The Suspect - L R Wright (25 page)

"No. Nothing more than I've told you."

"
By the way," said Sokolowski. "You
left here after lunch last Tuesday, right?"

"
Right. Headed back up to Garden Bay.”

"How come you're still around today, at this
time of night?"

Farley grinned. "I don't keep to a rigid
schedule, like most folks. Today I didn't have any fish. Today I was
peddling my wife's ponchos. Didn't leave home until noon or so. Had
to deal with the place in Garden Bay, then drive all the way down to
Gibsons.”

"
Okay, Mr. Farley,” said Alberg. "Thanks
very much for your cooperation. Would you leave your address with the
sergeant, please? Just in case we have to get in touch with you. And
you'd better give him the names of the stores you deal with in
Gibsons and Garden Bay, too.”

Sokolowski saw him out and returned to Alberg's
office, where the staff sergeant sat behind his desk with his chin in
his hands. "I guess we've got to check him out, Sid." He
touched his nose, gingerly, and tried to remember if he'd brought
Cassandra's ointment with him.

Sokolowski slumped in the black chair. "He could
have done it,” he said wearily. "He could have. But why didn't
he take some of that stuff with him? The silver, stuff like that?"

"If he did it,” said Alberg, who had found the
tube of ointment in his shirt pocket and was unscrewing the top, "it
was damn smart of him to wander in here and tell us this tale, before
we found him." He dabbed the clear gel on his nose and closed
his eyes as his skin immediately cooled; he wished Cassandra was
there to do it for him. He sighed and opened his eyes. "Check
him out, Sid. I don't think he did it. But it's possible.”

"
You still want to search the victim's house
again?"

"
You're damn right I do.”

"
Sanducci will be at the house at eight.”

"
Tell him to start without me," said
Alberg. "I've got some paperwork to do. I keep trying to forget
there's more going on around here than this damn homicide, but
Isabella won't let me."

There was a knock on the door, and Freddie Gainer
stuck his head in.

"Look at that face,” said Alberg to
Sokolowski. "He was out on that boat all afternoon too, and is
he burned? No. What have you got to report, Constable? It can't be
good. You would have radioed ahead.”

"
Right, Staff," said Gainer. "They've
packed it in. No luck. All they found was this." He came into
the office.

"
What the hell is it?" said Sokolowski.

Gainer held it out. It was still dripping. "It's
a burlap bag, Sarge.”

"Jesus holy Christ,” said Alberg, staring.

"It could have been from anything, Karl,"
said Sokolowski, also staring at it. "There's probably dozens of
them out there. You can't trace those things. You can find them in
anybody's garage, or barn, or back porch—”

"Or toolshed," said Alberg, numbly. He
looked at Sokolowski. "They're out there, all right, Sid.
They're out there. We're just never going to find them, that's all."

Gainer backed out of the office, still holding the
burlap bag. "I'll tag it anyway, Staff."

Sokolowski rested his forearms on his knees and
stared at the floor. "You know, Karl, I think you may be right.
I finally think you may be right about that old guy. I think he was
the guy supposed to turn up for lunch. And I think he did it. But you
know what else?" he said heavily, looking up at Alberg. "I
also think you're not going to get him on it.”

"I've got no witnesses," said Alberg,
almost cheerfully. "No evidence. And up to now, no motive. It
doesn't look good, does it?" He smiled. "Unless I get a
confession.”

Sokolowski looked doubtful. "He's a pretty tough
old bird. And you'd still need corroboration."

"
Yeah, I know. But let's worry about one thing
at a time. If I can find the motive, let him know I know why he did
it—then maybe he'll crack. He's not the kind of guy who goes around
doing homicide whenever he loses his temper. He's going to want to
talk to somebody about it." He stood up, stretched, and turned
off the desk lamp.

"Seems a shame," said Sokolowski with a
sigh, hauling himself to his feet, "A nice old guy like that."

"A nice old guy,” said Alberg, "who
snuffed his ex-brother-in-law. You really want him to get away with
that, Sergeant? I don't."
 

CHAPTER 26

George heard the rain fall throughout the restless
night, a soft absentminded rain that would bathe his garden and feed
it and not pummel it into the ground. He couldn't sleep and found the
sound of the rain soothing. At some point he must have slept, though,
because he opened his eyes and the night was gone and the rain, too,
and through his curtained windows some sunlight was filtering.

He got dressed and went to the back door. He put his
gnarled hand around the worn round knob and looked fixedly at the
door, not seeing its yellow paint, slightly greasy from six months'
accumulation of grime, not able to move, trying hard not to let the
moment overwhelm him. Then he turned the knob, pushed the door open,
and walked out for the last time into his garden.

He saw that the clouds were fleeing quickly. Those
too close to the sun were shriveling into nothing, burning away, and
soon the sky would be quite clear again.

George stood on his still-damp grass and watched
steam rise from his garden. He touched the marigolds and stroked the
petals of the roses and laid his cheek against a hydrangea blossom
and cut a big bunch of sweet peas and wished he could pick a
zucchini, but there weren't any yet.

He spent considerable time outdoors, inspecting,
admiring, approving. He was aware of stirrings and rustlings,
fragrances, glorious splashes of color. He heard birds arguing in the
arbutus tree, and noticed a new influx of aphids on the roses, and
saw that the tide had left new driftwood on his beach. He didn't know
how to say goodbye to his garden, or to tell it that he had loved it.

He went back into his kitchen, put the sweet peas in
water, and 'made himself some coffee. He got a. notepad and a pen
from his desk in the den—a room he had used scarcely at all since
Myra's death—and sat down in his leather chair with his coffee to
make a list.

He had a lot to do today.
It took him half an hour to make the list. As soon as it was
complete, he looked at the first item: library book:. He would work
his way down from the top. That was the sensible way of going about
things.

* * *

"
Wilcox here.”

She was ridiculously relieved to hear his voice, even
though it was curiously dry and remote.

"
Mr. Wilcox? It's Cassandra. I'm calling to
check up on you—I hope you don't mind. How's your chest? Did you
sleep well? Are you feeling better today?" She got it all out in
a rush and waited anxiously for him to reply.

"
Cassandra?" He sounded amazed. "Where
are you calling me from? The library?"

"
Yes. How are you? May I come to see you? I was
worried about you yesterday. I'd like to make sure you're all right.”

"
You were the first thing on my list," he
said. "It must be an omen. There are some books I have to
return, you see. The only thing is, I don't think I'm up to making
the walk into town today, and my car's still in the garage."

"
Then I'll come by and get them," said
Cassandra. "All right? May I come?"

"
Sure. Fine. That would be grand. I want to see
you anyway."

Cassandra drove to his house preoccupied and uneasy.
When he opened the door she looked at him intently. He appeared calm,
and looked back at her steadily. He was tidily dressed and his hair
was combed and she smelled fresh coffee. She relaxed somewhat, and
smiled, but he didn't smile back.

He led her into the kitchen and insisted she sit in
the leather chair. The library books—the two mysteries and the
Mozart biography—were in a neat pile on the footstool. He poured
coffee, fussed with sugar and milk, and finally settled in a
straight-backed chair opposite her.

"I got you here under false pretenses,
Cassandra, which until lately hasn't been my nature."

"You mean the books? But I was going to come
anyway.”

He got up stiffly and picked up from the kitchen
counter the crystal pitcher, which was overflowing with sweet peas.

"
I want you to take these with you when you go,"
he said. "And the pitcher too."

"I can't take the pitcher, Mr. Wilcox. But I'll
take the flowers, with pleasure.”

"I want you to have the pitcher." He sat
down again. "It's important to me. It was my sister who gave it
to Myra and me, for our wedding." He put his hand on her arm,
impatiently shaking his head. "Please don't argue with me,
Cassandra. I'm trying to get my life in order, here. I need your help
for that, and in exchange I want to give you something." He
looked at her slyly. "I'm getting rid of everything. I could
have offered you my house, or my car.”

She spluttered, horrified.

"See?" he said, grinning at her. "You're
getting off lightly. Will you take it?"

She hesitated, and watched his smile disappear. "Yes,
all right. I'll take it. It's beautiful, and of course I'll take it,
if you want me to.”

He let go of her arm and sat back. "I'm moving
away. Going to live with my daughter, Carol, in Vancouver. " He
frowned and reached for a notepad which lay on the footstool next to
the library books. He took a pen from his shirt pocket and
laboriously added something to a lengthy list. "Haven't told her
yet," he muttered. "Better give her a call."

"
But when?" said Cassandra. "When are
you going?"

George put the pen back in his pocket but he held on
to the pad, as though it might occur to him to write something else
there. "Tomorrow," he said.

"
Tomorrow?” said Cassandra, incredulous.

"That's why I had to get these books back to you
today, you see.”

"
Tomorrow? But why? You mean, forever? You're
never coming back?"

He shook his head.

"
But why? I thought you were happy here. What
about your garden? What about the hospital? What about me?"

Her voice had risen, and tears were pushing at the
backs of her eyes.

"
I was happy here,” said George, taking no
notice of her distress. "For a long time. And then Carlyle
arrived, and then Myra died, and now I'm not happy any more." He
glanced through the window. "What about my garden? That depends
on who moves in here, I guess." He turned back to her. "As
for the hospital, there are lots of people who can do what I do
there. It's just half a day a week. I don't do much. Got good
eyesight, so I read to people. Anybody can do that. You could do it
yourself, if you wanted to.”
 
"Do
you think you'll be happier in Vancouver?” It was a question she
knew she shouldn't have asked.

"
I doubt it." He leaned toward her, his
hands grasping his knees. "The thing I can't stand the thought
of, Cassandra, is dying where Carlyle died, and being buried where
he's buried. That's the whole thing of it, in a nutshell." He
sat back.

"
But isn't your wife buried there too?" She
needn't have asked that either, she thought; she knew the answer well
enough.

He sat unmoving for a moment. His eyes were dry.
"Yes. She is."

I could get up and leave now, thought Cassandra. I
could get up gracefully and kiss him on the cheek and take the
pitcher and the sweet peas and the library books and warmly wish him
well and just leave, walk right out to my car and drive away. And he
wouldn't think less of me for doing it, either. They were silent for
what seemed to Cassandra a very long time, and in that whole time she
never took her eyes from his face.

"
Why do you hate him so much,” she said
finally, quietly, "even though he's dead now?”

"
Because I killed him," said George.

Cassandra felt very strange. She heard herself
breathing, patiently, and finally realized she was still waiting for
him to answer her, although he already had. Maybe she was waiting for
him to change his mind, or tell her he'd been joking. But looking at
him, at his face the color of cement, at his brown eyes looking
steadily back at her, she knew he had told her the truth.

"
It's a bad thing I'm doing now, I know it,"
said George.

"I'm using up all our friendship, grown so slow
and strong, tight now, in this single minute.”

"
But I'm letting you do it," said
Cassandra, numbly.

"I'm not asking you to keep this a secret,” he
said. "I don't care if you tell anybody or not, or who it is you
tell. But I had to say it to somebody, and I knew I'd only be able to
say once, and you're the only person came to my mind."

"
Why did you do it?" she said after a
minute.

"
I don't think I can tell you that part,"
said George wearily. "It's too long a story. It goes back too
far. I thought it was because of Audrey, my sister." He closed
his eyes and rubbed at his temples. "But it turns out it's more
complicated than that. I didn't have any idea, when I did it, how
complicated was going to turn out to be." He looked at her and
tried to  smile. "It's all bound up with responsibility,
you see. It's a good thing, in the main—responsibility. But I've a
feeling, now, that you can carry it too far, or get it all wrong. And
it brings me to awful uncertainties about myself."