by Sue Henry
The article was short and carried only the direct facts of how he supposedly died and how he was found. My name was not mentioned, thanks be. As the person who had found him, Julia Bennet at the Driftwood Inn was, of course. But others not mentioned had met him, including those who had gathered at my house for dinner the weekend before and Andy at the bookstore. I imagined that there must be a few more. He had mentioned a planned trip to the museum and had told me that fir st day that he would go across the street to Duggan’s pub, where many local people gathered to enjoy company, food, drink, and games of darts and pool.
After finishing my soup and sandwich, I rinsed out the bowl, carried the paper across the room, and sat down near the fire, which was now burning cheerfully. I turned on a lamp next to my chair and thumbed through the rest of the paper, but there was nothing else that caught my attention, so I laid it down and thought about the whole thing a bit.
Remembering the picture Andy had found in one of the O’Brian books, I got up and went to find it in my purse. I sat down again and took the time to examine it more closely.
The woman in the photo did not resemble Walker in the slightest. Her face was thinner than his and her hair and eyes dark. It was impossible to tell how tall she was, or how much she might have weighed, but I felt she was slim, for her collarbone, a bit of which showed in the open neckline of her blouse, was well defin ed and the shoulder that was turned toward the camera did not look heavy.
Several things about the picture suggested to me that this woman had been well known to John.
The first was that he had taken the picture at all, and I was somehow sure that he had held the camera. Seldom does anyone take that kind of photograph of someone they do not know and want to record—a professional photographer, perhaps, but not a stranger in what appeared to be a park on a sunny afternoon.
I knew I was making assumptions, but at least a couple of them must be at least close to correct, so I continued.
The second thing about the picture was the woman’s expression in looking back at him as she half turned away. She was smiling and the hint of surprise in that smile—both in her eyes and on her mouth—held a sense of what almost was and might have become laughter at his impulsive action with the camera. It implied a tolerance as well, and I couldn’t help thinking that this was not the first time he had taken her picture on impulse and that he had wanted to do so for his own reasons. There was confidence and caring in the taking of it and caring that was returned in her allowance, even indulgence, of it.
The picture I held was not new. The edges showed some wear and it was curled a little, as if it might have been carried in a wallet. It might have been a thing out of Walker’s past—a relationship that didn’t last maybe, but that he had valued enough to keep the photo as a reminder—a memory.
But if it was so dear to him, why would he have left it as a marker in a book he read and wanted returned to Andy’s?
I turned it over to read the line by Kipling that someone, probably Walker, had written on the back: Smells are surer than sounds or sights to make the heartstrings crack. And once again that faint whiff of lavender rose from the reverse of the picture, somehow tying together the woman and the scent. Both must have had meaning to him.
Then I turned it back and looked carefully at what I could see of the setting beyond the woman in the photo. There was nothing specific to identify the location, but as before, there was something vaguely familiar about it. It was not a place I knew or could recall, but could have been anywhere in a city with tall buildings near a park, for it seemed like a park with lawns, and the trees from their size had been there for many years, were not newly planted. So it was some well-established city, but could be almost anywhere in the Lower Forty-eight. Our trees in Alaska are mainly birch and spruce and those in the photograph looked more like oak, or maple, or—some other deciduous variety with heavy trunks and broader leaves.
As I considered it there was a sudden knock at the door. Still cautious, I went and peered out the window before answering.
It was Lew again.
“Hey,” he said, stepping in as I opened, then closed the door against the outside chill. “I forgot I wasn’t using my own tools and took your screwdriver along home with me. Didn’t notice till I started to put it in my toolbox and thought I’d better return it before it got mixed with mine and you—thinking I’d heisted it—would never share books with me again. Sorry.”
He handed me the offending article with a grin.
“As if that’s likely to happen,” I told him. “But thanks for bringing it back. If you knew how seldom I use it, you’d know I’d never have figured out where it went and just assume I’d done the losing.”
“How about I make it up to you,” he suggested with another grin. “I’m headed down to Duggan’s to grab a bite and a beer. Why don’t you come along? My treat.”
It sounded like a good idea to me, but as I started to agree I remembered why I had wanted that lock replaced.
“Thanks, Lew,” I told him, turning from where I had been reaching for the coat I had left on one of the hooks near the door. “There was a problem while I was gone and I think I’d better stick around home for a few days.”
He cocked his head questioningly. “What kind of problem? Something I can fix?”
“No. But . . .”
“What?”
“Well . . . Oh, what the hell! Someone without an invitation got in and stayed in my house while I was gone and I want to be here if she comes back.”
He frowned in concern.
“You mean someone that you don’t know just broke in?”
“Yes. Stayed for a couple of nights, I’d guess. Whoever it was had gone when I came back today, but she didn’t break in.”
“How’d she get in? Your lock was okay.”
“I think that’s where the extra key in the shed went—the one that’s not there now. I’m assuming she took it and, since she didn’t put it back, might show up again.”
“Good thing I changed that lock. Who do you think it was?”
“I’ve no idea. But it wasn’t anyone we know. Our friends and acquaintances would have asked first, or at the very least left me a note.”
“Or found themselves a hotel room,” he suggested. “Sounds to me like some stranger who didn’t want anyone to know where they were in town. How did this person know you were out of town and your house was empty?”
“I don’t know. But she was confident enough of it to stay a night, maybe two.”
“And how do you know it was a she? Could have been a he.”
“I don’t think so. From the traces I found moved and used I think it was a woman. Would an itinerant man have carefully made the bed in the morning and put things away in the kitchen?”
He grinned. “Okay, you’re probably right. I almost never make mine, but that’s only since I lost Hilda. She’d never have left ours unmade.”
Lew’s wife had passed ten or twelve years before, which—I had always thought—was a large part of the reason he tended to bury himself in books.
“Have you told the police?” he asked with a concerned frown.
“No. Aside from the fact that someone was here, what could I tell them? I didn’t see her and she didn’t leave anything personal that I can find.”
“Still, I think you should,” he said. “Think about it anyway. They might find fingerprints at least. You call if you need me, okay?”
I agreed and he started to turn toward the door, hesitated, then swung back to me.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully. “Last Friday evening at Duggan’s there was a strange woman. . . . By strange I don’t mean weird, just not local. But there was this woman and she was asking about you.”
I was instantly focused and interested.
“What was she asking?”
“Well, it was Friday and the place was pretty full of customers and noise after work. She was a couple of seats away from me at the bar, so I couldn’t he
ar the conversation she was having with Bill Jessup, but I heard your name mentioned and could tell she was asking questions. That’s about it.”
“What did she look like?”
Lew thought for a moment, then said slowly, “Can’t tell you how tall she was because she was sitting down, but she was younger than us, in her thirties, probably pushing forty, I’d guess. She was wearing a green jacket that probably matched her slacks—looked like a suit jacket. You know—an outfit. Under it she had on a shirt with small green stripes and a white collar. Her hair was dark and straight—cut about chin level, a little longer in the front.”
“Any jewelry?”
“Didn’t notice any, but I wasn’t paying much attention, you understand. Only looked that direction when I heard your name mentioned, so that’s about all I know.”
I nodded, thinking that his description didn’t sound like the woman on the plane to Anchorage that I had also seen in the hotel and thought I had seen in the Wasilla cooking store. It didn’t sound like the woman in John Walker’s picture, either. But I knew I was only thinking of her because of the photograph.
“Listen, Maxie,” Lew said, giving me a concerned look. “Would you like me to stay, just in case this intruder comes back? You’ve got an extra bedroom and I’d be glad to.”
I had to smile at the thought, however generously it was offered.
“You want to start gossip spreading through the whole town?” I teased him. “I appreciate the offer, Lew. Really. But I have a new lock now, thanks to you. I promise that I’ll tell the police about my intruder and, for tonight, I’ll keep the shotgun where I can reach it, along with my cell phone. Stretch is as good as an alarm anyway. Should anyone try to get in, he’d let me know immediately. I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer.”
“Well—anything happens, you call me, right? I can be here in just a few minutes.”
“Okay. I will, I promise.”
SIXTEEN
IT WAS A QUIET EVENING.
I had checked the messages left on the answering machine and found two from Andy, but no others that required my immediate attention, so I ignored them for the time being and settled myself to watch 60 Minutes on television.
It felt good to be back in my own house, though I had enjoyed doing a little shopping in Anchorage and visiting with Alex and Jessie.
I thought I heard a car in my drive, but when I went to look out the kitchen window I could see that it was just the neighbor who lived directly across the street pulling into his. There is a sensor over my door that automatically turns on a light to illuminate my drive and that side of the house when anything or anyone comes close enough to activate it. That light was not on, but I could see far enough into what was now total darkness outside to see that it was once again snowing lightly. Thin, feathery white flakes were falling through the still, dark air to already have touched the drive, the shed, and the part of the yard that I could see with a thin coat of white. It was very quiet in that silence that gently falling snow seems to bring.
It might have been dark and cold outside, but it was warm and cozy inside. So, for the time being, I gave up speculations on who had been in my house while I was away and whether it might have been the woman Lew had mentioned seeing at Duggan’s bar. Instead, when 60 Minutes was over I turned off the television, propped the shotgun within reach as I had promised Lew, and settled myself comfortably on the sofa to start one of the Ellis Peters mysteries I had picked up at Annabel’s.
Stretch had already gone out and come quickly back inside, shaking a scanty amount of snow from his feet that instantly melted into several small puddles, which I had wiped up with a paper towel. He had then settled in his usual place on the rug in front of the fireplace and was snoozing. Mixed with the crackle of the firewood burning I could hear his small snore from where I sat on the sofa and had to smile. He is such good company, interested in almost everything, well behaved, and never boring.
Thank you, Daniel, I thought, not for the fir st time. What would I do without Stretch’s company?
When my Daniel died, Stretch had wandered around for days expecting his lord and master to come home, but slowly seemed to accept that I was all he had left and decided that he would have to be responsible for me instead. He still thinks he is, and perhaps, in a way, he’s right.
I was totally relaxed, warm from the fire and the afghan I had tossed over my legs, and well into the third chapter of the story when I fell asleep with the book in my lap.
I was startled awake and sitting straight up, ready for fig ht or flight, at the sound of someone knocking on my door.
Stretch was on his feet and barking as he headed toward the door to guard his territory—and mine.
The insistent knocking stopped for a moment as someone rang the doorbell. Then it started again. It sounded important—or demanding. I couldn’t decide which, but really didn’t care as I picked up the shotgun, tucked it under my arm with the barrel pointed at the floor, and headed for the door, sending Stretch back into the living room as I passed him.
“Stay and hush!” I told him, so he did both, but made it clear with a small growl that it was not his choice.
Retreating a foot or two, he stopped barking, but remained a few steps behind me intending defense, should he decide it was necessary and shouldn’t be left to me. It always amuses me that such a small being, so low to the ground and short-legged, should be so fearless and determined to protect his place and people.
Instead of going directly to the door, I went to the kitchen window, from which I could see most of the yard and front step.
There was a car next to mine in the drive and someone’s footprints in the snow led from it to where she stood on that step, right hand raised to knock again, but in the darkness I couldn’t see who it was.
I reached for the switch between the window and the door and turned the outside light on.
The expected knock did not happen. Evidently the woman had decided that her summons was about to be answered. She waited, looking down, and I couldn’t see her face, but could tell she was not someone I recognized as having seen before.
After laying the shotgun on the kitchen counter within easy reach, I went around to the door, opened it to the length of the chain that keeps it from opening completely, and peered out at the woman who stood there, now looking up.
She was, as expected, completely unknown to me.
For some reason I had expected that it might be the woman who had flown with me to Anchorage, who I had definitely seen in the Hilton Hotel, and possibly caught a glimpse of in Wasilla. This was a different, thinner face. Her dark hair was shorter, and she wore glasses. It was also not the woman in the photograph that Andy had found in the O’Brian book I had returned for John Walker. But there was something about her . . .
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She looked at me silently for a moment, then nodded.
“I think maybe you can,” she said. “Please, could I come in and talk with you?”
“What about?” I asked.
She looked down again, hesitated for a moment, then squared her shoulders, looked up, and took a deep breath.
“I think you knew my brother—John,” she said in a voice that hoped I would believe her.
I was so astonished that for a moment or two I couldn’t say anything or move. I stood staring at her as the idea took hold.
It was her eyes that convinced me. They had a tired, haunted look that made me feel that I should accept what she said. I could believe that she was his sister—a little younger, not so tall, but somehow I thought she was telling me the truth, though she didn’t look like him.
“Let me open the door,” I told her, then closed it enough to slip the chain out of its track and opened it wide so she could step in. I closed it behind her and invited her to hang the coat she was wearing on one of the handy hooks.
She nodded, took it off, and tucked her gloves into one of the pockets before turning to me.
&nb
sp; “Thank you,” she said, with a wide-eyed glance at the shotgun on the counter.
“Don’t let that worry you,” I assured her. “I just came back from a trip and found that someone had been staying uninvited in my house while I was gone. I’m just a bit flinchy at the moment . . . probably being excessively cautious.”
“It wasn’t me,” she assured me quickly.
“I’m glad to hear that. I live alone, except for Stretch, the bonzer boy here,” I said and waved a hand at him. He had come closer, seeing from my actions that this person was acceptable and expecting to be introduced.
“Hello, Stretch,” she told him, crouching to give him a pat. “I like your name.”
He licked her hand in acceptance as she smiled and rubbed his ears.
Hardly anyone can resist those liquid coffee eyes.
Rising, she turned back to me and held out a hand.
“I haven’t introduced myself,” she said. “I’m Amy Fletcher, John’s sister. And I already know that you’re Mrs. McNabb.”
“Just Maxie, please,” I responded. “Everyone calls me Maxie. It’s good to meet you, Amy. Come and sit down and I’ll make us both a cup of tea.”
She sat at the dining table and watched as I put the kettle on to heat water for the tea before joining her across its width.
“However did you find me?” I asked her.
“The woman at the Driftwood Inn gave me your name last Friday and a nice man at the bar across the street told me where you lived. I came by that day and Saturday, but you weren’t here.”
“And John? How did you know it was your brother? He seems to have taken great care that no one would know who he really was, where he came from, or why. How did you know he had been staying at the Driftwood?”
She sighed and a sad and tired kind of resignation narrowed her eyes.
“I saw the article in the paper,” she said, “and knew it was my brother. There were a couple of reasons for my knowing.
