Step to the Graveyard Easy

by Bill Pronzini

  No answer at the door. Cape followed a path that led around the house and down toward the boathouse. At the rear the path branched, its shorter arm leading to a gated terrace—broad, rectangular, balustraded with peeled-bark logs, extending out a few feet over the lake on thick pilings. On the terrace were several pieces of white tubular furniture, an open-fronted redwood hutch that served as an outdoor bar. And Stacy Vanowen, sitting alone at an umbrella-shaded table, staring out across the sunstruck water.

  Cape went to the terrace gate. Hot back here in the open; temperature must be close to ninety today. The early-afternoon sun was like a heat pad on the back of his neck. Quiet here, too: faint boat thrummings from the lake, an onshore wind making rustling, crying sounds in the tops of the pines.

  “Mrs. Vanowen?” He had to say it again before his voice penetrated. Her head snapped around; she flipped up the dark glasses she wore.

  “Oh… it’s you.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I rang the bell—”

  “I didn’t hear it. What do you want?”

  “To talk to you briefly. Offer my condolences.”

  No response.

  “Okay if I come in for a minute or two?”

  “… Yes. All right.”

  She lowered the shades again, so he couldn’t see her eyes as he approached the table. But her attitude was wary, as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to be afraid of him. She wore shorts, a loose Hawaiian-style shirt, sandals. Face composed, without makeup or evidence of grief. The table beside her was bare of any sorrow-drowning substance.

  “I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs. Vanowen.”

  “Yes. Everybody is. The police. Vince. The phone… it keeps ringing. That’s one of the reasons I came out here, to get away from the phone. You can only listen to people being sorry for so long.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “You’d rather be alone. I won’t stay long.”

  “I do and I don’t,” she said. She tilted her head back to look at him. “Vince thinks you might’ve had something to do with what happened.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  “He says you won’t get away with it if you did.”

  “Whoever’s responsible won’t get away with it. The law will see to that.”

  “Who is responsible? Those people, the Judsons?”

  “They’re mixed up in it somehow,” Cape said. “But Boone Judson wasn’t the man in the ski mask.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “Positive.”

  “Every time I try to think about it, it just… my head starts to hurt. Confusing, senseless. Andy… he—”

  “He didn’t suffer,” Cape said, “if that helps.”

  “It doesn’t. He’s gone, and I’m here, I am suffering. Not only because of the way he died, because I—”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind. It’s none of your business.” She looked out over the lake again. “I wish I was out there right now,” she said.

  “On the water?”

  “Far out, in the middle. Away from here.”

  “Where people being sorry can’t get at you.”

  “People, pressures, things that hurt,” she said. “Out there, it’s like you’re on an island all your own. That’s the real appeal of boats, you know.”

  “Floating islands. Safe havens.”

  “Exactly.” Her gaze shifted to him again. “Do you know anything about boats, Mr. Cape? Boat engines?”

  “A little about engines in general.”

  “Can you fix one that won’t start?”

  “Depends on the problem.”

  Abruptly, she was on her feet. “Come with me.”

  He followed her off the terrace, down to the boathouse. Fast walker, Stacy Vanowen, hips rolling and long legs scissoring. Legs as long and strong and nicely formed as her sister’s. Cape looked at them, looked away. Legs that belonged to a brand-new widow. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the image of Andrew Vanowen’s exploding face.

  Cool, gloomy inside the boathouse. She flipped on an overhead light. Two berths, each outfitted with a curve-armed electric hoist, but only one boat sat in the placid water. A seventeen-foot, four-seat Sportliner inboard, sleek and low-slung. The housing was off the engine, an open toolbox beside it.

  “It turns over, but it won’t start,” she said. “I looked at it, but… I don’t understand mechanical things very well.”

  Cape stepped over into the stern, squatted to peer into the engine well. Powerful four-cylinder job, well cared for. It took him less than a minute to locate the problem, another minute to repair it with a wrench and a screwdriver from the toolbox.

  “Loose ignition wire,” he explained to Stacy Vanowen.

  “Will it start now?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  He swung over behind the wheel. Key was in the slot. On the first try the engine farted, caught, choked off. On the second it caught easily, steadied into a low rumbling purr.

  “Leave it running or shut it off?”

  “Leave it running. I want to take her out right now.”

  “Mind if I go along?”

  “Why?”

  “I feel like a safe haven myself right now.”

  “I may want to stay out for a couple of hours or more.”

  “I don’t have anything else to do this afternoon.”

  “All right,” she said. “I guess I really don’t want to be alone, even out on the lake.”

  She knew her way around boats. Quickly she maneuvered the Sportliner out of the slip and into open water, fed the engine a little gas, then slammed the throttle all the way forward. The sudden acceleration threw Cape back hard against the seat. The wind hit them head-on, hurling spray back over the upthrust bow and the windshield; it stung icily on his cheeks and bare arms.

  They went straight out from shore, running wide open, the beat of the pistons loud in his ears, the boat airborne between bucking, skimming bounces on the wind-ruffled water. Stacy Vanowen handled the wheel easily, body relaxed, hair like a fan of gold shining in the sun, spray glistening on her smooth-marble face. Exhilaration built in Cape—the speed, the wind, the throbbing power beneath him, the alternation of soaring weightlessness and jarring, gliding impact. More danger, greater thrill in a skydiving freefall, but the sensations were similar. Competition racing would be like this—boats, cars. He’d have to try one or the other of those sports, or both. As soon as he was free again.

  Ten minutes or more of headlong flight, then Stacy Vanowen cut back to half throttle, shut it all the way down a few seconds later. The Sportliner skimmed and settled, began to drift once she switched off the ignition. Cape wiped his face, turned to look back the way they’d come. The distant shoreline was a series of scalloped fingers and bays, wooded mountain slopes and snow-capped crests. Buildings were dots of various sizes on the green-and-brown background, like pins jabbed into a topographical map.

  He said, “You always push it like that?”

  “Sometimes. When I need to get away badly enough. Did it bother you, the speed?”

  “On the contrary.”

  “It makes me feel alive,” she said.

  “Same here. The faster you travel, the more alive you feel.”

  There was less wind this far out, and now that they were no longer moving, the sun’s heat became a weight again. She felt it, too; she unfolded a half-awning to shade the front seats.

  “Floating island,” Cape said.

  “For a while. Then we’ll run again.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere. Nowhere. It’s a big lake—ten miles long, twenty-eight miles wide. We’re not even close to the middle here.”

  “So I see.”

  “It’s deep, too. In the middle.”

  “How deep?”

  “Fifteen hundred feet. I wonder what it’s like on the bottom out there, fifteen hundred feet down.”

  “Dark,” Cape said.
>
  “And cold,” she said. “Cold as the grave.”

  She leaned back, closed her eyes. For a time Cape alternated between watching her and glancing up at the sky and mountains, out across the water. There was just enough breeze to turn the boat this way and that, changing his perspective slightly each time.

  “Can we talk a little, Mrs. Vanowen?”

  “Stacy,” she said. “I’m not Mrs. Vanowen anymore.”

  “Whatever you prefer.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “What happened last night.”

  “Why? I don’t understand it, you say you don’t.”

  “Not yet, but I’m trying.”

  “Just thinking about it makes my head hurt—I told you that.”

  “He tried to kill me, too,” Cape said. “The man who murdered your husband.”

  Her eyes popped open, slanting toward him. “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “I can be, and I am. His last two shots were meant for me.”

  “Why would he try to kill you?”

  “Why did he kill your husband?”

  “He thought Andy recognized him—”

  “He isn’t Boone Judson. Why shoot a man who identifies you as somebody else?”

  “I don’t know…. I suppose he panicked. A common thief…”

  “He didn’t panic,” Cape said. “He was high on drugs, fidgety, but he knew what he was doing the entire time. And I’m not so sure he was a common thief.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Robbery may not have been his real motive.”

  She sat up, facing him now. “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything. Just speculating.”

  “You… my God, you can’t think what he did to Andy was deliberate?”

  “It may’ve been. Your husband had a lot of enemies, I’ve been told.”

  “Not that kind of enemy. Andy was a businessman, he dealt with large companies, intelligent, sane people. The kind of thing you’re implying… well, it’s unthinkable.”

  “Not necessarily. The person responsible could be clever, ruthless, loaded with hate.”

  “What person? What are you saying now?”

  “I don’t think Rollo acted alone.”

  “Rollo? Where did you get that name?”

  “From Tanya Judson. Odds are he’s the man in the ski mask.”

  Disbelieving stare.

  “You don’t know anyone by that name?” he asked her.

  “No.”

  “Never heard your husband or anyone else use it?”

  “No. What did Tanya Judson tell you about this Rollo person?”

  “Nothing much. Just that he and Boone were involved in whatever scheme brought Judson to Tahoe.”

  “Now I suppose you want me to believe three people, three strangers, are mixed up in a deliberate plot to murder my husband?”

  “Three or more. And at least one of them may not be a stranger.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right.”

  “You didn’t know Andy, you don’t know anything about his business or his private life.” Vein of contempt in her voice now. “How can you make such irresponsible accusations?”

  “Informed guesses, not accusations.”

  “They’re still irresponsible. If the masked man was there to… to murder Andy, why would he try to shoot you?”

  “Maybe because somebody thinks I know too much.”

  “It’s all just one huge conspiracy, is that it? Now you sound paranoid.”

  Cape said, “How well do you know Vince Mahannah?”

  “… What?”

  “Well enough to have an affair with him?”

  “How dare you!”

  “It’s pretty obvious how he feels about you. Question is, how far would he go to make a relationship with you permanent?”

  Withering glare. For a second or two, she seemed poised to lean over and slap him. Instead she swung around, twisted the ignition key, slammed the throttle forward. She brought the boat around in such a tight turn it came close to capsizing before she regained control.

  No more free running on the lake. No more conversation. Straight back to the Vanowen property, bouncing and hydroplaning at warp speed all the way.

  21

  Company waiting on the Vanowen terrace. Indistinct figure in the distance… dark-haired woman in a white pants suit… Lacy. As they slowed coming in, she walked down onto the dock. She stood watching her sister maneuver the Sportliner along the side opposite the boathouse, making no move to help tie off the bow and stern lines. Cape stepped up and did the job himself.

  Lacy said, “Hello, salesman. Fancy meeting you here,” and turned away before he could frame a response.

  Stacy Vanowen shut off the engine, climbed up onto the dock. Her face was still set in pinched, angry lines.

  “Is this a private wake,” Lacy said to her, “or can I join in?”

  “Lacy, please. You’re not funny.”

  “You don’t seem exactly grief-stricken yourself.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never had anyone to mourn.”

  “Never had anyone worth mourning. Why didn’t you call me about Andy? Nobody bothers to tell me anything. I had to find out about it on the radio, an hour ago.”

  “If I had called, I suppose you’d’ve rushed right over to hold my hand.”

  “I might have. We’ll never know, will we.”

  “Don’t pretend you care that much. You never liked poor Andy.”

  “No, I didn’t. De mortuis and all that, but he was a bastard.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “Well? Don’t you pretend, either, little sister. We both know you didn’t like him a whole lot yourself.”

  “That’s not true. I loved him.”

  “Once, maybe. I’ll bet you won’t miss him any more than I will.”

  Stacy Vanowen glared at her, transferred the glare briefly to Cape, and stalked away to the house.

  Cape said, “Little hard on her, weren’t you?”

  “If there’s one thing I hate,” Lacy said, “it’s a hypocrite. You want the truth? She’d’ve divorced Andy years ago if it weren’t for his money.”

  “Little sister, weak sister?”

  “In spades. So why didn’t you call or come by and give me the news?”

  “I drove over mid-morning. You weren’t home.”

  “I had to go to Reno. It happened last night, not this morning.”

  “Three A.M. by the time the law let me leave Mahannah’s. I didn’t feel much like talking to anybody else. Even you.”

  “Good enough excuse, I guess. It’s not every night you see a man get his face shot off.”

  “Or almost have the same thing happen to you.”

  “How’s that again?”

  Cape explained.

  “Heavy,” Lacy said. “You sure he wasn’t just shooting at random?”

  “I was the target, all right. First Vanowen, then me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think it was deliberate. Premeditated.”

  “Are you serious? Why would somebody want both of you dead?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Come on, salesman. It was a robbery gone bad. That’s what the radio said.”

  “You believe everything you hear on the radio?”

  “Andy was a prick, sure. The more you knew him, the less you liked him. But murder? And you haven’t been here long enough to piss anybody off that way. I don’t buy it.”

  “I won’t try to sell it to you then,” Cape said. “Why was he a prick?”

  “Let me count the ways. Fast and loose with other people’s money, arrogant, vain, a control freak, and a serial fornicator. He propositioned me once at a party. Had his hand halfway up my skirt while he was whispering in my ear.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Told him to go
screw himself. He just laughed. Rejection never bothered him. There was always another woman around who’d say yes.”

  “You tell your sister?”

  “No point. She wouldn’t have cared much.”

  “Why not? Sleep around herself?”

  Lacy shrugged.

  Cape said, “With Vince Mahannah, for instance?”

  “You’re pretty nosy, you know that? Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I did, out on the lake.”

  “I’ll bet she didn’t give you a straight answer.”

  “You win the bet.”

  “What were you doing out there with her, anyway?”

  “She wanted to go for a ride,” Cape said. “Engine wouldn’t start, and I fixed it. She let me go along for company.”

  “Chummy.”

  “She didn’t want to be alone, she said.”

  “She didn’t look too happy with you just now. The Mahannah question? Or did you come on to her, offer her a sympathy fuck?”

  “You know something, lady? Your sister was right. You’re not funny today.”

  Wry mouth and another shrug. “I’m not funny most days,” she said. Then, “He’s in love with her, you know.”

  “Mahannah? I figured as much. How does she feel about him?”

  “Oh, Christ, all right, I might as well tell you. They had an affair. Hot and heavy for a while, then it cooled off. Now… maybe she’s still sleeping with him, maybe she’s not. Like I told you before, she doesn’t confide in me. All my information is reliable enough, but second- or thirdhand.”

  “What cooled off the affair?”

  “Andy found out about it. Bruised his big male ego that the goose was also getting some on the side. From what I understand he threatened to throw her out if she didn’t break it off with Vince.”

  “The money mean that much to her?”

  “Their prenup did,” Lacy said. “He insisted on one when they were married. She wouldn’t have collected a dime in a divorce action.”

  “How about now that she’s a widow?”

  “She gets everything. What’re you thinking, salesman? That she had something to do with Andy’s murder so she could inherit as his widow?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”