Ransom at Sea

by Fred Hunter

  6

  The cells at the sheriff’s station were located in a large, blank room behind a door to the left of the desk in the outer office. Only one of the cells was occupied.

  Rebecca Bremmer sat on the narrow bed against the rear wall of the ten-foot square, surrounded on three sides by bars. After Ransom dropped Lynn off at the station, Sheriff Barnes had bent the rules enough to allow her to sit in the open cell beside her. They spent the remainder of the morning talking in between long lulls.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Rebecca said, breaking one of the silences by a return to a theme she was finding hard to let go of. “I suppose I should call a lawyer, but … I don’t know one.”

  “You don’t have to do that yet,” Lynn said reassuringly. “Ransom will sort this all out and find out who really did it. He’s very good. I wouldn’t admit it to him, but he is.”

  Rebecca didn’t appear to have heard her. “That Stuart Holmes is a lawyer. I suppose I could ask him to help me.…”

  “You can’t do that. He’s one of the passengers.”

  Rebecca looked up. “So?”

  “So that makes him a suspect.”

  “But why would he—oh, it’s no use!” She had animated for a moment, but now the energy drained from her again.

  “You shouldn’t think like that. Ransom really will get to the bottom of this. He’s a regular Mountie: he always gets his man, or woman.” Lynn was aware that she’d said this too brightly. She knew that if she’d been in Rebecca’s situation, it would’ve sounded like an offer of false hope.

  Rebecca’s cheeks were stained with drying trails of tears. Her dark hair had gone limp, and her face was deathly pale. “I miss her already,” she said softly.

  “I know.”

  “It’s funny, the past few days I’ve been with her … the way she was acting … I can’t really picture them in my mind. All I can see now are the good times: the woman I knew when I was younger, who baked muffins and bread and made some of her own clothes, and who was stern but never harsh. She never had a bad word to say about anybody.”

  “I know,” Lynn said quietly. “When my lover died—she’d been sick for a long time and had physically withered away. She never really lost her faculties, but it was hard to see someone I loved physically deteriorate like that. After she died, it was funny … I could only picture her the way she’d been when she was sick if I tried really hard. What came easy was seeing her healthy and happy. I guess that’s probably some kind of blessing that we’re given at times like that.”

  “Your lover … so you’re…?”

  Lynn hadn’t been thinking of the implication when she’d said this—that she would be revealing something about herself that could potentially destroy the budding friendship with this woman. Despite the circumstances, her heartbeat quickened when she realized that it mattered to her how Rebecca responded.

  “Uh-huh,” Lynn said, her eyes leveled at Rebecca.

  “Same here,” she replied vacantly.

  Lynn cleared her throat and tried to slow her heart. “Anyway, remembering those good times should be a blessing.”

  Rebecca looked down at the hands she’d folded in her lap, her slender white fingers looking pale against the rust-colored dress. A fresh onslaught of tears ran down the tracks on her cheeks. “I guess they should, but … I feel so guilty.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted her to die,” she replied without looking up.

  Lynn shot a glance at the door leading to the outer office and wondered whether or not their conversation could be heard. “You shouldn’t say that.”

  “You know it’s true. I told you just the other night.”

  “You told me something that was very human. Everybody feels that way when someone close to them is suffering.”

  Rebecca looked at her with wide, watery eyes. “Did you feel that way?”

  The normally direct Lynn averted her eyes. She didn’t think it would help the situation if she were to break down. “Yes, sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Lynn looked up. “It was a long time ago now. Look, it’s natural to feel the way you did.”

  They fell silent for quite some time.

  “Lynn, could you do me a favor?” Rebecca said at last.

  “Anything.”

  “Sheriff Barnes said that they’d gone through my things and Aunt Marci’s at the boat. Could you pack them up for me and bring them here?”

  “Well, sure,” Lynn replied, though the idea made her heartsick. She took Rebecca’s request as a sign of acquiescence to her fate—or at least, that Rebecca could see that the matter wasn’t going to get cleared up quickly. This caused a dent in Lynn’s reserve. She felt as if something were slipping away.

  But she knew her own feelings made little sense. Surely the tour wouldn’t go on now. And if it did, and Rebecca were of necessity left behind, Lynn didn’t have to go with it. Having made a tentative start, she wondered if offering to stay behind would look as if she were rushing a relationship that had barely begun at the worst possible moment. At the same time, she mentally kicked herself for even thinking of these things while the object of her newborn affection was in this predicament. Right then, more than anything, she wanted to get away for a little while and get a grip on herself.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said.

  * * *

  Ransom saw Emily back to her cabin, where she wanted to freshen up before lunch, then headed for the red deck. He’d only gotten as far as the staircase when he ran into Stuart Holmes, who came to a halt three steps from the bottom at the sight of the unfamiliar face.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “Detective Ransom. I’m here looking into Miss Hemsley’s murder. And you are…?”

  “Stuart Holmes.” He descended to the bottom and extended a hand with a distinct lack of grace. “I thought the case was all settled.”

  “Not quite,” Ransom said lightly as he shook the hand. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Holmes looked as if he were about to protest, and Ransom added quickly, “As I’m doing with everyone.”

  “All right,” Holmes said after a beat.

  “Your cabin?”

  “No, over here, if you don’t mind.” He was already moving over to the brief expanse of railing to the left of the stairs. “The cabins on this boat are awfully small. I feel claustrophobic enough in it myself. I don’t think I could take it with another person.”

  “I understand.” He’d had only a moment to assess the retired lawyer, but Ransom thought the old man cut quite a dignified, if slightly starchy, figure. Holmes was dressed, as always, in a lightweight suit and tie. The crisp whiteness of his shirt made his skin look a bit yellow and his powderlike hair seem dingy.

  “I first should say,” Holmes began, planting his palms on the railing and looking out over the side as if making a speech, “that I, of course, had nothing to do with the murder. I hardly knew the woman. And from our brief acquaintance—if you could call it that—I wouldn’t have wanted to know her.”

  “She was that difficult?”

  “From what I could see.”

  “Well, what I’m most interested in getting from the passengers is an account of their movements after leaving the boat yesterday, through the time the body was discovered.”

  “Yes, of course. I was in the general store.”

  Ransom’s right eyebrow elevated. “The whole time?”

  “Yes. I suppose it doesn’t do me any credit, but I was already tired of the mob and wanted to be away from them. Didn’t particularly want to go walking in the woods, either, so I stayed there and had a cup of coffee.”

  He sounds like he’s rehearsed this, thought Ransom. “I’m a bit confused. You see, Joaquin—Hoke, the steward—went into the store and he didn’t see any of the passengers.”

  Holmes didn’t turn a hair. “Boy can’t see his own nose.”

  Ransom waited, silently staring at th
e side of Holmes’s face. The former lawyer lasted for a while under the scrutiny, but finally faltered. “Well, I might’ve gone out and looked at those little shops across the way for a while. Yes, I did do that, come to think of it.”

  “You don’t sound very sure.”

  The old man turned toward the detective. “Hoisted on my own petard!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I used to be a lawyer. Used to hear from my peers how when they asked people where they were at the time of the crime, they’d say they were so shocked they couldn’t remember. After all these years I’m damned if I don’t find myself in the same state. Heard one of our members had been murdered, and everything else went out of my head.” A smile slid across his face. “And like they say, I didn’t know I was going to need an alibi.”

  “You were a criminal lawyer?”

  Holmes looked completely surprised by the question. “No. I did … other kinds … most other kinds of law. But I know some criminal lawyers. Fellows I went to school with.”

  “So you were on your own when the murder occurred.”

  “Probably was. But as I said, except for on this trip, I didn’t know the woman at all.”

  “Um-hmm.” Ransom cleared his throat. “I’m also checking up on any strangers who might’ve been in the vicinity.”

  The detective thought he noticed a split second during which the former lawyer froze in place. “Yes?”

  “Some members of the tour saw a man drive up and go into Friendly’s while you were there.”

  “They did?” Holmes said lightly. His eyes had gone blank, and his tone was vague. Ransom thought this was a technique that had probably served him well in his practice. “I don’t remember seeing anybody.”

  “You don’t? That’s interesting.…”

  “Why?”

  “Because the people who saw him arrive told me that it was a man they’d seen before … talking to you on the street in Sangamore.”

  There was a longer pause this time during which Ransom could hear the gears turning in the old man’s head. “You know, I do remember somebody coming in. He sat by me at the lunch counter.”

  “And was it the same man?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was. But he’s nothing to me—just somebody I got into a conversation with in Sangamore.”

  Ransom was finding Holmes’s responses more and more puzzling. There was no doubt in his mind that the former lawyer was lying, and pretty badly, at that. But what possible reason he could have for doing so under the circumstances eluded the detective.

  “Mr. Holmes, if you’ll forgive me for saying it, you’re not very good at this.”

  “What?” Holmes exclaimed, his lower jaw dropping with an odd click. “What do you mean?”

  “As a lawyer, you should know the importance of telling the absolute truth in a murder investigation, regardless of whether or not you practiced criminal law.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “You were not just seen talking to this man, he paid a visit to the boat late in the evening that you were in Sangamore. Then he showed up here. Unless he’s a stranger who has suddenly become obsessed with you, you must know him.”

  Holmes couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead he looked back over the water and sighed. “You’re right. I’m not a very good liar. But if I give you my word as a gentleman that this has nothing to do with the murder, can we let it go at that?”

  Your word as a gentleman who has been lying to the police? Ransom thought. “I’m afraid not.”

  “So be it,” Holmes said curtly. “If you must know, that man is a client of mine.”

  “I understood you were retired.”

  “A former client. I just … ran into him in Sangamore, and offered to give him some advice. Professional advice, I mean. That’s all I can say about that.” He gave a single nod, indicating that was an end to the matter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go wash my hands for lunch.”

  Ransom watched with a certain degree of admiration as the back of the rail-thin beige suit disappeared around the corner. He disliked being lied to, and disliked even more being stonewalled regardless of whether or not he was convinced of the validity of his own investigation. But he couldn’t help admiring the fading dignity with which Holmes had managed to accomplish it.

  Ransom went up the stairs and glanced into the dining room. Douglas was just laying a platter of decoratively arranged meats and cheeses on the buffet table. After he set it down a short, stout woman who Ransom took to be the ship’s cook made a slight adjustment to it, then followed David back in the direction of the kitchen. Lily DuPree was already seated at one of the tables waiting for service to begin, and Bertram Driscoll was leaning against a portside window, drink in hand, staring out at the scenery.

  Ransom continued to the top deck, which he found empty. Rather than remain idle he went down the boarding plank and followed the path around to the front of the general store. The door opened with a loud sproing occasioned by the large, long metal spring used to pull it shut. Nothing had been done to disguise the warehouse origins of the store: the walls were knotty, age-worn bare wood, the rafters exposed, and the lighting provided by low-hanging fluorescents of the type that Ransom associated with turn-of-the-century newsrooms. Long rows of shelves contained everything from potholders to beef jerky, to Bon Ami, to disposable cameras: a sign that though the store might be old-fashioned, the proprietors knew enough to carry whatever would sell. An antique, top-loading Coca-Cola cooler was just to the left of the door, though Ransom was rather disheartened to find it filled with canned sodas of every variety.

  Along the north wall there was a low counter with stools. A hand-printed menu was tacked to a corkboard on the wall behind it. The menu consisted of three different kinds of sandwiches, none requiring cooking, and a choice of coffee or soda. The store was empty except for a woman seated at the counter looking down at an open newspaper, her blasé expression indicating that the news of the world was providing a very unexciting diversion. She was a solidly built woman with a round face. Her hair was dark gray and she wore it pinned in a loose bun on top of her head so that it resembled a wilting chef’s hat. Over her gray dress she had tied a stained, bibbed apron. She hadn’t looked up when Ransom came in, apparently accustomed to tourists who would look around and leave without making a purchase. She didn’t raise her eyes from her reading until he was at her side.

  “Yup? Can I help you with something?”

  “Mrs. Friendly?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “My name is Detective Ransom. I take it you’ve heard about the murder that happened yesterday on the Genessee?”

  “Joe Barnes was in here, already talked to me about it.”

  “Sheriff Barnes has kindly allowed me to do a little investigating of my own,” he said lightly.

  “You don’t say?” The dint that appeared between her eyebrows was the only indication she gave that this news had made any impression on her.

  Ransom noticed the windows at the back of the store. They faced out toward the dock but were covered by faded floral curtains.

  “He asked you if you saw anything? Anyone going to or from the boat?”

  She nodded, the pile of hair moving out of sync with her head. “Uh-huh.”

  “And did you?”

  “Nope. Nary a soul.”

  “Too busy?” He asked with a smile.

  She grinned. “I’m never too busy here. Just not interested. And I always have the curtains back there closed in the morning. Sun’s just too damned hot.”

  “No, I meant too busy because I understood you had some customers yesterday morning … from the boat?”

  “Hoke was here,” she said.

  “You know him?”

  She nodded again, causing the same disconnected motion of her hair. “I know who he is. Genessee’s been here now and again this past couple of summers. I know the Farradays, too.”

  Ransom’s right eyebrow went
up. “Did they come in yesterday?”

  “Nope. But I know them just the same.”

  He smiled. “Of course. Now, the people I was referring to were two men who came in sometime before the murder and had coffee.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mrs. Friendly replied, her face lightening. “Guy with white hair and one a little younger, not so gray. Nervous guy.”

  “How long did they stay, do you remember?”

  “Well, the younger one come in first, and asked for a cup of coffee. The second one, he come a little bit later, and he had one, too.”

  “But how long did they stay?”

  She pursed her lips. “Only so long as to finish the coffee. Not long. They didn’t linger over it or anything.”

  “Did you happen to hear anything they talked about?”

  “No ‘happening’ about it. You can see how quiet it is here. You can’t help but hear what people are talking about, even if they try to keep their voices low.”

  “Anything you think might be important?”

  “Naw. They didn’t say much of anything except chitchat about the weather and such like, and the drive up here and all.”

  “I see.”

  “What’re you looking for, anyway?”

  Ransom heaved a sigh. “I wish I knew. Anything that might shed some light on what happened.”

  She flapped a flabby hand. “Joe got that all sewed up.”

  “He’s done a very good job,” Ransom replied. Despite his abhorrence of soft-soap, he wasn’t above using it when called for. “But it’s always best to be sure where murder is concerned.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Friendly gave a slight nod, which caused the mass of hair to lurch forward, where it stayed until she shoved it back with her right palm.

  “So, the two men were here for only a short time, and didn’t say anything of importance. Did they leave together?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she replied broadly. “They were in a hurry to get back to the one’s motel to have a talk.”

  “Oh, so one of them was staying here?”

  “Not the white-haired one, I don’t think. It was the younger one that said they could go back to his motel room, I think.”

  “Which motel would that be, do you know?”