Why was everybody insisting that Peter and the Wolf were such close friends of mine? They never had been, not really. Oh, well. I was too tired to argue. “Okay, thanks for the rundown, Mitch. I’m ready to pass out. I’m sure you’re tired, too. I really hope it turns out to be someone else. Are you at least looking for other possibilities?” I stretched my arms and yawned.
“Sure. We’ve been checking on transients, which isn’t easy on a weekend like this. We’ve got bartenders looking for anybody with a wad of cash. We’re looking for the murder weapon. We’re trying to figure where the sawdust came from. And we keep looking for someone who might have seen Lewis between eight and twelve. All we know right now is that he walked out of the Wharf Rat at eight p.m., headed for Reverend Bartles’ place and never got there. I don’t know much else to do.”
I didn’t either. I stood up, swayed, and we said a rather grumpy goodnight. Fargo and I quickly got ready for bed. Maybe sleep would help.
Sleep did. When Fargo woke very early Thursday morning with that “I’ve got to go—I’ve got to go now!” look in his eye, I felt considerably better. And a dawn that promised to become a lovely, warm, sunny fall day didn’t hurt. Coffee and that first delightful cigarette improved my already good mood, and I didn’t even argue when Fargo started his little song-and-prance routine to go to the beach.
On the way there, I drove by the amphitheater, hoping for inspiration. All I saw was a lot of concrete, damp with morning dew, and some dressing areas and poles with bars for spotlights. There wasn’t even any police tape left. Obviously, they, too, felt the locale held nothing more of interest.
At the beach there was a single set of large footprints meandering along just below the high tide mark. I wondered if Harmon had been on early patrol for driftwood and other goodies. And I wondered what he had really seen through his haze of alcohol that rainy night.
Back home, I batted out my report for Mr. Ellis in overdrive, pleased that I would get it to him a day earlier than promised. Fargo and I delivered it. Ellis seemed surprised and happy to get it.
We chatted briefly about the three candidates. While Ellis was impressed by Nancy Baker’s expertise, he seemed to feel she might be “somewhat intense” for a small town. He didn’t even crack a smile at George Mills’s Halloween escapade. When I recounted Cynthia Hart’s adventure with the injured cat, however, I got the widest grin Choate Ellis is capable of giving. He said he couldn’t wait to learn the details. I got the feeling that Ms. Hart might soon be getting an offer. I was sure Mr. Mills would not. Well, Cynthia looked to be a deserving young woman.
As promised, we arrived at Peter and Wolf’s a shade before ten. Wolf let me in and returned to sit beside Peter on the couch. As I looked at them, all I could think of was two terrified white rabbits caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.
“What on earth is wrong?” I asked. “You two look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” It was not a happy choice of words.
“Ooo-oooh!” Peter moaned. “You’re right. The ghost of that horrid little creature will haunt us until we die!” He burst into tears.
“Which won’t be long,” Wolf added shakily, “if the police have their way. They just took away the Explorer. We’re finished. And we didn’t do it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I was in no mood to have aging queenly histrionics ruin my so-far great day. “Lewis ran errands in it sometimes, didn’t he? I think I’ve seen him in it. So of course they will find hair and clothing fibers of his in the SUV. All very logical. If that’s all they can come up with, actually, it rather lets some air out of their balloon. By the way, did you ever haul sawdust in the SUV?”
“Sawdust?” Wolf looked startled. “No, I can’t remember ever doing that. Some logs once or twice. But the cops saw a stain on one of the back mats. He pointed at it and told Mitch it looked like blood. That’s all they need. We’ll be arrested any minute.”
“Guys! Get a grip! Nobody’s yet proven blood is even there! And if so, it could be yours or anybody else’s who’s been in the vehicle . . . including a drippy steak!”
“It’ll be Lewis’,” Wolf projected gloomily. “He was bleeding all over the place the day I picked him up.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Five—six weeks ago. I’d been to the dentist in Hyannis and was coming home in a drenching rain. Lewis was standing on the side of the road in just shirt and jeans, no jacket or raincoat, soaking wet, thumbing a ride. I stopped. He got in, shivering badly. I told him there was a blanket in back, and he sort of got up and leaned over, pulled it up front and draped it around him. I noticed his left hand was badly cut and bleeding and asked him what had happened.”
I couldn’t believe this! What else could they come up with to make themselves look guilty? Blood on the mat, blood on the blanket. My God.
Wolf went on. “He said he had slipped in the mud and fallen on a broken bottle. I believed him then. Now I think he was out in the boonies looking for places closed for the winter and easily robbed. I’ll bet he accidentally put his hand through a window, set off an alarm and ran. Anyway, he declined when I asked if he wanted to be dropped at the clinic. Said he had no money. I gave him a clean handkerchief to put around the cut.”
“So you brought him here?’” I guessed.
“Yeah, I felt sorry for him. I patched his hand up—it really should have been stitched—and Peter fed him. Lewis asked if we knew of any jobs. Well, our sheet shaker was leaving shortly to go back to college, so we hired him. One of our more brilliant moves. But, Alex, you know how it is here with houseboys—they almost never have references.” He shrugged and raised his hands palm-up. “Hell, half the time the address and Social Security number they give you is bogus. How were we to know what a little louse he was?” “I understand. It’s always that way with summer help unless they happen to be local people. Anyway, blood in the SUV is not going to mean much, there are too many ways it could have got there. Relax.” I could have used some coffee. The fact that they hadn’t even offered it told me how disturbed they were.
“No,” Peter shook his head. “We want to hire you—retain you—whatever the term is. We need your help, Alex. Mitch is determined to frame us for this. He’s not doing anything to find the real killer! I mean, what about Reverend Bartles? It’s only Bartles’ word that Lewis never got to his place. Maybe Lewis did get there. I can think of all sorts of simply fabulous scenarios for that little rendezvous!”
So could I. Just because Bartles had Rev in front of his name meant little to me. To me, Rev did not automatically translate to sinless. And Peter was right—Mitch had seemed to skip over Bartles. “Look,” I temporized. “I’ve been away. Let me nose around for a day or so. If I turn anything up, we’ll talk about a bill.”
I nodded toward the coffee table, which still showed a slight discoloration. “I probably owe you more than you owe me. I still say there will probably be nothing, and in the long run the cops will handle it right. But now, I’d suggest you don’t answer any more police questions without a lawyer present.”
“Good!” Peter drew himself up dramatically and took a deep breath. He continued haughtily, “If that child Mitch appears again, I shall simply send him home to mama! He threw an absolutely juvenile fit over that silly table.”
“Why did Mitch make a scene?” I asked. “Didn’t you let him take it? Didn’t he have a proper warrant?”
Wolf intervened as Peter drew another shuddering breath. “Oh, I guess the warrant was all right.”
“Then why not give him the table?”
“Oh, you see, we burned it.”
Chapter 13
“You burned it,” I echoed. Alice in Wonderland had nothing on Alex in Provincetown. Things were getting curiouser and curiouser here, too. “Might one inquire why you burned it? Why you incinerated possible evidence!” I ended in a squeak.
“Now you’re getting testy about it, too. It was our table. If we want to burn up our furniture who’s to say w
e can’t!” Peter sounded a little testy himself.
“Alex,” Wolf spoke reasonably. “We had no idea we were doing anything . . . questionable. Since we planned to close the inn earlier than usual this fall, we didn’t order extra firewood. The weather was so awful over the weekend, we kept a fire in the fireplace most of the time for the guests, and used up all the logs we had.”
Peter picked up the explanation. “Last night we felt so low and lost and alone . . .” He cocked his head and smiled mournfully, obviously appreciating the unplanned alliteration. “So low . . . so lost . . . so alone, we decided a wee nightcap and a fire might cheer us up. There were no logs, so Wolf just knocked the table apart and we enjoyed a little light and comfort in a dark, unfriendly world.”
I stood and walked to the guilty fireplace. I was annoyed—no, angry. I felt they were playing with me. Obviously, they knew I liked them. Maybe they thought they could charm me into being their white knight. Well, I had done that once, and my armor still had the dents to show for it. I wasn’t buying their damsels in distress act.
“I’m touched. You have that old table sitting around for years and you pick last night to burn it. Either you are truly babes in the woods or very clever killers. And right now, I’d have to toss a coin to make a choice!”
“Alex!” they chorused. Peter continued, “Of course we aren’t killers. How on earth were we to know Mitch would want that damned table? He’d be welcome to it. God knows it was worthless. And it was not old, my dear, we bought it about three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks?” I was surprised. The rickety thing had looked like an antique to me. I walked to the window, as if the table were still there for me to re-evaluate. I came back and sat down.
“About,” Wolf nodded. “We got a flyer in the mail from Wood’s Woods, that unfinished wood furniture shop in Orleans. The table was featured, on sale very cheap. I should have remembered my grandmother’s warning. Buy cheap, get cheap. Anyway, I took a drive up, and the one Wood had on display looked all right, so I bought one to use in the sun porch. I got it home and out of the carton to assemble it and damned if one leg wasn’t missing. On top of that, one of the screws to anchor the top broke off as I started to screw it in. Lewis found an old broom and cut the handle off for a makeshift leg.”
He turned to Peter. “Why don’t you make some coffee?” Peter nodded and headed for the kitchen, with Pewter and, surprisingly, Fargo following hopefully. Wolf resumed. “We used it on the porch one night with a cookout for the guests and just left it there . . . forgot it, I guess. It rained overnight. When it got wet, it started to warp so fast you could practically see it curl! Lord, nothing’s gone right lately.”
It sounded almost too convenient to be true. “Did you call Wood’s Woods and complain?” I asked.
“Yes.” From the kitchen.
“No.” From the couch.
“Keep the stories straight, boys.” I’d about had it with these two.
“Wolf,” Peter called from the kitchen, sounding genuinely confused. “You were going to call and demand our money back.”
“I know. It got busy here, and every time I thought of calling, it was sometime I knew they would be closed. Finally, I decided just to wait till after the weekend when things calmed down. Ha-ha. So, no, I haven’t called. What difference does it make?”
“It would be interesting,” I answered sourly, “to know if anyone else bought one—or says they bought one—with a leg missing.”
“Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” Peter returned with three mugs, a carton of milk and a sugar bowl on a tray. The formality of service had certainly changed with Dear Boy’s departure. “You see, Alex, it’s things like this we need you for! I would never have thought of that. And I’ll bet Little Mitchie hasn’t either.”
I couldn’t help grinning. “Better not let him hear you call him that. Anyway, I’ll check Wood’s Woods. If another leg is missing, and a table leg turns up as the murder weapon, you’d be a little further off the hook. They found pine splinters in the wound, and if they match pieces of other tables, you’d be even further off the hook. Even though you are first-class top-notch assholes for burning that table!”
They looked at the floor like chastened children, as perhaps they were. “Now, Wolf, where the hell were you Saturday night between eight and midnight? And tell the truth. One quibble and I’m out of here.”
“Okay. About seven-thirty I drove Peter down to the Crown and Anchor. I dropped him and his costume and makeup kit right at the door. No way could I find a place to park, and the parade was starting, so I drove home and walked back down just ahead of the rain. I stayed in the dressing room with Peter until he went on. Several people can confirm that.” Wolf paused and looked uneasy.
“That takes us to about nine o’clock. Then what?” I urged. I didn’t want him to take time to think something up. I wanted to hear what was bothering him. “Then what?”
He sighed and looked sadly at Peter. “I’m sorry, darling. I did something awful and I lied to you about it.”
Peter turned dead white and clasped his hands to his mouth. I was hard put not to do the same. I really didn’t want to hear what I thought I was about to. I cleared my throat and somehow spoke evenly. “What did you do?”
“I knew Peter was a nervous wreck. The dust-up with Lewis, his father’s watch, the bruise under his eye, having to pitch in with me and clean rooms when he should have been resting—all these things had left him exhausted and very shaky. I . . . I was almost certain he was going to blow the performance. I had visions of his voice failing him. I was afraid he’d forget lyrics. I could just see him tripping on that long skirt and ripping it. I envisioned a total disaster, with the whole audience whooping and laughing him off the stage. I couldn’t face it.” He paused and wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Just as the show started, I left. I saw you as I went out, Alex. You were sitting with Marc. I didn’t know you knew him.”
I didn’t bother to explain about how I met Marc. I didn’t know whether I was relieved by what Wolf had said or not. He was clever—they both were. I found myself wondering if this might be a little play produced solely for me. One of them could have run into Marc, and Marc could have casually mentioned sitting with me. It was almost too perfect as Wolf’s throwaway line.
Wolf turned toward Peter but couldn’t look him in the eye. “So you see, my dear, I not only had no faith in you, I left you to face your incipient disaster all on your own.”
I waited for Peter to become a blubbering mess or a blazing virago, but he fooled me. He took Wolf’s hand and spoke quietly. “I don’t blame you. You haven’t said a thing I hadn’t been thinking all that afternoon. It’s almost funny, all day I had been trying to think of a way to get you not to go. I didn’t want you to see me make an ass of myself, or faint, or exit sobbing or whatever it would have been. However, since I was such a triumph . . .” Now he was Peter again. “I confess I had Walter make a video of the whole thing. He promised to burn it if I blew up, but I didn’t, and now we can bore everybody silly for years making them all watch it. My love, you are forgiven.” As stars in a gay soap opera, these two were direct from Central Casting.
“A heartwarming scene,” I said. “I’ll try again. Wolf, where were you?”
Wolf flashed Peter a radiant and grateful smile, and turned toward me. “I was home, as I said. I walked home from the Crown, feeling pretty despondent. I tossed the two final logs on the fire and sat down. Pewter jumped up to console me. I just sat there, thinking. Things seemed to be coming apart, somehow. I guess I felt . . . old. Like I couldn’t really control things anymore. And that I had never really done anything with my life.”
He sipped some coffee and looked up with a rueful grin. “You know, at some point we all think we’re going to be President, or find the cure for cancer or discover Atlantis or whatever. It suddenly occurred to me that when Saint Peter asks me what I’ve done to pass through those pearly gates, I’ll answer, ‘Why, good sir, the
towels were always fresh and sweet-smelling in my guesthouse.’ Somehow, it doesn’t have much of a ring to it.”
I laughed. “Better than saying they weren’t. We can’t all be Washington or Salk or Columbus. Somebody has to dump the ashtrays.” Against my better judgment, I couldn’t dislike these two. But that could be a serious mistake. “Did anyone besides Pewter witness these dark thoughts?”
“Actually, yes.” He sighed. “I know, I should have told Mitch, but I was afraid he might let it slip and Peter would find out I skipped the performance.”
He indicated a chair beside the fireplace. “Sitting there daydreaming, I heard the back door open. I admit, my first thought was that Lewis had come back to put his sticky little hands on anything loose—the guests are lax as hell about locking doors. But it was one of the guests.” He nodded at me before I could interrupt. “I’ll give you his name and address. He asked me to cash a check for him, said he had spent more than he had realized. I cashed a fifty-dollar check for him, and we had a drink and talked for a while.”
Wolf stretched his legs and accidentally gave Pewter a little kick. He apologized with an ear-scratch and picked up his tale. “I glanced at the clock and was surprised to find it was nearly eleven. I explained to our guest that I had to leave and offered a ride, but he said he had gotten so relaxed, he’d just enjoy the fire for a bit and go to bed. So I left, found a place to park out on the wharf and walked over to get Peter.”
I felt at least partially relieved by Wolf’s explanation. I could check his stories about Marc and the houseguest, and if they were true, it pretty well accounted for his time between seven-thirty and midnight.
Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 13