At sight of us she said, “I didn’t expect you to be so young.” Her voice held a note of sharpness in it.
“Well,” I pointed out, smiling, “Hannah Gruble’s book was for young people, you know. Mr. Osbourne here is thirty-one. And I’m Amelia Jones, by the way.”
We shook hands. “She gave me a copy, autographed,” Mrs. Morneau said, and, apparently forgiving us our youth, allowed us entry. We followed her into a neat, boxlike living room with so many knickknacks on shelves and tables that I could only suppose they were installed to keep her busy dusting them. We sat down, Joe and I on the couch by the fireplace, Mrs. Morneau opposite us, very erect in a chair with wooden arms, her feet placed primly together on the floor. “Imagine a book being written about her,” she said in an awed voice. “After all these years, too. Of course I knew it was a fine book, but still—I hear you can’t buy it any more in the shops.”
I felt a pang of guilt and temporized by thinking that perhaps, given a few English courses, I might one day write Hannah’s biography; after all, I’d never imagined that I’d own the Ebbtide Shop. I brought out my spiral notebook, laid it professionally on my lap and dug out my pen. “You worked for Mrs. Meerloo a long time, Mrs. Morneau?”
“Oh yes, miss. Ever since she came to Carleton and bought the place on Tuttle Road. You understand she knew how to housekeep very well herself—she’d been born poor, she told me—but she left it all to me. Not one of these women like some,” she added with a sniff, “who go sneaking around seeing if there’s dust on the mantel. She couldn’t have cared less. An angel she was to work for, I can tell you.”
“You were very fond of her then,” Joe said.
“Fond?” Mrs. Morneau approached the word warily. “All I know is, when I heard she’d died I couldn’t stop crying for hours, which is more than I can say for my own father’s passing, heaven rest his soul. And though she did leave me a rare amount of money—well, it seems you need only get money to learn it don’t amount to much if it leaves you alone. I’d gladly give it all back, every penny of it, to have things as they used to be.” Her voice turned nostalgic. “Just her and me living there together and the children coming summers. Her writing in her room or sitting cross-legged on the floor doing her thinking, or saying ‘Jane, it’s time we had baklava, don’t you think?’ She was very partial to baklava, she was.”
“You must be a fine cook,” said Joe encouragingly.
“Good enough for Miss Hannah anyway,” she said, and turned her attention to the table beside her. “Hearing you was coming,” she said, “I went looking for pictures and found a few. You might be interested.” Her voice was careless, a little too casual, and at once I realized two things: one, that I didn’t want to see a picture of Hannah, because I had my own picture of her, inside of me, and two, that in the interval between Joe’s phone call and our arrival Mrs. Morneau had begun writing her own scenario. Already she was seeing herself as Someone Who Had Known the Great, a high priestess dispensing anecdotes of Hannah. Perhaps she even envisioned herself being interviewed on radio or television. “Hannah used to feel,” she would say, or “I remember so well the way she …”
She handed me two snapshots and a faded cardboard photograph, saying, “I’m sure there are more but these might look well in your book.”
“But that will come later,” I told her, smiling, “after the book is complete, and then I believe there are arrangements.”
She understood the word arrangements, and nodded, looking hopeful.
I glanced reluctantly at the photographs. The stiff cardboard photo was Hannah’s wedding picture, clear but taken at a distance. I saw a thin, slight girl in a long, old-fashioned dress standing next to a tall young man in an army uniform and cap. They looked very young, very happy and a little frightened. I turned to the second picture, a close-up dated 1950, and realized how characterless the first picture was, for here was Hannah years later: a small oval face, grave dark eyes with the hint of a smile lurking in their depths; odd, slanted black brows that were no more than a quick deft brush stroke over the eyes; a small chin, mouth and nose. As Garwin Mason had said, nothing particularly distinctive at first glance, except for those strange eyebrows.… The third snapshot showed a slender figure sitting cross-legged under a tree, reading a book.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful that they in no way threatened my own picture of Hannah. “And by the way,” I added as I handed them over to Joe to see, “before we begin, we’ve heard that Mrs. Meerloo completed a new book just before her death. Would you know anything about that?”
“Ah, that would be Mr. Mason,” she said, nodding. “He’s the one insisted there was a book, for it’s nothing I knew about. Him being co-executor of the estate, and Mr. Robin being busy in New York, it was him and me searched the house for it.”
“And you found nothing?”
“Not so much as a scrap.”
I shook my head sadly. “Well—one question we have,” I said, putting that aside reluctantly. “Mrs. Meerloo gave so much money to her projects but we can’t find any record of the Jason Meerloo Orphanage. Is it still in existence?”
A faint shadow crossed her face. “No’m,” she said stiffly. “It went bankrupt in 1970, and that would have broken Miss Hannah’s heart, I can tell you. The state took it over and the children were moved to Bangor to an orphanage there.”
“I understand John Tuttle, her chauffeur, came from the orphanage when it existed?” I asked.
“Yes’m,” she said.
Joe intervened, his voice smooth as silk. “Could you tell us at what point Mrs. Meerloo became interested in John Tuttle—her protégé, as he was called in her will?”
She looked startled. “So you’ve read the will, have you? Well, I had to look up that word protégé in the dictionary, I did, my husband being the French one, and me a Pritchett. Means ‘one under the protection and care of another,’ it does.”
“That sounds about right,” Joe said encouragingly.
“Not to me,” she said sternly. “Miss Hannah was not one to treat any of the orphans different from the other. Each summer she hired one of ‘em—sometimes two—to do her yard-work, those who wanted spending money. And when they reached high school age there’d be one of them to stay in the apartment over the garage and drive her car for her. Jay—that’s what John Tuttle was called—was no different, at least not at first. Of course he was the brightest youngster there—they had those IQ tests, you know, and she’d lend him books. Big heavy ones. He never came to the house, though, until he was twelve or thirteen. First he cut grass for her and burned leaves in the autumn, although I will say they talked about books and plays and things a lot on the porch. He had a good mind, Miss Hannah used to say. When he got his driver’s license he began driving for her summers—he was a junior in high school then—and after that she helped him send off his college application, and of course she paid all his bills at college and saw to it he had the same kind of clothes Mr. Robin wore, and pocket money. In that way he was treated different, although she did send one of the girls to fashion design school for two years, and another boy to vocational school.”
“Very generous,” Joe murmured.
“So he was there at the house,” I said, “when Nora and Robin came summers?”
“Nora and Robin,” she echoed, and sighed. “Seems so natural to hear them names, and so long ago, too. Such a pretty little thing Nora was, a real beauty.”
“Which of them chose the words for the gravestone in the cemetery?” I asked.
“Strange words, aren’t they,” she said. “Mr. Robin did that.”
I like you for that, Robin, I thought. “And did they get along well together summers?” I asked. “The three of them—Nora, Robin, and John Tuttle?”
“Children do,” she said vaguely.
“Later as well?” prodded Joe. “When they were no longer children?”
Mrs. Morneau began to look troubled; I could see that these questions were in conf
lict with the private scenario she’d written. She must have imagined herself telling us what foods Hannah liked best, and what colors she loved, and how the household was run. The idea of relationships was unsettling to her, and I wondered for the first time what might have happened to Mr. Morneau. Perhaps a lifetime of dusting surfaces was infectious, and surfaces were all that she acknowledged.
“How did Mrs. Meerloo feel about John Tuttle?” asked Joe.
“Oh, very pleased,” said Mrs. Morneau primly. “He turned out so well, you know. Very bright. She always hated waste.”
“And may we ask your own personal impression of him?”
Her face stiffened. “You’d do better asking someone else, for I thought he took too many liberties and told Miss Hannah so myself. But she’d only shake her head over me and remind me I went to church regularly every Sunday. Stigma—that was the word she used. Because he was an orphanage boy.”
Mrs. Morneau had not liked John Tuttle. Jealousy, I wondered? The resentment of a native over a local boy being given special status? I remembered to scribble a few doodles to look professional, and then I cleared my throat and began again. “What we’re looking for just now, Mrs. Morneau—we’ve pretty much sketched in all the facts and reached her death—”
“Oh, tragic that was,” Mrs. Morneau interrupted fiercely. “So young to go. Not to you two young people, of course, but people around here live to their seventies and eighties and sometimes into their nineties and I can tell you, forty is young to die, as you’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yes, I’m sure of that, Mrs. Morneau,” I told her. “And we’re delighted to have found you, you’re going to be an invaluable source of material for us, and I’m sure you won’t mind our consulting you from time to time—”
“Oh, any time at all,” Mrs. Morneau said eagerly; this was obviously what she wanted to hear.
“But for the moment we hoped—and we wondered if you could help us here—we’d like to talk with the people who were with her during the three weeks before her tragic accident.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Morneau.
“Interviews,” pointed out Joe, “with the last people who saw her.”
“Oh,” repeated Mrs. Morneau, and suddenly the expressions that had enlivened her placid face were called back inside of her like children at dusk; shutters closed and I could hear them snap. She folded her hands in her lap, her lips thinned and she said, “Well, I don’t know about that.”
“There was this man, a house guest, Mr. Hubert Holton—”
She nodded. “It comes back to me how excited Jay was about meeting that man. Nora, too.”
“Nora?” I said quickly. “Nora met him before that summer?”
She made a vague gesture with her hands. “Visiting Jay at his college, you know. Dances, homecoming weekends. Not often but sometimes.”
I met Joe’s startled glance and looked quickly away before Mrs. Morneau noticed. “Do you know where we can reach Mr. Holton?” I asked. “And John Tuttle was there that July, too.”
She said warily, “They were there, yes. So they said. And Miss Nora.”
“We’ve already spoken with Miss Nora.”
That surprised her. “Oh?” she said, and gave me a furtive glance. “You’ve been to the hospital?”
“Yes.” I shook my head. “It’s very sad, isn’t it?”
“I can only say,” announced Mrs. Morneau, disapproval bringing her back to life, “that it’s a blessing Miss Hannah never knew, although they do say the dead can see us sometimes, don’t they? But then Miss Nora was always frail—frail inside, not like Miss Hannah who could stand up to life, for she’d had her share of tragedies, I can tell you. After she inherited her aunt’s money Miss Nora had a beautiful house built near the water—half glass I heard it was, which cost a pretty penny. But bewildered she looked when I saw her six months later, and a year later she looked frightened. Of being alone I think it was, and I should have known then, for she wasn’t too steady on her feet. Drinking too much, you see. Frail she was,” Mrs. Morneau repeated with the pride of one who had survived. “Always frail.”
Mrs. Morneau’s confidences seemed to come in spasms. I said firmly, “We’ve tried to find John Tuttle in the telephone book—”
Mrs. Morneau stared at me in astonishment and then she threw back her head and laughed. “Him? You won’t find any John Tuttle in the phone book, miss. Changed his name he did. Changed a lot of things, including his name.”
“To what?” I asked, trying not to sound eager.
But Mrs. Morneau’s face darkened again; she looked from me to Joe and then back again. “You’d go to him and say Jane Morneau told you where to find him, I expect.” Her voice had become harder now; I wondered if she’d become suspicious of us at this turn of the conversation. “That wouldn’t do,” she said. “That wouldn’t do at all.” she looked at her watch, a very neat, plain gold band on her plump wrist. “I think we really have to continue this another time,” she said, “for I’ve work to do now. I’ve spoken enough.” She rose to her feet, and stood over us, massive and implacable.
Rising, I said, “You won’t tell us where to find John Tuttle?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss—Jones, is it? I can’t help you.”
Joe, rising too, said with a smile, “Surely then you can tell us how to locate Mr. Holton?”
She shook her head even more firmly. “Any questions about Miss Hannah I’ll be glad to answer but that’s all I can say. Anything else—ask Miss Nora,” she said almost maliciously.
“I see,” I said, following her helplessly to the door. “We can appreciate your reticence, of course, but you must know—that is, if only—”
“We’ve come a long way to interview John Tuttle as well as you,” Joe put in sternly.
We were at the door now. She held her tightly corseted figure so straight that I feared for a moment that she might snap in two. She said in a harsh voice, looking straight at me and ignoring Joe, “There’s no bringing Miss Hannah back, miss. Or Danny Lipton who had his throat cut on Christmas Eve that same year, or Miss Nora either, who’s as good as gone. The dead are dead. It’s the living—” Her voice broke and she added flatly, “I don’t want anyone thinking I gossip, miss, it would be best if you send any questions by letter and not come here again.”
With this she closed the door in our faces.
Joe took my arm but I shook my head. “Listen,” I whispered, because from the other side of the door came small retching sounds; I realized that Mrs. Morneau was crying, or trying not to but unable to suppress her hard angry sobs. Just as abruptly the sounds stopped and footsteps fled down the hall.
We walked slowly and thoughtfully down the walk to the van and climbed inside. As Joe started the engine I said, “Joe, we frightened Mrs. Morneau.”
He nodded. “Badly.”
I looked back at the trim white bungalow with its yellow shutters and picket fence; I thought I saw her face at the window and I waved reassuringly, but as the van moved down the street the face vanished. “She suspects the truth then, Joe? Or guesses?”
Joe said, “I think she was trying to explain herself at the very end. We hadn’t mentioned Daniel Lipton but she pointed out that he’s dead and Nora’s as good as dead.”
“So obviously John Tuttle is the threat,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “She didn’t say that he’s dead.”
“It’s a nice little house,” Joe pointed out. “Mortgage-free, I should imagine. Thirty-five thousand went a lot further in 1965 than it does now. She probably bought her house for ten or twelve thousand, invested the rest, and is living very well in her frugal way. If John Tuttle is the one who wrote that last will of Hannah’s he saw to it that Mrs. Morneau didn’t get cheated, which was certainly shrewd of him. He cut out Greenacres and the orphanage and everything else, but he didn’t cut out Mrs. Morneau and I’m sure she got the point. It was a subtle form of pay-off. She’s safe as long as she doesn’t rock the boat.”
>
“But you’re implying that she knew from the beginning!” I said.
Joe shook his head. “No, I’m not. All I’m saying is that she knows a good many things about the people involved in this that she doesn’t want to tell us, details we’ve not learned yet, and I think over the years these have crept up on her, she noticed discrepancies and reached certain conclusions she’s tried to repress. I don’t believe she consciously admits there was murder, or even could have been. She just feels frightened and edgy about it all. But damn it, we didn’t get much from her, Amelia.”
“Yes, we did,” I protested. “We learned that John Tuttle has changed his name and that Mrs. Morneau is frightened.”
“But we don’t know to what name he changed it. Or why Robin never appealed that Probate Court verdict.”
“Ah, you noticed that too?” I said, pleased. “That leaves three questions dangling: who is Tuttle now, where is Holton, and why there was no appeal.”
“Amelia, am I heading in the right direction for the airport?”
I picked up the map, glanced at it and nodded. “At the next intersection keep straight; it’s about nine miles farther. Joe, I have the court records to return to Garwin Mason before I leave tomorrow, and I’m sure he could tell us about John Tuttle. If,” I added cheekily, “I can solicit your permission for one more inquiry?”
“Don’t push me, Amelia,” he said crossly. “Go to Mason but if he doesn’t want to tell you, put it in the hands of that detective across the street from me in Trafton.”
“Zebroski?” I said, remembering his garish sign.
“Yes. And then turn it over to the police.”
That sounded reasonable, we were nearing the end, anyway. “Why are you suddenly cross?” I asked.
Tightrope Walker Page 13