“So you and Win…”
I heard her sigh. “Win is a very attractive man. Smart, worldly, exciting. We—we became close before I knew anything about him except that he was George’s friend. He was just George’s mysterious friend, that’s all. And then he found out about me. I don’t know how. He promised he’d never tell George. And he told me about himself. So we realized we had a lot in common. We had to trust each other, two people hiding from their pasts, so to speak.”
“But George found out anyway.”
“Yes. Harvey’s paper tipped him off. Then he did his research. He was so meticulous about his research. He put it all together. And then when George died—when he stepped off the edge of Charity’s Point—it ended between Win and me. Win blamed me, of course. We stopped being lovers. But we still needed each other, depended on each other, had to trust each other with our secrets. So he stayed around.”
“And then Harvey found out.”
“Ah, poor Harvey. Not such a dumb beast. He figured it out from that paper of his. The same way George did.”
“Because I encouraged him to work on it some more,” I said.
“Blame yourself, then,” said Rina.
“Not likely,” I said. “So then Win took care of that little problem for you.”
“Yes. Win took care of it. For me.”
“And when I became a problem…”
“Yes.” She paused. “But you didn’t answer my question. How did you know about Win?”
It was my turn to laugh. “George had an address book. In the back of it was a list of numbers. Nonsense numbers, they looked like. I didn’t know what to make of them. Actually, I didn’t know if I should try to make anything of them. Then Florence—George’s mother—showed me a couple of postcards. She said they were from Win. She insisted he was still alive. I didn’t believe it, but while I was recovering from my injuries these past weeks I had a flash. I checked. Do you know the zip code of Ketchikan, Alaska, or Pittsburg, New Hampshire? That’s what George’s list of numbers was—post office boxes and zip codes. Where he could reach Win. They matched the places Win sent postcards from. George even kept a zip code directory in his room. He and Win were communicating all that time.”
“That book. He couldn’t find it.”
“Who? What do you mean?”
“Win. He went to your apartment. He couldn’t find it. You hid it well.”
I laughed. “No, I didn’t hide it. I left it in my jacket when I took it to the cleaners.” I stopped. “He locked my doors.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” I thought for a moment. “That was the night—the first night—on the beach…”
I heard her sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“Calculated. To keep me away from my apartment. So he could search it.”
“Yes.”
“How did he know I had it?”
“Me. I saw you take it. The day you were in George’s room.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course.” I paused, thinking. “For a while I thought it was just you who killed George and Harvey. Until we were up there. You saved my life. He would have thrown me over.”
“Yes, he would have.”
I tried to sort out the half-formed thoughts that swirled around in my head.
“Tell me where Alexander Binh fits into it.”
“Binh? Nowhere. Matter of fact, I always thought he was the one I had to worry about, that he’d be the one to find out about me, the way he would look at you as though he could see right into your mind. He always made me feel exposed. I really think he knew that I—that I had a secret.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “He made me feel the same way. Except I didn’t have any secret.”
“Everybody has a secret,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” I said. I paused. “Okay, then, what about Cap Spender? I know he fits into this somewhere. One of Win’s recruits?”
“I said Win came to Ruggles to visit George. That was only part of the reason. Win is a true believer. He’s always trying to find converts—disciples to help him spread the word. One day he got a look at Cap in that weird costume he wears and I guess he figured he’d found another soul brother.”
“Even though Cap antagonized George every chance he got?”
“Yes. As I said, George didn’t even try to change Win’s ideas. And he couldn’t change what he did. Win took Cap under his wing, and Cap started trying to convert the other kids. He was good at it, too.”
“And the night Harvey died?”
“When we learned that Harvey had found out about me, Win said he had to die. That was how he said it. ‘The boy must die.’ It wasn’t my idea.”
“But you didn’t try to talk him out of it.”
I heard her sigh. “He told me there was no other way. I couldn’t think of another way. Anyway, Cap and Harvey had had that fight. So it was easy. Cap lured Harvey off the campus, on the pretext of having it out. They were supposed to meet at this place off the highway.”
“Except,” I inserted, “Win was there instead of Spender.”
“Yes.”
“And in the same fashion, you lured me to Charity’s Point because you suspected I knew too much.”
“It was your idea to go there,” she said quickly.
“But it was your idea that we go to the beach.”
She paused. “Yes.”
“And Win was waiting for us there.”
“Yes.”
“Rina,” I said, “why didn’t you let Win kill me?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe I should have.” I waited, sensing she had more to say. “Why did you take me to the top of Charity’s Point?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were giving me a chance, weren’t you? You thought I’d—you thought I had killed George and you thought I had killed Harvey, and you went up there with me anyway. Why?”
“Same reason you didn’t let Win kill me, I guess.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s good.”
“Now what are you going to do?”
“Do? I’m going to live. Go on living. What else is there?”
“All those crimes. Those bombs. The Sewing Circle. My God, Rina. You can’t just go on living as if there were none of that.”
“That was Carla,” she said in a small voice. “Not Rina. Those were my salad days, when I was green in judgment, cold in blood. I’m Rina now. Not Carla. That was ten years ago. A different person.”
“Are you?”
I heard her sigh. “Yes. Yes, I am a different person. People change. When that bomb went off, when my friends were killed, it killed all that anger in me. I was supposed to be with them. But I went out for bananas and beer for us. I was in the store a few blocks away when I heard the explosion, and I just walked out and that was the end of the Sewing Circle. I saw all at once the absurdity, the futility of it. We used to pretend we had a philosophy, and that the establishment—that’s what we called everybody who was working in some constructive, functional way, you know—the establishment was the enemy. School, parents, not just the government. And that violence was the only way. Dumb little college girls reading their Marx. But when that bomb went off, when I heard that horrible explosion, and I knew that Melissa and Evelyn and Barbara and Monica were in there, not some nameless establishment types—that’s when it suddenly became clear to me. So I became Rina.”
“Just like that.”
“Yes. Just like that. Everyone figured I’d been killed along with my friends. Well, in a way I was. I stayed in New York. Best place in the world to disappear in. I modeled my feet for a while. Then I came to Ruggles. I just wanted to teach and be Rina Prescott. That’s all I wanted.”
I didn’t speak. I had nothing more to say.
“Adieu, then,” she said after a long moment. “You’ll not hear from me again. Dry sorrow drinks our blood.”
I touched the button on the telephone with my forefinger and disconnected myself from her
.
A week or so after Rina’s phone call, I was at my desk trying to catch up on my correspondence when my phone buzzed.
“Yes, Julie?”
“Two gentlemen to see you, Brady.”
“They have an appointment?”
“They’re FBI.”
“Aha! Well, send them in, then.”
Mr. Sousa and Mr. Olanoff shook hands formally with me and sat side by side on my sofa. Each carried a thin, dark-leathered briefcase which he balanced on his knees. Mr. Olanoff seemed to be the spokesman. He was a tall, balding man with elusive, smoky eyes and an angular beak of a nose. Mr. Sousa sat tensely, burning me with his dark eyes, his mouth hidden beneath an enormous black mustache.
“We understand you have some knowledge of Carla Steinholtz and Winchester Gresham, Mr. Coyne,” said Olanoff.
I nodded. “I’ve told the police everything I know.”
“Everything?” I felt Sousa’s eyes.
I hesitated. “Yes. Everything.”
“We want those two, Mr. Coyne.” Olanoff’s lips, I noticed, barely moved when he spoke. “We think you know where they are.”
I looked from one to the other. They were both staring steadily at me. “I have no idea where they are,” I said, looking from one to the other as I spoke. “They nearly killed me, as you must know. She called me the other night. I told the police that, too. I don’t know any more than I’ve told. Don’t you think I want you to find them?”
“No, Mr. Coyne. We don’t think you do. Your relationship with Steinholtz is hardly a professional one.”
“Was,” I said. “Before I knew about her, we were friends.” Olanoff’s eyebrows twitched when I said that. “I’m a lawyer,” I continued. “I know what has to be done. It’s as I said. I don’t know anything else.”
Sousa leaned forward, his black eyes glowing. His teeth appeared beneath that mustache. He reminded me of a Northern Pike I reeled right up to the boat once on Lake Champlain before it grinned at me and bit through the twenty-pound leader. “Why didn’t they kill you?” said Sousa.
I laughed. “They came goddamn close, don’t you think? I spent nearly a week in Intensive Care, another two sucking milkshakes through a straw. I still don’t walk very well.”
“They killed the other two,” persisted Sousa. “They could have killed you. Right?”
“Sure. I guess so. They didn’t need to,” I said. “They got away.”
“Exactly,” said Olanoff. “That’s the point. They got away. Because they knew you’d cover for them. Gresham’s mother is your client. Steinholtz was your playmate.”
I stared from one to the other. “Look,” I said. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying here. You think I helped them? You think this was some kind of setup?”
Olanoff shrugged. Sousa showed his teeth. I stood up and limped over to my desk. “End of interview,” I said. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Olanoff leaned back into the sofa. “Look at it from our point of view, Mr. Coyne,” he said, his voice soothing. “You had plenty of reason to suspect that your girlfriend was actually Carla Steinholtz. Who you also knew was a fugitive. McDevitt tipped you off to that. But did you call us, or Shanley, like anybody—especially an attorney, for God’s sake—would do? No. What you did, Mr. Coyne, is you let her take you up to the top of that big rock so that Gresham could beat the shit out of you.” Olanoff spread his hands, as if in apology. “What are we supposed to think?”
“Think whatever you want. I told you what I know.”
“Some of what you know,” said Sousa.
“I’ve told you everything. Now I think you better leave.”
Olanoff smiled bleakly under that great nose. “We think you’re lying.”
I moved back so that I was standing in front of them. They both looked up at me from their seats on my sofa. “Gentlemen,” I said, my voice tense, “get the fuck out of my office. Just get out.”
Olanoff and Sousa nodded and stood up slowly. “Okay. Have it your way. But you better understand one thing.” Olanoff’s grin was harsh and completely mirthless. “You’ll be watched. We’re very patient. You’ll slip.”
They left without shaking my hand.
I returned to my chair behind my desk and lit a Winston. I noticed that my hands were steady. I picked up the pile of papers that lay before me. I had work to do.
By the end of July most of the stiffness had left my knee. I affected a cane now and then. Julie said it made me seem decadent—her word—like an effete English lord or a tragic war hero.
My poor, emaciated corpse of a body made me feel decadent, although I was able to chew real food. I felt about ready to tackle a steak, but hadn’t hit upon the proper occasion for such a celebration.
I called Gloria.
“I’ll cook it for you,” she said. “Here. In our home.”
“Your home,” I corrected her.
“Shall I invite the boys?”
“No. Don’t.”
We made a date for early August. Gloria had a very busy social calendar. I was to bring the wine.
I rediscovered the blissful elegance of coffee and Old Grand-Dad sipped from a mug or tumbler rather than sucked through a glass straw. I had never appreciated fully the sensual exhilaration of ice cubes clicking against teeth, or the powerful sense of control in being able to take one into your mouth and roll it from cheek to cheek with your tongue, then purse your lips and slide it back into the glass.
You learn a lot from having your mouth wired shut for a month. It would have been a challenge to argue a case, grunting “Uh-uh” and “Uh-huh” and scribbling terse notes to His—or Her—Honor.
Winstons tasted best of all, now that I could chew on the filter again.
In due course, Dr. Clapp, the Medical Examiner called me to confirm what I expected: The inquest into George Gresham’s death was going to be reopened. My testimony would be crucial. When I explained to him what Rina had told me—that George seemed to have stepped off the tip of Charity’s Point purposefully—Dr. Clapp said that testimony of that sort would not be admissible, even at an informal legal proceeding like an inquest. “You know what hearsay is,” he said to me in that patient tone of his that made me feel like a college freshman. I admitted that what Rina told me over the phone was definitely hearsay. “The significant fact here is that Miss Prescott—Miss Steinholtz, I should say—was present at Charity’s Point with Mr. Gresham, and that she apparently did strike him with what appears to be malicious intent, and that he did fall to his death. And the note, from what you’ve reported, was not a suicide note at all. It doesn’t add up to suicide. Murder, maybe. Accident, at least. In either case, a double-indemnity situation.”
“Have you been in touch with Jefferson Mutual?” I asked.
“Mr. Gresham’s life insurance company? No.” Dr. Clapp chuckled. “I thought I’d leave that pleasure up to you.”
So I called Parker Barrett and summarized for him all that had happened. He interjected a “Hmm” and an “I see” periodically as I talked.
“Anyway, the death was not a suicide,” I concluded. “No matter how you look at it.”
Barrett was a good sport. “We’ll wait for the verdict, of course,” he said. “We’ll honor the decision of the inquest, naturally. But from what you’ve told me, I think Mrs. Gresham can begin to think about what she’ll do with another million dollars.”
Less ten percent, I thought. My cut. “I’ll share the news with her,” I said.
It’s more than a six-hour drive from Boston to Florence’s “cottage” in Bar Harbor, Maine, most of it along the unbearably monotonous Maine turnpike, which cuts straight and flat northward across the sandy summer landscape. Scrub pine, pin oak, occasional glimpses of rural poverty, and that endless flatness.
Heat mirages shimmered on the highway and evaporated as I neared them. The miles burned away, too, and for once I found myself in no hurry to get there. I stopped at a Howard Johnson’s outside of Portland for coffee
, and lingered there longer than I needed to, trying to sort out my thoughts. I had been putting Florence off since I had what she and I had tacitly agreed to call my “little accident” atop Charity’s Point. By the time I had limped out of the hospital, she had moved to her summer digs, and when I talked to her on the phone long distance, as I had several times, I simply reassured her that I’d fill her in when I could get up there.
I contemplated withholding my knowledge of Win from her, at least for a while. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I had no right. My attorney’s ethics wouldn’t permit it. And, anyway, Florence couldn’t be fooled.
I found her tending the big pots of geraniums that she had lined up along the low brick wall that surrounded the big terrace attached to the back of her house. Her hair was bound up in a big orange kerchief, and she wore baggy jeans and a white sleeveless blouse bearing several smudges on the front. When I greeted her she blew a wisp of hair up off her forehead and said, “Well, you don’t look any the worse for wear.”
“You’re looking pretty good yourself,” I said.
“For a decrepit old hag,” she said. She turned to John, who was standing deferentially to the side. “Build one of your mint juleps for Mr. Coyne, please,” she said. She cocked her head to measure the angle of the sun. “Seems to have passed over the yardarm. You might as well bring me one, too.”
John nodded and disappeared. I sat in a white wicker chair and studied the ocean. Florence returned her attention to her flowers. “You have to pinch out the old blossoms,” she said without turning to me. “Remove the dead heads so the new ones will come in. Otherwise the plant will make seeds, not flowers. Take out the old blooms and it’ll keep making new ones. All it wants to do is to reproduce itself.”
“You ought to wear gloves when you work,” I said.
“You ought to mind your business, Brady Coyne,” she retorted. “Besides, I like the geranium smell on my fingers. It’s not a delicate, perfumy fragrance. Not subtle at all. But it’s strong and alive, and I like it.”
When John brought out the drinks Florence took a seat beside me. She lifted her glass and held it to me.
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