Poison Apples by Nancy Means Wright

good-bye. She was glad of a break so she could leave. She had to get home to make supper. Besides, it wasn’t exactly comfortable with Stan here. “Thanks, thanks so much,” she said, and kept going even when Moira said, “No, no, it can’t be!” into the phone.
    * * * *
    Back at the farm, Ruth found Colm’s ancient two-toned blue Horizon parked by the silo—an amateur paint job at best. It was missing a hubcap and a few other essentials. How long was he going to keep driving that thing? She was glad to see Colm, though, she wanted to tell him about Pete. She didn’t like the sound of it, Pete’s involvement with this developer.
    But he had news for her, too. “Moira called,” he said, putting an arm around her waist. His fingers dug a little into her body, like a cat kneading flesh.
    “Moira? But I just came from there.”
    “She said. There was evidently a phone call just as you left, She thought you should know.”
    “What? Know what?”
    “It was from that minister. It seems that woman is dead. The one with the Greek name: Cassandra, the one who was harassing Samuels. She was hit by a car. According to the minister— Turnbull’s his name—it was Stan Earthrowl’s Blazer.”
    “No!” Something struck Ruth in the pit of the stomach. “Oh God, poor Moira. What did Stan say? Was it really his car? I just saw him. He seemed ... all right.” She thought a minute, saw his white face, the way he threw down that drink, his hand trembling. He wasn’t all right, not at all.
    “She didn’t say.” Colm was holding her impossibly tight, and she didn’t object. A moment later she heard Vic skipping down the stairs, too fast, the way he always did, and she pulled away from Colm.
    “What’s for supper?” Vic asked.
    “Misery pudding,” she said, and Vic said, “What?”
     

Chapter Sixteen
     
    Morning, and Stan was sleeping like a baby beside Moira. He was making sonorous sounds. One would think it was just an ordinary Sunday morning, church perhaps—though Stan was a nonpracticing Jew, and Moira didn’t attend St. Mary’s very often now. Though today she felt the need. She needed to sink to her knees and mumble the liturgy, feel the good numbness, chant along with a hundred others, the priest in his fatherly white robe. He would take care of her. He would keep the birds out of the house.
    They’d gotten in late last night from the police interview. It had all happened so fast: the phone call from that minister, the police wanting to take Stan into custody. They hadn’t been able to hold him, there was no proof—”Not yet,” Chief Fallon had said, quite ominously—that croaky voice! The minister had been a witness, but admitted he hadn’t seen Stan run the woman down. He’d described Stan breaking up the picketing at the liquor store, pushing Cassandra into the door front. Then when they went after him, a matter of defense, the man said—a handsome gray-haired fellow with blazing blue eyes, a deep melodious voice that would mesmerize his flock—Stan peeled off. Cassandra, foolish woman, the man said, had run at the car and Stan knocked her down.
    At least it had to have happened that way, the man—Turnbull—said. He’d gone back into the store to leave pamphlets. The next he knew, he heard a scream, he turned to look, and the woman was down on the pavement. He’d run to her, she was lying in a Z—
    “In a what?” the chief had asked. “Curled up,” Turnbull responded, “like a fetus, she was struck in the back. The back!” he’d hissed, the voice warmed up to a fine pitch. “The back!” as though she’d been exploited, martyred, in her innocence. He’d called an ambulance; then he’d left in Cassandra’s car. The rest of his group had already taken off, he explained, in the church vehicle. “I went to the hospital. To pray,” he added, with a hard look at Stan.
    And all Stan could do was shake his head. The woman was nowhere near his car when he left. Well, she must have