I never regretted my role, because it meant Alex and I could be together constantly. My rude awakening occurred five years ago when I discovered he was having an affair with our live-in maid. It was a knife in my heart! Not only had he betrayed me, but he had consorted with the commonest of females — a girl from the Mull tribe. I dismissed her at once.
But worse was yet to come. It was the shattering news that she was pregnant and expected to marry her. Sandy, as she impudently called him. After a brief moment of panic, I steeled myself and devised a constructive solution. I would arrange to send her away for an abortion and pay her to relocate in another state.
But no! Her mother. a woman of dubious reputation, influenced her to decline the abortion and file a paternity suit. My God! That such a calamity should happen to our branch of the family! I was infuriated by the arrogance of these people! In desperation I approached one of Alex's boyhood acquaintances and enlisted his cooperation.
Let me explain. When Alex and I were young, Father insisted that we attend public school in Pickax, expecting democratization to shape our life attitudes. On the contrary, we were harassed by the hateful middle-class children. I used my wits to keep them in their place. but Alex was weak and an easy target for their cruelty. I was obliged to go to his rescue.
I hired the school bully — with my own money — to keep Alex's tormentors in line. He continued as bodyguard and avenger until Father saw fit to send us to better schools in the East.
Five years ago — in our new hour of trouble — I begged the same man to convince the Mull girl to submit to an abortion and leave town permanently, in return for a generous financial arrangement, of course. Lest the support payments be traced to their source, it was agreed that cash would regularly be turned over to our intermediary — to be forwarded. less his commission, to the girl. This subterfuge was my idea. How clever I thought I was! Actually, how naive!
At the time of the girl's departure there was a cave-in at Three Pines Mine, on the heels of which that thoroughly amoral and despicable man gloatingly informed us that she was buried a thousand feet underground and would make no more trouble. He pointed out, however, that we were accomplices before the fact.
The deed was done! No amount of remorse would undo the crime. It remained only to avoid scandal at all costs. The cash payments continued, increasing regularly with inflation and the man's greed. But, at least, Alex and I felt safe, and we had each other.
Then, to my horror, Qwill, you arrived on the scene and raised questions about the missing housemaid — although how your suspicions were prompted, I cannot fathom. It came to our attention that you were talking freely about the matter and interviewing possible witnesses.
The two men agreed between themselves that the two witnesses should be silenced, and I reluctantly agreed. What else could I do? But when they discussed ways to stop your meddling, Qwill, I was appalled! I pointed out that your death would mean the loss of billions of dollars in Moose County. My arguments accounted for nothing. They cared only about saving their own skins.
You have suspected a plot against your life, and you were right to do so. You have misidentified the conspirators, however. Now you know the truth.
For five years [have lived with this specter of guilt and fear. [t was bearable only because I had saved the family from unthinkable scandal-and because I had Alex's love.
And then he broke the terrible news that he was bringing a «brilliant» young attorney to Pickax as a partner ill the firm and — this was the crushing blow — as a wife!
[t was more than I could bear. My lifetime of sacrifice and devotion was thrown aside in a moment. I had involved myself in heinous crime, only to have it end like this — only' to be cast aside.
What could I do? There was only one was to stop it. In a frenzy of desperation I confronted Alex and threatened to reveal his complicity in three murders. The instant the words were out of my mouth I realized I had made a fatal mistake. My God! The hatred in my brother's eyes! How can I describe the rage and vengeance that contorted my brother's features — the face that I had thought so beautiful!
Forgive me if I appear melodramatic, but I now fear for my life. I fear that every day may be my last. A bullet from the same rifle that killed the farm girl will be quick and merciful, or they will devise a means that will simulate an accident or suicide.
In any event, Mrs. Fulgrove will mail this letter, and I am following your example in preparing letters for the prosecutor and the media, naming the brute who killed the pregnant girl, burying her alive in a mineshaft, who arranged a friendly drink with her mother and drugged the whiskey, who fired a single perfect shot at a girl on a farm tractor.
You are not safe, and the future of Moose County is at stake, until these two men are apprehended and brought to justice.
Yours in good faith. Penelope Goodwinter
16
The shriek of a bomb and the boom of a cannon shattered his frightening dream of global war. He struggled to shake off sleep.
Another boom! Was it a figment of his dream, or was something battering the bedroom door?
Boom! Qwilleran rolled out of bed and groped his way to the door, staggering with sleep. He stopped, listened, reached cautiously for the doorknob. He yanked it open! And a cat hurtled into the room.
Koko had been throwing his weight against the securely latched door, trying to break it down. Now, with stentorian yowls that turned to shrieks, he raced to the staircase.
Qwilleran, not stopping for slippers or robe or light switches, followed as fast as he could while the cat rushed ahead, swooping downstairs, bounding back upstairs to scold vehemently, then flying down again in one liquid movement.
The house was in darkness, save for a dim glow from streetlights on the Circle. Qwilleran moved warily toward the rear of the house where Koko was leading him, now in stealthy silence. Reaching the library, the man heard the back door being unlocked and slowly opened, and he saw a dark bulky figure moving furtively through the entry hall. Qwilleran stepped aside, shielded by the Pennsylvania schrank, while a white blur rose to the top of the seven-foot wardrobe.
Unmindful of the cold stone floor under his feet but thinking wildly of baseball bats and crowbars, Qwilleran watched the intruder pass the broom closet, hesitate at the kitchen door, then enter the large square service hall where the schrank stood guard. There was not a sound. Qwilleran could hear his own heartbeat. Koko was somewhere over- head, crouching between two large, rare, and valuable majolica vases.
As the dark figure edged closer, Qwilleran reached for the toprail of an antique chair, but it was wobbly with age and would shatter if used as a weapon. Just then he heard a barely audible «ik-ik» on top of the schrank, and he remembered the pickax in the library. He slipped into the shadows to grope for it. There were only seconds to spare!
His hand was closing around the sturdy handle when a confusion of sounds broke the silence: a thump, a clatter, a man's outcry, and a loud thud-followed by the unmistakable crash of an enormous ceramic vase on a stone floor.
Qwilleran sprang forward with the pickax raised, bellowing threats, towering over the figure that now lay prone.
With squeals and shrieks Mrs. Cobb rushed downstairs, and the house flooded with light.
"Call the police," Qwilleran shouted, "before I bash his brains!" The man lay groaning, one arm twisted at a grotesque angle and one foot in the cats' spilled commode. The shards of majolica were scattered around him, and Koko was sniffing in the pocket of his old army jacket.