by Robert Bloch
“I understand.”
“But Hank doesn’t.” Again the attorney directed his attention to Gibbs. “You know better than to think Engstrom would clue me in on what’s going on. As far as he’s concerned, I’m still a possible suspect.”
Gibbs nodded. “But not enough of a one to be placed under arrest.”
“I did give him an alibi, in case you’re interested.” Once more the desk phone came alive with light and once more Pitkin ignored it. “I assume that’s what you really came to find out.”
Amy stirred uncomfortably. “It was thoughtless of us to bother you at a time like this. We’d better go—”
“Please.” Pitkin gestured quickly. “I gave you an invitation the other night at the Club.”
“But that was before all this happened. If you’d rather not talk about it—”
“What I told Engstrom is now a matter of public record. No reason why you shouldn’t know. My daughter and I were out at the lake last night. We have a cottage there. First we heard about what went on was around seven this morning when we caught a news bulletin. Needless to say, it hit me pretty hard at first. Otto’s been my friend as well as my client for so many years. He had so much ambition, so many plans. All gone now, and Doris too—”
The attorney’s voice broke off simultaneously with the flicker of the phone, then resumed. “Emily knew how upset I was. She didn’t want me to come in, but the Sheriff meant to see me and I thought it would be easier on her if I spoke to him alone.”
Gibbs leaned forward. “But won’t Engstrom be seeing her too, just to confirm your alibi?”
“I suppose so. But he won’t lean on Emily the way he leaned on me. At least that’s what I’m hoping, but with the kind of pressure he’s under right now, anything is possible.”
“There’s just one other thing I’d like to know,” Amy said. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible for what happened last night?”
“None. And as I told you, the Sheriff didn’t volunteer to fill me in.”
“I can do that much,” Gibbs said. “During the time before Miss Haines met me at the hotel I heard at least six versions of various rumors already floating around. What most of them boil down to is the usual mysterious stranger who was seen by somebody—no one quite knows who—coming into town or leaving town during the storm. There’s no explanation why he was wandering around on foot with an umbrella, but everyone is absolutely convinced that he is definitely an escaped lunatic, a gay with terminal AIDS—or a child molester who killed Terry Dowson and has now graduated to bigger things.”
Pitkin spoke slowly. “That’s nothing to joke about.”
“I’m serious. And so are they, which is what really bothers me. If this case isn’t solved quickly, we’re due for a witch-hunt.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, but there doesn’t seem much that we can do about it.” Pitkin glanced at Amy. “I only hope that when you write your book it won’t be necessary to compare Fairvale with Salem, Massachusetts in 1692.”
“That’s not my intention,” Amy said. She turned, nodding at Gibbs. “I think we should go now.” As she rose, the phone’s flashings flared across her face. “It was kind of you to see us, Mr. Pitkin. You’ve been very patient.”
The attorney gestured, rising. “No need for that. Let’s just hope we meet again soon under more pleasant circumstances.” He nodded at Gibbs. “Let me show you out.”
“I expect to be in and out of the office all day, after Homer finishes up on the route,” Gibbs said. “If you want me, get in touch.”
“Thanks.”
Amy didn’t speak until they reached the car. “What do you think?” she said.
“I’m not sure. Want some coffee?”
“Somebody’s bound to spot me.”
“There’s a hot plate and some instant coffee at the office,” Hank Gibbs said.
“I’ll settle for that.” As Gibbs started the car she spoke again. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“I noticed there’s a drugstore across the street from the courthouse. Would you get me a package of cigarettes?”
“Sure. What brand?”
“Anything mentholated.”
“That’s funny. I didn’t know you smoked.”
Amy shrugged. “I haven’t, not since I finished my book. But now that I’m starting another—”
“Sounds to me as if you’re getting uptight,” Gibbs murmured.
“What about you?”
“A little.” He shrugged. “Guess it comes from writing too many obituaries.”
They parked in the alley, motor running, while Gibbs ran his errand at the pharmacy. A gap between the building and the structure on its left gave Amy a view of the courthouse and annex across the street. In the parking lot a TV remote crew was doing a shoot with a couple of deputies. Because of the distance and the clustering crowd Amy could not identify them. No matter; the important thing was that she had escaped the risk of sound-bites. It would be bad enough when the time came to get in front of the cameras and plug her book. But right now it made no sense going on television just to plug somebody else’s murder.
Now where had that come from? She was beginning to sound like Hank Gibbs. But she was thankful for his presence and grateful for his return with a package of Salem Ultralights 100s.
Salem, as in Salem, Massachusetts, 1692. Salem, as in witch-hunts. No wonder she was uptight. And where was Eric Dunstable?
Reaching into her purse she pulled out the lighter. Flame rose with a flick; the fluid hadn’t evaporated. And neither had her need to smoke, in spite of the resolution made so many months ago. The fact that she’d continued to carry the lighter with her almost hinted at precognition. And where was Eric Dunstable?
Gibbs was frowning at her. “Trouble?”
“No.” Amy dropped the cigarettes into her purse. “Just resisting temptation.” Which was a lie, of course; she’d decided not to risk breaking a fingernail opening the package while the car was in motion. Besides, the first cigarette would taste better with a cup of coffee, no cream, regular sugar please.
But the cubicle at the rear of the print shop was not a restaurant, and while the coffee was instant as promised, it took a good ten minutes for the water to boil on the hot plate. They sat talking as they waited.
“Sorry this place is such a mess.” Gibbs’ gesture encircled the small room’s clutter. “Seems as if we’re spending most of our time sneaking in and out of back rooms by the back way.”
“I’m not complaining,” Amy said. “But now that we’re here let’s get back to the question. What do you think?”
“About Charlie Pitkin? Frankly, I don’t know. He could be hiding something.”
“Like law books, perhaps?” Amy nodded. “I noticed he didn’t have any in his office.”
“Tell you a secret. A good lawyer doesn’t need them.”
“Not even for trials?”
“Especially not for trials.” Gibbs leaned back his hands steepling. “Take homicide, for instance. Chances are an average suspect is male, aged somewhere between eighteen and thirty-five. When arrested he’s in dirty jeans, a tank top, bare feet, has a scraggly beard, maybe a couple of porno tattoos on his arms above needle marks.
“Then he gets himself an attorney. And when the trial begins he’ll be wearing a white shirt, a plain tie with a small knot, conservative three-pieced suit, black oxfords, and a close shave. I don’t even have to mention blow-dry.” The sides of the steeple fell away to form a funnel.
“A good trial lawyer today is just a combination hairstylist, fashion advisor, and drama coach.” Gibbs paused, smiling. “Besides, Pitkin does have a law library in his other office, up at the state capitol.”
Amy listened, trying to conceal her impatience, thinking Everyone had a weakness and his is self-appreciation. My weakness is the patience I have for listening.
As if sensing her thought, Hank Gibbs halted abruptly. “Sorry, I got carried
away.” He glanced at the pot on the burner of the hot plate, confirming that its contents had not yet begun to bubble. “Anything else strike you about Pitkin or the office?”
“Pictures.” Now it was Amy’s turn to glance at the water, but a watched pot never boils. “Two photographs on his desk, both in silver frames. And maybe you didn’t notice because it was so dark, but there’s a big one hanging in the corner on the wall opposite the window.”
“The little girl?”
“His little girl. I saw his daughter the other night and her features haven’t changed all that much. The photos on the desk are more recent.”
“He’s very fond of her.”
“Obviously.” Amy paused. “I didn’t notice any pictures of his late wife. What was she like?”
“I wouldn’t know. She died when Emily was still in grammar school. Cancer. It was Charlie who did most of the parenting.”
“How old is Emily?”
“I’d say twenty-three or four. She graduated from college three years ago.”
“Let me guess the rest. No boyfriends, no live-ins. She came straight back home to take care of Daddy.”
Gibbs leaned forward. “Slow down, I think you’re driving too fast. And on the wrong road.”
“I’m not suggesting any actual physical relationship. But there does seem to be a strong bonding between them.”
“Drive a little further. I’m not sure where you’re heading.”
“To an obvious conclusion. A daughter who really loves her daddy might be willing to provide him with an alibi.”
Gibbs shook his head. “Let’s try a detour for a moment. What makes you assume that Charlie Pitkin would risk his professional and political career by committing murders that would point to him as the principal suspect? It’s not just that he was Remsbach’s friend and attorney; the two of them had some kind of joint setup in this Bates Motel deal. Now, with his partner dead, Pitkin may end up with everything. But he wouldn’t pull such a dumb trick and hope to get away with it. Charlie’s too sharp for that.”
“Is he?” Amy’s sidelong glance shifted to the pot; the water was beginning to simmer. “Remsbach kept telling me about all the clever promotion ideas Pitkin had come up with for the tourist trade. But the man we saw—”
“—had just been cross-examined by the Sheriff as a principal homicide suspect,” Gibbs interjected. “He’d probably gone through a sleepless night and faced the prospect of hiding out in his office all day. If he’s innocent, you can imagine what a shock it was, losing the two of them at once—his partner and his girlfriend.”
Amy frowned. “Did his daughter know about his relationship with Doris Huntley?”
“I’m not sure. What difference would it make?”
“So far there’s no evidence to show that these murders couldn’t have been committed by a woman.”
“Spoken like a true feminist.” Gibbs looked up. “I think our water’s boiling.”
Amy rose. “Let me do the honors.”
“Here’s my mug. You can use Homer’s, over there on the shelf—it’s clean. Sugar’s in that little bowl behind the coffee jar. Got the ashtray over the top to keep the flies out. You need a spoon, there’s a couple in the drawer. And I don’t think Pitkin’s daughter is the guilty party.”
“But you don’t know.” Amy played instant housewife with the instant coffee.
“I can find out.” Gibbs took a sip, grimaced, then set the mug down. “Watch out, it’s hot.” He stood up and started toward the doorway leading to the print ship and the front office beyond. “Only be a minute,” he said. “Might as well get this thing settled while the coffee cools.”
Following his previous direction, Amy located the sugar and a spoon. As she stirred the contents of her cup she could hear the echo of Hank Gibbs’ voice from the room beyond, but the sounds were to faint for precise word identification.
Explanation, and his cooling coffee, had to wait until Gibbs returned.
“Just talked to Leona Hubbard. She and her husband are Pitkin’s neighbors out at the lake. Told me she called Emily last night to ask about some church social this coming weekend. Neither Emily nor her father answered the phone.”
Amy stopped stirring her coffee and met Gibbs’ gaze. “And—?”
“Mrs. Hubbard tried again about half an hour later, but by then the phone was out of order; I guess the storm was really heavy there. She wanted her husband to take a hike over to the house and see if anyone was home, but he said forget it. Old Lloyd’s arthritis acts up on him in bad weather and he wasn’t about to go any farther than the kitchen window. Even with the rain coming down he was able to point out that the yard light was on over at Pitkin’s place and both cars were in the carport.”
“So?”
“Mrs. Hubbard saw Emily around eight this morning, right after her father left to come into town. She knew what had happened, of course, because the phone was working again and Engstrom had just called.
“Emily told Mrs. Hubbard that she and her father had been home together since six-thirty last night.”
“Are you buying that?”
“Apparently Sheriff Engstrom is. According to Lenoa Hubbard he called to ask her the same questions over an hour ago.” Gibbs picked up his coffee cup and took a tentative swallow. “Cooler.” Now, a gulp. “Unless somebody’s lying, it doesn’t look as though Doris Huntley was killed by a jealous daughter.”
“I still think jealousy could be the motive.” Amy murmured. “But perhaps we ought to forget Doris and concentrate on Remsbach. You happen to know if he’s been involved with any other women?”
Gibbs slammed his coffee mug down onto the table. “Holy Christ—why didn’t I think of that?”
“Who is she?”
“Sandy Oliver.”
“That’s a new name to me.”
“An old one to her. Took it back after the divorce.” Gibbs nodded. “She was married to Dick Reno.”
— 18 —
This time Amy went into the print shop with Gibbs, perching on a stool beside the counter as he made his call. After dialing there was a lengthy period of silence, but Gibbs continued to grip the receiver.
“Same old story.” He sounded annoyed. “Nobody wants to answer the phone. It’s a wonder they ever make any appointments.”
“They?” Amy said. “I thought you were calling Sandy Oliver.”
“I am,” Gibbs told her. “She’s got a job doing nails over at the beauty parlor.” His annoyance dissolved into a grin. “You can imagine what it must be like over there this morning. Maybe they can’t even hear the phone with all that cackling going on.”
But somebody did, because Gibbs turned away from Amy and directed his next remarks into the mouthpiece. “Hi, Ada. Hank Gibbs here. Can I have a fast word with Sandy? Only take a minute—”
He broke off, his grin giving way to an annoyed expression once again. “Okay. It wasn’t all that important.” Gibbs paused. “No, they haven’t found the murderer yet.” Another pause. “I haven’t got the faintest idea. Unless you did it.”
After a final farewell he replaced the receiver and turned. “Sandy’s not there today. Called in sick.”
“What does it mean?”
“She’s the only one who can answer that.” Gibbs glanced at his watch. “There’s still time to drive out to her place if you like.”
“Hadn’t you better call her first?”
“I don’t think so. Way I figure it, staying home from the beauty shop, particularly on a day like this, she doesn’t want to talk.”
“If she won’t talk with people she knows she certainly isn’t anxious to see a newspaper editor and a total stranger.”
“Which is why I don’t intend to give her any warning.”
“You sound as though you really think she could be a suspect.”
Gibbs’ gesture was equivocal. “So far we can’t accuse her of the actual murders. But if there’s anything to the jealousy angle you brought up, she might
still be involved.”
Amy frowned. “There’s always a chance she really could be ill. And even if she isn’t, she probably won’t talk to me.”
“Want to bet? Anyone working at that beauty parlor knows more about what’s going on in town than I do. You’ve probably been a chief topic of conversation right up until what happened last night. Don’t worry, she’ll see you, if only out of curiosity.”
Gibbs lost no time leading her back to the rear exit, and it was Amy who remembered to disconnect the hot plate before she left. As they walked out to the car she shook her head. “If you ask me, you’re the one with the curiosity.”
“Maybe so. But there sure as hell wouldn’t be much use trying to run a newspaper without it.”
“I understand.” Amy’s voice rose above the sound of the motor as Gibbs turned the key in the ignition. “You’re the fisherman, and I’m the bait.”
“Makes a good combination. Let’s see what we can catch.”
As they drove Amy glanced through the windshield and noted the thinning ranks of houses on both sides of the street ahead. “Have we far to go?” she said.
“She lives about ten miles outside of city limits. Closer to the Bates place than she is to town.”
“And Dick Reno—?”
“He’s got the old Murray property, about three miles farther on. Just this side of the swamp.” Gibbs gave her a sidelong glance. “You know about the swamp, don’t you? Norman’s disposal.”
Amy’s nod both acknowledged and dismissed the thought. Once again she diverted her attention to the view beyond the windshield. They were traveling through an area of rolling hillsides topped by pines rising against the vivid blue of a cloudless sky.
“I love the scenery around here,” she said.
Gibbs shrugged. “I guess it’s all right if you like beauty.”
Amy smiled, then sobered. “Mind if I ask you something?” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“Are you really that cynical? Or is it some kind of an act?”
