Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [47]
“Wherever he may be,” Odd added, “because he lives, somewhere.”
It gave her strength, enough to hoist the glass, anyway. Color rushed back to her face, fueled by the powerful mixture of alcohol and essence of wormwood.
“It was Seth Shining Pony,” she said, “the little boy who followed Jeannie around, the lovesick little boy.”
“It was!” said Odd, smiling. “How could I not remember? He was an adorable little pest. If I smiled at him, or talked to him, he’d run away. Next day, he’d be back, following me.”
Was it the drink or my hormone starved body? Did it matter? I was sweating like a Fourth of July parade. It was Odd, good old Odd, the big Swede, macho man, solid as a stone, his own deep voice but speaking with the cadence of a teen-aged girl.
The memory he was reliving may have been flattering, it may have been amusing, but I were still a cop, and if I were going to be sucked into this, I would have to start thinking like one again. Who’s the perp?
We found our way to the soft chairs for the second martini. On top of the beers I had earlier, I had a viable buzz stacking.
“Is a twelve-year-old capable of blasting two people with a shotgun?” I asked, a rhetorical question these days. There is hard evidence that the contemporary twelve-year old can pull it off and go home to his PlayStation. But in 1967 American children had not yet turned that dark corner. Even in their fantasies, back in ‘67, they were still more suicidal than homicidal, Then something changed, who knows what?
“Seth is widely respected on the island,” said Janet. “He’s known to be a decent fair man.”
“But what kind of kid was he?”
“I never heard anything bad about him.”
“Okay. So he’s rehabilitated,” I said. “Most murderers are rehabilitated as soon as they’re caught…or right after they’ve done the deed, meaning, they’ll never do it again.”
Odd was nursing his drink, thinking about it.
“He could have stolen that notebook,” I said. “A twelve-year-old shadow, he would have had the opportunity. Odd?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“A great change came over the chief right after we talked to James’ parents. He didn’t like it. That’s when he wanted us off the island.”
“Then why did he cooperate with me originally? He took me to the crime scene, he didn’t hide anything.”
“Why should he? Look at us. Sherlock Holmes we ain’t. He didn’t have any reason to fear either one of us, until we went to the Coyotes and the old guy started spreading it around that you…used to live here, in another body. Then it was, don’t be late for the ferry.”
“I don’t know,” said Odd. “Maybe he was so disgusted with Houser he just wanted him out of his house and off his island. We had nothing to do with it.”
Houser! I’d forgotten all about him.
“Jeez Louise,” I said, “Houser. Do you think he’s still in the car?”
“I don’t much care,” said Odd.
But to me, the thought was sobering, messing up my nice buzz. I had visions of Stacey finding him, stealing our car, making a getaway, us losing our jobs. My paranoia cut short what could have been an all-nighter. Mrs. Olson didn’t want Odd to go. He was, after all, the spirit of her daughter. And Odd would have been happy to stay. I finally convinced him it would be a good idea to drop in on the chief again, before it got too late.
“Yes, I would like to see the chief again,” he said.
“But you’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, I will.”
“And stay for a while…I know you have a life in Spokane, but if you could spend some time here…”
“I would like that,” he said, “if it’s not too upsetting.”
“Oh, I’ll take that risk.”
Enough had gone on in that house to spook a normal cop, but once outside my immediate concern was, I don’t see Houser. Like when you leave your dog in the parking lot while you pop into K-Mart and you come back out and you don’t see the mutt until you’re right at the window,