M Is for Malice

them in circulation."
    I could feel my mouth pull down with disgust. "So you didn't even get the money? You are a creep," I said. "Let's talk about Patty."
    "The baby wasn't mine. I swear. I never screwed her."
    "Paul did, didn't he? And so did Jack."
    "A lot of fellas screwed her. She didn't care."
    "Not Guy. He never laid a hand on her," I said.
    "Not Guy," he repeated. "I guess that's true."
    "So whose baby was it?"
    "Probably Jack's," Bennet said. "But that doesn't mean he killed Guy. I didn't either. I wouldn't do that," he said.
    "Oh, come on. Grow up. You never accepted any responsibility for what happened, the whole lot of you. You let Guy take the blame for everything you did. Even when he came back, you never let him off the hook."
    "What was I supposed to say? It was too late by then."
    "Not for him, Bennet. Guy was still alive at that point. Flow, it's too late."
    I looked up to see Enid standing by the hedge. I had no idea how much she'd overheard. She said, "Your partner's on the phone. The police are on the way."
    I moved past Enid and walked down the short flight of stairs, crossing the patio to the kitchen door. I found the handset on the counter and I picked it up. "It's me. What's going on?"
    "Are you all right? You sound bad."
    "I can't stop to tell you. It would take too long. I should have fallen on Bennet and beat the man to death."
    "Catch this. I just had a chat with the private investigator in Bridgeport, Connecticut. This gal was at the courthouse when she called in to pick up messages. She went right to the clerk and filled out a request for Claire Maddison's death certificate."
    "What was the cause of death?"
    "There wasn't one," he said. "As long as she was at it, she made a couple more phone calls and got her last known address. According to the utility company, Claire was living in Bridgeport until last March."
    "How did the Dispatch end up printing her obituary?"
    "Because she sent them one. No one ever asked for proof. I called the Dispatch myself and verified the whole procedure. They take down the information and they print it as given."
    "She made the whole thing up?"
    "I'm sure she did," he said.
    "So where did she go?"
    "I'm just getting to that. This PI in Bridgeport picked up one more little item. Claire never worked as a teacher. She was a private-duty nurse."
    "Shit."
    "That's what I said. I'm coming over. Don't do anything until I get there," he said.
    "What's to do? I can't move."
    How long did I stand at the kitchen counter with the phone in my hand? In a flash, I could see how all the pieces fit. I was missing a few answers, but the rest of them finally fell into place. Somehow Claire Maddison heard about Bader's terminal illness. She shipped the Dispatch an obituary just to close that door. She turned herself into Myrna Sweetzer, packed her personal belongings, and headed back to Santa Teresa. Bader was difficult. As a patient, he was probably close to impossible. He must have gone through a number of private duty nurses, so it was only a matter of Myrna's biding her time. Once she was in the house, the family was hers. She had waited a long time, but the chance to wreak havoc must have been something she savored.
    I tried to put myself in her place. Where was she now? She'd accomplished much of her mission, so it was time to fade. She'd left her car, her handbag, and all her clothes. What would I do if I were Claire Maddison? The whole psychodrama of the missing Myrna was just a cover for her escape. She must have pictured the cops digging up the property, looking for a body that was never there. To have the disappearance play out properly, she had to make an exit without being seen, which ruled out a taxicab. She might steal a car, but that was risky on the face of it. And how would she leave town? Would she hitchhike? A motorist passing through might never be aware that anyone was missing or presumed dead. Plane, train, or bus?
    She might have a confederate, but much of what she'd done to date required a solitary cunning. She'd been gone more than an hour – plenty of time to walk through the back of the property to the road. I lifted my head. I could hear voices in the foyer. The cops had probably arrived. I didn't want to go through this whole rigmarole. Enid was saying, "It was just so unlike her so I called..."
    I slipped out the backdoor, race walking across the patio and out to the driveway. I got in my car and turned the key in the ignition. My brain was