Death in Donegal Bay

by William Campbell Gault

  Rubio frowned. “What does ‘peripherally’ mean?”

  “It means ‘kind of’ to you,” The Judge informed him. “In this instance it means ‘away from the center.’ Brock, you stick with this. The police don’t give a damn about anything that happens to any of us down here. Unless they think they can jail some black for it.”

  “It wasn’t a black,” I said.

  “Then you’re going it alone. You’re all we have. Stay with it.”

  I stopped at the Bakers’ on the way home. Alan knew more than he had told me at the house; he had admitted it. I hoped to convince him to share his ammunition with me.

  The Bakers, the maid informed me at the door, had gone up to San Francisco late that morning for rest and relaxation. The man who had been killed the night before, she explained to me, had been Mrs. Baker’s dearest friend.

  “She must have got the name wrong,” I said. “It was Mike Anthony who was killed.”

  “That’s the man. I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”

  “Work on it,” I told her. “I’ll bet she’ll miss his funeral.”

  She was still standing in the open doorway when I got into my car. What an ass I was, taking out my frustration on a non-combatant.

  Mrs. Casey was in her room when I came home, watching her second favorite soap opera. Even kooky Karl Marx had not anticipated that his opiates for the masses would ever sink to that level.

  I went out in back and tried to nap. But the blind eyes of Mike Anthony intruded on my reverie, and the soiled blue flannel robe of Luther Barnum.

  There were a number of fingers pointing in the same direction: the cognac, the guarded back door at the Travis Hotel, the scandal-sheet reporter, the nonprofessional print on the bottle, and the lies I had uncovered.

  They all pointed at my choice for the killer. But juries demand more than clues, except in TV mysteries. Real-life juries demand solid evidence.

  I was dozing when the phone rang. It was Joe Farini. “I realize,” he said, “knowing your opinion of me, that I might be making a futile phone call. But Alan Baker told me you were trying to find Lucy Barnum and I wondered if you’d had any success.”

  “Any enemy of Cyrus Allingham can’t be all bad,” I assured him. “I haven’t had much success so far, but a former associate of mine in Santa Monica has located a close friend of hers down there. He’s checking it out now.”

  “If you learn anything, Brock, I would appreciate a call.”

  “You’ll get it. I want to help Alan build up his stockpile of ammunition so that we can destroy that bigoted bastard.”

  “Don’t we all?” he said. “Thanks, Brock.”

  Alan was worried that I might find Lucy and take the powder out of his ammo. Secrecy was all he had to sell. Either he or Farini had probably phoned Delilah Kent in Florian and discovered she wasn’t there. I had told Alan that Lucy wasn’t there. If I could reveal his secret, he would have nothing to bargain with. He wouldn’t be the only winner in this war.

  When Jan came home, I told her the story of my night in Donegal Bay.

  “If Duane’s in trouble,” she said, “I had better phone Daphne. I was supposed to go up there tomorrow, but it might be an intrusion, under the circumstances.”

  When she came back from her phone call, she told me, “Duane isn’t being held. He was released on his own recognizance, whatever that means.”

  “It means that Duane is saving bail money. It probably means that the DA up there has realized he doesn’t have a strong case. And I’m sure that Mike Anthony was not one of the area’s most admired citizens.”

  “Mike is dead,” she said, “and Duane won’t be tried. Corey’s job is finished. Mr. Kronen has gone home. And what about you?”

  “I haven’t quit. I want to know who killed Luther. The police will drop the investigation the minute they learn they can’t tie the murder to Farini.”

  “Are you saying that the police don’t care but you do?”

  I nodded. “Shouldn’t I care?”

  “I don’t know if you should or you shouldn’t,” she answered. “But I am glad that you do.”

  It would be easy to rationalize my quest for the killer as concern for the underprivileged. That could make a man feel noble. But the truth was that if Luther had been as rich and vindictive as Cyrus Allingham, I would stay on the hunt. My motive was primitive; nobody should get away with murder.

  Driving to Florian on Friday morning, I dreamed up and discarded a number of approaches that might influence Lucy Barnum to confide in me. The truth seemed to be the best approach; I was investigating the death of her cousin. If she wanted to know why, a half truth would serve; I was working with the San Valdesto Police Department.

  It was ten-thirty when I rang the doorbell at the home of Delilah Kent. There was no response. I went next-door to see if her neighbor was home. She came to the door in a different pair of tight shorts, but the same bulging halter.

  She smiled at me. “I remember you. The book salesman.”

  I smiled back at her. “I lied to you, ma’am. I’m working with the San Valdesto Police Department on the murder of Luther Barnum. It was Miss Kent’s houseguest I came to see. I don’t normally lie, but I thought the truth might be dangerous for Lucy Barnum. And also, possibly, Miss Kent.”

  She studied me for a moment. Then, “Come in. It’s too hot to stand out there. I’ve just made a pitcher of lemonade. Would you like some?”

  “I’d love some. If you want to check my credentials, you could phone Lieutenant Bernard Vogel at—”

  “No need,” she interrupted. “I can tell an honest face when I see one.”

  The living room she led me into was smaller and less southern than Marilyn’s up in Donegal Bay. But the motif was similar—hooked rugs and maple furniture with Norman Rockwell prints on the walls. “New England provincial” would best describe it.

  I was sitting in a maple chair when she brought me a tall glass of lemonade from the kitchen. She handed it to me and sat with her own glass in a matching chair.

  “Luther grew up here, too,” she told me, “though, of course, he was a lot older than Lucy. He had a hardware store in town. But then his wife died and he took to drink. He lost everything, the house and the store. They didn’t have any kids of their own. Lucy was very close to him, more like a daughter.”

  “That’s the picture I got,” I said. “She sent him money, and paid for his membership in a funeral society. I suppose you know that Lucy works for Cyrus Allingham.”

  She nodded. “Is he involved in Luther’s murder?”

  “He could be. He’s a strange man. Luther might have known something about him that …” I paused.

  “That Luther could blackmail him about?” she asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Not the Luther I knew,” she said. “But once a man has taken to drink, who knows? Do you think Mr. Allingham fired Lucy because of that? Is that why she’s here with Delilah?”

  “I didn’t know she was fired. The story I got in Veronica Village from Joan Allingham is that her father sent Lucy to Hawaii for a vacation. That turned out not to be true.”

  She said acidly. “Her father probably lied to her. The lies that man prints in his sickening publications! They’re worse than those scandal magazines they sell in supermarkets.”

  I told her, “There was a reporter from one of those magazines who came to see Luther a short time before he died.”

  “Maybe Mr. Allingham sent him.”

  “No. I think he wanted to learn what Luther knew. Evidently, he never learned it. Was Delilah Lucy’s best friend in high school?”

  “Maybe her only friend. Lucy was not an outgoing girl in high school, and neither was Delilah. Then Delilah went on to college, and Lucy’s family couldn’t afford to send her. She went into domestic work.”

  “I wonder when they’ll be home,” I said.

  “It should be soon. I got a card from Delilah. They planned to be home before noon.
You can wait here, if you want. It’s too hot outside. Another glass of lemonade?”

  I had that while I waited, plus the story of her life. She had buried a husband in Vermont and had come to California for a change of scene—and possibly luck. But she had put on weight in this lush land, so it now seemed that a second marital alliance was unlikely.

  “I always liked a man around the house,” she said, “but to tell you the truth, they can be a nuisance, too. I’m beginning to enjoy my freedom.”

  “That’s my wife’s view of it,” I said. “That’s why we both decided to go back to work. Couldn’t you find a part-time job in town, just for the variety?”

  “I have one,” she told me. “I help Delilah out at the library.” She looked past me, out the window. “Oh, there they are now. Good luck, Mr. Callahan.”

  I thanked her for the lemonade and her hospitality and went out to my car. I sat in there until they had unloaded their sleeping bags and camping paraphernalia from the Chevette hatchback before I went up to ring the doorbell.

  The name Delilah Kent had engendered in me a vision of one of those languid, tawny British lovelies you see in their films. But this Delilah was not one of those. Her coal-black hair hung down in two long, tight braids. Her face was faintly Oriental, suggesting some American Indian ancestors. She was slim and tall, and she stood as erect as a Marine drill sergeant.

  “Miss Kent?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “My name is Brock Callahan,” I said. “I’m working with the San Valdesto Police Department on the murder of Lucy Barnum’s cousin. I came here to talk with her.”

  There was the sound of hurried movement in the house behind her and then the slam of a door.

  “I doubt if Lucy will talk with you,” she said. “She wouldn’t talk about it with me, and we’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “Is she still working for the Allinghams?”

  “No. She quit. She was secretive about her reasons for that, too.”

  “She’s going to have to talk with the police eventually,” I pointed out. “I am not a police officer—more of a consultant to them. If you would phone Lieutenant Vogel in San Valdesto, he will confirm that.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said. “Come in, Mr. Callahan.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  SPARTAN WOULD BE THE word for the Kent cottage. We walked through a sparsely but adequately furnished living room to a combination small breakfast room and large kitchen.

  “Have you had lunch?” she asked me.

  “No. But don’t bother.”

  “It’s no bother. I have to keep busy! I’m worried about Lucy. I never could understand why she would work for a malignant cretin like Cyrus Reed Allingham. And I never thought the day would come when she wouldn’t confide in me.”

  I sat on a bench in the breakfast nook. “I think she’s scared and running,” I said. “I didn’t come here to harass her. I’m a retired private investigator and not being paid. Trying to learn who killed her uncle is mostly an a vocation with me.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s vindictive. I hate killers.”

  “That’s one of the better hates,” she said. “All we seem to have in the house are eggs and leftover ham and rolls. How about a ham omelet?”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “But first,” she decided, “I am going to get Lucy out here. Luther was our best friend in this town. This is nonsense!” She left the kitchen.

  I heard her say, “Lucy, unlock this door right now! Our visitor is not working for Mr. Allingham. He’s looking for Luther’s killer. Isn’t that important to you?”

  Half a minute later, they both came into the kitchen. This was the woman Baker had tried to make time with, and the kind he could con. She was fairly short and her figure was all woman. Her big, trusting brown eyes were wet with tears.

  She said defiantly, “I don’t know who killed Luther. All I know is that a man named Joseph Farini was trying to blackmail Mr. Allingham. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “His murder could be connected with the blackmail,” I said. “I’m not investigating that—only the murder. The police have given up on it. Please believe that I’m not here to harass you.”

  She slid onto the bench across from me. “Some of the men Mr. Allingham had working for him—” She took a breath. “Any one of them could have done it.”

  “Yes. Alan Baker told me the same thing. But they have been questioned, I’m sure, by the police. At least I know that a thug hired by Farini has.”

  “How about Alan Baker? Did they question him?”

  “I don’t know. I have reason to dislike Alan Baker, but I can’t see him as a killer. Mr. Allingham would be a more likely choice. But don’t you see—first we have to have a reason, we have to learn what the blackmail was about.”

  “Alan Baker would be the man to ask that.”

  “I did. He refused to tell me. He said that now that Mr. Allingham’s counterthreat had failed, he was no longer interested in him. Mr. Allingham admitted to me that he was going to fight fire with fire, as he put it. That means he had learned something about Mr. Baker, too.”

  She said, “He would. I don’t know how Joan can bear to live with that man. Did you see her when you were up there? How is she?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Delilah turn quickly from the sink to look our way. What I saw in her eyes confirmed the hunch that had started me along this final line of inquiry.

  “They’re not at all alike, Joan and her father,” Lucy said. “Joan is thoughtful and charitable and—”

  “Lucy, for heaven’s sake!” Delilah said.

  Lucy glared at her, and tears welled again in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Delilah said softly. “I’m as overwrought as you are. It’s going to be all right, Lucy. You’re home now, where you belong. Please don’t cry.”

  She started to make the omelet. Lucy stared at the top of the table. I was silent; enough had been said. The picture was complete. I knew, now. But what did I have that would stand up in court?

  The omelet was tasty, the rolls crisp, the talk over the table was general. So long as I was sitting with a librarian, I mentioned the trouble I was having trying to understand William Faulkner.

  Delilah tried to explain that complicated genius to me, and failed, as the other literate friends of mine had. We went from there to the weather, and then I bid them good-bye and headed for the station and my soul-food brother.

  I laid it all out for Bernie, all the bits and pieces that pointed a finger.

  “An interesting pattern of Gaelic hunches and Celtic intuitions,” he admitted. “But what if the judge isn’t Irish?”

  “Don’t give me that schtick! It’s a case!”

  “Completely circumstantial,” he pointed out. “Do you have any solid evidence?”

  I looked at him coolly. “You forgot the unidentified fingerprint, Hawkshaw.”

  “By God, I did!” he said. “Hell, yes, we’ve got that for the clincher.” He chewed his lip and frowned. “But do we have enough here to give us reasonable cause to bring a suspect in?”

  “I don’t know. That’s your department.”

  “The sheriff up there,” he explained, “has never been cooperative with us, particularly when it involves one of his socialite citizens. I don’t have any clout with him at all.”

  “How about Chief Harris?” I suggested. “He’s a socialite type.”

  Bernie nodded. “He’s our best bet, if he’ll go along with it. He’s at a Rotary luncheon now. I’ll ask him when he gets back and phone you. Will you be home?”

  “I’ll be home. I’ll dream up some excuse for our visit while I’m waiting. You could call up there to see if Allingham will be home. Do you have his unlisted number?”

  Bernie nodded. “He gave it to one of the officers who went up to question him. But what’s my excuse for calling him?”


  “Tell him you have some information on the death of Luther Barnum that you hope he can verify. Tell him you have been maintaining a surveillance on Joe Farini and hint that he’s your prime suspect.”

  He frowned. “Why that bit?”

  “So we can get in. It will put the old sourpuss off guard.”

  He sighed. “Gad, the way you work!”

  “There’s a word for the way I work,” I told him.

  “Deviously?”

  “No. Successfully.”

  “Go!” he said. “Take your arrogance with you.”

  I went. It had been a nasty case full of tawdry people. I wasn’t looking forward to that night. But the background on Luther Barnum that I had picked up in Florian bolstered my conviction that his murderer shouldn’t get away with it.

  Bernie phoned around four o’clock. “Chief Harris,” he told me, “is not friendly with the sheriff up there. But he is with the watch commander who will be in charge tonight. Harris phoned him at home. The commander will send a deputy along with us.”

  Jan came home from Donegal Bay with the best news of the day. The district attorney had finally decided he didn’t have a strong case; Duane would not be prosecuted.

  I told her where I was going and why.

  “Is this the third act?” she asked. “Does the curtain come down tonight?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’d like to wish you luck,” she said, “but it only means that tomorrow you’ll be restless again, fretting for something that will keep you occupied.”

  “Not anymore,” I told her. “I can always deliver samples.”

  Bernie picked me up at seven o’clock. “This could be a wild goose chase,” he complained, “and I’m not even going to get regular or overtime pay for it.”

  “How come?”

  “I explained your theory to the chief and he was doubtful about it. So I am not officially on the trip. But, he assured me, if I wanted to accompany my good friend, he would understand.”

  “What a compassionate man he is! If we luck it out, we can issue a joint press release. It could go: ‘Despite the protestations of Chief Chandler Harris of the San Valdesto Police Department, Lieutenant Bernard Vogel and his astute associate—’”