The Listener Read online

  She promptly ordered online and sent it anonymously. After all, she couldn’t sign the card; she wasn’t supposed to know about the baby.

  When she got back to Erica’s conversation, she was confused, because Erica was saying, I can’t tell another soul about this. Promise me you won’t tell. Although sooner or later everyone will know.

  Had there been a shift in the time/space continuum?

  Then Meghan said, Huh? What’s up?

  And Cornelia realized it wasn’t Meghan anymore. Erica had started over, confiding her top-secret news a different person.

  That was Erica, all right. She would make the rounds of her pompous, self-absorbed friends until she’d racked up sufficient amounts of sympathy.

  Cornelia looked up in time to see Kateri finish her latte and stand up.

  “Gotta go back,” Kateri said. “I can’t wait to tell Landlubber about his new nickname.”

  Rainbow bunched her fist and swung it at an imaginary target. “You’ll knock him into shape in no time.”

  “You know, with some guys, there’s no win to be had.” Kateri turned, caught Cornelia’s gaze on her, and lifted a hand. “Hi, Cornelia, how’re things?”

  “Things?” Cornelia didn’t know what she meant. “What things?”

  Kateri strolled over. “How’s work? How’s the husband?”

  “My work is fascinating. And my husband is pleasant.”

  “He is,” Kateri agreed. “I always liked Mason, even when he was a little boy.”

  “Did you babysit him?”

  Kateri looked surprised. “I’m not that much older than he is. Or you, either.”

  “I’m twenty-six.”

  “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “He’s twenty-six.”

  “I know. I remember. You were in my class because you advanced two grades.”

  “Yes. I should have done more, but the teachers said I was emotionally immature.”

  “Imagine that.” Kateri patted Cornelia’s shoulder.

  Cornelia didn’t know if Kateri was being comforting or patronizing. In fact, she didn’t know what she thought about Kateri. Kateri was tall, but no taller than Cornelia, and well-built, but not more than Cornelia. Yet unlike Cornelia, Kateri moved well. She wore her uniform with authority. She carried her Native American ancestry with pride, looking a little like Disney’s Pocahontas, but without the swirling leaves and the wild swishy hair. Kateri’s hair was black, gleaming black, but she wore it cut shoulder-length and, when she was in uniform, pinned up against her head.

  Kateri was more than pretty. She was beautiful. She was stately. She was dignified. People liked her. Kateri was everything Cornelia was not.

  Many times, as Cornelia was growing up, Cornelia’s mother had said that Cornelia could be pretty if she tried.

  That didn’t make sense to Cornelia. Girls—all human beings—were either appealing, or they weren’t. Sexual appeal was nothing more than a few millimeters of bone and muscle in one place or the other, and while it seemed allure was unfairly distributed among the population, Cornelia didn’t see how trying was going to help her achieve that state.

  But her mother had Cornelia taking ballet to help her with her regrettable clumsiness. The ballet teacher had been in despair, and once Mama had disappeared, Miss Stimpson avoided Cornelia as if her awkwardness was a communicable disease.

  Cornelia still hurt herself walking down the stairs or burned herself when cooking, which was why Mason prepared their dinners. Yet, in the end, grace and prettiness had made no difference; she had a good job digging around in the bowels of the government computers, she had the handsomest husband in Virtue Falls, a man who treated her kindly and with awe, and no one in town spoke to her if they could avoid it. Yet she listened to them whether they wished it or not.

  It was a good life.

  Cornelia changed channels again.

  She’s not happy. Killing her would be a kindness.

  Oh, no. Someone had to put their pet down. Cornelia couldn’t stand it when someone had to put their pet down. She suffered in tandem. She liked dogs and cats, really liked them, but Mason was allergic, so she couldn’t have one.

  She’s not unhappy. She’s just … different.

  That’s for sure. Dear, your loyalty does you credit, but she can’t remember anything. She has a lot of things wrong with her. Really. You just need to think of this as a kindness.

  I can’t. I just can’t.

  Think of the money we’ll inherit. The life insurance alone is sizeable.

  Cornelia sat back in her chair.

  This wasn’t a pet. Someone was going to kill his —or her—mother. And that someone’s wife—or husband—was urging the deed be done.

  It’s not about the money!

  I know. I know. You’re right. In the end, it’s about us. Being free to do what we want. At last! Don’t you want that?

  I do. I just …

  We’ve got to stop talking about it, and just do it.

  But how?

  I’ve been looking up poisons. There are some good ones, organic poisons from mushrooms.

  This was serious. Somebody’s mate really wanted the mother-in-law gone.

  You’re way ahead of me on this.

  In all her years of eavesdropping on e-mails and texts, Cornelia had never come across a murder plot. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this kind of reality. What should she do?

  She looked around, seeking help.

  She didn’t find help. She found guilt.

  Mrs. Branyon was sitting with her daughter, Frances, complaining about the lousy job Frances’s brother had done fixing her sink.

  Frances was sitting there, nodding and texting.

  Cornelia glanced at her tablet.

  The conversation continued to flow.

  Mrs. Branyon was one of the two meanest old biddies in Virtue Falls, and Cornelia wouldn’t be at all surprised to know Frances wanted to kill her. Cornelia wanted to kill her, and the only contact she ever had with her was to walk into Branyon’s Bakery with Mason to buy cinnamon rolls.

  Yet for all that Mrs. Branyon’s voice squawked up and down like an old-time radio being tuned, killing her seemed a large step. Cornelia’s observations of Frances suggested she was the polar opposite of her mother, a truly kind and patient person who faithfully cared for the cranky old woman.

  But as Cornelia had previously noted, a person could lie with their voice and their expressions, yet sooner or later, in texts and e-mails, the truth came out. And there were two people involved in the texting: Frances … and her brother? Yes, those texts could be between brother and sister.

  Frances looked up, caught Cornelia’s gaze, and widened her eyes as if asking for sympathy.

  Cornelia didn’t know how to respond.

  “What are you looking at?” Mrs. Branyon shrieked. She turned and saw Cornelia. “Why are you looking at her? That girl is odd.”

  In a mild, patient tone, Frances said, “Mother, she can hear you.”

  “What?” Mrs. Branyon shouted.

  “Put in your hearing aide,” Frances shouted back.

  Offended, Mrs. Branyon said, “Don’t you talk to me that way, young lady.”

  Frances sighed and started texting again.

  “Why do you take me out to coffee when you never pay any attention to me?” Mrs. Branyon shrieked.

  Frances tapped her ears.

  “I’m too young to be wearing those things.” But Mrs. Branyon opened her purse, took out the hearing aids, and put them in.

  Rainbow walked past. “That’ll lower the noise level,” she muttered to Cornelia.

  Cornelia stared at Rainbow. Was Rainbow trying to make conversation? With Cornelia? Ever since Cornelia could remember, Rainbow had been in Virtue Falls working at the Oceanview Café as a waitress. The waitress, actually. Rainbow was big-boned and tall, with broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper gray hair. She was hearty, cheerful, and she chatted up her customers, tourist or local. She asked qu
estions and gave unwanted advice. People liked her anyway.

  And Mrs. Branyon called Cornelia odd.

  Cornelia looked back at the texting.

  At least she goes to bed early.

  Cornelia took a sip of milk.

  Yes, but I’m tired of meeting you like we’re two furtive lovers. That was fun for a while, but I want to live together in public!

  Cornelia choked and coughed.

  Rainbow came by and slapped her on the back. “Are you okay, hon?”

  Cornelia nodded.

  So not Frances and her brother. At least Cornelia hoped not.

  Rainbow placed a glass of water on the table.

  Cornelia drank the water, dabbed at her damp eyes, and read.

  Is the poison fast?

  Not fast, but irreversible. Wait a minute, I have to take care of one of the kids.

  Cornelia looked around again. This person took care of children. So probably a woman, a teacher or a child care provider.

  That just wasn’t right. Yet who could Cornelia tell?

  The lady came back and texted, That kid is so cute, six years old and lost both her front teeth, just like in the song.

  Ahhhh.

  A sentimental response to losing teeth, a common childhood occurrence. That seemed also feminine. So perhaps a lesbian couple?

  What does she like to eat?

  The kid?

  No. Don’t be deliberately stupid.

  Oh. You mean … Just about anything. She’s has a good appetite.

  Does she like fried mushrooms?

  Yes.

  That makes it easy. How about steak? Does she like steak?

  Yes. T-bone is her favorite, with rosemary garlic roasted potatoes.

  T-bone steak it is. As soon as I get home, I’ll dehydrate the Galerina autumnalis and grind them up, and you can dust them on the steak and mix them in the fried mushrooms. Symptoms won’t occur for six to twenty-four hours. That way, when they investigate the death, if they suspect poison, you can act innocent and say she likes to pick mushrooms, you cooked them for her, and she must have got a bad one.

  Cornelia sat, riveted, waiting to hear what s/he was going to say.

  Finally, s/he came back with How long have you had the poisoned mushrooms?

  I got them this morning! Really, dear, they grow everywhere. And what does it matter? We’ve been talking about this for *months.*

  Not poison. We hadn’t discussed poison.

  Poison is a natural.

  I suppose. But—

  Does she like dessert?

  Yes.

  Do you want me to pick up something at the bakery?

  Yes. Yes, if she has to die, at least let her die happy.

  This matter was beyond Cornelia’s ken. She didn’t know what to do. She supposed she should ask someone who would know. Someone who knew everything about real life.

  Looking up, she beckoned Rainbow.

  Rainbow looked behind her, both ways, then pointed to herself and raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Cornelia said. “You!”

  The tourists craned their necks.

  Cornelia realized she’d been too loud. A little more quietly, she said, “Rainbow, I have a question.”

  Rainbow sidled over. “I wasn’t sure you knew my name.”

  Cornelia was confused. “Of course. Everyone knows your name.”

  “Okay, hon, don’t worry about it.” But Rainbow watched her with a pucker between her brows. “What do you need?”

  “If you knew someone was going to commit a murder, what would you do?”

  “Stop it.”

  “How?”

  “I’d knock ’em out with a swift slam to the cranium.”

  Rainbow said it with such relish, Cornelia believed her. “No. I mean—if you’d overheard a murder being plotted, what would you do?”

  “Oh.” Rainbow frowned as she thought. “Tell the cops. They’re the strong-arm enforcers of our capitalist government, but they do have their uses.”

  Eagerly, Cornelia asked, “Which cops? The state patrol? The county sheriff? The Virtue Falls police?”

  “Depends on where the murder is going to be committed.”

  “I don’t know where. It’s local. That’s all I know.”

  “Then probably the sheriff.” Rainbow placed her hand on her out-thrust hip. “You writing a book?”

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Why are you asking about the cops?”

  Patiently, Cornelia said, “Because someone’s going to commit a murder.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rainbow eyed her up and down. “How do you … ? No, never mind. Don’t tell me. What else do you need? Milk? Pie? Free advice for weird shit?”

  “No.” Cornelia closed her computer and put it and her tablet in her backpack. She rolled up her desk mat, took her number-two pencils and put them, one by one, into the proper slots. “I know what to do now.”

  Rainbow watched her in bewilderment. “You never leave until four thirty-seven.”

  “That’s when Mason comes to get me. I need to report this crime before he arrives.”

  “He’d wait for you … since you’re reporting a potential crime.”

  Rainbow viewed Cornelia with such concern, Cornelia knew she was honestly worried. About Mason, she supposed. “There’s no need for Mason to wait. I’m sure the sheriff will handle the matter competently.”

  “Yeah. Because that’s Sheriff Foster.” Rainbow sneered. “Competent.”

  Cornelia didn’t know what Rainbow meant by that, but in fact, she was used to not understanding subtexts in conversation. Another reason why she preferred nonverbal communication.

  Taking her backpack, Cornelia stood and walked out the door, leaving Rainbow staring worriedly after her.

  September had turned the maple leaves yellow, and a few drifted and swirled as they dropped to the ground. The sun hung low on the southern horizon, and the Pacific Ocean put a nip in the air. Cornelia shivered, stopped, and pulled a wrinkled white sweater out of her backpack. She hadn’t worn it since last spring, but she kept it with her. Sooner or later, winter always arrived.

  Cornelia fixed her gaze on her destination, the Virtue Falls City Hall, across the street and on the square and, of course, she tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and sprawled flat.

  She didn’t drop her backpack, though; her computer and tablet were her most treasured possessions.

  As she picked herself up, a ten-year-old boy rode by on his bike and jeered.

  Some things never changed.

  Cornelia dusted off her knees. She’d fallen partly in the parking strip; she had a grass stain on the elbow of her sweater. Mason would be distressed. He fussed about stuff like that; he liked her to look nice, and she appreciated his care.

  She trudged around the square, watching her step, then walked up the stairs and into city hall. Inside, the dust and mildew made her sneeze. She dug out a tissue and wiped her nose, then stepped up to the front desk and said, “I’d like to see Sheriff Foster.” It occurred to her the sheriff might not see just anyone, so she added, “Rainbow sent me. Because I have information. On a murder.”

  The desk sergeant narrowed his eyes at her. “A murder.”

  “Yes. Was I unclear?”

  “No. Not at all.” The desk sergeant picked up the phone. “I’ll see if Sheriff Foster will speak to you.” He stepped back, so she mostly couldn’t hear him, but he could still keep an eye on her.

  She seated herself on an old wooden bench—really, it looked more like a church pew—and proceeded to thoroughly blow her nose, sniff, and blow her nose again. When she looked up, Sheriff Foster stood in front of her.

  Like her, he had been born and raised in Virtue Falls. Unlike her, he was a minor celebrity, the first law officer at the scene of the famed Banner murder case, the man who had collected the evidence and brought Charles Banner to justice.

  Cornelia had alw
ays thought Sheriff Foster didn’t look much like a celebrity; he was scrawny, freckled, and about her height. But there was no use judging him on his looks. Someone’s life depended on his law enforcement skills.

  She stood up. She offered her hand, and when he didn’t take it, she grabbed his hand and shook it heartily. “Hello, Sheriff Foster, I am here to report a murder.”

  Sheriff Foster looked down at their joined hands, then carefully removed his. “You’re Cornelia Markum, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes!” Good deduction. She felt better about him already. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen you in the Oceanview Café.”

  “Oh. Do you come in?”

  With awesome patience, he said, “Every day.”

  She inspected him again. He really was nondescript.

  She expected him to take her to the back, someplace private where they could discuss her findings. Instead, he stood there in the lobby of the town hall where anyone could hear them. And the desk sergeant was leaning over the counter and plainly eavesdropping.

  Sheriff Foster pulled out his notebook and his pen. “Did you kill somebody?”

  “What? No!” Why would he think that?

  “All right. Then whose murder do you want to report?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He stared at her. He clicked the pen once. “When did it occur?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet.”

  One of the other law enforcement officers drifted in from the back.

  “Why do you know about it?” Sheriff Foster asked.

  “Because I hacked into a text conversation and discovered two local residents are planning to kill their mother.” That was clear enough.

  For a moment, Sheriff Foster appeared flummoxed. “What local residents?”

  “I don’t know. When I hack into the texting, I can follow a conversation, but I can’t tell who’s talking.”

  “What are the phone numbers?”

  “I can’t tell that, either.”

  “Can you tell where in the county these people are?”

  “No.” She glanced toward the counter.

  Two more law enforcement officers had appeared.

  Sheriff Foster clicked the pen again.

  He hadn’t written anything down.