Authors: Mary Daheim
The old house creaked in the summer breeze. Or maybe it merely groaned with the burden of age. Hearing the sound, I easily envisioned that in winter the wind could howl through the eaves and a specter might seem to wail on the cold night air. Outside, the trees and shrubbery would move, causing strange shadows and firing the imagination.
Jackie frowned. “Simone was tall. It can’t be her skeleton.”
“We don’t know how tall Simone was. She dressed so beautifully and seems to have had wonderful carriage. That would make her look taller, but we can’t be certain.”
Suddenly, Jackie seemed to lose both her energy and her enthusiasm. “It’s too confusing. You say the killer was clever. I’m beginning to think he—or she—was too clever for us.”
“He—or she—was single-minded,” I said, accompanying Jackie to the kitchen. “We can only guess that the murder was an isolated killing. But if that’s true, then whoever did it had a single purpose, which was accomplished by the victim’s death.”
“Really.” Jackie’s footsteps dragged and her voice was hollow. She replaced the phone and started for the stairs. “You’re right, we’ll discuss it over breakfast.”
I remembered to switch off the lights in the den, then followed my hostess. Halfway up the stairs Jackie stopped and turned to me. “Why Walter?”
I shrugged. “I gave Sheriff Dodge all of the next generation. The men, anyway. The only married name I knew was Claudia’s.”
“No, no.” Jackie was deteriorating into fretfulness. “Why was he a pervert?”
I rested a hand on the banister. “I don’t know. I’m working on that. But what made me wonder was the way Claudia talked—or didn’t talk—about her brother. I sensed something strange about Walter Malone. That was my whim.”
“Hunh.” Jackie continued up the stairs. At the door to the master bedroom she gave me a feeble wave. I had the feeling that she would be sound asleep in a matter of minutes.
Somewhat to my surprise, so was I.
To my horror, I didn’t wake up until after eight o’clock. By the time I got downstairs, Paul had been at work for over an hour and Jackie had already breakfasted.
“Look,” she said proudly, “I had real food. Cereal and toast and a banana.”
Distractedly, I smiled my congratulations. I was already at the phone dialing Dusty’s number. Dusty himself answered. He was in a jovial mood.
“Sorry about yesterday, Mrs. Lord,” he apologized over the noise of what sounded like a demolition derby. “These characters had to go and surprise me for my birthday. Al tried to call the Melcher place, but the line was busy.”
I recalled Jackie’s telephone research. No doubt she had had the line tied up when Al had placed the call. “Is the car ready?” I asked in a gulp.
“Just about,” Dusty answered, still genial. “We got a little behind. How’s noon?”
I winced. Noon wasn’t good, but I had no choice. I could still get back to Alpine before whatever was left of my staff went home. I told Dusty I’d be there a bit early, just in case.
Jackie commiserated, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was only too glad to have me hang around for another few hours of sleuthing.
I insisted on making my own breakfast. As I fried bacon and stirred eggs, Jackie listened to the details I’d withheld the previous night. Instead of shock, she exhibited titillation.
“Root Cellar Rapist! That’s too weird! It’s got to mean something!” Jackie was practically dancing around her butcher-block island. “It’s … psychological! Or is it pathological?” She stopped next to the sink, her eyes wide and questioning.
Pouring the scrambled eggs into the frying pan, I replied in an even voice, “It’s suggestive, I’ll say that. It could be a coincidence. But I’ve had an idea ever since I heard about the Bullard fire.”
Jackie hopped back onto her stool. “What? Tell me, quick.”
“Because of the danger to this house,” I said, gesturing with a spatula, “everybody cleared out. Except Simone. And little Walter. He was a toddler, around two years old. I can’t imagine why somebody didn’t bring him along with his sisters, but there was probably a lot of confusion. Maybe Carrie thought Jimmy had Walter with him or Minnie was in charge or whatever. But somebody—Jimmy, I think—went back inside to find the kid. Walter was in the basement. What had he seen? Or heard? Was he a witness to the murder?”
Jackie’s eyes grew even wider. “You mean the murder happened
that
night?”
I drained the bacon, then buttered my toast. “I think it’s possible. The setup was perfect for the killer. The fire was a big distraction. I suppose it’s even possible that the killer set it. We didn’t ask Flint Bullard about that part. Maybe we should. But even if it wasn’t planned and the killer was trying to find the right opportunity
to get rid of his or her victim, then the fire provided it. Why Walter was in the basement, I don’t know. If that’s his mother down there, then he may have been with her.”
Leaping off the stool, Jackie rushed from the kitchen. “You’re wrong, Emma,” she called over her shoulder. “Wait—I’m getting those photocopies.”
After clearing off an empty cereal box, I perched on one of the other stools and started to eat my breakfast. Jackie reappeared, waving one of Tessie Roo’s copies.
“Look! It says in the story that little Walter was reunited with his parents and everybody was relieved, blah-blah-blah. Carrie must have been outside with the rest of them.”
My theory was coming apart at the seams. Jackie was right. I’d forgotten about the reunion between parents and child. With a rueful expression I handed the copied newspaper item back to Jackie. “Well, maybe Walter could only get aroused when he was around a lot of fruit jars. For all we know, he had a marmalade fetish.”
Jackie’s giggle was cut short by the ringing of the telephone. I froze, fearing that Dusty was calling back to say that the wheels had fallen off my Jag. Judging from Jackie’s expression, the news was indeed horrific.
“You’re kidding! No! Wow! That’s unreal! Yes … yes, I’ll tell her.… She’s right here … okay, ’bye.” Jackie was leaning on the counter, agog. “Emma!” she breathed, “that was Mike Randall. His zoology buddy at the college gave him a report on those bones. They’re
human
. They’re from a baby about four months old!”
I was also aghast. “A
baby
?” My fork clattered onto the floor.
Jackie seemed to be gasping for air. “I don’t mean a
baby
baby!” she gasped, clutching at her abdomen. “I mean a
fetus!
The victim was pregnant! Like me!”
She burst into tears.
J
ACKIE HAD ACQUIRED
quite a collection of books and material on expectant motherhood. She found a beautifully illustrated volume that showed the various stages of fetal growth. Her forefinger jabbed at a drawing that depicted the child in the womb at sixteen weeks.
“See?” she said, her voice still choked with emotion. “That’s about where I am. The bones are formed. That’s why I should be chewing those Tums and drinking more milk.” To prove her point, she dashed to the refrigerator and poured herself a big glass.
Mindlessly, I filled my face with toast, bacon, and eggs. The shock of learning that an unborn child had died with its mother was hard to shake off. “Who?” I whispered, still staring at the illustration.
Jackie, whose composure seemed to be returning faster than mine, wore a milk mustache. “Carrie had babies bing-bing-bing. I suppose she was expecting a fourth. Wasn’t Claudia about a year old by then?”
“I guess so.” I closed the big book and slid it down the counter, where I wouldn’t be able to mar it with remnants of my breakfast. “But it could have been Simone.”
Jackie gave me a dark look. “Carrying Armand’s baby?” She was transformed, rocking excitedly on her stool. “It adds up! Cornelius ran Armand out of town in May! Simone had already conceived the baby!” She
counted on her fingers: “May, June, July, August—the house fire! Four months! Emma, we did it!” She jumped off the stool and ran around the counter to hug me. “It was Cornelius!”
I went limp in her overenthusiastic embrace. “Jackie, Cornelius was dead. He must have run Armand out earlier than May.” But, some part of me argued, maybe not. According to Lena’s letter from Seattle, Cornelius Rowley was feeling unwell in early May. Perhaps the discovery of his wife’s infidelity had made him ill. A volatile encounter with the Frenchman might have caused a heart attack. Jackie could be right about Simone’s pregnancy even if she was off-base about Cornelius.
“Oh, poopy!” Jackie had released me and was looking subdued. “Well, it was a thought. How about Eddie? You know, defending the family honor?”
Eddie
. I considered his somewhat shadowy figure, relegated to creating impractical inventions in the garage. Eddie, with his militant martinet of a wife, his crippled leg, his spirit of adventure forever quenched. Was Eddie’s mind twisted along with his body? He had failed to live up to the accomplishments of his father. He had failed in keeping the Rowley mill going. He had even failed at his inventions, creating a disastrous contraption that had killed him. But why would he murder his sister or his stepmother?
I shook my head, though not with a great deal of assurance. “Eddie wouldn’t kill Carrie. Or Simone. Unless …” My thought trailed off.
Jackie pounced. “Unless he was in love with Simone? Think about it, Emma. Lena or Simone. Let’s say Eddie married Lena because she wanted it. She had such a forceful personality, and poor old Eddie couldn’t withstand her. Lena needed a base of operations, she needed money, she needed a home for herself and
Sanford. Eddie was her ticket. Lena didn’t marry a man, she married a household. Otherwise, she was stuck going back to New England and living off her relatives. It’s obvious that Lena didn’t want that. I think she bulldozed Eddie into marriage.”
Jackie’s portrait of the pair made sense. Ten years Eddie’s senior, Lena would have been a formidable presence. I sensed that Cornelius Rowley would have liked her. He was another strong personality, and Lena would have appealed to him. They were kindred spirits. If he hadn’t already fallen for Simone, he might have taken on Lena himself.
“So,” I said slowly, rinsing my plate before putting it in the dishwasher, “Eddie discovers that being married to Lena isn’t exactly a continual romp in the hay. Dad has a gorgeous young wife who’s about the same age as Eddie and he goes nuts.” I nodded thoughtfully. “It makes sense. Cornelius dies. Eddie figures he might have a chance … but he’s stuck with Lena. So why isn’t she the one in the basement?”
Jackie groaned. “You’re right, he should have knocked Lena off. Who would have blamed him? How would you like to be married to Hatchet Face?”
I arched both eyebrows at Jackie, never having learned the art of raising only one. “I? Wrong sex. Besides, I’ve never been married, period.”
Jackie blushed. “Oh, Emma! I’m sorry! I forgot! It’s just that … well, most of Mom’s friends are … and you’ve got a son … and …”
I reached across the counter and patted Jackie’s shoulder. “Don’t get yourself all worked up. I’ve been an unmarried mother for years. Adam and I are used to it.”
Still wearing a chastened expression, Jackie regarded me with a newfound shyness. “Mom says Adam is a good kid.”
I shrugged. “He is. Unmotivated, unambitious, unfocused. But good nonetheless. Currently he’s considering archaeology. Or anthropology, whichever applies to …” I laughed, and Jackie looked startled. It was my turn for chagrin. “Old bones. Adam would no doubt love helping us out.”
As ever, Jackie was mercurial. She grabbed the phone with one hand and the directory with the other. “Let’s call the nursing home and ask for Flint Bullard. We have to find out if he knows exactly how the fire started at his house.”
I didn’t try to dissuade Jackie. But Flint had no phone in his room. Whoever answered promised to pass Jackie’s query along. Her call would be returned in due time.
Jackie sighed. “Flint will come up with some long-winded story about how he broke up a vice ring in Twenty-two or whatever.”
I had poured us each a fresh cup of coffee. “Where were we? Eddie?”
Jackie nodded in a desultory fashion. “Maybe he killed Simone because he got her pregnant and she was threatening to tell Lena.” There wasn’t much conviction in her tone.
Silence crept over the kitchen for a few moments. The sun was out this morning, promising a beautiful summer day. Unless, of course, it clouded over and rained by afternoon.
“Sanford?” I spoke his name almost in a whisper.
Jackie looked up from her coffee mug. “Sanford? I thought he was hot for Minnie.”
I lifted my hands in a helpless gesture. “Simone was ravishing, remember? All the men might have been crazy about her. Why not Sanford? He was in Simone’s peer group, too.”
“Then you have to include Jimmy Malone.” Jackie’s eyes danced with mischief.
I smiled. “I suppose you do, actually. But it seems unlikely.” Even as I spoke the words, I wondered why. The French widow and the Irish logger weren’t an impossible pairing. He seemed brash, virile, and adventurous; she was bold, beautiful, and capricious. But there was Armand Nievalle and Minnie Burke. It didn’t quite mesh.
We finished our coffee. Jackie had loaded the dishwasher and was sprinkling detergent into the plastic container when the phone rang again. Quickly, she closed the machine and turned it on before grabbing the receiver. I held my breath, wondering what new horror this call portended. Dusty, I figured, saying my engine had exploded.
“Desmond!” cried Jackie, beaming into the phone. “You’re a sweetie! What did you find?”
A rush of water cascaded into the dishwasher. The morning sun penetrated the kitchen, making shadows dance. A metallic noise clicked outside, no doubt signaling the arrival of the mailman. I waited for Jackie to react to Desmond, the helpful man from the King County’s courthouse.
“Really,” Jackie said with a frown. “How very strange. Oh, Desmond, I’m so grateful! I’ll be sure to dedicate my novel to you!” There was a pause as Jackie suddenly looked stricken. “Yes, yes, I mean
movie!
But there’ll be a novelization of it, you see. There always is with a blockbuster hit. If it’s not already a bestseller. Oh, show business is so confusing, I know! You’re a doll, and I love you! Mmmmmm-muh!” She kissed the receiver before putting it back on its cradle.