Mr. X (72 page)

Coventry told him to go upstairs and reshelve books, and he scooted out of the room.

“That boy isn’t nearly as terrible as I thought when I first laid eyes on him,” said Marjorie Rattazzi, “but I don’t think I understand half the things that come out of his mouth.” She smiled at me. “I was here when Mr. Coventry came down with Mrs. Hatch and your aunts. Women like that are so strong, aren’t they?”

“Never lost a match,” I said.

102

Side by side on the davenport, hands clasped over their stomachs, their white-crowned heads bent in ferocious concentration, the aunts drank in the soap opera booming from the television set. Clark slumbered in the rocking chair. “Good thing I’m not a burglar,” I said.

“Well, hello, stranger,” Nettie said.

Clark smacked his lips and took in my presence with a yellow eye. “Happen to pick up a six-pack on the way?”

“Sorry,” I said.

“We still have a few in the fridge. I’d appreciate one. If you’re in the mood, help yourself.”

“There’s tuna casserole on the table,” Nettie said. “Fix yourself a plate.”

“I want to talk to you two ladies.”

“Oh, we heard all about it!” May said.

I took two bottles from the refrigerator, twisted off the caps, and came back into the living room. Clark accepted his beer in the way royalty accepts a chair, without looking at it. “What did you hear?” I asked the aunts.

“Took care of the whole shebang two seconds before you walked in,” Nettie said. “My sisters and I know we are doing the right thing.”

Clark detached the beer bottle from his mouth. “Maybe I should tag along behind Clarence and settle in beside him. A tragedy has the power to make a man think.”

I looked back at Nettie. “You already heard from Mount Baldwin?”

“I spoke to a Mrs. Elizabeth Fanteen,” she said. “Mrs. Fanteen is the executive director at Mount Baldwin. She asked for you, but in your absence Mrs. Fanteen was grateful to speak to me instead. You may be surprised, but that gracious Mrs. Milton called Mount Baldwin and found a place for Clarence. Mrs. Fanteen tells us that Clarence is welcome any time.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“When Mrs. Fanteen asked me about Clarence’s financial setup, I assured her that my sister and her husband are destitute.”

“I’d better talk to Creech,” I said.

“I spoke to Mr. C. Clayton Creech the minute I got off the phone with Mrs. Fanteen,” Nettie said. “His manners may be peculiar, but Mr. Creech is a man who knows what’s what. If you can stir yourself, Mr. Creech wants you to sign a few papers in his office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Which will give you plenty of time to pay our respects to old Toby,” Clark said.

I looked back at Nettie.

“Mr. Creech informed me that the burial will take place at ten
A.M.
tomorrow. We would like you to represent our family.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“I’d like some of that tuna casserole,” Nettie said. “Keep you company.”

“I could manage a few bites,” May said.

“Count me in,” Clark said. “Food takes your mind off your sorrows.”

I brought in plates and forks and watched them eat. “Did you tell me you called Laurie Hatch?”

“I believe so,” said Nettie. “A lovely young woman. My heart goes out to her, with her husband under suspicion of wrongdoing.”

“You said you were thinking about calling her. You didn’t mention that you went to the library, too.”

Nettie rebuked me with a glance. “Mrs. Hatch merely helped my sister and myself try to recover the photographs mislaid by Mr. Coverly, a man who couldn’t point out the sky if he was lying flat on his back in an open field.”

“Coverdale,” said May. “You Coverdale. He can’t be from around here. People around here don’t name their babies
You
.”

“Hugh,” I said. “Hugh Coventry.”

“An exceptionally nervous man,” said May. “It’s a pity when a man has a nervous disposition.”

“In my opinion, it was Mrs. Hatch who made him nervous,” said Nettie.

The faint, almost playful suggestion of an idea came to me, and I said, virtually without thinking, “I don’t suppose Mrs. Hatch mentioned any other photographs.”

“I don’t remember anything like that,” Nettie said. “We were
thinking of having your birthday celebration at eleven
A.M.
tomorrow, if it suits your crowded schedule.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Mrs. Hatch asked us to give her regards to Neddie. Didn’t I tell you that, Neddie? Your friend asked us to convey her regards.”

I smiled at May. “You’re telling me you walked out of the library empty-handed?”

“Goodness, only a fool would pass up an opportunity like that. I found all kinds of useful things in there. A whole box of rubber bands,
two
boxes of those nice big paper clips, jumbo they call them, and a date stamp where you can change the numbers. We can stamp our own books!”

“May,” I said, “you don’t have any books.”

She smiled at me like a cat.

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Would you mind if I called Rachel Milton?”

“If you think it necessary,” Nettie said.

When Rachel got on the phone, I said, “I can’t believe you acted so fast. Thank you.”

“I took a nap as soon as I got home and had two cups of coffee afterward. Liz Fanteen told me she would work out the details and get everything set up. Liz is a genius at the numbers game. By the way, Grennie raced in about an hour ago, fit to be tied. He locked himself in his study and made a million phone calls. Then he ran out again, shouting about having to see Stewart. For once, I don’t think he was lying. If you hear anything from Laurie, will you let me know? It’d be easier to be supportive if I knew he was going to jail.”

A few minutes later I went across the street, where Joy hovered in her doorway as I told her about Mount Baldwin. To my relief, Joy was delighted by the news. And did I know? Another wonderful thing had just happened—Toby Kraft dropped dead and left everyone a fortune!

103

It was a few minutes past 3:00
P.M.
when I walked past the shop windows on Fairground Road and turned into Buxton Place. The sunlight abruptly died. Beneath their Gothic rooftops, the cottages looked like malignant dwarfs. I was beginning to feel as though I had been strapped to a treadmill, and for a moment I thought about going back to my room for a nap.

The windows of 1 Buxton Place showed me no more than my own reflection. The same was true next door. I was wasting my time. The answers I needed were to be found in the present, not the past, and the nap was the best idea I’d had since telling the Reverend Swing about my mother’s taste in music. Something Star said to me long ago, a description of an alto saxophone solo on “These Foolish Things” she had heard at a concert before I was born, came back to me, evoking her with painful clarity. I turned away, took a step toward the brilliant shaft of light at the end of the lane, and a man in a black Kangol cap and a short-sleeved blue shirt turned the corner and walked into the darkness. Moving over the cobbles with the trace of a limp, he began fingering through a crowded key ring. His dark skin had the dead pallor of flesh too long deprived of sunlight.

“Mr. Sawyer,” I said. “How are you doing?”

Startled, Earl Sawyer looked up from his keys.

“I’m Ned Dunstan. I saw you in the ICU at St. Ann’s.”

“I remember.” He took a slow step forward, then another.

“How do you feel?”

Sawyer found the key he wanted. “Fine. Got out of the hospital that night. After a few hours, all I had was a headache. Even the bruises went away. I don’t keep bruises long, never have. What brings you up here?”

“My mother knew the man who owned these houses.”

Sawyer tilted his head and waited for more.

“She died five days ago. I was hoping I might be able to talk to him.”

His eyes seemed to change shape. “They were close?”

“Once upon a time,” I said.

“What was his name, this friend of your mother’s?”

“Edward Rinehart.”

“You got the wrong address, sorry to say. I’ve been coming here twice a week for ten, fifteen years, and I never heard of him.”

“This is the right place,” I said. “Mr. Sawyer, who hired you? The owner?”

“Could be.”

“Was his name Wilbur Whateley? Or Charles Dexter Ward?”

All expression drained from Sawyer’s face, and his eyes momentarily retreated. A shy smile flickered over his mouth. He surveyed the stable doors on either side. “You surprised me with that one, my friend.”

“So I noticed,” I said.

He chuckled. “I was thinking, this guy got the address all wrong, and you come up with Charles Dexter Ward.”

“Do you know Mr. Ward?”

“Never met him.” Sawyer came up beside me and faced the bottom of the lane, as if to ensure that no one would overhear. “I answered an ad in the
Echo
. Thirty dollars a week for checking in on these properties, Wednesdays and Saturdays. Now it’s up to fifty a week. I think I’ll stay on. You know? Fifty dollars a week, quick trip on the bus, in and out.”

His nod said it was better than stealing and twice as easy.

“How do you report to Mr. Ward?”

“He calls every Saturday, six
P.M.
sharp. ‘Any problems?’ he says. ‘No problems, sir,’ I say. Monday afternoon, a kid from Lavender Lane hands me an envelope with five ten-dollar bills. Nolly Wheadle.” Sawyer chuckled at the image of the boy who had led me out of Hatchtown on the night Robert had first shown himself. “One time, years back, I had a rotten cold and missed a Wednesday. Mr. Ward called on the Saturday, and I said, ‘No problem,’ same as always. Mr. Ward—let’s say I learned not to lie to Mr. Ward. My next envelope had only ten dollars in it.”

“How did he know?”

“You got me. He comes here two or three times a month, though. There’ll be glasses in the sink at Number One. A different stack of books on the table in Number Two.”

“Mr. Sawyer,” I said, “I know I’m asking an enormous favor, but would you let me look inside?”

He pursed his lips and jiggled his keys. “Your mother was a friend of Mr. Ward’s?”

“Yes,” I said.