Authors: Helen Nielsen
“There’s not much chance of that,” Jaime said bitterly, “not from what I’ve heard so far…. Steve, what about the police? Have they any leads at all?”
Steve removed the cap from the vitamin bottle and shook two pills into the palm of his hand. “I checked with Captain Lennard just two days ago,” he said. “There have been rumors … a few vagrants picked up and questioned. Nothing definite.”
“But does he think there’s a chance of finding the killer?”
Steve swallowed the pills and finished off the cup of coffee. He looked up with what was meant to be a reassuring smile. “Oh, always a chance,” he answered. “In five or six years, someone may walk into a police station in Fort Worth or Phoenix and confess the whole story…. Jaime, that’s straight from headquarters. The police have certain procedures, certain tests and checks and patterns to follow; but once these things have been done it’s a largely a matter of waiting for a break. They don’t fight windmills.”
“The way I do?”
“Since you ask—yes.”
“Then it comes back to selling the house?”
“I recommend it.”
Jaime seemed persuaded. He pulled the pen out of the holder; then dropped it back. Then he looked up at Steve, squarely. “Do you know who killed Sheilah?” he asked.
It was an unexpected question. Steve rocked back in his chair and studied Jaime’s face. He was a very troubled young man. “Why do you ask a crazy question like that?” Steve demanded.
“I’m not so sure it’s crazy,” Jaime said. “I think you know more than you’ve told me.”
“In God’s name, why? Jaime, we went through the inquest together—” Jaime’s eyes wouldn’t look away. Steve had no choice but to meet them. “This is another reason why I think you should leave Cypress Point for a while. You’re too sensitive. A gossip in a grocery store sets you off—”
“Where’s Sheilah’s photograph?” Jaime asked.
“Photograph?”
“The one in the silver frame. It matched the pen set. Sheilah gave them to you.”
Steve was confused. He had to link ideas together. “I broke it,” he said. “It fell off the desk.” And then he laughed, sharply, and came to his feet. “Jaime, don’t tell me you’re superstitious too! The next thing, you’ll be hearing voices!”
“I have heard voices,” Jaime said.
Steve sobered quickly. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Jaime, look,” Steve said. “It’s daylight. It’s bright morning daylight in the twentieth century. You have a lovely wife who doesn’t want a haunted husband.” He reached across the desk and clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Now, if something’s bothering you that I don’t know about and can help—”
Jaime looked at Steve in a strange and penetrating manner. Nothing was said, but Steve’s hand dropped away as if it had been caught in a guilty act. Steve wasn’t a huckster by nature. In a quieter voice he added, “Think of Greta, Jaime. That’s all I ask. Think of Greta.”
When Jaime left, the remnant of Steve’s huckster smile faded. He walked soberly back to his desk. Jaime’s aim was off. The pen had fallen free of the silver base. Steve replaced it and then stalked to the window. Across the bay the sun played on the glass roof of Sheilah’s house, bright and beckoning. Steve reached down to the window ledge where he kept a pair of binoculars, raised them, and studied the distant point. Then his glasses lowered to the beach. They held. For some moments he did nothing but stare at the figure of a man in a tweed suit who was strolling along the beach. There was no doubt of it. It was Dr. Curry.
When Jaime returned to the cottage, Greta was gone. She had left a note:
“Need exercise. Walking to village to open store. Sorry, darling, the honeymoon is over.”
That was Greta. Too anxious to get on with the business of living to stay in the cottage even one full day. Jaime mulled over what Steve had told him. He was right. People would talk; they always had. Sheilah Dodson’s bad-boy brother had been on the public tongue for years. This time it was harder to bear because the gossip was murder; but it was easier to bear because he didn’t have to face it alone.
Suddenly Jaime was happy. Dark thoughts were for foggy nights. Albert Trench was a narrow-minded prig. Chad Winters was dry and withered inside. His customers were probably all frustrated old maids who hated everyone capable of love. But Greta was alive and wonderful, and Greta was his. Sheilah’s long domination was broken. She couldn’t reach beyond the grave and destroy him now.
And so Jaime waited until almost noon and then climbed into the convertible and drove to the village. Midday. Mid-autumn. October was October everywhere. If no leaves turned and no frost appeared, it was still autumn. If no bonfires of dead leaves sent ghost fingers to the sky (by order of the Cypress Point Fire Department: pickup weekly by Coastal Rubbish Disposal as duly contracted for by the City Council), it was still autumn. The sea knew it. The air knew it. The smart whisper of rubber on the highway knew it. It was autumn, and the off-season rental prices were listed in every realtor’s office. The long quiet of winter was beginning.
Greta’s shop was on the main street, parallel to the beach—a small, glass-fronted cavern filled with crystal, silver, and ceramic imports. Jaime found her arranging a display table of dinnerware. He entered quietly, stepped up behind her, and kissed the back of her neck. It made her mouth easier to reach when she whirled about.
“Time for lunch,” he said. “No wife who supports me is going to work on an empty stomach.”
Greta laughed. “Now I know why I married you. It’s those thoughtful little traits.”
“Of course it is. I’ll even let you pay for the lunch. I forgot to stop at the bank.”
Greta pulled free and returned to the display table. “In just about five minutes,” she said. “I’m too late to catch the Halloween trade, but I have some wonderful things for Thanksgiving. And I’m working up quite a following for Christmas.”
“With mistletoe?” Jaime suggested.
“I never thought of that.”
“Then forget I mentioned it. The steady clientele might object.”
They were alone in the shop. Greta was almost finished with the table when the front door opened. A small bell jangled. She looked up, expectantly. The door remained open for a moment, held by a woman about to enter the shop. But she was interrupted by another woman. They chatted earnestly for a moment. The door closed again and the two women walked away. Greta watched the tableau with a worried frown nagging her forehead.
“Cheer up,” Jaime said. “She probably wouldn’t have bought anything anyway.”
“But she always did,” Greta reflected. “That was Mrs. Pearson—one of my best customers…. Jaime, that same thing happened earlier today. One of my steadies started to come into the shop and then changed her mind.”
“Have you had any customers?”
“A few. Winter tourists, I think. None of the regulars. I thought, after being closed—” Greta looked at Jaime’s face. It was darkening with anger. Quickly she added: “Oh, they probably don’t realize I’m back…. Where shall we eat?”
Greta had a light way of disposing of heavy moments. There was a small dressing room in the rear of the shop; she went back to wash up, leaving Jaime alone. He moved across the room to examine a new line of handmade ties. His back was to the door when it opened again. He heard the little bell and looked about. A man and a woman entered the shop together: middle-aged, well-dressed, Cypress Point bourgeois. They didn’t see Jaime. They advanced to the cashier’s desk and waited, awkwardly, self-consciously, as if each needed the other for moral support. They were there when Greta came out of the dressing room.
“Oh,” she said. “Mrs. Moore—and Mr. Moore. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the bell.” She glanced across the store expectantly, but Jaime was out of sight. “I was about to step out to lunch,” she added.
Mrs. Moore looked questioningly at her husband. He nodded and nudged her arm.
“We won’t keep you,” she said. “We won’t take a minute.”
Greta smiled. “I know. You’re here about the silver service for the Booster Club gift…. I’m terribly sorry, but it hasn’t arrived yet. You said you wouldn’t need it until mid-December.”
“Well, actually,” Mrs. Moore said, “we aren’t here for
that
.” The awkward silence came again. Mr. Moore nudged again. “Actually,” Mrs. Moore added, her voice an octave higher, “the board of directors held a special meeting last night. They decided the choice of gift wasn’t—well, wasn’t exactly what they wanted.”
Greta was surprised. “Not exactly …?”
“We decided luggage would be better. Mrs. Hymes likes to travel—”
“But I don’t understand,” Greta protested. “When you ordered the silver you said the club was tired of giving luggage to every outgoing president.”
Mr. Moore cleared his throat impatiently. “Miss Muldoon,” he said, “my wife just told you the board of directors made a decision. She’s here to cancel the order.”
It was blunt and definite. Greta was shocked. Before she could comment, Jaime strode across the room.
“The lady’s name is Mrs. Dodson,” he said, “not Miss Muldoon. Is that your problem, Mrs. Moore?”
Mrs. Moore stared at Jaime’s angry face and edged closer to her husband. “I don’t understand,” she gasped.
“Is that the problem of the Booster Club? Greta Muldoon, the nice girl with the charming little gift shop, married that terrible Jaime Dodson—and his sister’s murder still unsolved!”
“Jaime,” Greta protested, “don’t say another word! … It’s all right, Mrs. Moore. I’ll cancel the order. There’s a small deposit …”
“Keep the deposit!” Moore snapped. “Honey, let’s get out of here.” He took his wife’s arm and tried to move away, but Jaime blocked the exit.
“Mrs. Dodson has no intention of keeping the deposit,” he said. “If the Booster Club doesn’t want to do business with her, she doesn’t want the Booster Club’s money.”
“Dodson, you’re a hotheaded fool!” Moore said. “You had one break! Don’t push your luck!”
“A break!” Jaime repeated. “I was one of five people who were invited to Sheilah’s dinner party the day she died. One of five! But now it seems that I’m guilty of something—and my wife is guilty too! What is it? That’s all we want to know. What is it?”
Greta’s frantic signals were a lost cause. Jaime belligerently blocked Moore’s way. Moore tried to push him aside.
“I asked a question, Mr. Moore.”
“Some people,” Moore replied tightly, “just don’t like other people. Does that answer your question?”
It was an answer, but it didn’t help Jaime’s blood pressure. Something had to give. It did. It was his fist in Mr. Moore’s nicely shaved and lotioned face.
Jaime was no stranger to the Cypress Point police station. When Captain Lennard arrived, he’d been in a cell a brief fifteen minutes—the shortest period of incarceration in his colorful career of misdemeanors. Greta was at the bank raising cash for the fine.
Lennard stood outside the cell door and studied him quizzically. “What is it with you?” he asked. “Why can’t you keep out of trouble?”
“I lost my temper,” Jaime said.
“But Leo Moore’s president of the City Council. Couldn’t you find someone less influential when you feel the need of self-expression?” And then Lennard grinned. “I can name a few people—and one of them standing just a few feet from you at the moment—who might like to strike off a small medal in your honor, but repression can be the greater part of valor.”
Jaime got up from the cot and walked to the cell door. “Why don’t you unlock this thing?” he said.
“I will … when your fine’s paid,” Lennard said.
Jaime poked in his pockets for a cigarette. “Well, then, at least give me a light.” Lennard produced a lighter and held it out between the bars until Jaime got his light. “City Council,” he mused. “I’ll have to remember to register for the next election.”
“Vindictive?”
“Civic-minded…. Lennard, what’s going on in this town? Everywhere I go I get the same reaction. I’m as welcome as a leper.”
Lennard flicked the lighter on and off a few times and returned it to his pocket. “It isn’t you,” he said. “It’s murder. People resent murder—especially one like your sister’s. It upsets their faith in justice and happy endings. Nobody sleeps easy until they have a murderer to match every murder. Neat. Like togetherness.”
“Then find the murderer!” Jaime said. “I’ll sleep easier too.”
“You,” Lennard remarked dryly, “will be awake easier. Jaime, lad, you don’t understand. Your chickens are coming home to roost. You’ve spent ten years stirring up as much hell as possible in Cypress Point. You tell people the truth about themselves. Nobody likes to hear anything that unflattering. Sheilah had more tact—”
“Sheilah was an operator,” Jaime said.
“In a society of operators, that’s the best thing to be. Honesty makes people uncomfortable…. As far as finding Sheilah’s murderer is concerned—it’s strange, but we haven’t had so much as a burglary since her death.”
“What does that mean?”
“Good pinochle games.” And then Lennard looked at Jaime closely, intently. “Jaime,” he said, “what’s wrong with you anyway?”
Jaime was a fast smoker. Short, quick drags. He took one last one and dropped the stub to the cement floor. He ground it out with his heel and looked up to see Lennard still staring at him.
“I’ve had you in this jail twenty or thirty times in the past ten years,” he said. “Every charge from drunk, disorderly, and passing bad checks that Sheilah always covered. You’re tough. Mad at the world. I know you. There’s a volcano inside, but volcanoes are illegal—”
“Captain,” Jaime protested, “let’s skip the analysis.”
“I’d rather not. In fact, that’s what I’m leading up to. What did the head doctor tell you?”
“Head doctor?”
There was this about Jaime Dodson—he had no guile. If he asked a question, surprised and bewildered, it meant he was surprised and bewildered. Lennard knew this. Jaime was confused; he wasn’t a liar.
“Don’t you remember the head doctor?” Lennard asked. “At the hospital. After you were picked up at Hanson’s Pier.”
“There were two state psychiatrists,” Jaime reflected. “They testified at the hearing.”
“Do you remember them at the hospital?”