Whisper Her Name

by Kate Wilhelm

  Later that day Eve arranged and rearranged furniture in her study half a dozen times. Better to do it mentally than shift real stuff around, she told herself when she finally had a firm picture of where things should go. She wrote about her adventures in locating a desk in her journal, and about meeting Dorothy Dumond and her sudden anger, and at nine she called her sister.

  “Jenna,” she said, “you sound tired.”

  “That’s because I’m tired. God, it’s a madhouse at the company, ten-, twelve-, fourteen-hour days, but Dirk swears they’ll meet their deadline; and starting in September he plans to vanish for at least a month. And so do I.”

  Her Cambridge company was working against a deadline for the development of a mammoth computer security system. Dirk was the chief of the project and Jenna his office manager. She claimed that she was responsible for holding the world together.

  Eve made some sympathetic noises, then recounted her day. “All of it for just a hundred dollars, plus delivery, which will be another twenty-five. And Dumond doesn’t like me. I think she believes I’m a hack for a tabloid or something, out to get the lowdown on her brother. I bet she’ll check with the college to make sure I’m going to work there. She more or less warned me off her brother.”

  Jenna laughed. “Little sister’s getting paranoid?”

  “Right. I can’t wait for you to come see this place. It’s so great!”

  “I think what I’ll do is train down to New York and hang out a couple of days, not get in the Labor Day traffic, and head out your way on Tuesday. Okay with you?”

  “Absolutely! Just let me know and I’ll meet the train. I have to check in at the college, get my ID and stuff, but I won’t start work until Wednesday after Labor Day. It’s only three days a week, so we’ll have time to kill. Good swimming in the lake, bring your swimsuit.”

  They chatted a few minutes longer until Jenna said she had to go beddie-bye or the world would fall apart the next day. Then, resisting the temptation to start unloading the boxes of books, Eve sat regarding them. Earl Marshall’s book was in one of them along with copies of the other two novels she had chosen for her thesis. The only thing the three novelists had in common, as far as she knew at present, she added to herself, was that they all had become overnight successes and hit the best-seller list. First novels, best sellers. One of the writers was a physicist and he had gone on to do academic work. One had written a sensational thriller, and followed it up with two more best sellers, and the third, Earl Marshall, had not published anything since his first novel. All three had appeared on the scene with their instant successes at roughly the same time, ten years ago. One of the ideas Eve intended to pursue in her thesis was what the effect of great monetary rewards for a first novel had on the writer.

  Dumond had been rightfully suspicious, Eve thought then. She did intend to snoop and pry, to find out as much as possible about Marshall, and also, if possible, to find out why he hadn’t produced a second novel in ten years. Another Harper Lee? her advisor had suggested. Jenna had been more blunt and much more vulgar. “The guy shot his wad.”

  3

  CHARLIE DROVE INTO STILLWATER LATE Monday morning. Many trees, modest houses with neat yards gave way to a commercial strip with a supermarket, home improvement store, other shops, gas station, theater, and a sign that designated the Historical Society. Following instructions on the map to Stillwater College, he turned onto Washington Street, and it was unmistakable that they were drawing near the college. Fast-food outlets flanked the street, a bookstore, a pub, office supplies and other miscellaneous goods, department store, Regency Hotel…

  Constance was examining the small town as much as he was, but she knew there was a big difference. He would remember where every shop was and would never need a map to locate anything he had seen. Training or innate sense of place, it was not clear, nor was it important. It worked. Not many people were in sight that morning, but she suspected that when the students arrived, the area would bustle with activity. The streets and sidewalks all looked as if they had recently been swept clean.

  “Nice town,” Charlie commented.

  “It’s always a surprise to find pretty little towns like this tucked away out of sight, out of mind, just going about their business,” Constance said.

  There were a few motels on the state road they had left, the usual chain restaurants, a used car lot, and a state park a few miles farther along on the state road. To all appearances, travelers, the college population, and however many people stopped on the way to the park, provided the only business Stillwater could possibly have to go about. There were probably some commuters. It was at least a two-hour commute into New York City from here, a long, but not impossible distance for anyone determined enough to endure it.

  At College Way, Charlie turned again, and a few blocks later he turned onto Adams, which he was to follow to Lakeview House. They drove past more fast-food joints, a restaurant or two on the lake side of the street, the college on the other with its old-growth trees and manicured grounds, brick buildings covered with ivy. Postcard college setting, Charlie thought, in keeping with the tradition of old northeastern schools. Stillwater College, he had learned, had been established in 1848.

  The food outlets on one side gave way to a park with lake access. Great for the college students, he thought. Take a quick refreshing dip between classes. Near the street children were at play on swings. Beyond the playground was a scattering of trees and shrubs, a gently descending grassy area and a narrow beach where people were sunning themselves or in the water. The park extended for another few blocks, and then residences obscured the lake view. These were large comfortable houses with wide porches, mature bushes and trees, probably built in the thirties and forties and well maintained. “Establishment houses,” Charlie murmured.

  The street began to climb a hill. After another block or two Lakeview House, the bed-and-breakfast that Debra Rasmussen had recommended, came into sight. It would have been hard to miss. It was a pseudo-Victorian, three stories high, painted bird’s-egg blue with red gingerbread trim, and balconies.

  “I love it!” Constance said. “It’s out of a fairy tale book.”

  “If a hag with a wart on her nose invites you to inspect her oven, run like hell,” Charlie said, parking near the entrance of the house.

  The woman who greeted them was not a hag, he had to admit a minute later. She was Humpty Dumpty’s soul mate. Freckled, round-faced, with round blue eyes, curly brown hair, and heavily freckled plump arms, she evidently did not have a waist, just a round body and short legs that tapered to small feet with no bone in sight.

  “Mr. Meiklejohn?” she asked. At his nod she smiled broadly, revealing deep dimples. “I’m Milly Olaf. Welcome to Lakeview House. Do you want help with bags? I can call Jud to bring them in for you. Jud’s my husband, you know. Your suite is this way, upstairs. We don’t have an elevator, you know. That’s why Jud helps with bags for them that don’t want to carry things up. Or some can’t carry, you know.”

  Charlie and Constance exchanged glances and remained silent as Milly Olaf continued her monologue all the way up the stairs, down a hall and to a door that she opened with a key. Still talking, inside the room she handed the key ring with two keys to Charlie and said that his wife could have one too, if she wanted it. One key was for the outside door. “It’s always locked, you know.”

  “I’ll bring our things in,” Charlie said in the first pause she offered.

  She nodded. “Breakfast is from seven to ten. You can have it in the room or in the breakfast room, or on the terrace. It’s real nice out there this time of year, you know, now that the heat’s broken. Me or Jud’s here most of the time, so if you want anything, you know, a lightbulb or towel, there’s a bell by the door, or you can just come down and yell out.”

  She opened drapes, pointed out that there was a real coffee maker,
not one of those dinky things motels had, you know, and coffee, sugar and half-and-half in the fridge. For the ants, you know…

  As soon as she talked herself out the door again, Constance began to laugh, and Charlie said, “I was afraid you’d explode from holding back. I’ll go down and get our stuff.”

  “And I’ll make coffee,” she said, still laughing. “She’s fueled by those batteries, like the little bunny or whatever it is that doesn’t stop.”

  After starting the coffee, she opened French doors to a small balcony with a lake view. The lake looked incredibly blue and still. Aptly named, she decided. It didn’t look like the sort of lake where two young women had drowned.

  The single room was large, with a king-sized bed, a sofa and easy chair with a coffee table, another table and two chairs by a wide window, television, a small refrigerator and a microwave. It would do fine, she decided. Room to sit and talk, to read, to plot, to gaze at the lake and meditate, but first and foremost to decide what their plan of action really was.

  After reading all the reports, the results of the various searches, the other experts, they had agreed that it would be futile to make a new search. Charlie had said the Slocum Detective Agency was tops. FBI trained, the guys had covered everything he would have done and then some.

  “So what are you going to do?” she had asked.

  “Sit and think deep thoughts while you unravel the psyche of a dead man,” he had said altogether too innocently. To her annoyance, he had added, “Honey, they didn’t hire me. They hired you. I want to watch you go at it.”

  When Charlie returned with their suitcases, a map was on the table by the wide window along with cups, sugar, and cream. The coffee maker was coughing in the final stages of doing its job. It sounded like a death rattle.

  “Another minute for coffee,” she said, again at the door to the balcony. “I think there’s plenty of room to let us move chairs out here. Not now, though.”

  “What’s for now? You want to unpack things?”

  “They can wait. Charlie, what do you intend to do at the house? After we meet the brothers and the attorney, then what?”

  “Not a clue,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Let them all talk. Listen.”

  “I might take my trusty tape measure and apply it to objects here and there and mutter obscenities when Pamela asks me what I’m up to,” he said. “The chimney would be a good place to start.”

  “I might start muttering obscenities myself,” she said, going to the coffee maker. “It’s ready. Let’s have coffee, wash our hands, and go have lunch.”

  He grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

  #

  At one thirty, Constance pulled into the driveway of the Bainbridge house. Tricia had said to watch for a giant blue spruce near the road, the only one in the area. She had circled the house on the map, as well as the locations where she and the other family members had rented rooms. At the Bainbridge house a driveway curved around half an acre of wooded landscaping, then went straight to a two-story building with a stone front and covered portico floored with the same kind of gray stone.

  “Pretty plush,” Charlie said. “Near a million bucks, I’d bet.”

  Several cars were parked on the drive, one under the cover, and a ten-speed bicycle was leaning against the house near the double-door entrance.

  Constance parked and they walked past a ten-year-old Camry that was in need of a wash. The man who answered the ring of the bell was tall and built like a wrestler, with scant faded red hair.

  “Meiklejohn and Leidl,” Charlie said. “They’re expecting us.”

  “Yeah, they said they were. I’m Steve McCormack. Mac. Come on in. Mr. Paley said to bring you to him when you got here.” He closed the door after them and locked it with a key, led the way through a hall, past two closed doors, and stopped at a third door and knocked. Without waiting for an invitation, he opened the door and motioned for them to enter. “They’re here, Mr. Paley.”

  Charlie had learned a lot about Walter Paley over the weekend. He was seventy, had been with the prestigious law firm for forty-one years, and had found his niche apparently in some back room where whatever he did was indispensable and invisible. The Peter Principal had never applied to him; he had never made the long list of attorneys that graced the company’s letterhead. He was about five nine, thin-faced, a comb-over that was ridiculous in Charlie’s eyes, and he had a paunch and a stoop. He wore thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses that magnified his eyes eerily.

  “Dr. Leidl, Mr. Meiklejohn,” he said hurrying to them with his hand extended. His handshake was surprisingly firm. “I’m delighted to have you here. Please sit down. I’ll fill you in on the situation. It is intolerable. Simply intolerable.”

  “Mr. Paley,” Charlie said, ignoring the chairs Paley had indicated, “we know what’s going on here. We know what they want us to do. What was this room before?”

  #

  Paley looked confused for a moment, glanced around, then said hurriedly, “Yes, of course. It’s most unusual, isn’t it? I believe it was a breakfast room, something of that sort.”

  A dining table had been pushed against one wall, along with several mismatched chairs. An empty cabinet with a glass front was against the same wall. Opposite that wall was a four-drawer file cabinet. It looked very much out of place there, as did a pair of easy chairs with a standing lamp and a large desk that held six or seven thick books with dull covers. More similar books were stacked on an end table by one of the chairs. Four boxes were against the wall, probably used to bring in the law books, Charlie decided. Beige drapes covered windows on one wall. Several yellow legal pads and a laptop were on the desk.

  “I needed a place to do my work,” Paley said, sounding embarrassed. “You see, I’m doing preparatory work for a history of the firm. Researching old cases. There have been many landmark cases over the years, of course. To do justice to them would require a trilogy, perhaps even more volumes, so I’m in the process of selecting the most important ones to document. A long-time ambition of mine, to do such a book, and now I have time to begin. Fortuitous for me, of course, although the present situation is not one I would have chosen. Most unfortunate situation, unprecedented in my experience.”

  Charlie held up his hand. “Mr. Paley, we’ll want to talk to you at length in the coming days, but for now I’d like to establish some ground rules. I’ll want a key to the house and to have access without question at any time we find it necessary. Also, I don’t want either my wife or me to undergo searches when we come and go.” He said it pleasantly, but Paley blanched and took a step backward.

  “I can’t agree to such terms,” he said. His voice had gone up an octave. “Impossible. Even I submit to searches on leaving.”

  “If you can’t accommodate me, I suggest you call Jesperson, get his permission, and have the key ready to hand over before we leave this evening. And for now, I think we’d better find Mrs. Corning and meet the rest of the Bainbridge family.”

  Paley looked stricken and stood shaking his head.

  Charlie took Constance by the arm and went to the door. “We’ll see you later, Mr. Paley.”

  “Charlie,” she said in the hall as soon as the door was closed behind them, “that was mean. What were you up to?”

  “Testing, testing. Wanted to see how pushable he is.”

  “Alpha-dog test,” she said. “You won. There’s Tricia Corning.”

  Tricia had stepped out of a room into the hall. She hurried toward them. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. She looked harried and very tired. “I’m afraid all this is wearing us down. We’re near our breaking point.”

  “Family fight?” Charlie asked.

  “Something like that. Ted says he has to go home to see to the farm, and Lawrence… He wants to start tearing off baseboards or so
mething. I’m ready to call it quits, just go home and be content with the two hundred thousand Howard bequeathed to me.”

  “Why don’t you go home for a few days?” Constance asked. “You would be able to rest a bit, wouldn’t you?”

  Tricia shook her head. “Not until this is over. I can’t rest. It’s driving me crazy being here, and more crazy if I go home. Well, come on and meet Ted before he leaves. He’s in the kitchen making a sandwich.”

  Constance nodded her approval of the kitchen Tricia led them to. A gourmet cook’s kitchen, with a large, double-door stainless refrigerator, a six-burner gas stove, microwave twice as big as the one she had at home, counter space for half a dozen people to work at the same time, and a large butcher block worktable with several sturdy chairs. “Did your brother entertain a lot?” she asked, surveying the room from the doorway.

  “Not at all, apparently. This is ridiculous for a single man. The whole house is a travesty for a man who was a hermit. Most of it isn’t even furnished. Ted, this is Dr. Leidl and Mr. Meiklejohn. My brother, Ted Bainbridge.”

  He had been at a back door gazing out when they entered the kitchen, and turned when Constance spoke. He was holding a half-eaten sandwich, which he placed on the table as he came forward to shake hands. Six-feet tall and broad shouldered, muscular, with a weathered, tanned face, not the even tan that Stuart had, but a tan that left his forehead pale, it was obvious that he was a strong man who worked outdoors. His dark-brown hair was untouched by gray.

  “I was waiting for you to get here, to meet you. I’ve got to leave for a few days, see to things.”

  “I’m glad you waited,” Constance said, shaking hands. His hand was hard and rough, his grip firm but not challenging. “Don’t you have help with the farm?”