The Hamlet Trap (16 page)

She had not seen it, Charlie realized. She had been blind to that intrusive figure. There were sketches of a woman on the couch obviously dying or dead, but that one figure had not been the same. If he had not already seen it in her other book, would he have paid any attention? He could not answer his own question. Constance was idly turning pages in the sketchbook they had looked at earlier. She glanced at the page Ginnie was showing her and nodded.

“That should be very effective. Is that what they call a practical rock?”

“Yes. It's to be about eight feet high, high enough so the actor can actually be seen climbing it…” She talked on, apparently blind to the fact that Constance had placed one of her pencils near her hand.

“Well, these are all so good. You're very talented. I suppose that detective went on about the fact that you're an artist, with fully developed visual memory. It's tempting to think that visual artists must be able to remember everything they've ever seen and reproduce it on demand. I imagine he's still bothered that you didn't see that doorstop in your uncle's office. He might even think you're lying, or something.”

“He wanted to know if I studied acting in school,” Ginnie said in a low voice. “All drama majors have to.”

“I bet he did. I can just imagine him ordering you to remember. ‘Of course you can remember!' Just like my professor ordering our hands to remember.”

Ginnie was staring at Constance now, nodding.

“Start at the beginning of that trip with him and pick up the pencil and tell us about it,” Constance said in her pleasant low voice. Ginnie picked up the pencil without looking at it. Constance slid the sketchbook under her hand, opened to the page with the man's body on the floor. Ginnie apparently did not notice, but as she began to describe her interrogation in detail, her hand began to draw. Charlie exhaled very softly and watched the hand in fascination.

Neither of them interrupted Ginnie as long as her hand kept drawing. When it stopped, Constance laughed and said, “That's enough of that. What a terrible trip that must have been for you.” She reached out and took the sketchbook and casually slipped it into her purse. “Charlie, didn't you say you wanted to ask Ginnie something?”

“As a matter of fact,” he started, searching for something, anything, to ask, “I wondered if Ro objected to your traveling so much?”

“Not really. You can't do theater work in a vacuum. You have to get out and see other theaters, how other people are doing sets, costumes, all that. He travels a lot himself, that's how he knew about Gray. He saw a production of his last year.”

Constance stood up. “Thanks, Ginnie. I know you still have your models to make and we shouldn't keep you any longer. It must be difficult to keep on working right now.”

“Thank God I have work to do,” Ginnie said fervently. “As long as I'm working I don't think, not really think. It's like coming out of a daydream when I realize it's midnight and I've been working for four or five hours.”

“Or a trance?” Constance said. “I've heard artists describe it like that. An altered state of consciousness that is like a trance more than anything else.”

“That's right,” Ginnie said a little self-consciously. “That's how I'd talk about it with another artist, but not usually with outsiders. They think you're crazy if you talk like that.”

Not until they were in the car heading down the hill did Constance ask, “Charlie, did you get a look at the drawing?”

“I sure did,” he said grimly.

Ginnie had finished the sketch. The man was stretched out on the floor, an overturned bottle near his hand, a chair upset at his side. There was a kitchen table with a plate that held cheese, a loaf of bread with a knife stuck in it, a very short candle burning on a second plate. A door was open a few inches behind the figure on the floor. A kitchen sink with a pot or pan in it, an open window behind it, part of a refrigerator… A typical kitchen, except that there was a body on the floor.

NINETEEN

There were two messages
waiting for them when they got back to the inn. The first was from Lieutenant Draker. Charlie returned his call while Constance hung up their coats and put away papers they had left on the table in the sitting room.

“He's coming over in five minutes,” Charlie said. “I don't think he's happy. You want to call Dr. Warnecke?” His was the second call.

She nodded and took his place at the telephone. Jack Warnecke answered at the first ring. “Constance,” he said, and she grinned, “could you and your husband join us this afternoon for cocktails? Sandy, my wife, is so eager to meet you both.”

She accepted his invitation and called him Jack and was smiling broadly when she hung up. At Charlie's raised eyebrow she shrugged and said, “It's called one-upmanship, played among doctors and other professionals all the time. We're due at his place at five.”

“That blows tea again,” he said regretfully. “Maybe Mrs. Shiveley could send up coffee now. I used to hate it when people drank beer or booze in front of me when I was on duty and had to say no and be polite and just watch.”

“Poor baby,” she murmured and called Mrs. Shiveley for coffee.

“You don't understand,” he said indignantly. “Suppose it's ninety-five outside, you're covered with sweat right down to your BVDs and this slob in shorts and a tank top is having a frosty glass of beer.”

“So you arrested him and tossed him in the slammer,” she said, laughing.

“Damn right. Every time.”

The coffee and Lieutenant Draker arrived practically together. Mrs. Shiveley was arranging the cups on their table when Draker knocked on the door. Mrs. Shiveley was angry that he had come upstairs alone, unannounced.

“What do you mean coming in here without permission? This is not a public house, young man. Get out this instant.” She turned to Constance and Charlie. “I'm very sorry. I'll call my husband and the police instantly.”

“I am the police,” Draker said icily.

“Where is your identification?”

He showed her his ID and looked past her to Charlie. “Tell her it's all right. Let's not have a stupid scene.”

“Are you Lieutenant Draker? We're expecting the sheriff's detective, Mrs. Shiveley. Thanks for your concern. You are Draker, I take it?”

“I'm Draker.” His face was flushed a dull red, his eyes nearly closed.

Wired too tight, Charlie thought, and smiled genially at him. “Come on in. We ordered coffee for you. Thanks again, Mrs. Shiveley.”

Her gaze that swept the detective was cold and unapproving. Wordlessly she nodded and left, closed the door softly behind her.

“This isn't your average Howard Johnson motel,” Charlie said comfortably. “She takes good care of her guests. Sit down, won't you. I'm Charlie Meiklejohn, and this is my wife, Constance Leidl. What can we do for you, Lieutenant?”

Before he could respond, Constance asked brightly, “Cream? Sugar? Look, Charlie, she brought some pastries. They're fresh out of the oven!”

“What a wonder she is!” Charlie said with enthusiasm and popped one of the tiny savories into his mouth. “Mmm.”

“She's spoiling us so much, we may never leave,” Constance said to the detective, who was still standing in the center of the room. “Please, sit down. Let's all sit here at the table and try the pastries.”

What the hell had happened? Draker wondered furiously. Charlie Meiklejohn was sitting down, poking at the plate of biscuits; she was pouring coffee as if they were having a party. Angrily he yanked a third chair back and sat in it and knew instantly it was a mistake. If he looked at Constance, he couldn't see Charlie without turning his head. They both gazed at him with good-natured innocence.

“I don't know what you think you're doing here,” he said finally, choosing Charlie as his target. “You're not licensed to practice in Oregon. I checked.” He turned to include Constance in time to see a smile on her face.

“Sorry,” she said. “You just reminded me of a friend of ours. He won't go to a doctor, he says, until they stop practicing and know what they're doing.”

“Try one of these,” Charlie said, pushing the plate toward him. “You know, I think they all have different fillings. That woman is a marvel.”

Draker ignored the plate and said to Constance, “Let me tell you something about Jackson County. It's a conservative county, one. You might not get that impression if you just hang around Ashland here, because it's a university town, and the theater people are from outside for the most part. But when it comes time to impanel a jury, it's county residents who are sitting in the box, and they don't trust fancy New York psychologists and fancy New York detectives, and they sure don't believe in pleas of incompetency. And number two,” he said in a hard voice, “we don't have unsolved crimes hanging over us, and our cases don't drag on for years.”

Now he lifted his coffee cup and drank. They both continued to watch him with interest. He looked from one to the other and added deliberately, “And they tend not to trust the word of women who are sleeping with men they haven't got around to marrying yet.”

Constance nodded. “Should that be number one, Lieutenant? Would they convict her on that alone?”

“You'll claim that she was crazy, not responsible, and I say that she's putting on an act. They'll decide which of us to believe.”

“I can put William Tessler in the theater long enough for him to have done it, and Eric Hendrickson, and Gray Wilmot,” Charlie said lazily. “And probably Roman Cavanaugh.”

“You can try,” Draker said. “But it won't wash with any of them. No motive. And I don't buy coincidence working twice, not with Ellis and then with Laura Steubins.”

“You're absolutely right,” Charlie said. “I don't either. What crime lab do you use?”

“Oregon State. Why?”

“Just wondering. Isn't that Ernie Stedman's show?”

“Now you tell me you used to work with Stedman. Right?”

“Oh, no,” Charlie said very gently. “I taught him. Honey, when did I do that series of workshops in San Francisco? Seven years ago? Eight? It was the same year you gave the keynote address to the international psychologists' meeting in Copenhagen.” He looked at Draker and added, “We went by way of Tokyo. I did a couple of workshops there.”

He was being laughed at, Draker realized with cold rage. This bastard was patronizing him, laughing at him. Abruptly he stood up, almost upsetting his chair. He caught it before it fell and he felt the way he had as a boy in his aunt's house. Aunt Corinne had always made him feel as if his hands were grimy, his hair uncombed, his knees dirty. She never said anything, but it was in her look of patient resignation, as if she were simply biding her time until he grew up, and meanwhile she could bear his presence only by detaching herself from him at a great distance. He could not remember a visit to her house in which he did not spill something, or drop something, break something, stumble, or in some way make a fool of himself. She had never laughed openly, or even smiled, as her two daughters had done again and again, but her eyes had a way of brightening that he had come to dread. He looked at Constance and saw the same kind of bright interest.

“Lieutenant,” she said directly, “Ginnie didn't do either of those murders.”

“That's what you're paid to say,” he snapped, and started for the door. He looked at Charlie. “You just leave my business to me.”

Charlie grinned at him. “You never did actually say what you wanted to see us about, did you?”

Draker felt his stomach muscles tighten in a way that meant heartburn later. “What I came to tell you,” he said harshly, “is that when I call for a grand jury hearing, you're going to be subpoenaed and you have no privileges here. None. You'll either testify and repeat what she's told you, or I'll get you for perjury and or contempt of court.” He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him.

Charlie was regarding the plate of savory pastries and now he nodded. “I bet she keeps them made up in the freezer ready to heat in a microwave on demand. How else could she do them?”

“Oh, Charlie.”

Although the Warnecke apartment had started out identical to Ro's, it was like entering another country—a tropical rain forest, perhaps. Ten-foot-tall orange trees and an avocado tree nearly that tall pressed greenery against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hanging pots with vines dangled from stainless-steel rods suspended from a bar across the end of the living room. A four-foot-long aquarium had been turned into a cactus garden, with brilliant fluorescent lights creating the glare of a desert. Two of the cacti were in bloom with flamboyant red flowers.

Sandra Warnecke was in her middle years and comfortable with herself. She was strongly built without being too heavy, and she had a directness that was engaging.

“I've never met private detectives before,” she said, surveying them both frankly. “And I must say you two don't look the part. Martinis, wine, a straight slug of something? What can I get you?”

“Martini,” Charlie said; Constance nodded.

“But first the birds,” Jack Warnecke said. “Come on, come on. Sandy can do the mixing. They're upstairs, except for Pretty Boy, and he's hiding in the orange tree, sizing you up.”

The birds were free in the room that in Ro's apartment was a second bedroom. Here, part of the balcony and the room had been done over with plants—in buckets, tubs, redwood planters, on glass shelves at the three windows. A macaw screeched at them; two cockatiels twisted their heads eyeing them; a flock of budgies darted from one tree to another in a spray of blues and greens, chattering as they flew and even more when they landed. A bright yellow finch edged along a branch closer and closer and finally flitted to jack's shoulder and pecked at the seam of his jacket.

“Dinwiddie,” he said, and stroked the bird gently with his forefinger.”

“Are they all named?” Constance asked.

“Sure. That's Wallace, and Stan and Ollie over there, and the budgies are Grumpy and Sneezy and so on. I have to confess I can't always tell them apart. Except for Pretty Boy, and he stays in the living room with us. He's the only talker among them, but he tells us everything that's going on.”

Half of the balcony had been enclosed with screening; on it there were perches, a swing, feeding dishes, and water. When they started to leave the room, the budgies followed and crowded close together on perches and the swing, chattering.

“They want a treat for good behavior,” Jack said, grinning. He pulled a small bag from his pocket and emptied it into a feeding dish. Sunflower seeds, raisins, crushed corn. The budgies swarmed to it and began to eat, scolding each other, elbowing each other out of the way, keeping up a constant barrage of chatter. On the other side of the screen another budgie landed on a perch and said very clearly, “Pretty boy, pretty boy. Hello, Jack.”

“I thought that would bring him out of hiding,” Jack said. He opened the door to the cage, letting Pretty Boy in, and left the noisy budgies to their treat. Pretty Boy flew to Jack and landed on his shoulder. It stayed there when they went downstairs again.

“They're wonderful,” Constance said to Sandy, back in the living room.

“They're all his,” she said, looking at Jack with affection. “We had to have an understanding about them the first week. I said I wouldn't feed a damn bunch of birds, clean up after them, or do anything except look at them. He didn't think I meant it, and for a day no one fed them. He gave in. I just look at them.”

“Do they have to be fed every day?” Charlie asked. “We can leave food for our cats for several days. They complain, but that's life.”

“Twice a day,” Jack said. “Water's even more crucial. They have to have fresh water at all times. That's why I made a deal with Ro. He looks after them when we're gone, and I look after him. Fair trade. I asked him to drop in, by the way.”

“We spend Christmas in Honolulu,” Sandy said. “Our daughter lives there. Ro takes us to the airport, complaining bitterly about the rain, of course, and almost as soon as we arrive his postcards start to arrive, too. He mails them before we even leave town, from the airport! Things like, Pretty Boy had babies, or Wallace bit the cleaning woman, or something. He's not fond of the birds, he says, but he buys them grapes and pumpkin seeds. He left a tape for Pretty Boy once and taught him four-letter words. We never know when they'll come popping out.”

“He says if we ever get another mynah bird he'll teach it Hamlet's soliloquy. We had one that died a few years ago. Now that's a real talking bird!”

Pretty Boy landed on the coffee table and Sandy said, “Scat.”

Pretty Boy said, “Damn, damn, damn,” and flew off, back to the orange tree.

“Before Ro gets here,” Charlie said, “I'd like to ask you something, Jack. If you don't want to answer, that's fine. You know why we're here, of course, what our reasons are.” Jack nodded. “About Ginnie. When she came back here after her mother died, how disturbed was she?”

Jack glanced at Sandy. She nodded slightly, stood up, and took Charlie's glass to refill. “I'm not a psychiatrist,” Jack said slowly, “but ‘disturbed' isn't the word I'd use. She was depressed. Maybe severely depressed. She was going through her own puberty crisis, and that made it worse, losing her mother so suddenly. They never had lived in one place more than a year or two, I understand, and she had few real friends, and until she came here and met Ro, she had no other family that she was aware of.”

“Did you advise him to take her on a trip?”

“I don't know. His idea, mine. It seemed a good idea. She was a skinny kid with great saucer eyes and nothing to say to anyone. She hung out at the theater a lot, not saying a word, just there. Something had to be done.”