by Iona Whishaw
Ames thought about Tina, suddenly confronted after more than a decade by the man who had raped her, and then he shook off the thought. “We know Finch was not at work that afternoon. And we don’t really know if Watts has been happily married for a decade. We’ve only got his wife’s word for that. She might be trying to preserve his reputation. Or her own. She knew about the other girls at the beginning, but when she got pregnant, she told us he stayed with her. But who knows? He certainly disappeared from time to time,” he said.
“According to Gilly, someone must have been with him in the car, hiding in the back seat. Or did someone follow him and get into the back seat to, I don’t know, talk about something? Maybe someone who was blackmailing him about the rape?”
“And that’s the other thing. Where was he going? You’re suggesting he might have been going to meet a blackmailer, pay him—or her for that matter—off? According to his wife, he drops their little girl off at the school down the hill and he goes to work. Where was he going that day, and why didn’t he pick up Ada? It suggests he was murdered before he could get to her. He was certainly driving in the wrong direction to pick her up.” Terrell looked up at the sky with a frown. “I really hope this holds off.”
Gunderson proved to be a genial man in late middle age. He was outside chopping firewood when they pulled up in front of the cabin after a bumpy ride up the hill. He approached the car with a wave and a surprised smile and invited them into his cabin. They sat at a small wooden table.
“I sure don’t get much traffic up here,” he said again. He seemed very pleased. “Especially the police!” He chuckled.
Ames explained their mission. “We’re following up on leads with regards to a recent death near the Harrop ferry. Were you hitchhiking into town on Tuesday morning some time?”
The man laughed. He looked a bit like a young Santa Claus, Ames thought. Bushy hair, bushy beard, twinkling eyes.
“Walking to town, more like. You know Stewy drives that little bus a couple of times a week, and I missed the darn thing. I finally got a ride a ways out of town, six miles or so. I don’t remember seeing nothing at the Harrop turnoff. Someone in a hurry to catch the ferry. That’s about it. I picked up my pills at the drugstore and then got a lift at the Nelson ferry from someone driving to Argenta. It’s too bad that damned steamboat that goes up and down the lake stops all the way up at King’s Cove. I coulda taken that, but it would have meant a long walk back.”
“What time would you say you passed the ferry turnoff?” Terrell asked.
Gunderson shook his head. “I don’t wear a watch. Just got this thing here,” he pointed at a rosewood clock that sat in solitary splendour on the mantel of the stone fireplace. “Got it from my grandfather back in Norway. It’s how I know when to get down to the bottom of the road to catch the bus. I’d been walking a good while by then. I left here at seven or so.”
“Can you remember anything about the car that was in a hurry to catch the ferry?” Terrell looked up from his notes.
“Dark blue maybe? No! I lie. Dark green. Not one of your fancy new cars. A bit older than that thing you fellows pulled up in.” He nodded toward the window.
“How many people in the car?” asked Terrell.
“One person. The driver.” He paused and frowned. “Well, I thought it was one, but remembering it now, I have this impression of two.”
“So it’s possible there were two?” Ames followed up.
“Gosh. I wish I could be sure. I was tired from walking. I was probably seeing things that weren’t there. Sorry.”
With Ames wincing about the undercarriage, Terrell picked his way slowly back down the rutted and little- used road.
“He seems a fairly buoyant kind of person for a widower,” Ames remarked, exhaling as they finally reached the turnoff to the main road. “Though I wonder at him chopping wood with a bad heart.”
“He did have a sort of shrine to his wife, did you notice it? Near his bed on a little table. Photo and a little flowerpot with some leaves and dried grasses. What I’ve seen is that some people just have a more positive disposition. Take what life sends them. My gran is like that. When you look at her life, she seems to have lost so much: her husband when she was in her forties, a child to an accident when he was eight, and all the people that die as you get older. All kinds of health problems and she’s pretty much housebound, but she’s always got a smile or a cheerful word. She says everything is in the hands of God, and it’s a disappointment to Him to be downhearted.”
“I’m a bit downhearted about where we’re going with this murder,” Ames admitted. He was going to add, “Sorry, God,” but worried that if Terrell was of a religious persuasion, he might take offence.
“It’s true, we haven’t had much on the hitchhiking front, except Gunderson does seem to have seen the car and said it appeared to be in a hurry. I’m interested more than ever in who would like to see Watts dead,” Ames said.
“Didn’t Miss Van Eyck tell you she thought there were plenty who would be pleased by the news? I mean, that list seemed to include anyone associated with a young girl he might have interfered with.”
“Yes, I’m pretty certain Craig Finch would be delighted.”
Terrell glanced at Ames. “And of course . . . ”
Ames nodded. “The wife, though she seemed genuinely distraught. But by her own admission she hasn’t been very happy for a while. The last time I talked to her, she pretended to accept that there wasn’t much love between them, but that he loved his little girl and that was enough. But she got furious about the suggestion he was running off with someone. I don’t think she’s as accepting as she pretends to be. I want to ask her about this possible blackmailing angle. Let’s see how she takes the news that this is a murder investigation.”
Galloway stood at his door and bellowed, “Martinez!”
Martinez looked up and rose slowly. He’d seen Galloway barrel in and could see he was in a blacker mood than usual. “Sir,” he said.
“Any progress on that murder at the Santa Cruz Inn?”
“We have the wife and the brother-in-law in custody, but the one weapon we’ve recovered from the hotel closet was not the weapon we’re looking for. It was registered to the dead man and hadn’t been used. Brand new. Though I think it is relevant, we could be asking ourselves why he brought a gun on his honeymoon.”
“Have you tried asking his wife?”
“That’s for today, sir. The weapon we are looking for is, based on the bullets recovered, possibly an automatic.”
“Get it sewn up.” Galloway turned back into his office.
“Sir,” said Martinez to his back. He watched the door close and contemplated presenting an angry Galloway with the news he suspected Griffin had a plant in the station. There was nothing for it. He couldn’t keep it to himself. They’d all need to be on guard from now on.
“What?” Galloway shouted at Martinez’s knock.
Martinez pushed open the door and stood almost at attention in the doorway. “Sir, I think there’s something I should talk to you about.”
“Well, get in here and talk. I don’t have all day. And shut the bloody door.”
Wondering why Galloway was so perpetually in a temper, Martinez began. “It’s about my notes, sir. I’ve looked everywhere, and I am convinced I have not mislaid them. The fact is that without those notes, Griffin will get away with all the things we know he’s doing. I’m wondering, sir, if there is someone here, on the inside, who has taken them, someone in the pocket of Griffin himself.” There. He’d said it.
Galloway leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him on the desk. “That’s a serious accusation, Martinez. And pretty convenient for you. Do you have someone in mind?”
“No, sir. But if there is someone on the take, it would mean serious consequences for the department. We already know Griffin has moved money t
hrough his restaurant and out through other businesses. If we don’t get a conviction, it means a criminal is effectively in charge of this town.”
Galloway stood up with a swiftness that unnerved Martinez. He put his hands in his pockets and turned away, looking out the window. He swung around, marched to the door, and looked through his window at the floor of the station. “You’re telling me you think someone out there is a quisling.”
“It’s the only explanation, sir.”
“And I suppose you have someone in mind?”
Martinez hesitated. If he said someone’s name, he would be breaking the biggest rule of policing: don’t betray your fellow cops. But he was a sergeant now. And if there was someone on the take, he couldn’t keep his suspicions from his boss. He owed that much to Galloway. “I wonder about someone on the night shift, sir. There would be opportunity to go through desks and files.”
Galloway looked out his window onto the shop floor. “Bevan? Cooper? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I know nothing against either of them, sir. But I am certain now it is the only explanation for the disappearance of my notes.”
“You mean, besides your incompetence? Well, we’d better keep an eye on them, hadn’t we?”
“I told you already. I had no idea my husband had bought a gun. He had taken over his father’s company. Perhaps he thought he needed protection.” Ivy Renwick was exhausted because she had not slept well, and her pale skin showed the deep shadows under her eyes. “How long are you intending to keep me here?”
“You will be arraigned this morning, ma’am. As will Edward Renwick.”
She turned to her lawyer. “They have nothing on me. I didn’t even know about that gun. I want you to get me out of here. I have enough for whatever bail they demand.”
Davis, who had little enthusiasm for the project of defending any Renwick, asked, “And Edward Renwick?”
Ivy flinched and looked irritated. “I have nothing to do with him. He can rot here for all I care.”
Martinez made a mental note of this exchange. A new idea had presented itself. He was quite certain that Ivy Renwick and her brother-in-law had been lovers, but her absolute dismissal of him since they had been arrested made him wonder if she, in fact, was innocent, and suspected Edward of having shot her husband. Perhaps a dead husband was not useful to her. It certainly could be to the brother-in-law if the board of their company was inclined to push for a man to be in charge of the company rather than the dead man’s wife. His brief acquaintance with the two of them suggested Ivy was far more competent than her hard-drinking brother-in-law, but in his experience, men generally didn’t want to put women in charge of things.
Galloway sat down and leaned back in his chair. The overhead fan turned lazily above him, moving the warm air in an unsatisfactory manner. Muttering an oath, he reached for his cigarettes and lit up. He watched the smoke whirling slowly, giving shape to the movement of air. His dissatisfaction at the moment was not centred on Martinez and the Griffin problem. It was with his wife. He hadn’t been wrong, he knew that much. He’d been very clear with her about babies. He couldn’t bear the thought of a squalling baby. He’d given her everything she could want, and why not? He loved her. So why had she done it? She knew he didn’t want her figure ruined. He’d have to go back to the hospital and make it all okay. Say he was sorry and, of course, forgive her. The nurse had told him she’d lost the baby. She’d be upset about that. He’d have to make that right. He would take her on a nice vacation. She’d like that. She could buy a new wardrobe for it.
He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at his watch. He’d go to the hospital later in the evening. Or tomorrow. Give her a little more time. He didn’t look forward to it. He hated hospitals. In the meantime, he had much bigger problems. With this murder at the Santa Cruz Inn and Martinez stumbling about, he’d begun to suspect the whole business of Griffin might be harder to deal with than he thought.
Chicago, 1928
Megan O’Shay stood in front of the long mirror in the rooming house where she lived with her parents and her three brothers. She was wearing a long silk slip, and her hair had been wrapped in a protective net. Her mother was holding the white satin wedding dress, ready to slide it over Meg’s head.
“Arms up,” she commanded. “It will be good to get out of this lousy place. You’re lucky, you know that? I hope you appreciate it.”
“Sure, Ma. I do. Ow! There’s still a pin in it. I appreciate you set me up to marry Art so you could get out of this dump.”
“Don’t talk to your mother like that. You’re sixteen. You do what you’re told. He’s handsome, he’s going to be rich. He’s better than that trash you’ve been seeing.”
Meg conceded silently. Art was better than Ricky, the boy from school who had actually cried when she’d told him she was breaking up with him and quitting school to get married. Art was confident, well dressed, smart. He loved her. Her mother had told her she would learn in time to forget Ricky and love Art. Maybe. She had worked her whole life to create a hard shell around her heart. She had actually imagined the shell, like a beautiful oyster shell with iridescent colours. She imagined opening it quickly and putting Ricky inside, hidden forever, because the one thing she knew about Ricky was he really loved her. She drew herself as tall as she could and looked in the mirror.
“Get this thing off,” her mother said, pointing at the hair net. “Let’s see what you look like with everything.”
Meg reached up and pulled off the hair net. Her hair was marcelled perfectly, the golden waves framing her pretty round face. Art is the lucky one, she thought. Her mother pulled the veil off the bed and placed it over her daughter’s head.
“You look like Mary Pickford. A real star.” She suddenly took her daughter’s wrist and pulled her close. “Don’t you mess this up! This is our one big chance!”
Meg pulled away, feeling the edge of her shell cutting into the inside of her chest. “Don’t you worry, Ma, I won’t. You think you arranged this? I got him. He loves me. He’s marrying me, and he’s taking me far away from here. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Chapter Sixteen
It was still dark and very cold at five in the morning when Lane and Raúl pulled up in front of Saint Mary’s. Lane had left a hastily scribbled note for Darling on the desk. She hoped it would be enough to let him know she was safe without actually telling him she was spiriting someone away from the city in a clandestine early morning operation.
They found Nurse Yelland just inside the front doors with a wheelchair-bound Priscilla. She was encased in blankets, her face hidden by her dark glasses and a headscarf. With infinite care, she was settled onto the back seat and laid on her side.
“She’s still on pain medication,” Yelland explained. “But she practised getting up and walking yesterday, and she should be able to manage at the airport. Amazingly she had a visit from her maid yesterday. She felt bad that the missus was in hospital without her toiletries, or even her handbag, and so she brought them along. She wasn’t particularly friendly, but she sat for a few minutes with Mrs. Galloway and told me on the way out that at least she’d be able to buy herself a candy bar now. I had a feeling this was not the first time the maid had to deal with this sort of thing. Mrs. Galloway’s husband came last evening, but we told him she was sleeping and couldn’t see anyone. He looked relieved and said he’d be back today.”
Lane had bought a handbag at the hotel gift shop and put a wallet with some money in it, but Priscilla having her own things was much better. She transferred her money to Priscilla’s wallet.
“Thank you, Nurse Yelland,” Lane said earnestly. “With any luck she will be long gone by the time he comes.”
“Think nothing of it. He’s only visited her once. Busy man. I’d like to think it was remorse, but I doubt it. There aren’t many people who’d do what you’re doing. I wish all the
women I deal with had a guardian angel like you. You’ve raised my very jaundiced view of humanity no end.”
At that time of morning, the road to Phoenix was quiet. They passed a few large trucks but not much in the way of other cars. At six the stars began to fade, and the sky changed from inky black to streaks of intense orange and yellow. Lane watched with her heart full as this transformation took place. They had passed the bulk of the Catalina Mountains, and now the desert stretched east, with golden light beginning to wash over it.
She turned and looked into the back.
“I think she’s asleep,” she whispered to Raúl, who had maintained a complete silence, perhaps in honour of the serious business of the morning.
“I’m not asleep,” Priscilla contradicted in a muffled voice. “I’m just trying to stay warm. I see I have a little suitcase. What did anyone find to put in it?”
“My sister found some clothes she thought you could use, and this lady did too,” Raúl said, looking up at the rear-view mirror.
“Well, that’s jolly nice.” Priscilla sounded weary. “I’ll have to find a way to thank her.”
“No, ma’am. There is no need. She is happy to help. You just relax. We’ll be at Sky Harbor in about an hour and a half.”
Lane walked across the tarmac with Priscilla, providing an arm for support. “Are you sure you are going to be all right?” she asked.
“Yes, quite all right. Don’t fuss. My friend in New York has agreed to meet me. Paul knows nothing about her.” They had arrived at the stairs into the plane, and she took the railing in her free hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Darling,” she said with formality. She was about to go up the stairs when she turned and reached into her purse and pulled something out. “This has your honeymoon picture, do you remember? I was going to keep the rest to hold over Paul if he ever found me. But perhaps someone here can use them.” She dropped a roll of film into Lane’s hand and started up the steps slowly and then looked back once more. “Thank you. I have a son, you know. I never told you. Perhaps now I will be able to see him.”
