The Suspect - L R Wright

by L. R. Wright

  But they couldn't do that. The parrot was part of Carlyle Burke's legacy to George Wilcox, and Wilcox refused to decide what he wanted done with it, except that he didn't want it in his house and he didn't Want it given to the S.RC.A., in case they took it into their heads after a while to have it put away.

  Now Sokolowski followed Alberg into his office, which seemed to shrink as he came in, and sat down in the black chair. It was getting hot in there, too. The sun shone in through the window from late morning until midafternoon, which was nice most of the time but not in the heat of summer, and the heat of summer had begun early this year. Alberg's shirt was sticking to his back, and the waistline of his pants dug into him uncomfortably. He thought with dismay that he must have put on yet more weight.

  He peered out through the slats of the venetian blind. A couple of squad cars sat in the parking lot, glinting in the sun. Alberg's Oldsmobile was out there, too, along with Isabella's well-used Mercury—doesn't she ever wash that damn thing? he thought irritably. The road led off through scattered groups of houses and stands of fir·and fields cleared for strawberries or orchards or kitchen gardens, then down the hill into the village and straight to the sea.

  "No word yet on the fishmonger, I suppose,” said Alberg moodily, trying to spot the roof of the library.

  "You'll be the first to hear, Staff," said the sergeant. Alberg fiddled with the cord on the blind, lessening the glare. Then he turned from the window. "I've got another thing or two I want you to look after.”

  "Yeah? What?"

  "First, check old Carlyle out on the computer.”

  "For what?"

  "I'm just curious, that's all,” said Alberg. "Why doesn't anybody seem to have liked him much, why didn't he get married until he was fifty-five, why did he never get married again—that sort of thing. You probably won't find anything. But have a look, would you?”

  "What, you think he was a fag?" said Sokolowski, showing more interest.

  "I don't know. I'm looking for anything, anything at all."

  "Those fags carry grudges, all right. Like I told you, I worked in Vancouver for a while, before I joined the force. In the West End"—he shuddered, fastidiously—"they're worse than married people, those fags. The way they bash each other around, cut each other up.” He sounded massively disapproving.

  "His wife's name was Audrey," said Alberg. "Burke, née, of course, Wilcox. She died in a vehicle accident, this was about twenty-five years ago. See if you can find out what the circumstances were.”

  "Twenty-five years ago? Come on, Staff.”

  "Give it a try, Sid, okay? It happened in or around Vancouver. The records will be around somewhere."

  Sokolowski was nodding thoughtfully. "I like the fag angle." He stood up to leave. "Tell you one thing. It it wasn't a fag thing, and it wasn't the fish seller, it must have been a crazy or a shitrat or two.”

  "It wasn't messy enough for crazies or shitrats, Sid."

  "There wasn't any profit in it—except for Wilcox and the will, and you said that surprised the hell out of him—so it wasn't a criminal, either.”

  "Let's find the fish man,” said Alberg, "and go from there."

  He got up, straightened his tie, and put on a light jacket. "Meanwhile, I'm off to talk to—” He consulted a small notebook. "To Mr. Frank Erlandson. Gotta tie up all the loose ends, Sid. I'd sure hate to trip on a loose end.”

  * * *

  Frank Erlandson sat on his porch on a cushioned wicker chair. He was a tall man with long limbs, a slight potbelly, and an open, freclded face. When he occasionally uncrossed his legs and recrossed them, or lifted a hand to stroke his nonexistent hair, he moved slowly and cautiously; Alberg thought he might be anticipating pain. He looked older than George Wilcox and was certainly not as strong.

  His widowed sister, Molly Newell, lived with him in a house across the street and two doors up from Carlyle Burke's. She was knitting as they talked, her hands moving the needles slowly and awkwardly; the knuckles of her fingers were swollen. But she was younger and more robust than her brother. She had served them iced tea and brought one of the dining room chairs onto the porch for Alberg before settling into a wicker chair of her own. They had discussed the weather, and Alberg had inquired politely about the state of Mr. Erlandson's health, which was apparently not good.

  "If you could just go through it for me once more, Mr. Erlandson," Alberg said now, taking his notebook from his jacket pocket.

  "As I told one of your men on Wednesday morning," said Erlandson, "I'd hardly be likely to mistake either the date or the time, given the circumstances." He pointed to the laurel hedge across the road. "I saw George come walking along there, from the direction of his own place, and I saw him go through the gate into Carlyle's front yard, and it was just a few minutes after twelve thirty P.M.”

  "I'm going to be patient, here, Frank," said Molly Newell to her brother, "but I'm bound to tell you, Sergeant, that we disagree on this matter, Frank and I.”

  "Yes, I understand that," said Alberg. "I wonder, though, if I could hear Mr. Erlandson's account first, and then yours. People often see the same things and yet make different observations. It's very common," he told her reassuringly. She looked at him for a moment through gold-rimmed bifocals. Her long gray hair was done up in a neat bun at the back of her head. Her blue eyes were brilliant against her tan; she was not smiling, and he could see delicate white lines in the wrinkles around her eyes.

  "I'm perfectly aware of that, Sergeant, " she said. "However, that's not the kind of thing I have in mind. Not at all." She lifted a hand from her knitting—Alberg thought it was a square meant for an afghan—and waved it at her brother. "Go on, Frank. "

  Erlandson reached for a glass of iced tea sitting on a wicker table, took a slow sip, and carefully replaced the glass. "As you suggested, Mr. Alberg, I'm going to retrace my day for you; last Tuesday, that is, the fifth day of June." He dabbed at his lips with a tissue from the pocket of a light sweater he wore over a white shirt.

  "It's my usual habit to have lunch with Molly, here, at noon precisely. We have lunch at the kitchen table and we listen to the twelve o'clock news. This has become routine. Immediately after lunch, which lasts about half an hour, it is my custom to go out into the back garden while Molly does up the dishes. I walk around making mental notes of the things that need to be done out there; this usually takes me about twenty minutes, or perhaps half an hour, if I should happen to sit down in one of the patio chairs for a few minutes.”

  Alberg nodded soberly. He was fervently grateful for the large cedar tree that stood in Erlandson's front yard, spreading shade over the end of the porch where the three of them sat. Mrs. Newell dropped the completed square into a basket at her feet which contained several similar squares, some brown and some rust-colored, and began casting on stitches for another one. Alberg thought of his grandfather, who had provided his entire family with afghans, over the years.

  "Now on this particular day," said Erlandson, "my normal routine was shot to ribbons." He spread his hands on the broad arms of the chair and recrossed his legs, slowly. "Usually, after my walk around the garden, I go indoors and rest for an hour or so, and when the hottest part of the afternoon has passed I go back outside to do some chores. But on this particular day—” He looked coolly at his sister. "And I remember it quite, quite well," he said. She ignored him, bent over her knitting. "On Tuesday I had my usual one fifteen P.M. doctor's appointment, and"—he looked unhappily at Alberg—"I knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell me I had to go into the hospital for tests. So I found it quite impossible to follow my regular routine. Right after lunch I came out onto the porch and sat here, just thinking. A few minutes—no more—after I sat down, I saw George coming up the road, heading in my direction." He nodded to himself. "I like George. He's a bit gruff, but I like him. I know he goes to the hospital regularly, once a week, to read to some of the patients, visit them, that sort of thing.”

  Molly Newell i
nterrupted to agree with him. "He's a good man, George. Ever since his Myra died—no, before that," she said to Alberg. "Ever since she got sick in the first place, he's been spending time at the hospital. Go on, Frank. Get on I with it."

  "As I said, I saw George coming up the road. I assumed he was walking into the village, and I decided to hail him as he passed me." He rested his head against the wide, curving back of his chair. "I think I wanted some reassurance. I think I wanted him to tell me the hospital wouldn't be so bad after all." He lifted his head and focused again on Alberg. "But I didn't get a chance to call out to him. He went through the gate in Carlyle's hedge.”

  "How long did you sit out here, Mr. Erlandson?”

  "Not long. Maybe fifteen minutes or so. Then Molly came out and told me I'd better get ready for my doctor's appointment.”

  "So you didn't see George come back out through the gate?”

  "No.”

  "Did he often visit Mr. Burke, do you know?”

  "He and Myra used to drop by sometimes, I think, before she took ill. But I haven't noticed him going there since. He comes here, fo us, every now and then."

  "Not often, though," said Mrs. Newell, her hands motionless in her lap. "He keeps to himself, now that Myra's gone. Except for visiting the hospital, once a week like clockwork, I'm told.” She shook her head and resumed her knitting. "It's a sad thing. All he lives for now is his garden, it seems to me.”

  "True," said Erlandson sorrowfully.

  The ice in his tea had melted, but Alberg drank it anyway. "Now, Mrs. Newell," he said, "in what way does your memory of that day differ from your brother's?”

  "He's got the time wrong," she said immediately. She dropped her knitting into the basket and pushed her glasses farther up on her nose. "His doctor's appointment on Tuesday was at three thirty, not one fifteen. He's been going every week, recently, and usually it's at one fifteen, but this week it was three thirty.” She turned to her brother and spoke gently. "That's what's gotten you confused, Frank, as I keep telling you. They changed your time this week, that's all."

  "So, you mean. . .” said Alberg.

  "I mean that, yes, he was sitting out on the porch on Tuesday, and, yes, he probably saw George go through the hedge, but he's got his times mixed up. After lunch on Tuesday he went out into the back garden as usual, and then he lay down for a while as usual, and then he got up, at about two fifteen, and I reminded him about the doctor's appointment at three thirty, and tben he came out here onto the porch." She reached over to pat Erlandson's hand. "It was the next day, Frank, Wednaday, that you were sitting out here early, right after lunch, thinking about your tests. The day the policeman came to talk to us in the moming. And then at four o'clock I drove you to the hospital. Don't you remember?”

  Alberg noticed that his heart hadn't sunk. Did that mean he'd stopped thinking seriously of George Wilcox as a suspect? Or maybe he didn't want the old man to have done it ....

  Erlandson wore an expression of great stubbornncss. "Then I must have come out here twice on Tuesday,” he said crossly. "It was right after lunch when I saw him. 'How would you know, anyway? You have a rest after lunch too, same as I do.”

  Mrs. Newell sighed and glanced apologetically at Alberg.

  "What does George say about all this?” said Erlandson, irritably. It didn't seem to have occurred to him that, if accepted as truth, his account of things might get his friend in trouble.

  "Mr. Wilcox says he found the body,” said Molly Newell quietly. "At about two thirty." She turned to Alberg. "Isn't that right, Sergeant?"

  Alberg agreed.

  For the first time, Erlandson seemed bewildered.

  "What was he wearing when you saw him, Mr. Erlandson?”

  He concentrated. "Gray pants and a sweater. Dark. I don't remember exactly what color, but dark.”

  "What kind of 'dark?"' said Alberg. "Dark red? Dark green? Dark brown?”

  Erlandson was shaking his head. "No, no, no. Dark blue, I think. I'm not sure.”

  "Could it have been gray?”

  He thought about it. "Maybe. It it was a very dark gray. But I think more likely blue."

  Alberg put away his notebook and stood up. "Thank you both very much indeed," he said.

  "What do you think of cremation?" said Erlandson suddenly, looking up at him.

  "Frank, really, for goodness' sake,” said Molly Newell in horror.'

  Alberg stuck his hands in his pockets and watched a loud-mouthed bluejay chase a sparrow away from a birdfeeder that hung from the corner of the porch roof. "I think it's fine," he said, "for dead people.”

  Their laughter followed him to his car.

  * * *

  He found Cassandra next to one of the potted plants. Her nose and forehead glistened, and the hair around her face was damp and more curly than usual.

  "You're going to roast yourself," he said.

  She turned, a cloth in her hand, and he was happy when she smiled at him. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead.

  "What are you doing, anyway?” said Alberg.

  She gestured to a pail of water on the floor. "I'm sponging their leaves.”

  "Do you have to do it when the sun's pouring right through the windows at you?”

  "I have to do it while there's somebody else here to take care of the customers," she said. He'd noticed when he came in that a teenage girl was busy behind the counter, checking books in and out. There were a dozen or so people in the library. This gave Alberg an illogical pleasure.

  "Can you have dinner today?" he said. "Or tomorrow?”

  "Good heavens. Wasn't it just yesterday that we had lunch?"

  He ignored this, waiting. "Not today," she said. "Tomorrow I spend the afternoon with my mother. I have dinner there, too. Every Sunday.”

  His disappointment was intense. He hadn't thought beyond tomorrow. What was she doing tonight, to make her unavailable? He didn't know what to say next.

  She hesitated, the cloth in her hand. There was a trickle of sweat on her left temple. l·le reached over and flicked it away.

  "G0d. l must look a mess," said Cassandra cheerfully. "I'll tell you what. How about you pick me up at Golden Arms-say, about six thirty—and we'll go for a walk on the beach."

  "Okay,” said Alberg, slightly cheered. "Golden Arms. Christ."

  "How's the—uh, the investigation going?" she asked, as she walked with him to the door.

  "Which one?" said Alberg. "The log thefts? The vandalism? The stolen four-by-four? The tourist yacht that got crunched by a fishing boat?"

  "Actually," said Cassandra, "I was thinking of the murder. Remember the murder? Or have you handed that over to someone else?"

  He stopped and leaned against the end of one of the shelves in the BIOGRAPHIES section. "Your friend George is Carlyle Burke's heir," he said. "That's the news from that particular investigation."

  She was astonished, of course, but he was surprised to see that she was also uneasy. She stared at him for several seconds.

  "Does that make him a suspect?" she said finally.

  Alberg pretended to think this over. "Not really," he said. He moved out of the way of a young man in jeans and a David Bowie T-shirt. "It seemed to come as a big shock to him, as a matter of fact."

  Cassandra pushed her hair away from her face and then realized she'd done this with the cloth she had been using on the plants. She stared at it uncomprehendingly. Alberg began to laugh. She looked at him, blank-faced, and seemed to be come agitated.

  He put his hand on her bare arm. "What is it? ls something wrong?"

  Cassandra tried to laugh. "No, nothing. It's just the heat.”

  She gently dislodged his hand. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  He watched her go through the hinged section in the counter, speak to the volunteer, and disappear into an office behind the shelves of reserved books.

  "Okay," he said finally, out loud. He looked around him. "Okay," he said again, and wandered out of the library into t
he heat of the late afternoon, and decided he might as well go home.

  CHAPTER 14

  Alberg lived in Gibsons, at the southern end of the Sunshine Coast, about fourteen miles down the narrow winding highway from Sechelt. He preferred to have a little distance between himself and the detachment office.

  His house was known as the directors' house because for several years it had been rented by the C.B.C., for use by television directors in town briefly to shoot episodes in a series called The Beachcombers. The place had about it an air of preoccupation, of distraction. Alberg had marveled when he moved in at the things abandoned there by harassed people to whom the house had been mere shelter, less than a hotel. They had spent very little time there, and yet some had managed to leave things behind.

  There was a single serving size box of Rice Krispies in the kitchen cupboard, open but empty, the knocked-over box surrounded by mouse turds. On the floor of the bedroom closet in furry gray globs of dust, Alberg found a gold Cross ballpoint pen. Under the bed huddled a threadbare pair of white jockey shorts. ln the bathroom medicine chest sat a lonely, sticky bottle of cough medicine and a half-used roll of antacid tablets. On the small table next to the lumpy bed someone had left a paperback copy of Worlds in Collision.

  Alberg had been in a hurry to move in and told the owner not to bother having the place cleaned, he would see to it himself. It took him several evenings but he was glad, later, that he hadn't hired someone else to do the job.

  He found nothing in the house that would identify its former occupants as practitioners of the art of television, yet the things he found caused him to create people in his mind as he swept and polished. There wasn't enough evidence for legitimate deduction, so he just made them up, and he became fond of these people, so that in the end he didn't throw away anything but the cereal box. He put the cough medicine and the antacid tablets and the jockey shorts and the Cross ballpoint pen and Worlds in Collision into a small cardboard box, which he then kept on the shelf in his bedroom closet.