by Medora Sale
Chapter 7
Grant Keswick and Eleanor stepped out of the elevator into the hotel corridor. They had no trouble figuring out which of the function rooms they were heading for—waves of sound punctuated by shrieks of laughter led them directly to it. Grant plunged into the room and headed directly for the bar, dragging Eleanor after him. She stumbled over feet and caught her high, narrow heels in the broadloom, until finally they reached the drinks table relatively unscathed. In her ridiculous shoes, she towered over Grant, but he had insisted that she wear them. “When I take out a tall girl, I want the whole world to see that she’s tall—the effect is marvellous. If I want to look tall myself, I’ll kick you and you can sit down somewhere while I find myself a shrimp to stand beside.” It had been at this point that she had begun to doubt the wisdom of accepting his invitation. If John Sanders hadn’t been so excited about her going to this party she wouldn’t be here.
But here she was, with a vodka and tonic in her hand—this was a government affair, and the wine looked suspiciously domestic—her feet hurting, trying to be sparkling to a lot of people who were all talking about things she knew nothing about. And only because her cousin knew everyone in Toronto theatrical circles and had introduced her to Grant Keswick and he had decided that he wanted a tall redhead for tonight. For reasons that would become clear later, no doubt. And she was supposed to look excited about a miniseries that she had not watched and be overwhelmed by the knowledge that a bigwig from a U.S. network was here and seriously considering buying the series to show in the fall. From the general euphoria exuding from everyone, it was obvious that most of those present saw themselves already on the magic carpet, being rapidly transported into the big money and the even bigger prestige associated with acting, designing, directing, or even fetching coffee for a big American network.
Eleanor found herself trapped between a large chair and a medium-sized girl, who was mouthing something at her. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “It’s so noisy in here I can’t hear what anyone is saying.”
The girl whispered a bit louder. “I see you came in with Grant Keswick. Did he bring you?” Eleanor decided that this was a trick question. She nodded brightly and kept her mouth shut. “I’ve been going out with him ever since we started the series, you know,” she said as she stared through Eleanor. “I think he’s a bit old to be playing the juvenile lead, don’t you? But he’s trying to look as young as possible. That must be why he invited an older woman tonight. For the contrast. He always thinks of things like that.”
It seemed to be an unanswerable comment. Eleanor remembered her mission and attempted to edge away from this sweet creature, looking wildly about for her scheming escort. She saw him finally in a quiet corner talking to a man dressed soberly in gray. Not an actor or director, then. Probably from the Canada Council, or a politician or civil servant. There were enough of those around. She squeezed in between the chair and the girl as expeditiously as possible without knocking either one down and without pausing to observe the effect of her sudden departure on Grant’s erstwhile love.
She was heading for an enormous chair in the vicinity of the two men, close enough to appear to be with them, yet not so close that she would intrude on their conversation. She should be able to hear Grant’s clear actor’s voice from there. Three more closely knit groups of people and she should make it. Suddenly a bony hand grasped her around the upper arm, and a too-familiar voice squawked in her ear: “Eleanor! How wonderful to see you! Is Susan here with you?” This was why Susan had ducked the party. She knew that her old boyfriend would be here—as weedy and unpleasant as ever, and still as impossible to get rid of—and had no desire to run into him again.
“Stephen, how nice to see you.” She kept her voice low and unenthused. “How’s art history? Susan couldn’t come to this. She’s studying for exams.” As he droned on at her, she tried to peer past his long, skinny frame to see what had happened to her quarry. Fortunately, Stephen rarely listened to anyone, and an occasional grunt was always sufficient to satisfy his demands for conversational response. Two people shifted position, and she could see Grant again, still deep in conversation. She turned politely to Stephen for a moment. When she looked back, Grant and the man in gray were gone. Damn! Getting rid of this persistent idiot took real skill. He appeared to be going on about theater being the only true plastic art, citing a series of contradictory reasons that she hadn’t time to make sense of.
Suddenly a deep voice cut through his monologue. “Eleanor, my love,” said Grant. “Have I been neglecting you so long that you’re picking up new men?” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her closer to him. “Come on, doll, let me parade you around and impress people. Sorry, Stephen, old chap, but she’s mine tonight. Have you met Paul Wilcox? He’s probably your provincial MP—except that I can never remember exactly which group of people is supposed to vote him in.” Before either she or Stephen had a chance to react to this, Grant swept Eleanor into the center of the fray with one powerful arm around her waist. She wondered how much chance she would stand if it came to her strength against someone like Grant Keswick and shivered slightly as she tried, unsuccessfully, to disengage herself from his grip.
“Interesting man, Wilcox,” said Grant casually. “Did you hear what he had to say about the provincial Art Council’s new policy on the classification of commercial theater?”
“No, sorry, I didn’t,” said Eleanor. “I was caught by an intense little creature who feels she has some claim on you and was trying to put me in my place, and then, of course, by the inimitable Stephen. I always seem to miss the interesting conversations. That’s why I’m never able to convince anyone that I’m an insider. I think I’ll write a novel called Life on the Fringes.” Good God, she thought, I’m beginning to chatter brightly.
“It will sell a million copies, my dear, because everyone will think it’s an exposé of the fashion industry.” He maintained his hold on her wrist and gripped her even more tightly around the waist. “Let’s head for another drink, and then I want you to look decorative for that man over there. See him? The one who looks like an accountant? He’s the guy from the network, and he loves tall, intelligent women. And if you’re good, I’ll take you away after this and buy you a smashing dinner with decent wine for being such a sweetheart.” Eleanor laughed, and allowed herself to be swept along through the crowd.
John Sanders was already at his desk, making rapid notes from a pile of papers in front of him, when Ed Dubinsky walked into their crowded and chaotic corner of the building on Monday morning. “You’re late,” Sanders said.
“The hell I am,” said Dubinsky. “I’m never late. If I got here late, it would mean Sally was late getting to work, and she’s never been late for anything in her life. You’re early. You sick or something?”
Sanders glared at him. “Merely trying to get a grip on things around here.” He pushed a couple of quarters across the desk. “Go get us some coffee and we’ll get a move on.” The list in front of him was growing rapidly. By the time Dubinsky returned with the coffee, it had filled a page.
“I put a pile of reports on your desk. Check through and see if anything has come in from Cobourg yet, will you? Either on the uncle or the boyfriend—whoever he is.” Sanders returned to the heap of paper in front of him.
The silence in their corner was unbroken except for the occasional grunt or snort of reaction, all lost in the ringing of phones and general bustle of the morning. Finally, Dubinsky looked up. “Here are a couple of reports in from Cobourg. You want them?”
“Just give me what’s in them for now.”
“Okay.” Dubinsky glanced rapidly over the two documents. “First of all, Matthew Jameson, her uncle, was finally contacted yesterday morning. Cobourg reports that he showed very little reaction to her death. He apparently said that he had not seen her since shortly after she left her husband, when she had come down to the farm, and he had ‘tried to explain
to her what a wife’s duty was.’ That must have been an interesting conversation. Anyway, she simply stayed away after that, although she continued to write to him as regularly as before.” He looked up. “And I gather that as a result of this, identification was released to the newspapers last night. He also identified ‘Mike’ as Michael Hutchinson, whose father owns the Hutchinson Hardware Store in Cobourg. When contacted, Mr. Hutchinson said that he hadn’t seen his son since the middle of March but had been in frequent touch with him by telephone. He said that Mike would be very upset to hear of Mrs. Conway’s death, since he was deeply attached to her. And there’s the name of a motel out in Scarborough where he has been staying. His father hasn’t heard from him since last week—last Sunday, he thinks. And that’s about it.”
“I suppose we’d better get the hell out there and pick him up, then,” said Sanders. “Let’s move.”
As the bell shrilled through the halls at 12:15 that same Monday, Kingsmede Hall School for Girls was instantly transformed from ordered industry into shrieking chaos. Amanda snaffled her brown bag from her locker and headed upstairs to eat in a corner of the far-off Latin room, patronized by a cohesive group of like-minded souls. Jenny and Leslie were already opening their lunch bags and trying to swap bits of the contents for something better. Amanda looked incredulously at her peanut butter—why had she packed that?—and took a tragic mouthful. But it was only seconds before the talk moved from food to the police. And murder. The drama of Mrs. Conway’s falling victim to Johnson’s mad rapist vindicated her in their eyes. It even helped wipe out the memory of those hideous physics classes. Jenny, of course, was miles ahead of everyone else, as usual. She knew exactly what had happened, and where, and what the police were thinking on the subject right at this very moment.
“There were two plainclothes cops here on Thursday and Friday for hours, and they questioned all the teachers and Miss Johnson. Her name wasn’t Conway, you know, and she wasn’t really a physics teacher.”
“Who says that?” asked Leslie, with suspicion; she knew from experience the solid worth of Jenny’s information.
“My dad, that’s who. And he knows all about it. He said that she seemed to him to be a pretty strange character when he saw her at Parents’ Night, and he’s going to ask for one-eighth of my fees back, because we haven’t been properly taught.” Jenny nodded her head emphatically.
“That’s not true, Jenny,” said Amanda. “I mean, I couldn’t stand her, but she wasn’t that bad a teacher. We learned a lot of physics.”
“Maybe you did, brain,” said Jenny resentfully. “But I couldn’t understand a word she said, and I haven’t learned a thing in the last month.” Amanda opened her mouth and Jenny hastily added, “And don’t say that isn’t new.”
The door opened again, and a plumpish, dark-haired girl came in with lunch bag in one hand and well-thumbed French textbook in the other. A murmur of “Hi, Sarah” went around, and the group returned to the subject at hand.
“Well, I don’t care about that,” said Leslie. “What I want to know is who was the guy in the gray car outside her apartment all the time.”
“What gray car?” asked Sarah.
“There was this gray car,” explained Leslie. “And you know she lived right across the street from me and down a bit. Anyway, Amanda and I saw this guy in a gray Honda—you saw the guy, didn’t you, Amanda? What did he look like?”
“I’ll bet he was her boyfriend,” said Sarah. “And he got jealous and killed her.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jenny. “He was probably her husband. She was separated, you know. He was probably tailing her, to see what she was up to.”
“How do you know?” asked Leslie once more. “Wait, don’t tell me. Your dad told you.” Jenny nodded, her mouth full of salami and roll, and kept on chewing vigorously. “I’ll bet it was her husband, you know. What did he look like, Amanda? Did he look like someone who would kill Conway if he got mad?”
“How should I know?” replied Amanda. “He just looked like a guy, that’s all. I mean I didn’t go over and ask him if he liked killing people or anything like that. Besides, she was killed by the rapist.”
“How do you know? My dad says that whenever there are a string of crimes like this one, you get people knocking off their families and pretending it was done by the first guy.” This from the omniscient Jenny.
“Well, she was. Because our next-door neighbour is a good friend of the cop who is investigating the murders, and she told my Aunt Kate that it was probably the same guy. And that we should be very careful.” Amanda took another bite from her limp sandwich. “And so it doesn’t matter who that poor wimp was—I mean, even if he was her husband, he didn’t do it.” There was something in Amanda’s air of finality that intimidated her classmates. The conversation turned rapidly to some very cute hunks who were coming over from a local boys’ school, and to whether the slim chance one would have of being tripped over by one of them would make staying late worthwhile.
But at the dinner table that night at the Martin Delisles, and the Geoffrey Smiths, and the Paul Wilcoxes, the fascinating tale of Amanda Griffiths and the man in the gray Honda was trotted out as a lure that would interest even Daddies. Martin Delisle felt that in some obscure way it proved what he had been saying all along, and he warned Jenny to be on her guard. Geoffrey Smith laughed, and to Leslie’s intense irritation, dismissed it as a particularly elaborate piece of schoolgirl embroidery. Paul Wilcox even managed to look faintly interested and to ask a kind question about her observant friends. Poor Sarah glowed with delight at the implied, but unaccustomed, praise, as she prattled on.
It was well past lunch time, and Sanders and Dubinsky had been driving back and forth for some time in a thin, nasty drizzle along Kingston Road—the city’s eastern strip—looking for the Blue Cross Motel. The Cobourg Police Department had apparently believed that a name and the street on which it was located would be sufficient identification. “And it would have been,” said Sanders, “if they’d gotten the bloody name right. There isn’t a Blue Cross Motel; Dubinsky. Turn around and we’ll try the Blue Dolphin and the Bluegrass.” Dubinsky started patiently back the other way. “There it is.” Sanders pointed at a gaudy sign depicting a porcine and melancholy dolphin with a wary look, as if it were expecting to turn up at dinner as special of the day. The gentleman behind the counter looked even more melancholy and world-weary than the dolphin.
He twitched back the corner of his little mustache in a smile. “Yes?” he asked in sepulchral tones.
“Do you have someone here,” Sanders flashed his identification in the clerk’s direction, “named Michael Hutchinson?” He glanced around him impatiently. The sight of the I.D. card plunged the desk clerk into even greater fits of despair. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly and reached for the register. “Staying since the beginning of February?”
“Oh, no,” he replied morosely. “Our customers don’t often manage to stay until dinner time. I’d certainly remember if someone had been here that long. No. No one. Not of that name or any other. Sorry.” He pushed the register back into its niche with a sigh.
“A comedian,” said Sanders, as they walked back to the car. “Let’s get on with it.”
The Bluegrass Motel was small, shabby, and absurdly named. It was tucked in behind a large gas station and beside a tiny suburban plaza in its death throes. The nearest grass was probably three blocks away; the nearest horse, several miles. Inside the hovel marked “Management,” a thin, white-haired elfish man sat hunched over a copy of a magazine which he slid rapidly under the counter as soon as he saw that he was not alone. “We don’t rent rooms for half a day,” he said sourly.
“Jesus, what is this?” said Dubinsky. “What the hell do we look like?” His voice became coldly unpleasant. “You got someone here named Michael Hutchinson?”
“He’s out. His car ain’t there, so he’s out. What you want him for?�
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“To talk to,” said Sanders, tightly. “When did he go?”
“Dunno.” He pulled out his magazine and flipped the page.
“The key,” said Dubinsky, clapping his huge hand over the open page on the counter. “We’ll check it out for ourselves.”
“Can’t do that. Not unless you have a warrant.” He tried to yank the magazine out from under Dubinsky’s paw, with no success.
Sanders leaned over the counter, his voice friendly and confidential. “Perhaps you’d prefer to have us come back in the evening,” he said. “Every evening, say, in a nice bright yellow car, with lights flashing on the roof, just when you’re trying to fill up for the night.” The clerk glared at him across the counter, slowly got up, reached in a drawer for a small bunch of keys and tossed them down in front of them.
“Room nine,” he said. “The numbers are on them.” He turned his back on them in complete indifference and went back to his cultural pursuits.
Except for an unmade bed, room nine showed few signs of occupancy—no suitcases, no clothing hanging up on the open rack near the door. Sanders looked in the bathroom. Empty. Not so much as a rusty razor blade in the tiny medicine cabinet. Wet towels lay about the tiny room; the paper bathmat was soggy and gray. On the floor in front of the television set a morning paper lay spread open to pages two and three. As Sanders leaned over it to see what was there, the second part of a story on the death of Jane Conway stared back at him. He turned to Dubinsky. “He’s gone. The bastard’s gone. As soon as he saw the story in the paper he took off. All this time we’ve been farting around looking for disappearing rapists and husbands, and he was right under our noses. Get the license number and make of the car from that idiot out there and call it in. We should be able to pick him up if he didn’t leave too long ago.” As Dubinsky went out the door, he glanced back and saw Sanders standing very still, muttering at the carpet.
