The chuckling fingers (20 page)

He was blushing when I looked up from that philosophizing, a red so dark it was almost mahogany. “I was just trying to work things out in my mind. I work with the crews in our business. I get to know things—men—pretty well.”

My mind slipped from what he was saying to Phillips Heaton at the table on the day I’d come. “For what we are about to receive we thank Thee, Lord Heaton.” I saw Bill at the head of that table, strong, almost arrogant, confident with the confidence he had because what he was he’d made himself.

I said, “Phillips was talking about his life when he was small. The President visited his grandfather. Now he’s nothing.

“Now he’s a bum. His grandfather wasted most of the money he took out of this country, and his father was a heel, a charming heel with a little money. Phillips is a heel without any money, soaking Myra for what she has.”

“If only he didn’t have that alibi—”

“You can hear for yourself. This is where he got that alibi, you know.” Jean got up from the booth to walk toward the bar at the front. When he came back he was accompanied with a short, dark man who carried hairy arms thrust under a dirty white apron tied around his middle.

“Miss Gay, this is Joe Hanson.”

“I guess you want to hear about where Phillips Heaton was the night Bill Heaton’s kid got shot.” No need to ask Joe Hanson questions. “Well, it’s like this. The Fourth of July night—it’s a big night, ain’t it? Here like in any tavern. My place is full up. But I notice that Phillips Heaton. He sits in a booth right across from the bar. He’s got a girl with him—a Grand Marais kid—one girl, and he’s in a booth holds four. He won’t let nobody in that there booth with him—it don’t mind who it is—it don’t mind how crowded we get. All he buys is a few beers. That ain’t the money I ought to get out of a booth on Fourth of July night!”

“Couldn’t he have gone out an hour or so that you wouldn’t see?”

Joe Hanson took the hands out from under the apron to rest them against the edge of the table and lean on them.

“Lady, I don’t like Phillips Heaton. I’d just as leave see him fry, only they don’t fry in this state. All I got to say is he wasn’t gone from that booth only maybe five minutes to the washroom until three in the morning. I wish it wasn’t the truth, but it’s the truth.”

Doleful but decisive—there could be no doubt Joe Hanson thought he was telling the truth.

“Thanks, Joe, thanks for your trouble,” Jean told him.

“Oh, no trouble,” Hanson assured him. “I told this thing once, I told it fifty times. You, Aakonen, Owens, reporters, guys—” He went back toward his bar shaking his head sadly.

“Bill Heaton too,” he said. “A swell guy like Bill Heaton this had to happen to.”

“Rock bottom,” Jean said. “So because Phillips is a heel doesn’t make him a murderer.”

“Everyone agrees about Bill,” I said. “What is it about him? He’s charming. He knows what he wants and gets it. But he can be—”

Jean looked down at the backs of his hands on the table. “Bill’s a giant in the earth.”

Queerly I felt embarrassed, as if I’d looked at something I shouldn’t see; the love one man can have for another is something no woman should ever look at.

I said quickly, “So we have nothing against Phillips except that he has a motive—he hated Bill. And he knew where the cape was.”

The next page read, “4. Myra. Same reasons as Phillips? She’s seemed friendly with Bill though. Terribly fond of Jacqueline and nuts about Toby. I can’t see her doing Jacqueline this deliberate dirt. And I don’t see where she’d gain any.”

He supplemented, “If Jacqueline got the money she’d make Myra’s life easy, but Myra wouldn’t care for things secondhand. Anyway, she’s not hard up—she just got a good big chunk of dough for Faraway. I think Phillips had long ago signed away his share, but the two women hadn’t.”

“Oh, Myra’s impossible,” I agreed. “I’m so close to her—I could feel it if she were the one, and she isn’t.” Then another thought struck me; quickly I turned back to the list Jean had made.

“You left out one person. Octavia.”

“Uh.” A small grunt of exasperation. “I have the toughest time remembering Octavia exists.” In pencil he made an addition after Myra’s name.

“4 ½ . Octavia.”

He frowned over it. “Can you imagine Octavia setting out with a gun?’”

I hadn’t done much thinking about Octavia but I tried to then.

“I don’t know much about hide-in-a-corner people. Is it just sensitiveness about her birthmark or is it something else? If we’re looking for queerness we’ve got it in Octavia.”

He still frowned. “I suppose Octavia is an example of some kind of decadence, but, anyway, we can’t get past that business of her alibi for Fred’s death. That morning I was searching the upstairs—Saturday morning—I had a look at the doors. They fit tight to the door sills and the frames. I don’t see how anyone could have worked any key tricks.”

“I saw Myra lock that door, but if Octavia was already outside—”

“Don’t forget Myra swears she unlocked that door in the morning and that Octavia was then
inside
the room. The only way you can break that alibi is by proving that Myra is lying.”

“Myra’d do a lot to shield Octavia.”

“This would make her an accessory after the fact.”

“She couldn’t have stuck to it after Bill was shot.” I had to agree but I still brooded over that alibi. “Someone had an alibi for those tricks that were done in Bermuda too. Anyone clever enough to have figured those out might have been clever enough to handle that locked door.”

“You figure it out.”

I said slowly, “Before Jacqueline and Toby, Octavia must have had all Myra’s attention. Now she has just a little.”

“You forget about Pat. Myra was wrapped up in Pat just as hard as she is in Toby. Octavia was never the only one.”

I was still trying to see into that hidden life. “I wonder what her mind is like inside. Myra’s doing things for other people all the time—seeing they get fed, keeping the house going, looking after Toby—there was never anything she wouldn’t do for Toby, from changing messy diapers to standing by the hour ironing ruffly dresses. I’ve never seen Octavia do anything but scuttle and sit—how can anyone be so idle?”

“It’s a way of getting out of life. She’s doing the same thing now, hiding in bed.”

I had the feeling there was more I ought to get, but Jean was impatient.

“No, I can’t imagine Octavia pulling herself out of her beautiful oblivion to do anything, much less murder. Go on.”

A little reluctantly I obeyed. “5. Jean Nobbelin,” the next page read. “Bill’s partner. Fred might have been a possible later rival if he’d been good at the business. Then there’s the jealousy-over-Jacqueline motive that Phillips so kindly brought up. Bill and I have had a lot of public arguments. If Bill dies now I’ll have to take over the business alone. I think Bill is the king of the earth, but who else knows it?”

Remembering that incident in the barn made me draw back; I’d almost forgotten it. I said, “It must be fun, thinking up motives for yourself.”

“This is for your benefit and to show me where I stand.”

“I heard you arguing with Bill the night of the Fourth. I thought you were friendly. You and Bill always did things together, but Bill was always first, you second.”

He was steady under fire. “You think the second might want to be first. Anything else?”

“You sent me that note suggesting I come here.”

“Think Jacqueline hasn’t needed the support?”

“Did you know she was going to need it?”

He snorted. “Didn’t she need it even then?”

“You didn’t want it known that you’d sent me that note.”

“Can you imagine how Bill would like knowing I’d interfered in his affairs?”

I could see his point there. Slowly I turned the next page.

“6. Bradley Auden. Brad’s known Bill since he was a pup. They’ve racketed around. Brad’s got only Auden, might be jealous. Brad owes Bill some dough but certainly hasn’t been pressed for it. Can’t see anything else. Poor suspect.”

“It’s always the least likely person who does murder.”

“7. Cecile Granat. Her running away puts her in the spotlight. She’s known Bill for years. Some private business dealing with him; comes to see him in the office. Funny attitude on Bill’s part—knows what she is but, as far as I can make out, sort of paternal. Lead here—find out what relationship is.”

“Well.”

The dark eyebrows pulled together. “No, I mean that. There’s something about Bill and Cecile I don’t get.”

“That may not be so difficult,” I said grimly. “Apparently Aakonen didn’t get anything out of her about running away or about what she was doing that day we caught her in the woods.”

“Um. It was too bad we forgot to tell Aakonen about that woods incident for such a long time. Anything else we haven’t told him?”

“I told him about the pepper in my face powder—”

“Must have been done to keep you busy while Bill was being shot. Nice stuff.”

“And I told him about the messages in the travel folders—”

I sat up. “Those travel folders! They aren’t on my dresser any more!”

He exclaimed with exasperation and despair, “Of course not! They’ll be safely burned by this time.” He sat silent a moment, looking at his hands. “When you sit off like this and look at the whole thing—it’s paralyzing, isn’t it? So intricate. All that scheming, all the tricks, and hardly a sign. So successful, and we’re so unsuccessful. It makes you feel it’s useless to pit yourself against it.” But then he shook himself, fighting the depression off, leaning forward to talk rapidly.

“Right now we may have a chance. For the first time the murderer wasn’t successful. Don’t you see? Bill didn’t die— he’s still alive. If he keeps alive that’s a failure for the murderer. It must break up his plans.”

I said, swept up in hope, “Bill’s talking now—not conscious but he may be. If he could tell who the murderer was—”

Jean was not so sanguine. “We can’t count on that. If the murderer wore the cape—” His shoulders lifted. “No, we’ve got something but we can’t overbid it. Bill alive means the murderer must be in a tight place. We can just hope he’ll do something desperate to get out and be caught.”

“But that means—every minute the murderer must be wanting to—”

“What do you think Aakonen’s guards in that hospital mean?”

“I know, but suppose that isn’t enough? Maybe the only important thing is to guard Bill.”

He said slowly, “No, I think we can leave that to Aakonen. He may not be getting much of anywhere with the investigation but he’s guarding Bill, all right. What else could we do?”

I thought of the guard at Bill’s door, the guard under the window, the flowers and the food thrown out, Aakonen watching Jacqueline like a hawk at Bill’s bedside. No, that seemed taken care of. Bill was guarded, but …

I started rising. “Jacqueline. How do I know she isn’t next on the murderer’s list? She isn’t getting out of my sight again!”

He reached across the table to pull me down. “You forget,” he said. “The murderer had a chance to kill Jacqueline and didn’t. She was alone with Bill for quite a while before you ran out. According to her own story, the murderer was right there behind the Fingers. If she’d been on the murderer’s list she’d have been killed then.”

I could only stare at him.

“No,” he said evenly. “Don’t you see? The murderer is so anxious to have Jacqueline stay alive that he was even willing to risk Bill’s survival rather than shoot her so he could make sure of Bill.”

Still I stared.

“Don’t you see?” he repeated. “That’s the plan. Jacqueline isn’t to be murdered. She’s to be the murderer.”

* * *

I did pull myself together after a while. Enough to finish the list.

“8. Ella Corvo,” the next page read. “With Ed out of the picture, Ella is a weak suspect. Question—Could Ed have killed Fred, then Ella have gone after Bill? Bit complicated. Fred did lame the nephew, but all they have against Bill that I know is that he wouldn’t turn that trust fund into cash.”

“Ed Corvo waited for Bill to say he should go ahead before he even called the sheriff about his boat.”

“Yeh—that’s where I put Ed too.”

“9. Lottie. Unless she’s crazy, poor suspect. Might have hated Bill because she served him, but, then, why didn’t she pick on Myra? Anyway, most people jump to wait on Bill.”

I, too, thought Lottie unimportant.

“10 and 11. Mark and Carol. I know Mark. He’s a good kid. No murder in him. Same for Carol, I’d say.”

“Sudden rush to the head?” I asked, and the responsive color flooded up.

“They’re kids. It’s like suspecting Toby.”

“They’re a good deal older than Toby. Mark did fight with Fred. He worked for Bill—are you sure there wasn’t any trouble? And Carol’s rush to say that Mark was at Auden until half-past nine the night Bill was shot—that didn’t sound any too solid to me.”

“Look,” he said impatiently. “Whoever is doing this shooting is pretty good at the devil’s work. Those kids still trail their clouds of glory.”

“He reads Wordsworth!”

Another wave of color came up before the last had had a chance to recede. He pulled out his handkerchief to mop the back of his neck.

What I said next isn’t important; it was as if my mind couldn’t stand the pressure to which I’d subjected it and wanted to escape into badinage. He could defend himself. I heard myself laughing, forgetting, and then with shock and self-reproach remembering.

* * *

We had two leads, Jean decided—two that might lead to others. See Bradley Auden about the feuds and grudges in the Heaton family. Try to find out where Cecile came in.

We went back after that to the hospital where Jacqueline was waiting in one of the cubbyhole’s mission oak chairs.

Now that I’d seen Bill I could see how much more sharply her face, too, showed the modeling of her bones, how darkly the shadows lay above the cheekbones, how strained the corners of her lovely full mouth were. But she could smile at us briefly.

“Thanks for the coffee. Bill became quiet, and I was sent out.”

But even as she said it quick footsteps ran.