The Girl at the End of the Line (20 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl at the End of the Line
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Nell had stopped eating. She looked at Molly, then at the sheriff, then back again, clearly unhappy to see her sister so upset.
“All right, all right,” said Glickman. “Calm down. I guess I can send a picture of Jimmy to that detective you spoke to in North Carolina … what was his name again?”
“Sergeant Arlo Couvertie,” said Molly.
“Sergeant Arlo Couvertie,” repeated Glickman, jotting down the name. “We'll see if one of the people who saw this red-haired man at the nursing home can identify Jimmy.”
Nell rose from her place and collected the dishes and went to rinse them off in the sink.
“Actually that's a problem,” said Molly. “No one at the nursing home remembers seeing the red-haired man.”
“Wait a second,” said Glickman, ruffling through the chicken scratches in his notebook. “Didn't you say that's how you learned in the first place that a red-haired man with a mustache was your grandmother's last visitor? From the receptionist at the nursing home?”
“That's what happened,” said Molly, “but then later when the police asked her, she didn't remember seeing him or telling us.”
Glickman rolled his eyes.
“What about the bombing of your house? Were there any witnesses to that? Do the police have any physical evidence?”
“Not really,” Molly admitted. “They can't prove it wasn't an accident. But you said Jimmy Gale was in the army. Wouldn't he have learned all about explosives and booby traps there?”
“I'm getting a headache,” said Glickman, massaging the bridge of his nose. “God is finally punishing me for not going into medicine.”
“Talk to Sergeant Couvertie.”
“I'll do that, Miss O'Hara. I'll even go by and talk to Jimmy. But now I want you to answer some questions for me.”
“Like what?” said Molly.
“Like where were you the week of July fourteenth?”
“I … we were mostly at our antique shop, I suppose. In North Carolina.”
“Can anyone corroborate that you didn't leave town that week?” Glickman asked.
“I don't know. We lived by ourselves and didn't exactly have a big social circle in Pelletreau. Why?”
“That was the week that the plane carrying Dora Gale's guests went down.”
Molly involuntarily put her hand to her chest.
“You couldn't possibly think that we …”
“Please, Miss O'Hara,” said Glickman, shaking his head. “I've spent the last month smack in the middle of a federal investigation. I thought it was winding down, but you can bet that if Troutwig contacted me, he's also talked with the federal boys.”
“So what?” said Molly, crossing her arms in front of her. “Aren't they the ones who are saying the plane crash was an accident?”
“The case isn't officially closed yet,” said Glickman. “And you can't imagine what pains in the ass the FBI can be if you don't have the answers they want to hear. Now, I'd like to know what made you decide to come to Gale Island just now.”
“I told you,” said Molly, wondering why she was the one who had to defend herself. “Somebody blew up our house and killed our grandmother. A man with red hair and a mustache. There was nothing left for us in Pelletreau and we were frightened. We wanted to make a new start somewhere, and we had just learned about the Gales.”
“Just learned about them?”
Molly tried to explain.
“You mean,” Glickman said finally, “that all these years you knew nothing about Dora Gale, nothing about Gale Island? It's pure coincidence that you just happened to show up now, just in time to inherit millions? Is that one of those coincidences that we law enforcement professionals aren't supposed to believe in?”
Nell returned from having done the dishes. Glickman flashed a weary grin.
“Listen, Miss O'Hara. Henry Troutwig's a schmuck, but I've got to do my job, you know? And let me tell you right now, the fact that I like you more than I like Jimmy doesn't mean that I'm automatically going to believe your version of things—even if I thought that there was anything sinister going on here, which I don't.”
There was noise from the doorway. The three of them looked over simultaneously in time to see Russell Bowslater come in. Dora's bald potbellied son wasn't wearing plaid pants this morning, but his silk shirt was striped with practically every color of the rainbow.
“Oh, hi,” he said, startled. “Didn't mean to interrupt anything. Just thought I'd make a little icebox raid—didn't get much breakfast. Prin's day off.”
“You're Mr. Bowslater, right?” asked Glickman, rising to his feet. He was even taller than Molly had imagined and looked like a giant standing there beside her.
“Yes. And you are … ?”
“Glickman. New Melford sheriff. We talked after the funerals.”
“That's right,” said Russell with a big smile. “Nice to see you again, Officer. Morning, girls.”
“Hi,” said Molly for both of them.
“Mama said for you and your sister to make yourselves at
home,” said Russell, crossing to the refrigerator and opening the door. “She's sorry she wasn't here when you woke up. She had to visit with this sick lady over in Newbyville, didn't have the heart to postpone it. Mama's an absolute nut about her charities. I'm going back in a hour or so to pick her up. You two can come along if you like.”
“Thanks, Russell,” said Molly. “Do you know if Jimmy Gale has been out of town recently?”
Glickman shot her an irritated look.
“Yeah, he has,” answered Russell, too busy exploring the refrigerator to notice the exchange. “A couple weeks ago. He was gone five or six days I think. Said he was going hunting down South.”
“Interesting coincidence,” said Molly, firing a meaningful glance back at Glickman. Russell emerged from behind the refrigerator door with a piece of pie and a carton of cranberry juice.
“I talked to Jimmy on the phone right after he got back but haven't seen him since,” he said. “In fact, Mama's been a mite worried about him, now that you mention it.”
“Worried?” said Glickman. “Why worried?”
“Oh, we had this family dinner last night and Jimmy didn't show up. She had called yesterday to remind him. She called again today to see if he was okay. There was no answer either time, but when we drove by his place this morning his truck was in the driveway and all the lights in the house were lit up. Mama wanted to stop in and see if he was okay right then, but we were running late.”
“Maybe I'll pay him a little visit,” said Glickman.
“He's probably dead drunk on the floor, like he was after the funerals,” said Russell, his mouth full of pie. “I had to go pick him up out of a puddle of his own vomit. Said he was celebrating. He does that a lot.”
“I know, believe me,” said Glickman, opening his little notebook. “Did you say he lives around here? We usually only meet in places with liquor licenses.”
“He's just down the road,” said Russell. “It's the only house on the way down the hill, you can't miss it. Say, would you mind if I came with you? I should probably try to get him sobered up. I know Mama's going to insist we pay him a visit when I pick her up later. I don't want her to have to see him like that.”
“I'd like to come, too,” said Molly.
“Miss O'Hara …” Glickman began in a stern voice, then just shook his head. “Oh, hell. I guess it doesn't matter. We can't put him in a lineup with what we've got.”
“Lineup?” said Russell. “My cousin in trouble again, Sheriff?”
“No, no,” said the sheriff. “I just want to talk with him, that's all. Introduce him to Miss O'Hara, here.”
“Well, you'll certainly meet the real Jimmy,” Russell said to Molly, chuckling. “Though I don't know why you'd want to.”
Finishing up the remains of his pie, Russell led the way through the door at the rear of the kitchen and back around to the front of the castle. Glickman's four-wheel drive was parked in the circular parking area, alongside Molly's rented car.
Nell seemed pleased to be in a police cruiser. Molly tried to keep from looking as frightened as she felt. She'd have to meet Jimmy Gale sooner or later. Best to do so with a sheriff at her side and Russell there as a witness.
A plan had already formed in Molly's mind. It wasn't brilliant, she knew, but it was certainly better than running away again and spending the rest of her life always looking back over her shoulder, worrying that Jimmy Gale would find them.
She'd confront Jimmy face on. She'd let him know in no uncertain terms that they were all on to him, that everyone knew what he had done in Pelletreau, that if anything happened to her
and Nell he would be the only suspect. It might not stop him, but at least it would slow him down, give him something to worry about. And in the meanwhile, Molly could find proof somehow of what he had done.
The road curled back down the mountain. After no more than a few minutes they came to a hidden drive—Molly hadn't even noticed it when she had driven up to Gale Castle yesterday. The house and Jimmy's car were visible from the road, but just barely. They had to drive in and get past a tall stand of firs before Molly noticed that there were lights on inside the house as Russell had said.
Sheriff Glickman pulled his vehicle up behind Jimmy's truck. Then they all got out and walked up the slate walk to the house, a stone cottage with blue-painted trim that would have been charming had it been better kept. Paint was peeling everywhere. The small lawn in front was overgrown.
“Guess not much of the Gale fortune stuck to Jimmy,” said Glickman, pressing the doorbell.
“Yeah,” said Russell. “He went through his father's money years ago. Not that Barnaby had much to begin with—Atherton pretty much kept everything for himself. It'll be a different story when Mama dies, though. It'll take Jimmy quite a while to go through that.”
Glickman pressed the doorbell again. From outside they could hear it ring, but no one appeared. Molly thought she could hear the faint sounds of a television coming from inside. Russell knocked on the door with the heel of his fist and tried the handle. It was locked.
“That stupid son of a bitch,” said Russell. “This is just what I was afraid of. Another floor full of vomit and me in my good pants. Come on. We'll try the back.”
Clearly irritated, Russell led the way around the house to a
back porch, where a big black gas grill looked to be the only well-maintained thing on the property. The small backyard was strewn with garbage and rusted tools. An old wheelbarrow was piled high with empty beer cans and bourbon bottles.
Russell rapped on the mullioned back door with his knuckle. Through the glass Molly could see a figure sitting at a dinette in the shadows. A small television set was on. Cans of beer and unwashed dishes were littered about the room.
“Jimmy,” shouted Russell. “Open the goddamned door.”
He tried the handle. It turned. The door opened easily. As Russell reached in and flipped on the kitchen overhead light, a foul smell rushed out and assaulted them all.
Molly gasped, then turned and pulled Nell away before she could see inside. A man with red hair and a mustache was seated in a straight-backed chair. Molly was close enough to notice that Jimmy Gale had blue eyes and bad teeth. He also had a neat little hole in the center of his forehead.
“Remember that time Jimmy pulled your arm out of its socket pushing you off the toolshed?” asked Russell Bowslater, munching on a canape.
“One of the high points of my childhood,” said George Gale.
Molly sat with Nell on a divan in the living room across from their two great-uncles, the only people in the room the sisters knew besides Dora and Henry Troutwig. About forty people had come back to Gale Castle after Jimmy Gale's funeral. Most were elderly neighbors from the island who were here out of respect for the Gale matriarch. Even the younger couples were Dora's friends, not Jimmy's. Apparently Jimmy had had no friends. Dora had many.
“What was that, thirty-five years ago?” Russell went on cheerfully, taking a sip of his scotch and soda. “You know, I don't think I ever told you this, George, but after Dora took you to the hospital that day Jimmy sidled up to me and tried to convince me that you had done it to yourself, throwing a punch at him. God, he was a shit—even as a kid.”
“Atherton actually believed that story,” said George in his soft voice.
“That you threw your arm out of the socket trying to punch Jimmy? You're kidding.”
George shook his head.
“When we got home Atherton told me how proud he was of me. He even offered to take me to a Red Sox game in Boston if I could give Jimmy a black eye.”
“I never heard this,” chortled Russell. “Did you do it?”
“Of course not,” said George as they watched Dora finally break free from Henry Troutwig's pompous condolences and make her way across the crowded room. “You know I hate sports.”
“Hello, children,” said Dora Gale upon arrival. “It's such a comfort to have you all here with me.”
Dora looked prim and pretty in her flowered blue dress. At the funeral she had been the picture of cute dignity with her little patent leather purse, white gloves, and a hat that Mamie Eisenhower would have approved of.
“Sit down, Mama,” said Russell, rising and offering his chair. From one moment to the next his jovial good cheer had been replaced with grave earnestness. “It's a sad day, sad day. You look tired.”
“I'm fine,” said Dora. “Oh, there's Zebulon Stanton and his wife. I didn't know they were here—I don't think I've seen him in twenty years, I really must go over and thank them for coming. How are you, Molly, dear? I'm sorry you had to go through all of this, but I don't know how I could have managed without you and Nell.”
Molly nodded. She was glad there had been so much to do. Over the past few days Molly had fielded telephone calls and answered condolence notes from family friends, gone with Dora to see about the cemetery plot, the funeral, and the casket, and had helped
out with the sheriff's questions, the obituary for the New Melford County paper and the arrangements for this obligatory postburial hospitality.
Still, there had been too much time left to think. With Jimmy dead, the O'Hara sisters were now the sole heiresses to the Gale Trust. Molly tried to imagine what it would be like to have millions and millions of dollars, but couldn't. Somehow, the money didn't seem real.
All the people who had died were real enough, however. Their ghosts kept intruding into Molly's mind with a solidity that was frightening: the dead Gales from the family album; Grandma with the pillow on her chest; Taffy smiling wryly and rolling her eyes; Jimmy Gale with the little hole in the center of his forehead.
At least Nell hadn't seen him, sitting there in his chair like that, Molly thought with a shudder. Every time she thought of it the horrible scene from her childhood flashed into Molly's mind—of coming home from the movies to find her mother dead on the floor with a similar wound, and a blank-faced, silent Nell sitting cross-legged by her side.
Oddly enough, in the midst of thoughts about death and the flurry of details that surrounded Jimmy's funeral, the question of who had killed their cousin and for what reason had begun to seem almost irrelevant. A man like Jimmy Gale must have made many enemies after a lifetime of bar fights, Molly told herself. She was ashamed to be relieved at his death.
“Poor old Jimmy,” said Russell with a deep sigh. “It's really a shame he had to die without making anything of his life. So sad.”
“Tragic,” added George with a straight face.
“You know, my dears,” said Dora, addressing them all, “I've seen much of life and death in my time. I know that death is something natural. It is nothing to fear, and I am very close to it. None of us know what exactly we are doing here, but I believe
that every life has importance and its own meaning. I know that James wasn't well-liked, but he, too, was here for a reason.”
“That's because you're a saint, Mama,” said Russell. “An ever-lovin' saint.”
“I just prefer to believe the best about people, Russell,” answered Dora. “Oh, hello, Helen. So nice of you to have come. Will you all please excuse me?”
They murmured assent, and Dora went off with another elderly lady no bigger than she was.
“I hope you're giving her something, George,” said Russell when she was out of earshot.
“Giving her something?”
“You know. Something to calm her down, help her sleep. Mama's keeping up a brave front, but this has got to be a lot harder on her than she lets on.”
“Dora's fine,” said George. “And even if she weren't, you don't start pumping barbiturates into a ninety-three-year-old woman in delicate health.”
“You know I'm on that five-thirty plane tonight,” said Russell, shaking his finger at his stepbrother. “I can't delay going back to Washington any longer. You know Mama's bound to start feeling depressed and lonely pretty soon. You've got to give her something.”
“Molly and Nell will be here with her,” said George. “You are staying awhile, aren't you?”
“I guess,” said Molly uncomfortably. She hadn't given any thought to what they would do next, what they would do for the rest of their lives.
“How about that melatonin stuff?” asked Russell. “Totally natural hormone, knocks you right out with no side effects. I take it myself for jet lag.”
“Are you a doctor, now, Russell?”
“I'm just thinking of Mama. If you don't like melatonin, then how about a good old-fashioned tranquilizer?”
“I told you …”
“Half the people in Congress and a hundred percent of the spouses take something, George. Pharmaceuticals are as American as apple pie. What kind of doctor are you if you don't realize …”
The two of them continued to bicker. As they did so, a subdued Mrs. McCormick came quietly up behind the sofa, bent down, and whispered into Molly's ear.
“Sheriff Glickman wants to talk to you. I've got him parked outside, didn't want him to come in and upset Mrs. Gale again. Can you come out to see him without making a fuss?”
Molly nodded. The only time Dora had broken into tears during the past week was when she came downstairs the day after Jimmy's death and overheard Glickman taking statements from everybody about where they were on Tuesday morning. Apparently Jimmy had been shot sometime before noon on the same day Molly and Nell had arrived at Gale Castle and met their family.
Molly waited until McCormick had disappeared into the crowd, then rose.
“I'll be right back,” she said. “I'm going to get some air.”
Russell and George barely acknowledged her and continued to argue. Nell glanced over quizzically for a moment, then turned her attention to a tray of finger sandwiches being offered around by one of the island girls who had been hired to help out for the day.
It was another cool morning, though the temperature would rise into the eighties by afternoon, Molly knew. The sky looked an unnaturally deep blue against the massive pine trees that stood like a fortress wall around Gale Castle. Sheriff Glickman was leaning back against his four-wheel drive, his arms folded in front of him, his eyes invisible behind sunglasses. As Molly approached he
straightened to his full height, which had to be nearly six and a half feet.
“Morning,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“Good morning,” said Molly.
“Was it a nice funeral?”
“Yes, it was. Dora has a lot of very supportive friends.”
“How's your great-grandmother doing?” asked Glickman.
Molly didn't know who he meant for a moment. She had come to think of Dora as a wise new friend in her life, but of course the sheriff was right. As Atherton Gale's wife, Dora was Molly's great-grandmother—at least by marriage. This was the first time anyone had made the relationship explicit.
“She's fine,” whispered Molly.
“Listen, Miss O'Hara,” he said after a moment, “there have been some developments that I need to discuss with you.”
“Okay,” said Molly and waited.
Glickman removed his hat for a moment, ran a hand through his short gray hair, then put his hat back on. He was obviously uncomfortable about something.
“First off,” he said, “you were right about Jimmy Gale's being in North Carolina. We've now found airline and credit card records of his plane trip down. He arrived in Pelletreau the day before your grandmother's death, rented a car—a white Mercury Sable—and boarded a connecting flight back to Vermont about two hours after your house blew up.”
“I knew it,” said Molly, letting out a deep breath.
“We still have no physical evidence that Jimmy committed any crimes, but circumstances obviously suggest that he could indeed have had something to do with recent events. Unfortunately neither the Pelletreau police nor my department has the resources to spend time building a case against a dead man for what's officially
considered one natural death and two accidental ones. But off the record, Miss O'Hara, I think you were right. The only reason for Jimmy Gale to be down in North Carolina was to do what you thought.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Molly said, wondering why his admission didn't make her feel any better. “I really appreciate that. Thanks for telling me. Thanks for coming.”
“I'm not finished,” said Glickman. He was silent for a moment, then began again.
“You know, I've been working with your Sergeant Arlo Couvertie on this. Pretty nice fellow. He told me the circumstances of your mother's murder.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Molly, stiffening. “I thought you were working on who killed Jimmy.”
“I am,” said Glickman. “It looks like there's a connection.”
“Between my mother and Jimmy? What do you mean? What kind of connection could there be?”
“I'm sorry to have to spring this on you like this, Miss O'Hara,” said the sheriff, slowly and carefully, “but ballistics on the bullet taken from Jimmy's brain indicate that it was fired from the same gun as the bullet that killed your mother.”
“That's impossible.” exclaimed Molly. “My mother was killed seventeen years ago.”
“I know.”
“She didn't even know Jimmy existed,” Molly continued, barely stopping to breathe. “Why would somebody murder her, then wait all this time and kill Jimmy?”
“That's the question,” agreed Glickman. “Do you have any ideas?”
“No. This makes no sense at all.”
Molly's legs suddenly felt like rubber. She sank down onto
one of the stone lions that guarded the driveway, feeling as if she had been punched in the stomach. After only a moment, however, she looked up.
“Wait a second,” she said. “What you're saying is that if you find out who shot Jimmy, you'll also have found the person who murdered my mother.”
“Not necessarily,” answered Glickman.
“Yes, necessarily if they were shot with the same gun.”
“Just because the same weapon was used, Miss O'Hara, doesn't mean it was fired by the same person.”
Molly wondered what had happened to the nice fellow with whom they had had breakfast the other day. In front of her stood a policeman with his arms folded, his face a mask.
“Then what happened?” she asked.
“Sergeant Couvertie proposed one theory. I don't think you'll like it very much.”
Molly stared at him, her jaw tightening. His expression was unreadable.
“Go ahead,” she said when he didn't speak immediately.
“The Pelletreau police believed and still believe,” Glickman began in a neutral, emotionless voice, “that your mother was killed in a random act of violence committed by an intruder unknown to her who panicked and fled. Unfortunately the murder weapon was never recovered. But let's suppose for a moment that someone did find it. Let's suppose the killer dropped the gun at the site, and it was picked up by a little girl who kept it all these years.”

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