“You should take one of us with you,” Ginny remarked. “Winter camping isn’t exactly safe alone.”
“I should,” he agreed, “but I won’t. I don’t have two sets of gear. And my tent only sleeps one. I’ll be all right.
“Before I go,” he continued, “I’ll tell Truchi to hide the guns somewhere. He won’t let any of you know where they are. That way”—his glare conveyed a secret humor—“none of you will be tempted to declare yourselves vigilantes and shoot up the lodge.”
“Wait a minute,” Mile protested. “Wait a goddamn minute.” Reeson had touched a sore point in him—a point sore enough to push him past his fear. “We need them guns. If Ginny’s right—and Ah don’t say she is—we got to defend ourself. We got the right to defend ourself. How’re we goin’ to do that with no guns?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know, Mr. Mile,” Reeson drawled back, aping Mile’s accent. “Maybe you folks is just goin’ to have to place your trust in God—and Miz Fistoulari.”
Mile flushed. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to mere employees who talked that way. But he also wasn’t accustomed to facing down men with Reeson’s talent for toughness. Probably hoping that only Maryanne could hear him, he muttered, “Sonofabitch,” and collapsed back in his chair.
“Guns aren’t for amateurs, Houston,” Ginny said harshly. “I’d rather have one killer on my hands than a roomful of armed amateurs trying to defend themselves.”
Tired of feeling useless, parked by the front door and forgotten, I tried to make a contribution. “Even experts miss sometimes,” I said through my fever. “The goon who shot me did. But the really amazing thing is, amateurs never do. They always hit something.”
Ginny nodded and turned back to Reeson. “What about Simon?”
“That’s harder,” he admitted. “The lodge doesn’t have any rooms you can’t get out of if you’re locked in. And I suppose you don’t want to do anything as ‘inhumane’ as tying him to a chair for the next three or four days. I don’t know what else to suggest.” Then he thought of something. “Except the wine cellar.”
“Wine cellar?”
“It isn’t really a cellar,” he explained, “just a room off the kitchen. Only one door, no windows. There’s a padlock on the outside. I think Ama has the key.
“It’s insulated so it stays cool, but it doesn’t get cold. We can put an electric heater in there. And it has room for a cot and a chair, maybe even a table. We have plenty of card tables.
“You could use it.”
“No!” Simon said.
“Good,” Ginny said.
“You don’t understand,” Simon protested. “I get claustrophobia. I’ll go crazy in there.”
Right away I didn’t believe him. He sounded like he was acting again.
Ginny didn’t believe him, either. “On the other hand,” she answered with an edge in her tone, “once you’re locked in the wine cellar, we’ll all know you’re innocent if somebody else gets killed. And you can be reasonably sure you won’t be the next victim.”
In other words, she wasn’t willing to take the risk that he really was Cat’s killer. Personally, I was glad I didn’t have to make the decision. Since I didn’t think he had anything to do with the murder, I probably wouldn’t have had the heart to lock him up. And when I turned out to be wrong, I’d have real trouble living with myself.
Ginny got to her feet, holding the .357 again. Her movements lacked Reeson’s oiled precision, but she looked ready and dangerous in her own way. “Anybody got any problems?” she asked the room. “Anything else you want to discuss?”
Maryanne bent down and murmured something in Mile’s ear. He nodded without speaking. Somewhere under his fat, he’d probably clenched his jaws, but it didn’t show.
Sam and Queenie looked at each other. Then she said for both of them, “Tell us what you want us to do.”
I liked her so much it made my back teeth hurt.
Mac studied Lara. He was slowly returning to normal—only the specificity of his concentration on her betrayed the state of his emotions. Apparently the shock of Cat’s murder had already become secondary to him. His loneliness ran so deep that what Lara represented was more important.
As for her, she returned his attention like he had the power to make her insides melt.
In contrast, Rock now seemed like he was actually present in the room. He’d finally caught up with the rest of us. He met Ginny’s question by raising his head and doing his best to look decisive. “This is what we hired you for. Although God knows we didn’t want this to happen. You’re in charge.”
Joseph Hardhouse echoed Rock. “We’ll do whatever you say.” But he added a vibration to the words, a second or third harmonic, that echoed painfully in the core of my heart.
Ginny approved with a sharp nod. “I have handcuffs in my purse,” she told Simon. “I’m going to put them on you while Art rousts out the Carbones. Once Ama makes the wine cellar comfortable, I won’t keep you cuffed.
“Joseph,” she asked, “will you get my purse? I left it in the parlor.”
He nodded and went.
I still had nothing useful to do. Ginny was too good at this sort of thing.
“Before Art leaves,” she continued, scanning the room, “maybe he and Truchi can do something with Cat’s body so it doesn’t”—she was deliberately harsh—“start stinking up the lodge.
“In the meantime, the rest of us should search for those missing guns.”
So that’s what we did. Or rather, that’s what they did. Leaving Simon cuffed to one of the armchairs, Ginny split the guests into teams and put them to work. Judging by her choices, she trusted no one except the Draytons. She let them work together—alone. But she paired Mac with Rock and sent Lara to keep an eye on Mile and Maryanne. Hardhouse she kept to herself. Each team she assigned a wing of the lodge.
She didn’t need a degree in medicine, however, to see that I was in no condition to do any searching. Instead she told me to take Connie’s place with Buffy so that Connie could join the hunt.
That made sense, of course. I couldn’t stay on my feet much longer. Nevertheless it felt wrong. I was her partner. I should’ve done this job with her. To hell with the fact that my head no longer felt successfully attached to my neck. She still needed a partner.
But I didn’t argue the point. Instead I told myself that she knew what she was doing. If I didn’t lie down soon, I was going to fall down. And I wanted to get away from Hardhouse.
Tossing the Winchester to Reeson, I went to relieve Connie.
In the Altars’ room I found Buffy asleep on one of the twin beds. Shock and unconsciousness had wiped the camp-activities-director look off her face, the deliberate cheeriness and competence. Now she seemed both older and younger, the way some people do when they’re scared—worn-out and vulnerable.
Connie sat in a rocking chair beside Buffy’s bed, watching over her, as prim and austere as one of the Fates.
“Well, Mr. Axbrewder,” she asked me, “what’s been decided? What’s being done?”
She required an answer, but I’d lost the ability to concentrate. Ginny needed a partner. People were searching the lodge. I should’ve been one of them. As if this were the crux of the whole situation, I said, “You’re supposed to call me Brew.”
“That,” she retorted with some asperity, “was when we were all guests together at a mystery camp. Now there’s been a murder. You and Ms. Fistoulari are the professionals in charge until the police arrive.” Apparently she could tell that I had no idea what her point might be. “To be effective,” she explained, “you must have authority. I intend to grant you that authority.”
“Oh, good,” I said. I didn’t want authority. I wanted to lie down.
Restraining impatience, Connie repeated, “Mr. Axbrewder, what’s been decided? What’s being done?”
She had a right to know. Somehow I told her.
She spent a moment absorbing the information. Then she pronounced, �
�You shouldn’t have any trouble with Mrs. Altar. I expect she’ll sleep for quite a while. Use the other bed and get some sleep yourself. I’m sure Mr. Altar won’t object.”
Mutely I obeyed. As if she were the one with all the authority, I went to the bed and eased my guts into prone.
I must’ve been in worse shape than I realized. An entire swimming pool sloshed around inside me, but that didn’t prevent me from becoming one with the mattress almost immediately.
Maybe because she understood how Buffy and I felt, Connie didn’t switch the light off. That turned out to be a good thing. It helped me identify where I was when Buffy’s crying woke me up.
Softly she sobbed into her pillow, clamping it over her face like she wanted to suffocate herself.
The swimming pool sensation in my gut was worse than ever. I had difficulty heaving all that water upright. But I got myself over to her bed somehow. Sitting beside her, I pried one of her hands loose so that I could hold it.
“Buffy.” I sounded like a rusty band saw, but that was the best I could do. “Buffy, it’s all right. Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.” Pure bullshit, but I didn’t even notice. “We’ll take care of everything.”
Clinging hard to my hand, she pulled her face out of the pillow. Her hair was a fright, and the skin around her eyes looked like one of those plastic surgeries where the patient goes into collagen rejection.
“She wasn’t supposed to die,” she gulped between sobs. “I never wanted her to die. I didn’t want anybody hurt. It was just supposed to be fun.
“Now she’s dead and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“No, it’s not.” I comforted her like she was a sick kid. “Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault. No one blames you.”
That must’ve been what she wanted to hear. It seemed to help her stop sobbing. Nevertheless she had to protest against it, probably because she wanted it so badly.
“We’re here because of me. Because I wanted to do this. Murder on Cue is mine. Rock doesn’t care about it. He only helps out because he’s my husband. I put us in this situation. I made it happen. Cat wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t”
I repeated myself like a half-wit. “Don’t be silly.” Fortunately as my voice limbered up I sounded a bit more soothing. “That’s like blaming the guy who built the lodge for making a place where someone might be shot. It’s not your fault.”
Gradually she relaxed. Her breathing still shuddered and caught going in and out, but the pressure to sob grew less inside her. Her damaged eyes searched my face as if I were someone she could believe, someone who told the truth.
“I’ve never seen a dead body,” she said in a small voice. “Nobody I care about has ever died. Even my parents are still alive. My favorite teacher from high school is still alive. I never knew my grandparents. When I saw her there in all that blood—” Her mouth quivered pitifully. “I keep thinking this is going to ruin my life.”
Most days, I think that people who let the presence of blood and pain in the world ruin their lives deserve to have their lives ruined. But this time, for some reason, her concern just reminded me that I didn’t smell so good. I needed clean clothes and a shower and a fresh outlook on life.
So I didn’t dismiss her self-pity. Instead I said, “Maybe it won’t. It’s too soon to know.” Then I tried a distraction. “Tell me more about Rock. What does he get out of doing this?”
“I used to worry about that,” Buffy admitted. She was too stunned or vulnerable to question what I asked her. Hell, she hadn’t even questioned my presence in her room. “He doesn’t like mysteries. I thought he would. He’s usually good at puzzles. But there’s something about this kind of puzzle he doesn’t like. I don’t know what it is. I used to worry that if he helped me with something he wasn’t interested in, he’d lose interest in me.”
She paused. I didn’t hurry her.
“But then I found out,” she went on. “Why he does it. How he stays interested. What he does to stay interested.” She was thinking in pieces—but at least she was thinking. “Houston told me. The first time he came to one of our camps.
“You mustn’t underestimate Houston, Brew,” she insisted. She wanted me to believe whatever it was that Mile had told her. “A lot of people don’t like him.” With unexpected acid in her voice, she commented, “I think most of the women he brings with him don’t like him.” Then she resumed, “But he’s devious. That makes him good at mysteries.”
She took a deep breath, and a quiver ran through her. Faltering as if she feared my reaction, she revealed, “He told me Rock tampers with the clues. He makes it harder for us to figure out who did it. That’s how he stays interested.”
So she knew. I couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or amazed. From the beginning, it had nagged at me that Rock was willing to sabotage his wife’s beloved hobby. But if she knew—
“You don’t sound upset,” I said. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Oh, no,” she replied quickly. Too quickly? “Do you know what it’s like when you’re getting older and bit by bit your husband starts to look like he’s dying of boredom? It takes the heart out of you. There’s nothing you can do about it. You try to look good. You work at it. But you can’t make yourself younger. So you try to catch his mind instead—since you can’t catch his eye anymore. But Rock doesn’t like mysteries.”
She let an old sigh out of the bottom of her lungs. “I want him to stay interested. I’m glad he’s found a way to do it. And now that I know about it, I can enjoy it. I don’t know what he’ll do, of course. But just knowing he’ll do something makes the mystery better. It puts more pressure on everyone, even the actors.
“It’s become a game he and I play with each other.” She smiled in a wan attempt to convince me that she was content. “Almost a way of courting each other. If you know what I mean.”
Actually, I thought I did. In a perverse sort of way, it even seemed reasonable.
But I didn’t buy it. It was too damn convenient.
After all, Roderick Altar didn’t like hunters. He wasn’t just uninterested in Buffy’s game, he disapproved of it. And he’d talked me out of taking a stand about those guns. If they’d been locked up, Cat might still be alive.
Where did he draw the line? How serious did the game have to get before he played it honestly? The last thing Ginny and I needed to worry about right now was a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t make the distinction between killing people with blue marbles and killing them with actual bullets.
When the door opened, however, and Rock and Ginny came into the room, my immediate concern evaporated. He didn’t look like a man who meddled with murders. He looked like a man who needed sleep. He’d gone gray with fatigue, the color of lead and strain. Most of his body seemed to slump on his bones. The sight of him reminded me that he’d freely admitted tampering with Buffy’s clues. That odd piece of honesty made him appear less dangerous now.
Instead of mentioning my worries, I asked, “Did you find anything?”
Rock didn’t respond. Dumbly he shuffled across the room, sat down on the edge of his bed, and stared morosely into his empty hands. It was Ginny who said, “Not a thing. If you don’t count Mile’s collection of pornographic paraphernalia.”
She sounded distant rather than tired or disappointed, as if the waste of the search had no real importance. Or less importance than other things.
“Come on, Brew.” She surprised me by resting her claw gently on my shoulder. “We’ve done all we can for tonight. The sun’ll be up in a few hours. I want to see you in bed before I collapse myself.”
She’d stopped trusting me. She’d stopped using me. But she hadn’t stopped taking care of me.
I could see that she was in no danger of collapsing.
I sighed and struggled to my feet.
We left Rock and Buffy sitting on the edges of their beds. The only obvious difference between them was that she looked at him but he still didn’t look at her.
But I funked it. I told myself that I didn’t have the strength. The truth was that I didn’t have the courage. The simple effort of walking to my room exhausted the last of my resolve. If she hadn’t stood over me and made me do it, I wouldn’t have taken off my clothes before I crawled into bed.
After all, I was an invalid. I couldn’t change that just by hating it.
Instead of saying what I needed to say, I murmured, “Simon’s window bothers me. It doesn’t fit.”
Ginny looked at me as if her brain were somewhere else entirely. “What do you mean?”
“He didn’t have to make himself look so guilty. He could’ve shot Cat and stashed the rifle, then closed the window and joined us through the lodge. Even if he had a reason to come in through the front door, he could’ve closed his window first. By the time we searched his room, the snow would’ve melted. You wouldn’t know the window was ever open.”
“You don’t think he did it.” She still wasn’t paying attention.
“No, I don’t.” I couldn’t be honest for myself, but I could do it for Simon.
She shook her head. “Joseph says the same thing. According to him, Simon doesn’t have the right kind of motive. That’s part of his theory about murder, I guess. Jealousy is too primal. If Simon killed Cat, he’d want her to know it was him. He’d do it face-to-face. He wouldn’t attempt a charade as elaborate as this one looks.
“It doesn’t matter whether I agree or not. Locking Simon up is still a good idea. It protects the rest of us. Since he can’t kill anybody else, whoever wants us to think he’s guilty won’t risk destroying the illusion.”
She was way ahead of me. As usual. For once, I found that reassuring. She didn’t love me anymore, and she couldn’t treat me like a real partner, but she was still Ginny Fistoulari. She knew what she was doing.
The Man Who Tried to Get Away Page 16
