Cardinal Sin

by J. R. Ripley

  “She said some teenagers pillaged her garden.”

  Gar snorted and thumped his pipe against the tire of his wheelchair. “I suspect Madeline’s grip on reality isn’t quite holding.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Forget I said anything.” Gar sighed heavily. “I’m an old man. My grip on reality may be no more firm than anybody else’s around here.” He spat into the pond.

  “I find that hard to believe.” I wondered what had caused him to be in the wheelchair and how long he’d had to use it but did not dare ask.

  “For instance, Kay,” he turned his neck in the direction of Kay Calhoun’s cabin, “she believes in fairies. Leaves them treats outside her front door at night.”

  “Sounds harmless.”

  “She is. But she says they eat them.” Gar watched my face for a reaction.

  “Raccoons?” I suggested.

  “That’s my guess. Then there’s Barnswallow.” He maneuvered the wheelchair toward the cabin across the pond. “There’s something about him that concerns me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Probably nothing. Some folks seem to have a cloud over them. He’s one of those people.”

  “And Mr. Arnold?”

  “Murray?” Gar wiped bits of tobacco from his lap to the dock. “He’s the only one around here with any sense. Keeps himself to himself for the most part, although he is sort of the designated handyman around here. He’s done a few jobs for me and done them well. Repaired the shingles on my roof after the tornado blew through here three years back. Fixed my kitchen sink when the pipe burst.”

  “He sounds like a good man to have around.”

  “I suppose he isn’t completely useless. It is hard to get tradespeople to come out this far for small jobs.”

  That sounded like high praise coming from Gar Samuelson. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen any strangers around?” I asked.

  “Nope.” There was a tug at the fishing line. Gar cursed and gripped the rod tighter. I watched as he reeled his catch up to the dock. Bending over and plucking the foot-long fish from the hook, he remarked, “Catfish. I don’t care much for catfish, but Pep likes them.” He deftly plucked the struggling fish from the hook and dropped it into the bait bucket.

  I thanked Gar Samuelson for his time and gave Pep a friendly pat. “Who lives out there?” I pointed to the cabin at the far side of the pond. It stood relatively removed from the others and appeared neglected.

  “The old Fritsch place? It’s been empty for years.”

  “Did the police check it?”

  He grinned. “You think Spenner might be hiding out there?”

  “It has crossed my mind.”

  “Two police officers checked it out. It was empty. I told them it would be.”

  “You seem to know everything.”

  “About this place?” Gar tapped his pipe against the side of his chair. “I know most. Not all. This place holds its secrets close to its chest.” He looked at me carefully. “We aren’t all what we seem.”

  “Care to share?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Wrote a story about it once, though. Sort of a diary.”

  “You are a writer?”

  “Hardly.” Gar brushed tobacco from his jacket. “You might say I wrote it for my own preservation.”

  “You mean satisfaction?”

  “Yeah, that too.” A smile appeared. “You might call it my buried treasure.” His accompanying hearty laugh turned into a cough. Red-faced, he took another drink of his whiskey.

  “I’d like to read it sometime.”

  “Who knows? Things are changing fast,” he said, eying the sky cryptically. “You should go.”

  Dismissed, I thanked him once again for his time.

  He nodded and rubbed his chin sagely. “You take care, Amy. Sometimes a body is dead,” he intoned, his eyes falling on the fish flopping noisily, desperately—yet in the end, futilely—in the bait bucket, “and it doesn’t even know it.”

  I promised I would and headed toward shore.

  11

  On those ever so slightly chilling words, I returned to my van.

  Had Gar Samuelson’s last words been a warning? A threat?

  Murray Arnold was walking slowly behind a gas-driven lawn mower. Puffs of blue smoke came spitting from the engine’s exhaust. Shredded green confetti shot out the side of the grass chute.

  He waved to me as I passed.

  I stopped at the edge of the road as he came toward me in long strides, having left his mower sitting in the middle of the lawn. “Good morning, Murray.”

  “Hello, Amy.” He pulled off a red knit cap and ran his arm over his damp forehead. He smelled of fresh-mown grass. “Any news on Yvonne’s murder?”

  “Nothing that I’ve heard. I was just going to pay my condolences to her brother, Lani.”

  Murray wiped his neck with a red handkerchief. “Mind if I come along? I’ve been meaning to pay my respects as well.”

  I said, “Of course,” and waited a minute while Murray hurried inside. He washed quickly and threw a brown flannel jacket over his green flannel shirt.

  “What did you think of Gar?” Murray asked as we bounced along the narrow road leading to Yvonne’s cabin.

  “He’s very…colorful.”

  Murray chuckled. “That he is. He’s an old goat, but he’s a friendly old goat.”

  “How did he end up in a wheelchair?”

  “I believe it was a stroke. He lost the use of his legs.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Murray shrugged. “He seems to have compensated well. What he lacks in leg power he makes up for with upper-body strength.”

  “Really?” Gar hadn’t looked all that strong.

  “Yes. You ought to see him when he’s out here shooting his bow. He bends it like it’s made of butter.”

  “He enjoys archery?”

  “He enjoys hunting.”

  I was having a hard time picturing Gar Samuelson trudging through the woods during hunting season with a wheelchair attached to his butt.

  Murray must have read my thoughts because he said, “He doesn’t go much farther than the edge of the woods. He sits there, silently, patiently, with Pep at his side. Waiting, just watching and waiting. Then, when a deer comes—” Murray pretended to pull back a bow, banging his elbow against the passenger side window. “Ouch.”

  He rubbed his elbow, then pulled back his imaginary bow once more, angling side to side, then shouted, “Twang!”

  I pictured Gar sitting in his wheelchair, puffing on his pipe, chugging Irish whiskey, with herds of deer skittering past and mocking him. “Is he any good? I mean, has he ever hit anything?”

  “He’s a crack shot. I’ve seen Gar drop more than one buck. From a hundred yards or more. He’s asked me and Barnswallow to help drag them back to his cabin for him. You have no idea how heavy a full-grown deer can be.”

  Murray stuck his hand between himself and the seat. “My back hurts just thinking about it.”

  Half-watching the road and half-watching Murray’s antics, I almost missed Yvonne’s cabin and was forced to slam on the brakes.

  “Sorry,” I said as Murray threw his hands against the dashboard.

  “No problem. Who are they?” He squinted out the window. “Wish I’d worn my glasses.”

  I followed his gaze to where several young men in jeans and leather jackets sat on the bench and front steps. Two had acoustic guitars in their hands. The third fellow, seated on the top step, had a pair of fancy bongo drums stuck between his knees.

  “Aloha!” The musician banged out a rhythm on his drums with the sides of his hands. The drums had been fashioned from highly prized koa wood and finished with steel hardware polished to a mirror-like finish. He set the bongos on the middle step,
then stood.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  Murray and I stepped from the van, giving each other puzzled looks.

  “You must be Lani, Yvonne’s brother.” I extended my hand in greeting. He had to be the brother. He was only an inch or two taller than me and had black hair, near-black eyes, and a beautiful Polynesian skin tone. I caught a glimpse of a shell necklace around his neck, a brown leather loop with small cream- and rose-colored shells. The other two young men were too tan and too blond. They looked nothing like Yvonne. They looked like every California poster boy.

  I could see Yvonne in this man’s features. And it made me sad all over.

  “Lani Rice.” He squeezed my hand firmly, then turned and did the same for Murray. “Hi-ya.”

  “Murray Arnold.” Murray winced and waved to the others watching from the porch.

  “And I’m Amy Simms.”

  “Hello, Amy. Wait.” Lani stepped back, eyes narrowing. “You’re the reason my sister is dead.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Murray snapped, his face a picture of anger. “Amy never harmed Yvonne. She’s never harmed anyone.”

  I was liking Murray more by the minute.

  “Ms. Simms and I have come to pay our respects.”

  “That’s right, Lani. Yvonne was a wonderful young woman. While she was new to the community, we all are very sorry for her loss.”

  The two men on the patio had set down their guitars and stood on either side of Lani. Murray and I were outnumbered.

  “If it wasn’t for you, lady,” crowed the man to Lani’s right, “Yvonne would still be alive.”

  The second belligerent fellow on his left added, “That’s right. We heard all about you. You are bad luck.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Murray grumbled. “Let’s go, Amy. If these, these louts,” he pointed his finger at the young men, “can’t accept our condolences, we might as well leave them.” He turned around and started for the van.

  “Just a minute,” I said. “Lani, I had nothing to do with Yvonne’s murder. Did you talk to the police?” He remained mum but allowed me to continue. “The police believe that an escaped convict, a violent criminal named Alan Spenner murdered your sister.”

  “How do I know you didn’t lead him here?” Lani’s face was dark and his voice low. It held an undercurrent of threat.

  “Me? Why would I do that? I would never—”

  He held up a hand to stop me. “Not physically. Spiritually. Your spirit draws murder to you.” His friends nodded their agreement.

  Was the whole world going crazy?

  “My spirit?”

  Lani ran his hands along the curves of my body, never actually physically touching me, yet I felt ice with every move. “Your spirit attracts mayhem, sin, and murder.” He looked toward the sky. Silvery gray clouds hung over us. “You bring evil.”

  “You are cursed, lady,” snapped the young man on the left with a none-too-flattering goatee.

  Fury and indignation filled me head to toe, but Lani had just lost his sister—and violently. I drew in a deep breath and let it out. I owed him my sympathy and compassion. “Please,” I began, “accept my condolences for your loss. If there is anything I can do to help you, give me a call.” I pulled a Birds & Bees business card from my wallet and handed it to him.

  Surprisingly, he slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. I had been expecting him to rip it to shreds. I got the impression that that was what he wanted to do to me.

  Murray and I jumped in the van and burned rubber. Okay, no rubber was burned. Still, I was mad. Mad enough to burn rubber.

  You try burning rubber in a decade-old Kia minivan. On a dirt road, no less.

  “You okay, Amy?” Murray inquired.

  “I’m still shaking,” I said, pulling my right arm from the steering wheel for him to see. Sure enough, it shook like a willow branch in the wind.

  Murray invited me in for coffee. I gladly accepted.

  We took our coffee on the back porch seated in a pair of faded Adirondack chairs. We had an idyllic view of Webber’s Pond and the cabins surrounding it.

  Murray Arnold lived alone. “I had a dog once, but he died.” Murray rested his cup and saucer on his right knee. “Then I got another dog, and she died too.”

  “Did you ever think about getting another dog? It must get lonely out here.”

  “I thought about it, but I don’t want to put myself through the pain of loss anymore.” His gaze shifted across the pond.

  “I can understand that.” I helped myself to a flaky buttered biscuit on the table between us. Murray said he had baked them that morning. “If you don’t mind my asking, do you have any family?”

  Murray shook his head. “No.”

  “No wife? No children?”

  “I am afraid not. I seem to be one of those persons destined to remain alone.”

  “You never know,” I said, reminded of Esther and Floyd’s sudden late-blooming relationship. “What about the others?”

  “You mean my neighbors?” I nodded, and he continued. “Barnswallow has a girlfriend. She spends the night occasionally. I don’t know much of anything about her. The rest of us live alone.” The beginnings of a smile formed on his face. “It must be a disease.”

  He stood, and I listened to his knees crack. “Maybe it is something in the water.”

  I looked at my nearly empty cup of coffee. “I hope not.”

  “Your Derek strikes me as being a good man.”

  “He is.”

  Murray folded his hands behind his back, his eyes on the horizon. “Maybe the spirit board was his way of letting you know that he was contemplating marriage.” He shot a glance at me.

  I blushed and choked on my biscuit. “Sorry,” I said, wiping crumbs from my lap.

  Murray laughed, then turned somber. “Yvonne told me she had come here to escape her past, you know.”

  Alarms went off in my head. “She did?”

  Murray returned to his Adirondack chair. “I believe there was a young man who was pursuing her rather aggressively and who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Where was this?”

  “In Hawaii, I imagine. She did not specifically say.”

  “Ruby Lake is a long way from Hawaii.” I thought a moment. “That could explain her being here, though.”

  “Did she say who this man was? Did she give a name?”

  Murray frowned. “She did.” He tapped the side of his head. “I’m sorry,” he said with a shake, “but the memory isn’t what it used to be. If I think of it, I’ll tell you. Do you think it’s important?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just don’t know.”

  “It’s the oddest thing,” Murray said. I waited as he bit into a biscuit and chewed with his mouth open. After swallowing and washing it down with coffee, he continued. “That whole I am murdered thing. I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits or voodoo magic, Amy. Somebody had to have written that. Why? Was it a warning? A threat?”

  “That’s what I would like to know.”

  “Then again, the episode could have been nothing more than a silly party game. Mere coincidence. Alan Spenner might have broken into her home and shot her.” He squeezed his fingers over his knees. “That’s what the police think.”

  Murray took it upon himself to refill my cup from the insulated pot he had carried outside. I sipped slowly. Murray’s coffee was thousands of times better than mine. “This is good. Usually I don’t care for decaf.” In fact, I’d never tasted decaf that was better.

  “I grind the beans fresh every day. Just enough to make a cup or two.”

  “Shade grown?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “Shade grown? What’s that?”

  I set my saucer carefully on the wide arm of my chair. I gave Murray a brief overview of the b
enefits to people and birds and the world in general to shade-grown coffee. He promised to pick some up the next time he was in town.

  There was something I wanted to ask but hesitated to for fear of offending him. Finally, I couldn’t help myself. “I hope you won’t take this wrong…”

  “What?”

  “Do you suppose that one of the dinner guests could have shot Yvonne?”

  Murray smiled. “I don’t see how, Amy. We were all together.”

  “No. I mean after we all left. Maybe somebody went back to her cabin.”

  Murray leaned into his chair and gave it some thought. “I don’t believe that is possible.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We all drove together. In my car. I have the only vehicle big enough. It’s that station wagon out front. You must have seen it. I drove us all back here. Barnswallow walked straight to his place, while Kay and Madeline stayed for a nightcap. We were all here when Officer Reynolds came and broke the news of the murder.”

  I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “Ross Barnswallow could have driven to Yvonne’s afterward.”

  “Why?” asked Murray. “What reason would Barnswallow have for wanting her dead? No motive, no murder? Isn’t that what they say?

  “Besides,” Murray insisted, “I and the others would have heard his truck if he had left to go murder Yvonne. He’d have to pass right by my cabin. And that little truck of his makes quite the racket, I don’t mind telling you. When he drives his girlfriend back to town late some nights, it wakes me, and I have a devil of a time getting back to sleep.

  “No, if you ask me,” Murray said, “it was Spenner. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Several witnesses have reported seeing Spenner in Charlotte.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “The woman on the radio reported it this morning.”

  I thanked him for his time and told him to let me know if he heard anything about a funeral or memorial service for Yvonne.

  “And please, do the same for me, if you should hear something first.”

  I promised I would as I climbed wearily into my van. “Tell me, Murray, if Alan Spenner did not shoot Yvonne, who might have? Can you think of anyone?”