Peggy Sue Got Murdered

11

The flash of the photographer's strobe made M. J. wince. He was a crime lab veteran, and he strode casually around the body, choosing his shots with an almost bored detachment. The repeated camera flashes, the babble of too many people talking at the same time, the whine of yet another siren closing in, left M. J. feeling disoriented. She'd been to crime scenes before, had been part of other, equally chaotic gatherings, but this scene was different, this victim was different. He was someone she knew, someone who, just a few short days ago, had met her handshake with one of warm flesh. His death was far too close to her, and she felt herself withdrawing into some safe, numb place where she floated on a sea of fatigue, supported by Adam's arm, by his strength.

Only when a familiar voice called to her did her brain snap back into focus. She saw Lieutenant Beamis moving toward them.

"What the hell happened?" he asked.

"It's Esterhaus," said Adam. "He phoned me this afternoon. Said he wanted to talk. We came by and…"

Beamis glanced at the dead body sprawled on the couch. "When?"

"We got here around five."

"He's been dead awhile," murmured M. J. "Probably early afternoon."

"How can you tell?" asked Beamis.

She looked away. "Experience," she muttered.

The Rockbrook detective approached and greeted Beamis. "Sorry you got dragged over, Lou. I know this one's technically ours, but they insisted I call you."

"So what've you got?"

"Two bullet wounds in the chest. Took him down fast. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. ME'll have to do a look-see, give us an approximate time."

"Dr. Novak says early afternoon."

"Yeah, well…" The detective shifted uneasily. "They're sending over Davis Wheelock."

Because they're not about to trust me on this one , thought M. J. The Rockbrook detective was a cautious cop. He couldn't be sure of M. J.'s role in all this. Her status had changed from ME to… what? Witness? Suspect? She could see it in the way he watched her eyes, weighed her every statement.

Now Beamis began to ask questions, the same ones they'd already answered. No, they hadn't touched anything except the phone. And, briefly, the body-to check vital signs. Events were dissected, over and over. By the time Beamis had finished, M. J. was having trouble concentrating. Too many voices were talking in the room, and there were the sounds of the crowd outside, the neighbors, all pressing up against the yellow police line.

Esterhaus's body, cocooned in a zip-up bag, was wheeled through the front door and out of the house, into a night blazing with the flash of reporters' cameras.

Adam and M. J. followed the EMTs out of the house. It was bedlam outside, cops shouting for everyone to stand back, radios crackling from a half-dozen patrol cars. Two TV vans were parked nearby, klieg lights glaring. A reporter thrust a microphone in front of M. J.'s face and asked, "Were you the people who found the body?"

"Leave us alone," said Adam, shoving the microphone away.

"Sir, can you tell us what condition-"

"I said, leave us alone."

"Hey!" another reporter yelled. "Aren't you Adam Quantrell? Mr. Quantrell?"

Suddenly, the lights were redirected into their eyes. Adam grabbed M. J.'s hand and pulled her along in a mad dash for the car.

The instant they were inside, they slammed and locked the doors. Hands knocked at the windows.

Adam started the engine. "Let's get the hell out of here," he growled, and hit the gas pedal.

Even as they roared away, they could hear the questions being shouted at them.

M. J. collapsed back in exhaustion. "I thought they were going to keep us there all night."

He shot her a worried look. "Are you all right?"

She shivered. "Just cold. And scared. Mostly scared…" She looked at him. "Why did they kill Esterhaus? What is going on, Adam?"

He stared ahead, his gaze locked on the road, his profile hard and white in the darkness. "I wish to God I knew."

They arrived home to find Thomas waiting for them.

"Mr. Q., thank heavens you're home! The reporters have been calling-"

"Tell them to go to hell," said Adam, guiding M. J. toward the stairs.

"But-"

"You heard what I said."

"Is that a… literal request?"

"Word for word. Just say, go to hell."

"Goodness," said Thomas, sounding most uncomfortable. "I don't know…" He watched them climb up to the second floor landing. "Is there anything you'll require, Mr. Q.?" he called.

"A bottle of brandy. And answer the phone, will you?"

Thomas glanced at the telephone, which had begun to ring again. Reluctantly he picked up the receiver. "Quantrell residence." He listened for a few seconds. Then, drawing himself to his full and dignified height, he said: "Mr. Quantrell wishes to convey the following message: Go to hell." He hung up, looking strangely satisfied.

"The brandy, Thomas!" called Adam.

"Right away," said Thomas, and went off toward the library.

Adam turned M. J. gently toward the bedroom. "Come on," he whispered. "You look ready to collapse."

It was not an exaggeration. He'd never seen her so white-faced, so shaken. The loss of her house, and then this murder-it was a cruel one-two punch that even a woman as strong as she was couldn't withstand.

Even worse than her look of exhaustion was her look of fear. It did not befit this woman; it sat upon her shoulders like some alien cloak, which even now she was trying to cast off. But she couldn't. She didn't have the strength.

He brought her into his room and sat her down on the bed. He took her hands in his. Her touch was like ice.

Thomas came into the room, bearing a tray with the brandy and two glasses.

"Leave it," said Adam.

Thomas, ever discreet, nodded and withdrew.

Adam poured a glass and handed it to M. J. She looked blankly at it.

"Just brandy," he said. "A Quantrell family tradition."

She took a sip. Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, "You Quantrells keep fine traditions."

He reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair off her face. Her skin felt as cool as marble, as cool as a corpse. But the woman beneath was alive and trembling and in need.

"If only I knew," she said. "If I just knew what I was fighting against. Then I wouldn't be so afraid." She looked at him. "That's what scares me. Not knowing. It makes the whole world seem evil."

"Not the whole world. There's me. And I'll take care of you-"

"Don't make promises, Adam."

"I'm not promising. I'm telling you. As long as you need me-"

She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Don't. Please. You'll back yourself into a corner. And then you'll feel guilty when you can't keep your word."

He grasped her hand, firmly, fiercely. "M. J.-"

"No promises."

"All right. If that's what you want, no promises."

"From either of us. It's more honest that way."

"You'll stay here, though. As long as you need to. Unless… there's some other place you'd rather go?"

She shook her head.

He felt an intoxicating rush of happiness, of relief, that here was where she wanted to be. With me.

"There's no other place," she said softly.

The way she looked at him then, her eyes wide and moist, all her defenses gone, was enough to make a man's heart break. He had not pla

It was only a brushing of lips, a taste of her brandied warmth. No passion, no lust, merely kindness.

And then, like a spark striking dry tinder, something else flared to instant brightness. He saw it in her eyes, and she in his. They stared at each other for a moment in shared wonder. And uncertainty. He wanted badly to kiss her again, but she was so needy, so vulnerable, and he knew that if he pressed her, she would yield. She might hate him in the morning, and she would have good reason. That, most of all, was what he didn't want.