Read Online Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly by Paula K. Perrin - Free Book Online Page B

until after the part about
meeting Fran, Meg, and Kirk in the hallway after finding Andre’s body.  He
said, “What did Fran do then?”
    My heart started to pound.  “She
said she had to call The Bird and find Max.”
    “So she went up into the
library to call.”
    “To the checkout
counter.”
    “When was the next time you
saw her?”
    I looked down at my white-knuckled
hands clasped in my lap.  I forced them to relax.  Fran had told me to tell the
truth.  I knew she was intending to tell Gene a big lie.  I wished I knew why.
    “Liz?  This is a murder
investigation.  I know Fran left the library last night.  Don’t try to protect
her.  You might end up hiding something I need to know.”
    The soft, smooth flesh inside my
upper lip was sore from me biting it.  Once again I felt near tears, and it
made me furious.  I never cried.  “So you’ll arrest me for impeding your
investigation?” I sneered.
    “Obstruction of justice.  No,
Liz, I said that because I was mad.”  He ran his long fingers through his
hair.  “Don’t you see I have to be impartial here?  It doesn’t matter what
I want to do or who I want to believe; there are things I have to do and
evidence I have to believe.”
    A river of ice poured through me. 
Was that a warning about Meg?  I rubbed my fingers across my forehead.  Why
hadn’t I woken Meg last night after Fran left and demanded to know what she’d
been up to?  Having failed to do that, why hadn’t I confronted her this morning
when I heard her yelling for the poodle?  Now I admitted it to myself for the
first time:  I was terrified that Meg had killed Andre.  It should seem as
impossible as I’d told Fran it was, but Meg had become someone I didn’t know.
    She’d always been vibrant and
energetic, passionate about causes, but with that had been inexhaustible
goodwill.  Now she was depressed, sullen, with occasional, unpredictable bursts
of violent anger.  Two weeks ago, she’d thrown Mother’s hobnailed pitcher
through a window.  Then she’d smiled.  She’d known that Mother loved that
pitcher more than anything in the world except Meg herself.
    When Andre had run over Mr.
Dickens six weeks ago, Mother had truly believed Meg would do him serious
injury.  I hadn’t been home, but Jill Ferguson had seen the whole thing.
    Meg had been turning the compost
pile.  Her old tiger-striped cat Mr. Dickens was frisking around the yard, glad
to have Meg home again.  Then, he’d gone into the street.  There’d been a
squeal of brakes, a terrible shriek from the cat, and the gold Mercedes had
come to a stop halfway down the block from the limp, crushed body of Mr.
Dickens.  Meg ran into the street screaming at Andre, using words Jill said
would make a sailor blush.
    “She pulled him out of the
car!” Jill said.  “It was like a police movie—she slammed that man
against the car and started beating him!”
    Mother came onto the porch and
called to Meg.  Andre was trying to defend himself but getting hurt.  Mother
made her way to them as quickly as she could.
    By the time she reached them,
Andre had managed to get hold of Meg’s wrists and was holding her away.  She
kicked him.
    Mother said, “Margery Macrae,
you stop that right now!  I hope to never hear such language from a woman
again!  You go into the house this minute.”
    “She almost swore at your
mother!” Jill told me.  “But your mother’s face was something
terrible—it would have taken paint off a barn!  Meg stood there a moment, her
face so white, and then she said to the man, ‘I’m going to kill you,’ as calmly
as if she were inviting him in for tea.  Then she pulled away and without
looking back went into the house.”
    Andre had said, “Thanks,
Claire, I thought she was going to tear me apart.”
    “It’s Ms. Macrae.  And you’d
deserve to be torn apart.  That cat you just ran over was more a gentleman than
you’ll ever hope to be.
    “Now I’ll thank you to