Shakespeare's Trollop

I reminded myself there were other people in the building, while at the same time I made fun of myself for the sense of relief that gave me. Did I seriously fear harm from the assistant police chief and the fire chief? I told myself that was ridiculous.

And it might be. But I'd never feel comfortable in any kind of isolated situation with men. A glance out the window told me the sun was setting.

Jump indicated an uncomfortable straight-back chair opposite his desk. Frank Parrish was sitting to Jump's left.

"Here's your statement," Jump said brusquely. He handed me a sheet of paper. It seemed like years since the fire; I barely remembered giving this statement. There hadn't been much to include. I'd been walking, I'd seen the person in the yard, I'd checked it out, I'd found the fire going, I'd extricated Joe C.

I read the statement carefully. You don't want to just scan something like that. You don't want to trust that it's really what you said. But this did seem to be in my words. I thought hard, trying to figure if I'd left anything out, trying to remember any other detail that might be important to the investigators.

No. This was an accurate account. I took a pen from the cup on the desk and signed it. I returned the pen and stood to leave.

"Miss Bard."

I sighed. Somehow I'd had a feeling this wasn't going to be that easy.

"Yes."

"Please sit down. We want to ask you a few more questions."

"This is everything." I pointed at the sheet of paper on the lieutenant's desk.

"Just humor us, okay? We just want to go over the same thing again, see if you remember anything new."

I felt wary all of a sudden. I felt my hair stand up on my neck. This wasn't just routine suspicion. They should have asked me this before I signed my statement.

"Any special reason?" I asked.

"Just... let's us go over this thing again."

I sat down slowly, wondering if I should be calling a lawyer.

"Now," Jump began, stretching out his legs under the small desk, "you say that when you went to the back door at the Prader house, you used your key to get in."

"No. The door was unlocked."

"Did you ever know Joe C to leave the door unlocked at night?"

"I'd never been there at night before."

For some reason, Jump flushed, as if I'd been making fun of him.

"Right," he said sarcastically. "So, since the back door was unlocked, you didn't need to use your key. Did you have it with you?"

"I've never had a key to the Prader house." I blessed all the times Joe C had so slowly come to let me in. I blessed him for his suspicion, his crotchety nature.

Jump permitted himself to look skeptical. Frank Parrish looked off into the distance as if he were willing himself to be elsewhere.

"Your employer didn't give you a key to the property? Isn't that unusual?"

"Yes."

"But you're still sure that's what happened?"

"Ask Calla."

"Miss Prader would know?"

"She would."

For the first time, Jump looked uncertain. I pressed my advantage. "You can ask any member of his family. He always makes me wait while he comes to the door as slowly as he can manage. He really enjoys that."

Parrish turned his head to look at Jump with surprise. I began to worry even more.

"Are you planning to charge me with anything?" I asked abruptly.

"Why, no, Miss Bard."

The fire chief hadn't said anything since I'd come in. Parrish still looked uncomfortable, still sat with arms crossed over his chest. But he didn't look as though he was going to gainsay Jump Farraclough, either.

"Just tell us everything from the beginning ... if you don't mind." The last phrase was obviously thrown in for padding, as Southern and soft as cotton.

"It's all in my statement." I was getting a feeling I couldn't ignore. "I have nothing new to add."

"Just in case you missed something."

"I didn't."

"So if someone says they saw you elsewhere, doing something else, they're mistaken?"

"Yes."

"If someone says they saw you behind the house with a gas can in your hand, instead of in front of it seeing this mysterious vanishing figure, that someone would be wrong?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you dislike Joe C?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Answer the question."

"No. I don't think I have to. I've made my statement. I'm leaving."

And while they were still thinking about it, I did.

I would call Carlton's cousin Tabitha if they followed me and arrested me, I decided, keeping my pace steady as I headed toward the door in the police station. Tabitha, whom I'd met once or twice when she was visiting Carlton, was an attorney based in Montrose.

Gardner McClanahan, one of the night patrol officers, was fixing a cup of coffee at the big pot next to the dispatcher's desk. He nodded to me as I went by, and I nodded back. I'd seen Gardner the night I'd been walking, the night of the fire. I was sure that Farraclough knew that. Gardner's seeing me didn't prove anything either way except that I hadn't been trying to hide myself, but knowing he'd seen me and could vouch for at least that little fact made me feel better.

I crossed the floor, keeping my eyes ahead. Now I was almost at the front door. I tried to recall if Tabitha Cockroft's Montrose phone number was in my address book. I wondered with every step if a voice would come from behind, a voice telling me to stop, ordering Gardner to arrest me.

I pushed the door open, and no one grabbed me, and no one called after me. I was free. I hadn't realized how tense I'd been until I relaxed. I stood by my car fumbling with my keys, taking big gulps of air. If they'd put handcuffs on me ... I shuddered when I thought of it.

Logically, there was no reason for the assistant police chief, or the sheriff, to suspect me of anything. I'd reported Deedra's death, and I'd saved Joe C's life. I'd called 911, twice, as a good citizen. But something in me persisted in being frightened, no matter how firmly my good sense told me Jump Farraclough had just been on a fishing expedition.

"Hey, Lily."

My head snapped up, and my fingers clenched into fists.

"Did you hear the news?"

Gardner was standing on the front porch, blowing on his hot coffee.

"What?"

"Old Joe C Prader died."

"He ... died?" So that had been the reason for the requestioning. Now that the arson was murder - despite Joe C's age, surely the fire had caused his death - the investigation would have to intensify.

"Yep, he just passed away between one breath and the next while he was in the hospital."

As I'd anticipated, I'd lost another client. Shit.

I shook my head regretfully, and Gardner shook his right along with me. He thought we were both deprecating these terrible times we lived in, when an old man could have his house burned around him. Actually, I thought, if Joe C had lived in any other age, someone would have done him to death long before this.

Gardner strolled down the steps and stood beside me, looking around at the silent street, the night sky, anything but me.

"You know, they ain't got nothing on you," he said, so quietly someone a foot away from me would not have heard. "Jump just took against you, I don't know why. No one said they saw you in any backyard with any gas can. You saved that old man's life, and it ain't your fault he died of the fire. Nothing wrong with you, Lily Bard."

I took an uneven breath. "Thank you, Gardner," I said. I didn't look into his face, but out into the night, as he was doing. If we looked at each other, this would be too personal. "Thank you," I said again, and got into my car.

On my way home, I debated over calling Claude. I hated to intrude on his time with Carrie. On the other hand, they'd be married for years, and a few minutes' conversation now might save me some unpleasant encounters with Jump Farraclough. He wouldn't have tried to scare me into saying something foolish if Claude had been aware of his purpose.

Now that Joe C was dead, his estate would be divided up. I found myself speculating that the half-burned house would just be bulldozed. It was the lot that was worth so much, not the house. The arsonist had just taken a shortcut to eliminating the factor of the house and its stubborn inhabitant. Possibly he hadn't intended Joe C to die? No, leaving a very elderly man in a burning house certainly argued that the fire-starter was absolutely indifferent to Joe C's fate.

Once home, I hovered around the telephone. Finally, I decided not to call Claude. It seemed too much like tattling on the kids to Dad, somehow; a whiney appeal.

Just as I withdrew my fingers from the receiver, the phone rang.

Calla Prader said, "Well, he's dead." She sounded oddly surprised.

"I heard."

"You're not going to believe this, but I'll miss him."

Joe C would've cackled with delight to hear that. "When is the funeral?" I asked after a short pause.

"He's already in Little Rock having his autopsy done," Calla said chattily, as if Joe C had been clever to get there that fast. "Somehow things are slow up there, so they'll get him back tomorrow, they say. The autopsy has to be done to determine exact cause of death in case we catch whoever set the fire. They could be charged with murder if Joe C died as a result of the fire."

"That might be hard to determine."

"All I know is what I read in Patricia Cornwell's books," Calk said. "I bet she could figure it out."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked, to get Calla to come to the point.

"Oh, yes, forgot why I called you."

For the first time, I realized that Calla had had a few drinks.

"Listen, Lily, we're planning on having the funeral Thursday at eleven."

I wasn't going. I knew that.

"We wondered if you could help us out afterward. We're expecting the great-grandchildren from out of town, and lots of other family members, so we're having a light luncheon at the Winthrops' house after the service. They've got the biggest place of us all."

Little touch of bitterness, there. "What would you like me to do?"

"We're having Mrs. Bladen make the food, and she'll get her nephew to deliver it to the house on Thursday morning. We'll need you to arrange the food on Beanie's silver trays, keep replenishing them, wash the dishes as they come into the kitchen, things like that."

"I'd have to rearrange my Thursday appointments." The Drinkwaters came first on Thursday; Helen Drinkwater was not flexible. She'd be the only problem, I figured as I quickly ran down my Thursday list in my head. "What kind of pay are we talking about?" Before I put myself out, it was best to know.

Calla was ready for the question. The figure was enough to compensate me for the amount of trouble I'd have to go to. And I needed the money. But I had one last question.

"The Winthrops are okay with this?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral. I hadn't set foot in the Winthrop house for five months, maybe longer.

"You working there? Honey, it was Beanie who suggested it."

I'd been the means of sending Beanie's father-in-law to jail, and she'd taken it harder than her husband, Howell Winthrop's only son. Now, it seemed, Beanie was going to sweep the whole incident under her mental rug.

For a dazzling moment, I visualized Beanie hiring me again, her friends picking me back up, the much easier financial state I'd enjoyed when she'd been my best client.

I hated needing anything that much, anything I had to depend on another person to supply.

Ruthlessly, I clamped the cord of that happiness off and told Calla that I'd call her back when I'd seen if I could arrange my Thursday schedule.

I'd be needed from around eight o'clock (receive the food, arrange the trays, wash the breakfast dishes, maybe set up the table in the Winthrop dining room) to at least three in the afternoon, I estimated. Service at eleven, out to the cemetery, back to town... the mourners should arrive at the Winthrop house around twelve-fifteen. They'd finish eating about - oh, one-thirty. Then I'd have dishes to do, sweeping and vacuuming...

When Helen Drinkwater found that by releasing me from Thursday morning, she'd be obliging the Winthrops, she agreed to my doing her house on Wednesday morning instead of Thursday. "Just this once," she reminded me sharply. The travel agent I usually got to late on Thursday I should be able to do with no change, and the widower for whom I did the deep work - kitchen and bathroom, dusting and vacuuming - said Wednesday would be fine with him, maybe even better than Thursday.

I called Calla back and told her I accepted.

The prospect of money coming in made me feel so much more optimistic that I didn't think again about my problem with Jump Farraclough. When Jack called, just as I was getting ready for bed, I was able to sound positive, and he picked up some of that glow from me. He told me he was looking into getting a smaller apartment, maybe just a room in someone's house, in Little Rock, giving up his two-bedroom apartment. "If you're still sure," he said carefully.

"Yes." I thought that might not be enough, so I tried again. "It's what I really want," I told him.

As I was falling asleep that night I had the odd thought that Joe C had already given me more happy moments in his death than he had ever given me in his life.

As if in punishment for that pleasure, that night I dreamed.

I didn't have my usual bad dreams, which are about the knife drawing designs in my flesh, about the sound of men grunting like pigs.