Palindrome (13 page)

"You have her number?"

"Afraid not. She was a throwaway, you know what I mean?"

"Where were you staying?"

"At Le Parc"—he spelled it—"it's a suite hotel in West Hollywood. The team always stays there."

"Can anyone else confirm you were there that evening?"

"The room-service waiter, I guess." Ramsey seemed to be trying hard to help. "He's the only other person I saw that night."

"Okay. Now, where were you on Tuesday, in the evening?"

"That's easy; Piedmont Hospital. I checked in around five that afternoon and had my surgery at seven the next morning."

"Did you leave the hospital any time that evening or night?"

"Nope. They put you right to bed when you go into the hospital."

"Did you have any visitors that evening?"

"Just the doctor, right after I arrived, and the nurse on duty. A new nurse came on at eight; she checked on me from time to time."

"Remember her name?"

"Yeah, it was Mary Alice Taylor. She was very nice."

"Bake, did you know a lawyer named Al Schaefer?"

"I only met him once. He represented my wife when we got divorced."

"Did you ever see him again?"

"Never, just that once."

"Did you know Raymond and Eleanor Ferguson?"

"Sure. Ray was my ex-wife's publisher."

"Did you know him well?"

"Not real well.

Liz—that's my ex-wife—and I had dinner with them a couple of times. She knew him a lot better than I. He was a nice guy, though; I liked him. I was sorry when I read about his death." He grinned slightly. "I wasn't quite so sorry about Schaefer. He cost me a lot of money."

Williams smiled. "Lawyers are like that. So you disliked Schaefer, then?"

"Not really, he was just doing his job. I only met him the once, for ten or fifteen minutes, maybe. The team lawyer and I went to his office to work out the settlement."

"And was the settlement easily reached?"

"Like I said, it only took ten or fifteen minutes. I didn't want to be rough on Liz. I gave her what she asked for."

"Where is the ex-Mrs. Ramsey now?"

"I don't have a clue. I heard she left town after the divorce. She told a mutual friend of ours that she was going around the world. That's okay with me."

Williams stood up. "Well, that's all I need, I think. Thanks for your time. Thank you, Mr. Smith."

He turned and walked toward the door. "I'll walk you out,"

Ramsey said. "I know old Bob wants to get back to work." Smith's eyebrows went up, and Ramsey shook his head.

Williams walked slowly, so that Ramsey could keep up. "Is that knee going to put you on the reserve list?" Williams asked. "Just between you and me?"

"Sure."

"I'll be back by midseason. The team wants it thought that I'm out until next year."

"Don't worry, I never meet any sports writers."

"You got any kids?" Ramsey asked.

"A boy, thirteen. He's playing junior-high ball; he might make a running back one of these days."

"Hang on a minute." They were in the entrance hall, and Ramsey turned to the receptionist. "Let me have one, Sheila." The woman went to a closet behind her desk and tossed Ramsey a football. "And a couple of my house seats for Sunday." He turned back to Williams. "What's your boy's name?"

"Martin." Ramsey took a pen from the reception desk and signed the ball, "To Martin, from another running back, Bake Ramsey." He handed the ball to Williams.

Williams looked at the ball and hesitated. "Come on, it's for the kid, it's not a bribe." Williams took the ball.

"Thanks, it'll make his whole year."

Ramsey smiled and handed him two tickets. "This is a bribe. It's two for the home game on Sunday."

Williams smiled back. He couldn't pass this up, the boy would never forgive him. "Consider me bribed." He laughed. Outside on the steps they shook hands.

"You've talked to Liz, haven't you?"

Ramsey said. "Liz?"

"My ex-wife. There can't be any other reason you'd come to see me. Liz is a sick girl, real paranoid. She's told people I beat her up; that's not true, I never laid a hand on her. Now she's got it in her head that I killed Schaefer and the Fergusons, I guess." He looked sad. "Well, I'm happy to help you in any way I can. I've certainly got nothing to hide."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it," Williams told him. "This is just all routine."

"Well, if you talk to Liz, tell her I'd like to see her again; talk over old times."

"Take care," Williams said, and walked down the steps to his car. Outside the front gate, he stopped and checked his address book for the telephone number of a detective he knew on the Los Angeles force. The man owed him a favor. When he was on the line, Williams asked him to pay a visit to Le Parc in West Hollywood, then he turned his car toward Piedmont Hospital. Williams showed his badge to the nurse at the hall station. She was young and pretty, and she had a mischievous air about her. "Could I speak to Mary Alice Taylor?"

"She's the night nurse; doesn't come on until eight. What's this about?"

"Just some routine questions." The nurse grinned. "Sure, that's what the cops always say when they're hunting down somebody for a foul deed."

Williams grinned back. "I don't suspect her of some foul deed, I promise." He didn't want to come back at eight and miss his dinner at home, and he didn't want to go looking for this girl right now; he had other work to do. "Maybe you can help me at that. Can you tell me what procedure is for the night nurse, regarding checking on patients?"

"Same as during the day, except during the day I have doctors to fool with. She's got the better deal, believe me."

"How often would she check on her patients at night?"

"She'd make rounds every hour, more often if a patient has to have periodic medication." She indicated the bank of monitors behind her. "It used to be constant, but these keep an eye on the patients in serious condition, and half the patients on this ward are just waiting for elective surgery the next morning. They get a sedative at bedtime, and, after that, they're just lumps."

"Do you know Mary Alice Taylor?"

"Sure, we were in nursing school together."

"Is she a conscientious sort of person? I mean, would she make her rounds as prescribed, or would she more likely take a nap?"

"Oh, Mary Alice would definitely make her rounds." She grinned again. "With some patients, the cute ones, she might even make them more often than necessary."

"Do you think she might find a pro football player cute?"

"You bet she would; Mary Alice has a thing for jocks. We had Bake Ramsey on the ward for knee surgery the other day, and she was still turned on when I relieved her the next morning."

"So she would have paid special attention to somebody like Ramsey?"

"Listen, if I know Mary Alice, she probably gave him a sleeping pill, then came back during the night and checked under the sheet, just to have a look."

Williams laughed. "I get the picture, and that's all I need to know." He thanked her and left. Late that afternoon, his Los Angeles contact reported back. "Ramsey's story checks," the man said.

"He and a girl had dinner in his room. He wasn't seen again until the next morning."

"Tell me something," Williams said. "How far is Le Parc from the Beverly Hills Hotel?"

CHAPTER 19

After she had phoned Detective Sergeant Williams a second time, Liz returned to the cottage in a horrible mood, made of half rage, half depression. Keir Drummond was sitting on the deck with a beer in his hand, watching the light fade on the dunes. She flopped down in the chair next to him.

"Could I be kissed?" he asked.

"Not at the moment," she replied.

"What's wrong?"

"Have you ever heard of Bake Ramsey?" she asked.

"No. Who's that?"

"You're not a football fan, then?"

"I enjoy it; I don't keep up."

Liz told him everything; she told him about Bake and her marriage, about Al Schaefer, about the Fergusons and her conversations with the policeman. He put a hand on her cheek.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that," he said. "Does the cop believe you?"

"I don't think so. Now he's talked to Baker, and he buys his story. She explained about Ramsey's alibis for the two nights.

"Well, look, a cop can only do so much. Even if these deaths are murders as you say, if Ramsey's got good alibis, what more can the guy do?"

"It stinks," she said. "He's getting away with it."

She began to cry. Keir gathered her up, took her into the house, and cuddled her on the living-room sofa. "Not only have I lost good friends," she said when she had recovered, "I've lost a publisher. The work I've done here means nothing, now. There's no one to publish it."

"Listen to me," he said firmly. "If what you're doing is any good, you can find another publisher."

"But Ray was going to write the text. I'm no writer; I can't even write a decent letter, let alone a book. It needs somebody who loves the island the way Ray did."

"It seems to me that you love the island the way Ray did. Why don't you have a shot at the text yourself?"

"I suppose I should, but I don't know if my heart is going to be in it after this."

"It's a big heart; it can handle a lot. You'll get past this, don't worry. This island will take hold of you again and make you want to do the book."

She grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and blew her nose loudly, then put her head on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're around," she said, then she reached up and kissed him. "There, I owed you that. I'm sorry I was nasty to you before."

"You were upset; it's okay."

"I'm still upset," she said. "Baker killed all three of them, I know it, and he's going to get away with it."

"Look, I know how strongly you feel about this, but you've got to leave room for some doubt. It is just possible, after all, that the deaths are a coincidence."

"I suppose it is possible, but if you knew Baker the way I know him—the way he's been the past couple of years, you'd know that he's perfectly capable of this, and, moreover, he's devious enough to cover himself. It's his craftiness that makes him so dangerous. And if he gets away with these murders, he'll think he can get away with anything."

Keir stroked her hair. "Do you think he might try to hurt you again?"

"If he did kill Al Schaefer and the Fergusons, he did it because of his hatred of me. I can't imagine he's gotten it out of his system.

"You're safe here. I'll take care of you."

"I'll have to leave here eventually; I can't spend my life hiding."

"I won't let anything happen to you."

"I believe you," she said, kissing him again. "I'll feel safe as long as I'm here with you."

"Good." She raised her head. "But I'll tell you this: if any other friend of mine suddenly dies violently, it won't matter how good Baker's alibi is, I'll get a gun and kill him myself."

"Easy, now," he said, cuddling her, "don't let him make you mad. If he makes you angry and afraid, then he's won."

"You're right," she said, making a conscious effort to melt the hard, icy ball in her chest. "I won't let him win." She stood up.

"I'm going to start living like a normal human being again, and right now. Let me get you another beer." There was a knock at the front door.

She looked around and saw James Moses standing somberly at the door, holding an envelope. "Evening, Miz Elizabeth," he said quietly. "I got an invitation for you from Mr. Angus. He said wait for your answer."

"Thank you, James." She took the envelope and opened it.

"Evening, Mr. Hamish," James said. Liz winced.

"My name's Keir, James," Keir said pleasantly.

"Good evening." The boy seemed embarrassed, and Liz stepped into the breach.

"Please tell Mr. Angus that I'd be pleased to accept," she said to him.

"Yes, ma'am," James said, smiling. He turned and left without another word. A moment later Liz heard a horse trot away.

"What did Grandpapa want?" Keir asked.

She passed him the heavy piece of stationery with its oldfashioned handwriting. "He's invited me to dinner," she said. "Told me to dress."

"You know, I think he's got a little thing for you," Keir said, smiling.

"You know," she replied, smiling back at him, "I think I've got a little thing for him."

CHAPTER 20

Liz drove through the gates of Dungeness, wearing her only silk dress, a relic of her social life in Atlanta. She didn't remember why she'd brought it to the island, but she was glad she had. She wondered who else was coming to dinner. James Moses stood on the front porch of the huge old house, wearing a white cotton jacket, the sleeves of which were a bit too short for him, and a black bow tie. "Good evening, Miz Elizabeth," he said, bowing stiffly. "Welcome to Dungeness."

"Thank you, James," she replied, as she reached the top of the steps. "Has anyone else arrived yet?" She wondered where the regular servants were, if there were any.

"There's not anybody else," James said, looking surprised. "Just you and Mr. Angus."

While James held the door, she entered the large entrance hall in time to see Angus descending the grand staircase. He was wearing a freshly pressed dinner suit she thought must be very old, although it did not seem much out of style, except, perhaps, the waistcoat, which was double-breasted, with lapels.

A heavy gold watch chain stretched across it, and diamond studs gleamed on the stiff shirtfront, in the light from the chandeler. "Good evening, Elizabeth," Angus said. "Welcome to my home."

"Good evening, Mr. Drummond."

He met her at the bottom of the stairs and offered her his arm. "I would be pleased if you would call me Angus," he said.

"Of course, Angus," she replied. He led her to his study, and she began to feel that she was in another century. The room, which she calculated must be forty feet long and half as wide, was entirely lit by tall candles, placed in silver candelabra. At the opposite end of the room from Angus's desk, a table was set for two. "I thought we'd dine in here," he said. "The dining room is more suitable for forty than for two."