The Impersonator (32 page)

When I had taken on this role, I’d adopted more than Jessie’s name. I’d taken her family, her money, her past, and her future. I became Jessie Carr. And I owed her something for all that. I owed her the truth. Now that I knew the identity of her killer, I owed her justice, whatever the cost to myself.

But how was I going to repay the debt? Henry would not obligingly repeat his confession in front of a judge, and I had no evidence, no body, and no hope of convincing the authorities that this man had somehow arranged the death of his cousin, their governess, and probably several women who were involved in his smuggling scheme. Nothing I could do would resurrect a single one, but I owed it to them to prevent him from killing again. He hadn’t stopped with Jessie; he had started with her. I was to be his next victim, but not his last. He enjoyed killing. He was good at it and even better at getting away with it. And there was no reason for him to stop.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if telling Oliver about any of this would help me. What would be his reaction to learning that his niece was murdered by her cousin? If the truth about Jessie’s death emerged, he’d lose his chance at her fortune. He had never cared a fig about Jessie, and I knew darn well his greed would overcome any scruples he might have. He’d make me continue with the charade, regardless of the risk to myself. No, Oliver was no ally.

I wasn’t afraid for myself at this precise moment. Henry was powerless as long as I was at Cliff House, and he had admitted as much. The danger would begin when I left in two days. Death could then come from any direction. I would have to look at every person with suspicion—every waiter, every train conductor, every street vendor—wondering if they were in the pay of Henry Carr. I would have to consider every car a weapon, every meal poisoned, every hotel room a firetrap. I would start by hiring my own Pinkerton bodyguards, although I was not so naïve as to think them immune from Henry’s influence either.

It seemed almost funny that I had once figured I could just slip away if things got rough.

I lay awake until the clock chimed six, until I had fashioned a plan that I thought might work.

44

There wasn’t time to post a letter. I drove to the Western Union office near the docks and paid fifty cents to send Benny a telegram.

“
Same request. Palo Alto. Desperately important. Love from your second-best girl.”

It wasn’t cost that made me economize with words, it was concern about the damage a gossipy operator could do. Sure, I know they are sworn to be discreet, but I couldn’t take the risk. Dexter was a small town, and Henry had lots of friends.

Jack Benny had been on his way to Salem the day after I saw him at the Egyptian, and after that, to San Francisco for a longer run at Pantages Theatre. I hoped he would understand my plea. I hoped it reached him promptly. I hoped he could help me fast. It was a lot to ask. The trip from San Francisco to Palo Alto was long, maybe forty miles, and would consume most of a day. I’d make it up to him somehow.

The rain stopped, but gray skies smothered the bay and strong winds blustered inland from the ocean. My flivver was parked near the first pier, and as I returned to it, I caught sight of the boy from the hardware store crouching at the edge of the water, assembling something in his fishing box. The boy who had rushed to give us the news of the body in the burned warehouse … what was his name? Seeing him gave me an idea.

“Hello. You’re an early bird. William, isn’t it?”

He looked up and pushed back his cap to see my face.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m Miss Carr. We met some weeks ago in your father’s store. That your boat?” I pointed to an old wooden boat tied up to the dock beside us, straining at its rope. Someone had painted it a gay blue and yellow and outfitted it with a tiny mast and sail. If it had been any smaller, it would have been a toy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you take it out much?”

“Every chance I get.”

“What do you catch?”

“This time of year, chinook mostly.”

“Good eating?”

“I sell most of ’em. I’m saving for a bigger boat.”

“Do you go outside the bay?”

“Not allowed to. The fishing’s usually best in the bay, near the mouth of the river.” Where the sailing was best went unsaid.

“It looks pretty rough out there. You’re not going fishing today, are you?”

“Ma won’t let me.”

“I guess you have to be pretty skilled to sail these waters, even on a calm day. The Graveyard of the Pacific and so forth. You must know the coast pretty well, though. Are there any other small bays or harbors along this stretch?”

“Nary a one. Leastways none that I know of. Just cliffs and rocks.”

To our left near the canneries, the choppy water bumped the fleet of weatherworn fishing boats against their piers. Out in Dexter Bay a number of fine yachts strained at their buoys, all of them stretched eastward, aligned by the wind and currents. Dexter Bay’s marina was popular with the wealthy Portland sailing crowd, located as it was a short train ride from the metropolitan area. One of these boats belonged to Henry, who had sloshed down enough Seagram’s last night to keep him in bed at Cliff House till noon. I pointed to the closest yacht. “That’s a pretty boat there.”

“That’s Mr. Sam Walker’s. It’s new this year.”

“You must know a lot about boats. Which is the nicest?”

“Mr. Henry Carr’s Herreshoff. Over there.”

I followed his finger to a sleek craft tied to a buoy about a hundred yards out. “What a lovely boat! My cousin Henry doesn’t fish, does he? I don’t remember anything of his on the dinner table recently.”

“Naw, he just sails with friends, up north.”

“Dexter friends?”

“Big shots from Portland or Salem.”

“North to Canada? Picking up hooch, I expect.”

“Who doesn’t?” His shrug said it all. Everyone winked at the law.

“There sure are a lot of bottles at Cliff House,” I said with a confidential laugh. “You know, I heard that a few years back, bootleggers were bold enough to unload their cargo right here in town.”

“Pa told me about that. Said the cops scared ’em off.” Honest police? I wondered. The cynic in me thought it more likely they demanded too high a cut and drove off the “importers.” Was it Henry?

“I guess my cousin Henry is a pretty fair sailor.”

It was like turning on an electric light bulb. “He’s the best! A real daredevil. I was fishing off the rocks south of here, by your place near the caves, when I seen him come through those giant rocks under power, weaving in and out, then when he was hardly clear of ’em, he hoisted the sails and cut power. He knows where every last reef is. No one else but him would risk that, but he’s not afraid of anything.”

Ah, hero worship. What a waste. “Golly, I’m sorry I missed seeing that. Was it last week?”

He shook his head. “Couple weeks ago.” I remembered. Henry said he had gone sailing with friends for several days up to Puget Sound. The green chalk delivery must have come in then.

“I sure am sorry to see this storm. Henry promised to take me for a ride today. He just came in yesterday—but you know that—and I’ve never had the chance to see his new boat.” I heaved a sighed of profound disappointment as I cast the bait. “And I’m leaving Oregon the day after tomorrow.”

“Leaving for good?” he asked with the astonishment of a native who couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever want to go anywhere else.

“Leaving on a long trip abroad. I probably won’t get back to Oregon for a while.” I gave it my most dramatic sigh.

“Well, I could run you out there, quick like, for a close-up look.”

“Oh, what a wonderful idea! Would you?”

He dropped into the little vessel and reached up a hand to help me down. I crouched in the damp bottom on top of a coil of rope, and gave up trying to keep my skirt dry. Behind me, William hoisted a tiny sail and shot over to Henry’s yacht in seconds.

I had never been in a boat of any kind in my life, and I found the brief ride exhilarating. Young William steered closer to the yacht, within a few feet of the boarding ladder. Standing, he pushed the sail to the side, and the little boat came gently to a stop against the larger vessel. Then he grabbed hold of the ladder and secured his boat with a piece of rope. “Up you go. I’ll wait here. Mr. Henry might not want me on his boat without asking.”

“I’ll just have a peek.”

The cabin was locked, and it took only a moment to walk around the deck. Shipshape must be how sailors described boats like Henry’s—neat and clean, the deck freshly painted, every bit of rope and rigging in its place. I peered in each window and saw what I expected to see: hundreds of liquor boxes, neatly stacked, waiting for distribution.

Turning him in to the Dexter cops would be a joke. The corrupt police force would only warn Henry to move his boat before making a show of searching for it, and I would lose my one chance to learn how he made his deliveries.

I scrambled back into William’s dinghy. “Wow, that’s a beauty!”

William didn’t reply. His eyes scanned the deserted docks and the road leading to them. His frown told me he was having second thoughts about his impulsive offer. What would Henry Carr have to say when he learned someone had boarded his boat without express permission?

“You know, William, I was just thinking … Henry wanted to show his boat to me himself, and maybe he’ll be disappointed if he knows I already saw it. If the weather clears tomorrow, he might even be able to take me for that sail after all. I think it would be best if we didn’t mention this to him. It could be our little secret. Then if he shows me around the boat, I can act like it was the first time, and he’ll be so proud and pleased.”

The worry lines disappeared. William yanked up the sail and returned us to the dock in a jiffy. The rough water made it impossible to hold the dinghy steady, but I’m pretty nimble around stage scaffolding and this wasn’t much different. William scrambled up to the dock after me without a lick of trouble and tied the little craft up tight. Not a moment too soon—it started raining again.

“Here,” I said, pulling a bill from my pocket. “For your trouble.”

Astonished, he just stared at my hand. “That was no trouble.”

“It was pure kindness, and I can’t thank you enough. But I want you to have this to go toward that boat you’re saving for. And remember our secret!” I winked broadly.

“Yes, ma’am!”

I dashed for the flivver before the skies opened up. The storm was here to stay. There would be no liquor delivery today.

45

Back at Cliff House I struggled with what I had learned. It didn’t make sense—Henry running hooch into the country and unloading it in a waterlogged cave. He’d only have a couple of hours at low tide to reload it and sail somewhere else or the boxes would be ruined by the incoming surge. Caves flooded twice a day with each high tide. Maybe the waves weren’t powerful enough to wash away heavy cartons of liquor—or maybe they were, what did I know?—but they would waterlog the cartons and labels at the very least. None of the green-chalked boxes and bottles I had seen showed water damage.

But it was all I had to go on. Young William had seen Henry’s yacht darting through the rocks near the Cliff House caves a couple of weeks ago. He had to have been going to the third cave, the one I hadn’t explored. Was he meeting another boat inside that cave to transfer the liquor?

Henry had tried twice to have me killed—three times if you count the impulse by the cliff. He had to have an informant working inside the Smith and Wade office, someone who passed on information about my movements so Henry could hire a killer to take care of business. It would have been simple to ask a secretary or even one of the trustees when he could expect his cousin. I no longer thought the trustees had engaged a Pinkerton to search my room or follow me through town. That was Henry’s hireling. Each time he had failed, but Henry was getting cleverer about it. He realized how foolish it was to make any further attempts on my life while we shared the same roof. It was simply too risky for him. He was biding his time, waiting for me to leave Cliff House, at which point I’d be fair game. For the time being, I was relatively safe.

I tried to think like a man bent on murder. How would he stage the next accident? Running me over by a car had been the tried-and-true plan—it had worked in San Francisco on the blackmailing governess—but to set it up, he needed to know in advance where I was going to be and when, as he had when I arrived in Portland with Grandmother and Oliver to spend the night at the Benson Hotel before coming to Dexter.

The next place he could intercept me would be at the trustees’ office in Sacramento on September 30. Except I wouldn’t be there. Then there was the long ocean voyage to Europe, which would present all kinds of opportunities for fatal accidents—falling overboard, food poisoning, random violence—except I wouldn’t be there either. I’ll bet I could have outsmarted that son of a bitch—double-booked my trip, traveled in disguise on a vessel he knew nothing about, and moved around in Europe like a gypsy until he gave up. Then again, a man of Henry’s talents had long arms and the means to pry information out of law offices, telegraph operators, and banks. He would be able to trace me through the money Smith and Wade wired. Henry Carr would give up only when one of us was dead.

He thought he had me cornered. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

“There you are, dear. Daydreaming?” Aunt Victoria interrupted my thoughts.

I blinked with confusion and looked around the parlor. “I’m afraid I was dozing … I didn’t sleep well last night, what with all the excitement.”

“Never mind, plenty of time for a nap before the guests arrive.”

The tantalizing aromas of roasting meats mingled with baked goods made my stomach rumble. “Mmmmm. Something smells wonderful.”

“Doesn’t it? Marie hired three cooks to help work her magic. Our guests will feast on gourmet fare tonight!”

“Did you need me for anything?”

“I saw your Ford out front. Are you planning to meet your uncle at the station or shall I telephone Clyde?”