“I can never tell what your age is, Plant. You still won’t eat your peas.”
“Very funny. I honestly don’t remember Johnny’s describing what she looked like, except to say she’s pretty.” Melrose paused. “Why does that look on your face bother me? Why, incidentally, are you in Cornwall? I don’t expect you’re sightseeing.”
Macalvie cleared his throat. “Where is this boy?”
“Working one of his several jobs.” Melrose consulted his watch. “It’s probably the cab at this hour… or else he’ll be getting the dining room ready here.” Melrose called to Pfinn, asked him if Johnny had come yet. No, he hadn’t. Not for another hour, most likely.
Melrose asked again. “So what are you doing in Cornwall?”
“Having a dekko at a body found not far from here. You know Lamorna Cove? It’s about five miles away.”
“A body. Male or female?”
“Female. We haven’t ID’d her yet.”
There was a silence before Melrose asked, “How long had she been dead?”
Macalvie took his lager, handed over some money, drank off a third, and said, “Not that long. No more than twelve, sixteen hours. Pathologist has to do a postmortem, of course.”
“Well.” Melrose’s stomach turned over. That really was the sensation.
“The nephew must have a picture of her.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Well, I’d rather see that before I show him mine.”
“Yours?” Melrose said, his tone anxious.
“Can you get hold of him?”
“I’ll try his house, and if he’s not there I’ll call the cab dispatcher. There’re all of three cars to dispatch.” He turned to Mr. Pfinn and asked for the telephone and Johnny’s telephone number.
Giving out employees’ telephone numbers was not something he did. The same telephone ceremony was repeated as had been that morning. It would cost him a pound.
“No, it won’t,” said Macalvie, riveting the man with his eyes, then producing his identification. “And we’ll have that number, thanks.”
9
Johnny heard the telephone as he was coming up the path to the cottage. He fairly flew through the door and snatched it up as the last ring echoed in air.
Hell! He slammed the receiver down. The phone had become Janus-faced; on the one hand it might be Chris; on the other hand, bad news about Chris.
He did not know, for all of his worry, how he’d been able to go about his daily routine of the caff, the cab, the pub in such a humor as to be-or at least make things appear to be-perfectly normal. To keep it down, the anxiety, the fear. “Deny” as Uncle Charlie was always saying. Deny, deny, deny. But this wasn’t denial; if it had been he wouldn’t be anxious or fearful.
He sank down into a chair at the gaming table and let his gaze wander around from the fireplace mantel, to the bookshelves, to Chris’s favorite armchair covered in blue cotton with a design of white phlox. Rather, the background had once been blue. It had gone through so many washings and been exposed to sunlight long enough that it was hard to make out the flower pattern. He supposed you could drain the color from anything over time-the aquamarine from the ocean, the blue from the sky-
Shut it! Johnny ordered himself. This was self-pity and it kept a person from thinking. He yanked one of the small drawers in the table open and got out his cards. He riffled them several times, liking the feel of the rush of the edges against his thumb. He cut the deck twice, pulled out a nine of diamonds, made it look as if he were putting it atop one of the thirds, when he wasn’t. He stacked the three parts together, shuffled, shuffled again. Voilà! He pulled out the nine of diamonds.
A basic little trick anybody should be able to see. Surprising how little people did see.
He left the cards on the table and started an aimless circuit of the living room. Looked at the fire screen, the books, the basket full of magazines and another of embroidery which Chris scarcely touched, so busy was she. He stopped at a glass-fronted étagère full of cups and saucers (“A Present from Lyme,” “A Memory of Bexhill-on-Sea”) and bisque figurines and tiny animals and was taken by the number of places they’d been. Nothing elaborate-no Paris or Venice or anyplace-just little seaside resorts here in England. He stopped at the trunk in the window alcove and ran his hand across the top. Opened it, looked inside. He had to do a lot of work to perfect this illusion.
The rain still came down and made the day dark and the room darker. He had been in here in half shadow and hadn’t turned on any lights. He stood looking out the window of this cottage that now seemed sorrowful, the objects in it wasted, as if Chris’s absence had deprived them of purpose or usefulness.
He turned on a silk-fringed lamp, which cast its buttery glow on part of the room. He stopped at the fireplace mantel and looked at the snapshots and three larger photos framed there. One of Chris and Charlie, one of Chris and him, one of her and his mother. She looked like his mother and his mother had been beautiful. This was a photographer’s posed shot, which was not as alive as the others; these formal posed shots never were. He studied the picture of the two of them, the two sisters. He knew he thought of Chris as a mother; he couldn’t help it. So this was like losing his mother all over again.
Johnny rested his head on his arms for a moment, then marshaled what energy he had left and plucked up his beaked cap. He liked to wear it in the cab. Shirley had asked him to take an extra shift this evening because Sheldon was sick. “Read: Hangover,” she’d said.
“Read: I can’t, Shirley. Sorry. But I’m going to Penzance.”
Shirley was all right about it; she knew something had happened to Chris.
He put the cap on, looked in the mirror over the mantel, softly sang:
“My name is John Wellington Wells,
I’m a dealer in magic and spells-”
But for once it didn’t cheer him. He grabbed up his jacket and was out the door.
He was getting into the cab when the telephone rang again, but this time he didn’t hear it.
10
Who else could ID her, then?” asked Macalvie, gulping at his beer as if it were the last one he expected to see for a long time.
“If it’s Chris Wells, a number of people. Almost anyone in the village.” Seeing Macalvie about to move to question Pfinn, Melrose shook his head. “I shouldn’t start with him. He’ll set your feet on the wrong path if he can help it. If there’s such a thing in your police lexicon as an antiwitness, it’s him. Let’s go across to the Woodbine. Chris Wells owns it, along with another woman, Brenda something. She could identify her partner.” Melrose looked again at the photo. Whoever she was, she was good-looking. He wished he’d listened more closely to Johnny’s description of his aunt. No, he didn’t; he didn’t want to be the person who said, Yes, that’s Chris Wells. He didn’t want to be the despised messenger.
Macalvie drained the rest of his beer, set down the empty pint, and regarded it as intensely as he might’ve regarded a fresh clue. He did everything intensely. He had those blue eyes that turned their surroundings dull and drab and burned away any extraneous matter in Macalvie’s line of vision. Melrose wouldn’t relish being the suspect he interviewed. In the half minute since Melrose had spoken, Macalvie had leaned straight-armed against the bar, staring at whatever scene was unfolding in his mind. If Melrose had ever wondered what aspect of his job-if any-Brian Macalvie disliked, showing a police photo to the victim’s friends or relations was clearly it. Melrose was relieved this particular relation was not around.
“Let’s go,” said Macalvie, moving away from the bar and digging a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket. He still smoked an unfashionable pack and a half a day. Melrose took out his own case, glad he could share the sin.
Brenda Friel was such a sweet-tempered woman that not even the presence of the Devon and Cornwall police in her kitchen disturbed her. The two men took up whatever room was left over from an island of butcher-block table and her big Aga cooker.
She was not concerned about the scones and cookies she’d just removed from the oven, only about Johnny Wells. Thinking that Chris was the reason police were here in the Woodbine, she said she was glad they had come straightaway.
Brenda pushed a lock of brown hair from her forehead with the back of her hand as Macalvie told her about the dead woman in Lamorna Cove. Her face grew very still, that petrified stillness one adopts when terrible news threatens to topple your world and any movement will bring it on.
As Macalvie produced the picture, she closed her eyes, then opened them and expelled a long breath. “No.” She all but whispered it. “No, that’s not Chris.” Relief nearly overwhelmed her, and she staggered back and leaned against the table, upon which rested the scones and cookies, giving off a gingery aroma that, in its suggestion of the homey and ordinary, seemed to mock them, faced with possible tragedy.
Melrose let out his own breath, surprised he’d been holding it. Chris and Johnny Wells must call up powerful emotions in people. “That’s another thing,” said Melrose, speaking his thoughts. “Where’s her nephew? We’ve been trying to get in touch with him. He doesn’t answer his phone. I know he works at various jobs, but-”
“I think he’s gone to Penzance. A relation there just might know something. This is the first time Johnny’s ever asked for time off. He’s so dependable. Like a rock.” She tore a couple of small plastic bags off a roll; then, holding them, she said, “That woman, she doesn’t look much like Lamorna Cove-” Brenda stopped, then, frowning, said, “Let me see that photo, will you, sweetheart?”
Macalvie assumed he was the sweetheart here and again produced the picture.
“I can tell you who it looks like: a woman that lived in Lamorna Cove as a girl. Her name was Sadie May. She worked here awhile. But she married since, anyway. Name’s Sada Colthorp, her married name. Believe it or not, that girl married into the aristocracy. I think she married an earl or viscount or one of those.”
The smile she gave Melrose acknowledged him as “one of those.” Though the smile, he noted, was a trifle ambiguous.
“Did you ask round at the Wink? The pub there?
It’s probably their one topic of conversation now.” When Macalvie nodded, she went on. “I expect they didn’t recognize her grown up. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’d talk to police about it. People can be so close-mouthed, can’t they?”
“They can, yes,” said Macalvie. “How is it you yourself recognized her?”
“Because she came back.” She looked slightly surprised, as if police should have known this. “It was about four or five years ago she came to Bletchley. For old time’s sake, perhaps. She worked for us once. Fifteen, twenty years, it must be. Ramona, my daughter, was just a little thing then.” Brenda smiled at the memory. “I never knew Sadie that well, but Chris did. None of us ever liked her that much.” Brenda shrugged.
“And what?” asked Macalvie.
Her eyes widened. They were a pale, swimming blue. “I’m sorry?”
“None of you liked her that much. I feel an and or a but hanging on the end of that comment.”
She shook her head. “Nothing, except Chris really disliked her.” Then, possibly to turn Macalvie’s attention to the photo and away from the person in it, she asked to see the picture a third time. She appeared to have no qualms about looking at a corpse, as long as it wasn’t her business partner. She stood with the biscuits in one hand and the picture in the other. “Nothing ever happens around here, and Lamorna’s only five miles away, and nothing ever happens there either. But now a woman is missing from here and another found murdered there. I was sure when you handed me that photo it would be Chris I’d see.”
“Thank the lord it isn’t,” Melrose, who’d said nothing thus far, put in.
“Your daughter, she’d be in her twenties now? Maybe she could tell us-”
It was, Melrose thought, like peeling a layer of light from her face. The words seemed to have stunned her. “Ramona’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” said Macalvie. “She must have been young.”
“Twenty-two. It was leukemia. She’d been sick a long time before we even knew what was wrong with her.” Brenda stopped and took a deep breath. “She was seven months pregnant, too.” Here, Brenda cast Macalvie a reproachful look, as if to say, Police might not be able to stop women from getting murdered and disappearing, but couldn’t they have done something about a dying young mother-to-be?
“I’m sorry,” Macalvie said again and clearly felt it wasn’t adequate. “Really sorry.”
Brenda shook her head, then she handed each of them one of the little plastic bags. “Ginger. They’re the favorite.”
They were still warm. Melrose right away took a bite out of his. He saw Macalvie looking at his bag, curiously, as if anything given him must be a bribe. Then he shot Brenda a smile straight through the heart. “Thanks. And if you think of anything…” He handed her a card. “You’ll let me know.”
“I will, yes. But what about Chrissie, sweetheart? This Lamorna business doesn’t tell us a thing about where she is.”
“No, but it damned sure tells us where she isn’t.”
11
NOW YOU SEE IT. The white sign lettered in marine blue was nailed above the door to Charlie’s magic shop in Penzance. Johnny really liked Charlie, which Chris said was to his credit, given that they were so different. But he wondered if they really were, the way they both loved magic and illusion. The place always fascinated Johnny, even now, when his feelings were at such a low ebb.
The place had been advertised as containing a “flat with sea views,” but the sea view was there only if you craned your neck and got smack up against the window, turned your head sideways, and looked through trees; that way you could see a small slice of the sea.
Charlie had much of Chris’s manner, even if he didn’t have much of her character. Lean on her and she would never let you down. Try leaning on Charlie and you’d hit the ground. He wasn’t very dependable; he was a raging alcoholic and because of this Chris “cut him some slack.” (“Poor Charlie. He can’t help it; we’ve got to cut him some slack, love.”) Yet most people would feel exactly the opposite, heaping on Charlie’s head recriminations and reckonings.
They just didn’t understand addiction, Chris would say. Neither did Johnny, really. He wondered how it would feel to be an addict, hung up on booze or crack or heroin. The closest Johnny had ever got to heroin was Lou Reed’s song.
Charlie had shown Johnny a few new tricks-lord, but he was fast with his hands. After he’d put the cards up, he reached under the counter and pulled out a gun. Johnny staggered back.
“Oh, hell, John-o, it’s not real. Just part of an act a friend of mine’s putting together. Looks authentic, doesn’t it?” He slapped it down on the counter and said, “You know what Chekhov said, ‘If you put a gun on a table in Act One, it better go off in Act Three.’ ”
Johnny picked it up. “I’m glad this one won’t.”
“Lousy play, then. Come on.”
They’d closed the shop and gone along to the Lamb, where they were now sitting, Johnny drinking ginger ale, Charlie a club soda. Johnny wondered how difficult it was for Charlie to be so close to booze and yet not drink it. Charlie never drank around Johnny, anyway. It shows his regard for you, Chris had always said. Charlie did not know any more about Chris now than he had earlier. But he could understand Johnny’s need to talk to him; he and Chris were the only family left. He asked Johnny if he’d notified the police.
“Yes. But it’ll be twenty-four hours before they’ll do anything.”
“That’s to eliminate all the unhappy husbands or wives who’ve left out of choice.” Charlie was helping sort through the various options and the only alternatives. “Okay, she either left under her own steam or was taken.”
“It could be a combination, couldn’t it? I mean, she could have thought she was leaving on her own when really she was tricked into leaving. Like maybe somebody called u
p and said I was in hospital, something like that. And on her way she’s abducted.”
“Uh-huh.”
Johnny sighed. “That’s pretty melodramatic, I guess.”
“Melodrama happens. She didn’t leave you a note, you said, but remember Tess.” Charlie read a lot of books and spoke of the characters in them if he and they were on intimate terms. When the name didn’t register with Johnny, he said, “Hardy’s Tess, Tess of the D’Urbervilles. The whole tragedy could have been averted if the note to her boyfriend that she’d shoved under the door hadn’t gone under the rug. He never saw it. Are you sure she didn’t leave you a message? Did you check under the rug?”
“No.” Johnny smiled. “There aren’t any rugs near the doors.”
“I meant that metaphorically. Could she have left a message anywhere you might not have come across it? Could she have told someone to make sure they told you? That sort of thing.”
Johnny nodded. “But if she had, they’d have told me.”
“Okay, let’s take it from another angle. Forget about the note.” When Johnny opened his mouth to object-Chris would never have done such a thing, left without letting him know-Charlie held up his hand. “I’m just thinking out loud, running down possibilities. Say someone out of the past comes to the door, convinces her that she has to go with him immediately. Now, I can’t think of anything in her past that might warrant such an extreme action, but you-”
Johnny shook his head.
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss it. Chrissie’s had a tough life, tougher than she probably ever told you about.” Charlie had shifted his position; he sat sideways facing the bar, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle.
Johnny watched him. “If you want a drink, Charlie, go ahead; don’t mind me.”
Charlie smiled. “Thanks, but I’m testing my will.”
The Lamorna Wink Page 5