“What?” murmured Elizabeth. She didn’t seem to be listening.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Elizabeth blinked. “Sorry. I guess it’s the heat. I was wondering what we were going to have for lunch.”
“And I thought you were getting nervous about being here with me,” Jake grumbled.
“No. I know you didn’t do it,” she replied.
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
But it isn’t a matter of faith, she thought, it’s just that I know who did it. Now how am I going to get rid of you so that I can find out why? Elizabeth assumed her most simpering smile, the one usually reserved for flat tires on interstates. “Jake, do you think you could go to Comfrey’s house and get some tomatoes from his garden? He said we could help ourselves, and I want to make tomato sandwiches for lunch.”
“Why don’t we both go?” asked Jake, getting up.
“Okay,” said Elizabeth.
When they reached the door, she stopped, as if something had just occurred to her. “You know, we’re almost out of iced tea. Why don’t I stay here and make some while you’re getting the tomatoes. You won’t be gone long, will you?” She asked anxiously.
“Ten or fifteen minutes,” said Jake. “Don’t let anybody in while I’m gone, okay?”
“I promise,” said Elizabeth solemnly. She stood on the porch and watched him walk out of sight. A moment later she was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PILOT BARNES slowed down to let a groundhog scuttle across the road. Had it appeared in his garden, he would have shot it without a qualm; the incongruity of this never struck him. “What did you think of that interview?” he asked the FBI agent.
“The Adair kid?” Garrett shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Remember at the time of the second murder, he didn’t leave the work site. That gives him a lot of witnesses for an alibi; but there’s still a chance he may know something. Our check on him didn’t turn up anything unusual.”
“He’s an Indian,” grunted Pilot.
“Oh, that’s no big deal. My great-grandmother was a Cherokee. That’s where I got my brown eyes. I still say he’s off the hook. In fact, those two might be in danger. Have you thought about putting a guard out there?”
“I don’t think they need one.”
“Better play it safe,” Garrett advised.
The deputy smiled. “Tell you what: I’ll compromise. I’ll send Dummyweed out to guard them.”
“Symbolic deterrent, huh? Might work. That will free you and McKenna to check up on the other people. Are any of the suspects from the first murder out of the picture now? What about the wife?”
“Nope. You saw her at the inquest, didn’t you? She got in last night.”
“She’s a possibility. Could have killed the husband and been seen by this Bassington fellow. Blackmail?”
Pilot thought it over. “Can we get a record of long-distance calls to her house? Or maybe get the Virginia police to search her place for blackmailing letters?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Garrett. “Anything else?”
“The girlfriend. She was out walking when the first murder took place, and right after that she left to do research at MacDowell.”
“So?”
“Yesterday she came back to get her guitar. Makes me wonder why she left it in the first place.”
“Check up on her, too,” sighed the agent. “You’re lucky we don’t charge you locals for computer time.”
Pilot felt the discomfort of obligation. “I’m mighty grateful to you for helping me out like this,” he said awkwardly.
“No problem, Deputy. You sure are putting in a lot of overtime on this case. Personal interest?”
Pilot shook his head. “I just want to clear it up before the sheriff gets back.” To show him what I can do without supervision, he finished silently. He can’t stay sheriff forever; maybe there is a promotion in this. He didn’t think it was going to happen, though. Pilot Barnes couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing some vital thread of the investigation, something that he might not even recognize if it were put before him. Duncan Johnson, he told himself, would have caught it in a minute. Pilot Barnes stared morosely at the Wise Woman of the Woods sign; it didn’t take a prophet to tell him he didn’t have a hope in hell of becoming sheriff.
Tessa Lerche, forewarned that the inquest would take place in an un-air-conditioned courtroom, did not wear black. In her beige linen suit, matching bone shoes, and touches of gold jewelry at the ears and throat, she seemed a cool and neutral observer to the proceedings inquiring into her husband’s death. In fact, she would not wear black at all except to the funeral; it seemed hypocritical in one who had lately been studying pamphlets on community property in divorce, and Tessa loathed the semblance of hyprocrisy. She gave her evidence of accompanying Milo to the site on the night of the murder, speaking in a clear, calm voice softened by sorrow. She had used such a voice once in a college production of Riders to the Sea, in the old woman’s speech: “They’re all gone now, and there’s nothing more the sea can do to me…” Traces of a brogue crept into her testimony, causing the more astute listeners to suppose her Irish by birth.
Stepping down from the witness stand, she took her seat beside Milo and listened to the medical evidence with the blank face of one whose thoughts were elsewhere. Once, at some particularly graphic phrase uttered by the coroner, Milo glanced at her, but she looked up at him with a half-smile and continued to study the placement of her neat little hands, clutching the calfskin purse in her lap.
When the verdict “murder by person or persons unknown” had been delivered, he escorted her outside, protectively watching for reporters with cameras, but none appeared. (Stuart Morton, editor of the Recorder, was off covering the 4-H camp. He would give the inquest the customary six lines on page three.)
“Thank you for seeing me through this,” said Tessa softly. “It meant a lot.”
Milo shifted nervously. “Are you driving back now?”
She looked up at him with moist eyes. “Will you think it terrible of me if I tell you I’d like to have lunch first? I guess I should get used to eating alone, but…” She trailed off, a quaver in her voice.
“Of course,” said Milo, wondering how she had managed to make him feel guilty. “Where would you like to go?”
Tessa sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I never notice what I eat any more. Only I couldn’t bear to be on public display in some local café.” She shuddered delicately.
After some discussion it was decided that the Rhododendron Inn, an Edwardian mansion outfitted as a tavern, would suit Tessa’s sense of propriety. Milo, checking his hip pocket for his credit card, agreed without noticeable enthusiasm. The Rhododendron Inn, half-timbered and decorated with farm implements on the walls, fancied itself the sort of place where George Washington might have dined, had he been willing to mortgage Mount Vernon to pay for the meal.
When they had been seated at a small pine table with a mason jar of wildflowers between them, Tessa whispered, “I hope they don’t serve that greasy country food!”
Milo, who hoped they did, said, “Why don’t you order a salad?”
Milo opted for the country buffet, leaving Tessa to quiche du jour and pumpkin muffins. He stayed in the buffet line longer than he might have had he been anxious to return to his table partner. He wondered if Tessa merely wanted to rehash the inquest or if she had something else in mind.
“How do you think it went?” she asked him, trying not to look at the steaming plate of pinto beans and fried apples.
“The inquest? Pretty routine, I guess.”
“I can’t help feeling that the police have someone in mind as a suspect, but that they don’t want to show their hand yet.”
“I doubt it,” said Milo between mouthfuls. “Since there has been another murder, I expect they’d arrest somebody if they could.”