "That makes him an old bastard, doesn't it?"
For all the violence of her feelings, that word shocked her back into herself.
Then she smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It wasn't a middle-aged, church-going, rural-Arkansas-lady smile. Calla's smile was delighted and mean and just a wee bit triumphant.
"Old bastards," she said clearly, "have to cope for themselves, don't they?"
I smiled back. "I guess they do."