by Parnell Hall
“And it really didn’t register when I told him I was going to walk the dog. Yes, he was skeptical. Yes, he thought my behavior was strange. But that’s what he was reacting to—the fact it was odd. Not the fact it was a complete fabrication, an absolute, obvious falsehood. That did not register.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Alice said.
“I don’t think we should follow him.”
“I’m not going to follow him. I’m just going to see where he goes.”
“Most likely, it will be back to his room.”
“Okay, what are you gonna do?”
“When dinner’s over, I thought I’d check up on the kitchen phone.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go back inside, see if anything’s happening.”
Nothing was.
In the dining room, Lars was still at his table, waiting for coffee and dessert. The Mclnnernys were on their way out, and were arguing about the evening movie. Johnny Mclnnerny wanted to see it, and his wife didn’t.
“You can see it if you want to,” she said. “I’ve seen it a million times.”
“So have I,” Johnny said. “But it’s always good.”
“What’s the movie?” I said.
“Arsenic and Old Lace,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said.
“The old Cary Grant version,” Johnny said. “You know, with Peter Lorre.”
“Oh, so there’s a new version?” Mrs. Mclnnerny said.
“What new version?” Johnny said.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said. “If there’s a new version, I never heard of it. And neither did you. So what sense does it make to say the old Cary Grant version? That’s the only version there is.”
“Well, these people might not know that,” Johnny said. “It doesn’t hurt to say who’s in a movie. Now how could that hurt?”
“Well, it’s a questionable choice, if you ask me,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said. “What with everything that’s going on. To show a movie about poison.”
“Well, let’s not give away the plot,” Johnny said.
“Now, Johnny Mclnnerny, you think these people don’t know Arsenic and Old Lace is about poison?”
“Oh, well, I suppose.”
“Come along now. You can see the movie if you want. It doesn’t mean I have to.”
The Mclnnernys went out the front door. A moment later I heard, Pssst!
Alice and I looked around.
Jean and Joan were gesturing to us from the direction of the TV room. Alice and I went over and joined them.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Waiting for Lars to get finished,” Jean said. Then looked around to see who might be overhearing us, though we were alone.
“Now, look,” I said. “You can’t follow Lars.”
“You said to keep our eyes open,” Joan said.
“Yes, I did. And that’s fine. Go about your business, keep your eyes open, see what happens. But don’t hide in corners and spy on people. Because if someone sees you doing it, the result could be very bad.”
“So what should we do?” Jean said.
“I don’t know. The movie tonight is Arsenic and Old Lace.”
“Oh, I love that movie,” Joan said.
“Then maybe you should check it out. See who’s there. You might try to sit where you can watch their reactions.”
“Why?” Jean said.
“Because it’s a movie about poisoning people. Someone might be uneasy about the subject.”
“Gotcha.”
“Meanwhile, leave Lars alone. There’s no need to put him on his guard.”
Jean and Joan gave in, though with somewhat bad grace.
“I feel like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” I said as they went out the door.
“They’ll get over it,” Alice said. “Besides, I can’t wait to hear their reports on how Johnny Mclnnerny reacted to the poison in Arsenic and Old Lace.”
“It will make my day,” I said. “Let’s see how dinner’s coming.”
We strolled back past the dining room. Lars Heinrick was the only one left. He sat sipping his coffee, his back to the door.
Most of the other tables had been cleared. Randy the busboy was working on the last one.
“I think I’ll try the kitchen,” I said.
“Fine. I’ll hang out here,” Alice said. When I raised my eyes, she added, “Discreetly.”
“Just be careful,” I said. I turned toward the kitchen, turned back. “What’s the chef’s name?”
The look Alice gave me might have been appropriate if I had asked her for her name. “Charlie,” she said.
“Right. Charlie. Thanks.”
I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
The chef, Louise’s husband and Randy’s father, was at the sink.
He heard me, turned his head, did a double-take, wheeled around and said, “Oh! You don’t have the dog?”
“No.”
“I don’t want him in here, that dog.”
“I got that impression.”
He seemed surprised when I didn’t turn and go. “Did you want something?”
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“I don’t give out recipes.”
“Yes, I know. Not that the food isn’t very good. But that wasn’t it. I have some questions about the girl.”
“The girl?”
“The dead girl. Christine Cobb.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I know. But I’m looking into it, and there are some things I need to ask.”
“You’re looking into it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Actually, your wife asked me to. On account of your son.”
As if on cue, Randy came through the swinging door with a tray of dishes. He carried them over to the dishwasher, began loading them into racks to go into the machine.
His father and I stood there looking at him. As if we couldn’t talk while he was in the room.
Randy finished unloading the tray into the rack, went back out through the swinging door.
His father turned to me. “You’re not making any sense. My son has nothing to do with this. The police made an arrest.”
“Yes, they did. Your wife asked me to help before that happened. Because she did, certain things were set in motion. Now they need to be tied up.”
“What things?”
“Nothing that should concern you. You, or your son. When you hear my questions, you’ll see what I mean.”
“What questions?”
“You have a phone in the kitchen?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your wife said there was a phone.”
“Sure. Over there on the wall.”
I could see it from where we stood. In a small alcove with shelves of canned goods. A black wall phone with a rotary dial. This one did not appear to have a lock.
“I see,” I said. “So you can call out from here?”
“Or take calls, sure. What’s the idea?”
“Did anyone use that phone tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. During dinner. Did anyone use the phone?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t. Randy didn’t. The waitresses, I’m not sure.”
“The waitresses?”
“Well, they’re in and out all the time. I can’t pay attention, I’m cooking the food. They’re not supposed to make phone calls when dinner’s being served. But if one of them did, just a short call, how could I possibly notice?”
“And you didn’t notice?”
“No. If I did, I would say so. But the fact is, I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t notice anyone else in the kitchen tonight?”
“Anyone else?”
“Yeah. Who wouldn’t normally be here. Like one of the guests.”
“Now, that I would notice.”
“You’re saying it’s impossible one of the guests slipped in here and made a pho
ne call?”
“Without being seen? I would say so. Sure, I’m busy cooking. But it’s not just me. There’s the waitresses. Any guest who comes through that door’s gonna be asked what they’re doing here.”
“And no one was?”
“As far as I know.”
“Where are the waitresses now?”
“On their way home. They don’t have to clear. Last dessert served, and they’re gone.”
Randy came back through the swinging door with a coffee cup and a dessert plate. He took them over to the dishwasher, put them in the racks, began feeding the racks into the machine.
Which meant Lars was done.
I wondered where he’d gone.
I wondered where Alice was.
Randy fed the last rack into the machine, took a broom and dustpan, and went back out the swinging door.
“What’s this got to do with the crime?” the chef said. “I thought it was solved.”
“The police made an arrest. It’s not the same thing. The case is yet to be proved.”
“And you’re looking for proof?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m looking for evidence.”
“That this woman committed the crime?”
“Or that she didn’t.”
“I’m not sure I like that.”
“I can see why you wouldn’t. But please understand. I was doing this on behalf of your son. That job doesn’t end just because the police made an arrest. In the event that they’re wrong, they’ll come looking for someone else. It would be nice if the facts indicated it wasn’t him.”
“And do they indicate that?”
“That’s what I’m working on now.”
The sweeping up either wasn’t that big a job, or Randy wasn’t very careful about it, because he came back through the swinging door, dumped the dustpan, put the broom away, and, without a word to his father, went out the door to the back.
When Randy went out, Max came in. He hopped up on the kitchen table, strolled between the pots and pans, climbed up onto the butcher block right next to the carving knife, and meowed loudly.
“Hello, Max,” the chef said. For the first time his eyes lit up.
It was kind of sad. He showed only minimal interest in his wife and son. But he seemed to care about the cat.
“Hungry, Max?” he said. “Want some fish? Is that what you’d like?”
Max meowed loudly, which was disconcerting. It was as if he’d answered the question.
The chef certainly took it that way. He said, “Sure you do. Well, look what I’ve got here.”
He went to the refrigerator, took out a tin wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag. He slid the bag off the tin, held it up.
“Sardines,” he said. “His favorite. Drives him nuts.”
He looked at me and his eyes were bright. “Watch this,” he said. “A Stupid Pet Trick. Like on the Letterman show. Here. I’ll show you.”
Near the coffee urn was a stack of foam cups. He took three cups off the stack, brought them over to the butcher block, where Max was waiting impatiently, licking his lips and swishing his tail.
“Ready, Max?” he said. “Let’s do your trick.”
As if on cue, Max yawned and stretched, as if to show his complete indifference in the proceedings.
The chef knew better. He smiled, took the three Styrofoam cups, turned them over, and set them in a row upside down in front of the cat.
“There you are,” he said. “The old shell game. Guess which cup the pea is under. Ever see it played by a cat? Watch this.”
He took a sardine out of the tin, put it under the center cup. Then, he began switching the cups around, sliding them on the butcher block, faster, faster, faster, just like a con man playing the old shell game.
The cat never moved a muscle. He sat there, staring at the cups.
The chef finished. The three cups sat in a row. He’d gone so fast I had no idea which was the right one.
But Max did. He stretched out a paw, tipped the cup over, grabbed the fish.
The chef smiled, did a ta-da! gesture. “And there you are. A Stupid Pet Trick.” He shrugged. “It’s the smell, of course. He can’t watch the cup. He goes by the smell. But people don’t think of that. A dog, they credit with a sense of smell. But not a cat. Well, Max smells just fine. He can find the fish.”
“I see that,” I said.
We watched the cat tear apart the small fish.
The chef nodded in agreement with himself. “It’s like catnip to him,” he said. “Drives him wild.”
He nodded again. Then his face sobered. “About what you said.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What you said before. If they let the woman out.”
“Yes?”
“Protect my boy.” He exhaled, looked at me. “That’s what you said you were doing, right? That’s what she asked you to do? Well, can you do it? Will you promise me that? Will you protect my boy?”
He looked at me with anxious eyes. A father, concerned for his son. It occurred to me I knew his name. For all the good it did me. I wasn’t about to call him Charlie.
I took a breath. “I’ll do my best.”
29.
I FOUND ALICE in the living room. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair reading a magazine. Or at least pretending to. If the latter, it was for the benefit of the two brothers formerly known as the businessmen I wondered if might be gay, who were drinking at the bar.
I sat in a chair next to Alice. “What’s up?” I said.
“Nothing. Lars finished his meal, went back to his room.”
“That’s boring.”
“I’ll say. Whaddya wanna do now?”
“Shall we check out the movie?”
“When’s it start?”
“About five minutes ago.”
“Why not.”
Alice and I went up to the game room. The lights were out, and on the big-screen TV Cary Grant was finding out the neighbors had been complaining about Teddy blowing his bugle again.
Enjoying the movie were Jean and Joan, Johnny Mclnnerny, the family with the little girl, and a man and woman I hadn’t seen before, who must have just checked in today and for some reason dined somewhere else.
And Lucy.
Our waitress sat in the dark, watching the movie. I nudged Alice with my elbow, pointed to her.
Alice nodded.
Gratefully.
I leaned close, whispered, “This is not a chance to buy recipes, this is a chance to find out if anyone used the kitchen phone.”
Alice nodded impatiently, as if the idea of obtaining recipes had never crossed her mind.
While this was going on, the two brothers from the bar came in and sat down. That left Alice and me as the only people still standing.
I gave Alice a look.
“I’ll stay,” Alice whispered.
I had a feeling recipes had more to do with her decision than she would like to pretend. Still, that was fine with me.
I said, “Okay, I may be back,” and slipped out the door.
I stood outside of the recreation room and looked around. It was dark out, and lights were on in all the buildings. East Pond. West Pond. The main house. And there was a light over the sign by the road.
Across the road, I could see the path into the woods, the path I’d taken on another night just like this, when I’d decided not to see the movie and wound up spying on Christine. I wondered how much it mattered—if it did at all—the fact that I had seen them, and that I had told people. Had that not happened, would she be alive?
I didn’t think so. I didn’t want to think so. I mean, surely it couldn’t be all me. If I hadn’t seen them, we might not know about Randy. But what would that mean in the general scheme of things? What I mean is, had someone else known? Would the police have known? Would Randy have even been a suspect then?
I had no idea. And it occurred to me, the more
I learned in this particular case, the less idea I had. Because the only thing that made sense, the only thing that was logical at all, much as I hated to admit it, was that Florence had done it, that Florence was guilty, that the killer was indeed the woman with the dog.
I roused myself from this melancholy musing, went for a walk around the grounds. East Pond and West Pond seemed quiet enough. So did the main house, for that matter. I walked around it, looking at the lights. That light there, for instance—was that Lars’ room? No, his room was on the other side. That must be someone else’s room. The Mclnnernys’, perhaps. Or perhaps the family with the little girl.
How about Jean and Joan? Were they in West Pond? Did Alice say that? Why did I think that?
It occurred to me, aside from Lars and Florence, I had not sorted out where anybody lived.
I wondered if that mattered.
I continued walking around the inn. Reached the back. I could see a light on in the kitchen window. I wondered if that meant the cook was still there. Surely he would turn the lights out at night, and—
I froze.
Randy’s door was open. And someone was standing in it. I could see the person’s back. Not clearly, just a shadow, a silhouette.
Who could be calling on Randy at this time of night? Did he have a girlfriend? A lover? Someone who might be jealous of Christine?
I shrunk back into the shadows, began to creep around to where I could get a better look.
There. I could see the light from the door, and there was Randy standing there, talking to the woman. Yes, it was a woman. So why didn’t he invite her in? If it was a lover, surely he’d invite her in.
Unless there was friction.
Tension.
Caused by Christine.
Could that be it?
I had to move a little farther. I was only seeing the woman’s back. I crept through the shadows and—
Felt like a total fool.
The woman calling on Randy was Mrs. Mclnnerny.
But of course. The gossip. The snoop. Who had only just heard of the affair. The wrong affair. The affair with Randy. Not the affair with Florence’s husband. Yes, it was poor old Mrs. Mclnnerny, a good two steps behind. No wonder she’d begged off the movie. She was all gung-ho to go detecting.
