Cozy (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #14)

by Parnell Hall

  “Well, that’s a trifle broad. I think you’ll find that isn’t quite the case. Particularly after what your wife said.”

  “My wife?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Pinehurst and I were in the TV room: I guess he’d gotten sick of the booth. Either that or Louise had refused to let him have it during breakfast. At any rate, Pinehurst was sitting in an overstuffed chair, and I was sitting on the couch, right where I’d found the little girl watching TV my first day there. I wondered vaguely if there was a Red Sox game today. If so, I wondered if I’d be free to watch it.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but what could my wife have possibly said that made you suspect me?”

  “Now, now,” Pinehurst said. “Did I say I suspected you? I don’t recall ever saying that.”

  “Actions speak louder than words,” I said. And grimaced. Good god, the man had me talking in clichés.

  “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Well now, what do you say we kick this around some, and I’ll let you go. Your wife indicated a desire to see Mount Washington. I’d hate to hold you up.”

  “What was it you wanted to kick around?”

  “Getting back to the scene of the crime. I find myself interested in your movements during dinner.”

  “We went over that.”

  “Yes, we did. But it certainly is interesting. Sifting through the varying accounts. It’s yours now I’d like to pin down. How many times did you get up from your table during the meal?”

  “Once.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And that’s the time you went to the bathroom?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And when was that?”

  “If I recall correctly, it was after I’d placed my order and before my food arrived.”

  “If you recall correctly?”

  “When we discussed it last night it was fresh in my mind. If I should forget some trivial detail this morning, I hope you will not pounce on it as if you’d cracked the case.”

  “That was not my intention,” Pinehurst said. “These questions are preliminary. Perhaps if we could speed things along.”

  Pinehurst speeding things along? The word oxymoron hung unspoken in the air.

  “Fine,” I said. “What do you want to know?”

  “To the best of your recollection, you left the dining room after you placed your order and returned before your food arrived?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that is the only time you got up from your table until after the body was discovered?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When you first arrived at your table, were Christine Cobb and her boyfriend already there?”

  “No, they were not.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Because I saw them come in.”

  “You are certain of that?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why did you note their arrival?”

  “I told you that. Because I had the conversation with her by the waterfall that I hadn’t had a chance to discuss with my wife. So I had reason to note her entrance.”

  “Uh-huh. That would seem to be convincing. Now, as to the rest of dinner. I believe you said that Florence got up to walk her dog?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And how long was she gone from the table?”

  “I don’t know. Five minutes, maybe. She just went to walk the dog.”

  “Uh-huh. Now, your wife—when did she leave the table?”

  “She didn’t leave the table.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “You mean she didn’t leave the table while you were there?”

  “She didn’t leave the table at all. She came in with me, sat there the whole time.”

  “But you went to the bathroom.”

  “So?”

  “So, how do you know what your wife did while you were out of the room?”

  I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You certainly can’t vouch for your wife’s whereabouts while you weren’t there.”

  “Vouch for her whereabouts? What are you talking about?”

  Pinehurst frowned, shook his head. “See, that’s the problem with people’s recollections. Everybody remembers something slightly different. Your wife remembers that you got up. And you remember that Florence got up. And Florence remembers your wife got up.”

  “What?”

  “Which you don’t remember. So, can I assume that this was something that happened while you had left the room?”

  “What do you mean, my wife got up?”

  “Your wife got up from the table. Moved around the dining room. According to the woman who was sitting with you. And, according to your wife, by the way. She remembers getting up, going over and talking to two women at another table. The women you’d been hiking with that afternoon. Which is certainly interesting when you consider where the tables are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you recall where you were sitting? In relation to the room? To get to the other table you have to pass right by the booth. If your wife actually conferred with these women, she would have walked right by. Which she obviously did, since both of them confirm the conversation.”

  I put up my hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. What has this got to do with anything?”

  “We’re talking opportunity here. Opportunity and motive. You had the opportunity because you left your table. The woman with the dog had the opportunity because she left the table. And your wife had the opportunity because she left the table.”

  “Why are you talking about my wife?”

  “I’m talking about everybody. She’s just one of the people I’m talking about. No reason to get upset.” Pinehurst shrugged. “On the other hand, when we start comparing motives, you must admit your wife had more than most.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “If we are to assume that you and the girl were involved. That you were making the story about her and the busboy up. Now, if you were the one who was involved, which seems likely when you start adding up all your personal connections—swimming with her, meeting her by the pond and the waterfall—well, if you’re the one with the connection, it doesn’t necessarily give you that good a motive.

  “But your wife. Well, your wife might want to kill that woman very much.”

  “Are you accusing my wife—”

  Pinehurst put up his hands. “Please. No one is accusing anyone. We’re examining possibilities. Jealousy is certainly a motive. A woman scorned.”

  I took a breath. “I am going to try to be calm and discuss this rationally. Which is a little difficult under the circumstances. Because I hate to dignify this with a response. But I would like to point something out. If my wife did indeed leave the table to go over to talk to Jean and Joan while I was in the bathroom, well that was long before Lars left the room. So, if my wife passed by their table, they were both there. And Lars would certainly remember if she had stopped to talk.”

  “I’m sure he would. On the other hand, we have the same problem that I pointed out when it came to you. Lars is no dope. He may have a convenient memory when it comes to such things.”

  “What do you mean, may have?”

  Pinehurst grimaced. “Ah, well, you got me there. That’s one of the problems with murder investigations. People who are the most likely suspects tend to take offense.” When I opened my mouth, he said, “Not that I am suggesting that you are taking offense. No, no. I was referring to Lars.”

  “What about him?”

  “As I say, he’s taken offense. At least to the point where he’s withdrawn his cooperation.”

  “You mean he’s not talking?”

  “That’s right.”

  I blinked. “Your chief suspect isn’t talking, and yet you’re still questioning all of us?”

  Pinehurst shrugged. “This is Ameri
ca. A man is innocent until proven guilty. He also has the right to remain silent. Lars Heinrick is exercising that right.”

  “Does he have a lawyer?”

  “Not yet. Though I assure you he has been made aware he has that option. But for the moment he’s merely declining to talk.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you understand the implications. With Mr. Heinrick not talking, I’ve been unable to corroborate the claims of the various witnesses. For instance, your claim that you did not stop by his booth. Or anyone else’s claim for that matter. Which includes both your wife and the woman with the dog.”

  I rubbed my head, exhaled. “Fine. For the moment, you have no conclusive proof. I’ll grant you that. Will you grant me the concept of reasonable doubt? Not in a legal, courtroom sense, but just in terms of common sense. Won’t you concede that it is unlikely that someone stopped by the booth and put poison in the glass while Lars was still there?”

  “Of course,” Pinehurst said. “I’m a perfectly reasonable man. For instance, I would be the first to admit that between your wife and the other woman at your table—Florence, the woman with the dog—your wife had less opportunity. Because when Florence went to walk the dog, Lars, by most accounts, had already left the dining room. Whereas, when your wife went by the booth, Lars was presumably still there.”

  I exhaled. “Thank you for that assessment.”

  “That is correct, is it not?” Pinehurst said. “That when the woman went to walk the dog, Lars Heinrick had already left the booth?”

  “To the best of my recollection, that’s true.”

  “And it’s also true that Lars Heinrick and Christine Cobb arrived in the dining room together, prior to the time you went to the bathroom, so that at the time your wife went by their booth, Lars was presumably there?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Of course, I have no knowledge of what happened when I was out of the room, but if Alice got up then, it was at a time when Lars Heinrick was there. Because I know for a fact he was there when I left the room.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Pinehurst said. “And while I’m not ready to concede the point, I have to admit it seems entirely likely. In which case your wife’s opportunity is certainly lessened. Which should undoubtedly knock her down a few notches on my list of suspects. Unfortunately, her motive is rather strong.”

  I opened my mouth, closed it again. Talking to Pinehurst was immensely frustrating. I began to sympathize with Lars Heinrick for declining to do so.

  “And if your wife got up at that time, to visit the women at the other table, she would have walked right by the booth. Isn’t that right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And she did do that. By her own statement. So, I put it to you. If your wife saw the busboy serving them drinks, and was curious, and wanted to take a closer look, is it possible she might have chosen that moment to talk to the two women at the other table, just so she’d have a chance to go by the booth?”

  I frowned. While that seemed entirely possible, it also had nothing to do with the investigation. “Maybe so,” I said. “In which case when she passed by the booth, not only was Lars there, but the busboy would have been there also.”

  “On the way to the women’s table, perhaps. But not on the way back. The busboy would have been gone. And it’s entirely possible Lars was gone also.”

  “No, it isn’t. I saw him in the booth. On my way back in.”

  “So you say. But, as I’ve pointed out, I only have your word for that. And if you were lying to protect your wife ...”

  “Oh, is that what we’ve come to? Now I’m lying to protect my wife?”

  “I said if. The hypothetical. I’m trying to prove things here. A fact is not a fact, if it can be contradicted by a hypothetical. Anyway, your wife did not mention the fact that she’d been to the other table to talk to the two women?”

  “No. Why should she?”

  “No reason. But the fact is, she didn’t. She didn’t mention it to you, and she didn’t mention it to me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When I first questioned her. Last night. We talked about many things, but that wasn’t one of them. She completely neglected to mention the fact that she got up.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “I asked her if she left the room. She told me she had not.”

  “And she hadn’t. Her answer was absolutely correct.”

  “Yes, as far as it went. But that would have been an excellent opportunity for her to tell me she got up. Which she neglected to do. It was not until I jogged her memory this morning that she mentioned it at all.”

  I put up my hand. “Whoa. Hold on, here, Chief. Just hold on. There’s a huge, huge, difference between forgetting to mention something, and lying to the police. Which is the inference you seem to be drawing here. My wife did not lie to you. She did not mislead you. She did not attempt to trick you. If she didn’t mention the fact that she talked to Jean and Joan, it is only because you didn’t ask her. And because it was an irrelevant, trivial detail that totally slipped her mind.”

  “I never said it wasn’t,” Pinehurst said. “As I say, I am merely assembling facts. The fact is your wife didn’t mention it. And might not have, if the other woman hadn’t remembered it when I questioned her. At any rate, your wife did get up. Did leave the table. Did pass by their booth. Did refrain from mentioning this, either to you or to me the first time I questioned her. And seemed inordinately interested in what was going on in the booth when you returned from the bathroom.

  “Now, can you point out any inconsistency in any of those statements?”

  I blinked.

  Groaned.

  Rubbed my head.

  21.

  “THIS ISN’T SO bad,” Alice said.

  I’m glad she thought so. We’d just careened around a hairpin turn. I don’t know how it looked from Alice’s side, but from where I sat, the outer wheels couldn’t possibly have been on the road.

  We were on our way up Mount Washington in the van. The Auto Road, as the narrow, winding road up the mountain was called, was open to private cars, but their use was discouraged by a vehicle-use fee of sixteen bucks per car and driver, plus six bucks per passenger. Since we’d come with Jean and Joan, it would have cost us thirty-four dollars just to drive up the road.

  Instead, we were paying twenty-two bucks a head to take the van. Which might not seem very bright. But when we checked in at the Glen House visitors center at the base of the mountain, we were hit with a barrage of propaganda stressing the danger of the road and warning against private cars. I didn’t think we needed any more tension just then—I voted for the van.

  So, here we were, being driven up the mountain by a pimply faced young man, who looked as if he were probably driving on his learner’s permit. Every time he turned a corner, I held my breath.

  “I could have driven this,” Alice said.

  “I’m sure you could,” I told her. And secretly wished she had, as our van lurched around another hairpin turn. I closed my eyes, wondered how much longer it could last.

  The Mclnnernys weren’t with us, by the way. Though the van was full, they were not among the present. This was, to the best I could determine, the sole benefit of Chief Pinehurst’s lengthy questioning—by the time he was finished with us, the Mclnnernys were long gone.

  Florence wasn’t with us either. She begged off, saying Prince wouldn’t have been allowed in the van. We were trying to talk her into leaving him behind, when the sad-sack cop showed up to say Chief Pinehurst wanted to talk to her again too. That had tipped the scale, and she told us to just go on ahead.

  A noble sentiment.

  On the other hand, as I viewed the narrow, curvy incline we were about to ascend, it occurred to me Chief Pinehurst might well have saved her life.

  The young man who was piloting our van with such wild abandon accentuated the fact by keeping up a running commentary on the road, the cond
itions, the weather, the history, and what we could expect to see. Occasionally, he would spice this up by pointing out a place where people had been killed driving off the road. Somehow, this was more than I needed to know.

  And the most disconcerting thing about what he was saying was the fact that his voice didn’t appear to have changed.

  “There’s the timberline,” he announced cheerily, pointing out the driver’s side window to the left, while the van appeared about to launch itself off an embankment to the right. “I hope you dressed warm. It’s cold on top.”

  That we knew. The summit temperature was almost as well publicized as the danger of the Auto Road. Alice had a sweater and I had a windbreaker. We were ready for anything.

  “And to your right, down in the valley, that puff of smoke is the Cog Railway. We’re gonna beat it up there, so you’ll be able to watch it arrive.”

  “How long is the track?” Alice asked.

  I had to stifle an impulse to elbow her to be quiet. No need to distract the man. Just let him drive.

  “Three miles from the base station at Marshfield up to the summit. The train does it in about an hour and ten minutes.”

  “How come it’s shorter than the road?”

  “For one thing, it’s more of a straight line. The road winds around.”

  It certainly did. And at each sickening bend, the driver was careful to note every point of interest. When we reached the summit, I practically leaped from the van in relief.

  But what a view.

  The Mclnnernys were right. There was not a cloud in the sky. The air was crystal clear.

  You could see forever.

  We poured out of the van, walked to the edge. Gawked like children.

  It was wonderful. Below us, you could see the road on which we’d come, making its way down the mountain. At the very base was the highway, and across from it the parking lot where we’d left our car, and the Glen House visitors center where we’d signed up for the van.

  Beyond it were mountains. And more mountains. And more mountains. And on and on, into the distance.

  “Which way is which?” I said.

  “What?” Alice said.

  “I mean which way is north?”

  Alice and Jean and Joan had a good deal of fun about that. I dug the binoculars out of the backpack, and we passed them around. And after determining which direction actually was north, I’d have been willing to bet it really was Canada we were seeing.