Pick Up Sticks

by Deaver Brown

  “I can hardly believe it,” Eunice was saying as Henry lavishly poured refills. “Although I know that Stephen could make himself obnoxious about almost anything, including architects’ plans. Still . . .”

  Peter Vernon cleared his throat. “I don’t know much about the details,” he announced, unnecessarily to Thatcher’s way of thinking, “but a mistake like that is important, isn’t it? A defective roof. That’s dangerous. An architect might kill anybody who found out.”

  Ruth Morland, reappearing from the kitchen with a second tray of cheese savories from the oven, disagreed. “I should have thought Finley would be grateful. Surely it would be worse for his reputation if the mistake weren’t found. Then the lodge might have collapsed and killed people. This way, he had the error corrected before the building was up. That couldn’t hurt his reputation. After all, how many people would learn about it?”

  It was Henry who responded.

  “More people know about it than you might think, Ruth,” he said. “All the local people, like Alec. Actually, I expect half of Gridleigh knows all about the mistake the great architect made. Then, too, there were Quinlan and Valenti. And they were paying Finley . . .”

  Ruth looked unconvinced and Ruth was a woman of admirable common sense. How important would this have been to James Joel Finley, who was building a national, not a New Hampshire, reputation? Thatcher wondered.

  Again Vernon, almost hesitatingly, commented. “That’s true, of course. But then you have to take into account that Finley might have wanted the best of both worlds. Without . . . er . . . without Lester around, he could quietly alter his plans. Then no one would ever know he had even made an error in his plans—let alone that he designed a building that was dangerous. This might be enough to cause him to commit murder.”

  The fireplace was casting flickering shadows through the living room. Outside, the suddenly quickening dusk promised that summer was passing and the long New England winter was just around the corner.

  “That suggests a pathological ego,” Ruth remarked. “To commit murder for such a reason, and then a second murder to cover it.”

  “God knows the man was an egotist,” said Henry.

  But James Joel Finley’s vanity, it had seemed to Thatcher, was far from pathological. It seemed soundly based in dollars and cents. All his affectations were calculated to pay off.

  “Of course I didn’t know Finley,” Vernon remarked almost apologetically.

  These reminders that Peter Vernon knew very little of what had happened at Fiord Haven, these withdrawals from small points carefully made, added up to the portrait of a cautious man. Perhaps too cautious.

  Suddenly, after a long silence, Eunice burst forth:

  “Oh, that doesn’t make any sense—not about James Joel Finley, at any rate. That wasn’t why it happened. I know it wasn’t. What happened was that Steve was so offensive, he was so goddam superior . . .”

  “Eunice,” said Peter. She ignored him.

  “This poor fish lost his head and swatted Steve. And I understand it. Oh, God, how I understand it.”

  “Eunice,” said Vernon once again.

  Ruth was more effective. “I think,” she said rising, “dinner should be about ready. Just bring your drinks to the table.”

  By general consent, the subject of murder was dropped for the rest of the evening. Naturally, this involved deflecting Henry more than once. But Peter Vernon shook off his constraint to display insatiable curiosity about the Appalachian Trail. How had it been established? What about the right of way? Who used it? He had so many questions that Henry could barely keep up. On the whole, dinner featured Peter Vernon, talking steadily.

  Was this because he felt that Eunice Lester’s feelings about her late husband were too intense for prudence? Whether or not someone else had murdered him?

  Possibly. It was possible, Thatcher decided, that Peter Vernon was simply conventional to an unnatural degree.

  At any rate the evening passed pleasantly if unexcitingly. The ladies retired early, leaving the gentlemen to nightcaps at an hour suggesting that no one had a burning desire to prolong the occasion.

  “Vernon,” said Thatcher, suppressing a yawn, “do you know anything about Eddie Quinlan or Ralph Valenti?”

  Vernon was, after all, a Boston businessman.

  “I wish I had never heard of them,” he replied with the first hint of real feeling Thatcher had heard in his voice. “Then none of this—” he broke off. When he continued, it was more temperately. “When Eunice and I decided we might be wanting a vacation place, I thought of building one of our own. But I don’t know if you know about the labor situation here in New Hampshire . . .”

  For five minutes, he gave them a description. It was accurate, detailed and dull. Henry put another log on the fire with unnecessary violence.

  “. . . so,” Vernon continued, “I looked into the better developments. Some of them are pretty cheap operations, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Thatcher, recalling Miss Hazen’s lecture back in New York.

  “Quinlan and Valenti are newcomers,” Vernon said. “But they did build those garden apartments on the Jamaicaway, and I happen to know they’ve been a success. I asked around, and people who should know assured me they were bright, young and ambitious—but they did things with quality. No corner-cutting. No cheap shortcuts. I know their advertising made them sound like some of these fly-by-night deals, but people who dealt with them in Boston, and that includes their general contractor, told me that they really did hold out for the best.”

  Something stirred in Thatcher’s mind, something beyond this sudden realization that there was more to Peter Vernon than met the eye. Eddie Quinlan and the late Ralph Valenti prided themselves on their imaginative selection of prospects. They thought they had enticed Peter Vernon. Instead, coolly and after some effort, Peter Vernon had singled them out. As, perhaps, Stephen Lester had?

  “Well,” Vernon wound up. “It wasn’t one of my brighter ideas. Not that I could have foreseen exactly how bad it would turn out to be. I hope to God that, when this business gets cleared up, Eunice and I never have to see New Hampshire again. Hell, if we need a vacation house, we can get one in Vermont. Or Maine. Or Florida, for that matter.”

  It was a measure of Henry’s apathy that he uttered no protest.

  The next morning, it appeared that the opportunity to leave New Hampshire forever might be at hand.

  “That was Mr. Villars,” Eunice announced, returning from the phone. She looked radiantly happy. “He says I have to go down to the state police with him and sign some papers. Then we can leave . . .”

  “Oh, can’t you stay for another day or two?” Ruth protested.

  Eunice smiled affectionately at her. “We’d love to, Ruth. You and Henry have been just wonderful. But—you understand.”

  Ruth understood. Thatcher understood. Peter Vernon understood. Everybody understood. Everybody, that is, except Henry.

  Henry had fallen deep into thought. And Thatcher knew why. The warhorse, dormant for fully twenty-four hours, had just heard the bugle.

  And Thatcher knew exactly what had sounded the alarm: the words State Police.

  Ruth did too.

  “Before you set off,” she said, casting Thatcher an eloquent look, “let me get you all another cup of coffee.”

  “Fine,” said Henry alertly. “And don’t worry, Ruth, I’ll be back soon.”

  Chapter 20

  LOGGERHEADS

  “SO THIS is where you like to spend all your time,” Ruth Morland observed, her disenchanted gaze inspecting the State Police barracks.

  Curiously enough, it was not Henry’s burning desire to play detective or Eunice Lester’s need for additional support which had propelled the entire house party thirty miles down the road. Ruth Morland and John Thatcher had fallen afoul of Peter Vernon’s determination to repay hospitality with hospitality.

  “Look, you said you had errands in Gridleigh this morning anyway,�
�� he had urged. “And Guy Villars says it will only take a minute to sign the papers. Then we could all have lunch together before Eunice and I head back to Boston.”

  The result was inevitable. Thatcher and the Morlands were cooling their heels in the reception room, while the legal detail served its writ of attachment over at the State Police garage. The desk sergeant greeted Henry like a long lost friend while Ruth looked on ironically. Unabashed, Henry exploited the intimacy.

  “At the gas station they were saying you’d pulled in Finley,” he prompted eagerly.

  “Talk about tom-toms! They’ve got nothing on the grapevine around here. All you’ve got to do is sneeze in one county, and everybody in the next county is ready to lend you a handkerchief,” the sergeant said. “That’s right. We picked him up last night.”

  “Then you’re building your case on the basis of Lester’s murder, not Valenti’s?” Henry pursued.

  The sergeant became heavily sarcastic. “Oh, there’s no talk about a murder charge. Finley was booked as a material witness. Not that we can get away with that for long. The big shot from Fiord Haven is already down here—you know, the one who’s a lawyer in Boston—so the judge will spring Finley in twenty-four hours unless the VIPs decide to go ahead with a murder charge.”

  Henry sighed happily. This was life! “And will they?” he asked, agog with curiosity.

  The sergeant shrugged fatalistically. “Who can tell what the brass will ever do?”

  Henry was willing to speculate, but Thatcher nudged him sharply as the back door opened to admit Eddie Quinlan with a young couple. The girl recognized them instantly.

  “Oh, Mr. Thatcher! And Mr. Morland, too. Don’t you remember me? Sukey Davidson.”

  Sukey seemed to be the only member of her party capable of rising to conventional cordiality. Her companions nodded somberly in the background. It was, Thatcher realized, not difficult to assign a cause to Quinlan’s moroseness.

  The promoter rapidly confirmed this diagnosis.

  “I suppose you’ve heard they arrested Finley,” he said gloomily. “God knows what this will do to Fiord Haven.”

  Mentally Thatcher reviewed the blows raining down on that potential Garden of Eden. First a customer murdered. Then a developer murdered. And now the architect arrested. Offhand, he would have said that was more than enough to dissipate the fun-filled image which Eddie Quinlan had spent so much money to fabricate. But he was the first to admit that he did not understand the attraction of Fiord Haven. He decided to eschew the commercial for the personal approach.

  “How is Finley taking this? I suppose you’ve seen him.”

  “Oh, sure, I’ve seen him. He’s scared as hell. Who can blame him?” A tight, nervous smile glinted briefly. “I’ve got a lawyer coming out from Concord. We’ll see how long this charge holds up. Not that it isn’t going to do us a lot of damage, no matter what happens.”

  So much for the personal note. Eddie Quinlan was prepared to discuss lawyers, calculate courtroom probabilities and invite sympathy for his own predicament. But, Thatcher noted, he was not saying one word about James Joel Finley’s innocence.

  It was almost a relief to hear Henry galloping into the fray.

  “I understand what Eddie Quinlan’s doing here,” he was saying brazenly to Alan Davidson. “But what about you two? I thought you lived in Cambridge?”

  “We came up here to have another look at Fiord Haven,” Alan said grudgingly.

  “There’s a building lot that Alan is interested in,” Sukey said, disassociating herself from her husband.

  There was a long pause. Alan broke first.

  “And then Sukey insisted on coming here to the barracks with this damn silly story of hers,” he burst out.

  Everyone understood there had been a divergence of opinion between the young couple. Its nature was not so apparent. Sukey had denounced Alan’s objections to cooperation with the establishment. They came poorly, she insisted, from someone infected by a bourgeois propensity for property accumulation. The accusation still rankled.

  “Silly or not,” she said firmly, “the police have a right to know.” She turned toward Henry for support. “You wouldn’t know this, but on the night of Mr. Lester’s murder, Mr. Valenti changed the entertainment program around. He wasn’t supposed to speak to us that night. He wasn’t on the program at all. But at the last minute he announced a change.”

  “What difference does that make?” her husband complained. “We didn’t even have the program that night. Not after Captain Frewen told everybody about the murder.”

  Sukey’s lips set in a stubborn line. “Mr. Valenti didn’t know the body was going to be discovered. He wanted a lot of witnesses to what he was doing that night. He probably came to cocktails with blood on his hands!”

  “Crap!” Alan snapped. “That just shows how much you know. First of all, there wasn’t any blood. Second of all, he wouldn’t have had the time. I’ll prove it to you. Just before we cut out from the rest to go hiking, I asked Mr. Valenti if their three-bedroom chalet could be cut down to one bedroom. When we went in to cocktails he showed me some plans that had been all worked over. The plumbing lines were changed and everything. He wouldn’t have bothered with something like that if he’d been murdering someone in the meantime.”

  “And third of all,” Eddie Quinlan cut in, his voice suddenly rasping, “you might remember that Ralph was murdered himself. This isn’t just fun and games, you know. I’ve spent the last two days with Ralph’s wife. And I’ll tell you this. I’ve got my shirt riding on Fiord Haven but, if that Finley bastard stuck a knife into Ralph, I’ll let it all go down the drain—to see that he gets what’s coming to him!”

  There was a painful pause. The Davidsons both flushed darkly. How they would have responded to this outburst remained doubtful, because at that moment the main feature began. The back door once again opened. This time it was Eunice Lester, turning to address a remark to Peter Vernon over her shoulder.

  Simultaneously Amanda Lester strode in through the front door. She gave one brief look at the gathering, then carefully elevated her chin and advanced on the desk. She was, Thatcher noted apprehensively, swinging a chain of car keys from her finger.

  “I am Mrs. Stephen Lester,” she announced distinctly. “You told my lawyer you were through with my car. I’ve come to pick it up.”

  The desk sergeant, who could see trouble looming, abandoned the larger philosophical pose and became an anonymous official.

  “Well, Miss,” he said vaguely, “I’m afraid there’s going to be some trouble about that.”

  “Mrs.”Amanda was arctic. “What trouble?”

  “This Mrs. Lester,” he gestured toward Eunice, “has just attached the car. We can’t give it to anybody.”

  Amanda did not let her eyes follow the gesture. As far as she was concerned, Eunice did not exist.

  “Don’t be silly. It’s my car.”

  The desk sergeant was too cunning to try to argue. “I expect the best thing would be to see your lawyer. It’s a shame you came up here today. You must have just missed the notice.”

  The facts were slowly sinking in. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re giving my car to her?”

  “Maybe you’d like to talk to Captain Frewen,” the sergeant suggested cravenly.

  Amanda decided to notice Eunice with a vengeance. “You can tell this bitch that it’s my car. And I mean to have it.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Amanda.” Eunice was opting for a steely sweetness that brought sweat to the brow of every man in the room. “That car belonged to Steve. Now it belongs to Steve’s estate.”

  “And that belongs to me. You’ve got delusions of grandeur if you think Steve left anything to some tramp of an ex-wife.”

  Eunice’s voice dropped a full octave. “He doesn’t seem to have done much about leaving things to his tramp of a present wife.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “Who the hell do you think you are? I’ve had just about enough fro
m you. Every time I turn around, there you are trying to get to me. Don’t think I don’t know about your slimy investigators crawling around California.”

  “And what about your slimy investigators crawling around Boston? Did you think you were on a one-way street? Is there something sacred about your dirty little past that nobody’s supposed to ask any questions about it?” Eunice’s breath was beginning to come quickly. “While you run wild destroying everybody else’s life?”

  “Oh, so that bugged you, did it?” Amanda jeered. “I suppose you’re trying to pass yourself off as some sort of lily maid to him.” She waved derisively toward Peter Vernon. “Let me tell you that Steve had every right to find out what kind of woman was bringing up his son.”

  “And I had every right to find out what he was planning to substitute.”

  This stung Amanda.

  “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not capable of it. Steve and I wanted to have a child. We wanted one of our own. When that didn’t work out, it was only natural for Steve to want his son.”

  Eunice laughed bitterly. “What did you and Steve know about wanting a son? Did you want to change his diapers and nurse him through mumps? Did you want to toilet train him and teach him how to walk? You just saw a pretty picture. You wanted a son the way you’d want a collie dog.”

  “That’s not true,” Amanda fired up. “You talk as if he’s your exclusive property. He was just as much Steve’s son as he was yours.”

  “Remember that when he takes his share of Steve’s estate.”

  “Oh, now we come down to it. He’s not Steve’s son, but he’s Steve’s heir!”

  Eunice’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You’re so contemptible, you’re not worth talking to. You and your Steve wanted a son. He didn’t want one when it would have done Tommy some good to have a father. He didn’t want one so long as it would cost him a cent. He didn’t get the urge until he was in the market to buy luxuries. Sure, Tommy’s his heir. It’ll make up for the ten years that went before.”

  “Tell us about those ten years you spent as a devoted mother,” Amanda gritted through clenched teeth. “The ten years you spent bringing men back to the house. I’ll bet Tommy knows all about substitute fathers. Or did you make the big sacrifice and wait till he was asleep before you pulled down your hot pants? It must have gotten inconvenient when he was big enough to notice what was going on! By now, he knows what his mother is.”