Miss Lizzie (38 page)

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. But 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.”