by Robert Bloch
But I did get caught. That’s why I’m here. Amy almost spoke the words aloud but it wasn’t necessary; the deputy grinned apologetically, toothpick teetering.
“My mistake, lady. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“That’s okay.”
She would have said more but her attention was distracted by the sound of voices and footsteps echoing from the outer office where Irene Grovesmith sat. Amy swiveled in her seat to glance through the open doorway. At the sight of Dr. Rawson and Sheriff Engstrom entering the room behind her, she started to rise from the chair.
As she did so, deputy Al involuntarily reached toward the weapon in his holster.
Amy caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and turned quickly. “That’s not necessary,” she murmured.
Al’s hand retreated to the desktop. “Sorry,” he said. “Sheriff’s orders.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t harm him.”
And even if she’d had the intention she lacked the opportunity. Irene Grovesmith had risen and moved to close the door of the inner office, shutting off sight and sound from behind it.
Lightning flashed outside the window. Rain spattered, thunder boomed. A pity Al wasn’t wearing a baseball cap and horn-rims; Amy could have asked him if this was good or bad for the crops. But Al wouldn’t know. He was just a sheriff’s deputy and besides he wasn’t fat enough.
Amy wondered if she was flaking out. Why a thought like that at a time like this? Was it a sign of hysteria, or just common sense to opt for frivolity over morbidity?
Al wouldn’t know the answer to that one either. As he toyed with his toothpick Amy found herself straining at the sound of muffled voices from beyond the door. Deep bass alternating with shrill soprano indicated Dr. Rawson and Irene Grovesmith were engaged in conversation; sharp staccato punctuated by short pauses suggested that Engstrom was talking on the phone. But even if she’d been spared the constant crashing of thunder Amy couldn’t make out what was being said. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Nothing except sweaty palms, a tendency to grip her purse too tightly; telltale tension along the inner lengths of her legs as she leaned forward in the chair, unable to relax. If Al didn’t get rid of that damn toothpick pretty soon, she’d do it for him. The odds were three to one she could yank it out of his mouth before he could yank that gun out of his holster. Be a mighty sad thing if she couldn’t beat a hick deputy sheriff to the draw.
Funny? Maybe not, but it was the best she could do. And the best wasn’t good enough, because whenever she blinked she found Doris Huntley’s face staring at her from the darkness behind her closed eyes. Each time it was only for a moment, just long enough to reassure her the image hadn’t faded. And reassure wasn’t the proper term; why couldn’t she think straight? What was Engstrom doing on the phone, how much longer would he keep stalling her like this?
More questions that Al wouldn’t be able to answer. Amy stared up into the light, trying to keep her eyes open without blinking. The deputy removed the toothpick, tossing it into the wastebasket, and in gratitude she asked him a question he could answer.
“What did you have for dinner?”
“Pizza.”
Might as well take refuge in her role as a reporter and ask him what kind. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary, because the door behind her opened at last and Engstrom hurried in. Al rose to his feet hastily, but not in time to deflect the Sheriff’s scowl.
“Move,” Engstrom said. “Now!”
Standing, the deputy towered over his superior by a good six inches, but without his toothpick he seemed defenseless. By the time Engstrom replaced him behind the desk Al was gone, closing the door behind him.
“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long,” he said. “Couldn’t get through to the chief of staff over at the hospital. Sounds like something’s up there. I told Doc Rawson to keep calling.”
For a moment Amy wondered why Engstrom’s uniform was dry, then remembered that both he and Dr. Rawson had worn hats and ponchos when they entered the outer office. As he spoke Engstrom’s voice was dry too.
“All right,” he said. “Where is Eric Dunstable?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Late this afternoon, at the memorial service. He had an argument with Reverend Archer—”
“We know that.” Engstrom leaned forward. “The other night you said you’d met Dunstable in Chicago.”
“Yes.” Amy nodded. “I gave you the names of the people who were with me when he came to my apartment that evening. Didn’t you try to reach them?”
“Sure thing. Your alibi checks out and so does his.” The Sheriff paused. “Of course they had no way of proving this was really the first time you and Dunstable met.”
“Why should I lie to you about that?”
Engstrom shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Why should you have adjoining rooms?”
Amy tried to keep her voice under control. “I told you there’s nothing between us.”
“Except murder.” Engstrom paused again. “You two in on this thing together?”
“Of course not. What reason could we have?”
“You’re writing a book.”
“True. But Eric Dunstable has nothing to do with it.”
“Look, Miss Haines. Fairvale’s only a flyspeck on the map but we get television here, same as in Kansas City or St. Louis. That’s where the real money comes from, doesn’t it? First you write a book, then you sell it to some producer for a movie or a miniseries on TV.” Engstrom nodded. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that possibility.”
Amy countered his nod, shaking her head quickly. “Possibility, yes. But it’s not very likely to happen. There are hundreds of books written about mysterious killers that never sell to television or films. There generally has to be some unusual angle—”
“Like demonic possession?” Engstrom hunched forward. “Dunstable’s theories might be just the extra touch you’ve been looking for.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Maybe.” The Sheriff’s mustache twitched with the suggestion of a smile. “I’m not accusing you two of collusion, mind you, just asking. There’s a lot of things we need to find out about and we will, one way or the other.” As he spoke, the hint of a smile vanished. “For starters, what were you doing up at Remsbach’s place?”
“You’ve already answered that yourself. I’m writing a book. My only reason for visiting him was to get information.” Amy paused. “But I suppose you already know. The desk clerk at the hotel must have been eavesdropping on my calls again. He phones and tells you I’m going to visit Mr. Remsbach at his home and you come charging after me, is that it?”
Engstrom shrugged. “More or less. Stopped by at Peachey’s on the way.”
“Peachey’s?”
“It’s a bar. Had to break up a little disturbance.” The Sheriff gave her a pointed look. “Couple of out-of-towners.”
“If you’d come directly maybe this thing wouldn’t have happened,” Amy said. “At least you saw me arrive—”
“Correction. We saw you opening the car door. That’s when we switched off our lights so we could slide in without you noticing.”
“I hope you noticed I didn’t have a weapon.”
The Sheriff nodded.
Amy hesitated for a moment, waiting for him to speak. But he said nothing, and it was she who broke the silence. “Do you know what the weapon was?”
“Pretty sure of it. Six-inch butcher knife, notched handle grip, bit of a curve in the blade.” His voice was flat, his stare sharp. “Sound familiar?”
“Why should it?”
“Because you could have had it with you when you came.”
“To kill Doris Huntley?” Amy’s voice rose above distant thunder. “I didn’t even know she was there.”
Engstrom was sitting up straight now. “Of course not. Must have come as a surprise for both of you—you see her getting i
n her car, she sees you getting out of yours. You walk over to her, maybe she opens the door to talk. Meanwhile you get the knife out of that big purse of your and—”
“Why?”
“To get rid of the only witness who could testify seeing you there. After you killed her you went inside. Maybe five, ten minutes later, you came out and checked again to make sure she was dead. That’s when we showed up.”
“Don’t play guessing games. I didn’t kill that woman! I never went inside, I didn’t carry any weapon.”
“Well, somebody did.”
The sound of thunder was scarcely more than an echo now, and Amy spoke before it subsided. “You found the knife?”
“That’s right.”
“Where? Was it in the house?”
“It was in Otto Remsbach’s chest. Whoever left it there stabbed him thirteen times.”
— 15 —
There was no more thunder. The rain had stopped, the storm was over, and the air had cleared.
But that was outside; here in the Sheriff’s office, tension remained. Tension in the deep-set lines bordering Irene Grovesmith’s lips as she monitored the tape. Tension in Engstrom’s voice as he asked the questions that once again took Amy through the events of the evening. Tension in her replies, tension that came in sudden succession like the aftershocks following an earthquake.
For some reason, hearing about Remsbach’s murder was even more disturbing than the actual sight of Doris Huntley’s body. But both victims were equally dead.
Double Event.
Where did that come from? It took Amy a moment before she remembered the source. The term had originated over a hundred years ago when two victims were killed on the same night by Jack the Ripper.
Had his weapon been a butcher knife? Nobody knew. And today, more than a century later, his identity remained unknown.
There had been another Double Event tonight, but at least they’d found the weapon. Would they ever find the killer?
Engstrom had just concluded his interrogation when another thought occurred to her, and it was then that she voiced the question.
“May I ask you something, Sheriff?”
Engstrom’s nod both dismissed Irene Grovesmith with her recorder and also signaled Amy to continue. “Go ahead. It’s your turn.”
“What makes you so sure both murders were committed by the same person? Couldn’t there have been two instead of one?”
“How do you figure?”
“Suppose Doris Huntley killed Remsbach with that knife. And when she left, somebody was waiting for her outside.”
“Somebody.” Engstrom shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“There should be prints on the knife.”
“I doubt it.” The Sheriff stretched the skin below his left cheekbone between thumb and forefinger. “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t Amateur Night.”
“But that doesn’t rule out the possibility that two people were involved in the murders.”
“You and Dunstable, perhaps?”
“I’ve already told you I haven’t seen him this evening. And you know I came to Remsbach’s house alone.”
“He could have walked. Or driven out in another car.”
“I don’t think he even knows how to drive,” Amy said. “And he doesn’t have a car here. But someone else could have come and gone before I arrived. There could be tire marks—”
“Not after this storm. Rain’d wash ’em out.” Engstrom pushed his chair back. “Which reminds me. I had your car driven over here. It’s in the lot.”
“Where are my keys?”
“I’ll tell Reno to give them to you.” Engstrom rose.
“Thanks.”
Amy had about forty-five seconds between the Sheriff’s departure and the moment when the office door opened again to admit Dick Reno. She used the interval to open her purse and inspect herself in the compact mirror, prompted by curiosity rather than vanity. After tonight’s experience it came as a surprise that there seemed to be so little change. True, her eyes did look tired but some fresh liner would take care of that.
Amy smiled at her image in the mirror. Maybe curiosity was just another synonym for vanity after all. As the door opened behind her, she closed the compact, dropped it back into her bag and zippered it before Dick Reno reached her side.
He must have left his poncho in the outer office, for his uniform showed no indication of storm damage. It was only when she glanced down that she noted his boots were caked with mud at the heels and streaked along the ankles.
Then something jangled and she looked up; he was holding out her car keys. “How do you feel?”
“Much better, now that I’ve got my car back.” Amy zipped her purse open again to deposit the keys. “I take it this means your boss trusts me not to sneak out of town tonight.”
“Are you really okay?” Reno said. “They told me what happened. It must have been an awful shock.”
“I’m all right now.” Amy glanced down again at the deputy’s boots. “But where were you when all this happened?”
“Sheriff told me to go find Eric Dunstable.”
“Where did you look for him—in a swamp?”
“No, but that’s an idea. There is a swamp, not too far away.”
“Away from what?”
“The Bates place.” Dick Reno nodded. “Engstrom thought Dunstable might have headed out there.”
“I take it you didn’t run into him.”
Reno nodded again. “I didn’t run into anything, except rain and mud. Way I figure it, you had more chance of seeing him than I did.”
Amy rose. “You and Engstrom do a lot of figuring, don’t you? I guess theorizing comes easier than finding out the facts. But just for the record, let me tell you just what I told him. I didn’t see Eric Dunstable tonight, I have no idea where he went, and the two of us didn’t join forces to commit murder.”
“I never said that.” Reno spoke quickly. “And I wouldn’t be handing you back your car keys if the Sheriff really thought you were a suspect.”
“Then why was he pressuring me?”
“When something like this happens, there isn’t much choice. He needs all the information he can get, and fast. But for what it’s worth you’re pretty much in the clear. Sheriff knows we had dinner together. The clerk up at the hotel filled him in about how you talked to Steiner and Remsbach and tried to call Dunstable. We know when you left the hotel and if your story about seeing Homer at the newspaper office checks out, there’s no way you could’ve had enough time left to kill either one.” Reno smiled. “Let alone put Mother in Otto Remsbach’s bed.”
“What?”
“They found that wax figure lying next to his body. You didn’t know?”
Amy didn’t answer. She strode to the door, yanked it open. The outer office echoed a babble of voices and the buzzing of unanswered phones. The deputy named Al, Irene Grovesmith, and Sheriff Engstrom were taking calls at three separate desks, but the instruments on three other desks continued their clamor.
Amy moved up beside Engstrom without slackening her stride. As she halted he concluded his conversation, forefinger poised to plunge down and establish connection with another call. “Damned phones been ringing off the hook,” he muttered. “Rock Center, Montrose, Kansas City Star, you name it. Beats me how in hell the word always get around so fast.”
“Me too.” Amy’s words rose through the confusion loud and clear. “Particularly when you take such plans to withhold information.”
Engstrom’s finger faltered. “Come again?”
There was no hint of faltering in Amy’s voice. “Why didn’t you say anything to me about finding the wax dummy of Mrs. Bates in Remsbach’s bed?”
“Who told you that?” The Sheriff scowled. “I gave everybody strict orders—”
“To withhold evidence?”
“I have my reasons. You’ve got no right to question them.”
“And you’ve got no right to give m
e the runaround.” Amy’s voice dropped to its normal level. “Don’t worry, I’m not doing a story for the newspaper.” She paused, glancing around. “Speaking of which, where’s Hank Gibbs? You’d think he’d be interested in getting hold of this kind of news.”
“That’s right.” Engstrom frowned. “Unless he is the news.”
— 16 —
Engstrom’s phones may have kept ringing all night, but when Amy drove back to the hotel there were no messages of any calls awaiting her there. The male desk clerk had finished his shift—and, presumably, his comic book—but Amy had no doubt that his female replacement would continue monitoring her line.
Nonetheless, the first thing she did after kicking off her shoes when she reached the room was to try Eric Dunstable’s number. Again there was no response.
Where could he possibly have disappeared to, and why? The questions rose and once more she pushed them aside, or tried to. Hard to push when you’re so tired, when so much has happened and there’s so much to think about.
Only she wasn’t going to think about anything more tonight. Tomorrow would be time enough, after she got some rest. It was already close to midnight, and while she had to remove her makeup, the shower could be put off until morning.
Shower put off and nightgown put on, Amy was ready for sleep. But sleep was not ready for her.
At least she was grateful for one thing; closing her eyes no longer evoked a vision of Doris Huntley’s face. The problem now was not what she’d been but what she hadn’t seen.
Otto Remsbach, horizontal. The butcher knife in his chest, vertical. Thirteen stab wounds. Bloody bed. Bled like a stuffed pig. And Mother—was she bloody too?
Amy had never seen Mother and she didn’t want to, but the only way she could avoid it now was to keep her eyes open. Keep her eyes open and keep her mind off what had happened up there at Remsbach’s house tonight. Maybe Sheriff Engstrom was right after all; it was none of her business.
Business. Now there was something she could think about. Her business was to write the book and—to be brutally honest, totally honest—what had happened tonight meant that business was going to be very good.
