Fourteen
“Remember that time Jimmy pulled your arm out of its socket pushing you off the toolshed?” asked Russell Bowslater, munching on a canape.
“One of the high points of my childhood,” said George Gale.
Molly sat with Nell on a divan in the living room across from their two great-uncles, the only people in the room the sisters knew besides Dora and Henry Troutwig. About forty people had come back to Gale Castle after Jimmy Gale’s funeral. Most were elderly neighbors from the island who were here out of respect for the Gale matriarch. Even the younger couples were Dora’s friends, not Jimmy’s. Apparently Jimmy had had no friends. Dora had many.
“What was that, thirty-five years ago?” Russell went on cheerfully, taking a sip of his scotch and soda. “You know, I don’t think I ever told you this, George, but after Dora took you to the hospital that day Jimmy sidled up to me and tried to convince me that you had done it to yourself, throwing a punch at him. God, he was a shit—even as a kid.”
“Atherton actually believed that story,” said George in his soft voice.
“That you threw your arm out of the socket trying to punch Jimmy? You’re kidding.”
George shook his head.
“When we got home Atherton told me how proud he was of me. He even offered to take me to a Red Sox game in Boston if I could give Jimmy a black eye.”
“I never heard this,” chortled Russell. “Did you do it?”
“Of course not,” said George as they watched Dora finally break free from Henry Troutwig’s pompous condolences and make her way across the crowded room. “You know I hate sports.”
“Hello, children,” said Dora Gale upon arrival. “It’s such a comfort to have you all here with me.”
Dora looked prim and pretty in her flowered blue dress. At the funeral she had been the picture of cute dignity with her little patent leather purse, white gloves, and a hat that Mamie Eisenhower would have approved of.
“Sit down, Mama,” said Russell, rising and offering his chair. From one moment to the next his jovial good cheer had been replaced with grave earnestness. “It’s a sad day, sad day. You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” said Dora. “Oh, there’s Zebulon Stanton and his wife. I didn’t know they were here—I don’t think I’ve seen him in twenty years, I really must go over and thank them for coming. How are you, Molly, dear? I’m sorry you had to go through all of this, but I don’t know how I could have managed without you and Nell.”
Molly nodded. She was glad there had been so much to do. Over the past few days Molly had fielded telephone calls and answered condolence notes from family friends, gone with Dora to see about the cemetery plot, the funeral, and the casket, and had helped out with the sheriff’s questions, the obituary for the New Melford County paper and the arrangements for this obligatory postburial hospitality.
Still, there had been too much time left to think. With Jimmy dead, the O’Hara sisters were now the sole heiresses to the Gale Trust. Molly tried to imagine what it would be like to have millions and millions of dollars, but couldn’t. Somehow, the money didn’t seem real.
All the people who had died were real enough, however. Their ghosts kept intruding into Molly’s mind with a solidity that was frightening: the dead Gales from the family album; Grandma with the pillow on her chest; Taffy smiling wryly and rolling her eyes; Jimmy Gale with the little hole in the center of his forehead.
At least Nell hadn’t seen him, sitting there in his chair like that, Molly thought with a shudder. Every time she thought of it the horrible scene from her childhood flashed into Molly’s mind—of coming home from the movies to find her mother dead on the floor with a similar wound, and a blank-faced, silent Nell sitting cross-legged by her side.
Oddly enough, in the midst of thoughts about death and the flurry of details that surrounded Jimmy’s funeral, the question of who had killed their cousin and for what reason had begun to seem almost irrelevant. A man like Jimmy Gale must have made many enemies after a lifetime of bar fights, Molly told herself. She was ashamed to be relieved at his death.
“Poor old Jimmy,” said Russell with a deep sigh. “It’s really a shame he had to die without making anything of his life. So sad.”
“Tragic,” added George with a straight face.
“You know, my dears,” said Dora, addressing them all, “I’ve seen much of life and death in my time. I know that death is something natural. It is nothing to fear, and I am very close to it. None of us know what exactly we are doing here, but I believe that every life has importance and its own meaning. I know that James wasn’t well-liked, but he, too, was here for a reason.”
“That’s because you’re a saint, Mama,” said Russell. “An ever-lovin’ saint.”
“I just prefer to believe the best about people, Russell,” answered Dora. “Oh, hello, Helen. So nice of you to have come. Will you all please excuse me?”
They murmured assent, and Dora went off with another elderly lady no bigger than she was.
“I hope you’re giving her something, George,” said Russell when she was out of earshot.
“Giving her something?”
“You know. Something to calm her down, help her sleep. Mama’s keeping up a brave front, but this has got to be a lot harder on her than she lets on.”
“Dora’s fine,” said George. “And even if she weren’t, you don’t start pumping barbiturates into a ninety-three-year-old woman in delicate health.”
“You know I’m on that five-thirty plane tonight,” said Russell, shaking his finger at his stepbrother. “I can’t delay going back to Washington any longer. You know Mama’s bound to start feeling depressed and lonely pretty soon. You’ve got to give her something.”
“Molly and Nell will be here with her,” said George. “You are staying awhile, aren’t you?”
“I guess,” said Molly uncomfortably. She hadn’t given any thought to what they would do next, what they would do for the rest of their lives.
“How about that melatonin stuff?” asked Russell. “Totally natural hormone, knocks you right out with no side effects. I take it myself for jet lag.”
“Are you a doctor, now, Russell?”
“I’m just thinking of Mama. If you don’t like melatonin, then how about a good old-fashioned tranquilizer?”
“I told you …”
“Half the people in Congress and a hundred percent of the spouses take something, George. Pharmaceuticals are as American as apple pie. What kind of doctor are you if you don’t realize …”
The two of them continued to bicker. As they did so, a subdued Mrs. McCormick came quietly up behind the sofa, bent down, and whispered into Molly’s ear.
“Sheriff Glickman wants to talk to you. I’ve got him parked outside, didn’t want him to come in and upset Mrs. Gale again. Can you come out to see him without making a fuss?”
Molly nodded. The only time Dora had broken into tears during the past week was when she came downstairs the day after Jimmy’s death and overheard Glickman taking statements from everybody about where they were on Tuesday morning. Apparently Jimmy had been shot sometime before noon on the same day Molly and Nell had arrived at Gale Castle and met their family.
Molly waited until McCormick had disappeared into the crowd, then rose.
“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m going to get some air.”
Russell and George barely acknowledged her and continued to argue. Nell glanced over quizzically for a moment, then turned her attention to a tray of finger sandwiches being offered around by one of the island girls who had been hired to help out for the day.
It was another cool morning, though the temperature would rise into the eighties by afternoon, Molly knew. The sky looked an unnaturally deep blue against the massive pine trees that stood like a fortress wall around Gale Castle. Sheriff Glickman was leaning back against his four-wheel drive, his arms folded in front of him, his eyes invisible behind sunglasses. As Molly approached he
straightened to his full height, which had to be nearly six and a half feet.
“Morning,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“Good morning,” said Molly.
“Was it a nice funeral?”
“Yes, it was. Dora has a lot of very supportive friends.”
“How’s your great-grandmother doing?” asked Glickman.
Molly didn’t know who he meant for a moment. She had come to think of Dora as a wise new friend in her life, but of course the sheriff was right. As Atherton Gale’s wife, Dora was Molly’s great-grandmother—at least by marriage. This was the first time anyone had made the relationship explicit.
“She’s fine,” whispered Molly.
“Listen, Miss O’Hara,” he said after a moment, “there have been some developments that I need to discuss with you.”
“Okay,” said Molly and waited.
Glickman removed his hat for a moment, ran a hand through his short gray hair, then put his hat back on. He was obviously uncomfortable about something.
“First off,” he said, “you were right about Jimmy Gale’s being in North Carolina. We’ve now found airline and credit card records of his plane trip down. He arrived in Pelletreau the day before your grandmother’s death, rented a car—a white Mercury Sable—and boarded a connecting flight back to Vermont about two hours after your house blew up.”
“I knew it,” said Molly, letting out a deep breath.
“We still have no physical evidence that Jimmy committed any crimes, but circumstances obviously suggest that he could indeed have had something to do with recent events. Unfortunately neither the Pelletreau police nor my department has the resources to spend time building a case against a dead man for what’s officially considered one natural death and two accidental ones. But off the record, Miss O’Hara, I think you were right. The only reason for Jimmy Gale to be down in North Carolina was to do what you thought.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Molly said, wondering why his admission didn’t make her feel any better. “I really appreciate that. Thanks for telling me. Thanks for coming.”
“I’m not finished,” said Glickman. He was silent for a moment, then began again.
“You know, I’ve been working with your Sergeant Arlo Couvertie on this. Pretty nice fellow. He told me the circumstances of your mother’s murder.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Molly, stiffening. “I thought you were working on who killed Jimmy.”
“I am,” said Glickman. “It looks like there’s a connection.”
“Between my mother and Jimmy? What do you mean? What kind of connection could there be?”
“I’m sorry to have to spring this on you like this, Miss O’Hara,” said the sheriff, slowly and carefully, “but ballistics on the bullet taken from Jimmy’s brain indicate that it was fired from the same gun as the bullet that killed your mother.”
“That’s impossible.” exclaimed Molly. “My mother was killed seventeen years ago.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t even know Jimmy existed,” Molly continued, barely stopping to breathe. “Why would somebody murder her, then wait all this time and kill Jimmy?”
“That’s the question,” agreed Glickman. “Do you have any ideas?”
“No. This makes no sense at all.”
Molly’s legs suddenly felt like rubber. She sank down onto one of the stone lions that guarded the driveway, feeling as if she had been punched in the stomach. After only a moment, however, she looked up.
“Wait a second,” she said. “What you’re saying is that if you find out who shot Jimmy, you’ll also have found the person who murdered my mother.”
“Not necessarily,” answered Glickman.
“Yes, necessarily if they were shot with the same gun.”
“Just because the same weapon was used, Miss O’Hara, doesn’t mean it was fired by the same person.”
Molly wondered what had happened to the nice fellow with whom they had had breakfast the other day. In front of her stood a policeman with his arms folded, his face a mask.
“Then what happened?” she asked.
“Sergeant Couvertie proposed one theory. I don’t think you’ll like it very much.”
Molly stared at him, her jaw tightening. His expression was unreadable.
“Go ahead,” she said when he didn’t speak immediately.
“The Pelletreau police believed and still believe,” Glickman began in a neutral, emotionless voice, “that your mother was killed in a random act of violence committed by an intruder unknown to her who panicked and fled. Unfortunately the murder weapon was never recovered. But let’s suppose for a moment that someone did find it. Let’s suppose the killer dropped the gun at the site, and it was picked up by a little girl who kept it all these years.”
“Are you saying …”
“Just let me finish,” said Glickman. “So now, seventeen years later you and your sister are in Vermont and you see Jimmy. Maybe it’s just a coincidence—he’s crossing the street or buying a pack of cigarettes, but there he is. We know that you believe that Jimmy Gale killed your grandmother, Miss O’Hara. You also think he blew up your house and killed your friends, and it’s very possible that he did. Revenge is a powerful motive. It would be understandable if an angry young woman followed Jimmy home, aiming to confront him about what happened in North Carolina. Maybe he just laughed. And maybe the young woman in a fury took out the pistol she had kept all this time, pointed it at his head and pulled the trigger.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Molly, angrily rising to her feet. “Are you actually accusing me of shooting Jimmy Gale?”
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” said Glickman quietly. “This is Sergeant Couvertie’s theory, not mine. But for the record, he wasn’t talking about you, Miss O’Hara. He was talking about your sister.”
“I … he … you …” sputtered Molly. “It’s insane to think that Nell could have killed anybody. And stupid. And ridiculous. I thought Sergeant Couvertie was on our side.”
Glickman removed his sunglasses and fixed Molly with his soft blue eyes.
“As I told you before, Miss O’Hara,” he said carefully. “I can’t automatically accept your version of things just because I happen to like you. I may not get much challenging crime up here, but I’m no dummy. I have to look at the facts, and as things stand now one fact keeps jumping out: You and your sister are the ones who will profit most from Jimmy’s death. Profit to the tune of millions and millions of dollars—oh, I know all about the Gale Trust from investigating the plane crash, believe me. And in my book money is an even better motive for murder than revenge.”
“So now we both did it so we could inherit? I suppose we bombed that plane, too?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Miss O’Hara,” said Glickman. “You don’t see me here with any warrants, do you? I’m just trying to figure things out. If you have any thoughts, I’d really like to hear them.”
“Then what about this gun that Nell is supposed to have picked up when she was eight years old with our mother lying there dead on the floor?” said Molly, throwing her hands in the air. “I guess she hid it before she went into shock. Funny, but you’d think I would have stumbled upon it at some point over the last seventeen years with us living in the same room and half the time wearing each other’s clothes.”
“Are you saying that both of you would have had to be involved for Couvertie’s theory to be right?”
“Of course I’m not,” said Molly angrily. “I’m being sarcastic. And contemptuous. And what about airline security? I told you the other day, we were just in England. Aren’t they supposed to be X-raying luggage these days? Wouldn’t someone at one of the airports we passed through have noticed a gun in Nell’s suitcase, even if I managed to miss it rummaging around for my hair dryer? Whoops, didn’t mean to implicate myself again.”
“I’m just presenting one theory that seems to fit all the facts,” said the sh
eriff quietly. “Can you present another?”
“Give me a minute to think,” said Molly. “I’m sure there are plenty of people around here who didn’t like Jimmy Gale.”
“Including yours truly,” said Glickman. “But I wouldn’t have had access to the gun that killed your mother and neither would any of the people we’d naturally suspect in a crime like this. I’ve got to thank you for that gun, Miss O’Hara, even though it seems to be pointing in your direction.”
“Me?”
“Sure,” said Glickman. “If you hadn’t put me in touch with Couvertie and he hadn’t had what frankly I thought was the pretty oddball idea of comparing ballistics, then Jimmy’s death might have been a perfect crime. I’d have spent the next six months running down the alibis of half the lowlifes and drunks in Vermont, trying to find somebody who’d had a fight with Jimmy or owed him money or who had some other motive to kill him. We might have even decided it was just a botched burglary. But the gun changes everything. How do we explain the gun?”
“My God,” said Molly with a gasp. “It must have been the guy who shot our mother. He must have followed us here from North Carolina.”
“Yeah,” said Glickman, nodding his head. “This is the crazed-serial-killer-who-specializes-in-Gales theory. One of my deputies who watches too much television has already suggested this one. Trouble is, it makes no sense. What, our serial killer waits seventeen years, then all of a sudden he follows you over to England, back to the States, up to Vermont, and then blows Jimmy away for no reason at all, except for those crazy reasons that make sense only to serial killers?”
“Maybe he felt guilty for our mother’s death,” said Molly, struggling to find some sense. “Maybe in his twisted brain, he wanted to do something to make up for things.”
“Excuse me, Miss O’Hara, but you couldn’t even sell that one to the networks.”
“It makes as much sense as your theory.”
“Couvertie’s,” said Glickman, holding up a correcting finger. “But it doesn’t. Jimmy was a secretive, paranoid, combative man, the type who got into bar fights with guys who looked at him the wrong way. Even if your hypothetical serial-killer-with-a-conscience could find out where Jimmy lived, which is doubtful, why would Jimmy let him in, then just sit there in his chair and let the guy shoot him? Remember, there were no signs of a forced entry. No signs of a struggle. Jimmy was just sitting there in a chair, facing his killer. To me that indicates he wasn’t afraid, which he probably wouldn’t be if an attractive young woman like your sister came to his door.”
The Girl at the End of the Line Page 20