Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [123]
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Tears streamed down her face. “Jillian took me to her office and kept talking to me. I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. She kept saying that Nora deserved it, that she was an evil woman. And she said that Nora was going to write things about my parents’ restaurant that would close it down—about how we buy black-market beef and how my oldest brother, Felipe, was dealing cocaine to keep the restaurant going. I don’t know how she found out about that stuff. My parents didn’t even know. My father was still getting over his kidney operation, and there was no money and—” She broke down and started sobbing. “Benni, she said if I helped her she’d make sure that my family was taken care of, and she kept her promise. I didn’t kill Nora. All I did was help take her to the lake.”
Guilt, a little voice reminded me. You don’t have much time. Think. “Dolores, you can’t help her kill me. That would be . . .” I thought hard for a moment, trying to remember what little Catholic doctrine I knew—venial sin? No, that was for the ones that weren’t so bad. The ones you could be forgiven for. Death—mortality—mortal. That was it. “A mortal sin,” I finished. “You’ll go to hell. Murder is a mortal sin.”
She looked up, her tears halted, her black eyes wide with shock. “No . . . I . . .”
“Yes,” I insisted. “Helping her after she killed Nora was one thing. But you know God could never, ever forgive you helping her kill someone else. You know that.”
Lord, I prayed, I don’t believe that’s true, and forgive me for messing with Your theology, but I’m in real trouble here.
“You’ll be a murderer. You’ll go to hell,” I repeated, and hoped that the Catholic guilt that Gabe and I talked about would kick in.
“No,” she moaned. “I’m not a murderer. I’m not.” She started praying softly in Spanish—Santa Maria, Llena de gracia. . . .
“You’re not yet,” I said. “Please help me, Dolores. Don’t let Jillian make you be a murderer.”
She opened her eyes. “What should I do?”
“I don’t know yet, but I have to know I can count on you. If I tell you to do something, then do it, no questions. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice determined. “I can do that.”
The door to the basement opened, and in the dim light Jillian started down the stairs. I concentrated on trying to think of a way to get the ropes untied.
“What do you think we should do?” Jillian asked. “Her being the police chief’s wife makes it more difficult—”
I peered up at her through the pale light. Was she asking me? I couldn’t believe she’d be consulting Dolores; it was obvious Jillian was the ringleader here.
“Get rid of her,” a man said bluntly, and my heart jumped into my throat.
“Ash?” I stammered, shaking my head. This all had to be a bad dream. Three of them? Geez, it was like one of those tiny Volkswagens at the circus where clowns keep tumbling out. Would the whole storytelling committee be showing up eventually? Would they have to take a vote on how to get rid of me? I felt a hysterical giggle rumble in my chest. Then my hopes plummeted. Me and Dolores against Jillian was one thing. Ash in the picture made my prognosis look very grim.
“Just makes it more of a challenge, darlin’ ,” Ash answered Jillian. “We’ll put our clever heads together and think of something.”
“You were in on Nora’s murder, too?” I asked. “Why?”
“I imagine you can guess,” he said. “She knew a little too much about my background and was a little too willing to use it. I didn’t kill her, but I’d gladly have held one end of the rope.”
I glanced over at Jillian. “How did he find out about . . . what you did?”
She shrugged. “I accidentally told him one night after we’d drank too much. No big deal. I’m worth more to him out of prison than in.”
He gave me a cocky