“I don’t think so,” said DeWalt, nervously fingering the packet of photos. “It was all written out for me, but it wasn’t her handwriting. She told me to make sure to destroy the paper and I did.”
“When did you do this?” Lucy could hardly bring herself to believe it.
“The night before the first day of school. I had to do it after eleven-thirty, because that was the time it was set for and she didn’t want it to go off until the next morning.” He quickly licked his lips. “I had keys and the school was deserted. I didn’t have any problems and nobody saw me.”
“How could you do such a thing? You call yourself a pastor, a minister!” Lucy curled her lips in disgust. “And if all that wasn’t bad enough, then you went and started accusing Josh Cunningham!”
“I never accused him of the bombing,” said DeWalt, who had carefully measured and delineated the precise limits of his guilt. “I knew I hadn’t killed her and it looked like the police had a good case against him. It seemed that the best way to keep the police from discovering my involvement was to keep them focused on him.”
Lucy had an idea. “Let me see the pictures,” she demanded.
“I don’t know who the others are,” said DeWalt, handing them over.
Lucy flipped through them, counting about a dozen in all. There were several of DeWalt, and a couple each of men she couldn’t identify. The last three were what she was looking for: snapshots of Quentin, embracing a pretty young thing on the steps of the Winchester College library. Lucy groaned out loud.
“How come the police didn’t find these when they searched her apartment after the murder?” she asked.
“They were in the freezer, hidden in a bag of frozen vegetables. She was clever.”
“So clever she got herself killed,” said Lucy, coming to a decision. “I think you better take these to the police, right now.”
DeWalt began to protest, but she cut him off. “Get your lawyer and get over there. I’ll follow, but there’s something I have to do first.”
DeWalt nodded agreement and climbed in his car. He started the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot so fast that he left rubber tire tracks.
It was only a few feet to the landlady’s apartment, but it felt like miles to Lucy, who walked slowly and heavily. She was weighed down and depressed by her discovery. She knew DeWalt was a hypocrite, but she hadn’t expected him to be capable of such evil.
She knocked softly on the landlady’s door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Today, Lucy noticed, she was wearing a turquoise sweat suit decorated with little rhinestones around the neck and shoulders.
“Is the apartment still available?” asked Lucy.
“It sure is, honey. Are you still interested?” She raised her penciled eyebrows inquiringly, and Lucy saw that her eyeshadow matched the pantsuit.
“I don’t know. Like I told you, it’s quite a bit more money than I’m paying. And I’m not sure my furniture will fit.” Lucy produced a tape measure. “Do you mind if I take another look?”
“Not at all, but you’ve got to go by yourself. I’m waiting for the plumber, and I’ve got to keep an eye on that landscaper.”
She gave a nod toward a man who was clipping the hedges, then turned to pluck a key off a board covered with hooks. “Be sure to bring it back,” she said, making a quick calculation. “If you want it, let me know. I might be able to adjust the rent.”
“Okay,” said Lucy, feeling a bit guilty. She shouldn’t lead the poor woman on like this, since she was probably having a tough time renting the apartment. It was, after all, the scene of a brutal murder.
Walking along the concrete pathway that connected the units, Lucy observed the groundsman who was industriously trimming the privet bushes that softened the square appearance of the brick buildings. The apartments really were nice, she decided, and the owner took good care of them. It was too bad that Carol had been killed here; it would probably take quite a while for the stigma to wear off.
Pulling open the door to the vestibule, Lucy went in and unlocked the door. Stepping once again into the dead woman’s apartment, she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable and hurried through the living room into the bedroom. All she wanted was a quick peek, and she’d be on her way to the police station.
In the bedroom nothing had been disturbed and the watch was still lying on the dresser, where Carol had left it.
Lucy picked it up. As she suspected, it wasn’t working. It had stopped, so Carol had put on her other watch, the sport watch she rarely wore. Like Lucy’s, it might well have been an hour behind due to daylight savings. If that was true, it meant she had died at seven-thirty, not eight-thirty as the police believed. It also meant that Josh couldn’t have been the murderer, because he had been having breakfast at Jake’s at seven-thirty, in the company of plenty of witnesses. Lucy carefully replaced the watch and turned to go.
“Imagine meeting you here,” said Quentin Rea. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, blocking her exit.
Startled, Lucy gasped. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I might ask you the same question,” he said, putting her on the defensive.
“I was looking for something that might clear Josh Cunningham,” she said, her voice betraying her nervousness. She didn’t want to stay in this room where Carol had died, especially with the man she suspected of killing her. The photographs she had seen practically proved it. Carol was blackmailing him, threatening to produce photos that would show he was up to his old tricks of sexually harassing students. Lucy wanted to get out, but was reluctant to try pushing her way past Quentin.
“Did you find it?” he asked, not moving from the doorway.
“I’m not sure,” said Lucy, making an effort to keep her voice steady as her unease increased. “It’s awfully stuffy in here. Do you mind if we go outside?”
“Don’t leave,” he said, crossing the room to open the window. “There’s something we have to get straight.”
Lucy edged her way to the doorway. She desperately wanted to get away. “Okay,” she said, trying to act as if nothing were the matter. “But I don’t have much time. A friend is expecting me.”
Quentin looked at her curiously. “You’re afraid of me,” he said. “Why?”
“Because of the other night,” said Lucy, lying in a high, squeaky voice. “I thought you’d be angry with me.” She was so frightened that she could hardly breathe.
“Believe me, I’ve got more to worry about on that score than you do. Sit down.” He indicated the bed.
“I’d rather not,” said Lucy, breathlessly, squeezing her hands together.
Quentin cocked his head to the side. His lips twisted into a grimace. “You think I killed her, don’t you?”
“Oh, no,” lied Lucy. “I would never think that.”
“Look at you. You’re terrified. You think I killed her, admit it.”
Lucy didn’t dare say anything. She was wondering if she should risk making a dash for the apartment door. As if he could read her mind, he moved back from the window, standing once again in the bedroom doorway.
“But why would you think that?” he asked, thinking aloud. Gradually, his puzzled expression was replaced with one of realization. “You found out about the sexual harassment, didn’t you?” He stared at her, shaking his head slowly from side to side, letting the idea simmer. “You knew more than you let on. You’re full of tricks, aren’t you?”
“I was honest with you that night,” said Lucy. “I didn’t know until Monday.”
“When did you begin to suspect me?” he demanded. He was angry now, and his voice shook.
“I don’t suspect you,” said Lucy, hoping to defuse the situation.
“Sure you do. After all, I had quite a motive. Carol could have made things very awkward for me at Winchester.”
“Did she?” Lucy wanted to keep him talking. It was her best chance of escaping.
He ste
pped closer to her. “Actually, she didn’t.” He shrugged and his lips made a crooked little smile. “I don’t think she knew I was here. If she had, I’m pretty sure she would have taken advantage of the opportunity. She would have done something. Threatened me, demanded blackmail. Something. But she didn’t know, and I didn’t kill her.”
Lucy thought of the photos, and decided not to mention them. The less she appeared to know, the better.
“Besides,” he continued, “I teach composition every morning at eight-thirty. I couldn’t have done it.”
“She could have died at seven-thirty.” Lucy blurted it out, then wished she hadn’t.
“Oh-ho.” He raised his eyebrows. “So you still don’t believe me.” He stepped closer, grabbing her upper arms with his muscular hands.
“I believe you, I believe you,” said Lucy hysterically. “Please let me go.”
He dropped his hands immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to explain.”
Lucy wanted to believe him. “Why did you come here?” she asked, again thinking of the photographs. Perhaps he was looking for them.
“I don’t know.” He paused and looked around the room. “We go back a long way. We shared a lot of bad times, and a few good times. I wanted to say goodbye, I guess.”
Despite herself, Lucy was beginning to believe him. “Well, if you didn’t kill her, who did?”
He sat down on the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. “Knowing Carol, I don’t think there’s any shortage of suspects.”
“I think I’ve eliminated most of them,” said Lucy. “At least the ones in Tinker’s Cove. I think it must be someone from her past.”
“So that’s why you thought it was me,” said Quentin.
Lucy nodded. “I didn’t have time to go through all the newspapers at the state college. Did she have any other victims there?”
“Only her husband,” said Quentin. “She dumped him after she was there a few months.”
“I didn’t know she was married,” said Lucy. “What was he like?”
“He was from her home town. He was older. He had a job in the science department—maintaining apparatus, setting up equipment, stuff like that. She once told me she only married him because he could get her out of Quivet Neck.” He scratched his head. “At the time I thought it was a joke, but now I’m not so sure.”
“That makes sense,” said Lucy. “She made use of whoever was available.”
“He was a pretty smart guy, as I remember. Great at fixing things and making stuff. His name was Sal, no, that wasn’t it.” He scratched his head. “Mel. His name was Mel something.”
“Mel Costas?”
“Yeah,” he said, surprised. “You know him?”
“No. But he was here the day she died. In a car accident, at eight-thirty.” Lucy was excited. “He told police he was an old family friend…”
Quentin snorted.
“He even told them he had spent the night here,” continued Lucy. “In Carol’s apartment, because he was having trouble with his truck. But they figured he couldn’t have been the murderer because he was in that accident at eight-thirty.”
“But if she died at seven-thirty—why do you think it was earlier?” he asked.
“Because of daylight savings. The police said she died at eight-thirty because her watch stopped then. It got broken in the struggle. But…” Lucy went over to the dresser and picked up Carol’s gold watch. “This is the watch she usually wore, but it’s stopped. I think she put on a watch she hadn’t worn in a while. It said eight-thirty, but it was really only seven-thirty.”
“Lucy, you’ve got it wrong. If her watch was running on standard time, it would mean she really died at nine-thirty.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Think about it.”
“I was so sure I’d figured it out.” Lucy was crestfallen.
“Unless Costas came back?”
“I don’t see how. He must have been involved with the accident for quite a while, plus, he wouldn’t have had transportation after he crashed his truck.”
“Maybe the watch was broken earlier—say the night before,” offered Quentin.
“There was an autopsy,” said Lucy. “She died in the morning.”
“I still think it’s worth taking to the police,” said Quentin, standing up. “Especially since they didn’t know she was married to him.”
“That must be why she set up Josh Cunningham,” said Lucy. “He came from Quivet Neck, too. He probably would have recognized Costas and remembered they were married. She had to get him out of the way.”
“Chances are Costas made the bomb for her—he set up all kinds of scientific apparatus at the university,” said Quentin, taking her elbow. They turned to go, only to freeze in place.
A man, the groundsman Lucy had seen clipping the hedges, was standing in the doorway, holding a gun.
“Mel Costas,” said Quentin under his breath.
Belatedly, Lucy recognized the face in Jewel’s photograph. Costas hadn’t looked happy when he was trapped in his overturned truck, and he didn’t look happy now. She remembered the open window; he must have heard everything they said.
“Pair of nosey-ass troublemakers, aren’t you?” he sneered. “Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Couldn’t wait to rush off and tell the cops all about me. Now, why’d you want to do that? Think you’d get a good citizen award or something?”
Lucy didn’t answer; somehow she didn’t think Costas was interested in anything she had to say. He was the last person she could imagine as the fastidious Carol’s husband—he looked to be at least fifty, with a graying stubble of beard. His clothes, a pair of jeans and a NASCAR T-shirt, were worn and oil-stained.
“Mel, think about this,” cautioned Quentin. His voice was strong and calm. “We don’t really know anything—we were just guessing. Put the gun down, and let us go. This can’t help. It’s only going to make things worse.”
“Shut up!” Costas stepped forward, waving them away from the dresser with the gun. Yanking open a top drawer, he pulled out a handful of stockings and pantyhose.
“You!” He pointed the gun at Lucy. “Take these and tie him up. Wrap his wrists together, behind him.”
Lucy’s eyes met Quentin’s, and she whispered an apology as she obeyed with trembling fingers. She tried to make the knots loose, while appearing to tie the nylon tightly.
“Tight—don’t think you can trick me,” said Costas. “Now his ankles.” His eyes were dark points, fixed on her. He was watching every move she made.
Lucy knelt to obey, trying desperately to think of a way to escape. “Is this what you did to Carol?” she asked. “Is this how her watch got broken?”
“Shut your mouth,” he growled. He was jumpy, and the gun was shaking in his hand.
“You don’t want to shoot us,” said Lucy. “There are people all around us. Somebody would call the cops.”
“She’s right,” said Quentin. “Just let us go. Nobody has to know about any of this. Think about it—nobody would blame you.” His voice was silky, seductive. “Carol asked for it.”
“You’re right about that,” said Costas. The energy seemed to drain from him, and he slumped on the foot of the bed. He didn’t drop the gun, however, but kept moving it back and forth from one to the other, keeping them in his sights.
“She didn’t treat you right,” said Quentin. His voice was soothing. “You loved her, but she didn’t love you. She used you.”
“She was so beautiful. Like a doll. With long blond hair and those big blue eyes.” Costas’s tongue darted out and he licked his thin lips; the gesture reminded Lucy of a snake. “I couldn’t believe she was mine, but she was, as long as I did what she wanted.”
“She counted on you to get the job done,” said Quentin.
“Yeah.” Costas’s eyes were far away. “She’d watch while I changed the oil in her car, or fixed some little thing, and tell me how smart
I was. Made me feel like a million dollars. I would’ve done anything for her.”
“You did, didn’t you?” Quentin spoke slowly and softly. “You rigged the bus accident, you even made a bomb. Whatever she wanted, you did. But she didn’t keep her end of the bargain, did she?”
“She was getting a divorce.” There were tears in Costas’s eyes and he clumsily brushed them away.
“You didn’t want that, did you?” Quentin was sympathetic.
“I didn’t have to live with her,” said Costas, now eager to explain. “I knew how important her career was to her. She was right. She was too good to have to wait on rich bastards in a restaurant, or clean their bathrooms. I didn’t try to hold her back, just so long as she’d let me come around every so often.”
“She wanted you out of her life, didn’t she? She told you that night.”
“I showed her.” Costas stood up, waving the gun wildly. “Thought she could tell me what to do, just like she always had. ‘I need a picture hung,’ she said, ‘and my car is making a funny noise.’ I told her there was something we had to do first.” His eyes glittered.
“She said, ‘Maybe later, after you’re done,’ but I said it had to be now. I put my arms around her but she struggled, as if I was trying to kill her or something. Tried to knee me. That made me mad.” His eyes glittered. “I think that’s when the watch broke.”
“But you didn’t kill her then,” said Quentin.
“I tied the bitch up—right there on the bed.”
Lucy looked at Carol’s quilted silk bedspread and felt sick.
There was a note of triumph in Costas’s reedy voice. “She didn’t sound so high and mighty then. Wasn’t telling me to wash my hands before I touched her, not then.” He laughed, and the sound was awful. Lucy wanted to cover her ears; she didn’t want to hear anymore.
“I did everything I ever wanted to. She was my wife, after all. It was my right. I touched her hair, I washed the makeup off her face. I touched her all over. I was a real husband to her, for the first time. Whaddya think of that? Married for ten years, but we never did it. I thought it was high time. I thought she’d like it, and then I wouldn’t need to keep her tied up. In the morning, when I woke up she was there beside me, just like a wife ought to be. I took the gag off her mouth, so I could kiss her, real gentle like. But she started screaming. I tried to shut her up, but she wouldn’t. She kept yelling and screaming. I had to put the pillow over her face to get her to be quiet and that’s when she died.”
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