by John Chabot
A woman at the counter was writing a check. Another, behind the counter, too young to be Ruth Babineau, was putting her purchase in a bag. Even the bag looked expensive.
A third woman appeared from the back, coming toward him with a tentative smile. She wore a pale gray suit with something sky blue at the throat. She had the same look of elegance as the store. Her figure was small and fine. Her eyes were wide-set, her smile small, but real.
"I'm looking for Ms. Babineau. Ruth Babineau."
She appraised him quite frankly. "And you are . . .?"
"Lieutenant Chervenic." He showed his badge, briefly. "I'm with the Connor Beach police. We're investigating a possible crime. I thought — "
"Has it anything to do with my daughter or the shop?"
The smile was gone. What was left was all business.
"No, ma'am, not as far as I know."
She relaxed immediately, saying, "I'm sorry. When you said you were with the police . . ."
"Perfectly normal. Is there somewhere we can talk?"
She glanced toward the rear of the shop, but then said, "I was just going for lunch. Would that be all right?"
He was dubious. "If it's not too crowded and loud." As he said it, he realized he couldn't even picture this woman in a place like that.
"I certainly hope not. It's here in this building. They get a pretty good crowd for lunch, but it should be cleared out by now."
She led him across a brick courtyard into a cool, quiet restaurant winding down from a busy lunch session. There were plants, real ones, in pots and baskets at various places. The tablecloths and napkins were thick and serviceable. He knew the menu would be heavy on salads, with just a nodding acquaintance with beef. A Fern Bar.
Ruth Babineau was well known to the hostess. They got a table away from any activity, overlooking the courtyard. Once she had determined that neither her daughter nor her business were in trouble, she had asked no more questions. She ordered without haste or nervousness, and only then asked, "Now, then, what can I do to help?"
"It's about Matt Carlsberg."
She looked puzzled for a moment, as if trying to place who he meant. "Matt? Oh, Lord, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person. I didn't really know him. I mean, his sister and I were close friends, still are I guess, but Matt was a year ahead of us. A different crowd. You know how it is. And that must have been fifteen years ago."
"Twenty-two, actually."
She looked shocked. "Really? My God, did you have to say that?" She smiled again, a little bigger this time. "Anyway, you see how it is." She stopped, looking closely at him. "You said there was a crime. What crime?"
"A possible crime. We're not sure, yet. Matt Carlsberg is dead. He was found at Connor Beach."
"But I thought . . . When did he get back?"
"About two weeks ago. There's evidence to suggest suicide, but we have to be sure."
"Yes, of course. But how can I help?"
"I'd like to know something about him. What he was like."
"As I said, I didn't really know him."
"You were his sister's friend. You must have heard a lot. What was his reputation at school?"
"Wild. Everyone knew that. Nothing serious, really. I don't think he ever went to jail, but it wouldn't have shocked anyone if he had."
"What kind of things did he do?"
She thought and then smiled. "There was the time he took Benny Lapp's truck. Benny got a pickup for his birthday, and thought he was about the greatest thing on wheels. Matt and a couple of his friends hot-wired it during lunch, and took it to the beach. They brought it back that night and parked it in Benny's driveway, but by that time Benny had reported it stolen. I don't think much happened, but there were a lot of hard feelings."
"That doesn't sound all that serious."
"No, most of it wasn't. Of course, there was the fire. Some kind of storage shed in back of their father's store. Someone poured gas around it and burned it down. I don't think there was much in it. It wasn't a great loss."
"Did they find out who did it?"
"Everyone assumed it was Matt. He didn't get along with his father at all, and he had the reputation. That's really all I know about Matt — just what I heard. I know some people liked him a lot, including some of the teachers, but to most of us he was the school bad boy. Kind of a James Dean character, only not in the movies. People like that are scarier close up."
"What about Maria Rhyne? Did you know her?"
"Oh, Lord, you're really bringing up old ghosts. Yes, I can tell you about Maria." She thought about it a bit, then said, "You know, in a way she caused my marriage, and in the same way she broke it up. It wasn't her fault, of course. She didn't even know."
"What happened?"
"It was the year after she and Matt left. I was just out of high school, and there was Robert — tall, good looking, older, serious. A man, not a boy. And he had his own business. He asked me to marry him, and I was flattered. I wasn't much to look at. I suppose I was pretty in a way, but I was really Miss Pudgy. I was probably described as having a wonderful personality."
Harry looked across at this svelte, attractive woman, and couldn't see it. As they had walked to the restaurant, he had noticed men turning for a second look. She read his face and said, "Thank you for the disbelief, but it's true. Whatever I have now, I worked hard to get, and even harder to keep, believe me."
He was beginning to like this woman.
"Anyway, you don't want to hear about my marital history."
"If you don't mind, I think I do. How did Maria Rhyne come into it?"
"Oh, that's right — Maria. Well, for the first year it was fine. Diane was born. Robert was doing very well at the store. Then I got the idea that Robert was, I don't know, dissatisfied. It's hard to tell with him. He doesn't say much, and he almost never says what he really feels. But I had the feeling I was being compared to someone else, and coming up short. I was sure it was another woman. Women always think that, don't they? He started getting even quieter, staying longer at work. I asked him and, of course, he said nothing was wrong. But I kept at it. An awful thing to do, but I was young and stupid and hurt.
"Finally, one night he blew up. Robert's the kind who keeps everything bottled up. But then . . . it just all came out. I was scared. I'd never seen him like that. He was so angry he was shaking. But then I realized it wasn't me. It was Matt. And he wasn't just angry — he was furious. He kept saying, 'He stole her', and, 'She was the only woman I ever loved', and calling Matt the most vile names. I didn't know what to do. It was like — excuse the expression, but it was like having someone vomit on you."
"Did he ever explain what he meant by all that?"
"Oh, yes. After it was out, he settled down and we talked, really talked. It was the only time I ever got inside that shell of his. He loved Maria, or thought he did. He said he was going to ask her to marry him as soon as she graduated. Then Matt left. When he heard she had gone with him, he blamed Matt for stealing his girl. And of course, there was nothing he could do about it. It just festered. The more he thought of it, the more beautiful and desirable she became. I think he married me as a sort of I'll-show-them kind of thing. But that never works, does it?"
"Did he continue with this grudge?"
"No, I'm sure he didn't. Once it was out, it was diffused. He could think about it rationally, then. I remember saying something about this being the twentieth century, that stealing girls was against the law. I mean, let's face it, if Maria went off with Matt, it was because she wanted to. He saw that, and he accepted it. I think he felt much better afterward."
"How about you?"
"Me? What should I feel? I'd just been told I was a far back second who'd been married out of spite. That's just not the image I've ever had of myself. It was hard to live with."
"Is that what caused the breakup?"
"Oh, it helped, but it wasn't really the cause. It would have happened anyway. Things were all right for a while, but then . .
. well, I think we could have made it work, but by that time neither of us wanted to. It was sort of a mutual decision."
"It sounds very civilized."
"Oh, yes. God knows we are that. We all have our civilized ways of coping. If anything's wrong, I talk it to death, Robert won't talk about it at all, and Annabelle pretends it's not so. You have talked to them, haven't you?"
"Yes, this morning."
She gave him a sly look. "I'll bet they didn't tell you about their father."
"I thought he was dead."
"He certainly is. Somebody made very sure of that."
"You mean he was murdered?"
"He was in the wrong bedroom at the wrong time. A man who worked for him walked in with a very large gun and shot him."
"When was that?"
"Maybe a month before Matt's graduation. Robert came home to take over the store and, as soon as school was out, Matt was gone. And Maria, of course."
"Did Robert ever talk about his father's death?"
"Never. You know Robert. He wouldn't discuss it. I asked him about it once. He just pulled that wall around himself and wouldn't say a word."
"And Mrs. Campbell? How did she take it?"
"Annabelle? As you'd expect. Annabelle's father was killed in a terrible accident. Any suggestion that he was caught in someone else's bed simply isn't acceptable. I don't think it surprised anyone else, though. His wife was supposedly an invalid. I don't think they'd slept together for years. And then, among other things, he was just a lecherous bastard."
"Is that from personal experience?"
Her face went blank, her eyes narrowed. "I remember being over there one day. He wasn't usually there, but he was that day. It was the first time I was ever aware of being mentally undressed. He had eyes that could peel you, one piece at a time, and make sure you knew it was happening. And remember, I was still Miss Pudge then. He didn't care."
And so it goes, he thought. One question leads to another and another and another. Where does it end? And what does this have to do with anything? Are you investigating or gossiping?
"Were you at your daughter's exhibit on Saturday night?"
"Yes, of course. I got there around eight."
"Did you see Mrs. Campbell and Mr. Stoneman?"
"Briefly, yes."
"And they didn't mention Matt being back?"
She considered him now with a closer appraisal. "You're very good at this, aren't you? No, they didn't. They weren't there very long. I only spoke to them a few minutes. We were discussing the artwork. Saying the usual things. It's expected, isn't it?"
"What about your daughter? Didn't she say anything?"
"We didn't really get a chance to talk. People kept coming up and asking her questions. And most of the time she was with Alex."
"And who is Alex?"
"Her boyfriend."
"She doesn't live with you?"
"No, nor with Alex either, though I'm sure they'd rather. She has an apartment in Wilmington, near school. Alex works here in Wilford, here in this building, actually. He's a paralegal, does the title searches, looks up precedents, case histories, things like that. Most of the things you pay a lawyer for."
"Stoneman and Briggs?"
"Yes."
"And when did you leave the exhibit?"
"Ah, alibi time. Well, I don't know what time you're interested in, Lieutenant, but I left about ten, maybe a little later. I left alone. I went home alone, and then I went to bed. Alone." Her eyes dared him to contradict her.
"One last question." He wondered why he was even asking it. "Didn't anyone ever call him Bob?"
She frowned. "Who?"
"Your ex-husband."
Her eyes lit up, and she said, "Robert? No, I . . . it never occurred to me. I've never heard anyone call him that." She laughed and said, "If you knew Robert . . . he was always just Robert." As she thought of it, the smile was replaced by a more serious look. She said, "No. It's rather sad, isn't it."
They parted in the courtyard. He watched her cross to her shop, thinking that if she were alone on a Saturday night, it was of her own choosing. Miss Pudgy!
When she reached the door of her shop she turned, knowing he would still be looking, and waved her fingers at him. When she saw she was right, she laughed, waved again and went inside. He wondered briefly how Mickie was doing with her cabbies.
Harry drove the VW to Wilmington on Tuesday morning. He spent most of it waiting to testify in a breaking and entering case. By the time he had finished testifying, it was well after lunch. He had a sandwich and coffee at a fast food place before driving back to Wilford. He had thought for a second or two about getting something to eat on the way, but didn't like the idea of crumbs in the car. And God forbid he should spill coffee on the floor mats.
He pulled into the hospital parking lot and, after a diligent search, found a space at the end of a row. That would at least save one of his doors from being dinged. He realized he was as finicky about his car as Matt Carlsberg had been about the rest of his life.
He went around to the side of the hospital and in through a delivery entrance. He went to the basement, then down a long, deserted, echoing hallway. Toward the end was a set of unmarked double doors. Mickie was standing beside them, leaning against the wall. She didn't look at him as he came up. She stared at the opposite wall and said, "Sorry. I just couldn't hack it."
"No big deal," he said. "Everyone has trouble at first. I still don't like it. Besides, we're not here as witnesses." He opened the door and went in, not watching to see if she followed.
The floor sloped gently downward to a central circle. Around this were rows of seats, empty now, designed for students. In the center was a large, stainless steel table and on it, naked and split up the middle, was what was left of Matthew Ray Carlsberg. The tall, stooped figure of the pathologist stood beside it, performing further indignities and softly recording them into a microphone.
Harry chose a seat that would give him the least view of the body. As he had said to Mickie, he was not there to watch. He sat patiently in the nearly empty room, listening to the drone of the voice describing what was done, what was seen. The words were mostly unintelligible. He felt like the last parishioner at the last ritual of some forgotten cult. Toward the end of the rite, Mickie sat down beside him, not looking at him, saying nothing.
When it was over, the high priest stripped off his gloves, picked up something shiny from the table, and came over to them. He glanced first toward Mickie on the sensible grounds that she was a lot prettier than Harry, and noticed the tight control of her face. He had seen it before. When he spoke to them, he included them both, not directing his remarks just to Harry.
"You were right about his being sick. Of course, the knife was what killed him, but you have to wonder why anyone bothered. He might have lingered quite a while — it's not usually a quick death — but he couldn't have stayed out of a hospital much longer. He must have been living on pain pills as it is."
"Could it have been suicide, do you think?"
The pathologist dipped his head to look over his glasses at them, mostly at Mickie. "Do you want me to describe the wounds?" She glared back at him.
"All right. The first was a very clean blow, slipped right in between the ribs." He put his fingers on his chest to show them where. "It was just above the heart."
Mickie said, "You mean there were multiple wounds?"
"Two, as far as I can tell. It was the second one that killed him, although in his condition, either one would have done it. It went in at about the same place, but it hit the rib and glanced downward. The blade nicked the heart. It doesn't take much."
"Not self-inflicted, then."
The pathologist lifted his hand, showing the slightly curved piece of broken metal that had once had a hilt. "Could you drive this into your chest? Twice?" He ran his finger along the edge. "Not sharp, not much of a point. And notice the shape. A curved blade is designed for slicing, cutting a throat maybe, no
t for stabbing. It would take a lot of force to drive this thing in."
Harry asked, "What about a woman?"
The other man considered. "It looked to me as if the victim was sitting at the time. Do you agree?"
"Seemed that way."
"Well then, if whoever did it was standing behind him, and held the knife in both hands, and raised it over her head . . ." He clasped his hands into one fist above his head, " . . . and then brought it down, like this. Yes, I suppose a woman could do it. Why not?"
"Twice?"
The man shrugged. "That's for you to say. Whoever did it showed a great deal of . . . determination."
Harry smiled at the choice of words. What he had meant to say was ferocity. Or viciousness.
"What about the time?"
"Hard to say. You took your time calling me. He'd been dead about fifteen hours when I saw him. Not much in the stomach to go on, but that's not surprising. If you were right about when he ate, I'd say he died between 10:30 and 12:00. But I suppose you knew that much already."
"Anything else? Other wounds, bruises, stuff like that?"
"Not a thing." He turned his attention strictly to Mickie and said, "You know, I almost didn't become a pathologist. I almost didn't even get my M.D."
"Is that right?"
"The first time we got to watch a surgery, a very minor surgery, I passed out colder'n hell."
Her voice had a cynical edge. "Yeah, I'll bet."
He shrugged, indicating it made no difference if she believed him or not. "You got up and walked out. I never made it to the door."
CHAPTER 13
Despite Mrs. Campbell's overdeveloped sense of propriety, her children didn't stay out of school on Tuesday. Christy had a History test she knew she could ace, and Ben had no intention of missing basketball practice. He knew he had an even chance at one of the starting guard positions. No way was he going to back off and give Charlie Evans a clear shot at it.
