This Little Piggy Went to Murder (29 page)

“I’d been accepted at Stanford for the beginning of winter term. I still hoped I might be able to make it, but my recovery took longer than anyone expected. The doctors helped, but they didn’t cure me. I did that myself. I also made some good friends while I was there. One woman in particular, an old Italian lady — Anna Casati — used to talk to me every night after dinner. She told me things about the history of this country I’d never heard before. If anyone is responsible for my interest in politics, she is. When I finally got to Stanford, I couldn’t get enough American history. It became my major and eventually the basis for my Ph.D.” He turned and looked thoughtfully out the window.

“The problem is that mental illness, as viewed by the American public, automatically disqualifies one for political office. It’s even worse now than when Senator Eagleton was dumped by George McGovern. You have to understand that our national character is essentially middle class. It’s highly suspicious. That means, anything we don’t immediately understand — anything that doesn’t fit the common mold — is suspect. It doesn’t matter that there
is
no absolute norm for human behavior or that our electoral process is completely hollow.”

“But you said in your Labor Day speech …”

Jack laughed. “This government runs on one thing, Sophie. Influence. It always has, always will. In public, I may appear to be a highly principled, ideological man. In private, l am as cynical a pragmatist as you will ever find. If I succeed at convincing the electorate that I’m Jimmy Stewart headed to Washington to restore The Dream, good for me. If I have to pay lip service to all the going superstitions of the day — right now they’re called
family values
— I’ll do that, too. In this nation, even to look outside our
cage
is an immoral act. We must dearly love the sight of our own prison bars, they’re so comforting. I don’t believe in the fairy tales our kids learn in high school history. I think it would be better to tell them the truth, but that’s not one of our current values. However, I do believe in the power of the single, truly elegant idea. No matter what problems I’ve had in my past, I’m going to get elected, Sophie. And I’m going to be a good — no, make that a great — senator. “

She felt the intensity behind his bright eyes. And, she couldn’t help but believe him. The only question that still bothered her was where did the real man leave off and the image begin? “I’d never do anything to prevent that dream, Jack. Surely you know that.”

He picked up the dagger-shaped letter opener and began playing with it. “Thank you. I’m going to take you at your word. You deserved an explanation. It’s not a period in my life that others can understand, so I don’t generally talk about it. I’ve taken a risk telling you all this. Don’t let me down.” Abruptly, he stood.

“One question,” said Sophie.

“Yes?”

“I just need to hear you say it. You didn’t have anything to do with these murders, did you?”

Jack shook his head. “You know, I’ve always found it strange, this manly American preoccupation with physical courage. The only real courage that matters in life is moral. No. I didn’t murder my father or Ryan or Sydney.”

“Do you believe in God, Jack?”

He smiled. “Mark Twain thought that if there was a God, he was evil. No, Sophie. I don’t. But don’t go telling that to
The Washington Post
”

Late that same afternoon, Sophie drove her car into the dirt parking lot at Castle Rock Tavern. She’d survived tea with Amanda earlier in the day and was now ready for a good, relaxing meal. Amanda had been understanding when she’d explained why she and Bram were taking a room in town. She’d even encouraged it. Still, Sophie felt a certain guilt about leaving at a time like this. Over the long afternoon, that feeling had turned into a permanent queasiness in thee pit of her stomach. Even though her mind anticipated a wonderful, juicy steak, she knew her digestion was on the verge of rebellion.

On the front deck she spotted Bram leaning against one of the wood pillars, watching several children collect driftwood from the beach. “Hi,” she shouted, sliding out of the car seat. “I found three hotels.”

He turned when he heard her voice. “We only need one.”

“Don’t be cute. I thought we could discuss them and then call for a reservation.” She stepped up on the deck and gave him a kiss. “You smell like a carp.”

“Thank you.”

“Were you waiting for me long?”

“Actually, I just said goodbye to Amanda. She left a few minutes ago.”

“That’s funny. I didn’t see her car.”

Bram pulled open the heavy door. “You came on the expressway. She took the scenic drive.” He led her to a table in the back.

“Where are your fishing buddies?”

“Steve drove into town to get his wife. Ted decided to go along for the ride. They should be back any minute.” He sat down and handed Sophie a menu.

“What was Amanda doing here?”

“When we arrived, she was sitting at the bar, drinking. She came over to the table, but said she couldn’t stay. She seemed pretty agitated. Said she needed to get up to Two Harbors to see Claire right away.”

“Then why didn’t she take the expressway?”

Bram shook his head. “Yeah, I thought about that, too. Maybe she had to stop by the house first. You just came from there, right? I assume you brought our suitcases. By the way, is Luther back yet?”

“He was released a few hours ago. Amanda brought him home and he went straight to bed. He looked completely worn out.”

“That was quick. Someone must have gotten a judge to charge him and post bail right away. That’s no small feat.” He waved at a waitress.

“Amanda said she had a good lawyer, but I know it was Jack’s doing. He’s got a lot of friends in this town.”

“Lucky Luther.”

Sophie wasn’t so sure. She felt ill-at-ease about leaving him there all alone. But Alice would be back soon. “This may sound kind of strange, but I think he may have been safer if he’d stayed in jail.”

Bram nodded at the menu. “Let’s order an appetizer. I’m starving.”

“All I want is coffee.”

The waitress arrived with two glasses of water.

“I’d like a large draft beer and an order of your famous homemade onion rings. My wife here, the ascetic, would like a cup of coffee. Black. And something to flog herself with. An old rope would be fine.”

The waitress cocked her head. “Yes, sir.” She walked off, muttering something under her breath.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today,” said Sophie, watching the waitress disappear into the bar.

“Listen, sweetheart, the police don’t go arresting people unless they have a pretty good reason. I know Luther is one of your dearest friends, but have you considered that he might actually be guilty? You can bet we don’t have all the facts.”

“I realize that.”

“But what? Something’s still bothering you. What is it?”

“Well, I had a long talk with Jack this morning. I asked him point-blank if he had anything to do with the murders.”

“And?”

“He pleaded not guilty. Said he didn’t murder his father, Sydney, or Ryan.”

“And you don’t believe him?”

“No, that’s just it. I do. But don’t you find it strange that he left out Lars Olson?”

“I don’t know. No, not really.”

“But think about it for a minute. Every one of these murders could easily have been committed by a woman — with the exception of Olson’s. I know Wardlaw said it was possible that a woman could have done that, too, but she’d have to be pretty strong and agile to get up on that bridge. It wouldn’t have been easy.”

“You think the murderer was a man, then?”

“I think the person who murdered Olson was a man, yes. I’m not so sure about the rest.”

“Two murderers? Let me get this straight. You think Jack might have murdered Olson, but not the other three?”

“I think it’s a definite
maybe
.” She leaned back as the waitress set her coffee down in front of her.

Bram took a long sip of beer. “Kind of farfetched. Where’d you come up with this?”

Sophie scratched her head. “Well, as I think about it, it must be something Luther said. When we talked last night, he mentioned that he was pretty sure he knew who was behind everything. It was one of his family or friends. He said he hoped this person wouldn’t get caught because he understood the motivation. Even sympathized. The thing is, he said he’d be a willing scapegoat if the police arrested him. I know Luther isn’t your typical, run-of-the-mill fellow, but that’s completely out of character. Unless?”

“Unless what?”

“Unless the murderer was Amanda. Or his daughter, Chelsea. Those are the only two people he would willingly give up his freedom for. When he threw in the words family and
friends
, it was justa way to muddy the waters. He didn’t want me to guess who he really suspected.”

“You think Jack was working with one of them?”

“I guess I do.”

Bram whistled. “Which?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know.”

The waitress arrived with a large platter of onion rings. “Would either of you like ketchup?”

“No,” said Bram, lifting a handful onto a small plate. “It’s against my wife’s religion. We’ll wait to order dinner until our friends arrive.”

The waitress stared at him for a moment. “Of course.” She nodded, and then left.

“That’s quite a theory, Sophie. I don’t know how you’re going to prove it.”

“I don’t either.” She popped an onion ring into her mouth and looked gloomy.

Bram sipped his beer, his eyes straying to the front door. “Here they are,” he said, standing up and waving two men and a woman over to the table. “Sophie, I’d like you to meet Ted Johnson. You already know Steve and Carol.”

Sophie stood and smiled. As they all took their seats, she caught Bram’s eye and motioned him aside. “Listen, honey, you’ll probably think this is crazy, but I want to drive back to Brule House for a few minutes. It won’t take me long.”

“But Sophie —”

“Really. I just want to check on Luther. Make sure he’s okay. He was asleep when I left. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Bram’s face sank as he watched the onion rings rapidly disappear. “Maybe I should come with you.”

“Absolutely not. You better get in there and fight for your food. I’ll be back before you finish your beer.”

“All right. But if I don’t see that smiling face of yours in fifteen minutes, I’m coming after you.”

“Fine.” She grabbed her purse and disappeared out the tavern door.

Amanda pulled a thick file of papers out of a drawer in the living room desk. Limply, she carried it over and dumped it on the coffee table. Sitting down in one of the wing chairs, she lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise into the darkened room. Claire had been smoking too much lately. She said stress weakened her resolve. Well, two could use that excuse. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flutter of movement. “Who’s there?” she called, turning her head. Someone had hesitated and then stopped in. the shadowy archway.

“It’s only me,” said Luther, stepping into the dim light.

He was holding a bottle of Scotch in one hand and a nearly empty glass in the other. “I didn’t expect to see you back here so early.”

Amanda studied the glowing tip of her cigarette. “I forgot some papers I needed.”

“Is that right? Well, I suppose since you’re here, I should tell you the big news.”

“What are you talking about? What news?”

He sat down opposite her. “Nothing terribly important. It’s only that I’ve discovered who’s responsible for all these murders.”

Amanda’s body stiffened. “Don’t joke about something so important.”

“I’m not joking.”

She watched him sip his drink. “All right. I’ll bite. What’s your theory?”

“It’s not theory. I’ve known for quite some time, but I haven’t said anything. It didn’t seem pertinent. Now it does.”

“Who? How?”

“Why, darling, I’ve rarely seen you grow monosyllabic so early in the evening. It usually takes two or three brandies before you lose your wonderful way with words.”

“Stop it. I hate it when you drink too much. Just tell me what you think you know.”

He tossed back the remainder of thegiass. “Still the disbeliever.” He clicked his tongue.

“Don’t play with me, Luther.”

“No? Perhaps you’re right. The direct approach is always best. All right: envelope please.” He whipped a piece of typing paper out of his pocket. “And the winner is?” With great flourish he stood, flapping the paper in front of him. “Jack Grendel.”

Amanda’s wariness turned instantly to anger. “Jack? What kind of game is this? You actually think you can get away with accusing my brother? I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? What’s that piece of paper you’re holding?”