The Hamlet Trap (9 page)

“To the rescue again,” Charlie murmured.

Mrs. Braden suddenly said, “Lucy never remarried. She was never involved with another man. All those years we were so wrong about her. So wrong. And then I had to become ill, just when we could have met Ginnie, I had to become ill.”

Dr. Braden patted her arm. “Ginnie was back and Louise had to have surgery. We decided to wait until spring and then take a trip to the West Coast, go to Ashland, spend a few weeks getting acquainted with our granddaughter. We planned to go at the end of February, be there for the openings of the new shows of the season.” He took a long breath and let it out slowly. “The lawyer I hired called me yesterday. Early this month a man was killed in the theater. Ginnie was present. They were lovers. And Wednesday a woman was killed and Ginnie was gone all night and won't tell anyone where she was. It seems the man and woman had been seeing each other, having lunch, things like that. The circumstantial evidence, according to the lawyer, is damning enough, he thinks, to justify an arrest. But, of course, she didn't do it.”

“How do you know that?” Constance asked softly. “You've met her, haven't you?”

Mrs. Braden looked at him sharply and slowly she nodded. “Last summer,” she said. “You went back last summer, didn't you?”

“I had to see her,” he said, looking at the fire. “I couldn't put us through all that again until I knew. What if she had turned out to be what we thought Lucy was? What if she was mean, hard, greedy, God knows what? I had to know before I told Louise anything about it. I went back. I didn't tell Ginnie who I was. I watched her, talked to her even. She was kind. You know how it is when you get to be our age? People don't want to be bothered if they don't know you. I can give a presentation, hold an audience of thousands, sign books, do all that, and have a waiter snub me because I'm old.”

His voice was too matter-of-fact, Constance thought; he had learned to hide himself thoroughly. Had he appeared brutally cold to his son? Probably.

“Why didn't you tell me?” his wife asked, not looking at him. “After you met her, why didn't you tell me?”

“You were too ill at first,” he said slowly. “Later… I don't know. I wanted you to meet her for yourself, not spoil that first meeting.”

“You were still punishing me for making you stop the search,” she murmured, examining her hands, rubbing one of the enlarged veins, then another.

“I've never held you responsible,” he said gently.

“What if she actually did it?” Charlie asked coolly then.

“She didn't.” He stretched his legs and shifted in his chair. “If they charge her, she'll need an attorney, naturally, but I don't want her to have to go through any of that. I want you to find out who did those murders and spare that girl any more grief. We owe her that much,” he added in a lower voice. “God knows, we owe her that much.”

“Dr. Braden,” Constance asked then, “why did you come to us? What else is there?”

“You tell me something first,” he said. “How did you know I'd met her?”

“Your expression when you talked about her. You were seeing her in your mind's eye.”

“That's why I want you, too. Phil Stern called you a gifted psychologist; I think you've shown us that his opinion is justified. Ralph Wedekind, he's the lawyer in Ashland, he says they're saying Ginnie's crazy. She needs help, Miss Leidl, your help as well as your husband's.”

“Have you been in touch with your granddaughter?” Charlie asked. “Does she know you're hiring us?”

“No.”

Constance pursed her lips and Charlie went on. “Do you think that's wise, Dr. Braden? Suppose strangers came up to you and started asking questions about your personal life, your activities?”

For the first time he looked uncertain, grieved. “I'm afraid she might refuse our help,” he said faintly. “Please, don't tell her unless it's necessary.”

Charlie glanced at Constance and nodded.

Dr. Braden had brought the correspondence from the lawyer, his report on Ginnie and her uncle. Wedekind would arrange accommodations, he said. He was waiting for a call, anytime. He would meet them at the airport in Medford, drive them to Ashland, brief them, do whatever he could to assist them.

The Bradens prepared to leave shortly after that. As Charlie got their coats, Constance asked, “Why are you doing this, Dr. Braden? Hasn't her uncle always taken care of her? Don't you think he'll take care of her now?”

He helped his wife out of her chair and held her arm carefully until she was steady. “He might,” he said, “but I want it to be us this time. For once I want us, the two of us, to take care of our own.”

“You understand that, don't you?” his wife asked. “After all these years… she's all we have now.”

“Of course I understand,” Constance said, but even as she was saying the words, she wondered if they understood fully, if they were fooling themselves. How hard would they work to eradicate all traces of the trail of guilt they had brought with them from the past?

“Now,” Charlie said after they were gone.

“Now what?”

“Now I'll have another Irish coffee. I'll make them.”

“If I have a drink now, we won't have dinner until ten. And if you have a drink, I have to. I refuse to let you start being a solitary drinker at this stage in your life.”

“What stage is that?”

He started for the kitchen and she followed. “Middle-aged, unemployed, drifting, restless, so bored you're willing to take a very messy case just because it will get you out of the house.”

“Hm.” He measured coffee beans into the grinder, ran water into the kettle, and placed it on the stove. He then rummaged in the cabinet for the Irish whiskey.

“It's on the counter,” she said.

“So you think it's messy,” he commented, taking the bottle to the table.

“Murder's messy by definition. And this one's messier than most because there are too many nasty echoes from the past.”

“He was an arrogant son of a bitch, I bet, ordering his son into medical school, trying to keep him out of that girl's bed, trying to run his life in every way, I bet.”

“He's still an arrogant son of a bitch,” Constance said. “Not telling his wife that he met Ginnie. And coming here with a check already made out. He's just learned to hide it better.” She watched Charlie pour steaming water over the ground coffee in the filter. “Why did you say yes? You hate this kind of thing as much as I do. What if she really did it? He won't thank us, that's for sure.”

Charlie stirred the water and grounds. He thought that made it drip through faster. “You know how long our driveway is?”

She blinked. “Couple of hundred feet. Why?”

“Nope. It's three and a half hours of blowing snow and digging snow. Believe me, I know. I figure a little time in Oregon, which I hear is very nice, then on down to San Francisco, which I know damn well is nice, and from there it's five hours to Hawaii. I want to see a volcano in action. Rivers of fire. Hot sunshine. No snow.”

“Have you also thought of who we can get to come out here this time of year?”

“Sure. Cousin Maud and that dumb ox of a husband of hers. So they'll clean out the freezer and drink everything in the house. Let them. We'll be on a blistering beach sipping mai tais. Ah, it's ready.” He finished making the Irish coffee. They ended up eating cheese and bread in front of the fire, sipping their drinks. Outside, it had started to snow again.

TWELVE

Ralph Wedekind was a
powerful-looking man in his middle years. His face was tanned, weathered; many lines converged at the corners of his eyes. He met Charlie and Constance at the Medford airport and drove them to Ashland. His speech was deliberate, without any affectation or accent that Constance could discern.

“What I'd like to do, if it's okay with you folks, is take you to the inn and let you get registered and settled and then come back in an hour and take you to dinner and talk. Would that suit you?”

“Sounds good,” Charlie said. He wished it had not suddenly turned dark. Coming in to land, he had seen snow on all the mountains and had felt doomed, trapped wherever he went by winter. The road was clear, but he knew that could be misleading. Snow could be lurking in every shadow, in banks along the secondary roads.

The inn turned out to be a private mansion that had been converted to a bed-and-breakfast hotel. It was spacious and very beautiful, Victorian, impeccably maintained. A broad curving staircase led to their two rooms on the second floor. When Constance looked at Ralph in surprise, he shrugged.

“Dr. Braden said two rooms in the nicest place we have to offer. This is it. Oh, here are car keys. I had a rental car delivered. It's in the driveway. A Buick.”

Then he told them he would be back in an hour and left. Mrs. Shiveley, one of the owners, led them upstairs.

“Please, don't bother with the bags,” she said pleasantly. “We'll have them brought up in a few minutes.” She was plump with greenish eyes and auburn hair in a single braid halfway down her back. She, too, looked as if she spent a lot of time outdoors.

“When you wake up, ring for coffee,” she said. “We'll bring it right away, and breakfast about half an hour afterward, unless you prefer to set a time. We'll serve breakfast in the sitting room. Lunch and dinner are available, but we have to know ahead of time, an hour at least. All right?”

“Fine,” Constance said, feeling almost dazed by the treatment Dr. Braden was providing.

Mrs. Shiveley opened the door to their sitting room and ushered them inside. The room was spacious, with wide windows on two sides. The furniture was antique, the rug a Kerman. The bedroom was equally large and well furnished. In the sitting room a bar had been arranged with a bottle of bourbon, an ice bucket, and several glasses. Mrs. Shiveley opened a door on a chest to show them various mixers and several bottles of wine. “If there's anything at all we can do to make your stay more comfortable,” she said, “please let us know. Coffee is available from six-thirty in the morning until midnight from the kitchen. If you would like it, we can bring a coffee maker and coffee things up for you to use. And there usually are snacks in the kitchen. Sometimes, if we know our guests will be here in the afternoon, we serve tea, but not unless we know ahead of time.” She cast an experienced glance over the room, smiled at them, and left.

“Well,” Charlie said, pleased, and headed for the bottle on the table. Constance went back to the bedroom and saw that while they had been in the other room someone had brought up their bags. She was as delighted with the house as Charlie.

“Like it?” Ralph asked when he picked them up later. He was grinning.

“Are you kidding? I may never leave,” Charlie said.

“When I told Dr. Braden how much it cost, he didn't even hesitate. He wants you to be comfortable.”

The drive to the restaurant was short, mostly uphill. Their table was at a window overlooking the town. It was like a postcard vista.

Ralph called their waiter by his first name, and was called by his. “He's my leader on the rescue team,” he said after they had ordered. “Ski rescue,” he added. “Do you ski?”

“Some,” Constance said. “But probably not on this trip.”

“Definitely not on this trip,” Charlie said.

Drinks were served and then Ralph said, “Dr. Braden called me last night about the problem of keeping him and his wife out of this. We decided to let me be the one to hire you. You can refer any questions back to me and I'll stonewall as long as I can. If Draker makes noise, I may have to tell. He's the detective on the case out of the sheriff's office.”

“Do you know Virginia Braden?” Constance asked. “If she asks you who's paying the bill, then what?”

“Everyone knows everyone in a town like this,” Ralph said, glancing around the restaurant. He had nodded to several people as they entered. “I've known Ginnie these last five years, and I knew who she was before she went away to school. I know her uncle much better, of course. We're in several of the same organizations, end up at the same civic-affairs meetings, the same parties. It's a very small town.” He had touched his martini to his lips briefly, put it down again, and now moved the glass back and forth an inch or so, obviously not interested in the contents.

“I talked to Ginnie today,” he said. “I asked her if she would back me up if I just said I was having someone look into this mess on her behalf. She wanted to know who was paying the bill, naturally, but she accepted that I was not free to tell her. She's not stupid, by the way. She knows she's in trouble.”

“How much trouble?” Charlie asked.

“It's bad. You want it now, not after dinner?” Constance and Charlie both nodded. Ralph sipped his martini as sparingly as before. “Okay. The first one, Peter Ellis. He and Ginnie were friends, casual lovers, I think. They were planning to go away for a few days, but she had to deliver sketches at the theater first. They went that night. She waited in the car while he took them inside. He used her key to get in. She watched him unlock the door, then turned off the headlights and didn't see anything else. When she got tired of waiting, she went in and found his body. His head had been smashed with a bronze doorstop. No prints on it. Just smudges. That's her story.

“There's a watchman, Spotty. He got there around eight, as he usually does. He's not due until ten, but he spends his nights there and likes to watch television in the evening. He looked around when he arrived, checked the doors in the shop out back, then in the theater. Everything was locked up. He went to his room and made coffee, turned on the television. He heard Ginnie scream at nine-eighteen. He looked at his clock when he heard her. He found her in the hallway outside the office where the body was. She was trying to pull the door closed and the doorstop was in the way. She was in severe shock. She has no memory of leaving the office, of seeing the doorstop, or trying to close the door.”

Their waiter brought salads and bread and they were all silent until he left again.

“The theory was that a burglar got in somehow and Ellis surprised him. It was as plausible as anything, I guess. More plausible than believing Ginnie did it. There was another possibility, though. Ellis was wearing the raincoat of the new director that night. It was raining pretty hard and he slipped it over his head, covered the portfolio. Ginnie had given the director a ride a day or two before and he left his coat in her car. Ro raised the possibility that the killer thought it was Gray Wilmot. The coat is black, the only one just like it I've seen around here.”

Charlie cut the bread and they all began to eat their salad. In a few minutes Ralph went on.

“Ginnie was in a really bad state for the next week or longer. Not talking, not eating much, I don't know. Not there, is how someone put it. You know what I mean?”

“Sounds like severe depression,” Constance said. “Not emotional depression, clinical.”

He nodded. “I guess. Anyway, she was just beginning to show signs of life again when Laura Steubins was killed. And this one is harder because Ginnie won't cooperate and tell us where she was that night. She says only that she spent the night in the woods.”

Charlie looked at him in disbelief. He smiled faintly. “I know it sounds crazy, but it isn't. Not really. People do that around here, even in the winter. I believe that's what Ginnie did, but she has to say where, lead others to the place to see that someone actually did spend a night there, prove it before the next hard rain washes away every trace. She says she doesn't know where the spot is and no one believes that. I don't believe it.”

“What happened to Laura Steubins?” Constance asked.

“No one knows much. People saw her meet Ginnie outside the theater shortly after noon that day. They walked away together. Ginnie says they parted at the corner; she went on home and put her stuff in her car and took off for the woods. Laura wasn't seen that afternoon. At five she called Gray Wilmot, the director—they were living together, at least in the same house—and told him she wouldn't be home for dinner. He was eating with one of the theater people anyway. She was seen in the restaurant where Ro Cavanaugh was having dinner with a couple of other people. She spoke to Ro and left and no one saw her again. She was found in the river the next morning, her head smashed in. The autopsy put her death at about nine the night before. Ginnie returned to her house at about one in the afternoon, and that's where it is now.”

“Motive?” Charlie asked.

Ralph shrugged. “There isn't any. They're saying Ginnie was upset because Ellis was seeing Laura. He got her a job at the university and had lunch with her a couple of times. But he and Ginnie were going out of town together for a few days. Doesn't sound like much of a motive to me. He was in town to clean up some business and spend a few days with Ginnie, then he was going down to California to finish his Ph.D. work. He was crazy about Ginnie.”

“You knew him, too?” Constance asked.

“I met him a few times. And I saw them together a couple of times. He was serious. I don't think she was.”

“Why are they saying Ginnie is crazy?”

“When Ellis got killed she went into the shock I told you about, wouldn't talk, all that. When they told her Laura Steubins was dead, she went silent again, but this time not from shock. She just won't say where she was and Draker is acting as if he thinks she was pretending before, pretending shock. He's convinced she really is crazy. He thinks her silence proves it.”

They ate silently for several minutes.

“That was Wednesday night?” Charlie asked. When Ralph nodded, he continued, “Why the rush? Your Lieutenant Draker seems in an awful rush to settle on any one person this fast.”

“Everyone else connected with this mess had an alibi one night or the other, or both. Ginnie was available both times. Draker's been around for seven or eight years. He did a big investigation the year he came, made a tremendous drug bust after a lot of good work, and made a name for himself. He wants to keep up his reputation maybe.”

“If he's really settled on Ginnie, that means his investigation will be skewed,” Constance commented.

Ralph nodded soberly. “That's how I read it.”

Constance was frowning slightly. “That argument seems pretty circular, doesn't it? He's satisfied that she did it; her silence proves both her guilt and that she is crazy. Most people start from the other side: She's crazy, therefore she's the killer.” Charlie looked mystified, and she continued, “Well, Ginnie must be passing for sane, as sane as most people, anyway, or he wouldn't have to reach quite so hard to label her crazy. Why does he want the label for her?”

Ralph sighed. “You'll hear this from someone or other, it might as well be me. They say that when her father died she became autistic for over a year. It was only after her mother took her all the way out of here that she began to recover. And they say that she started the fire that killed him, playing with matches. That seems to be enough for Draker. He equates autism with insanity, and as far as he's concerned she was never cured, only in remission until someone crossed her.”

Charlie whistled softly. “How old was she?”

“Three.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, you've had a long day, and so have I. I have a packet of stuff for you in the car. A map of the town showing where the theater is, where my office is, things like that. My office will be available for you if you want it for anything.”

“Just a couple of things,” Charlie said. The waiter cleared the table, poured more coffee without being asked. Good waiter. “First,” Charlie said when they were alone again, “you said Ginnie has agreed to the investigation, strangers asking questions, all the rest of it. What about the others? Her uncle, for instance?”

Ralph sighed. “I talked to Ro this afternoon. He thinks I'm running scared over nothing. He's clinging to the burglar theory, and he thinks Laura was out with someone who got nasty when she wouldn't play. She wasn't raped or anything.”

“Just killed,” Constance murmured.

“Yes. Anyway, Ro will cooperate just as long as he isn't too inconvenienced, just as long as his people aren't too distracted from the business. He warned me that they are going into rehearsals in just one more week and there simply won't be time for anything else then.” He looked troubled. “I'm afraid Ro isn't going to see anything he doesn't want to see. Having Ginnie accused of murder is one of those things he doesn't want to see.”

“And the others?”

“They'll do what Ro tells them to do. And, of course, they're all really fond of Ginnie. Most everyone is. Ro said you can go in and out of the theater when you want to, but you can't interrupt any of the readings or the rehearsals or anything else. Catch people in the halls, I guess.” He shrugged helplessly. “They're show people, not quite like anyone else. If Ro ever realizes that Ginnie is in real danger, it'll be a different story, but it might take a baseball bat to drive that into his head.”

“Okay. We'll work around that. The other thing: You've said everyone knows everyone here, no secrets. Do you know that they're homing in on Ginnie, or is that a guess? And if you know, how? Do you have sources that are reliable?”