Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [122]
I opened my eyes and stared at Dolores. She stared back, rubbing her hands over and over. High-school Shakespeare flashed through my mind. A picture of Lady Macbeth trying to rub the imaginary blood from her hands.
“Dolores, how did you get involved with this?” I whispered.
“I can’t talk to you,” she said, her face lightly sheened with perspiration.
Think about how you can use her. Remember the things you’ve seen on TV. Go for the weaker partner. She’s alone and frightened. Use that. It’s what Gabe would do.
Gabe. I couldn’t let these people kill me. He’d never forgive himself. The guilt would eat him alive.
Guilt. My disoriented brain floated back to a good-natured argument he and I had recently had about that subject. I pictured his smiling face.
“Catholic guilt is worse,” he’d declared while scrambling us some eggs a few weeks ago. Except for his wonderful Mexican hot chocolate and spaghetti, they were the only thing he knew how to cook.
“Ha!” I’d said. “That’s because you’ve never felt Baptist guilt. You all at least get to have fun and then go to confession afterward. We feel guilty the whole time we’re sinning.” I watched him put jalapeño peppers, fresh onions, cheddar cheese, and a dash of Tabasco in the eggs.
“But we have to worry about dying before we get to confession. Most of you Protestants believe that once saved, always saved, no matter what you do afterwards. You can die in the middle of adultery and still squeeze through those pearly gates.”
I laughed and stuck my fork into the finished eggs. “That may be technically true, but I’m sure it’s not something that Mac would want touted as a major selling point for the Baptist faith.” I took a big bite, savoring the taste. “You know, Friday, if nothing else, I would have married you for your huevos.”
“Is that right?” He grinned at my unintended double entendre.
I smacked him in the chest. “You know what I mean.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing about guilt, whether it’s Baptist, Catholic or whatever. Except for the sickest sociopaths, everyone feels it at some time. And I’ve often even wondered about them. There’s no doubt, though, that without it we’d definitely have a lot fewer criminals behind bars.”
I opened my eyes and looked at Dolores’s agitated face. She’d come out of the confessional just after Gabe went in. Had she confessed to her part in concealing Nora’s murder? If she had, that meant she probably felt guilty about it. I could use that. Right now it was the only weapon I had.
“I saw you at St. Celine’s today,” I said softly.
She widened her dark eyes and didn’t speak.
“What happened?” I asked again. “How did you get mixed up with this?”
I didn’t think she’d answer, but after a few seconds she started talking in a low monotone.
“I didn’t want to help her. I just happened to be there that night. I was coming downstairs to get some construction paper. She didn’t know I was here.”
“Jillian?”
She nodded.
“She killed Nora,” I prompted, wanting to keep her talking.
Dolores nodded again.
“But why?”
“Her husband,” Dolores whispered, then glanced furtively up the concrete stairs. We could hear low voices from behind the closed doors. I contemplated screaming, but I remembered the pistol. Where did Jillian hide it? I couldn’t imagine her talking casually to a library employee while brandishing a handgun. And I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger.
I shook my head slightly, trying to get it to stop feeling so fuzzy. It only made it worse. “Because of Roy?”
“No.” Dolores shook her head furiously. “Not Nora’s husband. Jillian’s. She poisoned him ’cause he cheated on her all the time. He’s buried under the patio off her office. Before they poured it.”
“The patio?” I repeated. This was getting more bizarre by the moment. I flashed back to the party she’d given when the patio and patrons’ garden were finished. Jillian had been drinking champagne and eating shrimp puffs while standing on her husband’s grave.
Dolores nodded dumbly. “I heard Nora tell Jillian that