Our Fathers (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  "For one. Also, I'd like to know what's in that note he left for the kids. Maybe it's just 'Good luck, have a nice life', but I don't think so."

  "Well, you'll find out tomorrow."

  "Yes, and I'll probably be disappointed."

  "What about motive and opportunity?"

  "Ah, yes. It's not exactly a locked-room mystery, is it? Any of these people could have done it. Most of them think they have alibis, but they haven't. Ben thought it was exciting not to have one. His mother and Stoneman alibi each other, but what's that worth? Stoneman didn't come into the house when he brought her home. Maybe because he had on borrowed clothes. Robert says he didn't get home in time, but there's no one to verify that. If he pushed a little, he could have made it. Christy? She was at a party with no reliable transportation. She could have gotten a ride, I guess, but coming back to the party or going home in her uncle's clothes wouldn't work. Who else? Ruth Babineau. She says she didn't even know he was back, but he went to Stoneman's office twice, and his office and her shop are in the same building. She could have seen him."

  "Any motive there?"

  "Not that I know of. She gets nothing under the will. Says she hardly knew him. Her daughter is one of those the note is to, but no one seems to know what that's all about, supposedly even Stoneman."

  "There's also Eason and what's her name—Kelly."

  "True. Actually, it would have been easier for them than for anyone else".

  "Yes," said Mickie, "but they're the only ones who wouldn't have needed to shower or take the clothes. They only had to walk a hundred yards on a dark, deserted beach."

  "Good point. So we have all these people who could have done it, might have done it, even had some motive to do it, but . . ."

  "But you don't like it."

  Harry shifted to a straight up sitting position. "No. Something's wrong with it all."

  "Based on what?"

  "My gut."

  "Mmm. So what's next?"

  "Tomorrow the will. Then we'll see. Now I'm going home, put my feet up and think. Or fall asleep, whichever comes first."

  As they were going through the door, Ross said, "Harry," in a way that Mickie knew didn't include her. She kept going as Harry stopped and looked back. Ross looked at him uneasily, "Are you all right with this?"

  Harry grinned. "A little late to ask, isn't it? Yes, I'm okay. Actually, it hasn't been bad at all. What somebody did to Matt Carlsberg was savage. But the interviews with all the people who might have done it . . . it's been like a summer tea out on the lawn. Everyone smiles, everyone's cooperative. The only one who showed any heat at all was Diane Carlsberg, and that was only when she thought I was trying to hang her family. Somebody, of course, was lying, but it was done very graciously. No one yelled, no one cried, no one threw anything or made any threats. I've never seen such a civilized bunch of suspects of such a vicious crime. No, don't worry, I'm fine."

  Ross looked unsure. "That's good. I know how you feel about this, but you're the only one with the experience."

  "It's okay."

  When he left, he went with the feeling that had been with him all through the meeting, but had said nothing about. Once, on a case some years before, he had forgotten to ask a witness something. The question had stayed hidden in some dark corner of his mind, nagging at him, making him irritable for days, until he had finally found it and pulled it to the surface. He had gone back to the witness and asked the question. As it turned out, it had made no difference to anything. But he had felt better.

  Now he had the same feeling. Something didn't check. Somewhere, there was a question that needed asking. He hadn't a clue as to whom he should ask or what it was about. But it was there.

  With both himself and the cat well fed, Harry made himself comfortable on the lounger, while the cat did the same on him. The cat wasted no time in going to sleep, but Harry didn't try. The feeling of having overlooked something had grown steadily, and was now a certainty. He thought it would probably be nothing important, but it would bother him until he knew.

  He had tried going through all his notes, hoping they would show him what he had missed. That had just strengthened the feeling without pointing any fingers. Now he decided to try a less analytical approach. The mind, he knew, can be a perverse creature. Sometimes, we have to approach it cautiously, obliquely, careful not to frighten it with any sudden moves.

  He let his thoughts wander over what he had seen and heard during the past four days, not trying to take them in order, but letting things drift in and out. He went down blind alleys, backed out, and moved off again, hearing bits of conversation, recalling how people looked at him, or avoided looking at him as they spoke.

  As he replayed one of the interviews, it suddenly was there, very clear and sure, what the question was. It was the third time that particular part of the conversation had run through his mind. He was annoyed it had taken him so long to see it.

  Now that he knew the question, he saw that the person he should have been asking was himself. The only thing wrong with that was that he didn't have the answer. How could he? And would it make any difference if he did?

  "All right, cat, now what do I do? I don't have the answer, and there's no way to find it."

  The cat opened his eyes half way to give him a disappointed stare, then closed them in supreme disgust. Harry said, "Yes, I suppose you're right. If you can't get the answer, why worry about it?"

  He did worry, though. It occurred to him that what he could do was to find possible answers, then see if any of them made sense. But what answers? The one everybody had accepted was probably wrong, but what others were there? He tried to think clearly about it, but the long day and the meal had dulled him, turning his thoughts in another direction. He decided to make it an early night.

  He gave the cat sole possession of the chair, and went to bed. Lying there, he let his mind drift again. He thought of his wife in Baltimore with their grandson, but quickly veered off. He thought, How did you let yourself get sucked into another homicide? But that was a silly question. They may not happen as frequently in Connor Beach, but they happen. He thought, I'm getting too old for this stuff, and found no argument with that. He reminded himself of how smoothly this one had gone so far, and knew he had nothing really to complain about. "Civilized" was the way he had put it. Everything clean and uncluttered with emotion.

  When he was in that middle state—not awake, not quite asleep—one possible answer to his question seemed to take form. He didn't know if it was dream or not, and was asleep before he could examine it to see.

  It was nearly light when he woke. He glanced at the clock radio on the bedside stand, and saw the radio would turn on in five minutes. He often woke like this, just before it was time, switching it off so it wouldn't wake Karen. From habit he reached over to turn it off and, as he did, remembered that almost answer when he was almost asleep. What had it been? Nonsense, probably. But it was there, somewhere on the edge of awareness, tantalizing. He lay there in the warmth and softness trying to catch it, and nearly went back to sleep.

  He shaved and showered, decided to skip breakfast, found where the cat was hiding, and put him out. In the garage, he started up the VW and sat, giving the engine a few minutes to warm up. As he waited, he went back to his puzzle, but got nowhere. He put the car in gear and backed out. He was relieved at having found his question, even if it didn't have an answer. Somehow, though, he had the nagging feeling that it should have. Harry seldom used profanity, finding no need for it, but as he started off he thought, I hate these damned homicides.

  CHAPTER 17

  The weather had not cooperated with Annabelle Campbell. It didn't actually have to rain, she thought, but a suitable overcast would have been more fitting. The sun, however, was bright, the air remarkably clear. Rows of grave markers shone whitely against the green of well-tended lawn. A showoff cardinal flashed across her view, then disappeared into a large oak. Despite the occasion, it was a day, like it or not, for
living. Standing beside the open grave, with the mound of dirt piled opposite, her children one on each side of her, listening to the drone of the ministers eulogy, she knew she should feel something more. Instead, she had the feeling that this was just a rehearsal. Tomorrow or the next day, under a black, stormy sky, they would bury her brother.

  Christy was standing quietly on her left, knowing that her mother would insist they spend the rest of the day showing the proper respect, wondering how soon she could get out of the house.

  Ben fidgeted, considering the way things seemed to balance out. They were out of school, but to get that they had to be here. He wasn't sure which was worse. After this, they were going to Wes' office to hear the will. He was looking forward to that because, like everyone else, he had heard about the note that went with it. On the other hand, he would miss basketball practice, unless he could talk his mother into letting him go back early. Not too early. Late enough to miss his last class, but in time for practice. He doubted he could pull it off, and wondered if Christy had any plans along those lines.

  Annabelle was aware of Wes standing protectively behind her, and again had the warm, wanted feeling he always gave her. Thank God for him. Farther to her right, just at the edge of her sight, were Robert and Diane. And Alex, of course. She wasn't quite sure why he was there. Probably, she supposed, as a comfort to Diane. Not that she seemed to need comforting. Outside the house, before getting into the cars to come out here, she had seen her talking to Alex, laughing about something. Actually laughing! And what was she thinking when she choose those clothes? Lord, she looked as if she had dressed for a picnic rather than a funeral. You'd think that with her mother's good taste in clothes . . . Annabelle wore a dark brown outfit. She had found at the time of her husband's death that black gave her a washed out look.

  Actually, Diane was dressed rather formally, for her. She wore a dress, which in itself was a concession. It may have been a bit bright for some, but she had always been impatient with what she considered the hypocrisy of convention. At present, she was concerned only about her father. He hadn't looked all that well when they met at Anna's. He had appeared haggard, his usual dark skin almost pale. Now it definitely had a waxy sheen. He took out a handkerchief, dabbing at his forehead despite the chill in the air. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out along his hairline. His breathing seemed unusually fast. He saw her looking at him, and smiled reassuringly. She wanted to tell him to go back and sit in the car, but she knew he wouldn't.

  Behind them, a dozen paces back, stood Harry. He wasn't sure why he was there. He simply felt he wanted to be. He had talked and heard and thought so much about this man during the past few days. He didn't try to join the funeral party, knowing he wouldn't be welcome. He had approached the spot as unobtrusively as he could, but had quickly been spotted by Mrs. Campbell. She had not looked directly at him, but her expression had been venomous.

  He saw Terry Eason standing to one end, a little behind the row of mourners. Terry kept glancing, not at the minister at the head of the grave, but at the others. He was studying their faces with a speculative expression on his own. Sometimes he shifted his position a little to get a better angle. Harry watched him watching them, wondering what he was up to. Was he trying to figure out who could have caused the guest of honor to be at this ceremony?

  He broadened his scope to beyond the new grave. There were only a few other people in sight, some walking slowly along the paths that broke the rows of markers. An old man stood stiffly, watching his wife bend to place a bunch of flowers against a stone. Off to the left, a woman stood before a gravestone, not moving. She was an attractive woman. He noticed that first. She wore a pleated white dress that moved slightly with the breeze, and a hat that fitted close around her head. That was the next thing he noticed. How long had it been since he had seen a woman wearing a hat? Then he saw that she was not paying much attention to the grave she stood by. She seemed to be watching the funeral of Matt Carlsberg. She would glance downward, as if from duty, but when her eyes came up they would be focused on the burial.

  The minister stopped abruptly. There was some subdued bustle as they prepared to lower the casket. The mourners stepped back, breaking up into groups who stood for a moment talking, or heading toward their cars. Harry turned back toward the lady with the hat, but she was no longer there. He caught a glimpse of white as she went through the cemetery gates, and gave himself a mental kick in the butt for being so slow. He made his way over to the stone she had stood by, and read the inscription. It didn't surprise him. It was the grave of a woman who had lived from 1876 to 1948. The name was Agnes Nelson Rhyne.

  Extra chairs had been brought into the lawyer's office to form two arcs facing the desk. Harry sat in the back row, trying to be invisible. Terry sat beside him, feeling like an intruder. Ben and Christie were impatient just in front of them. Stoneman stood with Annabelle off to one side. She was clearly displeased about the police being there. Being at the funeral had been bad enough. She tried not to glance toward Harry, while Stoneman tried to reassure her.

  Wes looked over at the door and frowned. Ben and Christy had been doing that for the past few minutes, wanting to get started, wondering what was keeping the others. They heard a door close and then voices in the other room. Everyone stopped and watched the door. When it opened, only Diane came in.

  Wes asked, "Your father's not with you?"

  "No." Diane looked worried. "He's not feeling well. Alex is with him. He's in the john."

  Annabelle looked genuinely concerned. "You don't suppose there's anything . . . I mean, it's nothing serious, is it?"

  "I don't know. He looked terrible all morning. Maybe it's just the flu."

  Stoneman was uncertain. "Well, we could wait a while,"—he checked his watch—"if he only needs a few minutes."

  "He wants us to go on without him. He said he'd be along when he could, and we didn't need him to be here."

  "Well, that's true." Stoneman gave an habitual glance at the watch again. "Well, yes, perhaps we should begin." He went to the chair behind his desk. Annabelle took a chair in front, beside her children. Diane, seeing where Harry was sitting, sat beside her.

  "I won't read the entire will unless someone thinks it necessary." He looked at Harry. "The provisions are quite simple. To his sister, Annabelle Campbell, he leaves the house he purchased at Connor Beach. This includes all its contents, with the following exceptions. Perhaps I should read this part since the wording is, for the most part, his own." He found the place and continued. "To Terry Eason, in the belief that he will grant the favor we spoke of, I leave the Italian desk in the living room and the lamp that sits upon it. A writer should have a decent place to write. To him I also leave my books and all the Drambuie left in the house. He may use it to reward himself, as he seems to find that necessary."

  He looked up from the desk to Terry. "I pointed out to Mr. Carlsberg that the way this was worded, your honoring or not honoring the favor he asked would in no way affect the bequest."

  "But I don't even know what it is. He told me he might ask a favor, but he never did. I never saw him again."

  "Ah, I see. Well, then. To his brother, Robert, he leaves the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. The rest of his estate, essentially what is in his savings and checking accounts, is to be divided equally between Annabelle Campbell and Robert Carlsberg." He paused, then said, "There are no other provisions. Has anyone any questions?"

  Ben asked, "What about the note?" His mother shot him a quick glance, but said nothing.

  "Yes, of course. That's entirely separate from the will." He picked up a manila envelope, and made a show of unsealing it. From it he took two sheets of paper and a long envelope. He picked up and glanced at both sheets, then said, "Mr. Carlsberg said there would be two notes. He asked me to read both aloud. The first is to Mr. Eason."

  I told you I would be asking a favor. Well, this is it. I'm going

  to invite my nephew and nieces to go on a sort of q
uest. Since

  they are not yet legally adults, I'm afraid their parents might

  object to this. Therefore, I am asking you to be their guide.

  I think you might find it enjoyable and, in a way, rewarding.

  In the enclosed envelope you will find directions. Open it only

  when you are all together and ready to begin. Thanks again

  for everything.

  "All right!" said Ben. "What's in the envelope?"

  "I think one thing at a time," said Wes. "There's also a note to you three."

  This shouldn't be too difficult, if you keep an open mind and

  don't get too rigid in your thinking. What you are looking for

  may or may not be of value, depending upon your luck and

  what you decide to do with them. If you don't find them by

  the end of the year, it's academic anyway. My only rule is that

  you stay together—no one charging off on his own. Right,

  Ben? Don't take this too seriously, but by the time you reach

  the end, you'll be so low you'll have to reach up to touch

  bottom. Yes, that's a clue. One more hint: Start at the beach.

  "Yes!" said Ben, pumping his fist. He turned and looked at Terry. "You're not going to say no, are you?"

  Terry was very aware of six pair of eyes fixed upon him. Even Annabelle was waiting to hear what he would say.

  "Why is everyone looking at me? How could anyone say no to something like this?"

  "All right! So let's get started."

  "No," said Annabelle, "Not now." She stood, ready to leave. "There is a time and a place for everything. Some of our neighbors are bringing over food for a luncheon, and people will be stopping by to offer condolences. I'm not going to tell them you're off on some kind of treasure hunt. Now no! That's final!"

  Ben started to object. Terry said, "Your mother's right. There'll be a better time." Annabelle was grateful for the unexpected help. "Perhaps this evening, if it's all right with your mother."