“I’m leaving now, Mr. Sadler.”
“Without the gun?”
She gave the small gun a glance that seemed to hold some regret. “There’s no way the gun can be traced. I’ll just say I never saw it before. It’s not valuable, not an antique. Made in Germany, it’s one of a pair. They were in a relative’s belongings when he died, and I happen to know there was no record of his owning them either. So I’ll just say—”
“Why did you do that to the girl, Mrs. Baxter?”
It was an instant before she realized what he meant. Then a flush darkened her skin and her eyes showed a momentary haunted guiltiness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. It was such an ugly, shameful thing to do to the dead body of a young girl.”
Her mouth took on a crying shape. “She was evil. She was rotten. She had no right—” Pain from her wrist cut off the words; he could see how she fought to rise above the agony, to keep control of herself.
“She shattered that silly dream about Brazil, running away with Sargent to South America … but didn’t you sense that he was pretending, that those folders about Rio were just for you to see, to dream over? Didn’t you have any intuition at all that the real plan was something else? Didn’t it occur to you that maybe Sargent actually didn’t want to run away with the girl either?”
She tried to focus her stunned eyes on him.
“Or did he, as I suspect, tell you at the very end that he wasn’t going off with Kat Knowles either?”
“Of course he was going with the girl!”
“I doubt it. He didn’t even sneak the passport out of his desk. I think Sargent got caught up and involved, pressured into romantic plans—a different set for each of you, you and the girl. I’d had an idea, a kind of brain storm, the girl might have backed out because the wild life was so much fun, but now I think Sargent was the one.”
She shook her head wildly. “He … he laughed at me that night. He I … laughed because I’d been a part of a plan, and I’d thought the plan had me as its heroine, and all the time I was a cog, a part of the cover-up—” She began to cry, and wet streaks marred the careful make-up.
Bill Knowles walked into the room from the hall.
She drew herself up, almost with an air of haughtiness, facing him with her chin outthrust, and Uncle Chuck thought, we’re not going to break her. She’s going out of here intact.
But Knowles spoke softly. “You killed the only thing I ever loved. And then you dirtied it. I ought to beat you to death.”
She licked her mouth, backing against the chair. “No, no! Don’t touch me—”
He cursed her in a way that made Uncle Chuck’s eyes pop, and as the epithets fell upon her she shrank, trembling, finally collapsing into the chair. She covered her face with her free hand, the broken one lying in her lap. “Don’t … don’t—” she whispered hoarsely.
Uncle Chuck stepped to her chair, bent over her. “Why don’t you just talk to Martin and get it over and done with? I’ll get him on the phone, if you say so.”
“Yes, call Mr. Martin. I’ll talk to him. And make that … that man shut up.”
Doris came into the room, looking at it as if she had never seen it before. Everyone was long since gone, of course. Martin had sat here, listening to Sharon Baxter’s halting, agonized story, before hurrying her to the hospital to have her broken wrist set and then to the jail. The room seemed very quiet and peaceful now, with the view outdoors, the tall pines aglow in the afternoon sun.
“Sit down, Dorrie. I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”
She sank meekly into the chair where Sharon had sat—Uncle Chuck forbearing to tell her this—and Buster, who now seemed to think that the chair’s being occupied meant food was behind it, came rushing from the hall.
She put out a hand. “Pete! But no … it’s not!”
“This is my dog,” Uncle Chuck said, dragging him from behind the chair. “Buster. When his fur grows out to its natural color he’ll be a lot darker. I think he’s going to turn out to be a pretty nice fellow. And I guess I needed a dog and didn’t know it. Anyway, he and Pete have been making friends this morning, after ignoring each other for a day or so.”
“He’s a nice dog.” She patted Buster, and he didn’t quite ignore it, as formerly, but glanced at her with a touch of liking. “Oh, Uncle Chuck, please don’t think of leaving right away. Please stay here with me! The dog won’t be any trouble at all! Please!”
“Well, we can talk about it.” Uncle Chuck was promising himself he’d try to get Dorrie to move. This place was too isolated and the memories would come crowding once she was alone.
Maybe Sargent cried all the way home, coming up here; he was damned if Dorrie would follow the same pattern.
“Before you bring the coffee, Uncle Chuck—” She caught at his hand. “Why did she do it? Just briefly and quickly—I can’t understand it—”
“Sargent had her on a string, Dorrie. I should have seen it right away. He told you the lie about being so dissatisfied with her just to cover what he was really doing, starting an affair. And then, when it seemed that little plot about running off with Kat Knowles was coming to a head, Sargent had the gall to assign a part in it to Sharon. Sheer unbelievable impudence on his part—and fatal too. She got suspicious. She followed him and Kat, took snapshots, which she confronted him with and which he tried to brush aside as of no consequence. The woman just gradually lost her wits, Dorrie. Her part in the plot was to follow Sargent in his car to some body of water, where he’d leave his car and return in her car—then off to the races with Kat. Or, as I suspect, perhaps ditch Kat, too, and simply decide to stay home. We’ll never know Sargent’s final state of mind now, anyway.”
“Then she shot Pete?”
“Remember, you let Pete out as soon as Wiegand got here. He had dropped Sargent off down the road a way. Pete high-tailed it to that vacant house and caught Sharon at a very critical moment. She had shot the girl and was arranging the body in the kitchen, by the light of a small flashlight, and the dog barged in through the door she’d neglected to close tight. In her excitement and tension she simply took a shot at him. Then she finished arranging Kat’s body to her satisfaction and left the gun in the girl’s hand and rushed out to meet Sargent. Now he would run away with her!”
“Then she took him up to the reservoir—”
“Yes, and when he wouldn’t fall in with her idea, when he laughed at her, she caught him off guard and killed him with a tire iron.”
Doris leaned back, shutting her eyes. “How horrible!”
“She told Martin that at first she thought the girl would be thought a suicide. The police would believe she had killed herself after killing Sargent. But then too many things occurred to her—too many things the cops would notice, and perhaps the time element would come out, there would be some way to tell that the girl had died first. When I left the office that morning she rushed up here for a final touch. She took a terrible chance, but then it seemed to pay off. She found that little plastic rain hood in a coat pocket, one of yours hanging in the closet yonder, and she scooted back to that grisly sight in the kitchen down the road. But then the cops didn’t arrest you right away, and the girl’s body wasn’t found right away, and she began to go to pieces. She claimed to Martin she even suffered hallucinations. She had to come here and to see firsthand how things were going. She had the gun along in case Pete jumped her—even though she knew that shooting him would betray her. She was pretty much in a daze, out of control—remember how she was dressed, how worn she looked. Even though she talked and acted okay, she was on the ragged edge from panic. Then of course when you were arrested the pressure was off, and she could straighten up. She was fine today.”
“How miserable she must have been for a long time,” Doris said, “loving Sargent that much, wanting him, hoping and planning, and yet suspecting that she was playing a part in his ugly plot. I can feel sorry for her.”
“For
get Sharon Baxter,” he counseled, “and sit here and think about happier things, while I get that coffee.”
Uncle Chuck turned and walked off toward the kitchen, Buster at his heels. A sudden smile came to Doris Chenoweth’s face. She blew a kiss toward the old man’s back.
About the Author
Dolores Hitchens (1907–1973) was a highly prolific mystery author who wrote under multiple pseudonyms and in a range of styles. A large number of her books were published under the moniker D. B. Olsen, and a few under the pseudonyms Noel Burke and Dolan Birkley, but she is perhaps best remembered today for her later novel, Fool’s Gold, published under her own name, which was adapted into the film Bande á part directed by Jean-Luc Godard.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1966 by Dolores Hitchens
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6701-0
This edition published in 2021 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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DOLORES HITCHENS
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