“This isn’t right, Becker. There are too many holes. You can’t prove any of it.”
“We won’t have to,” he said, smiling. “The kid has already confessed.”
“What??”
“Just before we put him in the car, he said 'Tell Mom I’m sorry for everything.’ We all know what that means. We’ll get a statement from him soon enough, Polly. It’s over.”
“You’re making a big mistake, Mark.”
“No, you are.”
They pulled away, and I went back inside.
Things had calmed down some, back in the old Chapel of the Holy Lamb. The Schreiers had not moved from their seats and Mrs. Delaney was still sobbing. Nobody seemed to have noticed, or nobody seemed to care that Eddie Schreier had just been taken away in a police cruiser. The thin man was wrapping up the meeting, but I didn’t pay any attention.
“They just took Eddie away,” I whispered to George as I slipped back into place.
“Can they do that?” he whispered back.
“I don’t know, but they did. I’ll have to tell Carla, I guess. She’ll probably start praying all over me.”
After the final words were spoken, the crowd stood and began milling around. I pushed my way through the throng to get to Carla, who was supporting what was left of Mrs. Delaney. For a woman whose infidelity had just been made public, Carla seemed to be bearing up reasonably well. I touched her arm, gently.
“Carla?”
“Pauline. What is it?” Her eyes were clear and very bright. Her voice was even more child-like and breathy than usual, as if she were walking and talking in her sleep. She looked enormously relieved, almost euphoric, and very pretty.
“The police just took Eddie away for questioning, Carla. You should go to the station.”
“Don’t be silly. I can’t go anywhere,” Carla said and giggled. I wondered if she had taken one of those Seconals Becker said she had a prescription for. “I’ve got lots of people coming back to our place for a reception, “ she said. “Eddie’ll be fine. They’ll let him go. Jesus will look after him.”
“Carla, they think he murdered John and Francy. He’s in big trouble.”
“No, he’s not. Don’t you think that Jesus is watching out for him?” she said, still in that dream-like tone of voice. “Eddie’s a good boy, even if his father’s a drunk from the dump.” She giggled again. Then she touched my arm. “Land sakes, I’ll tell you, that’s a load off my heart. Now everybody knows. No secrets in the Lord, you know.” She smiled radiantly. Then she leaned very close to me and whispered in my ear. “Samson always knew, of course. It was a long time ago, before I found Jesus. But now he’s so very happy. He’ll be getting a son of his own.” She patted her belly with one hand, still keeping a tight grip on the weeping Mrs. Delaney.
“Oh. Well, congratulations, Carla.”
“Thank you. And thanks for telling me about Eddie. You’re a good person, Pauline. But I’m sure he’ll be fine.” I headed for the door, my brain so full I could hardly see.
“Polly? You okay?” It was Ruth. “Listen. A bunch of us are going back to Rico’s for a wake. You coming?” I looked back for one more eyeful of Carla.
“I’ll meet you there,” I said. It had just struck me. Nestled between Carla Schreiers breasts was Poe’s gold cross—last seen around the neck of a very happy, very alive Francy Travers.
Twenty-Eight
Who’s she? How’d she get to be so old?
What’s she done that’s good?
—Shepherd’s Pie
In all the whodunits I’ve ever read, the detective always gets a flash of insight right near the end and goes charging off alone to confront the killer. They always end up in grave danger, and the murderer confesses all in a coldblooded way while sharpening a knife to chop the hero up into little bits.
I’ve always hated that. Not the knife part—that’s exciting, because you know somebody’ll be along at the last second to foil the villain—but the going off alone part. I could never figure out how the detective, who was always so clever, so brave and so calm, would actually be so stupid at the same time.
Stupid isn’t hard. It’s easy. I know.
I told George I wanted to talk to Samson about Eddie, and I’d show up at Rico’s later.
“What are you up to?” George said.
“I’m just worried about Eddie,” I said. “Carla doesn’t seem to realize the danger he’s in. I just want to make sure Samson knows what’s going on, that’s all.”
“You want the truck?”
“No, thanks. I’ll get Samson to drive to Laingford to check on Eddie, and he can drop me off at Rico’s on the way. Either that or I’ll take the bush road home and grab my bike. I need the exercise anyway. You go along, George. I’ll be there later.”
I waited around until everyone had left. The Schreiers and Mrs. Delaney and the preacher were still inside. It was getting chilly and I regretted not bringing my Cedar Falls dinner jacket with me—the plaid flannel coat the locals wear with pride to everything but a funeral. When they came out onto the front steps, the sun went in behind a cloud. I was standing in the middle of the parking lot and it felt like the last showdown at the OK corral.
I moved toward the group slowly, with what I hoped was a friendly expression on my face. The preacher was holding up one side of Mrs. Delaney, who could barely walk, and Carla was on the other, still wearing that weird euphoric expression. Samson looked troubled when he saw me, as if he couldn’t quite remember who I was. He came to meet me.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Mr. Schreier, you don’t know me, but—”
“Of course I know you. You’re that woman lives with George Hoito, aren’t you? Carla’s told me all about you.”
“Nothing bad, I hope,” I said, laughing to show it was a joke. He didn’t get it. “Look,” I continued, “sorry to be a nuisance, but I don’t know if you realize that the police were at the funeral. When Eddie ran out after Freddy Einarson said, uh, what he said, they took the boy away to the station in Laingford.”
“Carla has told me that,” he said. “What’s your point?”
“Well, aren’t you the least bit worried?”
“Why should I be? Eddie’s done no wrong that I know of, so the police can’t do him any harm. They’ll bring him back as soon as they figure that out. If he has done wrong, then he’ll get what he deserves. I’ve got no call to be chasing off after him like a nursemaid. He’s a big boy.”
“He’s not that big.”
“Bigger than me, anyway. About as big as Freddy Einarson, you might say. Ever since he found out that Einarson was his real father, he hasn’t spoken a word to me. If I went down there, he’d just clam up, and the police would get the idea he had something to hide. He hasn’t, has he?” He fixed me with an eye and waited.
“How should I know?” I said.
“Seems you know a lot about this business, Miss Deacon. More than you should, maybe.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What’s your interest in Eddie, anyway?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” I said. “I’m worried about him.”
“You