by Robert Bloch
“Both.” As he spoke he avoided her gaze, peering at the roadway ahead. “I guess it’s what our friend Steiner would call a defense mechanism. Leoncavallo would have cast me as Pagliacci.”
“If it’s all a front, what’s behind it?”
“Envy, I guess.” He kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. “Envy of people like you.”
“Why me?” Amy paused. “I wrote a book, is that it?”
“Partly. The big thing is that you wrote something you wanted to write, something you believed in. Now you’re going to write another, probably lots of others. And when I’m an old man with a long gray beard and a short fuzzy memory I’ll still be writing up Sunday school picnics and high school basketball games for the local paper.”
“Any law says you have to stay here?”
Gibbs nodded. “Law of economics says there aren’t too many people around looking to buy a small-town weekly with poor circulation. Law of nature tells me my own circulation isn’t all that great—I don’t have the energy to start all over again. And even if I could beat out all those kids with degrees in journalism and land a job with some metropolitan daily what difference would it make? I’d still be writing nonnews about nonpersons.” Gibbs shook his head. “These being the laws, it looks like I’ll serve a life sentence.”
He spun the wheel and the car veered left onto a narrow dirt road tunneling beneath towering trees. “Sorry to bend your ear, but you asked for it. One of these days I’ll get around to writing my unauthorized autobiography.”
Self-pity, Amy told herself. Whoever would have guessed it? Or was it something which required guesswork? A montage of images flashed through her mind—Dad, her sister Fran, Bonnie Walton, ex-lover Gary, Dick Reno. And last but not least, that not-so-celebrated authoress and researcher, Miss Amelia Haines. Admit it, self-pity is one trait most of us share in common. But we seldom share it openly with others. Why had Hank Gibbs momentarily removed the mask? Was that his way of coming on to her?
Vanity. That’s another common trait commonly concealed, if Gibbs itched for her he’d have made his move by now, and they would have been parked back there behind the trees instead of emerging into the sunlight.
Its rays were reflecting from the windowpanes of the two-story structure at the end of the road directly ahead. The barn behind it indicated that the white frame house had once functioned as a farmhouse, but the open field area beyond showed no present signs of cultivation.
As they parked in the rutted side yard, chickens clucked a greeting from somewhere inside the barn. Emerging from the car Amy confronted a tan-and-white collie bounding from behind the house with mixed signals—a menacing growl and a wagging tail. She chose to believe the tail, but still felt more secure when Gibbs came around the front of the car and stooped to pat the dog before moving toward the back door.
She followed him as the growl, tail, and dog itself vanished as quickly as they’d come. Now her attention was directed to the woman who opened the door in response to Gibbs’ knock.
Sandy Oliver was neither as tall or as heavy and her nose had never been broken, but her complexion and facial features bore a marked resemblance to Dick Reno’s; she could easily have passed as his sister rather than his ex-wife. Short-cropped curls and the ambiguity of boots and jeans accentuated a sense of unisexuality, betrayed only by the bulge of heavy breasts beneath the khaki shirt.
Gibbs smiled at her. “Afternoon, Sandy,” he said.
His smile was not returned. “What the hell do you want?”
“Like you to meet a friend of mine.” He indicated Amy with a nod.
“Cut the crap.” Her eyes were still fixed on Gibbs. “You gonna answer my question or not?”
“Maybe it would be better if we talked inside. I wouldn’t want the chickens to hear.”
Sandy Oliver’s reaction indicated she would never make a meaningful contribution to a sitcom laugh track. For a long moment she stood motionless, then stepped back abruptly. “Okay, but make it short.”
Gibbs gestured and Amy was the first to cross the threshold and enter the kitchen beyond. She did her best to ignore the scowl on Sandy’s face but there was no escape from the acrid reek of her breath. No escape, and no mistaking: the lady had been recently smoking a joint.
Or several. When Gibbs moved up beside Amy in the kitchen their reluctant hostess glared at them with pinpointed pupils.
“Start talking,” she said.
Gibbs nodded. “First of all, I’d like to introduce—”
“Never mind, I already know who she is. That’s all they’ve been talking about the last couple of days. Every customer in the shop keeps telling me what she’s been up to and where she went, like it was the second coming of Christ.” Now the eyes were pinpointing Amy directly. “Ever since you hit town and stuck your snotty nose into what’s none of your business, we’re in trouble. On top of it, now you got the nerve to show up here. Well, honey, just let me tell you where you can stick that snotty nose of yours—”
“Cool it!” Gibbs gestured quickly. “The only reason Miss Haines is here is because I invited her to ride along.”
“And I’m inviting her to get the hell out of my house.” Sandy Oliver’s gesture was neither as quick nor as firm as Gibbs’, but her voice was strong and strident. Now she focused her glazed glare on Amy’s companion. “That goes for you too, Hank Gibbs. I wouldn’t use that goddamn newspaper of yours to line the litter box for David’s dog!”
Somewhat to Amy’s surprise, and not altogether to her approval, Gibbs grinned. “I’m not trying to drum up circulation,” he said. His grin softened to a smile. “Look, Sandy, I know you’re not feeling well and we didn’t come here to upset you. All I need is two minutes, just long enough to ask you a couple of simple questions.”
“Like where I was last night?” There was a rasp in Sandy Oliver’s laugh that betrayed more anger than amusement. “I’ll tell you where. I was over at Otto Remsbach’s place, sticking a knife in him and cutting Doris Huntley’s throat.”
There was no trace of a smile or grin on Gibbs’ face now. “Sandy, for God’s sake—”
“That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” Ignoring his shocked stare she moved across the kitchen to the cupboard area beneath the sink. “Damn good thing I left that butcher knife stuck in Otto’s gut. Maybe if I had it here now I’d use it on both of you.”
Still speaking she stooped. “Lucky for me I got this.”
Rising, she faced them with the leveled revolver.
“Sandy, no—”
“Now it’s my turn. Where were you last night?”
“Baldwin Memorial Hospital. You can check—”
“Shut up. I’m asking her.”
The muzzle of the revolver moved ever so slightly, ever so emphatically. But before Amy could answer, Sandy shook her head.
“Never mind, I already know.” Her voice shook too, but not her hand. “Wasn’t more ’n nine o’clock before I get this call from Ruth Potter. Said she just got home from that lousy Chinese restaurant out on the county trunk and she saw Dick having dinner with that female reporter from Chicago. How do you think I felt, with David sitting right there finishing up his homework and having to listen? His own father, messing around with another woman in public—”
Amy broke in quickly. “I thought you and Dick were divorced.”
“That’s none of your goddamn business! You got no right to shame me and my son in front of everybody, do you hear me? Answer me, you little bitch, do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
It was Dick Reno’s voice, and he moved quickly into Amy’s field of vision. Reno had entered so quietly that none of them were aware of his presence until now. By the time Sandy glanced up he was already wresting the weapon from her hand. “This is what I came looking for,” he said. “Where’ve you been hiding it?”
“None of your business where!” The rasp in Sandy’s voice was edging upward to a screech. “Gimme that! Damn you, I gotta keep something aro
und to protect myself!”
She clawed at him but Reno shoved her back. “So do I,” he said.
“What the hell for? You already carry a gun at work.”
“Not anymore.” Reno shook his head. “I’ve just been fired.”
— 19 —
Somewhere along the way, either from the late Otto Remsbach or her customers at the beauty salon, Sandy had acquired a wealth of raunchy invective. Her vocabulary seemed far from exhausted when Amy and Hank Gibbs made their abrupt departure.
A moment later Dick Reno joined them, still carrying the gun as he slammed the door behind him to stem Sandy’s scatological flow. His car was not visible; it had been parked on the far side of the house. Apparently the tan-and-white collie was checking it out, but the chickens acknowledged Reno’s presence as he walked Amy and Gibbs to their vehicle.
Gibbs eyed him warily. “Want to tell us what happened?”
“No, I don’t.” His scowl merged with a crooked grin. “But I might as well. You’ll find out anyway, I’d better give it to you straight before you put a write-up in next week’s paper.”
Reno glanced at Amy. “After I dropped you off last night I got on the squawk box to Irene at the office. Usually I draw city patrol first, then one of the county trunk routes, but this time Engstrom left orders assigning me in reverse.
“Point is, he’d detailed me to cover this area. Things looked pretty quiet the way they do on a weeknight when the kids aren’t out playing cowboy. Thinking about kids reminded me of what we’d been discussing at dinner, how Sandy had custody of David, and that started to steam me up.”
Reno’s lopsided grin had disappeared but the scowl remained. Now he took a deep breath. “Next part’s off the record. Okay with you, Hank?”
“Shoot.”
“That’s what I damn well felt like doing, the more I thought about Sandy and how she’d screwed-up—not just her life, but David’s and mine.” He hesitated. “Like I say, no traffic around. Everything was under control out there on the trunk; everything but me. I went from steam to boil. Next thing you know I headed for the house here.”
Hank Gibbs’ eyes narrowed. “What did you have in mind?”
“Murder.” Again Dick Reno hesitated, then shook his head. “But that’s where it stayed—in my mind. What I felt like doing and what I actually did are two different things. By the time I drove up here last night I’d simmered down a bit, enough to talk to Sandy without blowing my stack.”
“What time did you arrive?” Gibbs said.
“Around ten, maybe a little earlier.” Reno shrugged. “What I should have done was check things out with the office. Last time I called in was about nine forty-five, just before heading here.”
“You didn’t say where you were going?”
“I told Irene I was making a second run, just to double-check on a couple of truckers who’d parked their rigs outside the Pig-Out Inn. Wouldn’t want to see them back on the highway carrying two loads instead of one.”
Hank Gibbs nodded. “So Irene didn’t log where you were actually going?”
Dick Reno sighed. “If she knew about me pulling a stunt like that on duty she wouldn’t be able to wait to blow the whistle. I know I goofed, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Hank Gibbs nodded again. “Right.”
“Wrong.” Reno’s gaze flickered to Amy. “Look, there’s no point my boring you with this stuff.”
“I’m not bored,” Amy said. Then, quickly, “In case you’re wondering, it’s off-the-record with me too.” She smiled. “I don’t even have a whistle.”
Hank Gibbs cleared his throat, then glanced expectantly at Reno. “You were saying?”
“We talked about David. At least that’s what I tried to talk about, but the minute I brought up the idea of custody it was the same old story, forget it, no way. I told her I damn well wasn’t going to forget it, and there was a way, even if it meant going to court and telling what I knew was going on between her and Otto Remsbach.” Somewhere in the background the chickens clucked their disapproval before he continued.
“Surprised I heard about that?” His grin was rueful and fleeting. “So was she. I could see, even though she didn’t let on, just told me to get the hell out!”
“Did you?” Gibbs asked.
“Had to, before I lost my temper. Got all the way back to the county trunk by the time I cooled down enough to remember I was overdue calling in. By ten they knew what had happened up at Remsbach’s place and when Irene asked me where I’d been I figured the best thing to do was tell the truth.”
Amy glanced up at him. “Did they believe you?”
“Sometime after midnight Engstrom contacted Sandy. I don’t know whether she’d heard the news from somebody over the phone, but she sure as hell put me on the spot. Said she hadn’t seen me last night at all, let alone the time those murders were supposed to have taken place.”
“I’m surprised Engstrom isn’t holding you,” Gibbs said.
“He probably would, if he had anything positive to go on. As it is he fired me.”
“For suspicion of murder?”
Reno shook his head. “Two charges. The first is failure to report in on schedule. The second is revealing classified information.”
Amy frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means I told you they found that wax dummy of Norman Bates’ mother in Otto Remsbach’s bed.”
“Hell you say!” Hank Gibbs’ eyebrows rose. He turned to confront Amy. “You didn’t tell me that!”
“Sorry, I promised to keep my mouth shut.”
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, either,” Reno said. “This is off-the-record, remember?” He expelled a long breath. “Engstrom was right. I should have had more sense. With all those newspeople in town, God knows what’d happen if this hits the fan.”
“It will, sooner or later,” Gibbs said. “You know it and I know it. And Engstrom, bless his little pointy boots, he knows it too.”
Dick Reno shrugged. “If it happens, it happens. But don’t forget your promise.”
“Still loyal to the old uniform, eh?”
“To hell with the uniform! It’s the town I’m thinking about. Last night was bad enough, but if the media people tie those murders in with this Bates business—”
Gibbs gestured quickly. “You don’t have to draw a picture, believe me, I’m thinking the same thing. They’re taping me for network news this afternoon, probably end up just running a couple of sound-bites, but I’ve got to figure away to duck some of the questions. They’re bound to bring up Bates, probably Claiborne too, and I’m willing to bet some smart-ass is going to try and tie little Terry Dowson’s death in with the mess.”
“Who knows?” Reno said. “Maybe there is a connection.” He stared down at the weapon in his right hand. “I’m going back in and have another talk with Sandy.”
“Think she did it?”
“I’ll ask her.”
As Dick Reno turned and moved away, Gibbs opened the car door for Amy. “Good thing that gun isn’t loaded,” he murmured.
Amy didn’t reply. It wasn’t until they were back on the dirt road that either of them spoke again. As they drove past the bordering trees to the right, Gibbs’ profile was alternately sunlit and shadowed, but his expression remained unchanged.
“What’s bothering you?” Amy said. “Is it the interview?”
Gibbs shook his head. “Interviews don’t worry me. It’s just that everything Dick Reno said is true. Salem had the witch-hunts, London had Jack the Ripper, and from now on Fairvale is stuck with Norman Bates.” His grin was grim. “Strange, isn’t it? All the time and effort Otto Remsbach spent trying to publicize that damn motel. He never realized the best way to promote it was his own death.”
Amy frowned. “Maybe his partner had that idea.”
“Possibly.” Gibbs turned onto the county trunk. “But we both know his partner also has an alibi.”
“They all have a
libis,” Amy said. “Including you and me.”
Gibbs’ grin returned. “You still claim you didn’t do it?”
Amy nodded, but her reply didn’t match his mood. “Stop clowning. If we eliminate Dick Reno and Sandy, who’s left?”
“Just about everybody else in town,” Gibbs said. “They all hate what’s been happening here and I have a pretty strong hunch that if Remsbach had lived to go through with his plans there might have been some organized opposition. Of course, that wouldn’t help anymore. It’s no use trying to keep a low profile after last night. From now on the smartest thing to do is open a dozen new hotels and restaurants for the tourist trade.”
“You just mentioned something about the possibility of organized opposition.”
“I also said the possibility was past.”
“You’re being evasive. Aren’t you going to give me any names?”
“You’re being persistent. But let’s just start with a few you already know. Irene Grovesmith, Reverend Archer, Bob Peterson, Dr. Rawson. And I’ve got a pretty fair hunch that you can throw in Sheriff Engstrom himself, just for good measure. Come to think of it, so far the only one we know in that bunch with a solid alibi is Grovesmith. You can scratch Irene, if you like. Personally, I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. Very.” Gibbs took a deep breath. “We can’t change the past, we can’t anticipate the future. So why waste the present worrying about either one?”
“Hedonist.”
“Pragmatist.” Gibbs’ grin returned. “Which reminds me, what are your present plans?”
Amy glanced at her watch. “It’s one o’clock. How long will it take me to get from the hotel to the State Hospital?”
“Twenty-five minutes. Half an hour at most. What time’s your appointment with Dr. Steiner?”
“Three-thirty.” Amy glanced ahead, noting that Gibbs was entering town now by the same route they’d left, and undoubtedly for the same reason; if he dropped her off at the rear of the hotel she could return to her room via the service elevator without detection. Pragmatism had its practical advantages, no doubt about that.
