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Authors: Gayle Roper
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with mention of his temper, the bruises on her upper arms, the broken crockery, ending with a recounting of a visit to the dentist a week ago to have a broken tooth repaired.
I told him I walked into a door, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. I told Mac that if he ever touched me like that again, I was going to the police. I mean, he actually punched me in the mouth! As usual he made apologies all over the place, brought me flowers and told me how wonderful I was. No wonder he can convince people so well. Words are his stock in trade. I’m not sure about anything anymore except that I love him and he scares me. What a mess!
By the time I was finished, I was on my knees beside the toilet losing what little was left of my spaghetti dinner. I sat huddled on the floor leaning against the tub, my mouth tasting sour.
So Mac had come into her life again. That didn’t mean he had killed her. It didn’t. But what about Dawn? Would he kill Martha to keep Dawn from knowing about her? About his temper? His abuse?
And how did I know it was my Mac Martha was referring to? Surely there were other people in and around Amhearst called Mac. I just didn’t happen to know them.
I spent a long time wrestling with myself about turning the diary over to William. Even if it wasn’t our Mac, it would put him in a bad position because of his previous relationship with Martha. Once again, Mac to the rescue.
But there was really no choice, and so here I sat watching William read the damaging words.
After a few minutes of silence William looked at me. “Who else has read this?”
“No one.” I felt sort of offended that he’d even think I’d share something so vital to the case with others.
“Not Curt?”
I shook my head. Of course, if we’d already been married and he’d been there in the middle of the night, I’d have shared it. I also would have cried on his shoulder.
“Jolene?”
“Good night, no.”
“Mac?”
Again I shook my head. I had wanted to. I wanted to point to the April 20 passage and say, “Where were you that night? Tell me this isn’t you. Prove to me this isn’t you.”
Of course I couldn’t show him or ask him about it. That was William’s job. If Mac was involved somehow in Martha’s murder, he had to be held accountable.
Oh, Lord, please! Not my Mac.
William looked at me sternly as he tapped the diary with the Ticonderoga eraser. “You can’t mention this to Mac, Merry.”
“I know.”
“And you can’t write about this.”
I looked at him, utterly miserable. “I have to write something. What can you give me?”
“The investigation is moving—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Apace. That is absolutely no help.”
He grinned, his shar-pei wrinkles shifting like a crumpled sheet of paper suddenly smoothed. “You could help us locate Ken Mackey.”
“Is he a suspect?” Maybe he could take the heat away from Mac.
“We just want to talk with him given his friendship with the victim.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Wilson told Officer Schumann that Ken has moved out.”
“But not where he went.”
“She didn’t like him,” I said. “He was dirty and smelly.”
William nodded. “He races motocross. I’m sure he’s often both.”
I thought of the pictures of him that littered the Web. In each he was muddier than the last or he was tumbling head over heels into a fence or another rider. There had to be safer, cleaner ways to have fun, but dirty and smelly it certainly was.
“Mrs. Wilson likes the new boyfriend,” I said. “Mac.” Mac, who had taken Ken’s place, if not in the house itself, certainly in Martha’s heart. “I bet Ken resented Mac a bunch.”
“Maybe.” William let the diary fall shut. “But we have to locate him to find out.”
NINE
B efore I left home to meet with Sergeant Poole, I’d sent Mac several inches of story about Martha, the investigation, the murder weapon and Mrs. Wilson minus the burglar bar. Now I sat in my car and, using my wireless
I told him I walked into a door, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. I told Mac that if he ever touched me like that again, I was going to the police. I mean, he actually punched me in the mouth! As usual he made apologies all over the place, brought me flowers and told me how wonderful I was. No wonder he can convince people so well. Words are his stock in trade. I’m not sure about anything anymore except that I love him and he scares me. What a mess!
By the time I was finished, I was on my knees beside the toilet losing what little was left of my spaghetti dinner. I sat huddled on the floor leaning against the tub, my mouth tasting sour.
So Mac had come into her life again. That didn’t mean he had killed her. It didn’t. But what about Dawn? Would he kill Martha to keep Dawn from knowing about her? About his temper? His abuse?
And how did I know it was my Mac Martha was referring to? Surely there were other people in and around Amhearst called Mac. I just didn’t happen to know them.
I spent a long time wrestling with myself about turning the diary over to William. Even if it wasn’t our Mac, it would put him in a bad position because of his previous relationship with Martha. Once again, Mac to the rescue.
But there was really no choice, and so here I sat watching William read the damaging words.
After a few minutes of silence William looked at me. “Who else has read this?”
“No one.” I felt sort of offended that he’d even think I’d share something so vital to the case with others.
“Not Curt?”
I shook my head. Of course, if we’d already been married and he’d been there in the middle of the night, I’d have shared it. I also would have cried on his shoulder.
“Jolene?”
“Good night, no.”
“Mac?”
Again I shook my head. I had wanted to. I wanted to point to the April 20 passage and say, “Where were you that night? Tell me this isn’t you. Prove to me this isn’t you.”
Of course I couldn’t show him or ask him about it. That was William’s job. If Mac was involved somehow in Martha’s murder, he had to be held accountable.
Oh, Lord, please! Not my Mac.
William looked at me sternly as he tapped the diary with the Ticonderoga eraser. “You can’t mention this to Mac, Merry.”
“I know.”
“And you can’t write about this.”
I looked at him, utterly miserable. “I have to write something. What can you give me?”
“The investigation is moving—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Apace. That is absolutely no help.”
He grinned, his shar-pei wrinkles shifting like a crumpled sheet of paper suddenly smoothed. “You could help us locate Ken Mackey.”
“Is he a suspect?” Maybe he could take the heat away from Mac.
“We just want to talk with him given his friendship with the victim.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Wilson told Officer Schumann that Ken has moved out.”
“But not where he went.”
“She didn’t like him,” I said. “He was dirty and smelly.”
William nodded. “He races motocross. I’m sure he’s often both.”
I thought of the pictures of him that littered the Web. In each he was muddier than the last or he was tumbling head over heels into a fence or another rider. There had to be safer, cleaner ways to have fun, but dirty and smelly it certainly was.
“Mrs. Wilson likes the new boyfriend,” I said. “Mac.” Mac, who had taken Ken’s place, if not in the house itself, certainly in Martha’s heart. “I bet Ken resented Mac a bunch.”
“Maybe.” William let the diary fall shut. “But we have to locate him to find out.”
NINE
B efore I left home to meet with Sergeant Poole, I’d sent Mac several inches of story about Martha, the investigation, the murder weapon and Mrs. Wilson minus the burglar bar. Now I sat in my car and, using my wireless
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