“Maybe. The problem with this theory is that Sam and Benson hardly acted like they even remembered each other. I can imagine Sam concealing his feelings, but Benson? Not a chance. He looked like he was going to explode or have a stroke when Lucky Smith turned up here."
“Lucky Smith!" Jane exclaimed. "I'd forgotten about him. Now, he's somebody I can imagine getting tanked up and committing a senseless murder. And remember my telling you about him bashing into me outside and blathering about how somebody was blaming him for something he didn't do?"
“But nobody would have been blaming him then for Sam's death. Nobody believed us then that he was dead."
“No, Shelley, somebody
could
have been accusing him. Even if nobody believed us, Sam
was
dead by then. The murderer knew Sam was dead. And so did Henry McCoy — who might be one and the same."
“If you believe Henry's story via Marge, the murderer might
not
have known he succeeded in _killing Sam," Shelley said. "He — let's say Lucky Smith — might have had only a dim memory of smacking somebody with something. I don't say Luckycouldn't have done exactly that, but I'm more inclined to think it was somebody blaming him for the silly stunts. The missing keys and such. For which he probably was responsible."
“It does seem his speed," Jane admitted. "We're not getting anywhere. Somebody killed Sam Claypool, and we're no closer to figuring out who he was."
“He or she," Shelley corrected.
“What 'she'? Who did we leave out?”
Shelley nodded toward the doorway to the lobby. Edna Titus was standing there, hands on hips, looking around the room.
“You two haven't seen Sheriff Taylor, have you? I need to find him."
“Why?" Jane asked bluntly.
“To confess," Edna replied with equal candor.
Twenty
"Confess!" Jane exclaimed.
“You killed Sam Claypool?" Shelley asked.
Edna looked at them as if they'd lost their minds. "Kill Sam Claypool? Me? Of course not. Why would I do that? I didn't even know the man, and I'm not a killer."
“But what are you confessing to, then?" Jane asked.
“A number of very silly, embarrassing things," Edna said, sitting down at the table with them. "I've made a fool of myself."
“How is that?" Shelley asked.
“My daughter-in-law is much sicker than she'd have anyone know. I do, by the way, trust that you'll keep that to yourselves. She has a serious heart condition, and I'm determined to keep her alive as long as I can. She must live near a good medical facility."
“Isn't that really up to her and her husband?" Shelley said.
“Yes, it should be. But they're so — so good, so naive. So blind to the hard facts."
“They're also very happy here," Jane pointed out.
“Allison isn't going to be happy when she's dead, and neither is Benson," Edna said harshly. "And she will be dead if she has a serious heart attack here in the woods."
“So you tried to sabotage our visit," Jane said, sensing that the moral position Edna had taken was probably wrong and certainly unalterable.
“Yes. I thought if I made things unpleasant and difficult, I might persuade your committee to vote no.”
Jane and Shelley looked at each other, but said nothing.
“It was stupid and petty, but I have to save Allison," Edna said.
“How could this save Allison?" Jane asked. "Suppose you'd succeeded. This school thing wouldn't make or break the resort."
“Oh, it could," Edna said. "You see, the convention business isn't going well."
“Why not?" Shelley asked. "It's a wonderful facility for conventions."
“And it's hard as hell to get to," Edna responded. "Convention attendees have gotten spoiled over the years. They want open spaces, attractive settings, all of that, but they want to just get off a plane and be there. Or at least not be much more than a cab ride away from an airport. Nobody wants to land in Chicago, rent a car, drive for hours, and run a risk of getting lost. People will do that for a family vacation, but not for a convention. There's only one crummy bus a day to the nearest town, and purchasing and operating shuttles would be prohibitively expensive.""Aren't there enough vacationers to till the place?" Jane asked.
“Not since Benson built the Convention Center building. Vacationers don't want a dormitory atmosphere. They want privacy — the cabins in the woods.”
She had lowered her voice. People were starting to wander into the dining room. The staff had apparently seen off the last of the local people and were now bringing out the metal containers and candles that would keep the food hot.
“Frankly, I can't agree with your motives," Jane said. "But you're right to tell the sheriff."
“I know. It'll be humiliating, but he needs to sort the wheat from the chaff now that he's got a murder to solve."
“Who do you think killed Sam Claypool?" Jane asked impulsively.
“I have no idea," Edna said. "And to be honest, I don't care. I just wish it hadn't happened here."
“I'm surprised you'd say that," Shelley said. "What's more discouraging than a murder?”
Edna sat up very straight and glared at her. "I think that's a very tasteless remark."
“I think murder is pretty tasteless," Shelley replied blandly.
Edna rose majestically and left the table without another word.
“That's a pissed-off lady," Jane said.
“Yes? Well, so is this," she said, pointing at her chest. "How dare she set herself up as the goddess of Benson and Allison's marriage! She hasn't any right to run their lives that way."
“It's out of love for them," Jane suggested halfheartedly.
“That's not the point. Lots of people have done extremely damaging things out of love.
It's
wrong of her to decide what's right for her son and his wife. They've obviously made a hard decision, and it's up to them to make it and live — or die — with it.”
Jane glanced up and noticed Sheriff Taylor entering the room. He was looking for them, but Edna caught him first. Holding on to his arm to keep him from escaping, she led him to the stairway. He made a quick
stay there
gesture at Jane and Shelley.
John Claypool and Bob Rycraft came into the dining room behind Taylor. They were obviously making polite discussion, and it was apparently agony for both of them under the circumstances. John looked haggard and tired and kept scratching his ankle. Bob was trying to strike a tactful balance between sympathy and his usual optimism — and failing badly.
The two men headed for the table where Jane and Shelley were sitting as if it were an oasis.
“We're so sorry about your brother," Jane said. "It's a terribly shocking thing."
“And I owe you ladies an apology," John Claypool said. He seemed to have aged a good ten years in one day. "I — we — should have believed you. If we had, the local law enforcement people could have gotten a much better lead on solving this horrible crime."
“It's perfectly understandable why nobody believed us," Jane said. "After all, it looked to everyone like Sam was alive and well."
“Marge must be insane," he muttered.
“Did you know Sam had a twin brother?" Shelley asked.
“God, no! Biggest surprise of my life. I guess our parents must have known, but they never said a word. Not a word. And Sam never mentioned it either. I can't figure why not. Jesus! How on earth am I going to break this to them?"
“Marge said Sam never mentioned his brother because he'd had a miserable life before your parents adopted him and he didn't want any connection with it, no reason to remember it," Shelley said.
“She told you that?" John asked.
“No, she told the sheriff. Has Henry turned up yet?"
“Henry?" John asked.
“Sam's twin," Jane explained. "His name is Henry Something."
“Oh, I didn't know. No. No sign of him that I know of." John's face was red with anger. "He's long gone by now. The bastard. Came in and killed Sam, wrecked our lives, got poor old Marge thinking she was an oversexed teenager, and then skedaddled the hell away when his crime came to light. Shit!" He caught himself. "Sorry, ladies."
“You're entitled to be upset," Jane said soothingly.
“How am I going to tell the folks? That's what I'd like to know. It's going to destroy them."
“You'll find a way," Shelley said. "Just don't make hasty decisions."
“So you're convinced Henry killed Sam?" Jane asked.
John Claypool's mouth fell open for a second, then he sputtered, "Isn't everybody? Of course he killed Sam. Good God! Here's this bum of a guy, God knows what kind of criminal background, goes looking for his twin and discovers he's a rich, respected man. All he has to do is knock him off and step into his shoes. And his big house, and his business. The deal even comes with a ready-made wife. My God, Marge is nuts. Do you think she could have been stupid enough to fall for it? Did she really think this guy was Sam?"
“You'll have to ask her," Shelley said. "I imagine she's telling your wife all about it now.”
Bob Rycraft had slipped away after Jane and Shelley had let him off the conversational hook. Now Liz joined them. She had Al in tow.
“Mr. Claypool!
I'm
so terribly sorry to hear about your brother!" Liz exclaimed. "This is too horrible to imagine. What can we do? Do you need any relatives notified? How can we help?”
John was bowled over by her forceful offers of help, and muttered vague thanks.
“I understand there was a twin brother masquerading as Sam? Did you know about him before?”
The conversation was a repetition of the one Jane and Shelley had just had with him. Liz kept shaking her head, looking enormously distressed. "I see they're putting dinner out. I'll take plates to Marge and Eileen. I'm sure they aren't interested in eating, but they might want to just nibble a bit. Al, come along. We'll get some plates and foil from the kitchen and take them some food. Poor Marge."
“Marge is nuts," John repeated.
Liz dashed off on her errand of mercy, and Alhung back for a minute, rumbling his own condolences in a low tone and adding that if there was anything the bank, or he himself, could do to help out, John wasn't to hesitate to call him. Then, at Liz's shrill summons, he ambled off.
“So the car dealership does business with Al's bank?" Shelley asked.
John shrugged. "I don't know."
“You don't know?" Jane said, thinking he'd misunderstood the question.
John's face, which had grown pale during Liz's forceful expressions of sympathy, turned red again. He scratched at his neck nervously. "No. See, I'm not a partner. I'm just head of sales. Sam owned the dealership lock, stock, and barrel. Now I guess I work for Marge," he added bitterly.
“Oh," Shelley said. "I've always assumed you were partners."
“Most people do. And Sam let them. I'd rather it didn't get around, really. God, I'm going to miss him. He was a tough guy to get to know, I guess. Kinda cold. I was the one always flapping my mouth and making jokes. But he was a good brother.”
A heavy silence fell over the table. What was there to say?
“Let me get you some dinner," Jane suggested.
He waved away the idea. "Naw, I'm not hungry."
“But you should eat," Jane said. "You're going to need all your energy to cope with everything.”
She dashed off to fill a plate for him. Liz and Al were just staggering away from the buffet table under a heavy load of food for his wife and sister-in-law. Sheriff Taylor and Edna reentered the dining room from the Tituses' private quarters. Edna's face was blotchy and her manner stiff and angry. Taylor must have read her the riot act, Jane thought.
“I need to question you ladies about discovering the body," Taylor said.
“Okay, but I don't want to leave John Claypool eating alone. Just a minute," Jane said. She found Bob Rycraft chewing on a chicken wing and trying to look unobtrusive, and ordered him, in the nicest possible way, to take his plate over to the table where John was sitting. She left the two men staring at each other and signaled Shelley to join her. They and the sheriff found a quiet, deserted corner in the lobby.
Taylor sighed wearily as they sat down. "Okay, tell me the whole thing, from the time you arrived at the campsite.”
They told their story, jumbling it a bit and no doubt frustrating him to near frenzy. He kept asking about times, about weather, about where people were sitting. Now that he realized the importance of their information, he wanted every detail. But so much had happened in the interval that Jane and Shelley were no longer sure of their impressions.
“We had no reason to keep track of time," Jane explained, "and I'd lost my watch anyway. As for the weather, it had been drizzly all evening, but we were under a canopy and warmly dressed, so it didn't really matter to us."