LITTLE TASKS consumed the rest of my day. I had to stop by the dry cleaner's and go to the grocery store with a list of ingredients for the supper I was going to cook Martin the next night. I did my laundry and a little ironing. I sent Amina and her husband a "congratulations" card and a copy of Dr. Spock's famous book on baby care.
And I went by the library to check out some books. Every time I went into my former place of employment, I felt a pang of regret. There were so many things I missed about working there; seeing all the new books first (and free), having a chance to see and learn about so many people in the town I wouldn't run across otherwise, the companionship among the librarians, just being in the presence of so many books.
What I didn't miss was the companionship of Lillian Schmidt. So of course it was Lillian who was at the checkout desk today. I politely asked after Tonia Lee's mother and got a blow-by-blow account of Mrs. Purdy's collapse after the funeral and her continued depression, Mrs. Purdy's relief on hearing there had been an arrest, Mrs. Purdy's horror and disbelief on hearing who was being questioned, Mrs. Purdy's confusion on hearing that there was no concrete proof against Jimmy Hunter.
"Oh, that's great!" I said involuntarily.
Lillian was affronted. Her oversized bosom heaved under its striped polyester covering. "I just think it's one of those technicalities," she said. "I bet they'll be sorry when some other woman gets killed in her bed."
I forbore remarking that the bed Tonia Lee had been killed in was not exactly her own. "If someone else does die, it won't be because Jimmy Hunter wasn't arrested," I said firmly if confusingly, and picked up my books.
By the time I got home and unloaded my car, it was a little after four, and becoming dark and colder. This was getting close to the time of day Tonia Lee had been killed. With no other car having been seen in the driveway, the police had thought Mackie might be involved, since he ran every evening at this time. I thought the theory was sound, even though they'd had the wrong person. This evening, I'd walk myself. Just to see what could be seen.
Twenty minutes later I was shaking my head and muttering to myself. The streets were practically teeming with walkers and joggers. I had had no idea that the residential areas of Lawrenceton were so busy at an hour I normally associated with winding down and preparing supper. Every other block, it seemed, I passed another walker, or a runner, or a biker. Sometimes two. Everyone in town was out in the streets! Arms swinging energetically, Walkmans (Walkmen?) fixed on ears, expensive athletic shoes pounding the pavement ... it was amazing.
I was heading toward the Anderton house, of course, walking at as swift a clip as I could manage. I passed Mackie, running in a sweatshirt and gym shorts, pouring sweat in the chilly air; he gave me the quick nod that was apparently all that was expected of runners. Next I saw Franklin Farrell, keeping in trim for all those ladies, running at a more moderate pace, his long legs muscular and lean. No wonder he seemed so much younger than I knew he must be. True to his nature, he managed an intimate smile even through his careful breathing. Eileen and Terry marched by together, weights on their ankles and wrists, arms swinging in unison, not talking, and keeping a pace I knew would have me panting in minutes.
This was much more interesting than my exercise video. All these people, including half the real estate community, all out and about at the time the murderer must have arrived at the Anderton house. Even Mark Russell, the farm broker, strode by, in an expensive walking outfit from the Sports Kitter shop. And perfect Patty Cloud, bless my soul, in an even more expensive pale pink a silky- looking running suit, her hair drawn up and back into a perky ponytail with matching pink bow. Patty even jogged correctly.
And here came Jimmy Hunter on a very fancy bike.
"Jimmy!" I said happily. He pulled to a stop and shook my hand.
"Susu told me you came by yesterday when everyone else was staying away," he said gruffly. "Thanks."
"Are you okay?" I asked inadequately. He'd been through such an ordeal.
"I will be," he said, shaking his head slightly as though a fly were circling it. "It's going to be hard getting over this feeling that everyone was against me, that everyone believed I'd done it, right off the bat."
"Susu okay?"
"She's tired, but she's regrouping. We have a lot to talk about. I think we'll leave the kids with their aunt and uncle for a while."
"I hope everything--" I floundered. "I'm really glad you're home," I finally said.
"Thanks again, Roe," he said, and wheeled away.
Seconds later I was in front of the Anderton house, its Select Realty sign still stuck forlornly in the yard, doomed to be frosted and snowed upon all winter and covered with the quick grass of spring and the weeds of summer, I was sure.
I didn't think the Anderton house, or the little ranch-style where we'd found Idella, would sell anytime soon.
After all, these deaths hardly seemed to be the work of a random killer, striking where he could find a woman alone.
I wondered if anyone had seen a car at the house where Idella'd been found.
A client arriving by foot would have been unusual, even unnerving: especially to Idella, who'd already been made nervous by Tonia Lee's death, who'd already heard that the police suspected someone of arriving at the Anderton house on foot ... surely she'd have run screaming from the house instantly?
Yes, if it had been a random client who called to set up an appointments But not if it had been someone she knew, someone who said, maybe, "My run (or my bike ride) takes me by there, so I'll see you at the Westley house," or something of the sort. And what more impersonal place to kill than someone else's empty house? You could just leave the body where it fell. The killer hadn't had a chance to divert suspicion, hadn't had the opportunity to move Idella's car somewhere else; since it had been dusk, not dark, when Idella had been murdered, her car couldn't have been moved without the driver being seen. Idella had had to be silenced quickly or she would have told what she knew ... and Donnie Greenhouse thought she knew who'd killed his wife.
There he was now, as if my thinking of him had conjured him up, alternately walking and jogging, dressed in ancient dark blue sweats. He was dangerously hard to see in the gathering dark. I could just make out the features of his face.
"Roe Teagarden," he said by way of greeting. "What are you doing out tonight?"
"Walking, like everyone else in Lawrenceton."
He laughed without humor. "Decided to join the crowd, huh? I come here every evening," he said with an abrupt change in tone. "I come stand here while I'm out running. I think about Tonia Lee, about what she was like."
This was weird.
A car went by, its headlights underlining the suddenly increasing darkness. I had a rather long walk home. I began to shift my feet uneasily.
"She was quite a woman, Roe. But you knew her. She was one of a kind."