The Suspect - L R Wright (26 page)

He squeezed his eyes tight shut, fiercely rejecting
the comfort of tears.

"Ah," he said a little later, "you'd
think by the time a man gets to my age he'd have accumulated some
wisdom around him, wouldn't you?" He looked out again at his
garden. "I guess Myra was my wisdom."
 
Cassandra stood up quickly. He struggled to his
feet. She put her arms around him and held him close to her, his
thick white hair pressed against the curve of her chin. She looked 
over his shoulder through the window at his garden, glowing exuberant
and abundant against the backdrop of the sea and the summer sky. She
had no tears for him, but she held him to her with a fierce
protectiveness, patting his back and saying into his ear murmured
things meant to be soothing.
 

CHAPTER 27

It was afternoon by the time Alberg arrived at
Carlyle Burke's house. The sun was as bright and hot as it had been
before the single day and night of cloud. He thought of the waitress
in the diner, as he waited for Sanducci to let him into the house;
she had seemed so certain of her predictions, and he had accepted
them unquestioningly.

Sanducci had taken off his hat and his jacket, but
his shirt looked crisp and the creases in his pants were still sharp.
"No luck so far, Staff,” he said, as he followed Alberg into
the living room. "I've done this room, the kitchen, and the
bathroom. There's only the bedroom left, and the room with the piano
in it.”

Alberg, his hands in his pockets, had wandered over
to the window to stand in front of the rocking chair, looking
outside.

"
And that toolshed," he said.

"
There's one thing, Staff, before I get back to
work.”

"
Yeah? What?”

"
I wanted to speak to you for a minute.”

Alberg turned around. "Go ahead.”

Sanducci was standing very straight. His black hair
gleamed. His eyes were the color of the sea out there. At least his
wasn't showing.

"
It's about the other night,” said the
corporal.

"
Go on.”

"
I have to tell you, Staff, that I've been
overextended a bit lately.”

"Overextending yourself? What the hell does that
mean?"

"I mean that I've been indulging myself in too
many what you might call extracurricular activities."

Alberg walked closer to him. Sanducci stared straight
ahead, over Alberg's right shoulder. "Extracurricular
activities?"

"Yes, Staff."

I take it that's a euphemism for. . . women."

"
Yes., Staff, I'm afraid it is."

"
And what are you trying to tell me, precisely?"

"That I fell asleep, Staff. On the front porch,
here. I guess that's why I didn't hear the old guy out in back. I'm
truly sorry, Staff.”

Alberg stared at the corporal. There was, he
realized, considerable envy in his stare. He went back to the window.
"I'll do the toolshed," he said.

"Yes, okay, Staff. I'll finish up in here."

"And Sanducci," said Alberg, without
turning around. "You don't want to get busted down to constable,
do you?"

"
No, Staff."

"Then I suggest you start taking a lot of cold
showers."

"Yes, Staff.” Without looking at him, he
handed Alberg the key to the toolshed.

Christ, thought Alberg, trudging out the side door
from the kitchen. Where the hell did he find them all? Better he
didn't know, he thought; the guy might have a harem of
sixteen-year-olds.

The toolshed was much like George Wilcox's, except
that it was bigger, dirtier, and less tidy. Carlyle Burke had himself
a power mower, instead of a push-it model, and his ladder was an
extendable aluminum job instead of a wooden six-footer, and he had a
lot of expensive, little-used lawn furniture stacked away in a
corner, instead of three threadbare canvas chairs with slivery wooden
arms. But his gardening tools were piled in a heap on a counter and
looked as rusty as those in Alberg's garage, and bags of fertilizer
and grass seed had been thrown in carelessly, to slump against the
wall.

The obvious place to start, thought Alberg, sighing,
was with the four cardboard cartons on the highest of several shelves
lining one wall. They had been marked on the outside with black felt
pen: XMAS DECORATIONS. But what the hell, you never know, he thought,
and dragged them down.

The place was clotted with spiderwebs. The beam of
sunlight which struggled through the single dirty window was choked
with dust. Alberg carried the boxes out onto the lawn and sat on the
bench there while he went through them.

There were boxes of tinsel, some unopened, some half
emptied, with silver strings seeping from them. There were gaudy
garlands of orange and blue-odd colors, he thought, with which to
bedeck a Christmas tree. There were boxes and boxes of ornaments, and
string after string of lights, ranging from tiny blinking ones to the
large kind used to decorate the outdoors. Three cartons he opened,
emptied, sifted through, refilled, and replaced on the shelf in the
filthy toolshed.

But the fourth carton didn't contain anything having
to do with Christmas. It was filled with women's underclothes—panties
and bras and slips and garter belts—and with nylon hose, and
negligees, and lace-trimmed pajamas. And it was at the bottom of this
carton that he found an ebony box about six inches by eight, bearing
on its lid, in gold, the initials AMW.

This, thought Alberg, is why Carlyle Burke willed
George all his possessions; he wanted him to find whatever's in this
small black box. He thought it inexpressibly tasteless, or perhaps
simply malevolent, that it should have been buried under a pile of
what must have been Audrey's underthings.

Alberg let the clothing slip languorously through his
hands. She hadn't been a slim woman—not fat, but not thin, either.
She had been feminine, but not lusty; her nightgowns were
long-sleeved and scoop necked, threaded with now-faded ribbon, and
her underwear was pretty but not particularly seductive. He sniffed
at it cautiously and smelled only mustiness.

He put the box next to him on the bench while he
slowly packed the clothing, neatly, almost tenderly, back into the
carton. He took both box and carton into the toolshed and put the
carton back on the shelf.

He pulled out a lawn chair, wiped from it spiders and
their webs, and set it up in the tremulous shaft of sunlight from the
window. Then he sat down with the ebony box.

It contained several pieces. of jewelry: a cameo pin,
a gold filigree necklace, a topaz ring, and a wide gold bracelet with
no engraving inside. And beneath the jewelry, a small pile of
letters.

Alberg put the jewelry back in the box, closed the
lid, and arranged the letters according to date.

He sat for a moment with them in his lap. Subdued
sunlight washed upon them, made uncertain by dust and a
grime-streaked window He was profoundly reluctant to start reading.
But after a while, he did.

He soon realized they were letters exchanged between
Carlyle Burke and his wife over a period of about six weeks in the
summer of 1956; Burke was in Victoria, apparently taking courses at
the university there, and Audrey had remained at home in Vancouver.

Alberg read through them once quickly, then started
over again, paying particular attention to certain sections, certain
phrases.

You bring it on yourself, Audrey, you know you do
,
Carlyle wrote on July 3.
You can't help
yourself. Having a kid wouldn't make any difference—you sure as
hell ought to know that ....

Why can't we admit it?
said
Audrey a week later.
There's no shame in it.
We can just say we've made a mistake, and get a divorce, and go on
with our lives.

We have NOT made a mistake
,
wrote Carlyle on July 13.
I've always had
trouble with my temper, I've told you that, time and time again. It's
part of being a man, for God's sake. Women have to understand that,
they want to live with a man.

July 23:
Some men do that kind
of thing, of course I know that,
Audrey
replied.
Who could know it better than I do?.
. .I cannot live in fear. It's a terrible, terrible thing, living in
fear, and I am not going to do it again.

Don't talk to me about your goddamn George
,
said Carlyle, near the end of July.
Look at
him, of in Europe. They never give single men that kind of
opportunity. Talk about prejudice—just try being a single man past
thirty-five or so! And now hey tell me fifty's the cutoff—I can't
even apply again! So don't talk to me about George. And you know he's
no better than the rest of us. You've told me yourself for God's
sake, what he's capable of. Are you MAD? Are you out of your mind? To
imply that the little bursts of temper that happen to me are as bad
as what HE did?... We can keep ourselves under control, Audrey, if we
try. It just takes work, that's all .... I'll never hit you again. I
can promise you that. I DO promise you that. We can't humiliate
ourselves, for God's sake ....

August 9:
I just don't know if
I can believe you,
wrote Audrey.
You
don't understand about George. It wasn't the same kind of thing at
all. I should never have told you, but I thought it would HELP you,
Carlyle. Oh, God. . .I don't want to fail, either. But I can't
believe you then I'm going to leave you, Carlyle, I swear it. I just
can't go on like this. I won't go on like this.

Alberg refolded the letters and put them back in the
box, under the jewelry. He sat for a long time, holding the black box
in his big, long-fingered hands, running the tips of his fingers over
the initials on the top, aware of the smoothness of the ebony, warmed
by his hands.

It had been like watching bits and pieces of an old
movie, starring actors he had heard of but never seen before. He felt
dazed, disoriented.

Maybe that's what did it, he thought, sitting in
Carlyle Burke's dusty toolshed. Maybe Carlyle invited him over and
spilled his guts, told him everything, confirmed all of George's
worst suspicions.

And confronted him, probably for the first time, with
whatever it was that George had once done that had let Carlyle Burke
feel less corrupt by comparison.

He got up slowly, folded the chair and put it away,
and, still holding the ebony box, went out of the toolshed and locked
it behind him.

He told Sanducci to stop the search.

When he got back to the office, for some reason not
clear to him he didn't tag the ebony box but put it in the bottom
drawer of his desk.

Then he went off to see George Wilcox.
 

CHAPTER 28

George was trying to pack. The clothes hadn't been
difficult. He'd just shoved them all into the suitcases he and Myra
used to use when they went traveling. There was still room left in
them, enough for whatever personal things he decided to take with
him, but the problem was that in wandering through his house he
couldn't find anything except clothes that he wanted to bring.

He had called a real estate agent and told him to put
the house up for sale. Maybe he should sell all the furniture with
it. What use would he have for furniture, anyway? Carol had a big
two-bedroom apartment filled with her own stuff; she certainly
wouldn't need any of his. He didn't have anything really good,
anyway; he and Myra had spent all their extra money on trips, and
never regretted a penny of it, either. Maybe he should take his
slides and photo albums. And he'd have to take his books. And surely
there must be lots more things, he thought with growing desperation,
that he couldn't bear to leave behind. He stood in his kitchen
looking around but couldn't see a single thing he didn't mind
abandoning.

Then through his window he saw his garden, and lifted
his hands and made a strange sound in his throat. He wouldn't want to
take it with him even if he could: he didn't deserve it any longer;
his life-guilt was much too heavy. It hurt his soul to see it spread
so joyously out there, unaware that he was deserting it, but he
refused to step outside. Never again would he go out there.

He went into his den and sat in the chair behind his
desk, wondering what to do next. He'd called the garage where his car
was being repaired and told them to sell it. He'd phoned the matron
at the hospital and let her know he wouldn't be going there any more.
Anybody else who ought to know he would write to from Vancouver.

He folded his arms on the desk and rested his head
there, and he heard Carlyle's nasal voice again, but this time he was
too tired, too tired to get up and get himself some coffee or sweep
the floor or do anything, anything at all, to push that voice out of
his head ....

How had he persuaded him to come? How had he done it,
anyway?

"George, it's Carlyle," he'd said briskly.
"I'm not feeling too well these days, George, don't think I've
got much longer to go, and I want to get some things said while
there's still time. Don't do it for me, George"—he'd chuckled,
here—"I know you'd never do anything for me, but do it for
Myra. You know how she was always trying to make things right between
us. And do it for Audrey, George. Come to see me. just once more."