Hell by Hilary Norman Page A
Authors: Hilary Norman
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Detective and Mystery Stories, Police, Police Procedural, Serial Murder Investigation, Becket; Sam (Fictitious Character)
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told me sheâd been going to put me in her Will, but then sheâd figured that might bring me trouble, bring me to the notice of the authorities , and she knew I wouldnât want that, so why, she said, didnât she just give me my share before she passed on?
âSounds good to me,â I told her, and she laughed.
She told me then that she wanted just one thing in return, my help with her own passing, because it seemed too far off for her liking. I cried like a baby when she asked me for that, and I said I couldnât do that to her, I just couldnât, and she cried too, because she knew then that I really cared for her, and she knew, too, that I was going to leave her before she passed on, but she gave me the money anyway.
âNo strings,â she said.
I didnât know then how much it was.
âDonât look at it until youâve gone,â Blossom told me.
I donât think Iâd have minded if it had been ten dollars.
Because I really loved that lady.
I did what I could before I went. I was there when she wrote her last letter To Whom It May Concern , telling whoever found her that she wanted to die, that sheâd suffered enough from her cancer, and that no one had helped her. Which made me weep again, but I still helped her as much as I could stand to. I washed her and made her hair nice and her make-up the way she liked it, and there was nothing else I could do for her, no food I could make for her, because she couldnât manage eating anymore.
And I was weeping again when I walked out of Blossomâs front door for the last time, and I guess that was when I knew why.
Because I hadnât been Cal the Hater since Iâd met her.
And when I looked at what she had given me, I think I sobbed for a while longer, just like a goddamned crybaby.
And then I dried my eyes, checked into the Bohemian Hotel on the riverfront, put the envelope into the safe, went shopping on River Street, bought myself a money belt and some decent clothes, then came back and drank more toasts to Blossom van Heusen than I can remember.
And the next day, I left Savannah.
TWENTY-ONE
May 6
P lenty of tough and tedious days and nights ahead, Sam knew, until they caught the killer. Everyone working hard to cover the work that came with any new major violent crime, let alone a double â probably triple â homicide, while, at the same time continuing the manhunt for the prime suspect.
Not for the first time â and theyâd almost had him then.
âAlmostâ not good enough.
Ask Andrew Victor.
Ask his friend, Gail, and his sister Anne, both of whom had called yesterday hoping for news, neither heaping blame on the detectivesâ shoulders for their lack of success.
Nothing to tell them.
They had appealed to the public for information. There was a press release on the departmentâs website, and Fox, CNN, 7 News, CBS 4 and Channel 6 â along with the local Spanish stations, Channels 51 and 23 â were all taking the item.
Calls flooding in.
A lot of them from crazies, as always, taking up time and manpower calling in phony information.
Other calls, too, from good citizens.
Taking them nowhere yet.
It didnât help that their photographs of Cooper were out of date, and there was no way of knowing what he might have done to his appearance. If (and it was still a big if) it had been Cooper that Grace had seen at La Tienda Fiesta on April 19, it gave them nothing to go on.
âMale, average height, slim, with silvery-blond hair.â
Someone who might have walked up behind her and had enough nerve to brush his fingers against her neck.
Might have been fingers. No certainty even of that.
If the new homicides were down to Cooper â and Sam, at least, had all too few doubts left on that score since yesterdayâs grisly discovery â then he doubted heâd still be using the same head-to-foot silver get-up in which heâd strutted the
âSounds good to me,â I told her, and she laughed.
She told me then that she wanted just one thing in return, my help with her own passing, because it seemed too far off for her liking. I cried like a baby when she asked me for that, and I said I couldnât do that to her, I just couldnât, and she cried too, because she knew then that I really cared for her, and she knew, too, that I was going to leave her before she passed on, but she gave me the money anyway.
âNo strings,â she said.
I didnât know then how much it was.
âDonât look at it until youâve gone,â Blossom told me.
I donât think Iâd have minded if it had been ten dollars.
Because I really loved that lady.
I did what I could before I went. I was there when she wrote her last letter To Whom It May Concern , telling whoever found her that she wanted to die, that sheâd suffered enough from her cancer, and that no one had helped her. Which made me weep again, but I still helped her as much as I could stand to. I washed her and made her hair nice and her make-up the way she liked it, and there was nothing else I could do for her, no food I could make for her, because she couldnât manage eating anymore.
And I was weeping again when I walked out of Blossomâs front door for the last time, and I guess that was when I knew why.
Because I hadnât been Cal the Hater since Iâd met her.
And when I looked at what she had given me, I think I sobbed for a while longer, just like a goddamned crybaby.
And then I dried my eyes, checked into the Bohemian Hotel on the riverfront, put the envelope into the safe, went shopping on River Street, bought myself a money belt and some decent clothes, then came back and drank more toasts to Blossom van Heusen than I can remember.
And the next day, I left Savannah.
TWENTY-ONE
May 6
P lenty of tough and tedious days and nights ahead, Sam knew, until they caught the killer. Everyone working hard to cover the work that came with any new major violent crime, let alone a double â probably triple â homicide, while, at the same time continuing the manhunt for the prime suspect.
Not for the first time â and theyâd almost had him then.
âAlmostâ not good enough.
Ask Andrew Victor.
Ask his friend, Gail, and his sister Anne, both of whom had called yesterday hoping for news, neither heaping blame on the detectivesâ shoulders for their lack of success.
Nothing to tell them.
They had appealed to the public for information. There was a press release on the departmentâs website, and Fox, CNN, 7 News, CBS 4 and Channel 6 â along with the local Spanish stations, Channels 51 and 23 â were all taking the item.
Calls flooding in.
A lot of them from crazies, as always, taking up time and manpower calling in phony information.
Other calls, too, from good citizens.
Taking them nowhere yet.
It didnât help that their photographs of Cooper were out of date, and there was no way of knowing what he might have done to his appearance. If (and it was still a big if) it had been Cooper that Grace had seen at La Tienda Fiesta on April 19, it gave them nothing to go on.
âMale, average height, slim, with silvery-blond hair.â
Someone who might have walked up behind her and had enough nerve to brush his fingers against her neck.
Might have been fingers. No certainty even of that.
If the new homicides were down to Cooper â and Sam, at least, had all too few doubts left on that score since yesterdayâs grisly discovery â then he doubted heâd still be using the same head-to-foot silver get-up in which heâd strutted the
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