We lifted him and he cut through the plastic, which began to flap in the wind. I looked up from where I provided one of the stirrups for his feet and saw him set the knife on the windowsill and begin carefully to remove the fragments of glass remaining in the frame.
“It is done,” he said.
“Crawl inside, Henry. We’ll join you,” I told him.
Schanno went next, with a little help from me. Once inside, he reached down and gave me a hand up.
We found ourselves in a small, dark study that smelled musty even with the air drafting through from outside. I went to the door and opened it. The hallway beyond was dimly lit at the far end. I signaled and the others followed me. We crept toward the light, which turned out to be from the chandelier in the dining room. We turned left and went through a large room with a beautiful stone fireplace, a grand piano, stuffed leather chairs, and a long leather sofa. In one corner a standing lamp gave off a dim, cheerless light. Everything was neat and tidy. The top of the piano was propped open, as if ready to be played. The place had an airless, stuffy feel to it, however. Though sheets hadn’t been draped over the furniture here, the room felt more than just empty. It seemed abandoned. It made me think of a church deserted not only by its congregation but by its god. Given what I knew of Wellington, I suspected the man seldom haunted this part of his mansion.
We entered the stacks of newspapers and followed the maze of corridors that ran through them until we reached the staircase, where we paused. Upstairs, a light blinked out in the hallway. We waited. Another came on, dimmer, farther away.
I started up. Schanno and Meloux came after me. I looked for security cameras, but didn’t see any. I listened for some sound—a cough, a grumble, the squeak of a floorboard as he paced—but the man was like a ghost. All I heard was the hollow hammer of rain driven against the windowpanes.
Upstairs I stepped carefully into the hallway and looked in the direction the hall lights had indicated Wellington was moving. The hallway was empty. He’d probably gone into one of the many rooms, but which one? Had he finally retired for the night?
“He’s been wandering around upstairs all evening,” Schanno whispered. “He’ll be out again in a minute. Do we surprise him?”
“We don’t want to give him a heart attack,” I said. “But we also don’t want him locking himself away somewhere.”
“Why don’t we just slip into a room, crack the door, and wait for him to pass. Then we corner him before he can slip away.”
That sounded as good as anything. We went to the nearest door— it was unlocked—and we slipped inside. In the moment while light came in from the hallway with us, I saw that it was a large bedroom with a canopy four-poster. We closed the door, leaving it open just a crack, and waited.
A long two minutes passed. I thought about Henry, finally on the verge of meeting his son, and I wished I were happier for him, wished that the man he was about to meet would make him happy and proud. But Henry knew he was not here for that reason. He was here to heal his son.
The light at the end of the hallway went out. I hadn’t heard a door open or close. I leaned to the crack. The hallway was dark now. I listened for the sound of shuffling on carpet, breathing, anything that would tell me where Wellington was.
The light directly outside the room where we hid came on suddenly. I opened the door. The hallway was deserted. Wellington, it seemed, was truly a ghost after all.
Meloux said, “I do not understand.”
“A timer, Henry,” Schanno guessed. “The lights go on and off automatically. It’s a way of making it appear someone is here when they really aren’t.”
“My son is not here?” Meloux looked confused and disappointed.
Schanno said, “When you saw him before, where was he, Cork?”
I led them to the other end of the hallway, to the anteroom where I’d been given my mask, then I opened the door to Wellington’s sanitized inner sanctum. The bedroom was still glaring white, but Wellington wasn’t there. I opened one of the doors leading off the bedroom. A bathroom with a sunken tub, a shower, and a pedestal sink, all tastefully done in white and sea green marble tile with modern stainless-steel fixtures. There was a vanity as well, the mirror outlined with bright bulbs, the sort of thing I associated with wealthy women who spent a lot of time on their makeup.
Behind me, Schanno said, “Take a look at this.”
He came into the bathroom holding a white robe, the kind Wellington had been wearing when I saw him.
“Where’d you get that?”
“In the closet. Along with this.” He held up a pair of black silk pajamas on a wooden hanger. “About as night and day as you can get.” He looked around the bathroom. “Very nice. Anything interesting?”
“Check out the vanity.”
“Whoa,” Schanno said.
He was probably responding to the wig of long white hair draped over a wooden head-shaped stand on the vanity. I checked the drawers. Makeup, but not the kind most women wore. Theatrical stuff. Gum spirit, liquid latex, foundation, a crème color wheel, a contact lens case with brown-tinted lenses inside.
“Wellington’s, you think?” Schanno asked.
“If it is, he’s even stranger than I figured.”
Meloux stood in the bathroom doorway, looking lost. “What does it mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Henry. Let’s check the bedroom carefully.”
In the closet hung several of the white robes, but also dress shirts, a couple of Hawaiian numbers, and slacks. In a shoe rack were casual shoes, deck shoes, and three pairs of New Balance athletic shoes. The dresser held briefs, undershirts, socks, sweaters, sweat suits. In the drawer of the nightstand were a couple of paperback mystery novels and a wire-bound notebook. The notebook contained dialogue sketches, exchanges like those between characters in a play.
Edwina: You can’t mean that.
Gladstone: If you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen this coming.
(Edwina crumples in a faint.)
Gladstone: Your dramatics will do you no good, my dear.
I read a couple of pages; it didn’t get any better. Behind the last page of the notebook was a flyer, folded in half. I opened it and discovered an advertisement for a production at the Loghouse Theatre, a melodrama titled The Nightcap, written and directed by Preston Ellsworth and starring the same. The production ran from June 1 until August 31, at eight P.M. every night except Monday.
Henry breathed deeply, almost a sigh of relief, I thought. “It was not my son you saw here.”
“That’s a good guess, Henry.”
“But why this pretending?”
“The question of the day.”
“What now?” Schanno asked.
I looked at my watch. A few minutes before nine.
“How long does a play last?” I asked. “Couple of hours?”
“About that.”
“Takes the actors a while to change, get their makeup off?”
“I’d guess.”
“So if we hurry, we might have a shot at catching Ellsworth before he leaves the Loghouse Theatre.”
“A shot,” Schanno agreed. “A long one.” He glanced at Meloux. “Unless we get lucky.”
FORTY-ONE
By the time we piled into the dinghy and began to row back to Trinky Pollard’s sailboat, the wind and rain had let up a bit. While Schanno and I pulled on the oars, Meloux used the flashlight to signal. Pollard was waiting for us as we drew alongside. When we were aboard, she tied the dinghy to a stanchion at the stern.
“So?” She turned to us expectantly.
“How quickly can you get us back to Thunder Bay?”
“Is someone after you?”
“Other way around, Trinky. There’s a man we need to get to. We know where he might be, but unless we get there fast, we could lose him.”
“Then let’s pull that anchor up and get under way.”
She used the engine to take us back. It was faster, she expla
ined, than lifting the sails and tacking against the wind. The dinghy trailed behind at the end of its line. As we rode the black swells of the bay, I filled her in on what we’d discovered on Manitou Island.
“A stand-in? Why? And why so eccentric?”
“If Ellsworth really is our man and we can get to him, maybe we’ll have the answers.”
“In the meantime,” Pollard said, “why don’t you three go below and get out of the rain. I don’t have dry clothes to offer, but I’ve got a bottle of Glenlivet in the cupboard. It’ll brace you some, warm your innards anyway. I’ll let you know when we’re inside the marina breakwater. You can give me a hand docking.”
Schanno shook his big, wet head. “It doesn’t sit right with me, you up here alone.”
“I’m alone at this wheel most of the time,” she told him. “There’s nothing for you to do.”
“Keep you company at least.”
She seemed pleased. “If that’s what you want. But you two”—she nodded at Meloux and me—“no reason both of you need to stay out in the weather.”
I went below with the old Mide. I found the Scotch and offered it to Meloux, who declined. I decided against it, too. The water was rough, and although I hadn’t experienced any seasickness on the way over, I didn’t want to take any chances. We still had a lot ahead of us on the far side of the bay.
The swells knocked us about. Outside I couldn’t see anything but the black night and black rain and the white spray that hit the window. Meloux seemed oblivious to the pounding the sailboat was taking. Silent and as near to brooding as I’d ever seen him, he stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
Even though Wellington’s absence from Manitou Island was not my fault, I still felt as if I’d let Henry down. I’d given him false hope, led him to believe we’d find his son there. What we found were simply more questions. There might have been something hopeful in the fact that the madman I’d seen earlier probably wasn’t Henry Wellington but someone pretending to be him. But what did that say about the real Wellington, that he was willing to allow such an unattractive portrayal? He probably was nuts, though not necessarily in the way people believed.
Schanno opened the cabin door and stepped in. “We’re rounding the breakwater.”
“You were good company for Trinky?” I asked.
“Remarkable woman,” he said. “She’s thinking of sailing down the Saint Lawrence and the East Coast to the Caribbean next year.”
“Alone?”
“That’s what’s been holding her back. She’d like a mate.”
“Speaking nautically?”
Schanno gave me a sour look. “Topside now,” he said.
The breakwater had done its job, and the lake surface was relatively smooth as we entered the marina and docked. We tied up and hauled in the dinghy.
“I’ll deflate it later,” Pollard said. “Let’s get you to the Loghouse Theatre.”
“You know where it is?”
“In Thunder Bay, I know where everything is.”
“Lucky for us,” Schanno said and gave her a goofy, big-toothed grin.
We took my Bronco. Pollard sat up front with me and navigated. The Loghouse Theatre was in the old Fort William section of town. It took us fifteen minutes to get there. When we arrived, the parking lot was almost empty.
“Too late?” Schanno said.
“Lights are still on in the lobby. Let’s give it a try.”
The doors were locked, but we could see two kids inside, early twenties. The young man wore an old-fashioned white shirt with a black string tie, and his hair was slicked down and parted in the middle. The young woman wore a calico dress and had long gold curls with bangs. They were straightening up the lobby. I knocked on the glass of the front door.
The woman turned toward us and I saw her mouth the word closed.
“Please,” I called. “It’s important.”
Her chest heaved with a theatrically tired sigh, but she came to the door. The young man went on with his work.
“I’m sorry, folks,” she said as soon as she unlocked and opened up. “The performance is finished. We’re done for the night.”
She was pretty and heavily made up. Her golden Shirley Temple curls were a wig, I could see. One of the actors, I guessed.
“We’ve come a long way,” I told her. “We’d like to see Preston Ellsworth. Please. Even just for a minute.”
“You’re fans?” She sounded surprised.
“Yes. Fans. His biggest,” I said. “Even if we’re too late for the performance, could we at least get an autograph?”
“You want Preston Ellsworth’s autograph?” She glanced at the young man, who studiously avoided looking at her. “Well, okay, I’ll tell him,” she said. “Wait here.”
The kid with the slicked-down hair grabbed a Bissell sweeper and began to push it back and forth over the carpet with a crisp zip of the brushes inside. I turned away from the door where the young woman had gone. I wanted my back to Ellsworth when he walked in so I could surprise him and see the look on his face when he recognized me.
“Here we are,” said a cheery voice a minute later. “I understand you’ve come a long way.”
It didn’t sound like the same man who’d spoken to me at the mansion, but I supposed a good actor ought to be able to disguise his voice. I turned to him.
He was fiftyish, with a thin handsome face and pleasant gray eyes. He’d thrown on a tan sport coat over his white T-shirt and he wore jeans. His face was still heavily made up for performance. He appeared fit, not at all like the sickly madman in the white robe who’d screamed bloody murder when I’d approached him in the mansion. I’d thought the similarities would be obvious, but he looked so different. If he recognized me, he hid it well.
“Yes,” I said. “From the States.”
“Is that so?” He took in our wet clothes. “Did you swim here?” He smiled at his joke, showing beautiful, capped teeth. The teeth of the man on Manitou Island had been like moldy cheese. “Where in the States?”
“Minnesota,” I said. “But then, you already knew that.”
He looked puzzled, but still pleasant. “I did?” He shrugged it off. “Gloria said you were fans. Is that right?”
“Of one performance in particular,” I said. “I think you know which one.”
The puzzlement morphed into confusion laced with just a hint of annoyance. “I’m afraid I’m not following you at all.”
“This isn’t a bad performance either, Mr. Wellington.”
“Look,” he said, with a note of exasperation. “Is this a joke or something?”
“No joke. Although it might be a little funny if murder weren’t involved.”
Hands on his hips. Perturbation now. “Who are you and what’s this all about?”
The kid with the Bissell sweeper kept at his work, but he wasn’t missing a word.
“Me, you’ve already met,” I said. “We almost did battle over a pocket watch, on Manitou Island. These are my colleagues. Wallace Schanno, former sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota. Trinky Pollard, formerly with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. And this is Henry Meloux, the real father of the real Henry Wellington. As for what this is about, Mr. Ellsworth, it’s about the attempt made on Henry’s life the day after I spoke with you in the Wellington mansion on Manitou Island.”
His brow furrowed. He eyed me in a threatening way. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
Trinky Pollard said, “You can talk to us, or you can talk to one of my friends in the RCMP.”
He hesitated. “You’re talking about that crazy recluse on the island out there in the bay, right?”
We stared at him.
“I have no relationship whatsoever with Henry Wellington. All I know about the man is what I read in the papers. If you want to call your RCMP friend, fine. When he gets here, I’ll ask him to charge you with harassment. Good night.”
Thunder Bay (Cork O'Connor Mysteries) Page 24
