by Eric Wright
“We weren’t doing anything. Want some coffee?”“Did I hear you say beer?”
Now she wants to talk to someone, Pickett thought. There goes the day. But he was retired and he couldn’t think of anyone he would rather waste his time with.
He brought out two bottles of beer, leading the way to the picnic table.
“What’s up?” he asked, to get her going. He was actually pleased and flattered that she had chosen him for whatever problem she wanted help with. She wouldn’t drop by just to chat. Something had to be wrong. Dennis, of course.
She came to the point with her usual directness. “Let’s see. First of all, I just told Dennis he can’t write. Not films, anyway. That turned into an argument about my competence to say that, and my general competence to do my own job. Then we learned that I had a deep-rooted jealousy of creativity. You can tell by my editorial comments. Then we realized that my jealousy is what lies behind my need to cut his balls off, and that our lovemaking has deteriorated because he anticipates a criticism of his performance in that area, too, which naturally becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We had a fight, you might say.”
“All because …?”
“All because I told him his script was a pile of crap. Which it is.” Her eyes were damp, but she was smiling, almost laughing.
“That shouldn’t have upset anybody. How long’s he been writing it?”
“Two years.”
“On and off, like.”
“Between lectures.” She smiled at the point he was making, then banged her bottle down on the table. “What a bunch of …” She turned to him. “Did you and your wife have fights like this?”
“Not so complex. She used to get fed up sometimes, and then when I got her to say what the problem was, I’d stop doing it, whatever it was, or start. That was about it. She didn’t tell me she thought I was a lousy cop, or ask me to quit.”
She thought about this, and obviously came to an uncomfortable point in her thinking. “Any word on who killed Timmy Marlow?”
“Not yet.” Then he remembered what he wanted to raise with her. “Did he ever come on to you, by the way? I mean, except as you told me, the way he came on to anything in a skirt.”
“There’s an outdated phrase. No, I was nothing special to him.” She laughed. “I don’t want to gossip, but the one he was coming on to had enough skirts for all of us. You ever notice that Pat Dakin always wears two or three layers?”
“Pat Dakin? Was he after her? Surely she didn’t lower herself …” Pickett laughed. “Maybe she thought she was Lady Chatterley?”
“It’s a murder inquiry, isn’t it, so I’m not gossiping. Yes, he was after her. Should I have told you this before?”
“And when did you say she left here?”
“On Saturday, according to her husband. They had a fight, the Dakins, and she went.”
“I’d better have a word with Wilkie, if he hasn’t already talked to her.”
“Don’t run away yet. Tell me what to do about Dennis. Did I go too far?”
Pickett took a swig of beer. “Yeah. I think you did. Telling him the writing he’s been doing for the last two years is a pile of crap doesn’t leave him much. And maybe you’re wrong.”
“Maybe. But I’m not wrong about the rest of him.”
It’s her subject, Pickett thought. She raised it. “You mean the bed part?”
Now she blushed slightly, laughing. “No, no. I was just giving you a sample. If the rest of him was all right, what you call the bed part would be, too. The real problem is that I am no longer enamored of him, not in love with him, so I can now admit to myself that I don’t like him, and I don’t think I ever did. Oh, don’t look like that. You don’t want me to give you the whole history, do you? Take my word. The point is, now what am I going to do?”
It seemed obvious. “Pack your bags. What’s the problem?”
“What about the play? I can’t just drive off and leave it.”
“Ah. No, you can’t. That would finish it. I guess you couldn’t ask him to leave”
“It’s his house.”
“So you need somewhere to stay,”
“If the Dakins hadn’t split up, I could have stayed at their B-and-B and commuted.”
“No, you couldn’t. I stayed there. You can’t even read in bed with the itty-bitty little lamp she gives you. I’ve got a better idea. Use this.” He pointed to the little trailer he had lived in while he was in the early stages of building the cabin. “Until you find a room.”
“What a good idea,” she said, round-eyed, then gave a little giggle. “Actually, the thought had crossed my mind …”
“I know,” Pickett said, who had realized it just in time. “I’ll show you how it works, then you can move in whenever you like. I warn you, though. Willis will want to visit.”
She looked down at the dog. “I think I could stand that.”
While Eliza was visiting Pickett, Wilkie and Copps were drinking coffee in Charlotte’s café. Copps handed over the list of Marlow’s acquaintances he had put together so far, and made a few comments on some of the names.
Wilkie tucked the list away and asked, “Where was Caxton on Friday?”
Copps said quietly, into his wallet, “One thing I learned this morning is that the woman who runs this place is your pal’s girlfriend.”
“Pickett? So?”
“Isn’t he a friend of Caxton’s?”
“Don’t worry about Pickett,” Wilkie said. Then in deference to Copps, to be courteous, he added, “All right. Finish your coffee and we’ll talk outside.”
In the car, Copps said, “No one mentioned Caxton, being with him or seeing him on Friday. That bother you?”
“I think Marlow was shot by someone he knew, someone he let get too close to him. He said he was going to Toronto, then he turned up in the bush. I think he went up there to meet someone.”
“And met up with her husband instead?”
“Possible. You come across anyone likely?”
“No.”
“Try this,” Wilkie said. “Caxton knew that Marlow had gone to Toronto, right? He would’ve known that. His girlfriend, Marlow’s sister, would have told him. Then some way or another he sees Marlow up near the cottages on Friday. Now, there’s been a lot of stuff taken from those cottages lately, so now Caxton knows who’s been doing it. So he follows Marlow up the trail. Confronts him, like. Marlow takes him on, and Caxton shoots him. Now he’s in a mess. Self-defense will look after the legal side, but what about Marlow’s sister? I keep hearing how she doted on her brother. That would be the end of Caxton and Marlow’s sister, wouldn’t you say?”
“You think that’s what happened?”
“No, I just made it up. Anyway, Caxton’s gun is the wrong kind.”
“You checked, though?”
“I noticed it in his office, in the drawer of his desk, and this morning we got the report of the slug that was found in Marlow’s head. It doesn’t fit.”
“So much for Lyman Caxton.”
“I don’t know,” Wilkie said. “You remember that motel owner who called us right after Marlow’s picture came out in the local paper? He called me again this morning to tell me someone was checking up on Marlow’s movements. The description was pretty good because he knew he’d have to remember. Caxton. What’s he up to?”
“Maybe he’s looking for Marlow’s killer, like you said he should. Trying to beat us to the finish,” Copps said. “And he thinks his girlfriend will be happy if he finds the guy who did her brother.”
“That makes more sense than thinking Caxton killed him. But Caxton is playing a little game, all right. We didn’t tell him about that motel, and he hasn’t told us. He should’ve, don’t you think? And if I didn’t already know it, it could be important for me to know that Marlow rented that motel room just for a couple of hours, and yet no one saw a woman. All he did there was shave his beard. Caxton knows that, but he hasn’t told me yet.” Wilkie paused. “Why the hell d
id Marlow shave his beard off?”
Copps grinned. “His girlfriend said it tickled. Said if he wanted to go down on her, he’d have to shave it off.”
“Or, possibly, he didn’t want to be recognized. Anyway, something to think about until we find the killer.”
Now Copps delivered his little piece of news. “And what would Caxton be looking for in the bush this morning?” he asked.
“Where?”
“Right around where we found the body. Between there and the river.”
“You saw him?”
“He drove past the picnic spot, then went up a little ways and tucked his car out of sight.”
“So you followed him?”
“I couldn’t do that. There’s no place to turn around if he should come back quick, and even if I went in on foot I might never pick him up, so I stayed by that little bridge and waited for him to come out. I figured we could bump into each other and he could tell me what he went in there for. But then I saw him searching the bush around where Marlow was found. You could see him from the bridge. First I thought he was just walking through the bush, then you could see he was going back and forth, looking for something.”
“So did you bump into him?”
“No, because I figured he’d tell me he was looking for his car keys. I figured we’d wait until tomorrow at least, see if he says anything to us about it. Then, if he doesn’t, ask him. And if he gives some bullshit reason, ask him why he didn’t tell us before. ‘Cause we might have found whatever it was and not know it was his. You know, if you lose something you tell everyone to watch for it, don’t you?”
“Unless it’s a gun.”
“I thought you might say that.” Copps smiled, satisfied.
“Our boys cover the area pretty good?”
“Four guys on their hands and knees all day. They didn’t miss anything important.”
“Still, Mel Pickett says that Caxton is a bit of an Indian in the bush. I mean, it’s just possible he would see something we could miss, being city boys ourselves. Not a gun, no. Something, though. A broken twig, maybe.” He glanced across to make sure Copps knew he was joking. “Let’s keep an eye on him. Assign someone to watch him. I’ll keep him close to me when I can, but let’s see where he goes on his own.”
CHAPTER 12
When Pickett found the site for his cabin, three years before, he took the precaution of discussing the possibility of a mortgage with the only bank in town, a branch of his own bank in Toronto. He did this not because he could not have managed the deal with his own money, or by taking out a small mortgage on his Toronto house, but because he wanted to make himself known to the manager. He disliked money machines, preferring to withdraw the cash he needed over the counter. He had a credit card, which he hardly ever used except to back up his checks, and when he went on a trip he bought traveler’s checks.
Because of this, and because he wanted the status of a valued customer at the Larch River branch, he opened an account there and got to meet the manager, who assured him of his absolute attention at all times should Pickett ever need money or advice. A week later Pickett was in his office raising the question of a mortgage. As he anticipated, the manager said, “No problem,’ and then began to ask questions and talk about getting head office approval. Pickett had fully made up his mind to buy the land, but he didn’t trust the owner’s evaluation, which he felt was not so much exorbitant as hopeful. The real estate agent who listed the property suggested that Pickett offer a thousand less, which Pickett guessed to be the amount the real estate man and the owner had agreed on when Pickett had appeared on the horizon. The agent also recommended him to a lawyer, a very old man who kept an office over a shoe repair shop in Sweetwater and was familiar with the plot of land Pickett wanted to buy.
“I had a look at it myself,” he told Pickett. “I thought it might be something I could use. My nephew wants a place for the summer, and there’s nothing left along the river. Geoffrey could have kept a boat at the marina and I thought if he put up a little prefab, an A-frame, maybe, on your piece of land that would be almost as good as having his own place on the river.”
“And?”
The lawyer’s old face went bland along the seams. “It isn’t really suitable for him.” He searched his mind for a better reason. “His wife’s a bit afraid of the country, you see. She thought it might be lonely.”
“Not because the price was too high?”
“It’s worth whatever old Moonie can get,” Duckett, the lawyer, said.
Pickett knew then he was being asked to pay a large premium, but he didn’t mind much; five thousand either way did not make a lot of difference. And yet, as he put it to himself, if he was going to be screwed, he liked to know it was happening, so he asked the bank manager for a mortgage to cover three quarters of the asking price. The manager did not even have to get an independent evaluation but offered in response a loan for half the full price, and agreed, with a little coaxing, that in the opinion of most people in town who had discussed the sale, Pickett was about to be taken by old Moonie.
“You think Moon would have come down?” Pickett asked.
“Put it like that, then, no, I don’t. He doesn’t need the money, you see. No, he wouldn’t.”
“Then I wouldn’t have got the piece of land I want.”
“That’s a point,” Villiers, the bank manager, said. “That’s a point. But it’s still my responsibility to tell you the price is too high.”
So Villiers did his duty and Pickett sold his Bell Telephone stock for enough money to be able to write a check on his Larch River account for the full cost of the lot, with a sizable sum left in a savings account, where it earned almost no interest at all. As a result, he got a handshake from Villiers whenever he was in the bank, and was accorded a semi-insider status with access to some of the gossip.
On Friday morning, while Pickett was withdrawing some money, Villiers called him into his office, shutting the door behind him. Pickett wondered what he was going to hear, perhaps one of Villiers’s filthy, and usually funny, stories. Villiers oiled his business relationships with a stream of very good dirty jokes, a source of wonder to Pickett, who was one of those people who could remember the jokes at his wedding and the one he heard yesterday but nothing in between. This time, though, Villiers had the air of someone wanting to get a worry off his chest. For all his folksy, small-town image, he had created a bond of understanding with Pickett based on their both being big-city boys, really, men who could share a small private amusement at the ways of the Larch River natives. Pickett guessed that he was in for a revelation, the news that the well digger had been apprehended selling his sister to the highway construction crew, perhaps.
Villiers took a bill from a drawer and laid it in front of Pickett. “Look at that,” he ordered.
Pickett stared at it. An orange fifty-dollar bill. “Counterfeit?” he asked.
“Turn it over.”
In the top left-hand corner were two initials, a B and a C or an O in black ink. Pickett described what he saw.
“Smell it,” Villiers ordered.
Pickett checked to see the door was closed, beginning to suspect an elaborate practical joke. He held the bill to his nose and sniffed it warily two or three times.
“Where’s it been?” Villiers demanded.
Pickett sniffed it again. “In a barmaid’s apron,” he tried. “Smells of yeast.”
Villiers shook his head. “Flour,” he said. “Smells of flour. My girl who brought it to me didn’t notice that. But she did notice the initials and she made a connection. She’s a smart lass. You know what BC stands for.”
“Looks more like BO or BQ.”
Villiers said, “BC,” and waited.
“Betty Cullen.”
“Right. The bill came from the bakery, where Betty put her initials on it when she counted it. She initials all the big bills and the top bill of the stacks of small ones.”
“It might have gone to someone else af
ter it left her.”
“It did. That’s what’s so abnormal. Betty runs a small business, takes in a couple of thousand a week. They’ve had a little safe in their back room since before we opened this branch. They used to deposit in Sweetwater once a week to save driving back and forth every day. We’ve got a night deposit box here now, so she doesn’t need to keep anything overnight. But she said she was used to the weekly deposit, so she carried on with it. Now whenever she gets a fifty or a hundred, she sets it aside for deposit. They’re not all that rare, even here, but you don’t need them to make change, so the bill should’ve come straight to us the week she took it in. But it just turned up yesterday. Jenny found it when she was balancing, but she can’t remember when she took it in. She only took in four fifties all day, but she recognized this one by the initials when she was counting, so she brought it to me.”
“It could’ve been going the rounds for weeks.”
“True enough. But any store round here treats fifties the same as Betty. They don’t need them for change.”
“Maybe she bought something big at the hardware store or the lumber yard. Paid cash.”
“Might’ve,” Villiers agreed immediately, vigorously, not at all inclined to dispute it.
Pickett recognized the response. Villiers was not trying to be fair-minded. Having shared the problem with Pickett, he was now covering himself by agreeing that it might not be a problem at all, retreating behind a show of impartiality, but ready to pop out again either to claim credit or agree that it was utterly innocent, whatever the case turned out to be. Villiers, Pickett suspected, was of Irish descent.
“Did you ask around?”
“I didn’t know what to do. It could mean something or nothing. But every time we had a bill before with those initials on, it came straight from Betty. I don’t want to ask around.”
Pickett saw the point. It was impossible to ask without the risk that it would get back to Betty Cullen, and since the implication might be that her brother had taken it from the till, she might construct a reply to keep her brother’s name clean. But Villiers was right to wonder if the bill was significant. Marlow’s wallet had been picked clean. The whole town was following the investigation closely, and most of the details that Caxton knew were known to everybody.