Tips for Living(77)
“Listen, Kelly went home last night. I couldn’t stop her. But don’t worry. She let Mac follow her over and warn Stokes he’d better take good care of her. Even if Stokes is the killer, he won’t dare touch her.”
The kitchen lights were off. “Stokes came here last night,” I said.
“He did?” Grace was incredulous. “What for? Are you all right?”
I stopped short in the living room. The pots weren’t in front of the door. They were scattered across the floor. Shit.
“He just wanted to talk. I’m fine. I’ll fill you in later,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on there.”
Had I set the pots in place after Stokes left? I was so hammered last night I couldn’t remember.
“I made it here early and spoke with Ruth Walker. You were right. They’ve already asked their lawyer to petition for guardianship. You sure you’re okay?”
“Totally. See? I knew it.”
I pressed my palm to my heart. This was good news. Tobias was making his moves. He could be the one.
“They’re flying home after the burial this afternoon and taking Callie with them,” Grace said. “And something else . . . Tobias mentioned his Fund for the American Family. He said he regretted having to go back to Lynchburg right away, but he had a very important meeting with the lawyer for the fund.”
“Figuring out how to finance it with Hugh’s money, no doubt.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Grace said. “So hurry up and get over here.”
“Any press around?”
“Not yet. I’ll save you a seat in the back,” she said and clicked off.
Despite the hangover, I rallied and zapped four tablespoons of instant coffee in a mug of water and then gulped it down along with two Advil. I whipped through my closet, pulling out a black pencil skirt, black turtleneck sweater and black boots. The house was colder than usual, which meant it must be freezing outside, so I grabbed my Ushanka—the Soviet Army hat Lada gave me for my birthday about ten years ago—along with my black wool muffler. I dressed, put on eyeliner and lipstick, called Lada to check on her and flew out the door within fifteen minutes. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make a late entrance at the church, but the important thing was this: to see Tobias in the flesh. I don’t know why, but I had a powerful intuition that if I could look into his eyes, I’d know for certain if he killed his brother.
The day was damp and cold and the sky filled with heavy gray clouds. “Gunmetal gray,” I heard myself thinking as I unlocked the car. I had guns on the brain. Mance’s stolen handgun in particular. My self-doubt still gnawed. Wake up and smell the coffee, Nora. Remember Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is that you were sleepwalking and you stole your neighbor’s gun. You’re a sleep killer.
I did not. I am not.
The air smelled like snow. Historically, a “coastal effect” kept snow from falling on Pequod until after Christmas, but it looked like flurries might start any minute. I wrapped the scarf around the upturned collar of my trench coat and pulled the Ushanka down over my ears. Call me Masha, I thought, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror. Hugh would have wanted to paint the mysterious Russian vixen staring back at me. And have sex with her, too, of course.
Crawley was waiting at the corner in his black-and-white on the shoulder of Crooked Beach Road. He wasn’t trying to hide his intentions anymore. He pulled onto the blacktop and followed after I passed.
“Make a U-turn,” Lady GPS said. “Make a U-turn.”
“Maybe this time you’re right,” I said.
I stayed well under the speed limit, determined not to let Crawley shake me up. For distraction, I switched the radio on despite knowing it was unlikely I’d pick up much. WPQD offered pure static. The classical station crackled with more high-pitched white noise. But the Christian station came in as clear as holy water: “Why not demand that our elected officials make laws that reflect our Christian values? Abortion is only one of the crimes sanctioned by the godless in Washington,” the host scoffed. “Adultery is another. And according to the Bible, it’s punishable by death.”
I clicked the radio off. Some of these people sounded so extreme—like an American version of the Taliban. Would the Fund for the American Family promote the kind of religious radicalism that led to violence? I suspected Tobias had already hired lawyers to find a loophole that would let him use some of Callie’s inheritance. He might need to wait until she turned eighteen to get his hands on the bulk of it. Would he have brainwashed Callie into donating millions to his cause by then?
The turnoff for Charlotte’s Cove was coming up. Tobias had picked a quaint Lutheran chapel located in a farming area a few miles south—there was no evangelical church near Pequod. Charlotte’s Cove Chapel bordered one of the oldest family farms in the county. Rows of corn stretched from the edge of its yard all the way down to the shore in summer. The congregation had been lured away by larger churches built nearer to town, so the diocese closed the chapel and began renting it out as a hall. I’d attended an Animal Rescue Fund benefit there. The place didn’t have a minister; it wasn’t part of the church anymore. You’d think Tobias would want a formal Christian service for Hugh—he might be a murderer, but he was a religious one. Were the active churches too big for the modest gathering he envisioned? Were they booked?