by John Chabot
She smiled back, putting into it all the feminine sweetness and innocence she could find. It was a smile to give her parents fresh hope.
"Up yours, Harry!"
CHAPTER 10
"What are they doing out there?"
She stood by the window, her eyes squinted a little, trying to look through the sheer curtains at the cars parked in front. She could have moved the curtains aside, but didn't want them to see she was looking. Stoneman sat easily on the sofa, looking very much at home. He said, "Probably conferring."
"About what? I wish they'd come in if they're going to. I'm beginning to feel paranoid."
Annabelle Campbell had been skinny in high school, slender as a bride and young wife. Now, after two children and thirty-nine years, she was on the verge of a soft plumpness. Her hair was still a ginger brown, with only a touch of gray. Her clear complexion, always her strong point, had not yet betrayed her. She had been spared the freckles rampant in her mother's family, and the skin was still tight, possibly the result of her added weight. She approached matronhood with only a little fear.
Now she was nervous and confused as to just what she should feel. The police were sitting in front of her home, planning God knew what. She twisted the handkerchief she held, and that reminded her of why she held it. She dabbed at her eyes automatically, unaware that she wasn't crying.
"What do you think, Wes? Should we take the children out of school for a few days?"
He was surprised at the question, but noticed she had said we, not I. Should we take the children out of school? "I don't see why."
She turned to look at him. "But there's been a death in the family."
"They only met him once, and just for a couple of hours."
"But he's their uncle. He's family. It just seems — like the right thing to do. There is a period of mourning, after all."
Wes Stoneman was sure Christy and Ben could handle not going to school for a day or so, but he doubted they'd spend the time mourning.
She turned back to peering through the gauzy curtains. "Why should they want to talk to me? What could I tell them?"
"They're not sure yet how he died. Whenever something like that happens, they have to investigate. They'll probably ask you when you saw him last, how he seemed, things like that."
"What do we say to them?"
"Just answer the questions as well as you can. I don't think there's anything sinister about them, but if they get out of line, I'll remind them." Sometimes he wondered how she had managed to raise two children, to cope as a widow for the past nine years. He suspected she had done very well, and was now handing it all to him. It pleased him.
"They're coming in."
She turned guiltily away from the window, glancing at him nervously. He got up and went to meet them at the door, giving her a pat as he passed. The pat was a little lower than would be expected under the circumstances, and shocked her a bit. It also made her smile and relax a little.
Stoneman made the introductions. After offering and accepting the proper condolences, they all sat in the living room. Stoneman and his client sat on a long couch, while Harry and Mickie took chairs that faced them across a coffee table.
Annabelle Campbell was subdued and spoke in a hush, as fitted the occasion. It was quiet, civilized behavior and promised a quiet, civilized interview. Harry had come to hate working homicides, and one of the chief reasons was interviewing the next of kin. Some of them went into fits of inconsolable screaming and wailing. Getting information from them was nearly impossible. Others, the majority, sat stunned, not moving, their faces blank, their eyes not focused on anything, answering questions with just a nod of the head or closing of the eyes. Those were the worst, and he had known too many of them. He often wondered what those flat, dulled eyes were seeing.
Mrs. Campbell had only a puzzled expression. Thank God he wouldn't have to work around her grief. Mickie sat with her notebook on one knee, waiting for him to start.
"I assume Mr. Stoneman has told you why we're here."
"Well, yes, because of Matt's . . . I'm afraid I don't understand. He said you don't know what killed him. If it was a heart attack or something like that, surely the doctors could tell you that. And why would the police be interested, anyway?"
"Well, it's not that we don't know what killed him. It's the circumstances of his death that we're not sure of."
She thought about that, but it only puzzled her further. "But if you know what he died of . . . What did he die of?"
"He was killed with a knife." There was no nice way to say that.
Now she began to show some shock. Her eyes were very wide as she turned to Stoneman, who was suddenly very alert. He hadn't been told about the knife. He asked, "Do you mean he was murdered?"
"We're not sure what happened. There's evidence of suicide."
Annabelle swung back to face Chervenic. "That's impossible," she said. For the first time her voice had strength and an edge to it. "No. That's just not possible!"
"Why is that, Mrs. Campbell?"
She looked indignant that he would ask. "Why, he's my brother. I mean, I would know."
"When did you see him last."
"Last week. When he called. I'm not sure of the date. Sometime at the beginning of the week."
Stoneman said, "That would be Monday."
"You were here then, Mr. Stoneman?"
"No, but he came to see me on Tuesday. He said his sister had given him my name."
"Yes, that's right. I did."
Harry looked back to Annabelle. "And you haven't seen him since then?"
"No." She looked put out. "I wanted him to come on Sunday, yesterday, for a real family dinner. Have everyone here. But he said he would be out of town. Some people were expecting him in Boston. He was going to call when he got back."
"Did he say who these people were or what it was about?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Did he say anything about being sick?"
"Sick? No, was he sick?"
"Apparently so. Didn't he seem to be weak or frail? Mr. Stoneman says he looked older than your other brother, Robert, even though he was two years younger."
She glanced at Stoneman as if she suspected him of minor treason, then said, "My brother had led a very difficult life. He's been in Europe for the past few years, you know." That seemed to her adequate definition of a difficult life.
"When was he here last?"
"I told you. On Monday."
"No, I mean before that."
"Oh. Well, let's see, he left just after graduation from high school. I graduated in '78 and he was a year ahead of me, so it would be 1977. Yes, that's right."
Twenty-two years. "And he hasn't been back until now?"
"No. I'm sure he'd have come by if he was able."
"We found your telephone number in his address book."
"Yes, of course. He called Robert, and Robert gave him my number."
"I tried to call you last night, but there was no answer. I suppose you were out."
"We all were. Mr. Stoneman was nice enough to take us to dinner."
"Us?"
"The children and I."
"That was nice of him. What was the occasion?"
Her eyes darkened and went to Stoneman. He said, "Nothing special." His eyes met Chervenic's. He gave an almost invisible smile, and a nod that conceded the point.
Harry turned back to the woman. "Could you tell me what kind of business your brother was in?"
"Matt was never very good about writing. I think most men are that way." Her slightly accusing look included Chervenic, and she glanced at Mickie for feminine confirmation. "I think Robert had heard something, but I don't remember what it was."
"When he was here on Monday, did he mention anyone he might have been working with? Business partners, associates, old friends?"
"I don't remember that he mentioned anyone. He told the children a lot of stories. About things he had seen in Africa and Japan — places li
ke that. I'm afraid I was in and out of the kitchen. Robert was here, and the children, so we didn't have a chance to sit and have a heart to heart."
"How long was he here?"
"Oh, from late afternoon until after dinner. Though I can't say that Matt had dinner. He just picked at his food."
"Was anyone else here?"
"No, just the six of us. Actually, just the four of us for dinner. Robert had to leave early. He was going to a convention. I believe Diane left about the same time"
"Diane?"
"Robert's daughter."
"Did he say anything about a will?"
"Yes, he said he wanted to make one. That's when he asked if I could recommend someone."
"Did he say anything about what he had or who would benefit?"
"No. And of course, no one asked. I believe he was joking with the children about it though. He said he would leave them something in his will."
"But he didn't say what?"
"I don't really know. They were all laughing about it. As I said, I was in and out."
Harry turned to Stoneman, his forest of eyebrows raised in a question. The lawyer shook his head. "No, there's no provision for them in the will. Just the note. And no, I have no idea what the note says. It's sealed."
Harry looked back at the woman. "How old are your children, Mrs. Campbell?"
She smiled a little as she thought of them. "Ben is fifteen. Christine is sixteen."
"I see. Well, I'd like to meet them sometime." He smiled as he said it, but she frowned at the thought, and he added, "Sometimes children notice things the rest of us miss."
"Yes, I'm sure they do. Still . . ."
He changed the subject by asking, "Do you know why your brother left Wilford? You said it was right after graduation?"
"Yes. It wasn't more than two or three days, and he was gone. I don't know why. I remember there was an awful lot of talk about it, especially with Maria going — "
She stopped herself, and Harry prompted her. "Maria?"
She looked over at Wes, asking for help.
He said, "It's history, Anna. It was more than twenty years ago. There's no one who needs protecting."
"Well, yes, but I don't like bringing up such things."
"I think it's already brought up."
She looked doubtful, pushing her lips together, but finally said, "When Matt left, Maria Rhyne went with him. She was in Matt's class. Her father was a contractor, very successful, and he raised an awful stink when she left. I heard he hired detectives to find her, but they never did. Besides, she was eighteen. What could he do?"
"Did they ever hear from her?"
"Oh yes, about three months later. She wrote from Paris, saying she was fine, she was working, not to worry. And there were Christmas cards. Things like that. She wrote to her mother now and then. Her mother and mine were friends. Mrs. Rhyne used to come over to visit. My mother was an invalid, you know." The puzzled expression came back to her face. She said, "Sometimes I had the impression that Mrs. Rhyne was very proud of Maria. For leaving, I mean."
"Did Matt write?"
"Matt? No, not to me anyway. He was gone, wasn't he? It was Robert and I who had to take the responsibilities. Robert had just finished his second year of college. He had to quit and take over the store. And of course, someone had to take care of mother, so that was me."
Now Chervenic was puzzled. "I think I missed something here. You say Robert had to quit school. Why was that?"
"Oh, didn't I say? Our father had died just a few weeks before. So Robert took over. He and Matt worked at the store on weekends and during the summer, so they knew what to do. Robert thought Matt would stay and help him, but instead he left — and he took Robert's girl with him."
"Robert and Maria were . . .?"
"Poor Robert. He must have felt betrayed."
Wes Stoneman didn't much like the way the story was going. He said, "That was a long time ago, Lieutenant. Robert couldn't have been too upset. He married someone else the following year."
"That's right, Lieutenant. Ruth Babineau. A really lovely girl. She was in my class. As a matter of fact, I introduced them. At least, she came with me to the store one time. That's how they met. Ruth has her own business now, a boutique in Wilford. She was always very clever with color and styles."
"I see. Well, I have just two more questions for now. First of all, did either of you go to see Mr. Carlsberg at Connor Beach?"
Annabelle said, "He gave us the address when he was here, but he said he wouldn't be there. I think I said that, didn't I? He said he was going to Boston."
"Yes, I believe you did. Mr. Stoneman?"
"Me? No. I had his address, of course, but I had no reason to go see him."
"All right, last question."
Mrs. Campbell seemed relieved at that, but not Stoneman. He knew what it would be.
"Could you just tell me where you were on Saturday night?"
She glanced quickly at Stoneman and he said, "We were in Wilmington."
"Both of you?"
"That's right. Robert's daughter, Diane, is in school there. She's an Art major. A very talented girl. The Art Department put on an exhibition. Several of her paintings were shown. We drove up, had dinner at a restaurant on the river, and went to the showing."
"Was Robert Carlsberg there?"
"No. At least, I didn't see him."
Annabelle said, "I believe he was still at the convention. He said he'd be back late on Saturday."
"And what time did you get back here?"
He could see the wheels turning in her head, but before she could lie Stoneman said, "About eleven-thirty. Maybe twelve."
"Oh, Wes, it must have been earlier than that."
His voice was firm. "No, dear, it wasn't." He knew better than to be caught in a lie.
She smiled, weakly.
Stoneman and the two detectives walked out to the cars together, while Mrs. Campbell watched through the curtains. Stoneman asked, "You're going to see Robert now?"
"Yes, I think so."
"I don't suppose you could put it off for awhile?"
"Why?"
"I'm in a bind. I should be there, but I have to be somewhere else, too."
"That's a problem. Tell you what. I won't arrest anyone without calling your office first."
Stoneman didn't smile. Instead he said, "Tell me the truth. Is this a murder investigation? What do you really think?"
Harry considered it seriously, then answered him the same way. "The truth is, I have some solid evidence that says it's suicide. I also have a few intangibles that say it's not. You know what police policy is. It's considered murder until we can show it's not. Right now, I'll be darned if I know what it is."
They stood by Chervenic's car, watching the Cadillac go off to wherever it was Stoneman had to be. Harry asked, "So what do you think?"
"Well, we know why he didn't have to look up her address."
"What about their alibi?"
"It sounds plausible."
"How long to get from here to Wilmington?"
"Twenty or thirty minutes, depending on traffic. At that time of night, twenty minutes."
"And how long can you stand around looking at your niece's paintings?"
Mickie shrugged. "I don't know. My niece is only two. But not until eleven o'clock, anyway."
"So where were they the rest of the time?"
"I'll bet that lawyer would tell you if you pushed him."
"Probably. Not her, though. I think she'd rather go on trial for murder than have someone find out she slipped off to a motel."
Wilder laughed. "Yeah, but that didn't keep her from doing it."
Chervenic smiled. "Very astute, Mickie, very astute."
"Unless, of course, they want us to think that's what they did."
Chervenic's smile broadened. "Mickie, you're developing a very dirty mind. We'll make a detective out of you yet."
Wilder went off to locate the cab drivers as Harry headed
downtown to interview Robert Carlsberg. As he drove, he thought of what he had said to her. 'We'll make a detective out of you yet.' She'd been happy to hear him say it, but he wasn't so sure. He had known a lot of cops, but didn't count many as friends. He liked Mickie. She managed to be tough without being hard. At least, so far.
He decided he would have to talk to her about it. Not that he could keep it from happening, and not that he could tell her what to do about it. She'd have to come to terms with it in her own way. But he could tell her, and maybe she'd even listen, about what not to do. Who would know better than Harry Chervenic?
Don't go bad, don't go for the bottle, and don't, for the love of Christ, take it home with you.
He saw the shadowy figure ahead of him stop and look back. One arm came up and he heard someone yell, then the sound of the gun, the buzz of the bullet. Instinctively, he moved to his right, rolled and came up running.
"Running which way?"
"Forward, of course, maybe in a zigzag."
"I don't think so. I've never been shot at by shadowy figures, but I don't think I'd do that."
"Okay, so what do you do? Imagine it. You're chasing this unknown figure through the dark, and suddenly it turns and takes a shot at you. What would you do?"
"What I'd probably do, I don't think we can use."
When the phone rang, Terry was struggling with his conscience about whether or not he should have an early lunch. He had been working since just after eight, but hadn't got much done, and wasn't at all happy with what little he had managed to grind out. Visions of Kelly and Matt interrupted him. Reality kept intruding on his imaginary world.
"Hello."
"Mr. Eason?" Whose voice was it? He had hoped it would be Kelly. "This is Lieutenant Chervenic. I have a few questions. Some things I'd like to get cleared up."
"Sure. I wasn't doing any good anyway. How can I help?"
"Well, for one thing, shoes."
"I'm sorry. Shoes?"
"Mr. Carlsberg wasn't wearing any. They were by the door. I was wondering if he usually took them off when he came in."
"Yes, he did. He said it was something he had picked up living in Japan."
"I thought that might be it. Now, when you went to see him, did you take yours off?"
