Miss Lizzie

by Walter Satterthwait

  “Of course not. And what difference would it make, anyway?”

  His glance swept swiftly around the room, came back to me. “What I figure is, maybe she did see it, and she’s your friend, right? so she decides to fix things up for ya.” He winked slyly. “Catch my drift?”

  “Well she didn’t,” I said. “And even if she did, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “Listen, kid, this here is a lady got a history with hatchets.” He glanced around the lobby again. “I mean, this wouldn’t be a first or anything. You follow me?”

  “No I don’t, and I think you’d better leave me alone.”

  “Listen,” he said, and looked off, and then grimaced, grabbed his hat, and stood. “Later, kid.” He scooted around the coffee table and darted off across the lobby.

  He had seen, of course, the return of Miss Lizzie and Father. I set aside the magazine. When they reached me, Miss Lizzie said, “Was that man bothering you, Amanda?”

  “I guess he was trying to,” I said. “I told him I didn’t want to talk to him.”

  Frowning, Miss Lizzie looked toward the lobby entrance, through which Phillips had escaped.

  Father’s face was pale and slack. He said, “Amanda, I think we have to talk.”

  Once again I was suddenly uneasy: I feared he was going to tell me that he planned to leave William and me, and go off with Susan St. Clair. I looked at Miss Lizzie. She said nothing.

  I looked back at Father. “Okay,” I said.

  He took a deep breath. “Let’s go to the library.”

  Miss Lizzie said, “I’ll wait here, dear.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  AS FATHER HAD said, the library was deserted. It was a small room, perhaps twelve feet square, three of its walls lined with books, the fourth holding a wide casement window that looked out over the porch to the lead-gray sea.

  “Have a seat, Amanda.”

  I sat down in a black padded leather chair, Father in the one next to mine.

  He crossed his legs and sat back stiffly, folding his arms across his chest. He took another deep breath. He said, “I haven’t been telling the truth.”

  “What do you mean, Father?” Had he not already told me this?

  “I mean I’ve been lying. To the police, to you, to everyone. To myself.”

  “About what?”

  “About almost everything. I wasn’t in Boston on Tuesday morning. I was here in town.”

  “But I thought you were with Susan St. Clair.”

  He nodded. “We drove down here in her car.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  For a moment he stroked his mustache, studying me. Then he said, “I was going to ask Audrey for a divorce.”

  I stared at him. Divorce was a good deal less common then than now, a good deal more momentous. I was perhaps more shocked by this than I would have been if he had told me he had killed Audrey.

  He said, “It hadn’t been much of a marriage for a long time. We were both just going through the motions, and not even doing that very well.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe if I hadn’t met Susan, I would’ve kept going through those motions. But I did meet her, and it changed everything. After a while, the situation with Audrey, became … intolerable.”

  He looked off, narrowing his eyes. “I actually began to hate her. Hate everything about her. The sound of her voice, the way she breathed, the way she smelled. The sucking sound she made at night, when she was sleeping.”

  His brow furrowed slightly, as though he were surprised and puzzled by the depth of his feeling. “I’ve never hated anyone before, not really. It’s not a pleasant feeling.”

  He took another breath, let it slowly out, turned back to me. “I’d been thinking about it for a while now.” His voice sounded very tired. “The divorce. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew that no matter how generous a settlement I offered Audrey, she’d still be difficult. But I’d reached the point, finally, where I didn’t care anymore. I was willing to give her anything she wanted.”

  “You mean, even me and William?”

  His eyes widened as he looked at me, and then he smiled sadly. “No. Of course not. If it’d come to that, I would’ve given up Susan. Amanda, I love you and your brother more than anything else.”

  I felt a stinging at the rims of my eyes.

  Another deep breath. “Anyway. Monday night, I decided. I just couldn’t live with her anymore. On Tuesday, Susan drove down with me. To provide moral support.” He smiled faintly. “I needed it. I’m not a very strong person, I’m afraid. And Audrey could be fairly … formidable. I nearly lost my nerve there, at the last minute. Just outside town, I pulled over to the side of the road and sat in the car with Susan for a while. You know the big oak tree? In that little meadow by the bridge?”

  I nodded.

  “That was where we sat. And Miss Borden thinks that was where William saw us. I think she’s probably right.”

  “William?”

  “He must’ve seen us somewhere, and that’s the most likely place. If William left town by following the creek up from the swamp, the way he told you he did, he would’ve come to the road just there, at the bridge.

  “I’d wondered about it at my parents’ house, when he told me about hitchhiking to Boston. Why hadn’t Susan and I seen him on the road? We hadn’t, of course, because he was hiding. He must’ve come up the creek, seen Susan and me, and then walked through the woods, next to the road, until he was out of sight. Probably he thought that if he showed himself, he’d embarrass all of us.”

  His smile was at once sad, wry, and bitter. “A lovely coincidence, wasn’t it? Perfect timing. If he’d come fifteen or twenty minutes later, he never would’ve seen us. And he wouldn’t be in jail right now.”

  I said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Miss Borden told me that when you talked to him, in jail, you were saying that the police should show a picture of Susan to the people who’d been along the road that day. Remember? To see if anyone recognized her? Well, William knew that Susan had been on the road that day. William had seen her, and he’d seen me. He knew that I’d been here in town, just around the time Audrey was killed. And he knew that I was claiming I’d been in Boston then. He confessed to Audrey’s murder to protect me, Amanda. Don’t you see? He thinks I killed her.”

  “But you didn’t.” On its own, without my intending it to, the statement became a question at the moment it left my mouth.

  He looked at me. “No. I didn’t kill her.”

  He squared his shoulders, as though bracing himself, and put his hands along the arm of the chair. “I left Susan there, at the tree. I wanted to drive into town alone. I wanted to get it over with, and yet at the same time I wanted to avoid it. I didn’t drive very quickly.” He smiled faintly, self-mocking.

  “And then, when I reached the house, my nerve gave way again, altogether. I drove around for a while and tried to work up my courage.” Looking off again, he raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “Maybe if I’d gone straight to the house, right away, I could’ve stopped whoever it was from killing Audrey. The timing was right. Maybe I could’ve saved her. I’ve thought about that a lot.”

  “Daddy,” I said, “it wasn’t your fault.”

  He looked at me sadly. “Maybe not. I don’t know.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I parked the car on Burnside and walked back.” I remembered the Packard Charlie had seen parked there. And remembered, for the first time, William telling me that Susan St. Clair owned a Packard.

  “The front door was locked,” Father said. “I opened it and went inside. There was no one downstairs. I went up to our room, but it was empty. I checked in your room, and you were asleep.”

  “How come you didn’t wake me up?”

  A sad smile. “You looked so peaceful, Amanda. You looked so happy lying there. And if I woke you up, I’d have to tell you why I came. Or invent some story. I didn’t think I could do either. That’s part of it. B
ut mostly, I think, I didn’t do it because I was already planning to leave.”

  He smiled bitterly. “Another fine example of my courage. If Audrey wasn’t home, you see, if she was out shopping, I could slip away and not deal with the whole thing for a while. Put it off till tomorrow.” He shrugged. “I told you. I’m not a very strong person. I’m not much good at confrontations.”

  He stroked his mustache again. “I went back downstairs. I was ready to leave, go back to Susan, and then I remembered the guest room. I knew she sometimes took a nap up there. So I went upstairs … and I found her.”

  Again he pursed his lips and looked off. “I stood there for a minute just staring down at her.” As he remembered this, his face went slack. “I was ill and I couldn’t move. All that blood. The room stank of it.” He turned to me. “And I think I was a little bit crazy too. Because in spite of the shock, and the sickness, there was a small part of me that was actually glad. There was a little voice in my head telling me, ‘You’re free now. She’s gone.’” He winced and shook his head. “I don’t know if you can understand that.”

  I said, “I can.” Had I not felt much the same myself?

  He inhaled deeply once again. “And then, suddenly, I realized that everyone would think I’d killed her. Everyone would know I’d killed her, even though I hadn’t. I had a motive—Susan.”

  He shrugged. “And so I ran. I ran down the stairs and into the parlor. I went over to the window and looked out, to make sure no one was out there. And someone was, someone was coming up the walk. Charlie, the old Negro man who sells chickens.”

  I asked him, “Did he see you?”

  “I’m not sure. I think he did.” Today I, too, think he did, and that he decided to stay out of an affair of white people. It would have been, finally, his word against Father’s.

  “Anyway,” Father said, “I waited till he was gone, and then I left. I locked the door behind me.”

  He sighed. “Amanda,” he said, and his blue eyes were shiny, wounded. He looked down, looked back up at me. “The thing I’m most sorry about is my leaving you there. Leaving you to find her on your own. To see her torn apart like that. I was so busy worrying about myself that I never even considered you! I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry that my cowardice, my weakness, brought that into your life. I’m truly, truly sorry.”

  “No, Daddy,” I said, and leaned over to take his hand. “No, Daddy. Really. It’s okay. You were confused.”

  He squeezed my hand and took a long shuddery breath. “No,” he said. “I was gutless. It’s something I’m never going to be able to forgive myself for.”

  “It’s okay. Really it is.” I wanted him to stop blaming himself, punishing himself; I changed the subject. “What happened afterward? Did you tell Susan St. Clair about Audrey?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, not right away. I told her I hadn’t seen Audrey, and I drove out of there like a madman. About an hour down the road, an hour and a half, I pulled over again. I told her then. And then, at the next town, I called the police station here. I don’t know who I talked to—whoever answers the phone down there. I started to tell him that I’d heard a fight at the Burton house, and he said the police already knew about it. He wanted to know my name. I asked him about you, and he said you were all right, and I hung up.”

  “Why did you go to Boston yesterday?”

  “I had to see Susan. After he made that confession, William wouldn’t talk to me. He refused. I knew I had to tell the police the truth. And Susan was involved—I couldn’t go to them until the two of us’d talked, and she understood what I was doing. And I suppose I needed some time with her before I told them.”

  I felt a familiar flicker of resentment: he had not needed time with me. “So you’re going to tell them now? Today?”

  He nodded. “Amanda, Susan and I stopped at the bridge at ten o’clock. I drove away about twenty minutes later. The police think Audrey was still alive at ten. Do you understand? If William saw us then, he couldn’t have killed her.” He nodded slowly, sadly. “Yes. I’m going to tell them. I have to.”

  “But Mr. Boyle and the Pinkertons, they’ve found that man that William got a ride with. They’ll make him tell the truth.”

  “Even if they do, even if they can, the police still have William’s confession. I’ve got to explain why he made it.”

  “But what’ll happen to you? What’ll the police do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think they’ve got enough evidence to arrest me. Not for the murder. They may charge me with making a false statement, or try to.” He shrugged again. “I really don’t know. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Spencer, the lawyer, at eleven-thirty. He’ll come with me to the police station.”

  “But what happens if they do arrest you?”

  He smiled, squeezed my hand. “They won’t, baby.”

  “But what if they do?”

  “Amanda,” he said, “everything will work out.”

  “That’s what Miss Lizzie keeps saying. But so far it hasn’t.”

  “It will,” he said. He smiled. “She’s a very bright woman, your friend Miss Borden. She figured most of this out by herself. If I hadn’t already decided to go to the police, I know I would’ve decided to go after I talked to her.” He stood. “Come on. You and Miss Borden can go back to her house. I’ll come by this afternoon and let you know how it went.”

  I stood up and hugged him. “I love you,” I said.

  His arms came around me. “I love you, Amanda.”

  By two o’clock, we had not yet heard from Father. Boyle had called from Boston, at one, and told Miss Lizzie that he had been unable to locate Mrs. Archer before leaving town. He had, however, spoken with someone in the New York office of the Pinkertons, and he expected some information from them by this evening.

  Having finished lunch, Miss Lizzie and I were sitting out on the porch, drinking our tea. Although the sky was still overcast, the breeze had died and the air was motionless and hot and very damp. It left a thin film of moisture on everything, like the trail of a snail.

  “Maybe I should go up to the police station,” I suggested.

  “I don’t think it would help, dear.”

  “But maybe they’re beating him up or something.”

  She smiled. “I suspect that the police seldom beat up people who can afford lawyers. He may be having a difficult time of it, but I doubt that they’re physically harming him.”

  “Why would he be having a difficult time?”

  “The police, I think, tend to feel that when you haven’t told them the entire truth, you’ve committed a major offense against the universe. Of whom they, of course, are the local representatives.”

  “But you don’t think they’ll hurt him?”

  “No, not at all. And, as he told you, they apparently haven’t enough evidence to hold him for anything.”

  “Yes, but they’re still going to think he did it.”

  She sipped at her tea. “Perhaps. We really don’t know what they’ll think.”

  “Everybody else is going to think so too. Aren’t they?”

  “Whom do you mean?”

  “Everybody. Here in town. And back in Boston.”

  She smiled. “Do you mean the people who gathered out in the street a few days ago? That everybody?”

  “Well, yes. But everybody else too. All his friends in Boston. The people he works with.”

  “If they’re actually his friends,” she said, “they won’t judge him. That’s what friendship is, I believe. Not judging someone. If they know him, and like him, they’re not going to care what the police in some tiny little town might think. And besides, I’m still convinced we’ll be able to determine who actually committed the crime.”

  “Yes, well, maybe, but I’m awfully glad we don’t really live in this town.”

  She sipped at her tea. “Yes. I can understand that.”

  It occurred to me then—and for the first ti
me, I think—that after her trial, Miss Lizzie had lived out the rest of her life in Fall River, despite her knowing that many, perhaps most, of the people around her believed she had actually been guilty. For nearly thirty years she had lived in a town that was convinced she had murdered her parents.

  Why had she not left? She had money; she could have gone anywhere in the country, or out of it. She could have gone back to Paris. Why had she stayed in Fall River?

  “Miss Lizzie?”

  “Yes?”

  Suddenly I heard a knocking at the front door.

  I said, “Maybe that’s Father!”

  She smiled, sipped at her tea. “Perhaps you’d better find out.”

  I scooted off the chair and ran down the hallway to the foyer. I tugged on the handle and swung the door open.

  And standing on the front porch, wearing a seersucker suit and a wide toothy grin, was William.

  THIRTY

  “HE’S REALLY OKAY,” William said. “They’re only asking him questions. The lawyer’s with him, Mr. Spencer.”

  Now all three of us were out on the porch. After introductions, Miss Lizzie had poured William a cup of tea.

  “You’re sure, William?” I asked him.

  “Positive.”

  “And they just let you out, and that was that?”

  “More or less, yeah. Dad and Chief Da Silva came into the jail, and Dad just says, ‘William, I know you saw Susan St. Clair and me last Tuesday. I want you to know that by the time I got to the house, Audrey was already dead.’ And Da Silva says to me, ‘William, did you see your father outside town on Tuesday morning, at approximately ten o’clock?’ And I look at Dad, and he nods, and I tell Da Silva, yes, and he says, ‘Would you like to retract your confession?’ You know the way he is, no expression at all, like a rock or something. And I tell him, yes, and he just nods and goes away.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then Dad tells me I was dumb to confess to something I didn’t do, but that he understood. We shook hands and stuff.” He blinked and looked away for an instant. “And so then Da Silva comes back with the key and he unlocks the cell. And he says to Dad, ‘You’ve got a few minutes together. When you’re done, come to my office.’ And that was it.”