Read Online Uncivil Seasons by Michael Malone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Malone
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could have known.”
The ruddiness of his complexion deepened in his neck and ears, and his voice dropped. “Did she say who?”
“Who what?”
He snapped, “Who killed Cloris.”
His tone startled me. “She gave the impression that she had somebody in mind, but she won’t say who. It’s just a dream. I don’t know why she chose to tell me about it. Even odder, she talked more about Bainton Ames than anything else. Another dream she’d had years ago, at the time of
his
accident; she dreamt that it was no accident. That it was murder. And she really almost had me convinced.”
Rowell kept rubbing his lips back and forth over the umbrella’s silver handle. He said, “Do you know who she was?”
I nodded. “A psychic. A mystic. She worked with you back when you were a solicitor.”
“She did not ‘work’ with me. She was somebody who came to the police and volunteered certain premonitions.”
“She knew where the bodies were buried.”
The umbrella twitched in his hand, and the knob scraped against his teeth. “You understand,” he said softly, “this woman is preternatural. You have no idea.” He turned around to me. “She’s also insane, Justin.”
“Insane? She acted perfectly normal. You know, I would have thought you’d be the last person to place any credence in…”
His face flushed. “She is
not
normal. How can you say she’s normal?”
“I mean, coherent, pleasant; you know what I mean. Obviously she’s not
normal
. Listen, Rowell, if somebody tells you they’re Jesus Christ, they’re crazy. But if somebody tells you on Monday that X is going to be killed on Tuesday and X is killed on Tuesday, it doesn’t make them crazy. It makes them pretty damn clairvoyant.”
Rowell nodded. “Or a murderer.”
“Good Christ. You’re not suggesting
she
killed Cloris? She wasn’t even in Hillston. For what possible reason?”
“For God’s sake, of course I don’t think that! Don’t be absurd! I’m suggesting you stay away from that woman.”
His command irritated me. “How much do you know about Mrs. Cadmean personally?”
His voice was curt. “I doubt I’ve seen her more than five times in the last fifteen years.”
“She never remarried. Was her marriage to, what’s his name, to Charles Cadmean, happy?”
“I have no idea. I assume so.”
“Is there any possibility she might have been involved with Bainton Ames? I’m sorry if this is awkward for you.”
He was glaring at me. “Why awkward?”
“I suppose because Bainton was Cloris’s first husband. And, quite honestly, people have said you were already involved with Cloris back when they were married.”
His mouth twisted to a sneer. “People?”
“They don’t say it critically.”
“They shouldn’t say it at all.” He put his hand on the door’s brass bar. “How I felt about her isn’t any of their business. And it isn’t any of yours.” His voice got loud enough to echo off the marble walls of the large empty space. “And I suggest you spend a little less time listening to Joanna Cadmean’s hocus-pocus, and a little more convicting the thug who killed Cloris!” The senator banged open the door, and his umbrella caught in it as it swung shut. When I tried to help, he jerked it free and started down the steps. At the curb, rain was streaming past the tires of the silver Mercedes he’d left parked there.
I was turning away, when, from behind the small, antique cannon fixed to the side of the stone steps, someone darted suddenly at Dollard with a long stick. I yelled “Rowell!” and sprang down after him, but I saw before I reached her that it was Sister Resurrection, even this late, haunting the streets, assaulting people with the promise of apocalypse. She was dressed as she always was. Rain beads hung from her knots of hair and ran down her shapeless sweaters, soaking into her split and laceless tennis shoes. Rain, like the world and the flesh, had meant nothing to her for many years.
She
The ruddiness of his complexion deepened in his neck and ears, and his voice dropped. “Did she say who?”
“Who what?”
He snapped, “Who killed Cloris.”
His tone startled me. “She gave the impression that she had somebody in mind, but she won’t say who. It’s just a dream. I don’t know why she chose to tell me about it. Even odder, she talked more about Bainton Ames than anything else. Another dream she’d had years ago, at the time of
his
accident; she dreamt that it was no accident. That it was murder. And she really almost had me convinced.”
Rowell kept rubbing his lips back and forth over the umbrella’s silver handle. He said, “Do you know who she was?”
I nodded. “A psychic. A mystic. She worked with you back when you were a solicitor.”
“She did not ‘work’ with me. She was somebody who came to the police and volunteered certain premonitions.”
“She knew where the bodies were buried.”
The umbrella twitched in his hand, and the knob scraped against his teeth. “You understand,” he said softly, “this woman is preternatural. You have no idea.” He turned around to me. “She’s also insane, Justin.”
“Insane? She acted perfectly normal. You know, I would have thought you’d be the last person to place any credence in…”
His face flushed. “She is
not
normal. How can you say she’s normal?”
“I mean, coherent, pleasant; you know what I mean. Obviously she’s not
normal
. Listen, Rowell, if somebody tells you they’re Jesus Christ, they’re crazy. But if somebody tells you on Monday that X is going to be killed on Tuesday and X is killed on Tuesday, it doesn’t make them crazy. It makes them pretty damn clairvoyant.”
Rowell nodded. “Or a murderer.”
“Good Christ. You’re not suggesting
she
killed Cloris? She wasn’t even in Hillston. For what possible reason?”
“For God’s sake, of course I don’t think that! Don’t be absurd! I’m suggesting you stay away from that woman.”
His command irritated me. “How much do you know about Mrs. Cadmean personally?”
His voice was curt. “I doubt I’ve seen her more than five times in the last fifteen years.”
“She never remarried. Was her marriage to, what’s his name, to Charles Cadmean, happy?”
“I have no idea. I assume so.”
“Is there any possibility she might have been involved with Bainton Ames? I’m sorry if this is awkward for you.”
He was glaring at me. “Why awkward?”
“I suppose because Bainton was Cloris’s first husband. And, quite honestly, people have said you were already involved with Cloris back when they were married.”
His mouth twisted to a sneer. “People?”
“They don’t say it critically.”
“They shouldn’t say it at all.” He put his hand on the door’s brass bar. “How I felt about her isn’t any of their business. And it isn’t any of yours.” His voice got loud enough to echo off the marble walls of the large empty space. “And I suggest you spend a little less time listening to Joanna Cadmean’s hocus-pocus, and a little more convicting the thug who killed Cloris!” The senator banged open the door, and his umbrella caught in it as it swung shut. When I tried to help, he jerked it free and started down the steps. At the curb, rain was streaming past the tires of the silver Mercedes he’d left parked there.
I was turning away, when, from behind the small, antique cannon fixed to the side of the stone steps, someone darted suddenly at Dollard with a long stick. I yelled “Rowell!” and sprang down after him, but I saw before I reached her that it was Sister Resurrection, even this late, haunting the streets, assaulting people with the promise of apocalypse. She was dressed as she always was. Rain beads hung from her knots of hair and ran down her shapeless sweaters, soaking into her split and laceless tennis shoes. Rain, like the world and the flesh, had meant nothing to her for many years.
She
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