gaze on Franny.
“Of course I do,” said Franny, staring hard
at the irregular kettle-cloth weave.
“How long were you married?”
“Just over a year and a half.”
“How did he die?”
“He fell down the cellar stairs and crushed
his skull. He’d been drinking.”
“Did he drink a lot?”
“You could say that.”
“Was he abusive?”
Franny didn’t answer, so Horowitz went on. “Records
at the police station show a number of calls to the Morgan residence beginning
in September 1976 and continuing through June 1978. The code was
forty-one—domestic dispute. Do you recall these disputes?”
“I never called the police.”
“The calls were placed by neighbors,”
explained Horowitz. “There’s a pattern of increasing frequency, which ended
abruptly with Morgan’s death.”
“I came home and found Darryl at the bottom
of the stairs. He was dead.”
“That’s what you said at the time. The
records show that the DA considered charging you with Morgan’s death.”
“I was never charged.”
“No,” agreed Horowitz. “But you were
suspected.”
“What does something that happened fifteen
years ago have to do with this business here?” demanded Irma, no longer able to
sit quietly by as Horowitz built a case against her daughter.
“It could indicate a pattern,” answered
Horowitz patiently. “A pattern of abusive relationships that end in violence.” “Don’t
be stupid. Franny had a good marriage. Darryl was a real catch.” Irma had
puffed out her chest and looked a bit like a broody hen, all flashing eyes and
ruffled feathers.
“You didn’t keep your husband’s name. Why
was that?” asked Horowitz, with his usual persistence.
“I wanted to forget him. I didn’t even want
his name. That’s not a crime.”
“That’s right,” proclaimed Irma. “You’re
barking up the wrong tree. What about them Satanists? Caro Hutton disappears,
old Mr. Slack dies. It doesn’t take a genius to see that boy Ben is involved.
Him and his Devil-worshiping friends. You should leave Franny alone and arrest
them before they take another victim!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Small. I can’t ignore the
evidence.” He paused and turned to Franny. “I’m going to have to take you into
custody. The charge is the murder of Morrill Slack.”
“But what about Ben?” cried Franny.
“He couldn’t have done it. He has an
unbreakable alibi. At the time of Slack’s death, Ben was in the custody of the
Gilead police. Operating under the influence.”
Horowitz nodded at the officer, who
immediately slipped a pair of handcuffs around Franny’s wrists and read the
Miranda rights to her from a printed card. Franny was led out to one of the
cruisers and quickly driven away in a procession complete with flashing lights,
but no sirens. Irma Small watched from the window, a vague figure, her image
blurred by the aluminum screen.
15
No undershirts or
underpants to be worn under costume.
“There’s nothing to do here. I’m bored.”
Caro Hutton had no experience at parenting,
so she took the complaint quite seriously. She looked up from her needlepoint
and gazed directly into her young companion’s clear blue eyes. She was glad she
had chosen the name Lisa for her; somehow it suited her.
“There’s no TV. There’s hardly any toys.
There’s nobody to play with. I want to go home.”
“I used to spend summers here when I was a
little girl,” said Caro. “I was never bored. I thought I was in heaven.”
“What did you do?”
“Let me see if I can remember. It was a
very long time ago.” Caro bent her head and took a stitch or two. Children
nowadays watched too much television, she believed, and it robbed them of their
imagination. When she was a child she had been surrounded by a large extended
family, and she’d always had plenty of interesting things to do. When she began
performing and teaching, time had always been at a premium. It was only after
she retired and began watching
“Of course I do,” said Franny, staring hard
at the irregular kettle-cloth weave.
“How long were you married?”
“Just over a year and a half.”
“How did he die?”
“He fell down the cellar stairs and crushed
his skull. He’d been drinking.”
“Did he drink a lot?”
“You could say that.”
“Was he abusive?”
Franny didn’t answer, so Horowitz went on. “Records
at the police station show a number of calls to the Morgan residence beginning
in September 1976 and continuing through June 1978. The code was
forty-one—domestic dispute. Do you recall these disputes?”
“I never called the police.”
“The calls were placed by neighbors,”
explained Horowitz. “There’s a pattern of increasing frequency, which ended
abruptly with Morgan’s death.”
“I came home and found Darryl at the bottom
of the stairs. He was dead.”
“That’s what you said at the time. The
records show that the DA considered charging you with Morgan’s death.”
“I was never charged.”
“No,” agreed Horowitz. “But you were
suspected.”
“What does something that happened fifteen
years ago have to do with this business here?” demanded Irma, no longer able to
sit quietly by as Horowitz built a case against her daughter.
“It could indicate a pattern,” answered
Horowitz patiently. “A pattern of abusive relationships that end in violence.” “Don’t
be stupid. Franny had a good marriage. Darryl was a real catch.” Irma had
puffed out her chest and looked a bit like a broody hen, all flashing eyes and
ruffled feathers.
“You didn’t keep your husband’s name. Why
was that?” asked Horowitz, with his usual persistence.
“I wanted to forget him. I didn’t even want
his name. That’s not a crime.”
“That’s right,” proclaimed Irma. “You’re
barking up the wrong tree. What about them Satanists? Caro Hutton disappears,
old Mr. Slack dies. It doesn’t take a genius to see that boy Ben is involved.
Him and his Devil-worshiping friends. You should leave Franny alone and arrest
them before they take another victim!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Small. I can’t ignore the
evidence.” He paused and turned to Franny. “I’m going to have to take you into
custody. The charge is the murder of Morrill Slack.”
“But what about Ben?” cried Franny.
“He couldn’t have done it. He has an
unbreakable alibi. At the time of Slack’s death, Ben was in the custody of the
Gilead police. Operating under the influence.”
Horowitz nodded at the officer, who
immediately slipped a pair of handcuffs around Franny’s wrists and read the
Miranda rights to her from a printed card. Franny was led out to one of the
cruisers and quickly driven away in a procession complete with flashing lights,
but no sirens. Irma Small watched from the window, a vague figure, her image
blurred by the aluminum screen.
15
No undershirts or
underpants to be worn under costume.
“There’s nothing to do here. I’m bored.”
Caro Hutton had no experience at parenting,
so she took the complaint quite seriously. She looked up from her needlepoint
and gazed directly into her young companion’s clear blue eyes. She was glad she
had chosen the name Lisa for her; somehow it suited her.
“There’s no TV. There’s hardly any toys.
There’s nobody to play with. I want to go home.”
“I used to spend summers here when I was a
little girl,” said Caro. “I was never bored. I thought I was in heaven.”
“What did you do?”
“Let me see if I can remember. It was a
very long time ago.” Caro bent her head and took a stitch or two. Children
nowadays watched too much television, she believed, and it robbed them of their
imagination. When she was a child she had been surrounded by a large extended
family, and she’d always had plenty of interesting things to do. When she began
performing and teaching, time had always been at a premium. It was only after
she retired and began watching
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