Verdict Suspended

by Nielsen, Helen

  Chad checked off another column on his ledger before he faced Jaime. A new wife for an old customer rated one of his rare smiles; but Chad wasn’t smiling. His eyes were ice-blue round behind the glasses.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Store’s closed.”

  Jaime smiled uncertainly. Chad wasn’t noted for his sense of humor.

  “Look,” Jaime said, “I’ll pay you tomorrow if you don’t want to refigure your cash tonight. I’ve just got a few things for breakfast.”

  Chad adjusted his glasses and pinioned Jaime on the end of a stare. “Stayin’ up at Steve Quentin’s cottage, ain’t you?” he said.

  “Temporarily.”

  “Couldn’t go back to Sheilah’s house and face things like a man, could you?”

  It was an unexpected cut. Jaime’s mouth groped for an answer. “The house is closed for inventory,” he said.

  “So I heard.” Chad slammed the cash register shut. “Sorry, Mr. Dodson, the store’s closed for the day.”

  He would have let it end at that, but Jaime had other ideas. The shock was over; the anger boiled up like the birth of a volcano.

  “Chad, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “You know me. I’ve been trading here since I was a boy. If I say that I’ll pay you tomorrow I’ll pay!”

  “Maybe I just don’t want your money,” Chad said, “tomorrow or any other day.”

  “My God, why not?”

  “I’ve got other customers. One of them just went out of here all upset. Saw you down the aisle. This is a small town, Mr. Dodson … a quiet town. Respectable people. They don’t like murder.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Didn’t say you did, Mr. Dodson. Just said my customers don’t like murder. Sheilah, now, they liked her fine. She was a nice woman. Friendly, civic-minded—”

  “And I’m not,” Jaime said. “Is that a crime?”

  “You are what you are, Mr. Dodson. Mostly, though, my customers like friendly people.”

  “Who belong to the right clubs and slap the right backs?”

  “I belong to a couple of clubs myself, Mr. Dodson.”

  “And I belong to the human race! Not everybody in it thinks the same way.”

  Chad Winter’s upper lip was turning white with anger. “No, they don’t!” he snapped. “Not everybody thinks the same as the coroner’s jury over at the county seat. I think you better find another place to buy your groceries, Mr. Dodson. Might try that supermart out at the crossroads. They do a big business with the itinerant ranch hands from over the valley way.”

  Jaime stood quietly, but he could feel his hands tightening into fists until the nails cut deep into the palms. Another moment and he might have let one of them smash into Chad’s face … and then an unexpected thing happened. Neither Jaime nor Chad had noticed the other customer in the store. Quietly, surprisingly, a man stepped up to the counter and took hold of Jaime’s shopping cart. He was a stranger to the Point: middle-aged, medium height, wearing a well-cut but comfortably aging tweed suit. His eyes brightened with wry amusement as he looked from Chad to Jaime, as if he found the human race childish and a little sad.

  “Mr. Storekeeper,” he said, “I’m not a patient man. I’ve never forgiven progress for these horrible self-help institutions where one must not only pay outrageous prices for the essentials of life but perform the manual, mental, and psychic labor of locating and gathering them. If you don’t want the young man’s money for his basket of goodies, perhaps you’ll accept mine.”

  The stranger placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. In his half century on earth, Chad Winters had never turned away a homeless twenty-dollar bill.

  “Well,” he reflected, “it saves me putting the stuff back on the shelves.”

  The stranger eyed Jaime appraisingly. His blood pressure was still showing. “It probably saves you more than that,” he said. “Do you have any objections, Mr.—Dodson, was it?”

  Jaime was too choked with rage to answer. He turned and stalked out of the store. The night air was cool and moist. The ocean fog had drifted in far enough to hang yellow globes about the street lamps, and the windshield and leather upholstery of the convertible were frosted with moisture. He was barely aware of these things. What he was aware of was the sick dread settling like the dregs of his anger.

  It was Albert Trench, and then it was a nameless woman in a tweed coat, and then it was Chad Winters. Tomorrow it could be all of Cypress Point. After the anger there had to be reasoning powers—there had to be logic and law and justice. There had to be something to grab hold of and pin down and answer.

  “I am Jaime Dodson and I endured the ordeal of a coroner’s inquest without being held responsible for my sister’s death.”

  But out of the darkness, Albert Trench mocked him. “… you can’t be held in double jeopardy, can you?”

  Jaime didn’t hear the stranger come out of the store. It was the aroma of burning tobacco that brought him out of his dark mood. When he looked about, the stranger was trying to get a good draw on his pipe—badly handicapped by the bag of groceries on his arm. He saw Jaime watching him and took the pipe out of his mouth.

  “Mind if I set these groceries in your car for a minute?” he asked.

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He settled them in the front seat and went back to work on the pipe. One more match completed the job. The flame licked up before dying, framing the man’s face in light. Jaime stared at him, suddenly aware that he had features—mouth, nose, eyes, a thick, somewhat shaggy head of reddish-colored hair, shaggy reddish eyebrows.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  The match-light died slowly.

  “I doubt it,” the stranger said. “My name’s Howard. Ralph Howard. I’ve taken a cottage for the winter. Working on a book. Dull stuff. Biology.”

  The match-light was gone.

  “Mr. Howard?” Jaime reflected. “No, I don’t know the name, but you reminded me …” He stopped, puzzled.

  “Only time I can stand a resort town is in the winter,” Howard added quickly. “No tourists. No confounded motorboats waking me each morning…. Well, nice to have met you, Mr. Dodson. Look me up if you have time.”

  The fog collaborated in a quiet disappearing act. Howard simply wasn’t there. Jaime stared. The yellow globes around the street lights were dimmer now. The only trace of Howard was the footsteps fading in the distance. Jaime turned back to the convertible. He opened the door, but a heavy brown paper bag blocked his entry.

  “Hey, Mr. Howard,” he called, “you forgot your groceries!”

  Now even the footsteps were gone. Jaime glanced back at the store. A glowering Chad Winters was drawing the shade on the door.

  Puzzled, Jaime climbed in behind the steering wheel and started the motor. Greta would have her supplies for breakfast whether Howard intended it or not. Howard … The name nagged at his mind. It meant nothing, but the face … and the voice …

  Jaime braked the convertible to a stop where a signal poked red through the fog; and then he sat listening to Ralph Howard’s voice playing tricks in his mind:

  “… Jaime … what happened after Sheilah fell?”

  Chapter 6

  Steve Quentin took morning coffee in his study—a habit the temporary acquisition of Albert Trench hadn’t changed. He took it from a small electric percolator plugged into a wall socket behind his chair. The pot, coffee, a bottle of vitamin pills—the other ingredient on his breakfast menu—were arranged neatly on the top of his desk. Also on the desk were an electric clock, an appointment calendar, a silver-based pen set, and a gold tennis trophy used as a paperweight. Each of these things sat in its own specific place, because Steve Quentin liked to know where everything was. This was one of the reasons why Jaime was making him nervous. Jaime was restless. He wouldn’t sit down; he didn’t want coffee. He picked up the tennis trophy and played it about in his hands.

  “Yes, Greta talked to me about selling the house,” he said. “I’m against
it.”

  Steve was surprised. “I don’t see why. After what happened at Chad Winter’s store last night, I’d think you’d be glad to get away.”

  “And leave this mess to simmer?” Jaime protested “You know what gossip can do—”

  “To anyone who will take it in,” Steve said. “People will talk, Jaime. I tried to warn you of that yesterday. Sheilah was a popular woman—”

  Jaime’s eyes brightened. “With her checkbook,” he said. “Every charity drive, every fund-raising spree—”

  “Be patient, Jaime. It’ll be your checkbook someday.”

  The trophy smashed down on the desk. “I don’t mean that, and you know it!” Jaime shouted. “It’s this pious, hypocritical snubbing that burns me…. That woman in Chad’s store. What does she know? What does Chad know?”

  “Only that we have an unsolved murder in Cypress Point,” Steve answered. “Jaime, if you just wouldn’t be so stubborn. I can get you a job in San Francisco. In six months or a year—”

  “In six months or a year—what?” Jaime challenged. “Do I come back a hero?”

  “People forget things,” Steve said, “if you let them.”

  Jaime stood quietly for the first time since he’d broken in on Steve’s breakfast. He was listening, and that was an improvement.

  “Yesterday,” Steve added, “you went after Trench because he didn’t want to serve us in the cottage. Wouldn’t it have been wiser to leave him alone? … As for Chad, well, trade at the supermart. I’ve been doing it for years. I know, it seems like running away when you’d rather fight. But what are you going to fight? It’s just something in the air. Nobody can stop gossip. It has to die of boredom.”

  “There’s not much chance of that,” Jaime said bitterly, “not from what I’ve heard so far…. Steve, what about the police? Have they any leads at all?”

  Steve removed the cap from the vitamin bottle and shook two pills into the palm of his hand. “I checked with Captain Lennard just two days ago,” he said. “There have been rumors … a few vagrants picked up and questioned. Nothing definite.”

  “But does he think there’s a chance of finding the killer?”

  Steve swallowed the pills and finished off the cup of coffee. He looked up with what was meant to be a reassuring smile. “Oh, always a chance,” he answered. “In five or six years, someone may walk into a police station in Fort Worth or Phoenix and confess the whole story…. Jaime, that’s straight from headquarters. The police have certain procedures, certain tests and checks and patterns to follow; but once these things have been done it’s a largely a matter of waiting for a break. They don’t fight windmills.”

  “The way I do?”

  “Since you ask—yes.”

  “Then it comes back to selling the house?”

  “I recommend it.”

  Jaime seemed persuaded. He pulled the pen out of the holder; then dropped it back. Then he looked up at Steve, squarely. “Do you know who killed Sheilah?” he asked.

  It was an unexpected question. Steve rocked back in his chair and studied Jaime’s face. He was a very troubled young man. “Why do you ask a crazy question like that?” Steve demanded.

  “I’m not so sure it’s crazy,” Jaime said. “I think you know more than you’ve told me.”

  “In God’s name, why? Jaime, we went through the inquest together—” Jaime’s eyes wouldn’t look away. Steve had no choice but to meet them. “This is another reason why I think you should leave Cypress Point for a while. You’re too sensitive. A gossip in a grocery store sets you off—”

  “Where’s Sheilah’s photograph?” Jaime asked.

  “Photograph?”

  “The one in the silver frame. It matched the pen set. Sheilah gave them to you.”

  Steve was confused. He had to link ideas together. “I broke it,” he said. “It fell off the desk.” And then he laughed, sharply, and came to his feet. “Jaime, don’t tell me you’re superstitious too! The next thing, you’ll be hearing voices!”

  “I have heard voices,” Jaime said.

  Steve sobered quickly. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”

  “Jaime, look,” Steve said. “It’s daylight. It’s bright morning daylight in the twentieth century. You have a lovely wife who doesn’t want a haunted husband.” He reached across the desk and clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Now, if something’s bothering you that I don’t know about and can help—”

  Jaime looked at Steve in a strange and penetrating manner. Nothing was said, but Steve’s hand dropped away as if it had been caught in a guilty act. Steve wasn’t a huckster by nature. In a quieter voice he added, “Think of Greta, Jaime. That’s all I ask. Think of Greta.”

  When Jaime left, the remnant of Steve’s huckster smile faded. He walked soberly back to his desk. Jaime’s aim was off. The pen had fallen free of the silver base. Steve replaced it and then stalked to the window. Across the bay the sun played on the glass roof of Sheilah’s house, bright and beckoning. Steve reached down to the window ledge where he kept a pair of binoculars, raised them, and studied the distant point. Then his glasses lowered to the beach. They held. For some moments he did nothing but stare at the figure of a man in a tweed suit who was strolling along the beach. There was no doubt of it. It was Dr. Curry.

  When Jaime returned to the cottage, Greta was gone. She had left a note:

  “Need exercise. Walking to village to open store. Sorry, darling, the honeymoon is over.”

  That was Greta. Too anxious to get on with the business of living to stay in the cottage even one full day. Jaime mulled over what Steve had told him. He was right. People would talk; they always had. Sheilah Dodson’s bad-boy brother had been on the public tongue for years. This time it was harder to bear because the gossip was murder; but it was easier to bear because he didn’t have to face it alone.

  Suddenly Jaime was happy. Dark thoughts were for foggy nights. Albert Trench was a narrow-minded prig. Chad Winters was dry and withered inside. His customers were probably all frustrated old maids who hated everyone capable of love. But Greta was alive and wonderful, and Greta was his. Sheilah’s long domination was broken. She couldn’t reach beyond the grave and destroy him now.

  And so Jaime waited until almost noon and then climbed into the convertible and drove to the village. Midday. Mid-autumn. October was October everywhere. If no leaves turned and no frost appeared, it was still autumn. If no bonfires of dead leaves sent ghost fingers to the sky (by order of the Cypress Point Fire Department: pickup weekly by Coastal Rubbish Disposal as duly contracted for by the City Council), it was still autumn. The sea knew it. The air knew it. The smart whisper of rubber on the highway knew it. It was autumn, and the off-season rental prices were listed in every realtor’s office. The long quiet of winter was beginning.

  Greta’s shop was on the main street, parallel to the beach—a small, glass-fronted cavern filled with crystal, silver, and ceramic imports. Jaime found her arranging a display table of dinnerware. He entered quietly, stepped up behind her, and kissed the back of her neck. It made her mouth easier to reach when she whirled about.

  “Time for lunch,” he said. “No wife who supports me is going to work on an empty stomach.”

  Greta laughed. “Now I know why I married you. It’s those thoughtful little traits.”

  “Of course it is. I’ll even let you pay for the lunch. I forgot to stop at the bank.”

  Greta pulled free and returned to the display table. “In just about five minutes,” she said. “I’m too late to catch the Halloween trade, but I have some wonderful things for Thanksgiving. And I’m working up quite a following for Christmas.”

  “With mistletoe?” Jaime suggested.

  “I never thought of that.”

  “Then forget I mentioned it. The steady clientele might object.”

  They were alone in the shop. Greta was almost finished with the table when the front door opened. A small bell jangled.
She looked up, expectantly. The door remained open for a moment, held by a woman about to enter the shop. But she was interrupted by another woman. They chatted earnestly for a moment. The door closed again and the two women walked away. Greta watched the tableau with a worried frown nagging her forehead.

  “Cheer up,” Jaime said. “She probably wouldn’t have bought anything anyway.”

  “But she always did,” Greta reflected. “That was Mrs. Pearson—one of my best customers…. Jaime, that same thing happened earlier today. One of my steadies started to come into the shop and then changed her mind.”

  “Have you had any customers?”

  “A few. Winter tourists, I think. None of the regulars. I thought, after being closed—” Greta looked at Jaime’s face. It was darkening with anger. Quickly she added: “Oh, they probably don’t realize I’m back…. Where shall we eat?”

  Greta had a light way of disposing of heavy moments. There was a small dressing room in the rear of the shop; she went back to wash up, leaving Jaime alone. He moved across the room to examine a new line of handmade ties. His back was to the door when it opened again. He heard the little bell and looked about. A man and a woman entered the shop together: middle-aged, well-dressed, Cypress Point bourgeois. They didn’t see Jaime. They advanced to the cashier’s desk and waited, awkwardly, self-consciously, as if each needed the other for moral support. They were there when Greta came out of the dressing room.

  “Oh,” she said. “Mrs. Moore—and Mr. Moore. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the bell.” She glanced across the store expectantly, but Jaime was out of sight. “I was about to step out to lunch,” she added.

  Mrs. Moore looked questioningly at her husband. He nodded and nudged her arm.

  “We won’t keep you,” she said. “We won’t take a minute.”

  Greta smiled. “I know. You’re here about the silver service for the Booster Club gift…. I’m terribly sorry, but it hasn’t arrived yet. You said you wouldn’t need it until mid-December.”