Philly Stakes by Gillian Roberts Page B

but it’s all adolescent show. Why did he call you?”
    “Said he heard I was an okay guy, so he picked me. I thought for a while he was asking me out on a date.”
    “Picked you for what?”
    “I told him it wasn’t my case, but he didn’t care. He was on his way over and he wanted me. Flattering, I guess.”
    “Wanted you for what?”
    “To wrap things up with this Clausen business. The kid says he had a fight with Alexander Clausen. Says he killed him. And says he’s not one damned bit sorry.”

Six
    MAYBE CONFESSING HAD BECOME TRENDY. I’D HAVE TO ASK MY MOTHER.
    What bothered me most was that while everybody seemed ready to be named a murderer, not one of them even mentioned remorse or sorrow about the act. In fact, they seemed chilly and proud of having done the deed.
    That made it sound like a group effort, but nobody claimed membership in a club. Not a one of the trio had spoken of collusion or cooperation. Each had acted alone, yet nobody is killed three times.
    Either one had done it and two were lying, or all three were guilty of conspiracy and were playing with the truth. Or, and this was my theory of choice because I wanted it so, all three were innocent, lying for reasons I didn’t yet know.
    I wondered if anyone had found the missing guest list, or if anyone would even care about doing so now that Peter had confessed.
    Alice Clausen sighed jaggedly, startling me. There was something pathetically forgettable about her, a sense that she hadn’t made much of an impression even on herself. “That was your policeman friend, wasn’t it?” she asked anxiously. “What’s happened?” She cringed in anticipation of my answer.
    “I’m not sure.” That was the truth, pretty much. Besides, if Alice was confessing to protect Laura, she might react to news of Peter’s confession by retracting her own. Or, worse—if Alice was confessing because she honestly did her husband in—would Peter’s confession let her remain in unpunished, guilty silence?
    I didn’t know what to tell her and, more importantly, I didn’t know what I should have told or should now tell Mackenzie. I had made a few side steps, for good reasons, and now my feet were so pretzel-twisted I couldn’t move without falling.
    “Did Laura?” Alice Clausen asked. “Tell me. Did she tell him? She promised she wouldn’t, or I wouldn’t have let her out, but…that’s why he called, isn’t it?”
    “He didn’t even mention Laura.”
    She looked at me suspiciously, then stood up. “Laura’s probably back at Alma’s. It’s too cold to keep walking this long. And Alma’s so busy with Christmas and then they’re going to Antigua, and we’re in their way and…” She began to cry again.
    I located the tissue box, patted and clucked sympathetically.
    “And of course there’s the funeral…” She blew her nose. “If they ever finish those things, those tests they do.” She paused, and I could almost hear her gears shift again. “It’s so hard!” She shuddered. “Alexander took care of things, not me!”
    A part of me registered, with distaste, that she was blindered, drugged, dependent and willingly ineffectual. Not my image of womanhood. But another slice of my consciousness knew that I should stop ticking off a list of character flaws. They weren’t a person. Alice Clausen was, and after watching her synapses wave idly like sea anemones, connecting only by chance, I knew she needed help. And quickly. She was out on an emotional ledge, one foot poised for a dive unless somebody skilled talked her down.
    I wasn’t that person, but I could try coddling and the little psychological first aid that I did know. “Let me walk you back to your sister’s,” I said. Once she was settled, I would do my Christmas shopping in one wildly efficient swoop. I thought about the wind-chill factor and the Alice-induced ten-block detour, but realized that aside from humanitarian considerations, I also had no choice on a pragmatic level.