“That would explain it,” Nick said agreeably.
Warren managed another shaky smile. “Yes, you check my car phone records and you’ll find a record of the call.”
“Good.” Nick paused. “Except you said you were in your room all evening.”
Warren’s smile disappeared. “Well, I was. But I went out. Briefly.” Nick looked at him questioningly. “To see a friend.”
“And what would that friend’s name be?”
“Is this really important, Sheriff?”
Nick finally gave him a hard stare. “I thought I’d already conveyed its importance, Dr. Hunt. Your wife was murdered last night. We’re talking about your alibi.”
Warren Hunt’s carefully shaved upper lip now sported beads of sweat. “All right. But I’d appreciate your keeping this information confidential.” Nick remained silent. “A female colleague of mine was at the conference. Dr. Lorraine Glover. We decided to meet for a drink at a little bar away from the hotel.”
“Why not the hotel bar?”
“We wanted some place more private.”
“More private?”
Warren’s face had turned bright red. “Well, you see . . .” He took a deep breath. “Oh, hell. Now isn’t the time for lies. Lorraine and I had an affair two years ago. It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s the only time I’ve ever been unfaithful to my wife, but Lorraine and I just . . . well, we just did something stupid.”
“And you were going to do something stupid again?”
“No! It was just a drink for old times’ sake. But back when we were having the affair, another psychologist named Henry Simon found out about it. The man is a toad. A disgrace to the profession. Anyway, he’d been after Lorraine for years and he didn’t take rejection well. When he found out about the two of us, he told everyone. Lorraine’s husband almost left her.”
“And Tamara?”
“She never heard about us.”
“Another advantage to her being such a homebody. And a good reason for you not to encourage her to attend the convention.”
Warren gave Nick a sickly smile. “Yes. I am guilty of discouraging her from attending these functions. But as I said, all Lorraine and I intended to do was have a drink. We just didn’t want to be seen and start the gossip mill again. I was on my way to the bar to meet her when I remembered my ten o’clock call to Tamara, so I called from the car. Our answering machine here at the house recorded the call at 9:57. I returned to the hotel around eleven.”
Nick wrote in his notebook mostly to make Warren nervous. “I understand why you didn’t want to volunteer that information, but I’ll have to ask for more. I need Dr. Glover’s address and phone number.”
“I can’t give you that. It would be a violation of privacy.”
Nick looked up. “Dr. Hunt, you still don’t seem to comprehend the importance of establishing your whereabouts at the time of your wife’s death. Now I understand you wanting to protect this woman’s privacy, but given the circumstances, if you refuse to tell me how to contact her so I can verify your story, I’m going to assume you’re lying.”
“I am not lying.”
“Then prove it.”
Warren glared at him. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Finally he said, “Okay. But you cannot call her at home. Call her office. I don’t know the number, but it’s on High Street in Columbus.”
Nick jotted down the information then snapped shut his notebook. “Sorry that had to be so difficult.”
“So am I,” Warren said stiffly. “Is that all?”
“For now.” Nick stood. “I know you’ll be around if I have any more questions. Hysell, let’s be on our way. Dr. Hunt looks tired.”
“Sure, Sheriff.”
They paused at the door. “Once again, Dr. Hunt,” Meredith said, “I’m sorry I had to put you through this. Such an awful thing, particularly with Tamara being pregnant.”
Warren Hunt’s face went slack. “Pregnant?” he repeated vacantly.
“Why, yes. Eight weeks. Didn’t you know?”
Warren opened and shut his mouth twice. On the third try something emerged. “We hoped.” Flat. “After all these years.”
Hysell took Warren’s hand and shook it vigorously. “A tragedy, Warren. No Tamara, no pitter-patter of little feet.”
Color drained from Warren Hunt’s face and his eyes seemed to lose their focus for a moment. Nick thought he was going to pass out. Then he stiffened, muttered a curt good-bye, and slammed the door behind them.
“Well, at least we know he didn’t know anything about a baby,” Hysell said as they walked away from the house. “He didn’t strike me as a guy who wanted a baby, either.”
After they got in the patrol car and crept away from the curb, Nick opened his mouth to blast Hysell for interrupting his interrogation with that nonsense about the ship model, but Hysell began before Nick could get out a word. “That phone call he made to the house doesn’t prove anything—”
“Except that he called his home from his car at 9:57. But, Hysell—”
“Oh, and did you hear him? ‘It’s the only time I’ve ever been unfaithful to my wife.’ ” Hysell imitated Warren’s perfect enunciation. “Bullshit!”
Nick glanced at him. “You know something I don’t?”
“I’ve been hearing rumors about our Dr. Hunt’s sex life for years. They’re part of the reason Oliver Peyton can’t stand him.”
“Are they just rumors?”
“No. I’ve had my own suspicions and they just got verified.”
“Now we know he’d had an affair with Lorraine Glover. I’ll have to check her out. But, Hysell, I want to talk to you about—”
“Not just that Glover woman! Someone right here in Port Ariel.” Nick raised an eyebrow. “You ever heard of Charlotte Bishop? Max Bishop’s daughter? Max owns Bishop Corporation. They make parts for boats. He’s had a couple of bad strokes, but he still controls the business.”
“I know who Max Bishop is, Hysell. Everyone in town knows who Max Bishop is. And Charlotte was married to that actor—”
“Paul Fiori. He plays Eddie Salvatore on Street Life.”
Eddie Salvatore. Wasn’t that Jimmy Jenkins’s hero? He’d have to ask Paige. “What about Charlotte?”
“Fiori dumped Charlotte when he made it big, so she came slinking home a few months ago,” Hysell went on confidentially. “Well, one day I saw her coming out of Hunt’s office!”
Hysell fell silent after dropping that bombshell. Nick glanced at him. “That’s it?”
Hysell looked insulted. “No. About a week later I was at The Hearth with Dee having dinner. Dee Fisher, that’s who I’ve been going out with the last few months. She’s a nurse. Got fired from the hospital, but it was all a mistake. She’s a lot of fun. We like The Hearth—”
“Hysell!”
“Okay. I went to the rest room. You know the restrooms at The Hearth are back through this long hall. So I’m going back and I see Charlotte and Hunt talking. I wouldn’t have thought too much about it, but Hunt lowered his head and took off fast and Charlotte nearly pounced on me. Acted like she was thrilled to see me.”
“You know her?”
“Sure. Didn’t I say so? Well, actually I was a friend of her brother Bill. Maxwell William Bishop II. Not junior, the second. He was okay, though. I met him in Boy Scouts. He was nothing like Charlotte. She was gorgeous and she knew it. She never forgot she was Max Bishop’s daughter, either. Uppity as all get out. Anyway, her brother Bill got killed in a car wreck a few years ago. A damned shame.”
Nick waited. Finally he asked, “What does any of this have to do with Charlotte and Hunt?”
“Yeah, well, when I was a kid, I spent some time at the Bishop house. Charlotte wouldn’t wipe her feet on me then. Acted like I was invisible or something. But that night at The Hearth we were just long-lost pals. And she kept going on about how she’d just run into Dr. Hunt. On and on. What do they call that? Protesting too much? That’s when I got suspi
cious. Today the ship model clenched it.”
“The ship model?” Nick asked, bewildered.
“The one on Hunt’s mantel. That’s why I called attention to it. I know you got pissed, me interrupting that way and all, but when I realized what it was, I got all excited and I wanted to hear what Hunt had to say about it when he got taken by surprise. You told me to spring something on him and I did.”
“He said the model was something Tamara picked up a long time ago.”
“Yeah, sure it was. Listen, that was a model of the Mercy. That’s the ship that wrecked off the coast here. Ariel Saunders was this beautiful young gal who saw the shipwreck and saved the captain, Zebediah Winthrop—”
“I’ve heard the story about a hundred times since I’ve been here.”
“Okay. Well, Bill Bishop built a model of the Mercy. That model.”
“The one on the mantel?”
“Yeah.”
“Hysell, there must be dozens of models of the Mercy around here.”
“Sheriff, I helped Bill build that model. We spent weeks on it. Besides, our initials were on it—M. W. B. and T. Z. H. Charlotte must have given the model to Hunt.”
“Are you sure she didn’t give it to Mrs. Hunt?”
“Charlotte wouldn’t give anything to any woman, much less her dead brother’s model ship. I bet if old Max knew it was gone, he’d have one final stroke. He worshipped Bill, and Charlotte was jealous as hell. That’s probably why she gave the model away. She could strike back at Daddy and at the same time give Hunt something she thought would mean something to him, something he thought meant something to her.”
Nick’s opinion of Hysell’s powers of observation, deduction, and psychoanalysis were escalating by the minute. Maybe he had a more valuable deputy here than he’d thought. “Wouldn’t Mrs. Hunt notice the initials?”
“They were tiny and sort of hidden. A little faded after all this time. You’d have to really be looking for them. Besides, I can’t believe she’d put it all together. Bill has been dead for years, and I’m sure Tamara didn’t know my middle name. She wouldn’t know who T. Z. H. was.”
“Hysell?”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“What does the Z stand for?”
Hysell hesitated. He hated answering this one. “Zebediah.” He grinned and added sheepishly, “I think everyone in this town is crazy for that Ariel and Zebediah story.”
“I got that impression when I heard it twice the first day I was in town.” He frowned. “Do you believe Hunt would have asked Tamara for a divorce?”
“He could have, but it probably wouldn’t have done him much good. Tamara was a devout Catholic. And she was pregnant. She wouldn’t have given in without a fight. Hunt could have gotten a divorce eventually, but not without a lot of time and struggle. And scandal. Charlotte’s already been through all that and it’s my guess she wouldn’t consider Warren Hunt enough of a prize to go through it again.”
“So you think Warren Hunt murdered his wife so he could have Charlotte Bishop?”
Hysell looked surprised. “Maybe, but this situation called for immediate, decisive action.”
“And you’re saying Warren Hunt isn’t capable of that?”
“Let’s just say I think Charlotte Bishop is” Hysell paused. “You know, I think Charlotte Bishop is capable of just about anything.”
8
I
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Alison sat at the piano. She began Debussy’s “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.” Viveca walked through the room and paused at the piano, smiling. Alison immediately stopped playing. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, dear,” Viveca said carefully. “That’s your song, isn’t it?”
“What’s wrong?”
Viveca’s smile locked into place. “Well, you’ve played it five times in a row. How about something else?”
“All right,” Alison said pleasantly and immediately launched into “The Merry Widow Waltz.” Viveca’s face slackened. Alison paused. “Don’t you like that song?”
“Not particularly.”
The ghost of a malicious smile capered around Alison’s rosebud mouth. “Oh. I forgot. That’s what people called you after Papa died. ‘The Merry Widow.’ ”
“They did not, but please play something else.”
Alison dropped her hands in her lap. “I’m not in the mood to play anymore. I would like to see Warren.”
“I’m sure he’s very busy today making arrangements for Tamara.”
“I need to see him. He’s my doctor.”
“You don’t have an appointment with him today. Besides, you just saw him yesterday.” Viveca nervously touched the topaz pendant hanging from a gold chain at her neck. It had been a gift from Oliver Peyton. “Dear, please play something nice.”
Alison raised her long, strong fingers to the piano keys. They hovered for a moment. Then they crashed down, sending loud, discordant notes jangling around the serenely beautiful room until at last Alison settled into the piano section of Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” She’d only played for a minute before Viveca shouted, “Stop!”
Alison stopped immediately and Viveca looked contrite. “Darling, I’m sorry, but you know I hate rock music. With your talent it’s almost sacrilegious to hear you playing it.”
“I like it. Why can’t I play what I like?” Alison looked up at her mother with her wide Dresden blue eyes and shouted, “Why can’t I ever play what I like?”
Viveca recoiled. Her face paled. She drew a deep breath. “Forgive me. Of course you may play what you like.” She took a step closer and hesitantly, almost fearfully, touched her daughter’s cheek. “I only want you to be happy, Alison. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
But Alison had retreated to her own world. It was seventeen years ago. Alison was five. Mama was going away again. Just for a couple of days. She was what they called an “executive” at a big company called Bishop and she had to go on business trips. “I’m sorry I have to leave, darling,” she’d said, clutching Alison to her for a final embrace.
Alison thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. She had long golden hair. She had huge blue eyes. She always wore pretty clothes. She always smelled good. Alison admired Mama. She tried to please Mama. But it was Papa she loved, Papa who didn’t care that she was scared of so many things, that she liked to spend lots of time alone talking to herself but couldn’t find her tongue in front of strangers, or that she had persistent nightmares, or that doctors said she was something called neurotic. Papa didn’t give lectures about how she should act like Mama did. Papa liked her just the way she was.
She’d stood on the porch, her little hand in Papa’s, and waved as Mama drove away. Papa had turned to her. “Your mother left us some very healthy food to heat up for dinner. She says you are to eat, practice the piano for an hour, watch one hour of educational television, and be tucked into bed and sound asleep by eight.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“I, however, am the man of the house in your mother’s absence,” he had said with a dryness Alison didn’t quite catch. “It is Friday night. Therefore, we will order a great big greasy pizza for dinner, play Candy Land, and watch a Disney movie on video.” Alison’s solemn little face broke into a picture of pure bliss. “We’ll have a regular debauch, kiddo. Port Ariel has never seen the like. They’ll be talking about this night a hundred years from now!”
Papa let her choose the pizza toppings and it had been the best she ever had. They’d eaten with their fingers! They’d played two games of Candy Land, watched One Hundred and One Dalmatians and part of Lady and the Tramp before she fell asleep. When her father had placed her gently in her bed, her eyes had snapped open. “What time is it?” Her father had grinned. “Magic Midnight, bunny ears.” She still called it Magic Midnight.
The next day they’d eaten lunch in an open-air restaurant by the lake. They’d walked along the shore, holding hands and talking about everything that interested her
. Then Papa had driven her to a giant old house. She’d been afraid of it at first, but Papa said the house had belonged to a brave and beautiful lady who would protect her when she was inside.
That was when she had first heard the saga of Ariel Saunders. Papa talked about how Ariel had run down to the beach and pulled Captain Winthrop from the freezing water and how later they had married and Zebediah changed the name of the town to Port Ariel in honor of his beloved bride. And best of all, Ariel was Alison’s very own great-great-grandmother!
Even then Ariel’s house was not in good shape, but Papa had carried her through every one of its damaged rooms, talking in his sonorous voice, conjuring up the splendor that had been Saunders House. Mama said he had a way with words because he used to be a novelist. A strange look always came over Papa’s face whenever she said “used to be.” Lots of times he got out legal pads and pens and called for quiet in the house, but he usually ended up only with pages of crossed-out words. Then he would listen to sad music and drink brandy and Mama would look disgusted and not speak to him, which made everything worse. But today Papa was happy and Alison was ecstatic. She loved Papa and she loved Ariel Saunders’s house, the house overlooking the lake, the house of romance and legend.
By late afternoon Alison was still in a joyful daze, lost in the world of Ariel and Zebediah, posing and preening in front of Mama’s full-length mirror, pretending to be Ariel. Papa had passed the doorway, smiling. He carried a laundry basket. “Want to help me do the washing?”
Alison looked at him in surprise. “But Mrs. Krebbs comes and does it every week.”
“I’m in the mood. I used to help my mama with the laundry when I was a little boy. Come on, bunny ears, it’ll be fun.”
So Alison had gone with him to the basement where the washer and dryer sat. Alison rarely visited the basement. She didn’t like places full of shadows and she worried about spiders and mice and all kinds of terrors that might be lurking. But she was with Papa and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen.
Don’t Close Your Eyes Page 12
