Murder on High (16 page)

Twenty minutes later, she was dining on an appetizer of hearts of palm at her table by the window overlooking the harbor when the manager came over to tell her that she had a telephone call.

She took the call at the manager’s desk in the lobby, where there was an enormous fireplace in which a fire was always burning. As she suspected, it was Ron Polito. She had left him her number at home and the number here.

“What can I do for you?” he asked after they had exchanged pleasantries. The deep voice on the other end of the phone had lost some of its robustness; was quavery, even. Charlotte wondered if he was ill.

“I didn’t call about me,” she said. “I called about another one of the old dinosaurs.”

“Which dinosaur is that?” he asked.

“Iris O’Connor.”

“Oh,” he replied.

“Did you know she was dead?” Charlotte said.

Ron didn’t seem surprised. The members of their former circle were dying off at such a rapid clip that the news of an old friend’s death no longer carried the same emotional punch that it had even a few years ago.

Charlotte proceeded to tell him the story of Iris’ murder, and her own subsequent discovery that Iris Richards was really Iris O’Connor. She also told him about Iris’ note directing Partridge to contact him in the event of her death. “He’s been trying to reach you for a couple of weeks now.”

“I’ve been incommunicado,” he said.

“I told him I’d use my influence to get you to call him.”

“I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”

“Do you know who the heir to her literary estate is?”

“Yes. I do. The file’s back at the office, and I’m not there right now. But I remember the name.”

“Who needs the file when you’re Ron Polito,” she said. Ron’s memory was legendary. Years after a case, he could recite all the facts, right down to the date of a particular event.

He chuckled, and then replied, “Until about a year ago, the beneficiary was the Henry David Thoreau Museum. It was her pet charity of the moment. She was head of the committee that raised the money to get it started.”

Charlotte struggled to hear over the clinking of crockery and the murmur of conversation from the nearby dining room. “And now?” she prompted.

“About a year ago, she changed the beneficiary to an organization called the Katahdin Foundation,” he continued. “I helped her set it up about three years ago. She used money that she had in bank accounts out here to fund it. Which is why she had me set it up, rather than her lawyer in Maine.”

This was getting interesting, Charlotte thought. “I see,” she said. “If her lawyer in Maine had set it up, she would have been forced to reveal how much money she had, which in turn would have put her identity as a nurserywoman with a modest income into question.”

“More or less. What’s your interest in this, if I may ask?”

“Just sticking my nose into places where it probably doesn’t belong.”

“As in
Murder at the Morosco
?”

“Sort of. I’m a friend of the state police lieutenant who’s been assigned to the case. And, of course, I have a personal tie to the victim, seeing as how she was my screenwriter for ten years. What about the literary executor?”

“Ah, the literary executor,” he said. “He’s a young man by the name of Keith Samusit. A Penobscot Indian, from what I understand. He’s also the executive director of the foundation.”

Charlotte nearly dropped the telephone receiver on the desk. “Well, that puts a new wrinkle in the case.” There were now two major suspects, both of them standing to gain significantly from Iris’ death. “How much is her literary estate worth?”

“A lot. Her books are all still in print, so they’re still generating royalties.
The Lonely Heart
is still selling two hundred and fifty thousand copies a year, world-wide. Someone once called Iris the world’s most widely read, least prolific author. But that’s not really true.”

“Why not?”

“Because she never stopped writing; she just stopped publishing. She’s got half a dozen novels stashed away in a safe at my office. This Indian is going to be surprised to learn just how rich his organization’s going to be.”

Charlotte was puzzled. “Why didn’t she want to publish them?”

“She had some highfalutin reason based on Thoreau; something about avoiding the necessity of selling baskets instead of figuring out how to sell more of them. But I suspect it was just plain orneriness. Why should she deal with publishers if she didn’t have to?”

“Didn’t she care what happened to them after her death?”

“Nope. She wanted me to agent them. But apart from that, she didn’t care. She said this guy Samusit could do anything he wanted with them. If they’re marketed right, they could be a literary sensation. Her books have never gone out of style; they’re classics.”

“Does Keith know the Katahdin Foundation is the heir?”

“Yes. Iris told me that she had told him. He was the only person apart from her companion, Jeanne Ouellette, who knew who she really was.”

The fact that Jeanne knew about Iris’ past life didn’t surprise Charlotte. She had already figured that out from Jeanne’s lack of interest in the locked room, and from her reaction when they’d been introduced.

Ron continued. “They were both sworn to secrecy, of course.”

“With the penalty for revealing her identity being that they would be disinherited?”

“Presumably,” he said.

“Well, I guess this puts Keith at the top of our list of suspects. But why kill her now? Why not wait until she died a natural death?” She was speaking as much to herself as to him.

“I know the answer to that question.”

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Iris would change the beneficiary of her literary estate every year or two. She’d become enamored of some charitable organization, but then there would be a falling out, and she’d change her will.”

“Unlike Keith, however, the others didn’t know they were her beneficiaries.”

“Not that I know of,” he said, and proceeded to name some of Keith’s predecessors, which, in addition to the Henry David Thoreau Museum, included the Thoreau Alliance, Save Walden Pond, the Friends of Baxter State Park, and the Maine Nature Conservancy.

“Did Keith know she had frequently changed beneficiaries?”

“Not through me,” he said. “I keep my work confidential. At least as long as the client’s still alive.”

“I know,” she said. Another of Ron’s virtues was that he could be depended upon to keep his mouth shut.

“But Iris may have told him, directly or indirectly. If he was at all close to her, which I presume he was, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out that her allegiances tended to fray after a while.” He continued. “I’ll have a better idea of the value of the literary estate once I start shopping her manuscripts, but I would guess it’s at least a million.”

“That’s not exactly chicken feed,” said Charlotte.

“No, it’s not,” Ron agreed. “It’s certainly reason enough to put this guy Samusit at the top of your list. Though he’s not the direct beneficiary he’ll be able to write himself a very nice salary as executive director. But …”

“But what?” Charlotte interjected.

“I think I may have another suspect for you.”

“Who?” How could Ron Polito have a suspect in a murder that had taken place three thousand miles away? But she didn’t doubt him.

“Are you coming out here any time soon?” he asked, knowing that her refusal to live on the West Coast meant frequent cross-country trips.

“On Tuesday, as a matter of fact. I’m meeting with someone about a project. Turning right around and coming back.”

“I think you’d better drop by and see me. Will you have time?”

“I’ll make time,” she said. After saying goodbye, she pressed the button on the telephone base, and then looked up at the manager, who was busy with some papers behind the desk. “Mind if I make a call to Orono?”

“Not at all, Miss Graham,” he replied.

He shouldn’t mind—she was one of his best customers, she thought as she dialed Tracey. After dropping Charlotte off, he’d grabbed a quick bite to eat at home, and then had gone right back to Orono. When he was on a case, he worked all the time, a fact that didn’t rest well with his family.

“Hello, Charlotte,” he said, picking up the phone right away. “Where are you calling from? I just tried you at home. I was about to try you at the inn.”

“That’s where I am,” she said, looking out at the fire.

“How’s that for detection?”

“It doesn’t take much detective ability to figure out that a woman who can’t cook is at a restaurant during the dinner hour.”

“Especially on a Thursday night,” he added. “How’s the spread?”

The Thursday night buffet at the inn was legendary, and the event, which was followed by dancing on the patio, was a social must for the residents of the summer colony.

“Great, as usual,” she said. “Listen, I have some news for you. I just talked with Ron Polito. He says that Iris’ literary estate could be worth a million or more. Guess who the beneficiary is?”

“You’ve got me,” said Tracey.

“Keith Samusit.”

Tracey let out a long, low whistle.

“Or rather, the Katahdin Foundation, of which Keith is the executive director. What’s more, he knew who Iris really was. The question is, was he on Katahdin on the day Iris was murdered, or could he have been?”

“We know he was in the vicinity,” Tracey said. “We can start by checking the entrance permits.”

“What were you calling me about?” she asked.

“We’re going to try to snag the Pamola prankster. Are you interested in heading up to Katahdin country?”

“Sure,” she said. She had an appointment to keep with the mountain.

9

Charlotte’s first glimpse of the legendary mountain came two days later on the way to Baxter State Park. Actually, on a clear day she could make out Katahdin from some of the mountaintops near her cottage on the coast. But from a hundred and fifty miles away, it was little more than a blip on the horizon. Charlotte and Tracey had driven those hundred and fifty miles earlier that morning, and arrived in Millinocket around noon. After eating at a luncheonette, they had set off for Roaring Brook Campground, which was the location of the trailhead for the trail up to Chimney Pond. They had expected to be disappointed in their wish for a view of the mountain: it was notorious for not emerging from the clouds for days on end, and the morning had been overcast. In fact, it had been raining for two days. But when they came out of the luncheonette they could see patches of blue, and by the time they rounded a bend just outside of town, there it was, its summit clad in a gleaming veil of fresh snow. To be sure, there were higher mountains, but at first glance Katahdin impressed Charlotte as being special for a quality, which for lack of a better phrase, she could only think of as mountainous. It truly was a mountain of the imagination.

Its uniqueness had to do with its unusual formation. An isolated gray granite monolith, it rose abruptly from the surrounding wilderness to a height of a mile. There were no competing peaks or foothills to detract from its solitary dignity, no trees growing on its rocky summit to dim its shining splendor. It was there, seeming to embody all of man’s noblest virtues: serenity, strength, aspiration.

“It kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” said Tracey, as he peered up over the dashboard to get a better look.

Charlotte nodded. She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. Katahdin was also unusual in not being a pointed mountain: it didn’t jut harshly into the sky, but sat there square and rugged, the serene monarch of all it surveyed.

“I bet I’ve seen Katahdin a couple of dozen times over the years, and it always seems new to me,” Tracey said. “The season, the weather, the time of day—it always looks different, but it’s always fascinating.”

“Who would ever have expected to find it capped with snow at the end of June?” Charlotte commented.

“It won’t last,” said Tracey. “But meanwhile it looks mighty pretty.”

As they continued along the winding road, the mountain would disappear, then reappear to rivet their attention once again.

“When was the last time you climbed it?” Charlotte asked. From this vantage point, it seemed so immense that she found it hard to imagine that anyone had ever actually reached the top.

“The last time was about ten years ago. I went with my son’s Boy Scout troop. I’ve climbed it seven or eight times, I reckon. A lot of people do it every year. Always seemed like a nice idea, I just never got around to it.”

“It looks as if it would be a pretty tough climb.”

“Depends,” he replied. “It’s not so bad if you start out from Chimney Pond. But if you start out from down at the bottom, it’s a killer. Nothing like the view from up top, though. You must be able to see a hundred lakes.”

“Do you think you’ll do it again?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he replied as the mountain came into view once again. “But I don’t know if I’m up to it anymore.”

“Maybe you’ll have the chance to find out before we’re finished,” she said.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

Tracey had spent the entire previous day working with Haverty and Sargent on the plan to catch the man who had been masquerading as Pamola. The campers with reservations at the Chimney Pond Campground had been relocated to other campsites to make room for the park employees and state police who would be posing as campers. Each of these pseudo-campers, whose numbers also included Charlotte and Tracey, would be equipped with a walkie-talkie, with which they could buzz troopers stationed at the ranger’s cabin. When the Pamola masquerader appeared, the police would pounce on him, and take him into custody. Or such was the plan, anyway. With two major suspects now on hand, it seemed more unlikely than it had two days ago that the prankster had anything to do with Iris’ murder, but apprehending him would get one problem out of the way. Occam’s Razor, again. As far as the success of the venture went, the great unknown was the weather. So far, he had only appeared on moonlit nights, presumably because he needed moonlight to find his way without a flashlight. The weather in the area had been overcast for three days, and Tracey had been worried that the trend would continue. If the weather kept him underground, all their efforts would come to naught. The reappearance of the sun, however, validated the prediction of a clearing trend by mid-morning on which they had based their plans. Presumably he would be eager to get out again after having been cooped up since Thursday.