Under the Lake

by Stuart Woods

  Howell inserted the tip of the pen under the desk blotter and lifted it. Nothing. Eric Sutherland didn’t appear to have left a note. Not at the scene, anyway. Howell squatted and looked at the safe next to the desk. He knew nothing about cracking safes, but he knew something about human nature. On his knees, he opened the desk drawers again with his pen and looked underneath each. Nothing. He stood up and pulled out the stenographer’s shelf on the right. There was a piece of paper taped to the shelf containing a list of phone numbers Sutherland called frequently; the sheriffs office, the bank, a couple of banks in Atlanta, Enda McCauliffe. He pushed the shelf back in and pulled out its mate on the left side. The face of the shelf was clean, but Howell spotted a piece of cellophane tape on the edge of the shelf, protruding slightly. He pulled the shelf out to its limit. The combination to the safe was taped to its inner edge.

  Howell looked at his watch. He reckoned he had been at the house for less than five minutes, in the study for half that time. He ran to the door and had a look around the front of the house. Still deserted. He ran back to the study and slipped out of his shoes and socks. Quickly, he pulled the socks onto his hands, knelt and started to dial the combination of the safe. It didn’t work. He tried again more carefully, and this time, the handle moved and the door swung open.

  The safe was crammed with all sorts of papers. Evidently, Eric Sutherland had been the sort of man who preferred to keep important things locked away, instead of in unlocked desk drawers where people like Howell might find them. Howell flipped quickly through the contents. He was breathing fast, now, terrified that someone would walk in on him. There were a lot of deeds in the safe – the farm land under the lake, Howell suspected; there was a bundle of cash, twenties, fifties, and hundreds; there were some ledgers; no time for any of that stuff. A heavy, bright blue envelope caught his eye. It looked new. He fumbled with the string closure with his stocking fingers and finally got it open.

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  was its title. Howell flipped quickly through it, passing up small bequests to the butler, cook, and gardener. There were some small charitable bequests, not many. When he got to the bequest of the residue of Sutherland’s estate, he was brought up short. He reread the first paragraph twice, to be sure he absolutely understood its meaning, then he pressed on for two more pages, reading as fast as he could and still retain what they said. The will was witnessed by Enda McCauliffe and two other people whose names he did not recognize. But it was what came after the will that riveted him to the spot. He read on. He was totally rapt now; a platoon of police storming into the room would not have disturbed him.

  He finished and looked about him. Eric Sutherland had a copying machine, but it wasn’t here. Where had he seen it? Of course, in the office building out back. He looked at his watch. He had been in the house for a good eight minutes, maybe longer. He tried to think how long it might take him to get out there, jimmy the door, wait for the machine to warm up, and copy the will. Five or six minutes, and he couldn’t afford to make a mess of the door. There had been no keys in Sutherland’s desk. Since the body was wearing pajamas, they were probably upstairs in his bedroom with the normal contents of the man’s pockets.

  No. Too much time, too much risk. He couldn’t afford to end up in jail, not today. He put the will back into the envelope, got the string wound around the closure and replaced it in the safe. He closed it, worked the handle and spun the lock.

  He pulled the socks off his hands, then picked up the phone and dialed the sheriffs office. Scotty answered.

  “Is Bo there?”

  “Yes,” she said in a hushed voice. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Let me speak to him.”

  “Why? What’s going on, John?”

  “Let me speak to him right now, Scotty.” He heard her call out to Bo.

  “Hey, John, how’s it going?”

  Howell glanced at his watch. “I make it four minutes to eleven, Bo. What time have you got?”

  “Four and a half to. You want to compare watches? I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

  “Please make a note of the time, Bo. I’m at Eric Sutherland’s house. Sutherland’s dead. Looks like suicide. You want to get out here very fast, please?”

  There was a strange noise behind Howell. He spun around to find Alfred, the butler standing there in his hat and coat, holding a small suitcase. Alfred was staring at Eric Sutherland’s body. He made the noise again, then crumpled and fell sideways, bounced off a chair, and landed heavily on the floor.

  “John? What’s going on?”

  “Hang on.” Howell bent over the butler and peeled back an eyelid; the pupil contracted immediately. He felt for a pulse; strong and rapid. He took a pillow off a chair and placed it under the man’s feet, then picked up the phone again.

  “Looks like Alfred just got home from somewhere. He’s fainted, but I think he’s okay.”

  “You wait there with Alfred and don’t touch anything, you hear me?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Howell sat down on a chair and put on his socks and shoes. He hoped to God Alfred hadn’t noticed he was barefoot.

  32

  Howell heard the siren from the moment Bo left the sheriffs office. After a minute, the butler began to stir and wanted to get up. Howell helped him to his feet and walked him to a living room sofa as the siren grew louder and louder. He had just settled Alfred there when Bo strode through the open front door.

  “Where?” he asked.

  Howell pointed to the study and followed the sheriff in.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bo said.

  “Yeah.”

  Bo stood and looked at the corpse for a long moment. “Well,” he said, finally, “we had our differences, I guess, but I sure wouldn’t have wanted him to end up that way.”

  Howell wondered how Bo would have liked for Sutherland to end up. “You see the pencil,” he said. “I reckon he took off his slippers, there, put the pencil through the trigger guard, holding it in his toes, and pushed it against the trigger with both feet.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Bo said, still rooted to the spot. “He couldn’t have put the barrel in his mouth and still reached the trigger with his hand.” He was quiet again for another moment, then he took a breath and shook himself. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Scotty, give me Mike. Mike? Get on the horn and get everybody over to Sutherland’s house. Yeah, he’s dead. I don’t know, yet, just hold your horses and listen. Call Dr. Murphy and ask him to get out here right away. Call Herman McWilliam and tell him to get over here with his wagon; we’re going to have to take the body over to Gainesville for a proper post mortem. Then you round up the fingerprint kit, a lot of evidence bags and the camera – the Polaroid and the 35 millimeter – everything we could possibly need to work a scene, and get over here. Tell Scotty and Sally to handle the radio and the office, and not to leave until they hear from me. I don’t think anybody knows about this, yet, so tell them to keep things as normal as possible, okay? Tell the guys to park around back, then stand at each entrance to the drive. Nobody gets in unless I invited them. I’ll want you inside with me. Got that? Any questions? Okay, move it.”

  He hung up the phone and turned to Howell. “All right, John, what were you doing here?”

  Howell had thought about that one. “I dropped by to ask Mr. Sutherland some questions about local history.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the library?”

  “They were questions I thought only Mr. Sutherland could answer. Or would.”

  Bo glared at him. “You’re still after that, are you?”

  Howell looked him in the eye. “You bet.”

  Bo shrugged. “All right, give me this morning from the top.”

  Howell ran through his morning for the sheriff, seeing Scotty off to work, running out of gas, Benny Pope’s visit, stopping at the post office, and his arrival at the house. He stretched the time a little to cover his
search of the study. Bo made copious notes as he talked.

  “What did you touch?”

  “The phone, the cushions to make Alfred comfortable… that’s it, I think.”

  “Not the doorknobs?”

  “Let’s see; the front door was ajar, I touched the door, but not the knob. I touched the back doorknobs, inside and out, when I went out there. The study door was open, one side of the shotgun case was open; I remember I saw my reflection in just the one door.”

  The sheriff looked at him sharply. “John, I know you well enough to know that you didn’t just stand here when you found the body. Did you touch the desk or the safe or the filing cabinets or anything else at all?”

  Howell felt tiny sweat beads breaking on his forehead. He hoped Bo didn’t notice. “I stood here in my tracks and looked at the room real hard for about… I guess, a minute. My first thought was that there might be a note.”

  “Was there a note? Did you find anything like that?”

  “No. The room is exactly the way I found it.” It was, too. Everything in its place.

  “John, listen to me. Nobody else is here yet. I haven’t even read you your rights. If there’s anything else you want to tell me, anything you might just have forgotten or overlooked, anything you might have done, now’s the time to tell me, unofficially, if you want. In a minute this place is going to be swarming with people, and it’ll be too late for me to help you.”

  Howell blinked. “Help me? I don’t need any help. Jesus, Bo, you don’t think for a moment this is anything but a suicide, do you? Come on, you’re not going to play me like a suspect.“

  “All right, all right, it looks like a suicide, but you know I’ve got to be thorough.” He looked again at what was left of Eric Sutherland’s body. “More thorough than I’ve ever been in my life.” He looked back at Howell. “Did you go upstairs or into any of the other rooms?”

  “No, I made it a suicide right away. I reckoned if there’d been anybody in the house, they’d have heard it. If I’d thought there was a murderer hiding upstairs, I’m not so sure I’d have looked, anyway.”

  “When was the last time you saw Eric Sutherland alive?”

  “At his party. Not since.”

  “Not anywhere? Not here, not in the town, not anywhere?”

  “Nope. In fact, I only ever spoke to Sutherland twice; the day I arrived in town, when I saw him and stopped to introduce myself, and the day of the party. That was it.”

  “You ever have harsh words with him?”

  “Nope. He was a little cool when I met him the first time, but at the party he was all charm.”

  “Apart from the time you broke into Sutherland’s office, did you ever come to this house when he wasn’t here?”

  Howell waited for a moment before answering. “I think you must be referring to the time when Scotty lost her credit card at Sutherland’s party, and Sutherland thought somebody had broken into his office. I have never visited this house when Sutherland was not here. Do I make myself absolutely clear on that point?”

  “Yeah, okay, we’ll forget about the credit card. You’ve explained that well enough, and I think it’s best forgotten.”

  “Fine. I know you’ve got a doctor on the way, Bo, but for what it’s worth, this looks hours old to me. The blood and the other stuff are partly dried.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right.” Bo looked up as a car came to a halt outside the house. “Look, John, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go phoning this in to any of your newspaper buddies, and if you’d keep Scotty from doing that, too. I want to have this thing covered from every angle before the press gets onto it, okay?”

  “Sure, Bo.”

  Mike came into the study carrying two briefcases, saw Sutherland’s body, put down the cases, and fled to the driveway. They could hear him retching.

  “He’s going to be a lot of help,” Bo said, wryly.

  Howell laughed. “He’ll get used to it. First time’s the worst.”

  “Well, John, we’ve got a lot of work to do around here. I’ll call you if I have any more questions.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you get on with it.” Howell turned and started for the door.

  “Oh, John,” Bo called out.

  Howell stopped. “Yeah?”

  “Like they say in the movies, don’t leave town.”

  33

  Driving back toward the town, Howell reflected that there was a certain symmetry emerging in all this that seemed more than coincidental. He had a couple of things to confirm, then he would know. Maybe.

  He glanced at his watch; the timing was about right. He parked in front of the courthouse, and, sure enough, right on schedule, the battleaxe, Mrs. O’Neal, left for lunch. Howell bounded up the stairs. This wouldn’t take long; he just wanted to confirm his own memory. He was in and out of the records office in minutes.

  As he got back into the car, another thought hit him, right from left field. Curious, he drove to the shopping center, parked in front of the drugstore, and went in. He stood staring at the shelf.

  “May I help you, sir?” A girl in a white jacket stood at his elbow.

  “Oh, no thanks, I was just looking,” Howell replied, and tried to smile at the girl.

  She looked askance at the shelf of female products and back at him, askance.

  “Uh, just looking,” he said lamely and left quickly. Howell felt very strange, indeed, as he got back into the car. All this had suddenly become a little too much. His first reaction was that he wanted a drink. With some effort, he scaled the desire back to a beer, then headed for Bubba’s.

  He was on his second beer when Enda McCauliffe came in. Howell was, at first, surprised that McCauliffe wasn’t out at Eric Sutherland’s house, then it occurred to him that the lawyer probably didn’t know yet. It had been no more than half an hour since Howell had found the body.

  “Mind if I join you, John?” The lawyer was a lot friendlier than the last time they had met.

  “Please do, Mac. I was about to come to see you anyway.”

  “Listen, John, I’m sorry I popped off at you out at Sutherland’s. I’d had a lot to drink, and I wasn’t at my best that day.”

  “Not at all, Mac. You were protecting your client. I understand.”

  The lawyer ordered lunch. “Why were you coming to see me?”

  “I think I might need a lawyer pretty soon.”

  “Well, I don’t know, John…”

  “I can promise you that any legal advice you give me won’t conflict with Eric Sutherland’s interests, Mac. In fact, I can guarantee it.”

  “Well, okay, how can I help you?” He looked around. “I used to do most of my work in this place, anyway, if you don’t mind talking here.”

  “Couple of things,” Howell said, sipping his beer. “One’s a long-term sort of thing that I’d like you to handle locally for me. I’ll talk to you about that in a day or two, I think.”

  “And the other?”

  “There’s a fair chance I might be arrested before the day is out. I’ll try and avoid it, but if I get picked up, I don’t want to spend the night in jail.”

  “What’s the charge going to be?”

  Smart lawyer, Howell thought. Not 'What did you do?' “It could be almost anything, but probably material witness. Maybe murder.”

  “You thinking of killing somebody?”

  “Whatever it turns out to be, you can rest assured I didn’t do it.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “If you need some muscle, call Denham White in Atlanta. He’s still my brother-in-law, after all.”

  “John, are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell me?”

  “Yes, but first, I want to ask you a personal question.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Why did you never marry, Mac?”

  The lawyer said nothing, just looked at Howell without expression.

  “Could it have been for the same reason Bo Scully never got married?”r />
  The lawyer continued to look at Howell for a moment. “Which one of my half-dozen stock answers would you like?”

  “Never mind, Mac, I’m sorry.”

  “John, perhaps you shouldn’t count on me to represent you.”

  “Sorry, Mac, you’re stuck with me. I know you’ll do a good job. Look, a lot is going to happen around here during the next twenty-four hours, and I want you to remember that a lot of it may not be what it seems to be.” And that, Howell thought, was a direct quote.

  “You’re getting pretty mysterious, John. What’s going to happen?”

  “Well, I don’t know all of it, maybe not even most of it, but it’s already started. Eric Sutherland is dead.”

  McCauliffe sat up. “Are you serious?”

  “Apparent suicide. I found the body this morning.”

  McCauliffe looked stunned. “Where?”

  “At his house. In the study. Shotgun in the face.”

  “You found him? What were you doing out there?”

  “I went to ask him some questions about the O’Coineens.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah, that would have been a touchy point with him, wouldn’t it? When things have quieted down a little, I think you and I should get together and compare notes.”

  “I think I’d better get out to Sutherland’s,” the lawyer said, getting up. “Why don’t you and I have lunch tomorrow?”

  “That’s good; we should both know more by then. Tell me, Mac, does Bo know what’s in Eric Sutherland’s will?”

  McCauliffe looked at him narrowly. “I don’t know, but I think he may suspect.” He turned and left.

  Howell went to the pay phone at the back of Bubba’s and called the sheriffs office. Scotty answered.

  “Bo still out at Sutherland’s?”

  “Yes. What happened out there, John?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Now, listen to me. Say ‘Oh, no!” as if you mean it.“