“And did they ever meet?" Taylor asked.
“No," Marge said with a shuddering breath. "Not alive. Henry found out about us coming up here to look over the camp. There was a little article in the local paper about this committee, you see. He managed to arrive a day earlier, hide his car, and set up a tent out in the woods somewhere."
“Why?" Jane asked.
Marge shrugged. "I don't know. You'll have to ask him. I guess he was just in the habit of watching Sam, maybe wanting to see what he was like when he was away from work. I don't know. He was in the woods that night—"
“The night your husband was killed? The second night you were here?”
Marge nodded. "Couldn't you feel it? That we were being watched from the woods?" she inquired of Jane, who made noncommittal noises. "Sam stayed back after the rest of us left. He didn't tell me why. Well. . I didn't ask, to tell the truth. I was so uneasy myself that all I wanted to do was get to the cabin. Henry didn't say so, but I think he might have come out of the woods then and introduced himself, except that someone else came back."
“Who?" Jane and the sheriff said at once. This time he made a rude shushing gesture at her.
“I don't know. Henry wouldn't tell me. He said I was better off not knowing until—" She started sobbing again.
“Until what?" Taylor asked when her crying subsided slightly.
“Until he could prove what he'd seen."
“And what did he see?"
“He won't tell me. But he'll tell you. I know he will. He was only trying to protect me. He just told me he saw someone return and — and kill Sam.”
The cabin was eerily silent for a long moment.
“Why didn't either of you just tell me this at the time?" Taylor said.
“Because I was afraid you'd blame Henry," Marge said. "Henry wanted to tell you. He knows who killed Sam, but he said the person had on gloves. That there would be no fingerprints on that frying pan."
“Did he say if it was a man or woman?”
Marge shook her head. "He was careful not to. But he'll tell you now. Now that Sam's been found."
“How did the body disappear?" Jane asked.
“Oh, Henry hid it and took Sam's clothes. He said the person who killed Sam would be so shocked at finding 'Sam' was still alive that he or she would get panicked, give himself or herself away."
“When did you find this out?" Taylor asked.
“Almost right away. Henry hid the body and came to this cabin. When he came in, I thought he was Sam. He was wearing Sam's clothes, you see. And his voice was the same. He said he had something very important to tell me. He was standing in a shadow. He said that when he got through telling me his news, he'd do anything I told him to. I had no idea what he meant. Then he stepped farther into the room and I realized he wasn't Sam.”
Shelley couldn't stand to keep quiet any longer. "Are you saying you agreed to pretend to be married to — in love with — a man you'd never seen before?”
Marge had forgotten Shelley was there and jumped at the sound of her voice. "I–I wasn't pretending," she said, tears starting to stream down her face again. "He was the Sam I'd always wanted to love. The Sam that the real Sam never had been except the first few months we were married. Henry was warm, considerate, he really talked to me. He didn't frighten me. I didn't want him to tell the police anything. I wanted—”
She stopped and they waited. Finally Shelley asked, "You wanted what, Marge?"
“I–I wanted life to just go on. I wanted Sam to stay disappeared. I wanted everybody to think Henry was Sam. I thought of the amnesia idea. In time, I could have told him everything about Sam's life. He could have become Sam. He knew about car dealerships and was good at math like Sam was. He could have stepped right into the business. We could have lived such a wonderful life if nobody ever knew."
“Is that what Henry wanted?" Taylor asked.
She shook her head miserably. "No, he wanted to see justice done to the person who had taken his brother away before they could even meet. That's what he's out there now trying to do. Please, check with your people. See if they've found him yet.”
Sheriff Taylor didn't move. "My people will tell me.”
Marge stared at him. "Oh, I think I see. Somebody else is already questioning Henry. You mean to compare what we say. That's okay. Really it is. Henry will tell the exact truth, just like I'm telling the truth. It is the truth, Sheriff. I swear it.”
Nineteen
"Do you believe that's the truth?" Shelley•asked.
The two of them were back in the dining hall of the lodge and starting to feel that it was a second home that neither of them liked very much. Eileen had come back to Marge's cabin, insisting that she belonged at her sister-in-law's side. Marge had agreed that Eileen would be a comfort to her, now that she had become calmer.
The sheriff had abruptly dismissed Jane and Shelley when Eileen entered the cabin. He asked them, quietly but in a tone that was clearly an order, to go to the lodge to wait for him and not to discuss what they'd heard with anyone else.
They had no intention of talking to anyone else and had taken a table as far as they could get from both the kitchen — from which marvelous smells were coming — and the lobby, which was nearly deserted now.
“I can't imagine if she's telling the truth," Jane replied to Shelley's question. "If she is, it's about the saddest story I've ever heard. Imagine all those years with a man who didn't care about you and made no pretense about it. At least my husband sort of loved me — until he met the bimbo. It was one big, horrible shock to find out about her, but Marge has lived with an empty heart for most of her marriage. That has to be worse."
“She could have left him, you know," Shelley said.
“Many women would have. But many wouldn't, too," Jane said. "She doesn't seem to have much self-confidence. She'd let her nursing credentials lapse, I imagine. She might have suspected that he was the kind of man who'd hire a very good lawyer and leave her penniless. She sort of hinted at that when she said she suspected him of having her spied on. Maybe she figured her life would be more awful and more empty and a lot poorer financially on her own. And she did say he wasn't usually terrible to her."
“But is that the truth?" Shelley asked. "Is any of it true? What if he was an abuser?"
“And she and his brother conspired to kill him?" Jane speculated. "Marge is obviously in love with this guy. And he is Sam's identical twin, with a lot of similar personality traits. Maybe he's just as much of a jerk as Sam was and has played on her loneliness. He stood to gain considerably. Everything Sam had, including his half of the car dealership, is now hers. She's probably a fairly wealthy widow."
“There's nothing like money to motivate people," Shelley observed.
“Do you think this is what this is about? Money?""And sex," Shelley said.
“She could be telling the absolute truth — as she knows it, or believes it," Jane said. "Because of her attraction to Sam Tw— I mean Henry. And maybe inventing bits to make him more sympathetic in her own mind. He's been observing both of them, not just his brother, it seems. Maybe he was really watching her? Trying to figure out whether he had a chance of sweeping her off her feet if Sam were dead."
“She did say she saw him at the grocery store. He must have known Sam wasn't with her then," Shelley said, nodding. "You could be right, that knowing all about her was every bit as important as knowing about Sam.”
The young man who'd set the table by the fire came back with a coffee urn.
“Yes," Jane said, "he only had to know enough about Sam to figure out how to kill him and take over his business. But he had to make Marge fall in love with him at lightning speed. And he succeeded wonderfully. I'll get us some coffee.”
When she got back to the table in the corner, Shelley was half-turned, staring out the window. It was almost entirely dark now and they could see the occasional darting beam of a flashlight in the woods between the lodge and the lake.
&nb
sp; “We're assuming that Marge has been fooled and this Henry person killed Sam," Shelley said. "I'm not sure we should assume that yet. Suppose what she said was the truth? Who else might have killed Sam?"
“It's most often family members," Jane said. "That means John or Eileen. . or both of them."
“Why?"
“Because they're family."
“No, Jane, I mean what could their motives be? Money?"
“Would they profit from his death?" Jane wondered. "Surely Marge inherited Sam's portion of the car dealership. John might be able to juggle the figures and cheat her a bit, but she probably had a pretty good idea of what their income was before and would sense if she were being cheated." Jane thought for a moment, sipping at her coffee. "No, I'm not sure that's right. Sam was a control freak to some degree. She probably had no idea in the world how much money they had. He struck me as one of those men who balance their wives' checkbooks and make them account for every penny, without any accounting in return.”
Shelley nodded. "That would be my guess, too."
“But in that case, he probably had a will that specified some trusted accountant or banker to watch out for her interests. He's much more likely to have gone the paternalistic route."
“I'm losing the thread again," Shelley said.
“We're trying to figure out if John Claypool stood to gain from Sam's death. And I don't see how he could. Not enough to be worth killing for. And while they didn't seem exactly chummy, I certainly didn't get a hint of antagonism between them, did you?"
“No. I wouldn't call them close, but they worked together every day and have for years, so I assume they managed to get along."
“Simmering resentment?" Jane suggested. Shelley shook her head. "John Claypool doesn't strike me as a man who could simmer for long without boiling over. He's too brash. Too 'surface.' "
“I can't think of any other motive he'd have, then. Nor can I think of a single one for Eileen. If anything, this is to their disadvantage."
“How do you figure that?" Shelley asked.
“The car dealership apparently took two men full-time to operate. Now John's going to have to work harder than ever to keep it going."
“Mmm," Shelley said. "That's a point. Okay, if we're assuming that Marge's version of Henry is accurate, and John and Eileen are out of the suspect picture, who does that leave us? The rest of the committee."
“And the Tituses," Jane added.
“Let's leave them for a minute and consider the rest of the committee. What could Liz have against Sam?"
“I have no idea. Their lives don't seem to be likely to intersect at any point — unless she bought a car from him. Maybe a real lemon."
“Jane, if normal people killed salesmen who sold them duds, there wouldn't be any salespeople left."
“It was just an idea — I didn't claim it was a good idea," Jane said with a smile. "Couldn't be a flap relating to Liz's job. Sam and Marge didn't have kids."
“Al Flowers then?"
“I don't think Al Flowers could swat a fly, much less smack a person dead with a frying pan," Jane said. "And if Al were the type to take offense, he couldn't stand to live with Liz, who can dish out more offense in five minutes than anyone has the right to. And look how well he manages it."
“ 'Now, Lizzie.' " They imitated his nimbly voice in unison and laughed.
“What about money? You mentioned bankers a while ago," Shelley said. "Car dealerships and banks go together. What if Al's bank was pulling some kind of monetary hanky-panky that Sam found out about? It could ruin Al and probably take Liz's career down with him. Schools can be awfully snotty about the reputation of their administrators — and their families.”
Jane looked down into her coffee cup. "I've only known Al for a matter of days, and not well at that, but if this really is a world where somebody so nice can be a villain, I don't want to know about it. And would never believe it."
“I know what you mean," Shelley said. "I feel like I should get my mouth washed out with soap for even considering it. And I'd feel pretty much the same way about Bob Rycraft. Not that I'm so crazy about him, but I do think he's a bone-deep nice guy. He's a good daddy to a mob of little girls. If that isn't nice, I don't know what is."
“So that leaves us with the Tituses," Jane said. "I think we can exempt Allison. She seems to be in really frail health. I don't think she would have found it physically possible to lurk in the woods and deal a killing blow with a heavy frying pan even if she did have a motive. And I can't imagine what the motive might be. When I asked her about the Clay-pools, she didn't seem to show any interest in themat all except to mention that Benson once worked for them as a mechanic."
“No guilty starts, gritted teeth, or furtive looks?"
“None of the above," Jane said with a smile. "She could be a fantastic actress, I guess. I'd swear that she was utterly sincere about how content she is with her life, though. She positively glowed when she talked about how much she loves this place, her quilting, her computer friends, her family. There's no room in the woman's life for a murderous grudge."
“So what about Benson?" Shelley said. "I wouldn't have thought he had a spare second to waste killing someone. I wish the sheriff had believed us and questioned everyone about their movements and alibis the night we found Sam dead. He was very likely with his family or staff the whole time after we left. There was a lot of cleaning up and putting away to be done."
“That's a good point, Shelley. Now Taylor believes us, but everybody, including the murderer, can quite logically claim to not remember details of that evening. So much has happened since."
“Tell me again about the patent business with Benson," Shelley said.
Jane repeated what Allison had told her about Benson inventing a mechanical gadget in his free time.
“So it wasn't part of his job for the Claypools?" Shelley asked.
“She said he got the idea from something at work and invented it in his spare time," Jane said. "I don't know what the gadget was. I'm not sure Allison knows. Why do you ask?"
“Only because patents on inventions sometimes become a lot more valuable with time. Suppose Sam had decided that he had some right to the profits because Benson worked for him when he invented it."
“What I know about the law would barely fill a thimble, but I'd guess it's too late. Benson sold the patent some time ago, and wouldn't Sam have to go after the patent office, or the people who purchased it, rather than Benson?"
“Maybe. The problem with this theory is that Sam and Benson hardly acted like they even remembered each other. I can imagine Sam concealing his feelings, but Benson? Not a chance. He looked like he was going to explode or have a stroke when Lucky Smith turned up here."
“Lucky Smith!" Jane exclaimed. "I'd forgotten about him. Now, he's somebody I can imagine getting tanked up and committing a senseless murder. And remember my telling you about him bashing into me outside and blathering about how somebody was blaming him for something he didn't do?"
“But nobody would have been blaming him then for Sam's death. Nobody believed us then that he was dead."
“No, Shelley, somebody could have been accusing him. Even if nobody believed us, Sam was dead by then. The murderer knew Sam was dead. And so did Henry McCoy — who might be one and the same."
“If you believe Henry's story via Marge, the murderer might not have known he succeeded in _killing Sam," Shelley said. "He — let's say Lucky Smith — might have had only a dim memory of smacking somebody with something. I don't say Luckycouldn't have done exactly that, but I'm more inclined to think it was somebody blaming him for the silly stunts. The missing keys and such. For which he probably was responsible."
“It does seem his speed," Jane admitted. "We're not getting anywhere. Somebody killed Sam Claypool, and we're no closer to figuring out who he was."
“He or she," Shelley corrected.
“What 'she'? Who did we leave out?”
Shelley nodded toward
the doorway to the lobby. Edna Titus was standing there, hands on hips, looking around the room.
“You two haven't seen Sheriff Taylor, have you? I need to find him."
“Why?" Jane asked bluntly.
“To confess," Edna replied with equal candor.
Twenty
"Confess!" Jane exclaimed.
“You killed Sam Claypool?" Shelley asked.
Edna looked at them as if they'd lost their minds. "Kill Sam Claypool? Me? Of course not. Why would I do that? I didn't even know the man, and I'm not a killer."
“But what are you confessing to, then?" Jane asked.
“A number of very silly, embarrassing things," Edna said, sitting down at the table with them. "I've made a fool of myself."
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