My hands shook as I reached into the cabinet for my favorite cup—a dark blue chipped one that Hamp had made for me in a pottery class when he was in college. The cabinet was a bit too high for me, so I stood on tiptoe and leaned on the door in order to reach inside. I’d always been careful not to put too much weight on the door, but I guess that day I put on one ounce too many.
The cabinet shifted—like a picture off balance—and Hamp’s cup slid out. I tried to catch it, but fumbled it—the way I was fumbling everything that day. The cup slipped from my hand, fell to the counter top, and rolled off it. It hit the floor and shattered. It landed so hard it actually seemed to explode.
Frozen, I stared at the scattered bits and pieces. Even if I could find all of them, I wouldn’t be able to glue them back together again. I could never make the mug whole. Somewhere, somehow there’d be a place for liquid to bleed through.
I stood back and stared at the cabinet. This thing had somehow come to house so many of my memories, my yearning for my man’s return. It had been the focal point of my refusal to see the future, and allowed me to hold on to the past. It wasn’t irreparably broken, but the only man I wanted to fix it lay six feet under. How silly to have thought I could fix it myself.
How dangerous.
It was my determination to go it alone that had made me think I could handle the Todd case all by myself, and that determination that had played right into the hands of a killer.
I attacked the cabinet, hating it. All the grief-stricken rage I’d been carrying around since Hamp’s death roiled up, all the frustration at struggling to make it on my own, to take care of myself emotionally as well as financially, to not just be alone but proud and alone when everyone else I knew was part of a couple—all those bottled up feelings spilled free.
I grabbed hold of the cabinet door and pulled down on it with all my might. But the cabinet didn’t come crashing down, as I thought it would, as in all those years I’d feared it would. It stayed stubbornly in place, only now so dangerously tilted forward that all the dishes in it had skidded toward the edge.
I wanted to clear them away with a sweep of my arm, to let them fall to the floor and shatter, too. Instead, with deliberate calm, I removed the remaining four dishes and cups and stacked them on the table. It took less a minute.
Then I went to work.
Taking firm hold of the door, I brought my entire weight to bear. There was a tearing sound as one nail wrenched free. After fifteen seconds, the final nail holding the cabinet in place gave way. The whole thing tore away from the wall with a shudder and tumbled to the floor.
I stood over it, breathing heavily. It looked like a poor man’s coffin. A dead box and a box for the dead. A box too tilted and off-center to securely contain anything so precious as hope or life. I kicked it. The wood was so thin it cracked. So I kicked it again, and this time, my boot put a hole in it. I kicked it and kicked it until the battered box collapsed. Finally, I grabbed up the panels and whacked them against the floor. New scars appeared in the wooden floorboards. I didn’t care. I beat the panels until they splintered.
My rage expended, my guilt over Whitfield weighing me down, I sagged to my knees. Covering my face with my hands, I wept. I cried harder than I’d cried in years. At some point, I must’ve curled up and fallen asleep. I don’t know how much time when by. But the next thing I knew, it was dark outside, and I was on the floor shivering. Pushing myself into a half-sitting position, I surveyed the damage. It was the first time in my life, I’d ever let go like that and I was tired beyond words. My muscles felt stiff and cramped. My eyes hurt and my face felt swollen. I stood up and began clearing up.
I thought about taking the wood into the backyard. Later, I could chop it up and burn it in the fireplace. But I knew I’d never do that. It would haunt me out there. I’d never find the time or nerves to turn it into kindling. So I marched up and down the stairs, taking the pieces to the garbage can out front. Someone would find them and make good use of them.
When the cabinet’s remains were removed, I returned the kitchen to make that cup of java. Instead, I paused in the doorway and leaned against the doorframe. Across the room, on the other side of the table, Hamp’s leather took kit still lay open on the counter.
Without the cabinet above it, the kit looked abandoned.
I took a deep breath and crossed the room to the countertop. I reached out for the kit, but hesitated. There would be pain … I took a deep breath and lowered my hand to the leather.
There was a rush of sorrow, but it was only a ghostly echo of the old grief. More than that was the comfort of putting my hands where his had been. My fingertips traced the initials he’d carved into the tools’ scarred handles and my lungs released a slow exhalation. It was time now. Past time.
I rolled up the kit, just as I’d so often seen him do, and put it to my lips for one brief kiss.
Then I stowed it away.
Chapter 37
Upstairs, with a cup of strong java, I went to the front parlor and put on a record by the Duke. Mood Indigo. As the somber notes filled the room, I pulled off my boots and stretched out on the sofa. For a few minutes, I let my mind drift. Naturally, it returned to the newspaper wanting me to disappear. I felt angry all over again, angry with myself as well as the paper. The one person I couldn’t be angry with was Sam. Recalling his phone conversation with Ramsey, I knew he’d fought the best battle he could.
I set the coffee down on the table and went to the back parlor. Hamp had a stash in a shoebox behind a dictionary on the bookshelves. The bottle was half-empty—or half-full, depending on how you looked at it. I took it back to the parlor and poured a shot into my coffee. Then I sank back on the sofa and sipped.
I needed advice. Hamp had never told me what to do, even when I asked him to. He’d always said, “Lanie, you don’t need me to solve it for you. You just need me to listen.” And he was a good listener. He never made fun of even my wildest thoughts.
Of course, if I were fair I’d admit that Sam was a good listener, too, or would be if I gave him half a chance. I’d never understood women who emotionally buried themselves when they saw their husbands lowered into the grave. But here I was, one of them.
Sam had questioned my column but printed it anyway. He believed in me—and cared. He cared in a way that no one had bothered to care in many a year. Now, he might lose his job over it.
Then, there was that little boy over on 140th Street. He’d dared put his trust in a stranger. Not once, but twice. And I’d messed up both times.
I had to figure a way out of this.
Sexton Whitfield.
An image of him slumped over the armrest filled my mental movie screen. I closed my eyes, as if that could stop me from seeing it.
Deep in my head, a vein throbbed. Alcohol was the worst thing to drink when I had a headache.
Being stubborn, I took another sip.
Question number one: Who had an interest in killing Whitfield and making it look like suicide?
Whoever kidnapped Esther, of course, and that would be the phantom lover. He was the man who’d attacked me. He’d been angry at me for stirring up a hornet’s nest. Then he’d read my column and realized that I hadn’t fingered him, but actually helped him by identifying his nemesis.
I took a deep breath and leaned back, nursing the cup and feeling deeply disappointed in myself.
Why had I been so quick to assume that the attacker was Whitfield's henchman?
I let the question float through my mind, more as a self-criticism than an angle of inquiry. But then it hit me that the question might be worth serious consideration.
Had he misled me intentionally? Had he wanted me to believe Whitfield sent him? Or had I made that stupid assumption all on my own, with the timing of the attack and my focus on Whitfield simply coincidental? Was there any way to tell?
Well … for him to have wanted me to believe he was Echo, he had to have known about my interest in Whitfield before the
column came out. But how could that be? Who knew of my specific interest in the tax collector? Who, other than Sam?
Only one name came to mind.
I thought about it for a while. Then I remembered something. During the attack, I’d used Whitfield's name. I’d spoken it aloud. But, when? Before or after the attacker had issued his warning? I couldn’t be sure.
If the killer hadn’t been aware of Whitfield before attacking me, then my mentioning the tax collector would’ve been enough to alert him, wouldn’t it? The last name, plus the details that appeared in the column would’ve been more than enough to give the killer Whitfield's identity. The column alone had been enough for many.
Dear Lord, what had I done?
I added more kick to my coffee and took a swig. I went over it again and again: the sequence of events, the words the assaulter used. Whether the attacker wanted me to believe he was from Whitfield or whether I’d made the assumption on my own: there was no way to tell and it was an important point.
I grabbed up my bag, dug out my notebook and found Bellamy’s number. The instant I plugged in the phone, it started ringing. I frowned at the thought of another call from one of my colleagues. Of course, it could’ve been Sam and so perhaps I should’ve answered, but I couldn’t take the chance. Finally, the phone stopped ringing. I grabbed it up and dialed. Bellamy answered on the third ring.
“I been meaning to call you,” he said. “You’re getting a bum rap.”
“I’ll be all right. Been doing a lot of thinking.”
“About Whitfield?”
“About him and something else.” I popped the question: “Did you tell anyone about our conversation?”
“Which conversation?”
“The one in which I mentioned Whitfield's name. Did you share that information?”
“I talked to the guys down at the station about it, about getting you to do an article on him. So they knew, yeah.”
That was an unpleasant bit of news. Not only had he used my paper and me, he’d made sure his fellow cops knew about it.
“What about to somebody else?”
“No, of course not. What is this?”
“The night before he was killed, somebody waylaid me—”
“They what?”
“Got into my house and waited in the hallway. When I came upstairs, the guy put a knife to my back. Mentioned my column and Esther.”
“You think it was this Echo guy?”
“I did. I don’t anymore.”
A pause. “And why’s that?”
“Trust me. I’ve got good reason.”
“What—”
“I’ve got to go. Thanks for your help.”
I hung up, wondering. If Bellamy hadn’t let Whitfield's name slip, then—
The telephone jangled under my hand. Annoyed, I snatched it up, ready to give one of my pesky colleagues a piece of my mind.
But it was Sam’s voice that came down the line.
“You actually answered,” he said. “I just heard about Echo. Blackie called. Said he had a feeling you hadn’t told me.”
“I—”
“You have got to stop trying to go it alone. Let me help you.”
Suddenly, I was furious with him. Who was he to want to barge into my nice, tightly confined world? Who was he to demand that I trust him?
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just fine.”
There was a stunned silence. I realized what I’d done. I’d shut him. It was like a gate slamming down. A gate that was meant to protect me, but was just holding me in. The anger faded as quickly as it had come. In its place was sadness and confusion.
“Sam,” I said, horrified. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“It’s OK.”
It wasn’t and we both knew it, but he was being kind and generous.
He’s your second chance.
“Please, don’t worry.” I rubbed my forehead. “I’ve gotten new locks on the doors, and …” I was too tired to finish the sentence. I flopped down on the sofa, picked up a pillow and hugged it. “I’d be okay, if I could just … think this thing through.”
“Then let’s do that. Assuming that Whitfield’s death was murder, not suicide, then we’d have to conclude that the person who was crazy about Esther, who attacked you and killed Whitfield were all one and the same.”
“Yes,” I paused. “And no.”
“Lanie …”
“I keep going over what that guy said when he attacked me, and I’m wondering if he already knew about Whitfield before the column hit the stands. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but if this guy did know, then I want to know how he found out and when. Then there’s the killing itself. I keep wondering: Would this crazy lover have taken the trouble to stage a suicide?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“This guy liked publicity. He was the type who wanted credit for his actions. That phone call Bellamy told me about: Somebody who’d make a call like that—claiming credit when the case was hot and cops were swarming all over it—who’d take a chance like that?”
“He didn’t risk anything. They didn’t follow up.”
“But he didn’t know they wouldn’t. I’m telling you: This guy wouldn’t have made Whitfield's death look like suicide. He would’ve made it about him.”
The other end was silent for two seconds. Then Sam cleared his throat.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you believe that Esther’s crazy admirer attacked you, but you don’t believe he killed Whitfield?”
“I’m saying that this guy’s behavior—even according to his own crazy logic—just doesn’t make sense.”
“But you could be wrong.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I could be. It’s been known to happen.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“Lanie, everybody’s got regrets. I’ve got more than a few. But the present is what we have to deal with. A maniac is on the loose. He could be after you, and …”
He paused. I could hear his breath, feel his warmth, sense the pulse of his heart beating.
“And what?” I whispered.
“And I should be there with you.”
My breath caught. In that moment, he frightened me more than all the Echoes in the world. He could hurt me more deeply than any of them.
After several long seconds, I found my voice. It was to utter one word.
“Come.”
Chapter 38
I could hear the relief in his voice. But then I heard him mutter a curse under his breath. He had a meeting, he said, with Canfield, Ramsey and the other powers-that-be.
“About me,” I suppose. It quailed me when I thought about how much trouble I might’ve caused for Sam and my colleagues.
It was as though he’d read my thoughts.
“Don’t worry, Lanie. We’re all behind you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, make sure those new locks are tight. And maybe …”
“Yes?”
He took a deep breath. “Maybe you should just move out. Stay with me. Nothing—nothing inappropriate. I’ve got a spare bedroom and—“
“No. But thank you.” I reminded him that Blackie had come and gone over security with me.
Sam was less than satisfied with that answer, but he accepted it, and repeated that he’d be by the moment he was done.
I told myself that I wasn’t about to let Echo chase me out of my own house. Brave words, but the moment Sam and I hung up, I went to the door and double-checked the locks.
A deep pain pulsated behind my left eye. In the bathroom, I washed my hands and splashed warm water on my face. Then I changed into some worn flannel pajamas, but I didn’t go to bed. I couldn’t afford to. I returned to the living room and tried to pick up my deliberations where I’d left off.
After thirty seconds of impatient reflection, I fetched a couple of sheets of typing paper from my writing desk, grabbed up a copy of Opportunity magazine to use for backing, and curled up on the sofa.
Many detectives will tell you that most people are killed or victimized by people they know or at least have met. It seemed to be true for Esther. Was it true for Whitfield?
I wrote down his name and drew a circle around it. Then I added Esther’s name, encircled it and connected the two names with a short line. On impulse, I added Beth and Ruth, linked them to one another and linked them to Esther. A little farther up, I wrote Mrs. Goodfellowe’s name. She got strokes for her relationships with Esther and Beth. I added the butler, Roland, to Mrs. G’s links, too. I paused and looked at what the sketch showed. Everyone had multiple links but Sexton Whitfield. His sole link was to Esther.
But was he so isolated from the others involved in this case?
Whitfield had met Esther at a party at Goodfellowe House. Obviously he was there at Katherine’s invitation, not Esther’s. I drew another line, directly linking him to Mrs. Goodfellowe herself.
Again, I studied the diagram. To one side, I wrote, “All roads lead to Goodfellowe House.” After some reflection, I added Eric Alan Powell’s name and hooked it up with Mrs. Goodfellowe’s. It’s true that Powell was dead and buried when Esther disappeared, but he was alive and in the house when she and Whitfield met. It was a small detail, but it helped flesh out my understanding of who was in and around the place when their affair began.
Who else was there to watch the drama unfold?
The first person who came to mind was Mrs. Goodfellowe herself. She had denied the affair, but I had to wonder. Was she lying or simply unaware? Had she really noticed nothing? Had her husband? If so, had he mentioned it to anyone?
Mrs. Goodfellowe and her husband, however, weren’t the only ones who could’ve known about Esther and Whitfield.
What about Beth? She’d been there. And Roland? Had he noticed it? Probably. I had the feeling that Roland missed nothing of what went on in that house. But did either Beth or Roland tell anyone about it? I’d have to ask them.
Goodfellowe House Page 21
