“You’re not suggesting that Greg Hewert and Audrey Shaw . . .”
Pukey just stared down the road, swallowing a mushrooming grin.
“Why should I believe that?” I asked. “To be honest with you, it seems unlikely.”
“Mrs. Shaw is a pretty lady, right? Not my style, but I can’t say it wouldn’t be a gas to screw an ex-girlfriend’s mother. And the wife of a state judge to boot.”
One who had sent him to jail.
“But we’re talking about Greg Hewert,” I said. “Suppose he was interested in her. What makes you think she’d go for him?”
Pukey took his eyes off the road and looked at me. “Women like strong types. Don’t judge Joe Varsity by yesterday at the lake; he’s no creampuff. Just no match for me. And I suppose some women think he’s good looking.”
“Do you know this firsthand? I mean, did you ever see them together?”
“No, but I knew what was going on. And Jordan knew it, too, though she never admitted it.”
“And the judge?” I asked, recalling the tense exchange I’d witnessed between the Shaws at the funeral home.
“Maybe. I can’t say for sure.”
About ten miles east of New Holland, Pukey swung off Route 5 into a long drive that cut through the high grass near the river: the Leatherstocking Motel.
“This is the place,” he said, rolling to a stop about twenty yards from the registration office. “And that’s the car I followed here.” He pointed to a late-model, light-blue Chevrolet Impala parked at the end of the lot.
“Let’s take a closer look,” I said, and we popped open our doors in unison.
The blue sedan had New York diplomatic plates, which baffled me, and the engine was cold; it hadn’t moved in hours.
“You two looking for something?” A frail, gray-haired man in a faded flannel shirt and rumpled fishing vest peered across the lot at us. The manager.
“We’re looking for the man who owns that car,” I said, walking toward the office. “My name is Ellie Stone. I write for the Republic.”
“And who’s that with you, the paperboy?”
Pukey’s eyes turned red, and I thought he was going to punch the old guy’s lights out. I grabbed him by the arm and restrained him.
“He’s with me,” I said. “Who belongs to the car?”
“It’s mine,” called another voice, this one with a familiar foreign accent. I knew it was Roy before I’d even turned to look.
He was standing in the doorway of one of the rooms, smiling and relaxed. Instead of his usual turban, he was wearing a sort of sheer black cloth wrapped tightly around his head and knotted on the top in front. He motioned for me to join him.
“What a pleasant surprise, Miss Stone,” he said with his unflappable cordiality.
“Surprise?” I asked. “You didn’t expect to see me?”
“Please come inside, and I’ll explain everything.”
I took a step toward him and felt Pukey on my heels. (God, I thought, not entirely displeased, he really has it bad for me.) Roy seemed alarmed and insisted that he wanted to talk to me alone. I agreed, provided the paperboy stand guard outside the door.
“Have a seat,” said Roy once we were alone in his dark, musty room. I sat on a slat-backed chair—the only one in the room. “Now, how can I help you today?”
Was he kidding?
“I’m here for two reasons, Roy,” I said, noticing the latest edition of the Republic on the dresser. I could read the headline from my seat: “Photos of the Murder?”—the story I’d had Fadge plant in George Walsh’s ear two nights before. Another item caught my eye: “DA Releases Hernandez.” “First, I want to find out who killed Jordan Shaw. I assume that discovery will clear up another recent murder, a couple of burglaries, and some creative automobile maintenance. Second, I’d like to know why you’ve been following me the past few days.”
Roy’s dark eyes sparkled in the low light, as if he was laughing. He thought for a moment, then took a seat on the bed.
“I’ll speak candidly with you in this room, Miss Stone, then deny whatever I choose when we walk back outside.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“As for your first question, I cannot say who killed Jordan Shaw because I don’t know.”
“But you were in her motel room that night.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you stopped for a beer at a local tavern the night Jordan Shaw was murdered. And now you’re holidaying here in lovely New Holland, New York.”
“Perhaps I have other business here.”
“For instance?”
“I’ve come to retrieve some property. I have reason to believe that it is here.”
“At the Mohawk Motel?” I asked. “Or in my flat?”
Roy smiled again. “It could be anywhere.”
“What exactly is this property of yours?”
“I didn’t say it was mine. It doesn’t belong to me, in fact, but I have an interest in recovering it.”
“Maybe I can help,” I said.
“You know very well what I’m looking for, don’t you, Miss Stone? And you know where it is.”
“I may admit to something here in this room,” I said. “Something that I’ll deny once we walk back outside.”
He nodded; well played. “Perhaps we can do business.”
“Fine by me. But first, I want to know about November 25th. If you didn’t kill Jordan, what did you see in her room?”
“I’ve already told you I was not there. But if, for the sake of an intellectual exercise, you would like to assume I was, then let’s do a proof of it.” He leaned back on his elbows and waited.
“Okay,” I said. “Who do you think would have reason to kill Jordan?”
“It could be anybody. Perhaps a local. Why do you insist I know?”
“Come on, Roy. What did you see in that room? Was Jerrold there? Was Jordan already dead, or did you talk to her?”
“What has Dr. Jerrold to do with this?”
“I know the story you fed me in Boston was a pack of lies,” I said, leaning forward, toward him. “You told me Jordan and D. J. Nichols were an item, when everyone in the department knew that was bunk. Why did you tell me such an obvious lie? Didn’t you think I would check on it?”
“I told you what I had heard through the grapevine.”
“You were protecting Jerrold. He was your benefactor in the department, at least of late. Isn’t it only since August that you two have shared a common interest?”
Roy stood up, circled the room, then answered.
“You’re right; I did lie to you in Boston. When you first appeared at Tufts, I was surprised. How had you traced Jordan Shaw to the Engineering Department? I couldn’t figure it. I was impressed, but then I thought, she’s just a girl, and so young. I thought I could be rid of you with that story. I underestimated you. Now I know better. Yes, I was shielding Jerrold. He’s married, as you know, and I was sure the scandal would hurt his family. Jordan was already dead, so what was the harm?”
“How does Nichols fit in, then? Why point the finger at him?”
“He was the only alternative. Jordan was not easily approached. Of all the men who courted her, only Dr. Jerrold and D. J. Nichols had any luck. And with D. J., it was clearly a friendship only. Still, he was the only man I knew who saw her socially. So I lied about the rumors.”
“You’re still lying,” I said. “But we’ll leave that for now. What about my second question? Why have you been following me?”
Roy smiled. “Quite simple. I thought you might have picked up the trail of what I’m looking for. And you almost had me convinced a moment ago. But I doubt you have any idea where it is. You’re too coy, Miss Stone. You’ve made some clever guesses, to be sure, but you don’t know where it is, do you? Or perhaps it doesn’t exist at all.”
I said nothing.
“I am planning to drive back to Boston today itself,” he announced.
I stood to leave, and, s
ince I was holding nothing, played my hand accordingly: I bluffed.
“Take a good look at that article on the front page of today’s paper,” I said. “Read it carefully and see if you still think I can’t put my hands on what you want.”
“You don’t expect me to believe you, do you?” he asked, nearly laughing.
“It’s all the same to me,” I said, opening the door. “You’re not the only person looking for it,” and I left.
Outside, Pukey was leaning against a wall, picking at the grease under his fingernails. As we walked back to his car, I ducked underneath Roy’s blue Chevrolet to look for oil spots. Nothing. Then I wrote down the plate number and made a note to check with Motor Vehicles.
Perhaps Roy had a vested interest in protecting Jerrold, but I couldn’t be sure he was the killer. To pin the murders on him, I needed three little oil drippings, arranged in a neat isosceles triangle.
Pukey dropped me off at home, where I phoned Benny Arnold at Motor Vehicles. I needed some information and, so, had to brave the awkwardness. If he knew I wasn’t interested in him, did he have to mention it each time? Does it help one’s self esteem to draw attention to one’s failings with the opposite sex? For my part, I can verify that it does not improve one’s odds of success.
I asked Benny to check on Roy’s license plate for me.
“Sure,” he said. “Maybe if I do this for you, you’ll agree to go on a date someday.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
He took down the number and promised an answer soon.
A few minutes after ringing off with Benny, Morrissey called from Boston.
“Here’s an interesting tidbit for you,” he said. “We know whoever killed Jordan Shaw brought her purse back to her apartment in Boston. That ought to erase any lingering doubts that Ginny White was murdered by anyone other than Jordan Shaw’s killer.”
“How do you know Jordan had the purse in New Holland?” I asked, relieved that they had finally found the motel receipt.
“We came across a dated receipt from the Mohawk Motel. The way I figure it, the killer grabbed her purse and brought it to Boston. He used her keys to get into the apartment and kill Ginny. That leads me to believe our man is one of the Boston crowd.”
“Why’s that?”
“Why would he kill the two roommates unless he knew them both? What motive would one of your locals have to drive four hours to Boston to kill Ginny White? She obviously wasn’t a witness. He’d be running a terrific risk of getting caught with Jordan’s stuff.”
Morrissey had a point there. Was I wasting my time on the New Holland end? Then I told him that Roy had turned up in New Holland.
“What’s he doing over there?” he asked.
“He’s trying to recover the photographs. He says he wants to protect Jerrold. Blackmail is more likely.”
“Makes sense.”
“What about Jerrold?” I asked. “Did you find out if he owns a second car?”
“We found one registered to his wife: a 1958 Pontiac Bonneville, cream color.”
Then, before hanging up, he told me he was going to call Frank Olney.
“What do you want with him?” I asked.
“I’m going to ask him to pick up Singh. He’s a suspect and, at the least, a material witness. I don’t want him disappearing again. Besides, I think you might be in danger.”
If he only knew.
About an hour later, I phoned Frank Olney, who had already spoken to Morrissey.
“I’m going out to the Leatherstocking to pick up that Indian guy now,” he said. “You want to meet me out there?”
“No, my car’s in the shop again,” I lied. In fact, it was still parked on Jean Trent’s property on Winandauga Lake, but I didn’t want Frank to know that. For one thing, there wasn’t a hill for me to fall down anywhere near there. “I was hoping to go out to the Mohawk while Jean Trent is still locked up,” I said. “I’d like to poke around one last time, if you don’t mind.”
“I suppose there’s no harm. I’ll send Halvey over with the keys to the motel. He’ll give you a lift.”
While I waited for my ride, I phoned Dom Ornuti. I asked him to tow my car back from the lake and inspect it for tampering. Who knew if someone still had it in for my brakes? This way, I could get my car back and feel safe at the same time.
Pat Halvey pulled to a stop in the gravel parking lot of the Mohawk Motel, but he didn’t switch off the ignition.
“You’re not coming in with me?” I asked.
“No way. We’ve turned this place upside down at least ten times. If you want to hang around this dump, go ahead. I’m going up the road to Carmen’s for some coffee. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“An hour for coffee?” I asked.
Halvey blushed. “I was kind of hoping to make some time with Carmen.”
“Carmen? What about me?” I asked. “I thought you wanted to take me bowling.”
He grinned. “You’re too late. Carmen bowls a one fifty-seven average.”
“See you later,” I said, climbing out of the car. “Don’t leave me stranded out here, Pat. One hour, okay?”
“If I don’t get lucky,” and he threw the cruiser into reverse and spun his wheels through the gravel. Then he roared out onto Route 40 and turned north, leaving me alone at the ghostly motel.
The Mohawk Motel will be the stuff of legend in twenty years. Its place in local lore is assured, having hosted New Holland’s most infamous murder. Old folks will recall with a shudder the gruesome Thanksgiving of 1960; raconteurs will pepper the story with suitable hyperbole; and Boy Scouts will share the chilling story of the haunted Mohawk Motel around the campfire. I stared at the cracked concrete and gray glass. By summer, the motel would be swallowed by the relentless overgrowth around it. Within weeks, all the windows would be smashed by strong-armed, sharp-eyed kids toting rocks and BB guns.
I decided to have a good look around while the locks and windows were still intact. I stood outside Jean’s door, wondering where to start. I hadn’t had a coffee for hours and my caffeine levels were low. Plus my head ached, compliments of Greg Hewert, and I still felt a little queasy. I shuddered as I thought of the creep and wondered what Pukey had done to him. As there was no coffee in sight, I deposited three nickels into the Dr Pepper machine and pulled out a soda.
There were three keys on the chain Halvey had given me: a passkey for the guest rooms, another for the registration office, and the third for Jean Trent’s rooms. Beginning in room 4, where Jordan had been murdered, I found little to go on. The police had turned the room inside out several times. There was surely nothing left worth finding. The only thing I had to go on was the physical layout of the room. The walls, doors, and windows hadn’t moved since November 25. The murderer had walked into this room, seen things from the same perspective as I, navigated around the same furniture, considered the same angles. Did any of that help me? Who knew? In fact, I knew nothing. The fruits of my investigation were, for the most part, hunches, guesses, and conjecture. I had nothing concrete.
I put my soda down on the counter in the bathroom and promptly knocked it over into the sink. At least the bottle didn’t break. I rinsed the soda down the drain, opened the bathroom door wide, then went around back to put Julio’s statements to the test. Could what he had described truly be seen from that window? He hadn’t lied; I could see the bathroom, the lower third of the bed, but not the outside door. If Jordan had been murdered on the bed, as I suspected, then Julio’s camera probably wouldn’t have captured it, presuming he had placed it on the sill and pointed it through the louvered bathroom window in the first place. Even if the film existed, even if I found it, what would it show: Jordan’s bare legs kicking as someone off camera broke her neck and sliced a piece of skin out of her pelvis?
I came back around to the front of the motel and closed room 4. Drawing a deep sigh, I scanned the grounds, wondering if there might not be some forgotten corner we had all missed. I slid three m
ore nickels into the machine and retrieved another soda before setting out into the woods in search of Jordan’s clothes, the postulated film shot by Julio, anything.
There were millions of wet leaves well on their way to decomposition, and there was mud, but little else. I tramped through the northern extreme of Wentworth’s Woods for about twenty minutes and was circling back toward the motel when I heard a car rolling over the gravel in the parking lot. I picked up my pace, careful, however, not to make any noise. My caution slowed me down, and I didn’t emerge from the brush until it was too late. But I did see Julio Hernandez at the wheel of an old, red Chrysler, burning rubber as he raced from the parking lot onto Route 40.
I made a brief and vain effort to run after him, giving up well before I had reached the huge, wooden Indian. I returned at a gallop to the motel and examined the tire tracks in the gravel. It was clear Julio had pulled into the space just in front of the registration office, and he hadn’t stayed long. He had left the engine running; I could see the sooty smudge left in the gravel by the belching exhaust pipe. I crawled on my hands and knees for several minutes, combing the gravel for an oil spot below where the engine had been idling. Nothing. It was uncanny. I had looked under every car I had come across for the past week and a half and had found no oil spots anywhere. The leaking crankcase was a phantom.
I brushed off my hands and checked the registration-office door. Julio hadn’t opened it, that much was sure, since the seal Frank Olney had placed on the door after the burglary was intact. By all appearances, the other doors hadn’t been touched, either, since the scuff marks left by Julio’s shoes were all bunched together in the vicinity of the office door.
I stepped back to think. What had Julio been looking for? The only explanation I could imagine was that he had hoped to get inside, saw the seal, and thought better of it.
As I considered Julio’s strange visit, I heard a car approach. It was Halvey, but he wasn’t alone. Surly-faced, slumping handcuffed against the door in the backseat, sat Julio Hernandez.
“I was coming back to get you when I saw him pull out of here like a bat out of hell,” explained the deputy. “I knew the sheriff didn’t want anyone snooping around up here, so I chased him down. Imagine my surprise to find the Puerto Rican at the wheel.”
No Stone Unturned Page 23
