by Fred Hunter
That was the thing that really plagued her mind: that no matter how she felt, no matter what she thought of Rebecca, she didn’t really know her. She couldn’t. Not after such a short time.
Packing up the things that had been so recently worn by someone who had been alive not forty-eight hours earlier brought back the dreadful period after Maggie had died. The loneliness and unnatural stillness of the garden apartment they’d shared for so many years. Lynn had given up her job as a high-paid corporate personal assistant and taken on the role of what she’d called charwoman to the rich and famous, a high-priced and terribly exclusive cleaning woman for equally exclusive Gold Coast clients. She’d done this so that she could arrange her time flexibly and be able to take care of Maggie at home.
But after Maggie died, that same freedom worked against the healing process. Without having to be somewhere at a specific time, with being able to come and go more or less as she pleased, and not having to really deal with many people, she found herself feeling even more adrift and lost: perhaps more than she would have if career demands had forced her to work her way back into life and the world in general.
She held one of Marcella’s faded peasant dresses at arm’s length and looked at it. It reminded her of when she’d finally been able to bring herself to pack Maggie’s things. She had held Maggie’s favorite violet evening dress just the way she was doing this now. It was like looking at a ghost; a lifeless shell that had once contained her beloved friend. It had been a comfort to keep Maggie’s things for a while, but when the time came to do something with them, they seemed to mock her with their familiarity. She had pressed that violet dress to her cheek, dappling it with her tears, and found that Maggie’s scent still clung to it. It had been almost too much to bear.
And do you want to go through that all over again? she thought to herself now. Get involved with someone else. Love them, care for them, spend years with them, and then lose them? Again?
She shook her head briskly. “You’re being ridiculous,” she said aloud. She carefully folded the peasant dress, placed it in the bottom of the suitcase, then retrieved another from the closet.
Emily’s right, she thought. I don’t know Becky at all … not enough to know what she’s capable of.
She stopped as she slipped a light brown dress off a hanger. “But I know she’s not guilty of murder,” she said firmly, answering her own thought.
8
Before going back to the motel, Ransom decided to take a walk on the beach. He went down the dock to the point where it circled the general store, turned to the right, and at the corner of the building jumped down onto the sand, then headed south.
On the deck of the Genessee, Hoke bent beside the chair on which Lily DuPree was reclined. “Would you like something, Miss DuPree? Could I get you something cool to drink from the bar?”
“What?” she said in her breathless whisper, startled by his unexpected appearance at her side. “Oh! No, no thank you. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, giving her his usual warm smile.
He straightened himself and started for the wheelhouse to check in with the captain, but stopped when he noticed the movement on the beach. He slowly moved toward the starboard railing and crouched down, peering over it. He could see Ransom in the distance, strolling down the beach as if he had no particular purpose in mind. The detective’s progress was neither slow nor fast, so it didn’t seem as if he were looking for anything or heading for a specific place.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The voice made the young steward leap to his feet with a cry. He found himself face-to-face with David Douglas, who wore an expression of perplexed displeasure.
“I was just looking at that detective.”
Douglas followed Hoke’s glance and saw the now remote figure. He turned back to his subordinate. “So what? So he’s on the beach.”
“It makes me nervous, having the police around.”
“That’s what happens when some old fool gets herself murdered.”
“But that happened on the boat. Why should he go there?”
“Why do you care?” Douglas said, eyeing him suspiciously. “You weren’t there.”
“No … no, I wasn’t.”
Douglas sighed and shook his head. “He asked me about paths between the lake and the road. He’s probably just gone to check it out.”
“But I don’t understand—”
“You don’t have to understand! Weren’t you supposed to be making the rounds? Seeing if anybody needed anything?”
“Yes. Okay.”
Hoke walked away toward the entrance to the wheelhouse, and after a single knock went in. Douglas watched him, then headed for the stairs, shaking his head.
* * *
Ransom was unaware of the scrutiny of the two stewards as he made his way down the beach. He was, in fact, not aware of much of anything other than the gentle, quiet rush of the water to the abbreviated shore. His aim had been only to satisfy himself on one minor point, something that he didn’t believe mattered one way or the other. The beach was blissfully clear to someone used to the endless debris one finds along the shore of the portion of Lake Michigan that borders Chicago. Here there was little more than some damp, dark green clumps of alga that had worked up onto the sand, and perhaps more driftwood than he would’ve expected. Walking on the sand made his progress slow going.
On his left were the woods, thickset and not more than fifteen yards from the water. He had gone nearly three-quarters of a mile when he found it: a path that had been worn through the trees by a steady stream of campers as a shortcut from the trails to the beach. He turned into it and went into the woods.
The path was much rougher than the well-maintained trails, and much narrower as well. He was surprised at how dark it was among the trees, despite the brightness of the sun and the lack of clouds.
It was only about a five-minute walk from the beach to the road. When Ransom came out of the woods, he found himself on the opposite side of the road’s crest, and farther along than the entrance to trail number one, the trail that Driscoll and company had taken.
So that checks out, he thought with an inward sigh. Douglas walked down the beach, crossed over here exactly where he would’ve seen Muriel Langstrom and Jackson Brock. This is a thoroughly aggravating case. The suspects are irritatingly honest.
He headed up the hill, back toward the parking lot beside Friendly’s where he’d left his car. When he topped the rise, he found Driscoll heading for him on the path beside the road. The old man was walking at a leisurely pace, his eyes cast down at the ground. Driscoll’s sudden appearance reminded Ransom of something Emily had told him about her first afternoon on the boat, when Driscoll had appeared out of nowhere to wake her. Oh, well, he thought, I might as well follow up her dreams as well.
It was then that Driscoll looked up and saw the detective. He came to an abrupt halt and half turned as if to retreat, but stopped himself, apparently realizing that it would not look good. He managed a smile.
“Hullo there, Detective.”
“Hello, Mr. Driscoll,” Ransom replied as he continued down the hill. “Out for a stroll?”
“Yes. Yes, can’t stand to be on the boat anymore. At least, not stuck at the dock.” He sighed. “Isn’t this always the way? If the murder had happened in Sangamore, at least there would’ve been somewhere decent to eat. But here! Nothing to see and nothing to do! Nothing but nature as far as you can see!”
“Murder tends to be inconvenient,” the detective said flatly. “And some people like nature.”
“It’s got its limits as a pastime,” the old man replied, wrinkling his nose.
His florid complexion would’ve been enough to tell Ransom that he’d been drinking, but the light afternoon breeze carried with it a strong scent of alcohol. “Tell me, Mr. Driscoll, did you know Claudia Trenton before you came on this trip?”
He was so startled by the question that his eyes widened and his mou
th dropped open. The reaction brought to Ransom’s mind Foghorn Leghorn.
“Claudia? No, I didn’t know Claudia! Why should I? Of course, I knew who she was. I’ve seen her at church. And you can see she’s something to look at. Fine-looking woman. But as to knowing her…” He shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not the sort she’d be likely to take up with, whether or not … well, never mind. She’s way too snooty. And I’m too…” He made a pretense of searching for the least demeaning term. “I’m too … down to earth for her. If she were to take up with anyone, I would think it would be Jackson—if only he wasn’t such a sissy—or Stuart, if only he wasn’t such an old bag o’ bones!”
“Hmm,” Ransom replied, his narrowed eyes never leaving Driscoll’s. “I wondered, because from what I’ve heard, you seem to be keeping around her quite a bit.”
“What? Has she complained?”
Ransom flashed the smile that his partner had once observed made him look like an evil elf. “No, I just thought it was a curious circumstance since, as you say, you’re not exactly her type.”
“She could do a helluva lot worse than me, you know! I may not be upper class, but I can dress up and I know how to act in public!”
Do you, now? thought Ransom.
The old man must’ve read his mind, because he suddenly began to backpedal, sounding exactly like an elderly schoolboy. “I haven’t been paying her any more attention than any of the other guys!”
“You were seen having dinner with her.”
His already ruddy cheeks flushed more deeply. “That was just a … circumstance! We just got thrown together, that’s all! No matter what anyone says!”
Ransom’s right eyebrow slid upward, and Driscoll averted his eyes. He couldn’t have looked more guilty—of something—if he’d tried.
“Anyway,” Driscoll continued, “I’m surprised she came on this trip. To tell you the truth, this isn’t her kind of crowd at all, I wouldn’t think.”
“So I’m told,” said Ransom. “I have one other question for you. Ms. Charters told me that she ran into you when you were on your way back to the boat.”
“That’s right.”
“She said that after talking to her, you went back up the path to find Mr. Brock and Ms. Langstrom.”
“Yeah? So?”
The rather devilish smile deepened. “It’s not long after that that Brock and Langstrom, and David Douglas, came this way. But none of them reported seeing you. That seems rather curious, doesn’t it?”
Driscoll shifted from one foot to the other and looked down at the ground. “Well, I didn’t … I’m not proud of it, but even though I told Emily I’d go and find them … I didn’t want to see them after what happened. So … so I just waited till Emily and her friend were out of sight, then I ducked into the visitor’s center for a while. I waited there till after I saw the others pass, then I went back to the boat.”
“I see,” Ransom said slowly. “Well, thank you, Mr. Driscoll.”
He walked briskly away, leaving the old man a lot less happy than when they’d met. He passed the visitor’s center, crossed the parking lot, and climbed into his car. He immediately punched in the dashboard lighter and pulled a cigar from the pack in his pocket.
“You really are enjoying making that old man ill at ease far too much,” he said to the rearview mirror. “But we’ll just chalk that up for Muriel Langstrom.”
The lighter popped out and he lit the cigar. As he took his first puff, he thought, And putting him ill at ease is not without its other benefits, as well.
* * *
The Lakeview Motel was two miles south of the dock where the Genessee was moored. The name was a misnomer, since the motel was situated in an area where the road had veered nearly half a mile away from the lake, and the dense woods across the road denied the motel’s guests even a glimpse of the water.
The motel was a row of detached cabins that put Ransom in mind of oversized outhouses. They were painted bright yellow with chocolate brown shutters and doors. The lone window on each cabin was underlined by a flower box whose contents were withering in the sun.
Ransom steered the car onto the dirt parking lot and pulled up in front of cabin 3, his temporary home. He switched off the ignition, got out of the car, and stuck the keys in his pocket. There were two other cars in the lot, both with Illinois license plates. He went down the walk to the office, an appendage off the first cabin, with windows on two sides instead of one.
A bell jangled loudly as he went through the door, and a woman hurried from the back room in answer to it.
“Hello again, Mrs. Banks.”
She was a slender woman it in her forties, with long raven hair and fair skin. Her eyes were bright blue, and her narrow lips were painted pale pink.
“Oh, hello,” she replied as she finished wiping her hands on a red plaid towel. “Back already? You haven’t decided not to stay, have you?”
“No.”
She dropped the towel in a heap on the end of the counter. “Good, ’cause I hate to quibble.” She produced a ready smile that said she didn’t much care whether or not she amused anyone else as long as she amused herself.
“Quibble?”
“Sure. You’ve already been in the room. I couldn’t give you your money back.”
He smiled. “No, it’s nothing like that. I intend to stay, at least for the night. No, I have a question for you. I understand you have someone else staying here from Chicago.…”
“Really? Just how do you understand that?”
“Someone on the Genessee told me.”
It had the desired effect. As he suspected, news of the murder had traveled far and wide very quickly. Mrs. Banks’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her upper lip tensed into an accordion pleat. “Are you some kind of cop?”
“I’m a detective, yes.”
“From Chicago?”
He nodded.
“So, Sheriff Barnes had to call in the big guns, huh? I thought he had the killer in jail.”
“I’m just tying up some loose ends,” he said amiably. “Now, is there someone from Chicago staying here?”
She nodded. “I got two of them. Well, three, actually. There’s a young couple in cabin five, and an older man in seven.”
There was a beat before Ransom asked the question that had just occurred to him. “How do you know these people are from Chicago?”
She shrugged. “They paid in cash.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They paid in cash. I don’t trust people that pay in cash. I figure, if a credit company doesn’t trust them enough to give them a card, why should I trust them?”
“That’s a very sound philosophy.”
“So after they checked in, I go out and write down their license plate numbers. I saw they both had Chicago city stickers in their windows.”
“Do you know anything about these people?”
“The couple is here to go hiking—”
He raised his right eyebrow. “And they’re staying at a motel?”
“Lots of people stay here at night and hike the trails during the day. Least, that’s what they say.”
“‘Say’?” he repeated, recognizing her desire to be purposely provocative. “You think otherwise?”
Mrs. Banks flashed a canny smile. “What do you think a couple of kids would check into a motel for? You were young once.”
“Yes, I was,” Ransom said coolly.
“They’re enjoying themselves. Stopped for the night and stayed on.”
“What about the older man?”
“Registered as Percy Faulk.”
“Do you have some reason to believe that’s not his real name?”
She shook her head. “Only that a cop’s asking about him!” Again the smile. “And I don’t got any idea what he’s doing here.”
“Well, thank you for your help.” He started for the door.
“Hey, Detective—if you think you’re going to have a shootout or anything, come get me,
would you? I’d like to watch. Nothing much happens around here.”
Ransom’s lips curled reprovingly, though he was finding it hard not to laugh. “I don’t think it will come to that.”
He followed the cracked sidewalk to the door of number 7 and knocked. The door was flung open by a tall, lanky man in his midsixties. His hair was white and streaked with bluish gray, and his eyes protruded as if the sockets had begun to shrivel away around them.
“Stuart, where the—” he began as he opened the door. He stopped suddenly when he saw Ransom. His eyes bugged out even farther. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Detective Ransom. I’m here from Chicago—”
“What?” The older man’s voice was hollow, and he faded back slightly. For a moment Ransom thought he might slam the door, but instead he held it there with his hand gripping the edge of it.
“Mr. Faulk, isn’t it? Right. I’d like to talk to you, if I may.”
“What about?”
“About the murder of Marcella Hemsley.”
“Oh. I don’t know anything about that.” He looked unaccountably relieved.
There was a hint of a smile on the detective’s lips. “Do you want to discuss this out here in the open, or would you rather do it inside?”
The wariness returned to Faulk’s face. “No, you’d better come in.”
He stepped aside and Ransom passed through the doorway into a room that was the mirror image of his own: a bed with a green sateen spread and a dilapidated foam rubber love seat. A television was mounted hospital style in the upper left-hand corner of the room, and was switched on to the local news. A small ladder-back chair was placed beside a dresser that looked as though it had been purchased at a garage sale. On top of the dresser an incongruously expensive leather valise lay open, exposing silk boxer shorts and a handful of balled-up socks.
The heavy brown curtains were drawn across the window, leaving the room in a gloomy haze. Faulk clumsily worked the drawstring, pulling them halfway open so that they’d have some light, and turned the sound down on the television.