The Suspect - L R Wright (7 page)

"Are you separated, or divorced, or something?"

"Divorced.”

She felt considerable relief. "Why are you
divorced?”

"We get moved around a lot. My wife finally got
tired of it. I don't blame her. We were in Kamloops before I came
here. We'd been there five years, and she'd started a little
business, a boutique. She didn't want to give it up."

Cassandra waited, but he didn't go on. "Do you
have any kids?”

"Two. They're in university now. In Calgary.
That's where their grandparents live. My ex-wife's parents."

Cassandra looked out over the water. She wondered why
his children hadn't wanted to go to university in Vancouver, where
they could be near their father. "Where did you learn to sail?"
she said.

"On Lake Ontario. That's where I grew up.
Toronto.”

"What kind of a policeman are you? You don't
give out traffic tickets and things like that, do you?"

"No.” He smiled again. "This is my
detachment. Sechelt. I do whatever comes along."

"
If this is your detachment," she said
hesitatingly, "then you must be involved in that awful thing,
that poor old Mr. Burke."

"Yeah."

"
The man who found the body—he's a friend of
mine.”

"George Wilcox?"

"He comes into the library a lot. We've become
friends.”

She felt an uneasy sense of caution. "He was
quite upset, I think."

"I'm sure he was.”

She finished her lunch in silence. He doesn't talk
about his work, she thought. She wondered if this was because she was
a stranger to him, or if he hadn't even talked about it with his
wife. She'd read somewhere that a lot of cops-police officers, she
corrected herself—were like that.

Over coffee they discussed the Sunshine Coast, and
Vancouver, and sailing. Cassandra kept trying to imagine him
brandishing a revolver and shouting, "Stop in the name of the
law!” He looked a bit old to be doing that sort of thing, actually.
Maybe he just did administrative work and delegated all the other
stuff.

"How many ads have you answered?" she asked
him.

"
Oh, two or three. Maybe four.”

She wanted to ask how successful these other meetings
had been. "Have you put in an ad of your own?" she said
instead.

"No."

"
Are you going to?"

"
I don't think so.”

"You'd get more replies than I have," said
Cassandra glumly. "There are hordes of women out there, just
hordes of them.”

"Yeah,” said Alberg, "but they all want
to get married.”

Cassandra looked at him with interest. "Oh, do
they?" she said casually. She glanced at her watch. "My
God, I've got to get back to work.”

"Me too," said Alberg. He put his
cigarettes and lighter in his pocket and laid money on top of the
bill. He got up and pulled back Cassandra's chair for her.

Outside the restaurant he walked her to her car. "How
long have you had this thing?" he said, looking critically at
the Hornet.

"All its life. Nine years." She put an
affectionate hand on its hood.

"
I'd like to see you again," he said. "But
I won't call you if you've already made up your mind that you don't
want to see me.”

Cassandra lowered her head to fish her sunglasses
from her purse. "Go ahead and call," she said carelessly.

He opened the door for her. "You ought to lock
it, you know."

"
I ought to exercise, too, and eat more salads."
She climbed in and slammed the door.

"
Thank you," said Alberg through the
window. "I enjoyed myself.”

"
Are you off duty?" said Cassandra. "Is
that why you're wearing that suit? If you don't mind my asking.”

"
I don't mind your asking. I'm going to a
funeral." He smiled. "I'll call you."

She watched him drive away. She didn't know yet
whether she liked him or not. She certainly didn't dislike him.

She started the car. It wouldn't hurt to see him
again, she thought, driving back to the library. Even though she'd
never been all that fond of blonds. And she'd certainly never
imagined herself dating a cop. A police officer.
 

CHAPTER 8

"Helen Morris, please."

"This is she."

"Mrs. Morris, _I'm Staff Sergeant Alberg of the R.C.M. Police
in Sechelt.”

"Oh, yes, Mr. Alberg.” Her voice was thin, gray. "I
think I remember you. Tall and fair-haired."

"Right.”

"You paid your respects, as I recall. When I was there to
make the arrangements."

"You didn't stay for the funeral," said Alberg.

"No." There was a pause. "It was today, wasn't it.”

"I kind of expected to see you there. I've got a few
questions—I'd hoped you'd be able to help us out a little more.”

"I don't see how I could,” she said. "As I told your
sergeant on Wednesday, I hadn't seen my brother in more than twenty
years. I haven't the faintest idea what he's been doing, who his
friends were.”

"Not even Christmas cards?"

She didn't reply.

"You didn't even exchange Christmas cards?”

"No, Mr. Alberg. We didn't.”

"Were you surprised to hear that he'd died?" Alberg
leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. He shifted the
phone to his other ear.

"Not particularly. He was eighty-five, after all."

"How old are you, Mrs. Morris?"

"I'm seventy-six. But healthy."

"Were you surprised by the will?"

She laughed. "As you've just discovered, he never even sent
me a Christmas card. Why should I be surprised that I don't figure in
his will? I wouldn't have taken anything from him, anyway.”

"Were you surprised to hear how he'd died?” Alberg squinted
his eyes almost closed, as though by diminishing his vision he could
make his hearing more acute.

He heard her sigh. "Of course I was surprised,” she said
irritably. "I'm not accustomed to having acquaintances who get
themselves murdered."

"Acquaintances?" Alberg let his voice fill with
amazement. Another silence. "He wasn't much more than that, Mr.
Alberg. I regret having to say so, but it's true.”

"Do you have any other brothers? Any sisters?"

"No. There were just the two of us."

"So he was your only living relative.”

"In the sense you mean it, yes. I have three children. My
husband died several years ago. Forgive me, but I really don't see
the point of your questions."

"I was just thinking that it must be very sad to have been
estranged for so long from your only brother. It must have been a
great sadness in your life, and in his.” He winced, telling himself
not to overdo it.

"Estrangement, Mr. Alberg, implies a previous affection.
There was never any affection between Carlyle and me. Therefore we
were never estranged, and the situation was never a sad one."

Alberg removed his feet from his desk and sat up. "What was
the situation between you, Mrs. Morris?" He went on quickly,
before she could tell him it was none of his business. "You see,
so far we don't have any suspects in your brother's homicide. In
order to try to find out who did this to him, it's necessary to know
something about him. What kind of man was he? Did he, for example,
make friends easily?”

He waited, and the long-distance seconds ticked by, but she didn't
reply.
 
"He lived here for five years, Mrs.
Morris," he said. "Played the piano at the old folks'
dances, sang in the men's choir down at the Old Age Pensioners' hall,
played bingo nearly every week, even went on a couple of bus tours to
Reno." He paused; no response. "Quite a sociable fellow,
your brother." He picked up a pen and began doodling on a
routine letter from division headquarters. "Yet you know, the
funny thing is, he doesn't seem to have had any particular friends.
He only did things in groups. Does that sound like your brother to
you?"

"I keep telling you," she said sharply, "that I
hadn't seen him in twenty years. You could tell me anything at
all—I'd have to believe it. The man was a stranger to me."

He liked the sound of her voice, as he had liked the brief glimpse
of her which she had permitted the village during her quick trip to
arrange for her brother's burial. She was tall and straight and thin,
well dressed, with coiffured white hair and a lift to her chin She
had been brisk and businesslike, in Sechelt.

"It wasn't that people didn't like him, exactly," said
Alberg thoughtfully. "Most people described him as the life of
the party, that sort of thing." He tossed the pen aside and
leaned back. "But there were a couple of people who told us they
felt kind of uncomfortable with him. And this interests me, as you
might imagine.”

"Really,” said Carlyle Burke's sister, politely.

"Yeah. That's all we've got. Some people felt uncomfortable
with him. They said things like. . ."—he shoved the defaced
letter aside and ruffled through the file on his desk—"I'm
quoting, now. 'He made me nervous with all his boisterousness.' And,
'It was like he was always acting a part, and you'd wish and wish
he'd give it a rest now and then but he never did.' And, 'I don't
like to speak ill of the dead, but whenever he asked me to dance I'd
try to find an excuse; the way he liked to fling people around when
he was dancing-well, it was too much for me, I'm seventy-eight years
old.'” Alberg rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes and waited.
"Nothing serious there," he said absentmindedly. "It
just got me thinking, that's all.”

' "No," said Mrs. Morris. "No, it doesn't sound
particularly serious."

Alberg sat up. "In the twenty years since you saw him,"
he said amicably, "who did you talk to about him, and what did
you tell them?"

"What makes you think lever talked about him? To anyone?"

"I don't know. But I'm sure you did."

He imagined her sitting at a small desk under a window. There
would be white curtains at the window, the kind that hung straight to
the floor. Maybe the desk had pigeonholes. It was probably made of
dark wood, and it probably shone in the light from the window, or the
lamp that would be standing next to it. He saw her fidgeting with the
telephone cord, wrapping it around her lingers, unwrapping it,
wrapping it again around her lingers, marking them.

"I can fly out to Winnipeg to see you," he said softly,
"if that would be easier for you. Maybe talk to your children,
too, while I'm there.”

"There's no need for that," she said coldly. "They
never met him. They never laid eyes on him. I made sure of that."

He waited again, and when she finally began to speak her voice was
toneless. She spoke quickly, and Alberg gave an inaudible sigh of
relief.

"He was nine years older than I. He taunted me when I was a
child, baited me when I was an adolescent. My parents punished him,
but it didn't do any good. He didn't like me, that's all. Maybe if I
had been born when he was younger, or older .... I'm trying to be
charitable. Really, I don't believe it would have made the slightest
difference. He just didn't like me, that's all. So of course
eventually—it didn't take long—I didn't like him, either. It's as
simple as that.”

"Was he physically cruel to you?"

"Oh, not really. It was nothing like that," she said
quickly.

"Did he get into trouble at school, for the same kinds of
things?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. I was nine years younger
than he; that's a big difference, when you're children."

"Was he ever married?”

Another pause. "Good heavens, Mr. Alberg. He was married to
George Wilcox's sister. I'm astonished that you didn't know. "

Alberg stared blankly at the photograph of his daughters that hung
next to his desk. "Jesus. So am l."

"But perhaps it isn't so surprising after all," she
said, almost comfortingly. "It was a long time ago—thirty
years ago. And the marriage only lasted two years. Audrey was killed
in a car accident."

"Thirty years ago. You mean he was fifty-five before he got
married?"

"Yes."

"Why did he wait so long?"

"I really haven't the faintest idea." She sounded cool,
now. "Did you go to his wedding?"

"I hadn't any choice. My mother was still alive—it would
have upset her if I'd stayed away."

"You met his wife, then, and her brother?"

"I met Audrey. I don't remember meeting George. I remember
that she spoke of him with great affection, and that he gave her
away, but I don't remember him.”

"Did you see him this week, while you were in Sechelt?"

"No."

Alberg frowned, irritated. All this was very interesting, but what
the hell did it mean, if anything?

"Tell me about Audrey," he said.

"I only saw her a few times, over a period of a couple of
days. She was lovely.” Alberg could hear her smile. "Absolutely
a lovely person. Not so much in the way she looked, although she was
very pretty. It was more—oh, a kind of singing in her, if you know
what I mean." Alberg wished he could see her face. "I was
amazed that she was going to marry Carlyle—she was twenty years
younger—and that she behaved so fondly toward him, and seemed so
happy." She gave a bitter laugh. "But nothing lasts, does
it, Mr. Alberg? Two years later, she was dead.”

"Some things last, Mrs. Morris," said Alberg gently.
"You hated him, and that sure lasted, didn't it?"

She sighed. "I can't help you," she said wearily. "l
have no idea who could have killed him. You'll probably find it was
one of those senseless acts of—of random violence. There's a lot of
that, these days, isn't there?"