The Edge

Chapter Thirty-Three

I looked on as Maggie watched them put her lover into a body bag. Two men heaved the body bag up into the coroner's van and slammed the doors. She just stood there, watching the van disappear around a curve about half a mile away from Rob Morrison's cottage.

She'd looked only once at his body, her hand covering her nose and mouth, then walked away and said nothing to any of us for at least ten minutes. Then we'd waited for nearly an hour before the Salem coroner's office and forensic guy showed up, Detective Minton Castanga in charge. Until now, he'd said nothing at all to Maggie, done nothing more than greeted us.

It had started raining just as the coroner's van pulled away. Castanga motioned all of us into the house.

"Talk to me," he said, and sat down on Rob Morrison's sofa.

We told him everything, except we told him we broke into the house after finding the body.

Castanga scratched his chin with his pen and said, "Now, let me get this exactly straight. You federal people have been all over this town for nearly a week now, then you four came here expecting to find Mac's sister, Jilly. Or because Morrison might know where she is?"

"That's right," I said. Laura sat beside me, listing slightly to the left, against my shoulder.

"Do you have any idea who killed Rob Morrison?" He lifted a beautifully polished red apple from the full bowl on top of the coffee table, rubbed it on his jacket arm, and took a big bite.

"None of us know who killed Rob Morrison," I said. "None of us know anything about this. His murder must somehow be connected to the drug operation that's being investigated, but we have no direct knowledge of that. We were just looking around, saw the shed door hanging open, and checked it out.

There was Morrison, dead." So the door hadn't been exactly open. I didn't think Castanga needed to know we were searching Morrison's property.

"Two gunshots in the middle of the back," Castanga said. "Someone wanted him gone and took care of it efficiently. It appears he's been dead for at least four days." Castanga put down the apple core on the polished coffee table, frowned, then gently set it atop the other apples. "Don't want to stain the wood," he said.

"You never cared about staining wood when we were married," Maggie Sheffield said.

"I was young and foolish then."

"Yeah, no more than thirty-five." Maggie stood.

Castanga said gently, "Maggie, I understand that you were seeing Rob Morrison. Hadn't you wondered where he was?"

She shrugged. The pain in her eyes was there for all to see. "He's not known for fidelity. When he didn't call me, I tried to get him a couple of times. Then I just stopped."

"We're really sorry, Maggie," Sherlock said.

"I am too," I said. "He saved Jilly's life."

Maggie's chin went up. "Thanks. Now, I'm going to start interviewing to see what I can find out."

Castanga looked as if he'd object, then he just shrugged. "Go easy, Maggie, and be careful. I'm not being overprotective. People are in the habit of dying around here."

Maggie said, "Shit, I should have stayed in Eugene."

Castanga turned to Laura, who was still leaning against my shoulder. "Take care of her," he said to all of us. "She should be in bed."

Castanga closed his small notebook and shoved it inside his jacket. He rose, wiping his hands on his slacks. "Oh, yeah, not a clue as to who drugged you two. As you probably know, the DEA also slammed the lid down on our investigation. It wasn't going anywhere, anyway."

We had lunch at Grace's Deli on Fifth Avenue. I think Grace was the only person in Edgerton who was actually pleased to see us. She took one look at Laura, started patting her, and led her to a chair.

While she made us sandwiches, she talked nonstop about all the trouble. "Must have been thirty federal officers. They blanketed Edgerton, even tucked in the corners. No one could get in or out. They were everywhere, talking to everyone. You know what?"

She handed Laura her tuna salad sandwich and answered her own question.

"No, of course you don't know anything. You poor people were down in a drug dealer's camp, being tortured."

"How did you know about that?" I asked and, unable to wait, took a big bite of my corned beef sandwich on rye.

"Everybody knows everything. There was a meeting of the BITEASS and we all talked about it. Isn't it something about that drug that Dr. Bartlett invented? And Rob Morrison, murdered because he knew about it and was going to turn those dealers in, whoever they are. Poor boy. Of course, Cotter Tarcher was telling everybody it was all ridiculous, that the drug just gave you great sex, and what was wrong with that?"

"Great sex," I said, shaking my head.

"I wonder," Laura said, "if there has been an increase in rape reports around here lately."

When we pulled into the Tarcher driveway, it was like an alarm went off. Laura straightened up, blinked, and insisted she felt wonderful and renewed after her tuna sandwich and nap.

"A five-minute nap."

"I'm a woman. I can do more on less."

Sherlock and Savich pulled up behind us in the driveway.

My knock brought an immediate response.

"Jesus, not you clowns again. What do you want?"

I smiled at Cotter Tarcher, who was blocking the front door, dressed like a thug in black jeans and a white T-shirt. He was even wearing black boots. He looked as dark as a night in hell, spoiling for a fight.

"Hi, Cotter," I said. "You remember Savich and Sherlock, don't you? And Ms. Scott? Sure you do.

Savich and you caused a little ruckus."

He stepped back to slam the front door in my face. "I don't think so," I said. I slammed the door open, sending him onto his back, skidding across the black-and-white Italian marble floor.

"Control yourself, Cotter. We're here to speak to your parents. It's time for you to show some manners."

I walked into the house, with Laura, Savich, and Sherlock right behind me. "You've really got to change that bad-boy image."

He started to get to his feet so he could come at me, but a woman's voice stopped him.

"No, Cotter, don't waste your energy on the federal agents. There are four of them and just one of you, although the women probably aren't that tough. I'm sure you could deal with the one wearing the sling.

Don't forget too, that they can always arrest you."

She turned to us. "I see you've come into my house without invitation. Since I do have some manners, quite good manners, you may stay for a while. You said that you wanted to speak to me?" At my nod, she waved her hand. "I suppose you will come into the living room. Goodness knows, we've had more federal agents trooping through the house, tearing everything apart, making huge messes and not bothering to clean them up."

Elaine Tarcher looked elegant in a pair of tight white jeans and a loose pale peach cashmere sweater.

Her rich brown hair was tousled around her face, and she wore cream-colored ballet slippers on her feet.

She led the way, not looking back to see whether or not we followed her.

"Poor Maggie," she said as she gracefully displayed herself on an elegant wing chair that looked at least two hundred years old. "Is she dreadfully distraught over Rob's death?"

"How did you find out so fast?" Sherlock asked, uncrossing her legs and sitting forward.

Elaine shrugged elegantly. "One hears things so quickly in Edgerton. Perhaps it was our postman who told our housekeeper who told me, just minutes ago. I can't be expected to remember everything."

"He didn't just die," I said. "Someone murdered him. Two shots in the back. They threw him in the shed and left him there. We found him by accident."

"Yes, I know. Rob wasn't at all faithful to Maggie, you know. It wasn't Maggie's fault. Actually, I've never known Rob to be faithful to any woman for longer than perhaps two and a half weeks, maximum."

I leaned back in my chair, a match to hers, my elbows resting on my thighs, hands clasped between my knees. "He was only faithful to you that long, Elaine?"

"I suppose there'll be an investigation," she said, giving me a sad smile. "It was two and a half weeks exactly. I'll tell you, I was very surprised when he patted my cheek one evening after we'd made love and told me he was moving on. He was speaking metaphorically, of course, since we were at his cottage and so I was the one who had to leave. It was always so clean, that precious little house, what with Mr.

Thorne taking such good care of it. I never even questioned if the sheets were fresh. I knew they were."

She sighed and dabbed a very pretty swatch of white handkerchief to her eyes. "Rob was such a lovely young man. I could be with him for hours, not saying anything, content to touch his beautiful body." She actually sighed again. "Such endurance he had. And he just got more and more devoted as time went on."

She looked over at me through her lashes. "In matters of the flesh, I mean."

"Who did he move on to?" Savich asked. He'd remained standing behind Sherlock, who was sitting on a low blue brocade love seat, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder.

"To Maggie. I tried to tell her that he was a Teflon kind of guy, but she just laughed and said just because I was rich didn't mean Rob would stay with me."

"Mother, get rid of these creeps. Tell them to get out. They don't have a warrant. They have no power to make us do anything."

"Now, Cotter, there's no call to be rude," Elaine said. She looked at him like she really loved him, but she also let him see her parental disappointment. "You did learn manners and good breeding when you were growing up, remember? I don't know what happened to them though."

"You can take the boy out of the loony bin," Sherlock said, giving Cotter a small salute, "but you can't take- well, you know the rest of it."

I thought Cotter would leap on Sherlock, but then he saw Savich's face.

"I'm not crazy."

"No, of course you're not, dear. You're just high-strung, like I was when I was your age. I want you to keep yourself calm. Our guests are nearly ready to leave."

"Do you know anything about Rob Morrison's murder?" I asked him.

"Not a damned thing," Cotter said, his voice savage. "But no big loss. The bastard's dead. No one wants the prick now."

Savich said in that deep, calm voice of his, "I'm tired of your foul mouth, Cotter. You're an undisciplined boy in a man's body. You're offending me."

Cotter just stared at Savich for a long moment, then he took a step back.

"I can say whatever I want to, you fuckhead."

"That's quite enough," Elaine Tarcher said, rising gracefully to her feet to face the man who was her son, and who was also certifiable. "You're not off in the woods with them somewhere, Cotter, you're here in the living room of my house."

To my wonder and relief, Cotter said in a calm, controlled voice, "I'm sorry, Mother. I don't want to make a mess in the living room. You have so many nice things in here." He'd made the right choice.

"Yes, dear. It's kind of you to remember. Go find your father now."

Cotter walked out through the elegant arch of the living room doorway. He turned and said, "Rob Morrison was a fool. He only wanted you for two and a half weeks, Mother. Was he blind? You're so beautiful the bastard should have been crawling to you. Rob was fucked up, crazy." Then he was gone.

"I apologize," Elaine said with a charming smile to all of us. "Cotter gets overstimulated sometimes. My mother was exactly the same way. I believe it's drinking too much coffee. He doesn't mean any harm.

Now, are you all ready to leave? It's time, you know. I do have a lot to accomplish this afternoon."

Sherlock shuddered. Laura said, "Mrs. Tarcher, your son is very seriously disturbed. He's a sociopath.

He needs professional help before he hurts someone or himself. Surely you see that?"

"She's right," Savich said. "He's dangerous, ma'am, and one of these days he won't back down."

"I'll deal with it if and when that day comes," she said. "He doesn't need a shrink. That's absurd. Actually, I believe he got himself involved with that terrible drug of Paul's. As soon as some time passes, I'm sure he will be all right again.

"I'd like you all to leave now. I've been very cooperative, but enough is enough. Why are you staring at me, Agent Savich?"

"You said your son was taking Paul's drug," Savich said, his hand still on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm not sure what it was, but he's seemed more aggressive, not always in control of himself."

"What we gave Cotter, my dear, was a simple tranquilizer that Paul recommended, nothing more."

Alyssum Tarcher had entered the room speaking these words. He stood tall and imposing in tailored Italian slacks and a white shirt open at his throat. How much had he heard his wife spill?

He continued, "Well, if it isn't more federal agents, in my living room, threatening my wife and bullying my son. Poor Cotter is in a state. Now, I've had it with all of you. If you don't have a warrant, I want you out of here."

"Sir," I said to Alyssum Tarcher, "we came to ask you about Jilly. She's still missing. I'm very worried about her. Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?"

"We haven't seen Jilly since before her accident," he said.

"Do you think Jilly was taking Paul's drug?" Savich asked. "Do you think she was taking too much of it?

That it made her mentally unstable and that's why she drove off the cliff?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. You are upsetting my wife."

Laura was hurting, I could tell, but she was controlling it well. She said, "Did you know that John Molinas was murdered in Costa Rica at a drug compound run by Del Cabrizo?"

"It was on the national news," Alyssum said slowly, one eye on his wife. She was sitting very still, her eyes on her ballet slippers. "Neither Elaine nor I have seen John in a very long time. We were saddened to hear of his death."

"Unfortunately, your niece is missing," Sherlock said.

"My brother loved his daughter very much," Elaine said, rising slowly to stand by her husband. "He wasn't a bad man."

"I want you to leave now," Alyssum Tarcher said. "I am innocent of any drug-trafficking charges, these horrible murders that you and your sister, Mr. MacDougal, seem to have brought to us. There is nothing for you here. I don't plan to fall apart and confess because there is nothing to confess. Get out now."

We were nearly to the front door when he said from behind us, "I'll be sending you a bill for the repairs I had to have done on Seagull Cottage. You left it in a mess."

He had wonderful gall.

"That was a good touch," Savich said as we left. "That man's something."

I turned to look back at the house. I saw Cotter staring at us through one of the upstairs windows. When he saw me looking up at him, the curtain fell back over the window. I knew exactly what the drug had done to him. But he'd probably loved it. Had his father taken the drug as well? His mother? I didn't think so. As for Cal, I'd probably never be certain one way or the other.

I felt empty. Coming here had been a waste of time. Jilly was gone and I had no idea now where to look.

"Let's spend the night in Salem at my condo," Laura said. "I want to see Grubster and Nolan. When I called the super from San Jose", he said they were eating well, but not happy that I was gone. It was very nice of Maggie to take them back home."

"Will they sleep with us?"

"It's a queen-size bed," Laura said. "There'll be room enough for all of us. Oh, yes, I've got a nice guest room for Sherlock and Savich."

I called Maggie Sheffield and told her where we'd be if anything happened to turn up, which I strongly doubted. So did she, but she was nice enough not to say so.

I fell asleep in Laura's very comfortable bed, at arm's length from Laura because Grubster had decided to pun-the night away snuggled against her side.

I dreamed I saw headlights, bright and sharp, piercing through a dense fog that seemed to cover everything in a thick veil of white.

Odd, but I could clearly see the road ahead. It was coming at me quickly, too quickly. I wanted to yell and smash down on the brakes, but I couldn't. If there were brakes, I didn't know where to find them. I wanted to get away from that highway that was moving so quickly, but I was helpless. I was trapped.

I couldn't draw a breath I was so afraid. Suddenly, I heard a soft keening sound from beside me. It was a woman moaning as if she hadn't anything left, as if there was nothing more for her and she knew it and accepted it.

I wanted us both to stop, but the road kept coming up through those bright headlights, faster and faster. I tried to tell her I was here with her, that I would help if I could. But she couldn't hear me.

I heard her speaking now, quietly. She was praying. I was nearly part of her in those moments when she prayed for forgiveness.

I knew I was dreaming despite what I thought, what I felt. I wanted to wake up but I couldn't.

The road disappeared. I was thrown forward hard, but then everything seemed to fade away. We were flying out into the fog, sailing high, then dropping toward the water.

I was aware of immense pain slamming through me, a tremendous pressure against my chest that didn't really hurt but was just there. Then it too was gone. There was just an eerie sense of calm, of finality. So easy, I thought, it was so very easy. I smiled at the gentleness of it, smiled even as everything simply went black, and I felt nothing at all.

The next morning the four of us stood together on the cliff, looking out over the water. It didn't take long.

A man in scuba gear split the surface of the water and yelled, "She's down here!"

I'd known Jilly would be. In my dream I was down there with her.

Another man came up beside him. He called out, "There are two cars down there, next to each other.

There's a white Porsche that looks like it's been there awhile and the one she's in looks like a rental car."