by John Moralee
It was as if she were afraid of enjoying it too much.
Chapter 20
“Is Doug Clark in?”
“He’s on the third floor.”
I thanked the receptionist and took the elevator up to the third floor of the Tribune’s main office building. It was an old building with the feel of a Southern plantation owner’s mansion. I stepped out into a high room with large windows. The blinds were half closed, making the room dingy. Shafts of sunlight cut the room into stripes, striking fire to the dust motes. A few reporters were talking on the phone or typing copy into computers, but nobody looked especially busy. The Tribune didn’t have much space for news because it was always filled with yachting adverts that paid for and justified the newspaper’s existence. It didn’t have enough readers to be economical without them. Apart from Doug Clark, the staff were close to – or beyond – retirement age. Doug was doing his best to make the Tribune readable for a younger audience, with gossip, entertainment and arts news. The new blend reached out to the tourists - a valuable sales market previously untapped. Even so, the newspaper had conservative and traditional leanings – the readers’ letters pages were packed with small-minded complaints and questions - like the current argument over what colour of paint to use on the town hall’s awning. A grey-haired woman was sorting out the mail. The red/blue debate was raging. Doug Clark was drinking coffee with his feet up on his desk.
“Busy morning?” I said.
“Very. This man you see with his feet up is just a cardboard copy of the real me – the real me is hard at work writing a 2000 word feature on the America’s Cup. That’s what I’ll tell my boss, anyway. What brings you here, Michael?”
“I thought I’d thank you for the piece you did on me,” I told him, “and I’d like a small favour.”
“Sounds interesting. What is it you want?”
“A friend of mine is being hassled by Charles Van Morgan. What dirt do you have on him that isn’t on record?”
“Ah, our resident barbarian,” Doug said, rolling his eyes. He slid his feet off the table and spun his chair to face his computer. He brought up some computer files. “These are articles my editor wouldn’t let me publish for legal reasons, like he didn’t want to upset the biggest businessman in Mistral. Let’s see – what do you want to know, specifically?”
“I want to know about the Emerald Point development.”
“That’s a thorny issue,” he said. “Is your friend the one and only Dr SP Beck?”
“This is off the record, okay?” (He nodded.) “Yes.”
“There’s nothing better or worse for Van Morgan than his plans for a hotel and golf course. He stands to make an absolute fortune if it’s built. If he loses, he will be bankrupt the moment his bankers call in the loans. I would imagine Dr Beck is his worst nightmare.”
“Is he the sort of person who would kill for what he wants?”
“Michael, are you in trouble?”
“No – I was just wondering.”
“I’d say Van Morgan wouldn’t like to dirty his hands with anything like that – but I wouldn’t put it past him if he thought he could get away with it. But that’s just my opinion. He’s one of those people who likes to balance on the edge of legality, pushing as far as he can. Why?”
“I can’t say.”
Doug studied me, shaking his head. “You are a mysterious fellow, I must say. Oh, by the way, I heard Vernon Taylor was causing some kind of trouble outside the sheriff’s office yesterday.”
“He was? Why?”
“I was hoping you’d know. Apparently, he was half-naked, wearing a sign with the words ‘NOBODY CARES ABOUT SCOTT’ painted on it. He was ranting, calling the sheriff all kinds of things. I was hoping for an interview, but he wasn’t there when I arrived. Maybe you could talk with him, perhaps persuade him to talk to me? I’ve been running the story of Scott Taylor’s disappearance, but I haven’t come up with anything substantial.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You were his best friend,” Doug said. “It must be tough not knowing where he is?”
“It is.”
We got talking about high school – despite his bad time during those years, or perhaps because of it, he remembered everything. He was like an encyclopaedia on the subject. He could remember students and teachers I’d long forgotten. He could recall relationships in detail, such as how long people went out, even why they’d broken up. Frankly, I was amazed by his powers of recall.
“How do you know all this?”
“The girls talked to me,” he said. “Boys avoided me like the plague, but the girls treated me like I was just another girlfriend. I suppose that’s an advantage of being gay. I think I was one of the first people to learn about your brother dating Hanna Devereaux. Boy, was that a surprise, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Well, we all thought she was already seeing someone.”
“You’re saying she was seeing two people?”
“No, no,” Doug said, backtracking. “It was an ugly rumour. They were lots of ugly rumours, especially after the car crash. People were saying Billy and Hanna were killed by her other boyfriend tampering with the brakes. Others said they had some sort of suicide pact. Some said Billy deliberately crashed because he found out about the supposed other man.”
“I didn’t know people were saying that. Nobody said anything to me.”
“Of course not. It was your brother who was dead. Nobody could tell you the rumours. Everyone loved the intrigue, the scandal. It was the first interesting thing to happen on Mistral – no offence.”
“None taken,” I said, but I was reeling inside. My brother’s death was always an open wound. “What else did they say?”
Doug held up his hands. “I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t have said anything about it – I can see I’ve upset you.”
“Forget it,” I said.
“I never believed the rumours,” he said. “It was just an accident, like the police said. Everything else was stupid speculation. The same stupid conspiracy theory stuff occurred when Ted Genero died six years ago, but that was just an accident, too.”
Ted Genero had been Billy’s best friend. He had always advocated that Billy’s death had been no accident. “I didn’t know he was dead. How did that happen?”
Doug looked as though he’d stepped on a landmine. “I thought someone would have told you – he drowned in his swimming pool.”
“But he was on the swimming team –”
“That wouldn’t have made a difference. One night, he slipped on some wet ground, hit his head on the side of the pool and fell in, knocked unconscious. He was found dead the next morning by the pool cleaner. At the time there was all this speculation about it being a murder, but there was no evidence. He cracked his skull on the side of the pool. He drowned, that was it. It was simply a terrible coincidence that he knew your brother, but some people liked to read more into it. They said it was a conspiracy. Personally, I don’t believe in conspiracies unless I see proof. I wish more reporters did; then there wouldn’t be so many Elvis-is-living-in-my-basement stories ...”
Doug’s boss emerged from his corner office, looking pensive. “Are you people going to get some work done today?”
The reporters focussed on their computers. I shook Doug’s hand, thanked him again for the article, then I headed for the elevator, physically drained by our conversation.
Ted Genero’s house was not far by car. It was in the hills above Cape Mistral, hidden from view by woods. It had a weathered real-estate sign outside with a contact number that had almost faded away. The house had been for sale since his death and it looked as though nobody had been to see it in years. It was eerily quiet as I got out of my MG and walked towards it. I didn’t know why I felt compelled to visit it, but when I saw the old stone house with its stagnant swimming pool, the surface slimed over with algae, I remembered how many times Ted had invited Billy and me to swim in his pool. Se
eing the house also fired long-stagnated neurones. I suddenly remembered the name of Ted Genero’s girlfriend. It was Tiffany MacKenzie. Tiffany had gone to the prom with Ted. Maybe she knew something about Ted’s death. I made some calls, obtained her number from information, then spoke with her. She was pleased to hear from me but not so pleased with my strange request – that she meet me at Ted’s house for some questions about Ted. But she agreed for Ted’s sake.
Soon after, Tiffany arrived in a white Land Cruiser. She was wearing a white tennis top and white skirt. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail. I had interrupted her tennis game, but she wasn’t annoyed (she would have lost it anyway, she confided). I remembered she was a sporty type. She loved tennis, dancing, swimming. At 40 she had not lost her fitness. I thanked her for coming as she cautiously approached the house with me. She bobbed along like a ballerina.
“I haven’t seen Ted’s house in years. We’re not going in?”
“No. I just want to look at the pool.”
“What’s this about Ted, Michael?”
“I didn’t know he was dead until today. What do you know about his death?”
“The coroner said it was a drowning.”
We stopped at the swimming pool. Tiffany looked at the scum with disgust. “God, this hasn’t been cleaned in centuries.” She walked around the edge. “He died here,” she said, standing as close to the pool as she dared. “His blood was here.”
I hunched down, pressing my hand on the cold tiles where Ted Genero had struck his head before falling into the pool. “So he slipped and hit his head on these tiles? Is that what was said?”
“Yes,” she said. She held her hand to her mouth.
“It seems an odd place to slip.”
“What?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“I can’t understand why he would run. He never ran around the pool. He would always tell me off if I did it.”
“Were you still his girlfriend when he died?”
Tiffany shook his head. “We broke up. We were still close, though. Ted never got over prom night. It crushed him, Billy’s death.”
“Can you tell me about that night?”
“Sure – but can we do it in my car? I can’t stand the smell of the pool.”
Tiffany recounted prom night. She and Ted arrived at the prom at 8.00 p.m. with Billy and Hanna. The dancing was in the high-school gym, which was decorated like a Christmas tree. Disco lights swirled overhead and over the dance floor. That night three bands played, but the prom had started slowly, with many people reluctant to get up and dance. Tiffany told me Ted Genero had brought the infamous bottle of vodka to release inhibitions. Ted had encouraged his friends into drinking, but Billy had not taken much because he was with Hanna. Hanna was crowned prom queen at ten, then the music turned romantic and hip-to-hip slow. Hanna took what was left of Ted’s vodka bottle and kept it for herself. In Tiffany’s opinion Hanna was the only one drunk. During a break from dancing, Ted had gone off to talk to Billy before coming back to continue dancing. Ted told Tiffany that he’d given Billy some protection because he’d forgotten in his haste to pick up Hanna. Some couples were leaving by eleven to make out in privacy, but Tiffany and Ted stayed until midnight. Billy and Hanna had gone by then. Tiffany and Ted were about to leave when they learned about the car crash.
“Ted blamed himself for bringing the vodka. He felt so, so guilty. Ted never believed Billy had been drunk, certainly not in our presence. But we were so afraid of getting in trouble that we didn’t tell the police where the vodka came from. He became obsessed with proving Billy was not responsible for the crash. That was the reason why we split. Now, I wish I’d been able to help him get over it. There was a time when I wanted to marry Ted. I miss him.”
She told me how she’d watched helplessly as Ted’s guilt destroyed him. He had become introverted after Billy died. Obsessed with proving Billy had not caused the accident. He had broken up with his girlfriend and alienated his buddies. Convinced someone was covering up the truth, he had become paranoid. He had stopped trusting anyone. Ted died with no close relatives or friends. He died alone. It was a sad ending to his life. I remembered the fun-loving Ted. The Ted who always smiled. The Ted who had stopped smiling.
“He once told me he was compiling information to prove the truth. I think he kept files in his study. They’re probably still in his house unless the cops or real-estate people cleaned it out.”
We both looked at the house. Tiffany shivered. “I’m not going in there if that’s what you’re thinking. Too many memories. But if you want to go in, I think he kept a spare key in the woodshed.”
“Thank you for talking to me,” I said.
“I’m sorry about Billy,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do …”
I thanked her for her time. Tiffany had another tennis game booked in twenty minutes. These days she was a busy woman, with a large circle of wealthy friends. She had been married for a couple of years to a professional yachtsman, but had divorced him for cheating on her. Tennis was her way of socialising with her friends and meeting new men. I watched her go, then I returned to the rear of Ted’s house. The woodshed was behind the pool. I doubted it would be unlocked, but when I tried the door I discovered there was no lock. The woodshed was dark and dusty and had a stale smell. Ted’s tools were hanging up on the wall. There was a key among them. I picked it up and wondered if it was technically breaking and entering if you didn’t break anything. What the hell … there was one way to find out. Looking left and right, I unlocked the kitchen door and stepped into the house, closing the door behind me. Stale air greeted me. For six years the house had been frozen in time. It would have been robbed in Los Angeles six times over, but on Mistral Island you could trust your neighbours. Only people like me intruded.
Ted’s study was up the stairs. The room was filled with light, which shone on the far wall. The extent of Ted’s obsession was clear from my first look at the newspaper cuttings stuck to the wall. TRAGIC ACCIDENT and PROM QUEEN KILLED were just two of the headlines. Ted had collected every story about the accident. There were pictures of the crash. He’d also made a complicated diagram of names linked by lines, figures and dates. Two names were in the centre of his diagram, written much larger than those around them: BILLY QUINN and HANNA DEVEREAUX. He’d connected their names with other names, linking them with connections. I was linked to Billy, for example. My friends were connected to me. He’d apparently done this for hundreds of Cape Mistral residents, trying to establish a reason for killing Billy and Hanna. Billy and Hanna had dozens of connections each. Many names had been crossed off for having alibis at the time of their deaths, but many did not. Even my name wasn’t crossed off. I had been in my room doing homework until I went to bed, but I guessed Ted hadn’t had solid proof that I had not killed them for some bizarre reason. Ted had put up dozens of photographs taken at the prom during the night. He must have looked for people who had left, crossing off the rest. The work would have taken months.
I opened the drawers of his desk, finding box files of loose papers – newspaper clippings mostly. Somehow, he had obtained a copy of the coroner’s report into Billy and Hanna’s deaths.
CORONER’S REPORT (SECTION 12):
Subject: William Lee Quinn
Age: 18
Race: Caucasian
Sex: Male
Autopsy summary: Victim shows whiplash injuries/broken ribs/crushed thorax/neck and spine damage consistent with a vehicular crash at 50/60 mph. Death was caused by compaction of the heart and kidneys.
Signed: Dr Samuel Lando.
I went back through the report, looking for something relevant. I found something Ted had marked out with yellow ink:
Blood alcohol level of 50mg/100 ml.
Ted had ringed it in yellow pen and underlined the 50 of the 50mg/100 ml. In a note to himself in the margin he had written: This is low for a drunken man.
Ted had found out that Billy’s blood alcohol leve
l of 50 mg per 100 ml was not that high. It was equivalent to a couple of beers – nothing more. Billy hadn’t been seriously drunk behind the wheel like the newspaper reports at the time made it appear. Yes, he should not have driven, but it wasn’t as if he was incapable of driving. I knew my brother to be an excellent driver. He would have been in control of his faculties. Ted had discovered this. What else had he discovered?
I decided to keep Ted’s research for myself. I began by taking down his diagram and pictures, stripping the wall of everything. I put them and the box files in a bigger box I got from another room. I carried the box to my car, locked it in the trunk, then went back to lock up the house. As I was returning to my car for the second time, I took out the car crash photograph, staring at it on my way. I looked at it, grinding my teeth. I had looked at the photograph several times since someone sent it. I stood beside my MG, examining the photograph in the sunlight. It was as though the picture was trying to tell me something. What was I not seeing?
The bodies … No.
The car … Something about the car.
But what?
Think damn you. Think.
Since I didn’t want to contact Tom Boone, I thought about the retired sheriff, Keith Malloy. His name was mentioned in many of the newspaper clippings Ted had collected. And Keith Malloy had written the investigative report on the car crash. Somehow, Ted Genero had obtained a copy. In the 60 page report Sheriff Malloy had concluded Billy was intoxicated, thus causing the crash. He’d cited the vodka bottle found in the wreck as proof, with a basic misunderstanding of the metric system compounding his error. Unfortunately, Malloy was from a generation not familiar with grams and millilitres. Evidently, he’d seen the level of alcohol in Billy’s blood and assumed it meant he was drunk, without asking anyone first. The coroner could have told him what the level meant if only he’d asked. But he’d not asked. One mistake had condemned my brother. If only I’d seen this report when he wrote it. I knew Keith Malloy was alive and living in Cape Mistral. Hopefully, he could recall some pertinent facts about the car crash. I stopped at a phone booth and looked him up in the directory. I called and he invited me over. He sounded lonely.