No Stone Unturned (38 page)

“How did you manage that?” he asked in wonder. “You’re like a magician.”

At eleven, the phone rang. It was not the eerie whisper I expected, but David Jerrold in normal tones.

“I’m ready to do business with you, Miss Stone,” he said. “Can we meet tonight?”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m interested in buying some film.”

“Planning a vacation?” I asked.

“Funny. How does five hundred dollars tickle you? Meet me in thirty minutes at the Mohawk Motel. Come alone.” And the line went dead.

I questioned the wisdom of driving out to the Mohawk Motel by myself at such a late hour, but what else could I do? Artie Short’s ultimatum might have had something to do with my reckless decision, but deep down I knew that my desire to solve the case and show up George Walsh was too strong to resist. And there was my car—I had really liked that yellow Belvedere—my ransacked apartment, and the assault I’d suffered at the hands of a brute. I wanted to get to the bottom of the whole mess and put it behind me.

Route 40 was deathly still on that December night. The stars sparkled in an icy black sky. My borrowed Studebaker rumbled north, its bouncy tires holding onto the asphalt for dear life, and I didn’t pass a single motorist on the way. Then the huge, wooden Indian rose from the dark landscape like a sentry. I slowed to a stop and looked up at him, his painted face blistered by years of weather and neglect. Last chance to turn around. I released the brake, and the car lurched forward.

The parking lot was empty and dark. I stopped in front of the registration office, my headlights shining on the Dr Pepper machine and the pay phone. I climbed out of the car and looked around. The night was still, as if holding its breath, and the only sound was the clicking growl of the Studebaker’s engine.

“Are you alone?” Jerrold’s voice called out from somewhere in the dark trees.

“Yes,” I answered, trembling from the cold and my nerves. “Why don’t you show yourself?”

A moment passed, then he stepped from the woods and into my sight.

“There is no film, is there?” he asked.

The abrupt change in subject took me aback. Jerrold came toward me, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. “Prakash is looking for film,” he said. “He had no reason to suspect that it existed until you planted that phony story in your paper. And now I’ve come here to tell you to stop this game.”

“But you said you wanted to buy . . .”

“How else was I to convince you to meet me?”

“And the five hundred dollars?”

“It’s yours,” he lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. “Provided you quit this investigation and stop calling my home.”

“What makes you believe there is no film?”

Jerrold laughed, albeit on edge. “I’ve played some poker in my day. It doesn’t exist.”

I thought a moment, watching him in the dark. He just stood there with a small parcel under his arm.

“So what happened that night in number four?” I asked.

“What do you suppose?” he said. “We had a roll, and that was it. Jolly good one, too. If you’re game sometime, I’d be happy to show you how it’s done.”

“That’s it?” I asked, ignoring his remark.

“How was I to know Prakash would show up afterward and kill her?”

“Do you know that for sure?”

He didn’t answer.

“So he’s blackmailing you?” I asked.

I thought he fidgeted, but I couldn’t be sure in the dark. “Do you want the money or don’t you?”

“You’re a coward,” I said. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. Including the beautiful young girl who loved you.”

“You paint such a wretched picture of me. I loved her, you know. I never dreamed any harm would come to her.” He stopped short, perhaps because he was afraid to say too much. Then he began again. “It was Prakash who dragged her into this. God, I nearly died myself when I heard he’d killed her.”

“Who visited her after you that night?”

“Well,
Sardarji
, for one—Prakash. And after him, I don’t know. When I left her room, she was alone and preparing to leave.”

“What time was that?” I asked, hoping perhaps to catch him in a lie.

“About eleven, a few minutes past. I’m not sure. I felt vile as it was, sneaking around, cheating on my wife, leading on a wonderful girl like Jordan. But I couldn’t easily resist her, you know. She was a jewel—warm, sincere, loving. And as a man, I can tell you she was a champion in bed. Raw spirit and physicality.”

“She was in love with you,” I said to accuse.

“As was I with her! I was powerless to resist her, don’t you see?”

“Powerless but not impotent.”

“For God’s sake, just take the money, Miss Stone. I didn’t kill Jordan, and if you persist, you’ll only ruin my marriage. Diana is ready to leave me as it is, and she’ll take my son with her. She’s had it with police and reporters calling. She’s only stood by me this long for our son.”

“Roy’s in town,” I said. “Why don’t you offer him the five hundred dollars in addition to the good notices in his academic file?”

Jerrold perked up at the mention of Roy’s name. “You’ve seen him?” he asked. “Prakash is here?”

“He’s been following me for a couple of days. I’m fairly certain he’s the one who ransacked my apartment and cut the brakes on my car.”

“Following you?” he stammered. “Good God, he may have followed you here! He’ll kill us both.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here,” I said, afraid he was about to run for the woods.

Jerrold wasn’t listening. He charged for the end of the concrete walkway and the path to the rear of the motel. And I remembered his car: the cream-colored Bonneville, not the Jaguar. It was the only car I hadn’t checked for oil leaks. It had to be the one.

Jerrold was a pathetic coward, incapable of any decisive action, let alone murder. But I sensed that the car he was running to was the one that had leaked the oil. As I chased after him through the bushes, an image flashed through my head: Diana Jerrold cracking Jordan’s neck in a jealous fit. I saw it well. The deranged wife, driven to a blind rage against the girl who threatened to destroy her family by stealing her man, the father of her child. It seemed perfect. She had learned of the tryst, raced to New Holland for the confrontation, then killed her once her husband had pulled up his trousers and slithered away.

Jerrold scrambled through the brittle sprigs of the thicket, and I followed close behind. Breaking into the clearing, he made a dash for the car, parked next to the trash enclosure, where I had first spied Jean Trent’s green Pontiac woody. I called to him to wait, but he had tucked back both ears and wasn’t about to stop. He gunned the engine and threw the car into reverse just as I reached him. Holding onto the door, I appealed to him to stop, but once he’d wheeled the Bonneville around, he was gone. I let go and watched the tail lights recede down the dark back road.

“Damn!” I said, though not too disappointed. If there was oil in the dirt, Diana Jerrold would be easy to find.

I hurried back to the trash enclosure and bent down where Jerrold’s car had been, my fingers almost too impatient to strike the match. One, two strokes, then a spark. The match flared, and I could see the colors of the ground. I inspected the dirt with my light until it burned my fingers. A second and third match yielded no better results. There was nothing but dirt.

I shuffled back to my car on the other side of the motel, dejected, pondering the baffling absence of oil drops. It had been folly to think Diana Jerrold had murdered Jordan Shaw; I doubted she had the requisite strength to snap a neck, and, besides, no one had mentioned a woman in Jordan’s room that night.

By the time I’d reached the registration office, I was laughing at myself. After nearly two weeks of snooping, bumps, and bruises, I was losing my good sense. Diana Jerrold, murderess? If so, how did Ginny figure into the equation? I had been hoping for a simple way out before 9:00 a.m. Friday morning, when I’d have to give up my self-esteem or my job. I shook the last of the ridiculous notion from my head and drew a restorative breath of resolve.

The tension of the meeting with Jerrold and the exertion of the chase had left me a little dizzy. My headache throbbed less with every passing hour, but my pounding heart intensified the pain. I wanted a cool drink. I fished through my purse for some change, and produced a quarter. Reaching to deposit the money in the Dr Pepper machine, I noticed the little, illuminated message next to the coin slot:
EXACT CHANGE ONLY
. Fine by me; I could spare a dime. I dropped the coin in and pulled out an ice-cold bottle. But then I stopped. Strange that the machine had no change; I myself had pumped six nickels into it that very afternoon. And Don Czerulniak had deposited three as well on Monday morning. Jean Trent had said that the man from Gloversville came down every Thursday to collect the empties and cash from the soda machine. Maybe the indicator was broken.

I took a healthy gulp of Dr Pepper, wiped my lips in the cold air, then pulled the motel keys from my purse. I examined them in the night, thinking what a dullard Pat Halvey was to have left them with me. He probably hadn’t even realized they were missing yet. I took another sip, then figured I might as well make use of the keys while I had them. The crime-scene seal would have to be broken, but I reasoned that I had tacit permission, since Frank had told Halvey to give me the keys.

The registration office was cold and dark. The lights worked when I flicked the switch, but there had been no heat since Jean Trent’s arrest. I looked around the room, unsure where to start, wondering if it would do any good anyhow; the sheriff and his men had been through the office at least a dozen times since the murder. And then there was the burglary.

I stepped behind the registration desk and flipped through some bills Jean had impaled on a spindle: Niagara-Mohawk, Bell Telephone, Kyber’s Heating Oil, laundry, and a monthly statement of deliveries from Chicken-Lickin’. I moved on, sliding open the center drawer under the counter. Pencils; preprinted bills and carbon paper; three rubber stamps:
PAID
,
AMOUNT DUE
, and
RECEIVED OF
; paper clips and cellophane tape; and a ring of twelve keys, each of which was clearly marked with a black number on white adhesive tape. The brass keys were nearly identical, aside from the indistinguishable variations in their cut. They opened the ten guest rooms and the office’s front door.

The twelfth key was the odd one. Unlike its sisters, it bore no number. But I never would have given it a second look if it hadn’t been a different color and shape altogether. I closed my fingers around the unmatched key and lifted it from the drawer. A long, silver key, unlike any I’d ever seen—except one. Julio had been carrying a twin key that morning.

I lowered my head in concentration, trying to imagine a hole for the key. I stepped outside and stood facing the door, my eyes scanning the face of the building, looking for another keyhole. There was nothing but cinderblock, the phone, and the damn Dr Pepper machine.

The Dr Pepper machine.

I took a step to my left and considered the glowing hunk of metal and glass. There, on the right, about halfway down the side, was a small, round, silver keyhole. My heart climbed over two ribs, hoisted itself over my collar bone, and lodged itself in my throat. I’d found Julio’s hiding spot.

Once I’d opened the refrigerated machine, it didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. Nestled out of view in one of the structural cavities of the steel, a black, metallic cylinder rested against the cold walls: Kodak Tri-X, thirty-six exposures.