by Robert Bloch
“Thanks.” Amy smiled. “I appreciate that.” Which was true; the last thing in the world she needed right now was to have the good citizens of Fairvale mistake her for a criminal. She had already been convicted of being female and was suspected of being a writer as well as an out-of-towner to boot.
Once the patrol car swung out into the narrow single-lane road behind the church she felt more secure. Safe from prying stares and insulated from muggy heat. Apparently Reno had already mapped out a route that would take them into town along the back roads, and she was grateful for his consideration.
As he peered forward through the windshield the flattened outline of his nose marred his profile. When he glanced toward her the imperfection vanished.
“Comfortable?” he said. “I can turn up the air-conditioning if you like.”
“This is fine.” Amy smiled. “I was just thinking—maybe some of your locals resent me but the rest of you go out of your way with hospitality. I haven’t had to drive myself once since I got here.”
“Don’t knock it,” Reno said. “Might as well save wear and tear on the tires.”
Amy frowned, and he caught it. “What’s the matter, did I say the wrong thing?”
Amy shook her head. “No, you just reminded me of something.” Having gone that far she decided to go all the way and told him about what had happened to her car in the hotel parking lot.
He listened without comment until she finished. “Want to file a complaint?”
“Be honest with me,” Amy said. “What good would it do?”
Reno shrugged. “Not much, I guess. People around here—well, you saw them at the services. Some of them can get pretty uptight over anything to do with what happened out there at the Bates place last week. Hell, some of them are still uptight about what happened there thirty years ago.”
“I know,” Amy said.
“That’s one of the things they’re uptight over—what you know, or what they think you know. I’m talking about the real diehards now, folks like Reverend Archer, Irene Grovesmith, and those older people. The rest of us would just as soon forget the whole thing.”
“Us?” Amy met his gaze. “Meaning you feel that way about it too?”
“I guess I can speak for most people my age who were born and brought up around here,” Reno told her. “I was only five when it all started, and I can still remember the way those Sunday drivers jammed the streets. The whole town was crawling with reporters, curiosity-seekers, people coming in from as far away as New York and California. To tell the truth, it was pretty exciting, seeing all those strangers and looking at all of those out-of-state licenses.”
Amy nodded. “I can imagine it would be, for a five-year-old.”
“Trouble was, I turned six. That’s when they began busing me to school over to Montrose. Kids were enrolled there from all over the area and every last one of them knew about the Bates case. Anyone who came from Fairvale got dumped on, and I don’t know which was the worse—the older kids trying to beat up on us or the younger ones trying to tell those stupid Norman jokes.”
“I know what you mean,” Amy said. “I’ve heard them too.”
“But not for twelve years running,” Reno said. “Seems like they never let up, and the more jokes they told, the less folks were laughing back in Fairvale. I can’t explain it, except that the shadow of those murders hung over the town like a cloud that never cleared away. I guess that’s one of the reasons I was glad to go off to the university—until I got there, that is. Because when they found out where I came from the jokes started all over again.”
“What was your major?” Amy asked.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Dick Reno said. “I had some idea about ending up in law school. But I said the hell with it and dropped out at the end of my freshman year. Came back here, passed the tests, and hired on as a deputy.”
“Any regrets?”
“Yes and no.” Reno hung a sharp left and suddenly they were moving along a street between two rows of tract housing. “For a few years after I got back it looked like things were improving; the younger generation wasn’t all that steamed up about what had happened way back when. I guess most of us knew Norman Bates was still alive over at State Hospital, but you might say he was really just a name to us. And nobody bothered going over there with candy or flowers.” If Reno was attempting to lighten up, his tone of voice didn’t match his words. “Then Bates escaped and Dr. Claiborne flipped out—well, you know the rest. After that it started all over again. And last week—”
“Do you have any ideas about what happened?” Amy asked.
For a moment Reno didn’t reply; his attention was focused on parking. Glancing up, Amy was startled to realize that they had pulled into the area adjoining the hotel. Then he spoke. “Notice your car’s back,” he said. “Looks like they put on a new set of tires for you.”
Amy followed his gaze and nodded her confirmation. “So I see. But you still haven’t answered my question. I’d like to know if you have any ideas about what happened last week.”
Dick Reno leaned across her, his hand reaching out to open the door on the passenger side. “Tell you later,” he said. “At dinner.”
Amy hesitated. Was he coming on to her? Right now the answer didn’t matter. More important were answers to questions about the murder case. That’s what she had come here to get, and if somebody wanted to throw in a free meal, why not? It certainly couldn’t be any worse of an ordeal than last night’s dinner with that sophisticate and raconteur, Fatso Otto.
“Thanks for the invitation.” Again she hesitated, but only for a moment. “You weren’t thinking of eating here at the hotel, were you?”
“Don’t worry, I can feed you better than that.” Now it was Reno’s turn to pause. “Just one thing. I’ll be going back on duty after we finish. Would it embarrass you if I wear my uniform?”
“Not if we’re having dinner somewhere out of town.” Amy smiled. “It may even help me feel protected.”
“Good thinking.” Reno pulled the door shut after she stepped out of the car.
“Suppose I pick you up right here at six-thirty.”
“That sounds fine to me.” Amy waved as he put the car into gear. “See you.”
But there were other things to see before that time. First, the bill for tires and service awaiting her at the counter of the reception desk. She received it and her car keys from a matronly-looking lady clerk whose features resembled those of the waitress Amy had encountered last night in the coffee shop. A sister, perhaps?
Amy dismissed the possibilities of nepotism as she considered the realities of the bill. The total for tires and labor came to two hundred and sixty-five dollars, which seemed reasonable enough; apparently Smitty had heeded Hank Gibbs’ warning and inflated the tires rather than the price.
Once again she made a mental note to check on the rental car agreement and the status of her insurance coverage, and once again she neglected doing so after reaching her room. Instead she spent the next half hour adding to her notes. Nothing earthshaking had happened at the memorial services today and neither Reverend Archer’s sermon nor his dust-up with Dunstable would probably get more than a passing mention in the book. Still, one never knows, and it was her best to put things down before details faded from her memory.
By the time she finished Amy’s watch told her it was five-thirty. The clouded sky beyond her window had a sickly yellowish cast, which indicated the weather was still hot and sticky. And so was she.
In the shower she debated what to wear for the evening. It would help if she knew the sort of place she’d be dining at, but aside from that there were other factors to consider. Somehow she must combine comfort with looking her best. All she really had beside the suit was the blue dress, which she could wear with the black bag and the heels. Too formal? After all, Reno warned her he’d be in uniform. And if he had to go back on duty at nine he’d be staying in uniform, worse luck.
Toweling dry, Amy made a
face at herself in the bathroom mirror. What put that thought in her mind; who was really coming on to whom now?
Might as well admit it, Reno did attract her and after all it had been a while since she and Gary split, just before the book came out. Come to think of it he and Dick Reno both had one thing in common; men with dark, curly hair seemed to get to her every time. Of course Gary had been shorter and his nose wasn’t broken. He was a lover, not a fighter, and at first this was no problem. It took her several months to learn that he was also slightly wimpish and very much of a mother’s boy. The old barracuda ran his life and had some weird ideas about how he should live it. Amy should have suspected Gary’s mother from the first; after all, what kind of a woman would name her son after a dead movie star or a town in Indiana?
Still, there’d been good times and smooth sailing until the barracuda roiled the waters and Gary went overboard. There’d been no one since and during the past six months the only man in her life had been Norman Bates.
She needed a change, and quickly, but tonight was definitely not the night. And even if the opportunity arose, she wasn’t all that certain it would be a wise thing to get involved with a small-town deputy sheriff. Not in this particular town anyway. All the same, there was no harm in paying particular attention to her makeup after she’d pulled the dress over her head and fluffed out her hair. She sprayed her cologne in strategic spots at six twenty-six, picked up her bag and dropped her room key into it outside her door at six twenty-seven, and emerged from the lobby exit at precisely six-thirty.
Twilight time, but no breeze had risen to dispel heat or humidity. Most shops along the street closed at six; customers and owners alike had gone home for dinner, and there were few drivers passing to note Amy’s escort and his vehicle as he arrived.
As she climbed into the passenger seat the streetlights came on and they took off, rounding the far corner. Once again Dick Reno seemed to have mapped out a route that would render them inconspicuous. This time they headed for the freeway; here too the traffic seemed light.
But that term didn’t describe Reno’s mood. He’d greeted her cordially enough and there was no doubt about his reaction to her appearance. But even in their small talk about the weather his voice was pitched low and his shadowed features seemed immobile. A dark mood.
Amy tried to fill gaps of silence with comments on her surprise at the reasonable price Smitty had charged for replacing her tires. Responding to Reno’s lack of response she did her best to deliberately avoid discussing matters of great concern. But before she could stop, she found herself saying, “Maybe I should have asked Smitty to keep the car in the garage overnight. I hope that whoever did a job on my tires won’t decide to try again.”
Dick Reno shook his head. “Wouldn’t worry about that. Seems to me what happened last night wasn’t vandalism. Looks to me it was supposed to be some kind of warning.”
“Like get out of town and stay out?” Amy nodded. “But I didn’t get out. So what happens next?”
“There’s a regular drive-by along Main Street every half hour or so. Engstrom’s given orders to keep a special lookout to see if your car’s okay. I don’t think there’ll be any problem.”
“You’re my problem,” Amy said. “You sound as if you’re down. Did something happen after you dropped me off this afternoon?”
“I’m all right. Haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, so what I probably need right now is to put a little food in my stomach.”
“And a drink.”
“Not now. Don’t forget, I’ll be going back on duty, but don’t let that stop you—the drinks here are special.”
The size and variety of the various rum concoctions at Wing Chu’s were surprising, as was the presence of a mandarin cuisine Chinese restaurant nestled on the hillside just beyond the freeway’s second turn-off ramp.
She told Reno so, and for the first time since his greeting tonight a smile accompanied his reply. “Place is really run by a Swede. Even the name’s a fake. Wing Chu—reverse it.”
“Chu Wing?” Amy laughed. “I get it. But you say the food here is good?”
“Take a look at the menu.” She did so, while sipping at the drink she’d ordered, a combination of fruit salad and alcohol ignorantly identified as a Tahitian Zombie. There were, Amy realized, no zombies in Tahiti—but there was enough rum in this drink to create one right here.
She manipulated her straws carefully, watching as Dick Reno made do with his ice water. The booth was comfortable; obviously he was not.
“Find anything you like?” he said.
“Suppose you order for us?”
And he did. The waiter was short, his complexion saffron, though his accent indicated origins closer to Mexico City than to Beijing. But the names of the dishes that Reno rattled off sounded authentically oriental.
Reno glanced at her as the waiter departed. “Hope you’ll like what I ordered.”
“I’m not worried,” she said. “I trust you.”
“Thanks.”
“But why don’t you trust me?”
“Never said I didn’t.”
“Level with me. Something did happen after you dropped me off at the hotel.” Amy leaned forward. “It’s connected with the murder case, isn’t it?”
“No—but you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Engstrom asked me what I was doing for dinner tonight, and I told him. He made some suggestions.”
“Such as?”
“Seeing what I could do to discourage you from running around and asking all these questions.”
“I know he doesn’t like me,” Amy said.
Reno shook his head. “Wrong. He thinks you’re a neat lady. It’s your book he doesn’t like. And neither do I.”
“Hey, give me a break! How can you be judgmental about something that hasn’t even been written yet?”
“Because of all the other stuff we’ve seen before. Hasn’t been a year gone by without some newspaper or magazine article coming out with the same old story on Norman, and new ones of their own. Was Norman fooling around with his mother before she died? How many other girls could he have murdered and buried in the swamp? Don’t forget, they came damn close to making a movie about him until Claiborne messed that up for them. And what he did only made things worse; they started doing pieces on Claiborne too. Now you’re going to dump the whole mess into a big fat book.”
“No such thing,” Amy said, then halted as the waiter wheeled up the cart bearing their order. They sat silently as he served them; Amy recognized the chow mein, some of the Chinese vegetables, and most of the scents, but the rest required exploration.
Lifting her fork, she explored and, as she did so, explained. “I’ve researched most of that newspaper and magazine material you mentioned, and I agree a lot of it is sensationalism and sheer speculation. It all adds up to what you said—a real mess—but you’re wrong about what I intend to do with it. I’m not going to dump all this garbage into my book; if it turns out to be big and fat that’s because I intend to fill it with facts. The reason I’m here is to establish as many of those facts as I can and try to set the record straight.”
“You really think that’s going to do any good?”
“Tell your friend the Sheriff he and I are really in the same business,” Amy said. “Both of us are searching for clues. And yes, I do think my book will do some good. This afternoon you were telling me about what it was like to grow up haunted by memories of those murders. The only way to deal with the jokes, gossip, and those wild legends is to get at the truth. If I can manage to set it down once and for all, Fairvale will be rid of its ghosts. And these sweet-and-sour shrimp are delicious.”
“I hope you’re right,” Reno said. “About the book, I mean. I sure as hell don’t like the idea of my son growing up here and having to cope with all that crud.”
“Son?” Amy’s fork dug into a slice of abalone, then halted. “You’re married?”
; “I was.” Reno seemed slightly more relaxed now as he started to eat. “David’s eleven now, same class in school as Terry. What happened last week shook him up pretty bad. I’d like to talk to him about it.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Divorce papers say I can see him twice a month, on Sundays. Way the schedule works out my next chance comes this weekend.” Reno scowled. “One of these days I’m going back to court to get custody. That kid belongs with me, particularly at a time like this. I hate to think of him sitting there in the house night after night because of the curfew—”
“No wonder I haven’t seen any children around.”
Reno nodded. “Been ordered on since the day after Terry was killed.”
“Sheriff Engstrom didn’t tell me about that.” Amy paused; the abalone was good too. “I guess he’s not anxious for me to know everything that’s going on.”
“Neither was I, until you explained about the book.” Reno’s frown vanished and he started to eat again. “But Engstrom and I don’t always see eye to eye. For one thing I don’t buy his idea that a transient could’ve committed the murder. Banning’s people with the Highway Patrol picked up a couple the day after it happened, but both of them had alibis that came out clean. Way I figure it, if a vagrant was involved then why didn’t he rip off some of the stuff in the house?”
“Something was taken,” Amy said. “That wax figure of Mrs. Bates.” She hesitated. “But maybe it helps to prove your point. Why would a vagrant want to steal a thing like that?”
“Why would anyone make a thing like that in the first place?” Reno’s scowl was back again. “You think your book will help? Forget it, lady; nothing’s going to help as long as that damn Remsbach is around. When he opens that tourist trap of his day after tomorrow he’ll really trash this town for keeps. He’ll trash the lives of our kids too. Talking to David isn’t going to do any good, any more than trying to talk to Remsbach.”
“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “I didn’t mean to spoil your dinner.”
“Not your fault.” Reno did his best to transform his scowl into a smile. “Let’s not talk about that business anymore. Here, how about trying a little fried rice?”