“All right, you can have the stupid paper,” she said. But even as she said it, she knew that it was no longer hers to give. She had the sudden, vivid realization that she should never have come here. She was in danger. She did not understand it, but she was not a stupid woman. She knew this was not the time to argue about it or try to figure it out. Just leave, she said to herself. Don’t say anything else. Just go. She turned and bolted for the door. In one swift movement Walter stepped in front of her, blocking her way.
“Hey,” she protested, but it was empty bravado. Her voice was breathy with fear. Move, she told herself, but she could not budge from the spot. In a moment of terrible understanding, she put up her hands as Walter swiftly lifted the hammer, aimed at her head, and whacked it down.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Mom!” The shriek from upstairs startled her. Karen cried out and sliced her own finger with the knife she was using to peel an apple. She fumbled for a paper towel, spattering the roll with blood as she ripped one off raggedly and stanched the oozing blood.
“What is it?” she cried, rushing down the hall, her finger raised, the blood seeping through the paper.
Jenny clattered down the steps, her face white, clutching a creased sheet of stationery and a fluttering, yellowed newspaper clipping. She stopped short when she saw her mother’s hand, her eyes drawn to the splash of scarlet. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Karen said impatiently. “What happened? Why did you yell like that?”
Jenny looked at her mother with wide eyes and held out the clipping. “Look what I found. In Linda’s bank.”
Karen frowned and reached out.
“No, don’t get blood on them,” said Jenny. “Let me get a bandage.”
“Thanks,” said Karen. She went and sat down on the living room sofa. Jenny reappeared with a gauze-padded bandage and, placing her clippings on the coffee table, removed the paper towel with trembling hands and slapped the bandage over the cut and the blood seeping out. Karen sat meekly, feeling like a small child as her daughter repaired her cut finger.
“There,” said Jenny, crouching before her.
“Thank you, honey,” said Karen.
Jenny looked up in her mother’s eyes and rested her hand on one knee. “Mom, I think this is something really important.”
Karen smoothed the bandage down and looked curiously at the papers on the table. “What are these?”
“Read them,” said Jenny. “I found them in Linda’s bank. Read the clipping first. But, be careful. They’re old.” She wadded up the bloodiest paper towels. “I’ll throw these away. You read.”
“Okay,” said Karen, carefully picking up the clipping and perusing it. Jenny disappeared down the hall.
Karen read the old clipping several times. An escaped convict. Randolph Summers. A forty-year-old news story from the Midwest. It didn’t tell her much, although it was surely a strange thing for a teenaged girl to save.
Karen put down the clipping and picked up the creased, faded lilac sheet of stationary. The handwriting on the paper was definitely girlish, unformed. There was no greeting. The words covered the page. There were no margins. No paragraphs. I don’t know what to do, it began. There is no one in the world I can tell…I’ve thought about it over and over, but there’s no answer. If I tell what he is doing to me, then he will tell about Daddy, and Daddy will have to go back to prison for his whole life. At first I didn’t think it was true, but then he brought me this clipping to prove it. The man in the picture is my father. He’s right about that. So, I have to be quiet and let him do what he wants. But I can’t bear it much longer. The things he does to me are terrible and so painful, too. And I can’t tell. Every day I wake up and wish I was dead. I ask God to help me, but God doesn’t listen. I will never be able to get married and have a normal life because he has ruined me and men will just think I am always garbage now. I know it would be a mortal sin to kill myself, but sometimes it seems like the best thing to do.
Karen read the page over several times. Jenny crept back into the room and sat down beside her, watching her mother’s face. Karen shook her head as if to deny the meaning of what she was seeing. “My God,” she murmured. “Poor thing. Poor Linda.”
Jenny suddenly began to cry and looked at her mother helplessly. Karen kept shaking her head. It was too awful to imagine. She squeezed her hand over Jenny’s white knuckles. “Poor thing,” Karen repeated, her own eyes welling with tears.
“What does it mean, Mom? Well, I mean, I know what it means, sort of…”
Karen glanced at her daughter, still a child, but, thanks to movies and television, overly wise to the sordid side of life, at least as far as information was concerned. She clenched Jenny’s hand in her own. “Your mother was the victim of a horrible crime. She was being blackmailed with this information about her father.”
“Her father was an escaped convict? Do you think my…you know, her mother knew?”
Karen shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I think her father kept it a secret. And so did Linda. Just like her tormentor wanted her to do.”
“And this person was blackmailing her…not for money,” said Jenny. It was not a question.
“No,” said Karen grimly. “Not for money. That poor girl.”
“Wait a minute, Mom,” Jenny cried. “You don’t think it was Dad?”
Karen looked startled. “Dad! No, no, of course not.” She read the papers again, wishing the frightened girl had named her torturer. “No, of course not,” she repeated.
Like probing a diseased tooth, Jenny offered, “What about if he blackmailed her into giving me up?”
Karen knew Jenny did not believe this for a minute. She was imagining the questions from the police. Karen felt pity for her, to be so familiar with such matters. She looked up at Jenny, and for a brief, surreal moment, she felt a deep kinship with the murdered woman, an understanding as lucid as if they had shared their innermost thoughts. “There’s no way she would ever have let him adopt you.”
She looked down at the letter again, thinking of that long-ago girl, trying to protect her father whom she loved, her family. Paying with everything she had, her dignity and her innocence. “No,” said Karen again. “Your mother would never have knowingly given her child to a monster. But, you’re right about these papers. They are very important. This is her killer. I feel sure of it. Your father is right. This is who she came here seeking.”
“What do you mean, Dad is right?”
Karen looked up in confusion. Jenny did not know about their meeting. “I just meant…he told me there had to be another explanation. This is it.”
Jenny gave a hollow chuckle. “And I thought she came to see me.”
“She did,” Karen reassured her absently, ruminating on all that these documents implied. “But it wasn’t the only reason “
“But why?” Jenny protested. “Why after all this time? All these years. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Mmmm…” Karen frowned, thinking of the things that Linda had told them. She had come back to meet Jenny. She had come back for Mother’s Day. She had come back because she had learned…and then suddenly Karen understood why. It all made sense. “Because he’s dead now,” she said.
“Who?” asked Jenny, confused.
“Her father,” said Karen. “She told us her father died a few months ago. That means the blackmailer had nothing over her anymore. Once her father was dead, she was free to come back, to expose him. Her father couldn’t be sent back to prison.”
Jenny shrieked and jumped to her feet. “You’re right! That’s right. Mom, you’re a genius.”
Karen motioned for her to sit down. “Don’t get too excited. We still don’t know who it is.” She looked out the window at the darkness, the rain on the windows, and felt suddenly vulnerable. Someone evil had chosen to entangle them in this, had pinned the blame on Greg. Someone depraved, who knew too much about them. For a minute she allowed herself to wish that Greg were ther
e with them. She hated being alone in the house, just her and Jenny. No one knows about these papers, she reminded herself. No one knows you have them. The killer thinks his secret is safe.
“Yeah, but the police can find out who it is, now that we have these papers. And Dad can come home.” Karen shook her head. “It’s not that simple.” “Why not? Let’s call them up and tell them.” “Let me think,” said Karen. “We need to do the right thing.”
“Come on, Mom. The sooner you tell them, the sooner Dad will be able to come back.”
Karen stood up and walked out to the phone in the hall. Jenny followed her, jiggling impatiently from foot to foot.
“Who are you calling?” she asked as Karen dialed and held the receiver to her ear.
“Our lawyer,” she said. “Mr. Richardson.” “Don’t call him. He can’t do anything.” Even as her daughter pestered her, Karen listened with a sinking sensation to the recording on Arnold Richardson’s office machine. “Mr. Richardson is away on business. You can contact him at his office on Tuesday morning.”
Let down, Karen hung up the phone. “He’s away for the weekend,” she said.
“Let’s go to the police,” Jenny cried. She whirled around in a spin and hugged herself. “I’ve saved him,” she crowed. “I’ve saved my dad.”
“Hush,” said Karen sharply, staring down at the documents she clutched in her hand. “Hush, I’m thinking.”
Chapter Thirty-three
The Harborview Bar was in Dartswich, a fishing town about twenty miles from Bayland. It was a considerably less popular and prosperous town than Bayland, having suffered from the shutdown of a cannery and a much publicized problem with chemical wastes. The bar, like the town, had a dreary, depressed aspect to it. Its decor was a tired, nautical theme, with a fishnet canopy across the ceiling and scarred captain’s chairs surrounding the tables. There was a jukebox for music, and hits from the fifties filled the smoky length of the gloomy tavern. Greg found it almost funny that he felt overdressed in his borrowed chinos and golf shirt. Most of the patrons wore T-shirts or rumpled work shirts. A few of the patrons looked up disinterestedly when he came in, then went back to their beers. Greg slid onto a barstool, gave the guy two stools down a forced smile, and then gazed at the female bartender, waiting to catch her eye.
Finally she came down to his end, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her rather sloppy torso encased in a loose T-shirt that read “Surf’s up” on the front. “What’ll it be?” she asked.
Greg knew better than to try to get information without ordering a drink, although he was so ill nourished that he was apprehensive about the effect alcohol might have on him. The girl, who had clearly pegged him as the imported bottled-brew type, nodded approvingly when he ordered a draft. She drew it and set it in front of him. Greg placed a five-dollar bill on the bar and waved off the change when she rang it up. It was almost the last money he had, but, he thought wryly, there was nowhere he could spend it anyway. He pretended to sip his beer and waited. As he expected, she drifted back down in his direction when her scattered customers were satisfied.
Greg began a jittery conversation about the weather and segued into the Red Sox. The woman, who answered to Yvonne from the other customers, shook her head as if to separate the greasy bangs that brushed her eyebrows. She lit a cigarette and leaned back against the shelves of liquor. Like any good bartender, she let him lead the conversation. Greg could feel his heart hammering, and his lips were dry as he approached his purpose.
“Look,” he said in a low voice, “I’m not just here for a beer.”
Yvonne took a drag on her Marlboro, screwed up her lips, and nodded, regarding him coolly.
Greg fished in his pocket and pulled out the picture. “The truth is, I’m looking for some information.”
Yvonne shook her head in disgust. “A cop,” she said.
“I’m not a cop,” Greg protested, placing the picture carefully on the bar. “This is my wife.”
“Oh,” said Yvonne, ignoring the picture.
“I know she’s been running around on me. I found the name of this place in her diary with a notation for a week ago, Monday. No offense, but this is not the kind of place she would ever go to with the girls.”
Yvonne smiled ruefully, acknowledging the truth of that.
“I have my suspicions about who the guy is,” he said. “But I need to know.”
“Why don’t you just ask her?” Yvonne suggested, stubbing out her cigarette.
Greg shook his head. He picked up the photo and offered it to her. “Were you working that night?” he asked.
Yvonne thought back. “Last Monday? Yeah.”
“Can you just look?”
Yvonne tried to appear disinterested, but curiosity had the best of her. She took the picture and glanced at it. Then she handed it back to Greg. “Yeah,” she said.
“Yeah, what?” Greg asked, his heart leaping.
“She was here.”
“Just like that?” It was like the car door snapping open. It was his luck changing.
“You want to know or don’t you?”
“With…”
“A man.” Yvonne shrugged.
Playing his role, Greg smacked his hand on the bar. That bitch. Do you remember what he looked like?”
Yvonne chuckled. “I wouldn’t forget those two,” she said, enjoying the surprise and curiosity on Greg’s face.
“Hey, Yvonne, another round here.”
Yvonne gave Greg a Cheshire cat smile. “Customer,” she said.
Greg sat back on the stool, amazed. A witness. It was so easy—if you knew where to look. Hope flared inside of him. She could save him. Surely this would save him. It proved that Linda was with someone else that night, someone long after he was home. He would be free. He tried not to think of the problems, the possibilities that awaited him from here. The main thing right now was to be able to rid himself of a murder charge. He looked down the bar at the unlovely Yvonne, and she seemed like a guardian angel.
As she meandered back down the bar, lighting another cigarette, Greg wanted to grab her up in an embrace. Thank you again, Lord. I don’t deserve it, but thank you.
Yvonne pointed her cigarette at his glass. “Something wrong with that beer?”
Greg shook his head. “My stomach’s in a knot,” he said truthfully.
“Beer’s good for that.”
Greg did not want to waste any time. “I’m surprised you remembered them so easily,” he said.
“Oh, they were easy to remember all right,” she said flatly, “He’s a cop.”
Greg stared at her as if she were speaking another language.
“Your wife’s boyfriend is a cop.”
Greg felt suddenly light-headed and weak. “How do you know he’s a cop?”
“How do you think I remembered them?” she asked, pleased with the effect of her revelation. “He came up to the bar, and I noticed he had a piece under his jacket. 1 : I thought for sure I was about to get robbed, or worse. But when he went to pay, I saw the shield in his wallet. It gave me a few bad moments, though.”
“A cop.” Greg slumped on the barstool, hope leaving him like air from a punctured tire.
“Wasn’t who you thought, eh?”
Greg shook his head.
“Hey, maybe she’s not fooling around. Maybe it’s something else. They didn’t even look friendly to me, never mind lovey-dovey. Besides, the guy was old enough to be her father.”
Greg tried to collect his thoughts. “What did he look like?”
Yvonne thought it over for a minute. “Gray hair, glasses, those wire kind. Oh, and a weird dent in his j forehead. Some kind of scar.”
Greg recognized the description at once. The detective in charge of Linda’s case. Walter Ference. It couldn’t be. He did not ever remember Linda mentioning anyone on the police force. Although, he had to admit to himself that there was very little he knew about Linda at the time of their affair. He knew she was troubled, but s
he was quiet about it. She was secretive, and he had not tried to find out why. But why would Walter Ference…? Well, whatever the reason, it explained a lot of things. All along Greg had been thinking that whoever framed him had known about his affair with Linda for years. Walter Ference may only have known about it for hours. After the witness he mentioned came forward with the information, Ference saw a suspect with an ideal motive staring him in the face, and he framed Greg with the room key. He had been in the ideal position to frame Greg. Yes, Greg thought. It made sense. But it also destroyed his hope of exoneration. He tried to visualize himself going to the police and accusing Walter Ference. Hey, guys, I’ve got a suspect for you. Your boss. He looked back at Yvonne. He had only one hope left, and before he spoke, he had a good idea of what her answer would be. Most people were definitely reluctant to start pointing the finger at the police. But he had to try to convince her.
Greg leaned over the bar. “I need your help,” he said urgently.
Yvonne barked out a derisive laugh. “I know what’s coming. No way, hon. Forget it.”
“Please,” he said. “I need someone who can identify him.”
Yvonne shook her head. “Rat on a cop? Sure buddy. I’ve got a death wish.”
“You’re the only one who can help me,” Greg pleaded.
“Look,” said Yvonne. “I’m sorry for your problem, but I don’t mess with cops. Hire a private dick to follow them and take pictures. Leave me out of it.”
Greg felt both light-headed and nauseated. He had only had a few sips of the beer, to placate Yvonne, but combined with the stress, it made him feel sick. “You don’t understand,” he said helplessly. He realized that he could not explain. He was a fugitive from a murder charge. “Please,” he said, feeling muddled, trying not to sound desperate. “I could have a lawyer call you.”
Her eyes narrowed at his persistence, his ingratitude. Most of all, she disliked the mention of the lawyer. She wanted to make it perfectly clear that she did not intend to cooperate. Period. “Look,” she said in a shrill voice, “get this straight. I never saw you. I never saw them. I don’t know anything. That’s what I tell anyone who asks me. Capisce?”
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