“Oh, help me. My eyes,” Maggie moaned. “I have to go to the hospital.” She grabbed blindly at Evy’s arm.
“I’m helping you,” the girl insisted, shaking off her grasp.
“The doctor. You have to take me. Please,” Maggie cried. Evy could hear the weakness and confusion in Maggie’s voice even as she struggled.
“I will,” said Evy. The car was already moving.
23
The city room of the New York Daily News was about the size of a ballroom, filled with enough desks and chairs to make it look like a warehouse for office furniture. Owen Duggan threaded his way through the maze of desks, some of them occupied by men and women reading the paper, talking on the phone, or clacking away at typewriters. He moved down the aisles uncertainly at first, until he spotted the man he was looking for. Then he strode up to the reporter, who was hunched over his typewriter, and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey, Vance,” he said.
Vance Williamson raised his face from the page he was studying and gazed up at Owen through his tortoiseshell horn-rimmed glasses. He pushed a wheat-colored swatch of hair off his forehead and smiled wanly.
“Hi, Owen.” He greeted his old friend as if Owen had merely returned from a break at the water cooler, rather than surprised him with a rare visit from a remote island retreat.
Owen was not put off by the anemic greeting. He knew the crime reporter’s bland facade to be deceptive. Once, over about the fourth Scotch in one of their regular drinking sprees in their UPI days, he had declared Vance Williamson to be, “Okay, despite your pedigree.” Williamson had indulged in a rare blush which rose from the neck of his button-down collar, tattersall-checked shirt.
“How’s business? The hoods still keeping you hopping?” Owen asked.
Vance tossed a pencil on his desk top and nodded. “Never a dull moment around here. You know that. What brings you to town?”
“A wild-goose chase,” Owen admitted.
Vance raised his blond eyebrows a millimeter above his horn-rims.
Owen rested his bulk against an empty desk. “I get a call at my house that Life wants to see me immediately. I’ve had this series on wild birds pending…”
“Wild birds,” Vance scoffed. “This from a man who took the only existing pictures of a mob rubout in progress in Bensonhurst.”
“You city boys are all alike,” said Owen. “Action. That’s all you think about. There are finer things, you know.”
Vance chuckled and shook his head. “You really like it up there,” he observed.
“I do,” said Owen. “You should come up sometime. You can bring your current honey, whoever that might be.”
“Barbara,” said Vance.
“Barbara? Still? You’re slowing down.”
Vance shrugged. “She can’t get enough of me. What can I say? So, you came all the way down and they decided not to do the series?”
“It’s not that,” Owen explained. “They never called. They didn’t know anything about it.”
“That’s odd,” said Vance.
“Isn’t it.”
“Well, at any rate, I’m glad you’re here. What’ll it be for lunch? Liquid or solid?”
“Maybe a little of both,” said Owen. “It’s been a long morning.”
“Give me five minutes to finish this piece.”
Owen nodded, then sat musing quietly as the reporter worked.
“Okay,” said Vance, standing up. “Let’s go.”
“There’s one other thing while I’m here,” said Owen. “Something’s been bothering me, and I want to run it by you, to see if you can make anything of it.”
“What’s that?” asked the reporter, pushing in his swivel chair below his desk.
“Well,” said Owen. “There’s a woman who just moved to the island. She’s working at the paper. And I know I remember her from somewhere. I think she may have been involved in a trial, or something like that. I think I may have photographed her once. Anyway, she was just on the verge of telling me about it, and then we had some bad news and it all kind of got sidetracked. I’ve got a feeling she’s sitting on some big secret, and it’s bothering the hell out of me because I can’t remember.”
“What was the bad news?” Vance asked.
“Ah, Jess Herlie. He’s… he was the editor of the paper up there. He drowned in a fishing accident.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Vance. “I remember you saying you liked him.”
“I did,” Owen admitted. “He was a nice guy.”
“So, what’s her name?”
“Margaret Fraser,” said Owen. “You’re the crime man. I thought you might remember.”
“Margaret Fraser. Sure, I know who she is.”
“You do? Just like that?” Owen was incredulous.
“Well, I’d like you to think I’m a genius,” Vance demurred, “but the only reason I know it so readily is that she just got out of jail about a month ago, and I was reading a follow-up on her. She was involved in a murder some years back. Upstate somewhere. A married lover, I think.”
“That’s amazing,” said Owen. “I think that rings a bell. I knew I remembered her.”
“Mystery solved,” said Vance, snapping closed his briefcase on his desk and pulling on his jacket. “Let’s eat.”
“Okay,” said Owen. He started out of the city room behind the reporter, mulling over this interesting piece of information. “Maybe I could take a look at the clips in the morgue after lunch.”
“You probably won’t be able to even walk after lunch, much less read,” laughed the reporter.
Owen stopped between two desks and frowned at Williamson. “You think I could take a look at them now?”
Vance shrugged. “Sure. If you want to. Let’s go down and have a look.”
“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen,” rapidly intoned Father Kincaid. But the benediction was all but drowned out by the murmuring of the crowd. The priest crossed himself and then turned to the two elderly people, Jess’s parents, who stood stoically by, the only ones who seemed to be concentrating on the conclusion of the service.
The priest’s obeisance to the parents was the signal the crowd was seeking to scatter and discuss the peculiar events of the morning.
Grace Cullum spotted Jack Schmale and Prendergast walking together, each lost in his own thoughts. She thrust the hands of her young sons toward her husband and headed in their direction. The muddy lawn sucked down the little heels of her black pumps as she hurried toward them.
“Jack,” she cried out.
Jack motioned for his young colleague to go on ahead, while he waited for the breathless Grace to reach his side.
“What did you think of that?” she asked indignantly.
Jack shook his head. Droplets of rain bounced off the slick plastic covering on his policeman’s cap. “I guess she was pretty broken up about Jess.”
“Broken up, my eye,” Grace snorted. “There’s something wrong with her. She’s not normal.”
“She’s strange, all right,” he agreed.
“Strange? I’d say suspicious is more like it. Just like that accident of Jess’s. I can’t believe for a minute he drowned, just like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.
“Grace, Grace. We’re all sorry about Jess.”
“I’m not talking about sorry, Jack. You listen to me,” she demanded. “That woman comes here, saying Mr. Emmett told her to come. That was nearly two weeks ago, and we still haven’t heard a word from Mr. Emmett.”
“I know,” Jack admitted tiredly.
“And now Jess,” Grace concluded portentously. “And she carries on at the funeral like a crazy woman. I’m tired of holding my tongue about all this.”
“She wouldn’t hurt anyone, Grace—certainly not Jess. She seemed quite fond of him.”
“People like that don’t need a reason,” Grace said impatiently. “What do we know about her, after all? She shows up here and things start t
urning sour. That’s what I know. And I think you ought to be doing something about it.”
“Evy seems to have befriended her.”
“Evy’s like a child. She hasn’t got the sense to come in from the rain.”
Jack squinted up at the drizzling skies, then looked back at Grace, who was staring at him defiantly. “Well, what do you think I should do? There hasn’t been a crime yet, far as I can figure.”
“I don’t know. Check up on her. Check her fingerprints. For all we know she may be wanted in six states by the FBI. Honestly, everyone on this island acts like the rest of the world doesn’t even exist.”
“Now, Grace. You’re an islander yourself. You know how it is.”
“How what is? Are we supposed to be a haven for criminals?”
“Grace, don’t get carried away. I’ll check on her with the state police. We’ll see if they’ve got anything on her. Although it does seem a bit strange to be checking up on such a sweet lady.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Grace snorted.
“Have you got something down at the office I can dust for fingerprints?”
“I certainly can find something,” Grace said grimly. “Let’s get down there right now. I’ve got the keys.”
“All right, all right,” said Jack.
The cemetery was empty now, except for Charley Cullum, who stood at a distance, trying to quiet his rambunctious sons.
“We can try,” said Jack. “But I don’t know what you expect to find.”
“My God, look at this,” Owen breathed as he scanned the file of clips which the morgue librarian had drawn out for him. Vance stood beside him, reading over his shoulder. “Twelve years she was in jail. On a plea bargain.”
“She really looks spaced out in those pictures, doesn’t she,” said Vance, shaking his head.
Owen nodded. “Listen to this,” he ordered, and he began to read. “The defendant’s mother appeared in the courtroom on the day of sentencing, accompanied by a nun, Sister Dolorita of the Angels. When asked by this reporter what she thought about her daughter’s sentence, Alma Fraser replied, ‘It’s God’s will. She must pay for the evil things she has done.’ Her own mother. Whew…”
Owen shook his head and perused several more of the clips.
“You about finished?” Vance asked, looking at his watch.
“I guess so,” said Owen. He began to replace the clips in the folder. Suddenly he stopped and lifted one out of the pile. As he read it his face began to sag, his forehead creasing into a deep frown. “Jesus, Vance,” he whispered.
Vance, who was already signing them out in the morgue’s log book, glanced up at his friend. “What is it? What’d you find?”
“Just a minute,” Owen said impatiently. He grabbed the pile of clips and began to flip through them, reading selected paragraphs and throwing them aside. Vance watched his wide eyes and moving lips curiously.
“What is it?” he prodded.
Owen shoved a clipping at his friend. “There’s only this one picture,” said Owen. “Read the caption.”
Vance obediently read, “The victim’s wife, shown here with her mother, Harriet Robinson, and her daughter, Evelyn…”
Owen put a hand on Vance’s arm. “Harriet Robinson,” he said slowly, “lives on the island. With her granddaughter, Evy. The girl works at the newspaper there. She has a different name now. Her grandmother’s name. But Vance, it’s the same girl.”
“Yeah. So?”
Owen’s normally ruddy countenance was an unhealthy, yellowish color. “So, that can’t be a coincidence.”
Vance frowned and shifted uneasily. “I doubt it,” he agreed. “But why would this Fraser woman ever want to go somewhere where the dead man’s daughter lived?”
Owen’s mind began to race. He thought about the things he’d heard from Jess—and from Maggie. And he thought about Evy. Who acted as if she had no idea who Maggie was. “That’s impossible,” he said aloud.
“What is?”
“I don’t care how young she was at the time. That girl would know who the woman was who killed her own father.”
“Of course,” said Vance.
“There’s something wrong here,” said Owen. “Something very wrong. Vance, is there a telephone down here?”
“Right over there,” said Vance. “Go ahead.”
Owen rushed to the phone and picked it up. After a hurried call to information, he began to dial the island. He tried several numbers. First he called Maggie. The phone rang and rang. Then he dialed the police station. There was no answer. Maggie was supposed to be leaving the hospital today. Impatiently, he tried her again. “Answer!” he cried impatiently. “Answer the goddamned phone!”
24
A cold, gray light suffused the small bedroom of the Thornhill house. The pastel stripes and roses on the aged wallpaper were drained of color by the gloomy light. The faded outlines of flowers were faint, like penciled sketches, and only the water stains, near the ceiling, showed up with definition.
The bedside table and walnut dresser in the room seemed sturdy, but stark, unadorned as they were by any flowers, hairbrushes, or crystal bottles.
Bare branches snapped up against the window, their dark shadows shifting on the limp, cotton curtains that stood partly closed. In the dimness of the room the curtains appeared to be gray also, although they once were a creamy white.
From the direction of the living room the chimes of the grandfather clock sounded in the silence, proclaiming that it was afternoon, but the darkness of the stormy day made it seem much later.
The linens had come loose from the double bed that occupied the center of the room. The striped ticking and steel-gray buttons of the sagging mattress were visible in one corner. The disarray of the sheets testified to the sleeper’s restlessness.
Seated on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped around her chest, Maggie stared blankly out through the narrow opening between the curtains. Her head ached through a dull fog. She reached up and touched a finger tentatively to her eyelids, which were nearly swollen shut. What happened? She had passed out in Evy’s car, overcome by the pain. That was the last thing she remembered.
Slowly, she pushed herself off the bed and stood up. Her legs felt wobbly beneath her. She wanted to see what her eyes looked like, although she dreaded it at the same time. At least I can see, she thought.
A plain oval mirror hung over the walnut chest. Maggie walked over to the chest and started to look. Then she paused and reached for the cord on the standing lamp beside the chest. She switched on the lamp. The burst of light was like a dagger in her eyes. Quickly she shut it off, trembling from the pain, tears spurting out from the inside corners of her puffed lids. After a few moments the pain subsided, and she opened her eyes cautiously. She leaned against the chest, close to the mirror, and peered in.
Her vision seemed to swim a little as she strained to see in the gray light, but gradually she was able to focus on her face. She gasped as her features took shape. The whole area around her eyes was swollen, and even her cheeks appeared to be a virulent, cranberry color. Her eyes were little more than slits in her face. She touched the area around her eyes wonderingly, recalling the shooting pains at the funeral. Could it have been some kind of nervous attack? She had heard of such things.
She looked at herself again. The black mantilla was still secured to her head, although it was askew from her thrashing on the pillow. She reached up and tried to pry out the pins that held it, but they resisted her, snarled as they were in her copper-colored hair. She dropped her hand weakly and clung to the edge of the bureau as a wave of dizziness and nausea passed over her.
Where’s Evy? Had they been to the hospital? Had a doctor come and gone? She could not remember his visit. She stared down at her stockinged feet. “Where are my shoes?” she said aloud and looked around at the bare wooden floor of the room.
Maybe they’re under the bed, she thought. Painfully, she lowered herself to the floor. It suddenly see
med important to find them. She leaned on her elbows and tried to see into the darkness under the bed. The dust under the bed made her sneeze. Her head jerked up and hit the bed frame. The sharp little pain was accompanied by a feeling of angry frustration. “I want my shoes,” she said irritably. She was just about to reach under the bed again and grope for them when she heard the first noise.
It came from above her head. A rattling sound, like a marble running over uneven floorboards. She sat up sharply and listened.
The house was silent. Maggie drew a breath and waited. The quiet in the house seemed suddenly oppressive. You imagined it, she chided herself. She bent down and ran her hand quickly under the bed.
The rattle came again.
“Who is it?” Maggie cried out. “Evy! Is that you?”
Scrambling to her feet, Maggie stood in the corner of the room and stared up at the ceiling. She shivered, feeling suddenly chilled. It’s a mouse, she told herself. That’s all it is. As if to explode that comforting theory, a scraping sound broke the silence.
Maggie’s flesh prickled. She rubbed her icy hands together and began to edge toward the door of the room. A splinter of wood snagged her stocking and wedged under the skin of the sole of her foot. She grimaced but stopped herself from crying out. The scraping sound from the attic had ceased. Silence descended. Again.
After a few moments’ hesitation, she crept past the bathroom and over the threshold into the living room. All the drapes were drawn, and the room was sunk in darkness. Maggie’s hand hovered near the switch of a table lamp, but, remembering the pain in her eyes from the bedroom light, she decided not to illuminate the room. Instead, she strained to adjust her eyes to the blackness. The ticking of the grandfather clock timed the silence. Outside the wind gave a restive howl.
The Unforgiven Page 26
