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The Killing Edge

Richard Forrest

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

For Bo,

who spent her time

in the warming hut, helping.

Chapter One

The light mounted over the small dock cast a glow on the ice in the distance. The wind from the Sound that swept across the estuary turned cool and whipped painfully against her face. She made a tight turn, and her skate blades swept a sheen of ice to the side. She had moved too far from shore toward the main channel where the ice crusted in uneven ridges. Further movement in that direction could be dangerous, and she began to skate back toward the pier in easy gliding turns.

As the Datsun 710 idled, L.C. Converse listened to the magnetic whine for a moment before bending deep under the hood of the car. The drive belt and water pump had checked out. It had to be a shorted diode in the alternator. A note on the service board for Little John to perform an alternator output test in the morning would solve the problem.

L.C. slammed the hood shut, turned off the ignition, and then turned to walk through the quiet service department toward the showroom. The last mechanic had left an hour ago, and now only four cars, waiting for early morning work, occupied the bays. By nine the next morning the floor would be full, with other cars waiting for repair parked in the lot outside.

In the showroom Vic Mange was dusting floor models with a chamois cloth. He stopped as L.C. entered, gave his checkered sports jacket a tug, and rendered a two-finger salute.

“It’s starting to snow, L.C. Want me to close up early?”

“O.K., if it keeps up. Otherwise, see if you can push wagons. We’re top heavy in inventory.”

“Right.” He again gave the casual salute and returned to dusting cars.

Snow had begun to fall. It slanted across her face and clouded her eyes, while in the distance, like white mantled insects it swirled around the distant dock light. It was time to leave for the warmth of the house. She shivered as the chill combination of wind and snow penetrated the ski jacket. It would be quicker to leave the ice at the dock rather than at the water steps near her own home. She began to skate in long even strides toward the pier.

Recessed lights hidden in the ceiling molding and a small Scandinavian desk lamp flickered on with a touch of the wall switch near the door. L.C. thought it was a showy office, furnished to impress franchise inspectors, bankers and customers, rather than adhere to the needs of its owner who spent more time on the service floor than seated behind the highly polished rosewood desk.

Two sets of closing documents with loan papers were arranged neatly near the lamp ready for initialing. L.C. sat at the desk and leafed expertly through the packages.

It was obvious from the second set that Vic was overselling again. The applicant was an eighteen-year-old cook at a fast food franchise, and unless he decided to take all his meals at work, the payments would murder him. A clean used model would be more appropriate. A scribbled comment would set Vic right.

A phalanx of photographs on the wall behind the desk showed L.C. in racing coveralls standing next to a 250 GT Ferrari at Daytona, Danville and Rheims. The trophies were set in a case near the settee in the far corner.

Her hand slipped away from the ladder rung as the ice beneath her gave way and she slid into the chill water. Her body convulsed as cold shock increased her heart beat. Moving her arms in awkward motions she regained the surface and groped for the ladder. She grasped an icy rung as her skates fought for purchase on the rungs under water. Her breath came in wracking gasps as she used her arms and shoulders to pull herself toward the decking.

L.C. flipped on the intercom when it buzzed. “Yes, Vic?”

“There’s a Eddie Bennett out here who says he’s a job applicant.”

“Tell him to come back during business hours. Never mind, send him in.”

Eddie Bennett gave a wave as he crossed the office, slouched in the chair before the desk, and threw a leg over the chair arm. He smiled at L.C. as he took a package of gum from his breast pocket and inserted two sticks in his mouth. He was in his early thirties, with dark complexion and hair. He was tall, slim-hipped, and wore tight pants and a beige sport shirt open to the third button.

“Tell the boss I’m here.”

“I’m the boss.”

“I’d like to see L.C. Converse about the service manager’s job.”

“Do you always come late for appointments?”

“I was in the neighborhood. Come on, honey. Tell the man I’m here.”

“I’m L.C. Converse.”

He smiled broadly as his lips pursed an elongated, “Oh.”

She looked away from his eyes to search the desk for a scratch pad. “Do you have a resume?”

“I’m a mechanic and service manager, not a typist. I’ve been at Farrell’s Chevrolet for the past couple of years.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“I was fired.”

“At least that’s an honest response. Do you mind telling me why?”

“Paying too much attention to Mrs. Farrell’s Chevrolet. I guess I wouldn’t have that problem here.”

Their eyes met and she looked away. “You wouldn’t. Any experience with foreign makes?”

“If it’s got wheels and an engine front or rear, I can fix it.” He looked past her at the racing photographs behind the desk, and then over toward the trophy case in the corner. “Hey, it’s coming back to me. You’re L.C. Converse, one of the first women to drive professionally.”

“I was a driver.”

“Was?”

“I had an accident at Daytona last year. Come on, let’s see what you can do.”

As she led him toward the service area she imagined his eyes on her back, and she became self-conscious of her slight limp. She stopped at the Datsun 710 in the third service bay and started the engine.

Eddie Bennett leaned against the wall, chewed gum, and looked casually around the empty garage.

“You don’t seem to be paying much attention,” she said and snapped off the ignition.

“I heard it.”

“I would expect my service manager to make a tentative guess as to the trouble with this car.”

He looked at her and smiled. “There’s a shorted diode in the alternator.”

She blinked. “That’s very good.”

“I’m very good.”

“And vain.”

“I drive too. Never had a good car to work with, but I can drive like hell.”

“I bet you can.”

“Thought you’d be interested.”

“A lot of people think they can drive production class, but few do it well.”

“Are you always so serious?”

“Usually.” She slammed the Datsun’s door and walked back toward the showroom. “We have a heavy clientele of women. They seem to trust us here, perhaps because I’ve been my own service manager for the past several years.”

“I get along with women.”

I bet you do, L.C. thought. “I would have to take you on a trial basis at $275 a week.”

“I’ll be here in the morning.”

“The mechanics start at eight. I expect the service manager to be here at 7:30,” L.C. said and went into the office without looking back. She sat at the desk and wondered why she’d hired him, even on a temporary basis. Perhaps because there were certain qualities in him that reminded her of Frank. She shook her head. She wouldn’t think about that.

There was a grease smudge on one of the documents, and she frowned. They would have to be retyped, and in the morning Jane Ellen would try erasure, make it worse, and mutter to herself as she redid them.

Stripping off the coveralls and stuffing them in the hamper on the bathroom door, L.C. adjusted the needle spray shower. It was nearly time for her dinner date. Tomorrow’s chores clicked by in random sequence. If the snow continued the shop would be slow, and it would be a good time to tune the Ferrari. Then there was the problem of Jane Ellen’s underwear—or the lack of it. It would be propitious to wait until the buxom secretary had retyped the closing papers before discussing that situation. It had to be done—every time she left the office to walk to the parts or service desk, all work on the line stopped.

It was also becoming obvious that she and Vic were getting involved, and that recently Converse Motors’ sales manager had decided that Jane Ellen was to be his next consummated transaction. Let her turn Vic on during her own time.

A booted foot clumped down on her fingers. She groaned, withdrew her hand, and held precariously to the side of the ladder. She looked up, frightened, but the flare of the spotlight obscured the features of the figure looming over her. The foot swung forward with a kick that knocked her from the ladder and back into the water.

L.C. dried with a large terrycloth towel and examined her reflection in the full length mirror. Her breasts were a little too small and her nose a little too large, although Will often said that it showed her good New England heritage. The legs were long, although marred by the still-red scar along one thigh. As long as she didn’t wear a bikini it wouldn’t show, she thought, and then smiled at the touch of vanity.

If she insisted, they could drive the Ferrari tonight, although with the snow that might not be the best idea. The red car was her job. Several years ago it had been driven off an embankment by a slightly intoxicated actor who was playing at a nearby summer theatre. It had been totaled by the insurance company, and she had been able to buy it for parts. It had taken a year to rebuild the magnificent machine. It had a 3-liter engine in V-12 formation, three Weber carburetors lay in a valley between the heads that revued to 7,000 rpm and developed 280 horsepower. Will hated it, and said it wasn’t driven, it was aimed. If Eddie Bennett was any good they might be able to enter it in production class this spring. She shook her head. She had never seen the man drive, the idea was preposterous.

Considering the storm, the morning’s choice of clothing had been excellent: white pants, boots, blouse and fisherman’s knit sweater. She scrubbed grease from her nails, made a few hasty passes at her closely cropped hair, dressed quickly, and went back to the office.

As she picked up the sales papers to take them to Jane Ellen’s desk, she found herself looking at the two pictures in the silver frame on the edge of the desk.

L.C. sat down heavily and stared at the photographs.

She was in the water trying to swim away from the dock and her attacker. The ice had broken away near the ladder, but a little farther out it hardened to a thick crust. She turned toward the shore a few feet away and fought the ice with her elbows as she tried to reach shallow water.

It had been years since they had died, and often days would pass without conscious thought until, as if from a hidden thundercloud appearing over a mountain range and sweeping across the land, the loss would strike. It sapped her strength and removed coherent thought until she sank into a dark void of depression.

The loss of her husband and her father consumed her, and she lay her head across her arms and wept.

Today was the anniversary of their deaths, a fact she had repressed all day in a round of ceaseless activity. It had been such a senseless thing, and now it welled to the surface, not to be ignored.

Frank had worked so long and hard at the service station, and they had just obtained the dealership. The main building was still under construction and she had been working in this very room. Five years ago it had been a bare and functional room without furnishings or paneling. They had taped to the walls several travel posters of places they’d promised each other they’d eventually visit. She had kept the books on a card table and typed the correspondence on a small metal bench they’d bought at a junk sale. They had both been filled with the wonderment of the future.

She had been working at the card table near the window when out of the corner of her eye she had seen her father pull the police cruiser onto the service station apron and park beyond the pump island. It had been his habit, during his rounds, to stop at the station, grab a soft drink from the vending machine, and exchange a few words with Frank.

On that day five years ago, as she had idly watched from the window, her father had parked, gotten out of the cruiser, and taken three steps toward the station when the shotgun blast knocked him backwards.

She had screamed as the young man with the shotgun had backed from the station office. The gun had wavered nervously from her fallen father back to Frank in the station door. Her husband had hesitated a moment, and then begun to run across the apron toward her father.

The second blast had knocked Frank from his feet and killed him instantly.

Her father had managed to fire three times before he died. The heavy magnum shells cut through the young man with the shotgun until three men lay dead on the apron beyond her window.

L.C. cried without sound against the polished surface of her desk.

She reached shore and pulled herself onto the grass now covered with a light layer of snow. In panic she hobbled, splay-footed toward the house, hearing the clump of boots on the dock behind her. She tried to cry out, but only guttural choking sounds came from the depths of her throat.

“Let’s not do that,” a deep voice said softly from the doorway.

She looked up at Will in the doorway and brushed tears away with the back of her hand. He was a man of large proportions, with a thick neck, massive shoulders, and hips that gave him a chunky appearance. During the past year, as he spent more time behind a desk, his abdomen had begun to protrude over his belt. His features were deeply cut with a quality that could change from sternness to compassion almost instantaneously. He smiled as he stepped into the room.

“I remembered,” she said.

“I thought I’d find you under the hood of your red monster.” She didn’t answer. “I know what day it is,” he said quietly.

“I thought I had fooled myself enough to let the day drift by. I almost made it.”

“You look ready. How about lobster at the End of the Pier?”

“You’ll spoil me.” She slipped a Kleenex from the center of the desk and dabbed at her eyes. “You know I have a weakness in that area.”

“Spoiling isn’t exactly what I have in mind when I buy lobster dinners prefaced by cocktails and accompanied with good wine.”

“You can’t afford all that.”

“I figured we’d go dutch.”

“That spoils the seduction.”

“It works if I pay for yours and you pay for mine.”

“Oh, Will … my God!” L.C. threw herself across the room and fell into the large man’s arms. He held her tightly against his chest as she buried her head in his shoulder with small tremors quivering along her back.

“It’s all right, Laura, it’s all right.”

“Five years, Will. Five years, and right now I miss them both as if it were yesterday.”

“Try not to think about it.”

She was being carried and dragged across the white-green lawn. She struggled, but the hands on her arms made her powerless, while the slippery ground and unsteady purchase of the skates made it impossible to run. The back door was pushed open and she stumbled into the mudroom to fall to the floor with a whimper. She half turned and began to crawl across the floor until the hands grabbed her arm and leg and began to pull her through the house.

“It was such a senseless thing,” she said. “Two good men dead, the one who did it was only sixteen.”

“It was bad luck, L.C. The kid had already cleaned out the register. If your father hadn’t pulled up at that exact moment, if he had been two minutes later …”

She pushed out of his arms with determination. “O.K., it was five years ago, we won’t think about it anymore tonight. You really want lobster?”

“Absolutely. Luigi says he’ll let us in the kitchen to pick our own.”

“I’m famished,” she said although it wasn’t true. “Let me straighten up a sec.” She went back to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. She dabbed at her eyes until a cool blue gaze was reflected back, and then a few more brushes to realign the hair. She adjusted a small white beret and went back to Will.

She left the office without a backward glance and let him turn off the lights and lock the door. In the showroom, Vic Mange was at the small sales desk huddled over a telephone in whispered conversation. Jane Ellen, she thought, and made another mental note of things to do tomorrow.

Vic waved and covered the mouthpiece. “Take it easy, you two. Weather report is for over a foot.”

“Close it up, Vic. We’re not going to sell anything tonight.”

“Right, L.C.”

Will took her arm as they walked in the falling snow toward where their cars were parked. “I was working on a 710 a while ago. I think it’s the diode, but I should have checked the alternator bearings,” she said.

“For Christ’s sake, L.C. knock it off. My car or yours?”

“That almost sounds like an improper suggestion.”

“Mine then,” he said as he opened the door of the unmarked police car. “That damn thing of yours idles at sixty.”

“You shouldn’t put chains on until the snow’s deeper. It’s bad for the road bed.”

“It’s SOP to put them on as soon as it starts. Come on, our clawed friends are waiting.”

The weight of the body across her hips made it impossible to kick out. Hands fumbled at her clothing, unzipped her jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, wrenched off the skates. Naked, she cried in terror.

Will Barnes turned away from the car agency and drove cautiously down Main Street toward the shore. They were both quiet, the only sound came from the swish of the wipers and the clack of the chains.

“I hired a new service manager today,” she finally said.

“It’s about time. You need someone in the shop.”

“It was odd. I made up my mind faster than I usually do. I think it’s because he reminds me a little of Frank.”

Will looked over at her for a quick moment and then back to the road. “Oh.”

“He seems to know what he’s doing, but it’s only on a trial basis. Do you know that this buggy of yours needs a valve job?”

Will laughed. “How can you tell?”

“Listen to it, you big lug.”

“The only thing I hear is that you sound better.”

“I’ll be even better after a martini.”

“How about two or three?”

“I’ll consider it.”

They let the snow-night close around them and lapsed into the comfortable silence of people who’ve known each other a long time. L.C. turned to lean against the door. She watched the large police officer drive with nonchalant ease. He drove as he did most things in life, with care and precision, always ready to take quick action if necessary.

It had been the three of them for so much of her life. At first Will and Frank were constantly engaged in mysterious boyhood things and barely tolerated her. In high school they changed as they became aware of her as a person. The attention increased until she began to date Frank. Even then the two men had been dissimilar. Frank was reckless, car crazy, spending all his free time working on a stock car, and entering his first local race at eighteen. Steady Will, with them when he wasn’t working, was always ready to loan Frank a few dollars for gasoline or parts.

Reluctantly Will had broken away and started to date Cathy Newcomb. Then it had become the four of them, through school and afterwards—so many places, so many times. They had all married—Will and Cathy, she and Frank. Frank eventually bought the service station and Will joined the force to serve under L.C.’s father.

The bond between her and Will had grown stronger when, two years after Frank’s murder, Cathy had died of cancer.

Will turned off Main onto Forum which ran toward the point that jutted into the Long Island Sound. The End of the Pier restaurant was easily the most popular dining place in town. In the summer it was overrun with tourists who often waited over an hour for a table.

“The reservation wasn’t necessary with the snow getting worse,” Will mumbled.

“There’ll be a lot of accidents tonight. Did you leave word where you’ll be?”

“Yep. But barring a pileup, McCarthy should be able to handle things.”

The restaurant parking lot was almost deserted and they were able to park by the door. As they entered the vestibule, Luigi, carrying his ever present supply of oversized menus, met them with a smile.

“Mrs. Converse, Chief Barnes, a table by the window?”

“To see the snow,” L.C. replied.

It was pressing against her neck and she couldn’t breathe. Oh, Mother of God, please.… the words choked in the depths as the pressure increased. A hand fought free and clutched at the thing across her neck. It was one of her skates. Her attacker was pressing the skate blade deeper and deeper into her neck.

Cocktails were served and they looked out over the dark water as snow swirled against the window. The presence of the man across the tttable filled her with an inner warmth and dulled the pain of earlier memories.

“I told the kids that if they needed me tonight they could reach me through headquarters,” he said quickly.

“You must expect a lot of accidents,” she said with a half smile.

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“You’re supposed to wait until after dinner to make that kind of suggestion.”

“I intend to bring it up then too.”

“Uh huh. You’re persistent.”

They looked into each other’s eyes until L.C. turned away to stare at the turbulent waters beyond the point. Their table was in a corner of the restaurant with large windows to either side. Looking past Will she could see the dimness of the sound, to her side the Pennicut River ran past Lantern City and joined the bay.

She knew that if she were to turn she would be able to see the lights of the town flickering in the distance, perhaps even the large Converse Motors sign mounted on the showroom roof.

After the deaths of Frank and her father she had closed herself in the back bedroom of the house at the corner of Main and Forum streets. She had gone past the realm of despair and entered into a dark place she never knew existed. She had never been sure how many days had passed before the room’s door was shoved open and Will had come in, thrown open the curtains, and commanded that she dress.

“No,” she had told him. “And get out.”

He had grabbed her shoulders. “Listen, you’re going to lose everything, do you understand that?”

She remembered answering dully that she already had.

“The business. All that you and Frank worked for,” he had said. “Now, there’s a guy from the bank downstairs. Raleigh Bridger, their new loan officer. He thinks that just maybe something can be done.”

Things had been done. The house was sold, a new mortgage placed on the service station and showroom, and then work. Years of sixteen hour days when she sold cars, did the office chores, and learned to work in the shop. The ceaseless activity had pushed back the waves of despondency and she had survived.

“Eight cents for your thoughts.”

Their eyes met. “I was just thinking about the day you came into the house on Forum street and made me get dressed. You recall?”

“I remember.”

The skate blade cut into the flesh of her neck and she felt a seeping warmth spread over her body. Waves of concentric red rings swam toward her, followed by an onrushing curtain of black. The pressure was released. She tried to turn over and crawl only to fall back with a short gasp.

A waitress in checkered apron snapped on their lobster bibs, and Luigi appeared with a flourish to present a dusty wine bottle. Will nodded and the cork was deftly popped.

“Luigi does this knowing full well that a dumb country cop doesn’t know good wine from bad.”

“It’s delicious,” L.C. said taking the first sip. “Now crack your claws.”

After dinner they had The Pier’s special brand of Irish coffee which was heavily laced with whisky. She suspected that in their honor it had been given a double portion of whisky. She was beginning to feel a glow, and thought that Will was also. Like a married couple attuned after a decade of shared experience, they could communicate without speech.

The waitress and Luigi frowned as the patrolman, his slicker dribbling melted snow across the carpet, pushed through the restaurant.

“Will he go away if I pretend to not see him?” Will asked.

“Heap big accident on Route 97,” L.C. said and gave a short laugh.

Will turned with irritation as the patrolman reached the table. “What gives, Dave? And it had better be important.”

“There’s trouble over at the Bridger place.”

“What kind of trouble?”

The officer looked past Will toward the other diners and then bent over conspiratorially. “Someone’s hurt. You had better come.”

Will plunked his napkin on the table. “You about done, or should I send someone back for you with a car?”

L.C. stood. “No. I’ll go over with you and then you can take me home.”

“Probably won’t take long,” Will said as he paid the bill and thanked Luigi. “Although we did have some housebreakings in that area last summer.”

The rate of snowfall had increased, and a stiff breeze from across the water had shifted weather conditions to near blizzard proportions. Will followed the other police cruiser out of the parking lot as they turned off Forum Street toward the fashionable homes in the town’s point section. The homes on the point had the double advantage of private beach facilities on the Sound and a protected estuary large enough to moor private boats. The most affluent of Lantern City’s 10,000 persons lived on the point.

“It wouldn’t take me a minute to drop you home.”

“Don’t bother. You know how they push the panic button for unleashed dogs. We can have a drink at my place when you’re finished.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

Will turned into the Bridger driveway and flicked off the ignition with his bumper almost touching Raleigh Bridger’s Oldsmobile. He was out of the car and halfway to the front door when it was opened by another patrolman who beckoned frantically to him.

After five minutes of waiting, L.C. felt the chill seeping through the car and reached for the ignition. He’d automatically taken the keys with him. She left the car and walked briskly toward the house as snow, blown by the sea wind, eddied around her.

She opened the unlocked front door and pushed it shut behind her. The house, a typical colonial design, had a wide front hall with archways on either side to the dining and living rooms. She could hear Will’s low voice from the living room as she stepped around the corner.

Mauve Bridger lay dead in the center of the room. One hand was outstretched toward a red splattered ice skate, while her head lay in a pool of blood.

“Oh, my God.”

Will turned and snapped, “Get back in the car!”

“Where’s Raleigh?”

“Upstairs, ill. Now get the hell back in the car!”

Chapter Two

She stumbled from the house and through the snow.

The macabre tableau in the living room was fixed in her mind, as vividly as if she were still there: Will, on one knee next to the body, the other officers against the wall as if attempting to retreat as far as possible from the obscene thing in the center of the room. The ice skate, splotched in red, its use all too apparent, lay beyond the outstretched hand.

Her leg began to hurt as she ran heedlessly down the street until flashing lights from behind her were reflected against the snow shrouded trees to her side. She ran toward the sidewalk as the snowplow, its steel blade scraping the first layer of snow from the street, picked up speed and passed. She found herself gasping for breath, and turned to walk back toward the car parked in the drive.

Snow blew against her face and she bent her head low to avoid its impact. She stopped as a large form appeared immediately ahead.

“Is that you, L.C.?”

She looked up at the familiar face. “Herb … Herb Strickland.” She almost fell into his arms.

“I saw you out my window running from the Bridger house. What’s going on over there?”

“Oh, Herb, it’s horrible.”

He firmly grasped her elbow and led her toward his house which was next door to the Bridgers’. In a near somnambulant state she allowed herself to be directed through the house into the living room, and felt her jacket slipped from her arms. She sank onto the couch as he put a drink in her hand.

“Mauve Bridger’s been killed,” she was finally able to say.

“Mauve … killed …” His face was stricken, and the silver ice tongs clattered to the floor. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. She’s dead, in the living room.”

“Young hoods, that’s what it is. I’ll tell you, L.C., I’m not surprised after all the trouble we’ve been having out here on the point. Can you imagine, last summer they stole Dad’s boat … a forty foot cruiser, and it took us two weeks to get it back.”

“It’s hard to imagine,” she replied, trying to equate in some manner the theft of a luxury boat with the death of the woman next door.

He was a heavy man with a paunchy, soft physique and thick glasses that gave him a myopic appearance. His shoulders were hunched into a stooped position as if he were constantly reaching for some object slightly out of his grasp. She had known Herbert Strickland in a casual manner for years. He had been cashier of the Lantern City Savings Bank for years, and now on the death of his father, the bank president. She had almost monthly business contacts with him.

“Where’s Raleigh?” he asked.

“In the house. I don’t know any of the details.”

“You don’t suppose …?”

“Suppose what?”

“It’s a terrible thing to say at a time like this, but it’s rather common knowledge that Raleigh and Mauve haven’t been getting on. There’re faint rumors of divorce.”

“It wasn’t common knowledge to me, but then I don’t hear much gossip hiding under a grease rack.”

Herb laughed. “You run the most successful agency in the shore area, L.C. I doubt that you spend all your time under a grease rack.”

“Sometimes not nearly enough,” she replied quietly.

He slammed his glass on the coffee table and sloshed liquor over his fingers. “This is the last straw! Toby and I have talked about selling this place and moving, and this settles it. With Dad gone, we don’t need the waterfront. As soon as I get his boat back from Florida, I’m selling it and this house. We’ll move to the country.”

“I can understand,” she said and wondered when Will might be through and how she was going to get home. It might be a while unless Herb offered to drive her. The murder of Mauve Bridger was the first killing in town since the shooting of her father and Frank. Will was going to be very busy.

Will Barnes stood and stepped back from the body. It was difficult to imagine that the desecrated corpse on the floor was Mauve Bridger. He had seen her recently, only a few days ago, when he’d gone out to the Yacht Club to investigate some minor pilferage. She’d been out on the paddle tennis court wearing tight slacks and a floppy sweat shirt. He’d stopped for a moment to watch her play and she had waved.

Now she was dead in her own living room with a skate inches from her slightly curled fingers. “Has anyone seen the other skate?”

“Behind the couch.”

“Why in hell a skate?” he asked aloud. He forced his eyes away from the compelling magnetism of the body to view the remainder of the room. It was a large room running the length of the house, well-furnished with an early American nautical motif. Several excellent prints of clipper ships were along the walls, with a detailed ship model under full sail on the mantle.

He turned to the two officers standing rigidly along the wall. “Take a look through the house and see if you can find what she might have been wearing, but for God’s sake don’t touch anything.”

“Maybe she wasn’t wearing nothing,” Dave August said with a smirk.

Will glared at him. The two patrolmen left the living room and began to roam through the house. “Dave,” he called.

“Yes, sir?”

“Give a call to headquarters. Tell them to get the medical examiner and the state police lab people down here fast. Not that one!” he yelled as the officer stepped toward the living room phone. “There might be prints. Use the car radio.”

Will shook his head as the patrolman ran from the house and toward the cruisers in the drive. Jesus! What a night it was going to be. He looked back at the naked corpse and possibilities clicked through his mind: sex crime, check on known offenders, inventory the house for possible robbery. The skate again … why such a cumbersome weapon when there were probably a dozen honed knives in the kitchen? It also seemed unlikely that Mauve was the sort of person to wander through the house without any clothes on, unless she’d been surprised while dressing … so many questions.

Dave August appeared back in the archway and slapped his jacket to knock off the thin layer of snow. “All set, though they said it might be half an hour because of the weather.”

“That figures. Dave, I want you to stay here while I go upstairs. No one comes through, understand?”

He walked slowly up the stairs. He realized it had been a mistake to let the husband come up alone before they’d had a chance to search the house. Mistake number one. He hoped there wouldn’t be many more.

Raleigh Bridger was sitting on the edge of a kingsize double bed in the master bedroom. He was bent over with his head in his hands.

Will stood in the doorway a moment observing the grief-stricken man. He judged Raleigh to be about thirty-eight; he had a tall, slim build. He still possessed a boyish look that many women found attractive. His face was long and narrow with a shock of brown hair that hung over his forehead. The town had taken to Raleigh readily upon his arrival five years ago. A vice president of the Lantern City Savings Bank, he was considered by many to be a progressive business leader, and had just completed a term as president of the Chamber of Commerce.

Raleigh looked up. “God, Will. Do you have any idea of what could have happened?”

“We don’t know anything yet, but the lab and medical people are on their way. You feel well enough to tell me what you saw and heard?”

“I found her like that.”

“You might have seen something that would help. Tell me about your activities tonight.”

“You mean when I got home?”

“Yes, and where were you coming from?”

“Coming from?”

“Where had you been, Raleigh? I assume you weren’t here when it happened.”

“No, of course not. Well, I’d been working late at the bank. My secretary was typing a rather lengthy loan proposal. I think she left before I did.”

“Did she or didn’t she, Raleigh?” Will sat in a small rocker in the corner of the room and hunched forward with his hands on his knees. The man on the bed was obviously quite agitated, but these first few minutes of the initial interview were critical—he must move slowly.

“I had been working with Sandra, but she left and I went over some odds and ends. The streets were slick and I drove home slowly. The lights were on in the house when I parked and I didn’t notice anything unusual.”

“I see.” Will noticed that the bed where Raleigh sat was made, and a glance around the room didn’t reveal any stray clothing. He could see through the open bathroom door that there wasn’t anything on the floor in there either. He decided to make a quick check of the other upstairs rooms before they continued. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, Raleigh, and I want you to think carefully and tell me in minute detail everything you saw when you came in the house.”

“I’ll try. Jesus, what a mess.”

Will made a quick tour of the other rooms. The first, across the hall from the master bedroom, was tidy and showed no recent signs of occupancy—possibly a guest room. Another room had been converted into a sitting room-office. Letters, books and receipts on a small desk were mostly in Mauve’s name. The fourth room was obviously used and contained a man’s clothing and toilet articles. It might or might not mean something that the Bridgers occupied separate bedrooms. Nowhere in the upstairs was there a suggestion of what the murdered woman might have been wearing before she was stripped.

Raleigh still sat immobile on the edge of the bed. “I want to get out of here. I want to leave this house.”

“It’ll only be a few minutes. Now, you came home from working at the bank, working late. You parked your car and approached the front door. Was it locked?”

“I’m really not up to going over all this.”

“It might help a great deal,” Will replied and allowed an edge of firmness in his voice.

“I came in the front door, as I usually do. I used my key. It must have been locked. I called out for Mauve and then saw her when I passed the living room.”

“Did you touch anything?”

Raleigh turned over his hands to reveal blood streaked palms. “Yes. Her.”

“To see if she were alive?”

“Yes.”

“There’s blood along the side of your face and along your shirt.”

“What’s on my face must be from my hands. The other’s probably from a nose bleed I had on the way home.”

“Nose bleed?”

“I had a silly accident, that’s all. It didn’t amount to anything.”

“What sort of accident?”

“Hardly worth mentioning.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“As I said earlier, the driving was slippery. When I passed by the Silo Liquor Store on Forum Street this bum steps off the sidewalk right in front of the car. I braked into a skid and luckily missed him.”

“Hit your nose on the dash?”

“No. Seems that the bum dropped his bottle, and when I got out to see if he was O.K., he was so mad he took a swing at me. I gave him a couple of bucks for a new bottle and that was it.”

“Let’s go back to when you found your wife. You determined that she was dead, and then you called us.”

“Not right away. I called Noah Washington first.”

“You called a lawyer? You telephoned an attorney before an ambulance or the police?” Will purposely forced an incredulous quality into his voice.

“I was shook, Will. You’ve got to understand that I didn’t know which way to turn.”

“What did Noah say?”

“Told me to call the police at once and that he’d be over later.”

“Which you did at exactly 9:05. By the way, what time did you get home?”

“After finding Mauve I didn’t think to look, but if I called the police at five after, it must have been a few minutes before that.”

“How many is a few?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Take a guess.”

“I came in the house, found her, called Noah and then the police emergency number. All told it couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes.”

“You didn’t talk to your lawyer long.”

“No, two minutes maybe, and I don’t think I even put the receiver down before I dialed the police. The first car was here in five or six minutes.”

“About 9:10?”

“Yes, about.”

“Then you got home around 8:45 at the earliest?”

“I guess.”

“The silly accident and the bloody nose. You say the man you almost hit stepped out of the liquor store on Forum Street?”

“Yes.”

“Connecticut state law says that liquor stores must close at eight sharp, Raleigh. If he came out of the liquor store with a purchase, that put you on Forum Street a few minutes before eight. And Forum Street is only a short drive from here.”

“I don’t know where he came out of. All I know is that he dropped his bottle and took a drunken swing at me,” Raleigh’s voice began to drop.

“Hey, Chief,” Dave August said from the doorway. “There’s a guy downstairs wants to see Mr. Bridger, and Henry’s found something in the cellar.”

Will waved him away. “I’ll be right there. I’ll need to talk to you further, Raleigh.”

“If you insist.”

“By the way,” Will said from the doorway. “How much have you had to drink?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you’ve had a couple.”

“I did, waiting for the police to arrive.”

“You told me when I arrived that you were ill.”

For the first time Raleigh stood. “Now wait a minute. Is this some sort of inquisition?”

“I’ll be right back.” As Will went down the steps he calculated the driving time from the liquor store on Forum Street to the house on the point. Raleigh seemed to have lost track of forty-five minutes. He shook his head. It was going to be a long night.

Noah Washington, in a suede car coat, stood by the front entrance. The diminutive lawyer craned his neck forward to watch Will descend the stairs.

“Hello, Noah.” They shook hands. The small attorney’s palms were damp.

“What in hell’s going on, Will?”

“Raleigh told me he called you and that you could verify the time.” He cringed slightly at the small deception.

“Yes, when he told me something had happened to Mauve I immediately checked my watch. Exactly 8:58. I came over as soon as I could.”

“Your client’s upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Noah said abruptly and started for the stairs. He passed the living room, glanced in and turned, ashen, back to Will. “My, God …”

“Raleigh’s in the bedroom, Noah.”

“Is she …?”

“Yes.”

The tiny lawyer began to hurry up the stairs, stopped at the halfway point and turned to face Will. “The exact time he called me was important, wasn’t it?”

“It could be.”

“I think I’ve been had.”

“You’re a real estate lawyer, Noah. We aren’t going to report you to the bar association.”

“Damn you!” He turned and ran up the stairs.

Will walked through the dining room toward the kitchen. The long formal table had settings for two at one end. The meal had never been served. In the kitchen a green salad in a wooden bowl sat on the drainboard. Through the transparent oven door he saw a small burned roast.

“Down here, Chief,” Dave August’s voice called from the cellar. The cellar and rear outside doors were off the small mudroom past the kitchen. He stopped at the rear door and looked down at the handle. It had a twist lock set in the end of the knob and it was at the unlocked position. He hoped to God no one had touched the handle.

“Hey, Chief,” the voice called again from the cellar. “The back door’s unlocked.”

Will put a hand to his face. “You tried it, right?”

“Right,” the voice from the cellar returned.

“Jesus, there go the prints.”

“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you,” Dave said as Will descended the cellar steps.

“What do you have?”

“In the laundry room. There’s a woman’s clothes in the dryer.”

The dryer door stood open. “You opened the door?”

“Well, yeah. How else could I see the stuff inside?”

“Did you ever think about prints?”

“Hell, Chief. I’m sorry.”

“Try and keep it in mind, Dave,” Will said as he squatted in front of the dryer to peer inside. He heard and felt the rear seam of his pants split. L.C. was right, he should be getting more exercise.

“Hey, Chief, your pants are …”

“Never mind.” It was someone’s principle that everything that could go wrong—would. It had been off from the start. He should have just sealed the house and let the state police handle the whole investigation. The small force he commanded in Lantern City was trained for traffic work, domestic squabbles and occasionally a robbery. Nothing of this nature.

He reached into the dryer and felt along the edges of the warm clothing. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was 10:12, and then looked at the timing device of the dryer and saw that it had a maximum setting of ninety minutes. Since the clothes were still warm, the dryer had to have clicked off only minutes ago, which meant that it was started at around eight. The whole time sequence was becoming more and more interesting.

“Dave, I want you to go out to the car and radio a patch through to the Burns Security people. Ask them what time tonight the alarm at the savings bank was activated. Also, ask them if anyone from the bank called in, and if they did, what pass number did they give. It’ll all be in their log.”

“Right, Chief,” Dave strode out of the laundry room, through the recreation room, and was halfway up the cellar steps before he stopped. “Chief, I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about.”

Will crooked his finger and motioned to the young patrolman. “Come here, David. We shall have a brief lesson in security procedures at the bank.”

“Right, Chief.”

Will winced as the officer trotted dutifully back to the laundry room. “The Lantern City Savings Bank employs Mr. Raleigh Bridger, and it is where he claims to have been this evening. The bank is protected by an alarm system that is activated when the last employee leaves the building or at six P.M., whichever is earlier—unless someone with an authorized pass number calls the security office. In other words, if someone were to work late, they would have to call Burns and tell them not to activate at six, and call them again when they left the bank. All of those calls are recorded in a log.”

“Now, I’m with you.”

Will stooped before the dryer again and with a pencil began to fish the clothing from its interior: green bikini panties with a matching bra, blouse, ski pants, jacket and a cap. He aligned the items on the top of the appliance and stood looking at them trying to reconstruct events. If she’d been skating when the snow began, the clothes might be damp, and it would be logical that she’d place them in the dryer; however, that left the question as to what she was wearing when she put them in there. It seemed illogical that she’d enter the house, place her clothes in the dryer and then wander nude to the living room.

“Negative, Chief,” Dave August called down the stairs. “The people at Burns say the log shows that the alarm was activated at 5:45 tonight, and there is no record of it being turned off.”

“Which means that no one was in the building after 5:45,” Will said half to himself. “Dave, I want you to check outside, make a note of anything you see.”

From upstairs he heard a heavy tromp of feet and deep voices. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee were here. He sighed and went up to meet them.

The two state police detectives stood at the archway to the living room. They were bulky men with crew cuts and stood with their feet apart as if bolted to the floor. They turned in unison as Will came down the hall.

“You really got one, Chief,” the first one said.

“The reporters and TV people are going to eat it up,” the second added. “Lab people will be here as soon as they get through the snow.”

“Farley’s on duty at the medical examiner’s office and he should be here first cuz he flies,” the first one said and they both laughed.

“Flies?”

They shook limp wrists at Will and laughed again. “Mind if we look around?”

“Go ahead. I’m in the midst of interrogating the husband.”

“We can handle that.”

“I’ll do it,” Will said in a low voice. “It’s my town, boys.”

“’Course, Chief. We’re only here to help out.”

Will nodded and turned to Dave August. “They still upstairs?”

“Bridger and Mr. Washington?”

“Jesus, Dave, not Tinkerbell.”

“They left.”

“They what?”

“They left just a minute before the state boys arrived.”

“No, Dave. They didn’t leave. Tell me they didn’t leave, not without an escort. Tell me you didn’t let a suspect walk away from a murder scene.”

“He was with the lawyer, Chief. They wanted to use the telephone and when I told them they couldn’t—they left.”

I’m too old to cry, Will thought as he started for the door.

Chapter Three

L.C. thought that if he showed her another piggy bank she’d scream.

After making a strong second drink, Herb Strickland had insisted that she follow him into the sunroom to view his collection.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the largest in the world,” he said. “Once I had my basic pigs I began to specialize. This year I’ve been emphasizing porcelain. Would you believe that I have people all over the country on the lookout for me? If they come across an unusual specimen they immediately drop me a line.”

“They’d made a nice display in the bank lobby.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Herb said wistfully as he held a delicately flowered pig in his ham-like hands. “But I’m afraid of the children. You know how they like to pick up things and then drop them … poof … an irreplaceable loss.”

Simultaneous with the front door chime there was a loud knock at the door. Herb put the pig back on a glass shelf with its mates and moved ponderously to answer the door.

L.C. left the world’s largest collection of piggy banks without regret to see Raleigh Bridger and Noah Washington talking with Herb in the front hall. Herb nodded and led them to the study down the hall, then returned to L.C. with a puzzled look.

“What’s all that about?” she asked.

“They wanted to use the phone.”

“That’s strange.”

“Would you like to see the rest of the collection?”

“Not right now, Herb. It’s hard to give it the attention it deserves under these circumstances.”

“When Toby comes back from Florida, you must come over for dinner some night. We can spend the whole evening with the pigs.”

“That would be lovely,” she said while telling herself that when the invitation arrived it would be a propitious time to take that trip to Bermuda she’d always wanted.

There was another knock at the door and Herb lumbered from his chair.

“Is Bridger here?” Will snapped as he stomped snow from his shoes on the stoop.

“Yes, in the study using the phone.”

“Is there an extension?”

“In the kitchen or the living room.”

L.C. followed Will into the kitchen and watched him unscrew the mouthpiece of the wall phone before removing the receiver from its cradle.

“I know you’re glad I didn’t freeze to death in the car,” she said.

He gave her a smile as he pressed the receiver to his ear. “You’re self-reliant, L.C. I figured you’d build an igloo if you had to.” He listened to the phone for a few moments. “Raleigh is sleeping with Sandy Devonshire.”

“That’s nice.”

“She seems to think so.”

“Isn’t what you’re doing against the new court rulings?”

“I’m not recording anything. I came to the Strickland house to phone headquarters and just happened to overhear.” He screwed the phone back together and hung up. “Now, that is interesting. The two of them were bundling tonight, but he doesn’t want to bring her into it if he can avoid it.”

“Please tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll fill you in later. I want to talk to Herb a minute.”

They found Herb Strickland in the sunroom slumped in a large wicker chair between two rows of pigs.

“I don’t think Dad would have liked all this,” he said.

“Mr. Strickland, can you tell me if you heard or saw anything unusual over at the Bridger house tonight?” Will asked in a soft voice.

“Can’t say that I did. Let me think now. I left the bank a little after five, arrived home, and worked with the pigs for awhile.”

“Pigs?”

“The collection,” Herb said with a wave of his hand toward the shelves lining the room. “They have to be dusted every day, and some of the metal ones need polish. After that I made myself a little dinner. I didn’t hear anything.”

“What time did you eat?”

“Oh, seven-thirty, perhaps a little after. I had a cocktail, broiled myself a steak and made a salad. With Toby in Florida, I have to do those things myself.”

“And you didn’t hear or see anything?”

“Nothing unusual. No yells, screams, or anything like that. I did see Mrs. Bridger for a moment.”

“You did?” Will leaned forward on the ottoman he was sitting on.

“I was eating in the breakfast nook, that’s at the back of the house, and when the light went on at the dock I looked out and saw her ice skating. Both houses share the same dock.”

“And that was after seven?”

“Around half past. I didn’t put any particular significance to it, Mauve often went skating on the estuary. I finished my meal and picked up the kitchen, so I didn’t see her leave the ice.”

“Anything else?”

“No, not until all the cars came.”

“What cars?”

“The police cars. And then I saw L.C. running through the snow and almost getting hit by the snowplow, and I went out to see if anything was the matter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Strickland. Would you mind if I talked to Mr. Bridger and his attorney in the study?”

“Of course not.”

With a slap on his knees, Will rose and walked from the room.

“It’s a terrible thing,” Herb said.

“What did you mean earlier about the Bridger marriage?” L.C. asked.

“I wouldn’t want to spread gossip at a time like this, L.C. It wouldn’t be appropriate. But there were rumors that they weren’t getting along too well, and of course Raleigh was under a great deal of pressure over the shopping center.”

“A loan he made for the bank?”

“No. I mean when he purchased the center for his own personal investment.”

“The one at the Route 99 junction?”

“That’s it. Seemed like an excellent purchase when he sunk every dime he had into the thing, but then the whole real estate market went bad and his major tenant broke their lease. He’s got a lemon.”

“I’ve passed it, it’s half vacant.”

“It will probably go under,” Herb said as he picked up and began to polish a piggy bank.

Noah Washington and Raleigh Bridger were huddled in a corner of the small study talking in whispers. They looked up as Will entered. Will sat at the desk, fumbled in his breast pocket for a pad, and then methodically searched the desk for a writing implement. His movements were purposely slow and cumbersome. A sidelong glance at Noah Washington, whose face reflected annoyance, indicated that the calculated effect was working. With a slight grunt, the small attorney reached over the desk and handed Will a gold fountain pen.

“I suppose you want some sort of statement from my client?”

Will’s eyes widened. “Client, Noah? I hadn’t realized that we were at that point. I’m just a small town police officer, a woman has been murdered, and I thought the three of us could talk things over. Right, Raleigh?”

Raleigh glanced at Noah and then back to Will. “I’m ready to make a statement.”

“As to your activities this evening.”

“What else are you interested in?”

“Very well. Let’s proceed. Now, I want to get all the details correct. You worked overtime at the bank, and then left about …”

“No.”

“I don’t understand, Raleigh. You told me a few minutes ago that you were working at the bank, you weren’t sure what time your secretary left, and then you got home …”

“He said no,” Noah said sharply.

“Then where was he?”

“I was upset about some personal matters and left the bank about 5:30 or maybe 5:45. I wanted a drink before I went home. I drove down to the End of the Pier and stayed there until 8:20 or after.”

“End of the Pier,” Will repeated as he laboriously wrote in the pad and underlined the name of the restaurant where he and L.C. had dinner earlier in the evening. “They have terrific lobster there.”

“I only drank.”

“You weren’t there, Raleigh.”

“What?”

“Wait a minute, Will,” Noah snapped. “I don’t care for this type of accusatory interrogation.”

“This isn’t an interrogation, Counselor. This is a brief statement from the murdered woman’s husband. I want to know where in hell he was this evening.”

“It’s not germane.”

“Crap!”

“Now wait a goddamn minute!”

“No, damn it, Noah. Advise your client, as I assume you have, that a simple statement of his activities is not prejudicial nor does it necessarily implicate him in any manner.”

“Small town cop, my foot,” Raleigh said and turned away from them.

“You’re calling my client a liar. I resent that and will instruct him to refuse to answer any further questions.”

“You do that, Noah. But before you do, let me tell you that his first statement to me indicated that he was working at the bank tonight. We have proof from the security alarm people that he wasn’t. He’s now had time to consider that. A moment ago he informed me that he was in a restaurant at the same time Laura Converse and I were. And he wasn’t there, Noah.”

“You were at the End of the Pier?”

“With my date, until after nine.”

Noah put his hand on Raleigh’s knee. “Raleigh, the man only wants a simple statement. A lie can only hurt you. As your attorney, I strongly advise you to make a straightforward statement.”

“I don’t want other people involved.”

“Like it or not she is involved.”

Raleigh was agitated as he paced the room. “People won’t understand.”

“For the present, it’s not necessary that anyone outside of this room know any of this,” Will said. “I can’t make that a firm commitment for the complete future, but I’ll try.”

Raleigh looked at the two men expectantly and seemed to make a decision. He spoke in a torrent of words. “I was with Sandy. Sandra Devonshire. We were at the restaurant for a few minutes. We had one drink and then left. I drove her home and stayed until way after eight.”

“The Devonshire girl who works at the bank?”

“Yes. She’s my secretary.”

“Where does she live?”

“In the Fairlawn apartments off Forum Street.”

“Are you having an affair with Miss Devonshire?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Will nodded. “Perhaps. Now earlier, you told me that you almost hit a man as you drove home.”

“That was untrue.”

“Oh?”

“I said that because of my bloody nose. I hit it on the car as I got out. I thought it would look bad if I had blood on me.”

“I see. Then you did not have a near accident with anyone?”

“No. I drove straight home.”

“And arrived at what time?”

“About a quarter to nine. I walked in and saw … found Mauve and I called Noah right away. A few minutes later, after I had composed myself, I called the police.”

“I see.”

“A simple enough statement,” Noah said. “Obviously a man in Mr. Bridger’s position doesn’t want the slightest hint of scandal concerning Miss Devonshire. Even if it was perfectly innocent, on the face of it there is a certain tone.”

“I’ll grant that,” Will said.

“At this point, you must agree that we have been most cooperative. Now, I want my client to see a medical doctor. He is upset to the point of a complete breakdown and needs attention as soon as possible.”

“Was your wife insured, Raleigh?”

“See here, Will. I told you he’s ill.”

“Yes or no?” Will’s voice was low and matter of fact.

“Yes she was. I believe there is a $250,000 policy outstanding. It was taken out years ago by her father, and we always kept it up. It was term with no cash value, and so I never borrowed on it.”

“Then you have been borrowing recently?”

“That’s it.” Noah stood up and pushed Raleigh toward the door. “Unless you have a reason, and there’s no legal reason I can conceive of, I’m taking my client to his physician.”

They stood in the door as if waiting for a thundering reply from Will. Instead, Will walked slowly toward them. “I think that’s a fine idea. But, Noah, as an officer of the court, I charge you with the responsibility of seeing that your client presents himself at my office by ten tomorrow morning.”

“He’ll be there.”

Will stood in the center of the small study tapping Noah Washington’s pen on his pad. There would be a lot to do in the morning: a talk with the liquor store owner, Sandy Devonshire should be interviewed, and it wouldn’t hurt to get in-depth information on Raleigh’s financial condition. He feared the direction in which the investigation was leading, and that didn’t include dealing with the television and newspaper people in the morning.

“Wait just a damn minute!” It was patrolman Dave August’s voice from the hall.

Will leaped for the door and was halfway down the hall when he realized the situation.

Dave was crouched by the door with drawn service revolver. He had the gun extended in text book fashion and aimed at Noah and Raleigh.

“They’re trying to leave, Chief,” the voice croaked from the nervous officer.

“Oh, Jesus,” Will said half to himself. “It’s all right, Dave. Mr. Bridger has permission to go with his attorney. By the way, Raleigh, we’ll have to seal your house for a few days. If it’s not too inconvenient, could you stay somewhere else?”

“He’ll be at my place,” Noah growled as the two men angrily left the house.

“Dave, we haven’t shot down an attorney and banker in Lantern City for a number of years.”

“The bastard gave me a shove.”

“Who?”

“The banker prick, wouldn’t give me a mortgage loan last year either.”

The door flew open to admit a tall man wearing a long black cape with a vivid red lining. He stomped his feet in a quick one-two that was almost a parody of a dance step. Doctor Joseph Farley laughed in a high falsetto.

“In case they didn’t tell you, Chief Barnes, the body is next door. Or maybe you don’t like the sight of blood. “He cackled wildly.

“You have anything, Doc?”

“She’s dead.”

“Jesus, that really helps.”

“The carotid artery has been severed causing an extreme loss of blood.”

“That occurred to me, Doctor. How about an educated guess as to the time of death?”

“Sometime between 7:30 and 8:30. We’re taking the bag to the office now. I’ll get you a full report in four or five days.”

“Four or five days? You’re out of your mind.”

“Well, I’m busy too, you know.”

“Wait a minute, Farley. I want a report in my office by noon tomorrow. Understand?”

“I just happened to be on call tonight so you don’t have to get huffy. I also have guests waiting for me at home.”

“Your guest is going to be on a slab in half an hour, and you had better goddamn well be bent over her doing your bit. Understand?”

“Well, I never …” With a swirl of his cape the doctor stormed from the house.

“Can we go home now?” L.C. asked from the couch in the living room.

Will turned to see her curled up on the sofa with her legs pulled under her slim body. “The forensic people must be over there by now. I have to check on a few more things.”

“Will.” She pulled him toward her and whispered in his ear. “You’ve got your striped boxer shorts on.” She covered a laugh as he glared and left the house.

In order to avoid further conversation concerning dear old dad, and to preclude a further pig tour, it seemed circumspect for her to lie back on the couch and close her eyes. She felt a blanket pulled gently over her, and then heard the soft pad of the bulky man leaving the room.

They would be taking Mauve Bridger to the ambulance, and then to wherever it was that Doctor Farley did his thing. Will and the state lab people would be combing the house, taking finger prints and a multitude of photographs.

She stared at the ceiling and thought about the Bridgers. The first time she had met Raleigh was that day in the old house when Will forced her to come downstairs. She had found Raleigh at the kitchen table with the agency’s books and financial statements spread before him.

He had looked up and smiled boyishly. “You need immediate operating capital in order to survive, and I think I know how we can get it.”

She had numbly followed his tracings of possible secondary financing, remortgaging and establishing a line of credit with a commercial bank. The figures had tumbled and wavered before her until after an hour, clarity had returned, and she had pulled a chair closer to the table and begun to make notes.

Five years ago the Bridgers had only recently arrived in town. Raleigh, a minor officer at a large Hartford bank, had been recruited by Wadsworth Strickland and brought to Lantern City. She thought back to what she knew of Raleigh.

Evidently there wasn’t any money on his side of the family, as she knew he had been a scholarship student at Trinity. Immediately after graduation he had gone to work as a bank trainee. His natural abilities and looks had stood him well in a banking career, and eventually he had met and married Mauve.

She had never known the dead woman well. Their life styles were so different that they had only occasional social contact. She knew that Mauve’s father had been an extremely successful bond salesman, and that the dead woman had attended that type of boarding school and junior college where the girls majored in athletics and sexual innuendo.

There must have been turmoil and disappointment in their life when Wadsworth Strickland indicated to the board of directors of the bank that he wanted his son to be president. There had also been rumors about the marriage as Herb had indicated, but then again there were always rumors concerning attractive couples who lived on the point.

A hand shook her shoulder and she awakened with a start. The uneasy dream of a man chasing her through the snow with an upraised ice skate was still vivid and real.

She looked up at Will bending over her. “What time is it?”

“Two. We’re through for tonight. Come on and I’ll take you home.”

Will flipped the car keys toward her and let her slide into the driver’s seat. He leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. “I’m beat, and tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a day.”

“Raincheck on that brandy?”

“No, I could use a nightcap.”

She drove carefully and competently, applying the brakes when necessary, in an easy pedal action so as not to skid in the deepening snow. In ten minutes they pulled into her parking area at the apartment.

Lantern City Harbor Condominiums had been built three years earlier, and she had been one of the first to buy a unit with a choice view of the water. Outside of the countless hours of work at the agency and garage, it had been the first positive action she had taken after Frank’s death.

L.C. gave Will a poke in the ribs. “I’ve got some Four Star that’s been hibernating in the cupboard.”

“You talked me into it.”

They rode silently in the elevator, and he leaned against the hall wall as she fumbled for her door keys.

The apartment consisted of two bedrooms, a bath and a half, kitchen, dining area and long living room with a spectacular view of the water. Although the rooms were tastefully furnished, the lack of personal objects gave it an aura of impermanence. It was simply a place for her to sleep, while waking hours were spent at work, or in summer weather on the Sound in her day sailer.

Will sank on the couch, kicked off his shoes and planted his feet on the coffee table.

“Hurry with the brandy.”

“In a second.” L.C. threw her jacket over a chair and hurried to the kitchen. It took only moments to locate the brandy pushed to the rear of the cupboard and to rinse two dusty brandy snifters. She poured them each half full and returned to the living room.

“I’m going to change, be back in a sec. You can take your pants off.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“That’s an offer to sew your trousers.”

He gave her a long look. “I’ll be ready.”

She softly closed the bedroom door and stripped off her clothes until she stood naked in the center of the room. She ran her hands over the slightly rounded protrusion of her stomach and down over the long sheen of her legs broken only by the scar on her thigh. Exception for the accident, the years had been kind to her physically. She still had the body of a young woman.

She laughed aloud at what she had decided.

It had been five years, and now there had been a full year dating Will … although they hardly seemed like formal dates, but meetings between two lonely friends who enjoyed each other’s company. The sexuality was there, it had always been present in his looks, his jesting remarks, and his attempts to make love to her. He had tried, in gentle ways that retreated quickly if she showed the slightest resistence.

Her self-imposed continence had been born out of senseless deaths, and perhaps it should end fittingly on the night of another senseless death.

Yes, if would be so.

She rummaged through the bottom drawer of the small dresser until she found the red peignoir that had never been worn. She selected matching bikini panties and decided not to wear a brassiere.

There was a dull but not unpleasant ache in her lower stomach and her hands began to tremble. She went into the bathroom and dabbed a small amount of perfume behind her ears. As she looked in the mirror an apparition of Eddie Bennett leaned against the doorway and stared insolently at her. She put the perfume back in the medicine chest and slammed the door to break the hazy fantasy.

It would be an act of love, and it would cleanse them of the horror they had witnessed at the Bridger house.

She opened the bedroom door and saw that he had stretched out on the couch with his pants neatly folded on a nearby chair. She walked softly over toward him and knelt on the floor.

Will Barnes was in a deep sleep. With a bemused shake of her head, L.C. crossed the room, sat down and began to mend his trousers.

Chapter Four

The alarm went off at seven.

L.C. awoke to find herself clutching a pillow tight against her chest. She pummeled the pillow in frustration a moment and then reached across to the bedside clock to click off the alarm. She felt chilly, and realized that somehow during the night she had squirmed out of the peignoir. She clasped her hands over her bare breasts and ironically smiled. Five years to make a decision and then …

There was a hesitant knock on the bedroom door. “You awake, L.C.?”

“I’ll be right out, Will.”

“I found some instant coffee and made two cups. Can I come in?”

She laughed. “Why not?” As the door opened she hastily pulled the sheet around her neck and lay back on the pillow.

Will handed her a cup of coffee and sat on the edge of the bed. She tried to hold the sheet against her neck with her chin and hold the coffee cup at the same time.

“Of course you know that under the laws of this state, two people who occupy the same domicile for an entire night are presumed to have.”

“How little the law knows,” she replied with a small laugh. “You fell asleep on me.”

“I’m sorry, I was really beat. I drank the brandy, and then when you didn’t come back I thought I’d close my eyes for a minute—and that was it.”

“I took a while because I had decided something.”

He ran his hand over her hip. “Oh, what’s that?”

“That 710 needs a new voltage meter.”

“Jesus!” He stood and spilled coffee over his fingers. “Are you telling me that you’re thinking of voltage meters when I thought you had decided that if I hadn’t fallen asleep …”

“I’ll need a ride to the shop.”

“Sure. Can we leave by eight? I want to make a quick stop on the way to Headquarters.”

“I’ll leap out of bed as soon as you’re back in the living room.”

“I can rustle up some breakfast.”

“You’re handy around the house.”

“Sure,” Will said sullenly as he went out and slammed the door.

After dressing, she went to the dining area to find that he had set the table, perked real coffee and had set two places of bacon and eggs. “Still mad?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Tell me about the Bridger thing. Any leads?”

Will poked at his egg in a desultory manner. “I’m afraid so, and they point toward Raleigh.” In succinct, almost official form, he ran through the details of Raleigh’s deceptions, lies and backtracking. The affair with Sandra Devonshire coupled with the possibility of relief from financial problems through Mauve’s large insurance policy gave Raleigh an excellent motive for the crime. “I’ll have to verify a lot of stuff first, but at this point it looks lousy. Maybe forensic or medical will turn up something new.”

The snow was a foot deep and still coming down. Will shook his head when he found the car. Sometime during the night the snowplows had passed, and in their inimical way had piled a bank over four feet high immediately behind his car.

“Christ, it’ll take me an hour to dig out.”

“You had better call someone.”

He glanced at her. “Great, just great.”

Patrolman Mike D’Agostinio hummed under his breath and smiled as L.C. and Will climbed into the back of the patrol car.

“Where to, Chief?”

“22 Seaway Avenue first, and then we’ll take Mrs. Converse to the car agency.”

“Yes, sir.” He threw the car into gear.

L.C. could see the patrolman leering at her in the rear view mirror. They both knew that there was already gossip about their relationship, and now the station locker room would be filled with D’Agostinio’s tale of how he picked up the chief at eight in the morning, at the Converse apartment. Under the law it was assumed that … and everyone would.

“Who’s at 22 Seaway?”

“Harry Epstein who owns the Silo Liquor Store on Forum Street.”

“Do you know where everyone in town lives?”

“Almost.”

He was in the Epstein house a scant five minutes before returning and slamming into the seat next to the driver. “Get going,” he snapped.

“What did he say?”

“One of the regulars was in the store just before closing last night. Went out and came back in a few minutes to buy another bottle. It fits with Raleigh’s original story.”

“Do you know the name of the customer?”

“Wally McNulty. Been trying to drink the town dry for years. Has a room over Hubbard’s Grill. I’ll have him picked up this morning and find out what he knows about Raleigh Bridger.

L.C. sat back lost in thought. God, he was a good man, a stable, fair man. She wondered if she were ready to love him, to help with his children, fulfill his needs—and her own.

The cruiser swerved past the service station and stopped in front of the showroom. She saw that the plowing had been inadequate, and that would be the first item on today’s agenda. She leaned in the car’s front window and gave Will a buss on the cheek as Mike D’Agostinio smiled knowingly.

It was 8:30 when L.C. opened the showroom door and went inside. It was the first morning in months that she’d been so late, and she hurried to the service area expecting to find the mechanics engaged in an extended coffee break.

The garage was filled with a din of tools wielded by silent mechanics who seemed to be working faster than usual. The bays were filled with cars. The Datsun she’d checked out the previous evening had been repaired and moved outside. The whole interior seemed cleaner and more orderly than it had been the day before.

She felt a small surge of disappointment, but reconciled herself with the thought that a full time service manager could obviously manage far better than she could with her other duties. Through the open parts room door she saw Eddie Bennett, clipboard in hand, taking inventory. She stopped before the service blackboard mounted over the air compressor and examined the listed repair orders.

At the far right of the board a new column in a strange handwriting had been added. It was entitled “F Day” in large letters written with red chalk, with a descending column of numbers with names next to each number.

She examined the column with puzzlement and then called to Eddie, “What’s the pool?”

He poked his head out the parts room door. “F Day. The day I get the boot. I put up five hundred that say I make it a month. The buys are covering me. Lots of action down after the first week.”

“I suppose it’s better than basketball. Get somebody to replow the front apron.”

“Yes, sir. By the way, I’ve checked out the parts room and I’d like to order some items.”

“Bring a purchase order to my office when you know what you need.”

He must have gotten here by dawn to have accomplished so much, she thought as she returned to her office and slipped out of her slacks and pulled on white coveralls. As she opened the bathroom door she saw him at the chair in front of the desk, his leg over the arm, looking at her through the rolled up parts requisition.

“Do you approve?” she asked as she sat at her desk.

“Absolutely.”

“Then let’s see the purchase order.” He handed the paper across the desk. She frowned as she spread out the curled edges and tried to concentrate on the list of parts. Last night’s events nagged the rim of her concentration, and she forced them away with the thought of the wrecked Sunbeam, its engine pushed off the mounts, waiting on rack one. It was something she could really get into later in the day.

“I’ll have the engine mounts fixed on that Sunbeam today,” he said.

“O.K.”

He came around the corner of the desk and bent over the purchase order with one hand resting casually on her shoulder. “I think we ought to reorganize the parts you carry in inventory. It will save money in the long run.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Her hands began to tremble as she felt his presence and the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. “Let me check your list against the inventory control cards. I’ll get back to you later in the day.”

He smiled and offered a stick of gum. “You’re the boss.”

He sauntered from the office. She twitched her shoulder to drive away the lingering imprint of his hand, and noticed that her palms were slightly damp and still clutching the requisition form. “This is ridiculous,” she said aloud to the silent trophies.

Thoughts like that were disloyal to Will. She tried to dismiss them by thinking of him. He would be at headquarters by now, would have a cup of coffee on the corner of his desk, and would be going through last night’s patrol reports before getting on with the Bridger investigation.

With a brusque movement she reached for the phone and dialed police headquarters.

“Lantern City Police, Officer Wilkie,” the curt voice answered.

“Chief Barnes, please.”

“The chief is in conference. Can anyone else help you?”

“This is L.C. Converse, and I’d like the chief to …” The connection was put through to Will before she finished her message. The gossip must have already made the rounds.

There were four reporters in the building and a television remote unit in the parking lot when Will got to headquarters. He strode past the desk, waved at the reporters, and told them he’d make a statement in fifteen minutes.

In his office at the corner of the building, coffee was waiting on the desk next to the prior shift’s patrol reports. He began to leaf through the reports and sip the coffee when the phone rang.

“Barnes.”

“Two favors, Will?” L.C. asked. “One—can you come to my place for dinner at eight?”

“Done.”

“And, Will, tonight, don’t fall asleep.”

The line clicked dead and Will hung up with a broad smile.

By 9:20 Will Barnes had been through the routine matters on his desk, put out a pickup order for Wally McNulty, made a noncommittal statement to the reporters and was on his way to the Lantern City Savings Bank.

The bank’s founder, Wadsworth Strickland, had decided against following modern dictates, and maintained the building’s decor in the same manner as when it had been built, forty years earlier. It was a monolithic building with a Grecian motif. A high vaulted ceiling, complete with murals, domed the banking floor. The tellers lined up behind a marble counter topped with filigreed iron work, while the executive offices were spoked off to the side.

The president’s office was a darkly paneled affair with a large working fireplace. An oil portrait of Wadsworth Strickland hung over the mantel. The painting of the tall, stern man dominated the room.

As Will entered, Herb Strickland rose from the heavy oaken deck placed to the side of the fireplace and extended his hand. “It hasn’t been so long, Chief Barnes.”

“I want to thank you for letting us use your place last night.”

“I was glad to be even a small aid. If there’s anything else I can do, please say so. I can still hardly believe the whole thing happened.”

Will sat in a high backed chair in front of the desk. “Perhaps you can help. That is if you aren’t too busy?”

Herb waved his hand across the empty desk and laughed. “Dad used to say that running a savings bank was the easiest job in the world. All you needed was a good operations officer and a good loan officer with a low handicap on the golf course. I’ve got Poston in operations and Raleigh in loans. At least I think I have Raleigh in loans.”

“What do you mean?”

“He called me a few minutes ago and said he’d like a leave of absence until this whole matter was cleared up. Surely, you don’t suspect …”

“We don’t suspect anyone at present, Mr. Strickland. However, I could use your help in two areas.”

“What can I do?” Herb asked as he leaned forward.

“I’d like to talk to Sandra Devonshire in one of your conference rooms, and I’d appreciate detailed background on Raleigh’s financial position.”

“I thought you said you didn’t suspect …”

“Purely routine.”

“I can certainly help you with your first request.” He mumbled a few words into his intercom. “Miss Devonshire will be with you in a few minutes. However, Raleigh’s financial situation is of course confidential.”

“I can get a court order.”

“Yes, I suppose you can.” He tented his fingers and turned to look up at his father’s portrait. “Raleigh does have a large loan with the bank. It’s ticklish since we aren’t supposed to make loans to officers. It was a temporary thing, and as long as he clears it from the books by June, the matter is closed.”

“Can he do that?”

“He’s taken everything he has and put it in that shopping center. He’ll have to sell the center, at a loss, and make good on his obligations. It will destroy his equity position, but of course he’ll still have his salary.”

“I think I’d like a statement to that effect.”

“Of course. It’s unfortunate, and Dad always warned me about these things.”

“What’s that?”

“A banker is a warden for others, beware of the man who indulges himself. Dad was good at sayings like that. Miss Devonshire should be in the conference room by now.”

She sat at the long mahogany table with her legs outstretched. Will was surprised at her appearance. He thought that banks didn’t allow their employees to dress like that. Although in her case there weren’t many places to put all she had. As he shut the door she turned toward him with a sulky and defiant sexuality.

“You wanted to see me?” It was a little girl voice.

“I’m Chief Barnes. I have a few questions.”

“I heard about Mrs. Bridger. Raleigh called me.” She seemed to slither deeper into the chair.

The aura of sexuality about the young woman across the table brought L.C.’s image to his mind. It also explained how Raleigh might have gotten involved. Daily contact with Miss Devonshire, with a marriage that was the least bit rocky, and many men would be tempted.

“What do you want from me?”

“You’re having an affair with Mr. Bridger.”

Her eyes didn’t change. “I am his secretary. We work closely together and that makes people talk.”

“Mr. Bridger says he was with you at your apartment last night. Is that true?”

She looked down at her nails before replying. “I could get in trouble if I don’t tell the truth.” It was more of a statement than question.

“We have ways of checking.”

“We had a drink after work.”

“And then went to your apartment?”

“No.”

“Oh?”

“We went to the Seaside Motel. That’s where we go every Friday. They keep a room for us.”

“I see. And how long have these little office parties been going on?”

“About six months.”

“Has he ever said he was in love with you?”

Her look was a combination of shock that changed to defiant pride. She tossed her hair. “Yes.”

“How long were you together last night?”

“He left about 7:30 or after.”

That tied in with Raleigh’s initial story of the near accident outside the liquor store, and fit into what the store owner had said. “Did he say anything about his wife, Mauve Bridger?”

“Last night?”

“Anytime?”

“That they were going to get a divorce, that he was sick and tired of her, and she wasn’t anything like I was, if you know what I mean?”

That opened an area that Will had no intention of exploring. “Did he say when he was getting a divorce?”

“Well, not exactly. He used to tell me that when he was with me he couldn’t think of anyone else.”

“That’s very complimentary,” Will replied and wondered if she realized she was putting Raleigh’s neck under the guillotine, or was it some perverse pride that made her want the tawdry affair out in the open. “Did Mrs. Bridger know about your relationship with Raleigh?”

Her eyes turned opaque. “Know?”

“Did Raleigh ever mention that he’d discussed you with his wife, or had she found out about the affair some way?”

“Did she keep a diary or something?”

Will wondered why God so often put limited minds in beautiful bodies. “There are ways to find out, Sandra. It’s usually best, in cases such as this, to be completely truthful. That way, nothing can happen to you.”

He sensed that he had made some sort of impression on her. The blankness faded from her eyes and was replaced with a feigned innocence. “She called me at work the day before yesterday and said she’d had us followed.”

“I see.” Verifiable, Will thought. There would be records of bills, payments of some sort to a private detective. On the other hand, if the accusation followed the usual pattern, it was merely an astute guess on Mauve’s part. “What else did she say?”

“The bitch. She said that I had better look for another job, out of town, and if I ever saw her husband again she’d … she’d …”

“What?”

“Cut my guts out. That’s what she said in that finishing school accent of hers. She said she’d cut my guts out and never even raised her voice like the last one that called me.”

“Last who?”

“Mr. Detwilder’s wife out at the branch. When I was his secretary she got the same idea and made me leave. But they transferred me to the main office. They always do that. They all think I’m screwing their husbands. If they were any good at all in the sack their husbands wouldn’t be interested.”

“You have a point there, Sandra. Now, I’d like you to come to the station on your lunch hour and make a formal statement of exactly what you’ve told me. Ask for Sergeant Wilcox. Will you do that for me?”

“If I have to.”

“You do.”

“Mr. Barnes, what about Raleigh? He’s not in any kind of trouble, is he?”

“I don’t know, Sandra. I really don’t know.”

At 10:15 Raleigh and Noah Washington were sitting uneasily on the ancient leather couch along the wall in Will’s office. The stenographer sat primly before the desk with her transcription machine on a small portable table.

“Before any statement is taken, Will, I want it read into the record that my client is under a doctor’s care and is suffering extreme anxiety and other nervous disorders due to his recent experience.”

“We’ll note that, Noah. I also think we ought to clear the air of a few other items. Now, Raleigh, you state that you returned home about 8:45 and called your attorney almost immediately and then the police at 9:05.”

“That sounds about right.”

“And you didn’t pass by the Silo Liquor Store a few minutes before its closing at eight?”

“I couldn’t have and arrived home at 8:45. The store’s only a five or eight minute drive from my house.”

“Even in the snow?”

“Even in the snow.”

Will flipped the intercom. “Send in Mr. McNulty.”

As if he had been poised by the office door, Wally McNulty immediately entered. He wore soiled work pants, an old army overcoat of indeterminate age, and a week’s stubble of beard. He stopped in the center of the room and looked slowly around until his gaze focused on the couch where Raleigh sat.

“That’s him,” he said as his bony finger pointed toward Raleigh. “That’s the guy who almost knocked me off outside the liquor store last night. I took a swing at him, a real good haymaker that connected.”

“And he gave you five dollars?”

“You bet your sweet ass he did,” Wally said and then put a grimy hand to his mouth as he looked at the stenographer.

“What in hell is this?” Noah jumped to his feet and raised himself to his full five-foot height. “If this is some sort of lineup for identification, you know it’s illegal.”

“I thought your client might appreciate a chance to change his story before it was put in the record.”

Noah turned to Raleigh. “If you got home earlier, I advise you to tell the truth.”

“Miss Devonshire says that you left the motel around 7:30 or 7:45.”

The short attorney hunched forward with a hand clasped to his forehead. “Chief, if you don’t mind? I’d like a conference with my client.”

“We’re not trying to do any railroading, Noah. I only want a straightforward statement. Ten minutes long enough?”

“Thank you.”

Will gestured to Wally and the stenographer to follow him from the room. He decided to give them fifteen minutes and used the time to take a formal statement from Wally.

“You couldn’t let me have five, could you, Chief? I been pretty helpful, right.”

“No, I couldn’t, Wally. How would that look in court if they said I gave you money.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. You know, I wouldn’t have taken a swing at the guy if I hadn’t been upset thinkin’ over Louis. In the winter, Louis and I always used to go to the hospital for the AA treatment. Six weeks of good food and a warm bed. I wouldn’t have been wandering around in the snow.”

“What happened to Louis?”

“He just took off one day. Said he had an offer for a crash someplace in the South. Last I heard of him.”

Will glanced out the window at the falling snow. “I think your buddy had the right idea. Suppose I have someone drive you over to the hospital for the treatment program?”

“Won’t be no fun without Louis, but maybe it’s better than fighting the weather.”

Will signaled for an officer to take the wino over to the hospital and returned to his office. “Ready now?”

“Raleigh is ready to make a truthful statement.”

“Fine.” Will gestured to the stenographer and then quickly mumbled the necessary introductions. “We’re ready. If you will identify yourself for the record, Raleigh.”

“My name is Raleigh Farnsworth Bridger. I am thirty-seven years old and live at 233 Point Drive, Lantern City. I am employed as Vice President and Chief Loan Officer of the Lantern City Savings Bank. On the night in question, I left the bank at five o’clock and met my secretary, Miss Sandra Devonshire, at the End of the Pier restaurant. We had one cocktail at the bar and left the restaurant. Wait. I think I should say that Miss Devonshire had been doing a great deal of personal work for me, correspondence and record keeping for a shopping center I own. The drink was only a small measure of my esteem for the …”

Will held up his hand and cocked his little finger. The stenographer instantly stopped. “Will you please tell your client that all statements are checked and rechecked against other statements.”

“It is noted,” Noah replied.

“For God’s sake,” Raleigh said as he jumped up from the couch. “So I’d been banging her for six months. What difference does it make?”

“Put that in the statement,” Will said.

“Wait. Let me rephrase it. Miss Devonshire and I had been intimately involved for some time.”

“Six months.”

“All right, six months. We went to the Seaside Motel and got there about six.”

“Where you went every Friday?”

“Yes, every Friday. I register under the names of Mr. and Mrs. G. Kahn, if that satisfies you.”

“Every bit helps.”

“I left the motel about quarter to eight and drove …”

“After tucking her in.”

“After having had sexual relations with Sandy. O.K.? She was gone when I left.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I must have fallen asleep. I don’t know when she left. I said she was gone when I left.”

“You’re positive about who left first?”

“Absolutely. We both had our own cars, and hers was gone. I was also observant enough to notice that she wasn’t in bed with me when I woke up.”

“All right.”

“Near eight o’clock on Forum Street, in front of the liquor store, I almost hit a damn bum who stepped out in the road in front of me. I have since learned that his name is Wally McNulty.”

“You gave him money?”

“Five dollars, and then drove home. I noticed nothing unusual about the house. The lights were on, the front door was locked. When I entered the house I called for Mauve, and then found her in the living room. I thought she was dead.”

“What time would you estimate that to be?”

“About 8:15.”

“And you called your lawyer and the police at 9 and 9:05 respectively?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do during the hour in between?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I wandered around, did some thinking, had a drink. I tried to call Sandy, but her line was busy. I was worried.”

“About your affair, your marriage or financial problems?”

“Wait a minute.” Noah was on his feet again and shook his finger at Will. “I am advising my client not to answer any leading questions of that nature.”

“So noted. I think you had better advise him of all his rights. I’m formally charging him.”

“With what?”

“Murder one.”

“That’s ridiculous! It’s manslaughter two if I ever heard it.”

Will shook his head. “Oh, Noah. Stick to your title searching and go co-counsel on this.”

L.C. stood at the kitchen door in a new hostess gown and looked sadly at the burnt french fries. “I should have bought frozen.”

“Steak and salad will be more than enough,” Will said as he opened a bottle of wine.

“You know what I think? I think that little Sandra Devonshire did it.”

“Come on, L.C. I expect better than that from a cop’s daughter. Nine times out of ten it’s either the husband or the wife. The Bridgers had a little social position, otherwise it’s the same kind of case you’d find across the river in Factory Town. He had a drink, maybe more, just out of bed with his mistress, and when he comes home she accuses him of infidelity. They fight, maybe the fight took place out doors where she still had her skates on … he kills her in a rage. And maybe not all rage. He was in financial difficulty, his wife was insured, and little Miss Muffett was waiting in the wings.”

“Killing someone in a rage isn’t murder one.”

“That’s for the prosecutor to decide. If Raleigh cooperates and cops a plea, they’ll reduce it.”

“I don’t understand about the clothes dryer and her being nude.”

“He had time after he killed her. I think he took that time to try and build an alibi and make the murder look like a sex crime.”

“How come Raleigh says Sandra left the motel first and she says he did.”

“Raleigh’s a liar. God, how many times did he lie to me?”

They began to eat at the small table illuminated by a flickering candle. She picked at her food while Will ate ravenously.

He looked up apologetically. “With all the running around today, I forgot lunch.”

“The car agency wouldn’t have survived without Raleigh’s help.”

“It worked to his benefit also. You turned out to be a very good customer.”

“At the time, it was a terrific gamble on his part. I could type, keep books, but every time I walked under a grease rack in the shop I expected to see ‘Made in Japan’ stamped in big letters on the undercarriage.”

“I appreciate your loyalty to Raleigh. He helped you out when you needed it and you’re very grateful. But it also turned out to be very good business on his part. You repaid him ten times over.”

“I can’t imagine him killing her. Particularly in that horrible way.”

Will put down his fork with a sigh. “Raleigh had more than one motive, he had the time and the opportunity. We can place him in the house at or near the time of the murder, and there is absolutely no evidence that anyone else was in the house. Oh, we also found a clear thumb print of his on the murder weapon.”

“How does he explain that?”

“Said he picked it up.” He sipped on his wine. “You know, L.C., this is the first murder we’ve had in Lantern City in years, and we broke it in fifteen hours.”

“I’m very proud of you, Will. I know you’ve done a fine job. And it all points toward Raleigh.”

“That it does.” They ate in silence for a few minutes. “How’s the new service manager doing?”

“Oh, all right, I guess.”

“Still remind you of Frank?”

“Not so much anymore.” She laughed. “They’ve gotten up a pool as to how long he’ll last.”

“I see. What do you think?”

“He’s good at his work, but insolent as hell.”

“Frank was always a little insolent.”

“Oh, Will, come on. It’s not what you think.”

Their eyes met for a long moment until she looked down at her plate.

He ran his fingers gently across her hair, down the curve of her back and over her hips. They both trembled. She kissed him and he held her tightly against his body. She was ready, and she wanted him very much.

The phone rang, but she wouldn’t answer.

As he turned to reach for the phone on the night stand, she held her head against his chest.

“No,” she whispered and nibbled his ear.

He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then abruptly sat up and spilled her back across the bed. “Jesus, no! Who was driving?… August. Keerist!” He slammed the phone back on the receiver and sprang out of bed.

She watched him incredulously as he jammed his legs into pants and slipped into his shirt. “I think I’m going to cry.”

“If I had time, I’d cry with you. Raleigh’s escaped.”

Chapter Five

“Escaped? That’s impossible.”

“You tell me.” He jammed his shirt into the waistband of his trousers and began a search for shoes. “We only have a holding cell here in Lantern City and were taking him to Murphysville where all prisoners wait until their hearings. The car skidded off the road and turned over, and the back door opened.”

“That could happen in this weather.”

“When they didn’t arrive on time, Chief Herbert over there backtracked down the road and found the car. Two officers were unconscious, and Raleigh had taken the key to the cuffs.”

“He won’t get far in the snow.”

Will found his shoes under the bed and slipped them on. “I know, but it makes us look like such jerks. A murder suspect yet. He doesn’t have money or valuables on him, and of course his house will have a police guard. He’ll follow the usual pattern, make for the highway to try and hitchhike out of state.”

“You’ll put out an APB?”

“Already done. The state has road blocks on the major arteries in the sector.” He leaned over and kissed her. She put her arms around his neck and drew him back on the bed.

“Sounds like everything that can be done is done,” she whispered.

He slipped out of her arms and stomped to the door. “I want that bastard before morning.”

“Will.”

He turned with his hand on the door knob. “Yes?”

“Damn you.”

“Don’t damn me. Damn Raleigh Bridger.”

The slam of the apartment door jarred her as she sat disconsolately in the center of the bed. Drawing her knees under her chin, she stared through the doorway into the living room where empty plates sat unwashed on the dining table. Her fists beat a rapid staccato on her knees until she laughed. L.C. rolled off the bed, skipped into the bathroom and adjusted the shower.

Toweling and throwing on a terrycloth robe, she cleared the table, stuffed dishes in the dishwasher and in minutes had the apartment straightened. It was still only 9:30.

Sleep was a distant thing. She wanted to do something, and briefly considered going back to work in the shop. It would be chilly, top cold to handle tools until the boiler was turned up, and it would take at least an hour to warm the large room.

She made a cup of coffee and curled up on the sofa with a book. It was impossible to concentrate. After she lost the plot for the third time, and had to flip back to the beginning of the chapter to read it again, she closed the book with a note of finality.

The phone book was in the drawer of the night stand in the bedroom, and she found a listing under S. Devonshire, with an address indicating an old apartment building on the other side of town.

Snow had stopped falling and the streets were plowed, but driving was still hazardous. The light turned red at the Forum Street intersection, and the Ferrari went into a mild skid as she braked. L.C. downshifted, steered into the skid, and quickly regained control. She well understood how Dave August might have excessively accelerated on the trip to Murphysville.

The apartment building was an unassuming brick structure with tiny balconies off the second floor. She parked in a rear lot and entered the vestibule.

It was a full two minutes and several rings before the sulky voice answered the intercom. “Who is it?”

“L.C. Converse, Sandy. Can I see you a minute?”

“Miz Converse, what do you want?”

“About Raleigh. It won’t take a minute.”

The door buzzed and L.C. entered the hall. Sandra’s door at the rear of the first floor swung open as she approached.

“What is it, Miz Converse?”

“Raleigh Bridger has escaped and I wanted to ask …”

“Oh, he’s not here.” The door swung open and L.C. almost stumbled as Sandra grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.

It was a one room efficiency with a small kitchenette to the side. L.C. recognized the man half under the sheet on the opened convertible couch as a 69 Corvette whose valve heads had been ground last month.

Sandra, wearing a light dressing gown and obviously nothing else, bustled through the room opening and closing closet and bathroom doors. “He’s not here, Miz Converse, you can see that.”

“I didn’t think he would be. I was just going to ask you about …” L.C. stopped. How in the world could she question the girl about the discrepancy in Raleigh’s story when 69 Corvette was also interested in her charms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.”

“Hank’s not company, he’s my roommate and you can talk in front of him. He knows all about Mr. RB.”

“Then Hank was here last night?”

“Hank’s always here. He’s drawing unemployment.”

“Did you tell that to Chief Barnes?”

“He didn’t ask.”

“What in hell are you two broads talking about?” The 69 Corvette heaved himself from the bed and padded over to the refrigerator. He took out a can of beer, flipped the top, and posed against the kitchen counter in his jockey shorts.

“You trying to show off or something?” Sandra snapped.

“Pipe down. Hey, I know you. You work at the garage and did a job on my valves.”

“Blue job with radials,” L.C. replied.

“Hey, yeah. You think I’d get more RPM if I put in dual carbs?”

“I’ve got some Holley 4160 four barrels in the shop. Mount them side by side and you’ll pick up 400 on your tach.”

“Is that right?”

His reply of admiration had not been lost on Sandra. There was a noticeable hostility in her voice. “Exactly what do you want, L.C?”

“Were you home by eight last night?”

“Why?”

“Sure she was,” he replied. “I know because I always watch “The Price is Right.” It comes on at 7:30 and she came in before it was over.”

“Thank you. I’ll go now.” L.C. started for the door.

“Wait a minute, I’d like to talk to you about that red buggy of yours.”

“Why don’t you just parade around in front of her with everything hanging out?” L.C. heard Sandra yell as the door slammed.

The stenographic pad lay forgotten on the floor by the side of the chair as Jane Ellen sat defiantly across the desk from L.C. and crossed her arms over her chest.

“What am I supposed to do, bind them like Chinese women used to do?”

“That was feet not breasts, Jane Ellen.”

“Well, I can’t help it.” She put her arms down by her side. “When it gets cold like this they … they just stand out.”

L.C. was sorry that the conversation had ever started. She wouldn’t have brought it up this morning if Vic Mange hadn’t almost climbed into the Mr. Coffee machine as Jane Ellen poured. “I know you can’t help it. I’m only suggesting that you might consider wearing a brassiere.”

“L.C, I never thought you’d be like the others.”

“What others?”

“The other sexist men I’ve worked for.”

“I hadn’t realized that I’d lost my gender identity.”

“What?”

“I am not a man, Jane Ellen, in case you hadn’t recently noticed.”

The girl across the desk blushed. “I didn’t mean …”

Miraculously the phone rang and L.C. waved the secretary from the office. “L.C. Converse.”

“We’re still out combing the boondocks,” Will said. “I’m afraid the poor bastard may have frozen to death.”

“Do I look like a man to you, Will?”

“Come on, L.C. I had to leave last night.”

“I know. I just need a little reassurance this morning.” Jane Ellen, for all her talk of feminine liberation, was quietly driving Vic Mange up the wall, and if he already hadn’t, would soon be climbing into her bed. Sandra Devonshire had her 69 Corvette with Raleigh Bridger on the side, and she couldn’t seem to keep one man in bed. She laughed at her own self-pity.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Hey, did you know that Raleigh’s supposed mistress has a permanent male roommate?”

“No, but at this point I don’t think it makes any difference.”

“It might. I don’t see why he’d kill his wife over a girl he sleeps with one day a week, and who sleeps with someone else the other six.”

“He ran, L.C. He ran, and innocent men don’t take off.”

“Did the autopsy report say anything important?”

“That she died when we figured, near 8:00 from the neck wound. She also had contusions and two broken fingers.”

“Fingers?”

“Crushed, like someone had stepped on them.”

“And that’s all?”

“The usual other stuff. Nothing important except that she’d had recent sexual relations.”

“That doesn’t make sense if she and Raleigh were fighting. Have you considered that the whole thing might be a rape-murder?”

“I’m chasing one maniac already. About tonight …”

“I know. After you catch the bastard.”

“We’ve got a bunch of state troopers out here, and if we don’t find him by this afternoon they’re sending in a company from the National Guard.”

“I wish you luck, Will. And I mean that.”

“I know you do, L.C.”

She replaced the phone on the call director and sat staring at it. Her feelings were mixed. On the one hand she wanted Will to succeed in his job, and that presently meant running Raleigh Bridger down. And yet, she instinctively felt that Raleigh was incapable of performing the brutal murder. During the past five years she had fought to avoid that type of intuitive sensibility, and had immersed herself in pragmatic things: tools, precision machines, bookkeeping entries and monthly sales charts.

She shrugged off the thought and retreated into the repair shop. The storm had limited the number of repairs on the line, and she noticed that Eddie was working on the Sunbeam. He looked up from under the hood, wiped his hands on a cotton rag, and fell into step as they walked the length of the garage.

“You never told me how you got the limp.”

She reddened. “I hadn’t realized it was that obvious.”

“Not too bad. Gives your bottom a kinda cute wiggle.”

“You’re out of line.”

“Piece of gum?”

She shook her head as they stopped before the blackboard and quickly scanned the remaining repair jobs listed. The pool column on the far right of the board still puzzled her. “I don’t understand about the pool. Are you betting for or against yourself?”

“For. Sorry you can’t get in, but you’re not a disinterested party. Hurt your leg in a racing wreck?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“It was a year ago at Daytona. The car ahead of me hit an oil slick. My car would have hit him broadside, so I swerved off the track.”

“Flipped over.”

“Couple of times.”

“You were damn lucky.”

“I know.”

“Miss it?”

“Racing?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve often thought I should get myself a rich girl friend to finance my racing.” He looked at her and arched an eyebrow. “You know, you’d fill the bill nicely. You’ve got the money and could manage the pit crew on the side.”

“You had better see if you make your first month here before planning our future.”

“I’ve got five hundred riding on it.”

“Don’t double your wager. I’ll be back in an hour or two,” she said and hurried from the shop.

Raleigh was in the woods. He’d be tired, cold, consumed by the desire for sleep, a sleep that would ultimately kill him. She pulled a sheepskin jacket over her coveralls and went out to her car and drove toward Murphysville.

She pulled into a diner on the outskirts of town and fumbled for the thermos bottle behind the seat, and had it filled with steaming hot coffee. A thermometer on the outside of the building registered 10 degrees. Streaks of snow whipped across the near empty parking lot and she estimated wind velocity at nearly 30 knots. She wondered what that made the wind-chill factor. And Raleigh’d been out there for twelve hours.

The road to Murphysville ran along the ridge line above the river. Occasionally she could see through the trees to the wetlands along the shore. The car passed the Lantern City Yacht Club with its yard of phantom boats resting for the winter on large wooden cradles.

At the junction of Route 99 and the Turnpike, four troopers were flagging down cars in the opposite lane. The occupants of all cars leaving the search area would be checked against photographs of Raleigh. She knew that Will was thorough, there would be a similar checkpoint on the highway to Murphysville and also on Route 77 to the south. The northern border of the search area was blocked by the sluggishly moving river.

The summer they were seventeen a small child had been lost in the same area. Out-of-state campers, pitching their tent for the night, had failed to notice the disappearance of their small daughter until she’d been gone over an hour. L.C.’s father had supervised the operation, while she, Frank and Will, carrying heavy duty flashlights, had spent the night in fruitless search.

She recalled walking hand in hand, with Frank back to the highway at dawn to find her father bent over the hood of his car with a geodetic map mounted on a large piece of plywood. He sadly marked off grid after grid as the various search groups reported in.

At full first light Will had found the child. She had fallen asleep on a small ledge fifty feet above the swollen river. Will had yelled, limped back toward the highway, and carried the little girl on his back with her hands wrapped around his neck.

He would remember that and use the same methods her father had devised. Grids would be drawn on the map, assignments made, the individual groups would divide and search until Raleigh or his body was found.

She braked to a stop behind a line of Lantern City and state police cruisers pulled off on the shoulder. Will was in the back seat of his car conferring with a National Guard captain. She tapped on the window. He looked up and frowned until she waved the thermos jug.

“It’s cold out here,” she said.

He waved her to the front seat.

“I hope that’s got a couple of shots in it,” the captain said as Will took the thermos.

She snapped her fingers. “That I didn’t think of. Any luck?”

“Not yet, but he’s out there somewhere and we’ll find him.”

“How do you know he didn’t slip through before you set up the road blocks?”

“We were able to follow his footprints for half a mile before the wind obliterated them, and by that time we had the roads sealed.”

Will held the mounted map on his knees, and she wondered if it was the same one her father had used. “O.K.,” she said as she left the car. “Just wanted to see how you were making out.”

She drove back towards Lantern City, was stopped briefly by the troopers who checked the car, and was then waved through.

There was something about maps that nibbled at the corner of her mind. The map on Will’s lap, her father’s spread over the hood of the car, the large tourist information map mounted in front of her service station … the course she’d taken last year at Power Squadron.

Raleigh Bridger had given the course on basic navigation. He had obviously loved his subject and had therefore been able to present it in an interesting and exciting manner. Raleigh had once told her that he had accepted Wadsworth Strickland’s offer to come to Lantern City because of its proximity to the water. She knew his house was furnished in a nautical motif, and that he was a member of the Yacht Club. At this very moment his cabin cruiser would be one of those mounted on the stark cradles in the yard of the marina.

If he had somehow managed to slip through the cordon of police, his winterized boat would make an excellent hiding place. There was no way to get through. Roads were blocked, the river’s current kept it from freezing over … unless he stole a small boat from one of the houses along the river.

Her hands trembled on the wheel and she slowed the car. A stolen boat. Paddles, oars and motors would be locked up, but many of the home owner’s kept dinghys and rowboats upturned on their docks or yards. It wouldn’t be difficult to get one into the water, and even without oars, the current would move it downstream toward the marina. It could be done.

She pulled to a stop in the yacht club parking lot. There were half a dozen cars in front of the club’s dining room which was open all winter, and the occupants were probably in the game room for the continuing card games. The marina piers were vacant, the area unplowed, as boats loomed in neat rows on their cradles along the water.

Smaller boats, her own day sailer included, were kept in a long tiered warehouse. In order to use your stored boat, it was necessary to call an hour ahead of time to the harbormaster. A large fork lift placed the boat in the water. Cabin cruisers and motor sailers too large for the warehouse were winterized on cradles with large tarps covering their flying bridges and across their sterns.

She tried to recall the name of Raleigh’s boat as she walked in knee-high show past the long line of crafts.

She recognized the Mauvoway when she passed it. A ladder hung near the stern, and two cleats had been removed from the protecting tarp near the ladder. The canvas flapped open in an aperture large enough for someone to squeeze through. She began to climb the ladder.

As she peered down the companionway the ports let in enough dim light to illuminate the main saloon. She took off a glove and stooped down to feel damp places on the decking.

“Raleigh. Raleigh Bridger, it’s L.C. Converse.”

She went slowly down the companionway into the saloon. An arm circled her neck and she felt a knife blade pressed against the flesh.

“Who’s with you?” the guttural rasping voice asked.

“I can’t talk,” she gasped and felt the pressure immediately released.

“Don’t turn around. Now what in hell are you doing here?”

“I had a hunch.”

“Where’s your boy friend?”

“They’re searching the woods above the intersection.”

“Good. I thought that’s what they’d do.”

“You stole a boat.”

“A damn rotten rowboat. It’s a wonder I didn’t drown.”

“You shouldn’t have run away, Raleigh.”

“My own lawyer tells me I should plead guilty to murder two. He says I’d be out in six years.”

“It’s better than being dead.”

“I wonder. You want a drink?”

“Whatever you have,” she replied and then realized the incongruity of the remark under the present situation and laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t expect you to have a fully stocked bar.”

“Tequila?” He hobbled across the saloon and held up a half-filled bottle. “Don’t ever try drinking tequila when you’re cold as hell.”

“If it’s all you have.”

He filled a soggy paper cup. “Sorry, I don’t have a glass.” He laughed.

“Now what’s funny?”

“The whole thing is ridiculous. Here I am, the victim of a manhunt, a moment ago I almost slit your throat and we’re making excuses for the lack of social amenities.”

“What’s the matter with your feet?”

“I think they’re frost bitten.”

“Let me see.” She gently pushed him back on the divan and bent over his shoes. The laces were encrusted with a layer of ice, and she gave up trying to untie them. She pried the shoes off and peeled down the socks. “You’re in trouble.”

“That’s what my lawyer tells me.”

“The feet are bad, Raleigh. They need immediate care.”

“I didn’t kill her, L.C., and I’m not going to waste the next six years because some nut did.”

“Did you make love to Mauve that day?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“The medical examiner said someone had.” She began to massage his frost bitten foot.

“I think she’d been playing around.”

“With who?”

“I don’t know. Jesus, the foot is beginning to really hurt.”

“I’ve got to get you to the hospital, Raleigh. If we don’t do something you could lose your foot. Is there anyway to get heat in here?”

“No, not once it’s winterized. Take me to your place for a couple of hours. Long enough to get my foot taken care of and do some thinking. Maybe talk to my lawyer.”

She stood in the dim light and looked down at the frost bitten foot that was now turning a most unpleasant color. She knew she could run from him. He was in no condition to chase her more than a few feet, and once out of the cabin and off the boat she could reach the car and go for Will. But she was afraid that if she left him he would make another hazardous escape attempt. Considering his present condition, it might be fatal this time. Once in her apartment there’d be opportunity to get word to Will.

“All right,” she said. “Can you wrap something around the foot and hobble to the car?”

“You’re damn right.”

Raleigh had dropped off into a moaning, fitful sleep. She had warmed his foot, packed hot water bottles around it, fed him a sandwich and a big glass of whisky. When his eyes flickered shut she tiptoed from the room.

She slipped the kitchen extension phone off the hook and dialed police emergency.

“Police emergency, Officer Hawkins.”

“L.C. Converse, tell Chief Barnes that …”

A hand reached past her cheek and clicked down the extension. The phone was taken from her hand and placed back on the hook.

“You shouldn’t have done that, L.C.,” he said in a low voice.

Chapter Six

The last time she had been tied to a chair was during a game of cowboys and Indians when she was eight years old, and she hadn’t liked it then either.

“I don’t suppose you’d take my word?”

“Nope.”

“You act like your foot still hurts.”

“I’ll get by. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow a few things?”

“I do.”

“I’ll return them when everything is straightened out.” He looped a belt around her feet and then ran the loose end of rope from her hands through the loop and pulled until she gave a short grunt. He limped through the apartment gathering items as he opened and closed drawers. He counted the money from her wallet. “Fourteen dollars.”

“I never carry much cash.”

He stuffed the bills in his pocket along with a gasoline credit card and car keys. He found her father’s service revolver in the bureau drawer and tucked it in the waistband of his pants.

“Raleigh, please calm down and look at things rationally. To begin with, my car is about as obvious as a Sherman tank. The fourteen dollars won’t go far, and if you use the credit card you’ll leave a trail anyone could follow. And there aren’t any bullets for the gun.”

“I didn’t kill her. I don’t know if it was one of her admirers, or someone who broke in the house and attacked her, but I’m going to find out.”

“What happened to the missing hour? Will says he definitely places you in the house shortly after eight, but you never called for help until nine.”

He paused thoughtfully in the center of the living room. “When I first saw her lying there I wanted her to be dead. It solved so many problems. We had already discussed divorce, it was only a question of time. I wanted her dead, and that filled me with guilt, as if I really had killed her. I was confused and walked through the house trying to put things together, as if by overcoming my desire for her death I could bring her back to life. Can you understand that?”

“I think so. I promise you that Will will continue the investigation.”

“His mind is made up. After my running away, and the other lies, he’ll never believe a word I say.”

“What about me?”

“I’ll leave a note on the superintendent’s door to open the apartment at six.”

“I still think you’re making a mistake.”

He stopped at the door to turn and smile. “Thanks, L.C.”

“Sure.”

She sat staring at the blank wall after he shut the door. It was going to be a long day. The wall was really quite bleak. She had never put any time or thought into decorating the apartment, and now had a full six or seven hours to consider the problem in depth. She’d paint the wall in a bright primary color to provide contrast, and then buy some good Wyeth prints. The long windows overlooking the water were the most spectacular aspect of the room and could be more effectively utilized.

The voices from outside, below the window, were dim distant sounds that almost merged into the ordinary background noise of the apartment complex. If it were spring she would have automatically assumed they were the grounds crew cleaning and preparing the pool for warm weather.

There was two feet of snow behind the building.

She slid the light chair across the room toward the large window to see three men standing in the snow three floors below. Raleigh was almost directly below the window by the edge of the ice-covered swimming pool. He glanced from side to side like a furtive animal.

Will had come around the right corner of the building and was walking slowly toward Raleigh. He held his arms up and away from his body and was obviously saying something in low tones that were unintelligible from this distance.

Officer Dave August, holding a pump shotgun across his body, had come from the left, and was crouching forward as he brought the gun up to aiming position.

“Leave me the hell alone,” Raleigh’s voice carried through the wind.

Will stopped and waved Dave August back. Once again he began to move slowly toward the cornered man.

Raleigh reached under his jacket and pulled out the service revolver. He held it by the barrel a moment and then threw it toward the frozen pool.

The blast of the shotgun spun Raleigh in a complete circle and crumpled him into the snow against the side of the building.

L.C. moaned and pressed her forehead against the cold window glass.

Will ran forward, knelt for a moment beside the fallen man, and then stood slowly. He walked deliberately toward the officer holding the rifle, took it from his hands, and then swung his fist upward in a blow that caught Dave August under the chin.

Someone was whimpering in child-like cries. It was a plaintive sound, filled with the horror of things that shouldn’t have been seen. Windows. She was always by windows as men destroyed each other. L.C. cried for all four dead men.

Large hands undid the belt around her feet. Her arms swung forward as the rope fell away.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked up at the concerned face hovering over her. “Is he dead?”

“Yes. I’ve put that stupid son-of-a-bitch August on indefinite suspension. Raleigh wasn’t going to do anything. There was no reason to shoot.”

He pulled her to her feet and she cried into the hollow of his shoulder. “He didn’t have to die, Will. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. It’s one of those things, an inexperienced officer, tension, a wrong move …”

She forced herself to look out the window. A red stain on the snow was the only indication of what had happened. She shivered and felt her body tighten. A window to the past opened, her father stepped from his car onto the sun-splashed macadam, a desperate young man ran from the station office.…

She stiffened as Will put his arms around her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. I think I’d like to be left alone.”

“Perhaps the doctor …”

“No, I’m all right. How did you know he was here?”

“An educated guess. The man on the desk played back your call to the emergency number. He knew you always called me on the regular line and notified me out at the search site. You’d been out there a while ago. It didn’t take much to figure out what might have happened.”

“Too bad for Raleigh, isn’t it?”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“What’s the saying? With friends like me, who needs enemies.”

“It was foolish for him to have run in the first place. There’s always the risk that this would happen.”

“He didn’t make love to his wife that day,” she said abruptly.

Will shook his head. “It’s over, L.C. Over, finished, done, kaput. How about dinner tonight?”

“Oh, God.” She backed away as he tried to kiss her.

“I promise there’ll be no interruptions this time.”

“You aren’t for real. One of your men just shot a man under my window, and all you can think about is going to bed.”

“I couldn’t exist if I didn’t shut out certain things. I’ll fill out the reports, hang Dave August from the yardarm, and mark it down as an unfortunate incident. That’s all I can do.”

“No it isn’t. You can find out who killed Mauve Bridger.”

“Damn it all! I did.”

“The man you thought did it is dead.”

“A lot of people are dead.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“I had a case. The prosecutor thought I had a case, and a jury would have convicted Raleigh.”

“And they’d be wrong.”

His voice softened. “I’m sorry, L.C. You’ve been through a hell of a ordeal, and what happened to Raleigh was a senseless thing.”

“I’m sick of killings. That’s what happened to my father and Frank.”

“It’s hardly the same.”

“Yes it is. If you leave it like it is, it’s senseless. Raleigh died for nothing.”

“You’re very upset now and …”

“Damn right I am!”

“We can’t live with our ghosts, Laura. I learned that, I’ve accepted that, and I think it’s time you did also.”

“Oh, go write speeding tickets or something.”

His eyes clouded as he stepped away from her. “I’ll need a statement.”

“I thought you would. I’ll be down later.”

“Of course, L.C. Later.” He looked at her for a long moment and then left the apartment.

She took two hesitant steps toward the door and stopped. She was numb and rigid until she sank onto the floor and began to cry again, this time for the dead and the living.

Herb Strickland answered his phone immediately. “I heard what happened. Terrible, just terrible.”

“I think it’s time that the bank bought me a big lunch.”

She sensed the hesitancy in his voice. “Of course, L.C. I did have an appointment, but it can be canceled.”

“I’ll meet you at the Yacht Club dining room in half an hour.”

“Anything you say.”

L.C. plunked the olive in her martini and looked up at the mural over the Yacht Club bar. It depicted, in rather primitive fashion, the founding of the city. Stalwart colonials stood hip deep in water at the point. They held lanterns over their heads to lure unsuspecting ships toward the reef and subsequent plunder.

“Dry enough for you, Miss Converse?”

She looked up to register a 75 Volks in the red bartender’s jacket. “Fine, Steve.”

Herb Strickland reached over her shoulder and picked up the check. “I’ve reserved a table.”

“Would you mind if we sat at the bar a moment?”

“’Course not.” He slid onto the stool next to her and ordered a double vodka on the rocks. “I just got off the phone with Toby in Florida. Told her what happened to Raleigh and how plucky you were. Plucky’s the word, L.C. Any woman that can go through what you did this morning, and still have the courage to want to discuss loan paper … that’s pluck.”

“I want to talk about Raleigh.”

“Yes, arrangements will have to be made. We’ll try and locate other members of the family, but the bank can take care of everything. I guarantee that it will be a fine double service, L.C. We will not spare expense.”

At that moment, L.C. realized she wanted a second martini—quickly. “That’s thoughtful Herb, although it’s not exactly what I had in mind. I don’t think Raleigh did it.”

“Is that what Will thinks?”

“No, but it’s the reason I want you to tell me about the Bridgers. You were their neighbor, co-worker, and ultimately Raleigh’s boss.”

“I see.” Herb said pensively. “You know, L.C., there’s nothing in this world that would please me more than to find out that Raleigh did not kill his wife. It would remove a certain stigma from the bank. To say the least, it’s not exactly the best public relations in the world to have a senior officer of the bank kill his wife. Anything at all I can do to help, and I’m sure if she were here, Toby would feel the same.”

“Tell me all you know about them.”

“Well, let me think about it. I told you there were rumors. But then again, for an attractive couple like the Bridgers who moved in a fast set, that’s not unusual.”

“What sort of rumors?”

“A fast set, you know, late parties, a couple of divorced couples in the group. Nothing you can really put your finger on, things that people in Lantern City like to gossip about.”

“Were any particular names mentioned?”

“Not that I can recall.” Herb ordered another drink as L.C. placed the palm of her hand across the rim of her glass: “I’m not your best source of information in that area. Toby and I belong to the club, I use the dining room for business lunches, and dad used to dock his boat here; but we don’t really travel in the fast set. Which reminds me, I must tell Toby to make arrangements to have the boat brought North.”

“What about Raleigh at the bank?”

“One of the best loan officers I’ve ever seen. We’re going to miss him terribly. The only, mistake I ever knew him to make was when he bought that shopping center for his own account. You know, he was almost made president after Dad retired. It was a close vote with the board until Dad used his influence and swung it to me.”

“He must have been very disappointed?”

“We gave him a hefty raise in salary to keep him. Toby says we made a good team, Raleigh making the money and me watching over it.”

“Do you think he killed his wife?”

“That’s for Will Barnes to decide. But does it really make much difference anymore? I’ll be right back.”

He slid from the stool, and with a minute stagger wound his way across the room toward a small door marked, GOBS.

The bartender leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner. “The Beast.”

“I wouldn’t talk like that about Mr. Strickland, Steve. He’s a powerful man in town,” she replied with a tight smile.

“I couldn’t help but overhear. Last summer Mrs. Bridger was involved with the Beast.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I never did know his real name, but that’s what everyone called him.”

“Someone from Lantern City?”

“I don’t know where he came from, but I don’t think it was from around here. He was ere wing one of the big boats at the marina. The owner must have been gone a lot, for he had a lot of spare time. There was some sort of hassle between him and Mauve Bridger, she complained to the owner of the boat and the Beast was canned. That was the last we saw of him.”

“What was the hassle about?”

“The whole thing never did come out, but we knew that the harbormaster got involved, and there was talk that the Beast made a big play for Mauve and she yelled. Bennie would know all about it?”

“Where’s the harbormaster now?”

“Bennie works in Florida on the off season, but he’ll be back in March to get the boats ready for the water.”

Herb Strickland slid his bulk back on the stool. “I think we had better eat, L.C. I’ve had four and Toby usually only lets me have two.”

“Herb, do you remember anything about a man they called the Beast? Crewed for someone last summer.”

“Can’t say I do. How about bay scallops, L.C.?”

“You musta seen him, Mr. Strickland,” Steve said. “Big guy, over six and a half feet, musta gone over 250. He was always walking around wearing a warm-up jacket.”

“Probably a student working for the summer.”

“Nope. Too old. Musta been near thirty.”

“Who was he working for?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said as a waitress brought an order to the service section of the bar. “I never get out on the dock. You can check with the harbormaster when he comes back in the spring.”

“Great,” L.C. said. “Wait a minute. There must be something more you can remember about the man. The jacket he wore, did it have any lettering on the back? Try and picture it.”

Steve paused with a cocktail shaker held over his head. “Wait a minute.… Yeah, Middleburg College Athletic Department. That’s what was on the jacket.”

“Would you mind, Herb? I don’t think I’m hungry after all.”

Middleburg College was near the Massachusetts border fifty miles from Lantern City. It was called little Ivy, like several other smaller New England colleges. L.C. drove slowly through the campus until she found a parking space in front of the library.

Seven years ago, Stanley “The Beast” Peckham had played right tackle on the Middleburg football team. She stared down at the yearbook picture and tried to imagine what seven years and thirty pounds might have done to Stanley’s appearance.

The graying clerk with the pointed face shook her head as she glanced down at the card in her hand.

“Surely the alumni office must have some address for Mr. Peckham?” L.C. asked.

“You can look for yourself, dear.” The alumni office clerk placed the file card on the counter. Three addresses on the card had been crossed off, the last with a notation that mail had been returned with no forwarding address.

She walked slowly down the stone steps in front of the building. The turning of the day as clouds dissipated under the glare of a warm winter’s sun only seemed to increase her depression. Couples in pea jackets and duffle coats walked hand in hand along the cleared walks. The campus walks seemed filled with students moving slowly in the sun as if they’d recently been entombed and were now released. Watching them made L.C. very lonely.

She haphazardly walked through the campus at a loss for her next move. The yacht club harbormaster could provide a further lead. Surely he’d remember the boat that Stanley Peckham worked on—if she were able to wait until his return in March. By spring any existing evidence would surely have been obliterated. If she could find the harbormaster, talk to him by phone, just perhaps … she looked for her car, the similarity of the unfamiliar buildings confused her. She stopped a passing student, asked directions back to the library, and began to hurry.

As she turned a corner and saw the library ahead she found herself in front of the athletic building. It was by far the largest structure on the campus, and more than likely housed the gym, pools and offices of the staff.

She hurried toward the door of the athletic building.

Nick Giacomo was not a tall man, although his massive shoulders gave him a top-heavy appearance. He slouched in a desk chair with his hands behind his head as he tilted back against the wall. The bottom button of his shirt had popped open to reveal his navel. He waved her to a chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to locate Stanley Peckham who played on your football team seven years ago. They called him the Beast. Do you remember?”

“Beast? Hell, yes. Tough, but slow. Hit hard. When Beast hit them they stayed down.”

The office smelled of the locker room although she knew it was three floors removed. L.C. momentarily wondered about the similarity between football coaches and Marine generals, and, she thought ruefully, certain police officers. “Do you know where he is?”

“Try the alumni office.”

“I did. They’ve lost contact with him.”

“Not surprised. I’m sure they didn’t try too hard after he got the boot.”

“Expelled?”

“Expelled, hell. Thrown out spring of his last year. Thank God it was after the season or I’da been in real trouble. Had a chick in his room and beat the daylights out of her when she wouldn’t put … ah, cooperate. Not that he would have graduated anyway with his credits.”

“Then you don’t know what happened to him?”

The chair plunked forward and Giacomo reached into the center drawer of his desk. She knew he’d extract a cigar and braced herself. “Beast played on the Giants’ taxi squad for part of a season. When they dropped him he played with the Hartford Knights until they folded. That was his football career. He’s tough, but just not fast enough for the pros.”

“Do you know where he might be working?”

“He kicked around, construction when that was good, then odd jobs. He was by here during the season.” He lit the cigar and it smelled as bad as she thought it would. “You know how it is with old football players. They don’t fade away, they lurk around during the season. Came into the locker room after the last game with Trinity. What the hell did he say he was doing? Wait a minute, working as a bouncer at some dump in Hartford … a place with telephones.”

“Telephones?”

“That’s all he said. I don’t know why you want him, lady, but if I were you, I wouldn’t go anywhere near him.”

She called Hartford from a pay phone at the Student Union building. Detective Sargeant Pat Pasquale had been a friend of her father’s, and over the years had spent countless hours at the house, and even more fishing with her father.

“A bar with a lot of telephones, you say, Laura?”

“That’s all I have, Pat. Do you know of such a place?”

“There is a place called the Hot Line, but you don’t need that kind of action, honey.”

“You mean it’s filled with hookers?”

“Semi-pro stuff. A singles bar, but you sit down in there and any guy in the joint assumes you’ve got a sign around your neck says you’re available.”

“I’m only trying to locate someone, Pat.”

“Need help?”

“If I do, I’ll call.”

“You do that, Laura. And take care.”

The Hot Line Lounge was located on the outskirts of the city, A large neon sign in the shape of a telephone was mounted on the roof and spasmodically blinked on and off. It was near eight when she entered the dim interior of the lounge and checked her coat. The blond hatcheck girl in tights accepted two dollars admission fee and surprised her by stamping the back of her hand with red ink.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“Case you want to pass in and out.”

A waiter led her to a table near the center of the main room and took her drink order. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lights she saw that only a few of the center tables were occupied by women, while men sat at a few tables against the walls on either side. The small dance floor and band stand were empty, and rock music came from amplifiers on either side of the small stage.

When the waiter returned with her drink he showed her the telephone in the center of the table.

“Each table’s got a number, see. You’re 22 like it says on the sign. You want to call another table, you just dial, see?”

“Yes, thank you. Can you tell me if Stanley Peckham still works here?”

“Who?”

“The Beast.”

“Beast, oh yeah. He comes on at eight. There’s no action before then. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

She twirled the swivel stick in the weak drink and tried to picture again the yearbook she had peered at so intently that afternoon. The phone on the table rang and she looked at it quizzically. It rang again. She picked it up reluctantly.

“This 22?” the voice asked.

“Twenty-two? Table 22, yes.”

“I’m 17 over in the corner with red hair.”

She, turned to peer into the dim corner at the far edges of the room. A hand appeared out of the shadows and waved. “I don’t think I’m really …”

“You can’t see me clearly, baby. I’m down from Boston on business, got a pocketful of credit cards and I’m big where it …”

She hung up, her face flushed. It served her right, she thought. If you put yourself in a place like this you have to expect that sort of thing.

He loomed next to the table. His bulk blocked part of the small amount of light coming from the fixture nearest the table. When L.C. looked up at him she recognized a caricature of the man from the college yearbook. During the past seven years he had gained more weight than she would have expected.

“They said you were asking for me?” His voice was hostile.

“You’re Stanley Peckham.”

“So?”

“I followed your career at Middleberg. I always liked linemen, the bigger the better. Will you have a drink?”

He looked down at her blankly a moment, then smiled and pulled out a chair. “Sure, why not. You saw me play, huh?”

“At college, and then later with the Hartford Knights. I never did see you play with the Giants.”

“Bastards never did use me.”

“They used to call you the Beast.”

“Still do. Though the only action I get here is throwing drunken salesmen out on their ass.”

“I don’t imagine many fool with you.”

“Not many,” he laughed. “You know, the backfield is for la-di-das. It takes real guts to play the line and meet bone on bone. None of that fancy dancing.”

“That’s what I always thought. You know, I come from Lantern City, and I could have sworn I saw you down there last summer.”

“I was there. Worked a boat for two, maybe three weeks until some bimbo got me in trouble. You know the kind, high society stuff thinks she’s God’s gift. Gave me the high sign, then when we started playing she started yelling.”

“I’ve always hated a tease.”

“Woulda been all right except the guy I was working for was jumping her.”

“Happens all the time,” L.C. said. “Somebody from Lantern City?”

“Who?”

“The man you worked for.”

“Yes and no. Had a great boat, you shoulda seen it, a sixty-five footer. He’d be away a lot, and I’d have the whole damn thing to myself. I lived it up good on that boat, let me tell you. Got a chick I picked up to take some pics of the thing, carpet a foot thick in the main cabin.”

“I’d like to have seen it. Who was the owner?”

The flesh seemed to puff under his eyes. “Why you want to know?

“Just curious, that’s all.”

“That all?”

“Really, Stanley. I’ve been interested in your career for years, and that’s why I asked.”

He looked at her levelly. “You married and playin’ around?”

“No. My husband is dead.”

“I’ve got a lot of pictures. Not just the boat, but me suited up. Real action shots when I dump the quarterback, stuff like that.”

“I’d like to see them sometime.”

“How about now?”

“You have them here?”

“Upstairs. I got a room over this joint. I work here till closing so there’s no noise during the day. Got me a room, a bottle and a scrapbook. Come on.”

She felt the pressure of his leg against hers. “Can you just leave like that?”

“It’s quiet tonight, and as long as I punch out, they know where to find me when they need me.”

She didn’t want to go. In fact, the last thing in the world she wanted was to be alone in an enclosed place with the man sitting across from her.

A red stain on the snow rose toward the apartment window as the sound of the shotgun reverberated across the river. Her father left the cruiser and walked across the macadam …

“All right, Beast. There’s nothing in the world I’d like more than to see your pictures.”

It was an unbelievable apartment with the musty smell of a locker room. She had never seen so many comic books. They were piled in large heaps in all the corners, and spilled over an end table next to an easy chair. The bed was rumpled as if the sequel to the Trojan war had recently been reenacted. There was a small kitchen off to the side, and a magazine centerfold nailed to the wall.

“It has a lived-in look,” she said as he took her coat and threw it over the chair. He stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. She felt his fingers tighten as he pulled back on her blouse. L.C. turned. “Wait a min.…”

His hand came up from her waist and caught her across the cheekbone. She tumbled across the room and sprawled over the bed.

Chapter Seven

Her head hurt with a dull throb. My God, he was going to kill her! She swung her feet off the bed and pushed herself erect. Her hands were held protectively across her face as he moved toward her.

“Stanley, please.” She fought unsuccessfully to keep hysteria from her voice.

“Take off your blouse. I want to see what you’re so proud of.”

He seemed to loom over her like some ruttish animal and she was very frightened. He had beaten one woman at college, perhaps killed Mauve. She fought for control. “Hey, we’ll have a good time. Take it easy.”

“Take the blouse off.”

“To music?”

“You some tease like that broad on the boat?”

With numb fingers she unbuttoned the blouse and slipped it off her shoulders. “O.K.?” It was her own damn fault. She shouldn’t be here. Her own actions had placed her in this vulnerable position. “What do you want?”

“Are you kidding? You want it too, you were asking for it.”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

“I like it that way.”

“I do too, but in a minute.”

“What’s that mean?” He dropped her arm and she slid from the bed.

“I mean, you turn me on, but I want to see the pictures first. That really turns me on, and then …”

“Really turns you on?”

“God, yes.”

“All right, little lady.” He moved into the kitchen and returned with a full bottle of scotch and two streaked jelly glasses. “How you want your drink?”

“Nothing. Neat.”

He bent down and pulled three large scrap books out from under the bed and placed them reverently by her side. He poured two steep drinks and sat next to her. His behavior changed as he gently handled the bulky books as if he were fondling holy articles. He slowly turned the pages of yellowing photographs.

“It all started when I made All State at Fairlawn High. Here’s me at the banquet after the game with Sullivan.”

He turned page after page of what seemed like hundreds of pictures of himself: grimacing in a menacing manner for news photographers, charging full tilt at the camera with bared teeth, and then distant shots of him going through the line and creaming the quarterback, as he called it.

The bottle was two thirds empty and they were midway through the last album when the pounding started at the door.

“Whadda ya want?”

“There’s a guy zonked out of his mind ripping out phone lines.”

“All right, all right, I’m coming.” He lumbered to his feet and left the album on L.C.’s lap. “Bastards. I ought to throw them out head first and let them plow a little pavement with their teeth. Take off your pants.”

“What?”

“I said, take off the A-damn pants.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you going nowhere while I’m gone. Off! Or you want me to help you?”

“No, that’s all right.” She slid her slacks down over her hips. When they were off, and she was shivering in panties and bra, he snatched them from the bed.

“Not bad,” he said as he looked her over. “Wouldn’t make the line, maybe the la-di-da backfield.” He laughed. “How’d you get the scar?”

“A car accident.”

“Wait until you see my scars. I’ll be right back. Don’t go nowhere, we got some fucking to do.” He stuffed her blouse and slacks under his arm.

“Come on, I’m getting cold.”

“Wrap a blanket around yourself.” He left slamming the door.

She knew that it was imperative to leave before he returned, and she doubted there was much time before he’d be back. Stanley’s size and obvious strength would make short shrift of the drunken salesman in the club downstairs. In the closet she found a large rain coat which she slipped on. The coat was more than several sizes too large, the bottom hem touched the floor, and the shoulder seams were nearer her elbows than her shoulders.

She started for the door, turned the handle and stopped. One quick look. She went back to the last album and flipped it from the rear. On the fifth page there were pictures of Stanley on the flying bridge of a large cabin cruiser, and then another of him on the rear deck.

She recognized the Lantern City Marina in the background, and could make out the boat registration numbers in one of the pictures. She tore the picture from the album, clenched it in her fist and slipped out the door.

The narrow hallway made a right angle turn at the stairs that led down to the pavement of the club parking lot. There was a dull ache in her face and side from the blows. She held tightly to the wooden bannister and began to go down.

When she was half a dozen steps from the bottom of the flight, the outer door opened and Stanley stepped through with a wide smile on his face.

“Where you going, little lady?”

Without answering, L.C. ducked, slipped under his arms, and out the door. Snake-like his hand fastened on the voluminous cloth of the coat and spun her around.

“Let me go.”

“We’re not finished, sweetheart. I’m going to turn you on.”

“You hit me.”

“You said you liked it like that, and I’m here to oblige.”

As one hand held tight to the coat, she saw his other hand pull back and clench into a fist. She raised her arms completely overhead, stooped, and was free of the coat and his grasp. She began running toward the club entrance.

The girl in tights near the entrance glanced up as L.C. ran through the door.

“Listen, lady, I said you could pass in and pass out, but you got to wear clothes.”

“Help me, please.” His hand covered her mouth and her cries were muffled into silence.

“The boss says she’s a trouble maker,” Stanley said to the hat check girl.

“Boy, I can believe it.”

Her arm was twisted behind her back and she felt herself being pulled back toward the front door. Her free hand scraped along the wall as she fought for something to grab. There was a small box with a red handle inches from her fingers, and she gave a final lunge, reached it, and pulled the lever to set off the fire alarm.

The table cloth she held over her shoulders partly fell away as Pat Pasquale shoved her toward his car.

“I’m ashamed of you, L.C. I never in my wildest dreams ever thought that I’d have to pick up Roy’s daughter at an armpit like that. Get in the car,” he snapped in an officious tone. As L.C. got in the front seat, Pat turned to a uniformed officer. “Book that big son-of-a-bitch on D and D.”

He got behind the wheel next to a shivering L.C. and began to drive quickly through deserted streets.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I’m taking you home to Rose. You know, I had one hell of a time getting the owner of that joint to not press charges, and the fire department isn’t too happy either. What’s the matter with you, Laura?”

“You don’t understand, Pat.”

“I understand that you were drinking in that gorilla’s room and don’t have many clothes on under that tent you’re wearing.”

“The sign on the door said dress optional.”

“For God’s sake, Laura. Be serious.”

The Pasquales lived in an immaculate two family house in the south end of the city. Rose’s smile faded at the door as she looked L.C. up and down. “Where did you find her?” she asked her husband.

“The Hot Line Lounge.”

“Oh, Laura …” She disappeared into another part of the house searching for clothes that would fit L.C. She dressed in the downstairs lavatory as Rose heated a tray of lasagna.

It had been a long day, her body was bruised, and she was tired beyond description; and yet she still held onto the rumpled and bent photograph of the cabin cruiser. She stuffed the picture in her pocket and went reluctantly into the kitchen where Rose and Pat Pasquale glowered like disapproving parents.

She had intended to explain her actions first, but the tantalizing smell of warmed food was too appealing, and she sat at the end of the table and began to eat.

“I should have known you’d get in trouble when you called me about that place,” Pat said.

“How did you happen to come to the Hot Line?” she asked through a mouthful of food.

“I picked up the fire call on the radio. I knew you were out there. What I found, I didn’t expect.”

“Can’t you find a real man, Laura?” Rose asked. “Without going to a place like that.”

“I have been going with someone from Lantern City. You might know him, Will Barnes.”

“I know him, he’s a good man,” Pat said. “And how in hell did he let you wander up here to a dive like that?”

“It’s not quite what it seems.”

“Seems!” the detective snapped. “Your face is marked, your clothes are gone, you got more than you bargained for.”

“Can I explain?”

“I wish you would.”

She started with dinner that night with Will, and then the finding of Mauve’s body, and the arrest and death of Raleigh. Pat began to nod approvingly as she explained how she’d traced Stanley Peckham.

“You think that big pervert did it?”

“I’m not sure. When I first asked him about the boat at the marina he answered easily enough, he even mentioned the fight over Mauve. I imagine what happened is that Mauve flirted with him, he took it seriously, and wanted to play in his usual manner. Mauve became frightened, yelled for help, and Stanley was fired. He’s certainly capable of killing someone, but if he killed Mauve, why did he so readily admit being in Lantern City?”

“They’ll book him on D and D tonight. That’ll put him out on the street in six hours. I could hold him on something else until Will gets up here.”

“Could you check something for me, Pat? Stanley said he had to punch in and out at the club. I’d be interested in what time he clocked in on the night of the murder.”

“I’ll make a call in the morning.”

Rose smiled. “Leave finding murderers to the men, Laura. Stay out of it.”

“I can’t, Rose.”

“This Mauve Bridger was a close friend?”

“No. I hardly knew her. It’s hard to explain I guess my father and Frank are wrapped up in it somehow, and Raleigh once did me a huge favor, and I’m responsible for his death.”

“Like hell you are,” Pat snapped.

“Not literally. I know that. But in a way, in a strange way. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t found him on the boat, if Will wasn’t my friend who was so concerned that he came to my apartment immediately … Raleigh would still be alive.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not,” she echoed, but didn’t believe it.

It was nearly ten the next morning before the car approached the outskirts of Lantern City. She was filled with a sense of depression, a morass that in the past had often been dissipated during a long drive. The warmth of the Pasquale home—the night spent in Rosalie’s room under the canopy of the teenager’s bed, surrounded by the debris of youth, all seemed to point glaringly at the barrenness of her own life.

It had been a fitful sleep, haunted by dreams of large men chasing her through a labyrinth of narrow hallways in dim buildings. Now, she wanted to go home, have a hot bath, and get to sleep. The business had been neglected for two days. It would be circumspect to stop by and see if the agency and shop were still functioning.

The Ferrari braked to a halt in front of Converse Motors. She slammed the car door and entered the showroom, surprised not to see Vic on the floor or Jane Ellen in the rear office. They could have stepped into the shop on some errand. She felt along the top of the office door for the extra key, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

L.C. blushed, blanched, and backed quickly out of the office and closed the door. She walked numbly to Jane Ellen’s desk, sat down on the secretarial chair and put her hand to her cheek.

She began to laugh. It began with small giggles that turned into a paroxysm of laughter which she tried to smother. It was funny, no matter how serious you tried to make it; people in that particular position did look comical.

She was still trying to choke back the laughter and assume a stern look as the office door opened. Vic Mange, fastening his cuff links, stepped out and hurried toward her.

“Before you say anything, L.C., remember how you have always said I was the hottest salesman you ever had.”

“I’ll grant that, Vic.”

“And that Jane Ellen is one hell of a secretary.”

“Very versatile,” she said and bit a knuckle.

“And these things happen between men and women that work together as closely as Jane and I.”

“I think you’re overdoing the closeness bit,” she replied almost in a whisper and then slammed her fist down on the desk. “But not on company time!”

“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll move enough cars to make you …”

“Forget it. Where’s Jane Ellen?”

“In your john.”

She brushed past the protesting salesman. “Sell cars, Vic. That’s all. Just sell cars.” She went into the office and knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Come out, Jane Ellen. Coffee break is over.”

“I’m not coming out—ever.”

“It’s not the end of the world, although I’m not sure the company hospital plan covers you if anything happens.”

“I was helpless. He attacked me.”

“Jane Ellen!” She couldn’t stifle the laugh. “From what I saw, you were the one on …”

The bathroom door was flung open. “You think it’s funny. Well, I took the seventh day in the pool. That’s what I think!” the weeping secretary said as she rushed past and out to the showroom.

L.C. walked pensively toward the desk. The seventh day in the pool? What was that supposed to mean? She sat down, propped her chin on her hand for a moment, and then realized what it meant. “Good, God!” she said aloud and switched on the intercom. “Send Bennett in here.”

Eddie Bennett leaned against the door and smiled. “You wanted to see me?”

“Come in and close the door. I want you to know that I am not mad, I am not angry, I am furious.”

“Stick of gum?”

“Stop it! You are insolent, you … you …” She stood and turned to look out the window. “It’s about that pool you’re running.”

“Esprit de corps with the men, all that sort of thing.”

“Jane Ellen has day seven and I have recent knowledge that she is definitely not a man.”

“I didn’t want to be sexist.”

She turned to glare at him. “I know what that pool is really about, and I don’t like it. For God’s sake, if you want that sort of game, why didn’t you use Jane Ellen?”

“I figured a pool that ran for days rather than hours would be more interesting.”

“You’re impossible. Hours?” She tried to keep her mouth closed in order to stem the rising flood of laughter. “You are supercilious and vain, and if you weren’t so damn good at your job you’d have the sack. Hours.” She couldn’t help but laugh.

“I suppose this means that you don’t love me anymore.”

“Oh, get out. Go lubricate a chassis or something.”

“Yes, sir.” He walked out the door and then stuck his head back in. “You want to chain me in the service area, or do I get the honor system?”

“Tell them they’re all going to lose the pool,” she yelled at the door as it closed.

The laughter within her died as she shook her head at the incorrigible service manager. Her life was becoming far more complicated than she wished. Five years of obsessive work broken only by the thrill of driving fast cars had been replaced by murder, a man who admired her and whom she might love, and an impossible fantasy over another man. “Oh, boy,” she said aloud and briefly considered retreating into a grease pit.

“Chief Barnes is here to see you,” Jane Ellen’s strained voice said over the intercom.

Will slammed the door as he entered and she winced and thought of the grease pit again. “I have a few words for you,” he said.

“You’ll have to form a line to the right.”

His tone changed as he became more solicitous. “What’s the matter? You look … odd.”

“It’s been an odd couple of days.”

“I’ll bet it has. I thought you might like to know that Pat called me from Hartford and filled me in. Your large bouncer friend was released from custody early this morning. When he went back to his room he fell down the stairs … twice.”

The past day’s frustrations welled to the surface. “That’s nice, Will. That’s really nice. And just how does someone fall down a flight of stairs twice?”

“Use your imagination.”

“I don’t care for what I’m imagining.”

“For Christ’s sake, L.C. I’m a cop, and Pat was one of your father’s oldest friends. What do you expect to happen when some joker smacks you around and rips off your clothes? He didn’t do anything more, did he?”

“No.”

“That joker has a history of beating up women. Maybe now he’ll think twice.”

“Did it ever occur to you that Mauve Bridger was beaten before being brutally murdered? And that Stanley Peckham was fired from a job because he tried to make out with her?”

“Forget it.”

“I won’t forget it.”

She turned rigid and stepped away as he put his arms around her. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t like what you had done to that man.”

“He’s a slob and you’re my fiance.”

“What did you say?”

“My fiance.”

“Since when?”

“Since just now. Come on, L.C. The kids need you, I need you. It’s time for both of us to stop this interminable period of mourning. Get your head out from under car hoods and live like an ordinary person.”

“I appreciate you, Will. Sometimes I love you, but you don’t know where it’s at.”

His anger returned. “I sure in hell know it isn’t running over God’s creation looking for killers in dives like the Hot Line. I thought your craving for excitement was over when you stopped racing.”

“I didn’t stop, I was stopped. I can’t drive properly with my leg.”

“Then quit trying to make it up by looking into police business.”

“I don’t notice anyone else looking anywhere.”

“You were wrong.”

“How come?”

“Pat checked it out. On the night of the murder Stanley Peckham clocked in for work at 8:22. He couldn’t have gotten from Lantern City to Hartford in time.”

“Oh,” She sat down desolately. “Then you still think it was Raleigh?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not so sure. Pathology came in with reports that shows the sperm doesn’t match. If Mauve had relations that day, it wasn’t with Raleigh. However, I’m not ruling out the possibility that he found out she was playing around and that’s why he knocked her off.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Run background on Mauve Bridger, make a check on known sex offenders, anything else I can think of. O.K., will that satisfy you?”

“It’s a start.”

“How about dinner tonight at my house? The kids would love to see you.”

“I’m dead, but I’ll try. Can I call you later?”

“Sure. But try, will you, hon?”

She leaned back in the chair when he left and closed her eyes. Stanley seemed to be ruled out. All the effort of yesterday had been futile. Or had it. Stanley said he’d been fired because the owner of the boat was involved with Mauve also. She pulled the rumpled photograph from her pocket. She’d forgotten to tell Will about it, but that could be done tonight.

L.C. dialed the Coast Guard.

Lt. Oliver Williams, U.S.C.G., called her back just before noon. L.C. was in the shop immersed in an interesting electrical problem on a 74 Caddy when Jane Ellen paged her to the phone. She took the call in the parts room, temporarily usurping Eddie’s place at the small desk. She noticed that he’d mounted a sampler over the desk next to the calendar. ‘Happiness is—fast cars, easy women, and beer on the side.’ She shook her head.

“L.C., Ollie Williams,” the bright voice said cheerily. “Your boat is registered to a Hallman Warren out of Long Island.”

She wrote the name on a scratch pad. “I know a Hal Warren who lives in Lantern City.”

“He might, but his boat lives on Long Island. Hey, I have box seats for the New England Whalers hockey team tonight. We could grab a steak and make a night of it.”

“That’s nice,” L.C. said absently as she wrote 79 Bentley under Hal Warren’s name.

“Pick you up at six?”

“How’s Cynthia, Ollie?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “She’s fine. Out visiting her folks in Iowa this week.”

“That’s what I thought. Keep the home fires burning, and thanks for the information.”

“Maybe another time, huh?”

“Maybe.” The connection was broken. She looked down at the name on the pad. She had met Hal Warren and his wife, Dore, a few times at large parties, and had serviced their cars for years. She tried to picture the couple. They lived in a large house on the far end of the point overlooking the Sound, and they were quite wealthy. Hal had some sort of independent income and didn’t hold a job. He was a handsome man of the old school, tall with a small moustache. Dore was a fading blond. L.C. found a rumpled telephone directory in the center drawer of the desk, located Warren’s number and dialed.

“The number you have dialed has been changed to an unlisted number.”

“Oh, come on. I’m busy.”

“The listing may not be given out. If you have any questions, I shall refer you to my supervisor.”

“Look. It’s been a terrible morning. In fact, yesterday wasn’t so hot either. I’ve got to have that number.”

“I am sorry. If you wish to speak to my supervisor …”

L.C. slammed down the receiver and left the garage by the side door. She slid the Ferrari out of the lot and drove toward the point.

The Warren house was the largest on the point. It perched on a white sea wall that hung over the water. L.C. turned into the drive and stopped by the door.

The nose of a Bentley was squashed against the side of the house between two snow-covered bushes beside the door. Whoever had driven the car last hadn’t turned when the drive did. She rang the bell and shook her head, estimating the front end body work at $900.

The door was opened by a uniformed maid with an English accent. “If you’ve come for the auto, the keys are in the ignition.”

“Mrs. Warren, please,” L.C. said and shivered. She had come off without her jacket.

“Mrs. Warren is indisposed. You may send your billing to the trust department of the bank.”

“Tell her it’s L.C. Converse, and may I please come in? It’s cold out here.” She stepped through the door and stood in the vestibule. The maid gave her a sharp sidelong look and disappeared to the inner recesses of the house.

Eventually she was led the length of the house to a long room with numerous windows overlooking the water. It must be called the game room, she thought, observing the pool table, card table, and paneling. Against the far wall were a leather covered bar and a large trophy case.

Dore Warren sat at the bar with a drink in front of her. Her profusion of blond hair was piled on top of her head, but several strands straggled across her cheeks. She was a large woman, close to six feet tall, and built in proportion. As she neared forty, her hips had filled and stretched the tight pants she wore. Her eyes were slightly out of focus as L.C. approached, and she spoke with the careful enunciation of the near drunk.

“Nice of you to drop in, L.C. Now, I knew that jump suits were the ‘in’ thing, but coveralls, and that quaint embroidery …”

L.C. blushed. “I came from work and didn’t change. I tried to call you, Dore, but the phone is unlisted.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“I dropped over to invite you and Hal to a small party I’m having next week. A few friends and interesting people.”

“Won’t you have a drink? I don’t usually drink so early in the day unless it’s a special occasion, and luckily I have a lot of special occasions. Today we’re celebrating the end of the snow storm. Isn’t that nice?” She poured a stiff drink from a bottle of bourbon, and delicately plunked in an ice cube from a silver bucket. “I do believe the bourbon is finished, but we have most anything else. We always have lots of everything else.”

“I thought perhaps you and Hal …”

“You haven’t heard? You must be the only one in town who hasn’t. I thought it was common knowledge.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why, we’re separated. The inestimable Hallman Warren has removed himself from our mutual bed and board, although I think he left the bed part a while ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Have a little drink. I hate drinking alone. Luckily, I don’t hate it too much.”

“A martini would be nice.”

“Yes, wouldn’t it.” The large blond stepped carefully down from the bar stool, and with one hand trailing along the edge of the bar, walked behind it and began to mix an extra large martini. “I can’t seem to find the goddamn olives. He probably took them with him.”

L.C. sat on a stool. “That’s all right. I really should have realized about Hal, but I saw his boat at the marina last summer. Now that I think of it, it was registered out-of-state.”

“He returned for a few weeks to wind up his affairs, so to speak. And believe me, affairs are something he had plenty of.”

“Perhaps you could come alone.”

Dore raised her glass. “Here’s to coming alone.”

“Where’s Hal now?”

“I wish he was in a coffin, but the last I heard he had an apartment somewhere in Manhattan and keeps his floating harem out on the Island. We don’t have much contact, the checks come every month from the bank, and our lawyers talk a lot.”

L.C. tried to laugh. “It seems that half my friends are divorced these days.”

“I’ll drink to that too.”

“I saw your car outside.”

“I wanted to park it in the dining room, but the walls were too thick.”

L.C. slid off the stool and walked over to examine the trophy case. There seemed to be twenty or thirty skating trophies in the name of Schwaglen. “Schwaglen?”

“My maiden name.”

“I didn’t know you were a skater, Dore.”

“One of my many attributes. I went to the Olympics, you know. Placed tenth in figure when I was only sixteen. They said I’d be a gold medal winner someday if I kept going.… I kept going all right—I kept growing. Fat figure skaters don’t win gold medals.”

“You’re built in proportion.”

“And what proportions. I turned professional and went into the Ice Capades. I played a duck.”

“A duck?”

“A big duck. One of those things that fits over your head and body and you look out through two holes in the neck. Too bad Hal came along. They said they might let me be the Yeti because my legs were so strong. That’s how I met Hal. He was a veritable ice-door Johnny, said he wanted to get in bed with someone with legs as strong as mine. They’re still strong, feel them.” She came out from behind the bar and placed one leg up on a stool rung. “Give it a punch.”

“A punch?”

“Still hard as a rock.”

L.C. felt the corded and hard thigh muscles of the large woman. “They are.”

“I still keep in shape, or at least I used to.” She sat down and tried to focus on L.C. “You’re a widow, so you know what it’s like.”

“You get used to being alone.”

“Do you? It’s been eight months since he left, and I’m not used to it. That’s why I ran the car into the wall Monday night. I’d been asked out, and that doesn’t happen too often these days, to the Brewers’ for cocktails. Marcia Brewer thought that I had a thing for her husband and told me as much. They all think I have a thing for their men, and the men are as bad. Because I like a drink and am getting a divorce, they think I’m available for fun and games. Maybe they aren’t so far wrong. One day I’m going to find a live one, and gone I’ll be.”

“I’ve had a little of the fun and games bit,” L.C. replied remembering the call from the Coast Guard Lieutenant, and also that Monday was the night of Mauve’s murder. “It was snowing so hard that night, I can understand about the car. You were lucky to get home at all.”

The big blond shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember.”

“You heard about Mauve?”

“That bitch. It was only a question of time until her husband found out.”

“You mean that she played around?”

“She invented the term. Just like her to get caught two weeks before I needed her in court. She was the corespondent, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Caught the two of them on the boat last spring. They hadn’t even bothered to take it away from the marina. I walked in the stateroom, and there they were.”

“Having an affair?”

“They weren’t polishing the brass work.”

Chapter Eight

Will Barnes stepped back from the dining room table and looked at it with satisfaction. He supposed the good silver needed polishing, but in dim candlelight no one would notice. He and L.C. would sit at the foot and head of the table, with a kid on either side. He took two wine glasses from the breakfront and held them up to the light before placing them at the adults’ places. Hell, let the kids have a little too.

He moved back to the breakfront and took down two additional wine glasses and placed them at each side of the table, and then laughed at the transparency of his own motives. A little wine for the kids might make them sleepy and ready for bed earlier.

In the kitchen he checked the oven and saw that the leg of lamb was coming along nicely, and that the new potatoes by its side were browning properly. The broccoli was cooked and warming. He’d finish the hollandaise sauce in the blender near dinner time.

He made martinis and poured a finger for taste.

“That’s cheating,” a soft voice said from behind him as her arms went around his waist.

Will turned to face L.C. “I didn’t hear you.”

“You were too busy catching a quick drink. Shame.” She gave him a brief kiss. “Do I have information for you.”

“You know, I think that’s the first time in years I’ve seen you in a dress.”

“Uh huh.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small pad. “You’ve got to hear. I’m really very excited.”

“A drink first.” He took frosted glasses from the freezer and poured two martinis. He raised his glass. “To Laura in a dress.”

“Oh, come on.” She grabbed his sleeve and led him toward the living room, but stopped at the dining table. “It’s beautiful.”

“Us sadistic cops have more sides than you realize.” He followed her to the couch. “You know, L.C., I spend twice as much time worrying over the department budget than I do using a rubber hose on suspects.”

She sat next to him on the couch with her feet curled under her. “I think I’ve come across something significant. You know Dore Warren?”

“Ought to. Recently we’ve warned her for driving under the influence. She’s evidently gone to pieces since Hal left.”

“More than that. That woman is an absolute fanatic over her husband and Mauve Bridger. It seems that Hal and Mauve had something going last spring and summer. It’s what caused the breakup of the marriage.”

Will put his hand on her knee. “Come on, let’s not spend an evening with that crap.”

“Dore was going to name Mauve corespondent.”

“And half the women in town.”

“Please pay attention. I’ve got something here.”

“Honey, Hal Warren had the money, the time and a big boat. It was probably the largest floating orgy this side of Rome.”

“There’s more. The night of the murder, Dore left a cocktail party at the Brewer’s at seven. I talked to Marcia Brewer and she’s positive of the time. But! Dore’s maid, Jill Slater, says she didn’t get home until almost nine. There’s a missing two hours there. And her body. I don’t know if you’ve seen her recently, but she’s strong as an ox.”

Will looked thoughtful and sipped on his cocktail. “We’re still working on a couple of other angles. It’s so damn iffy, I don’t even think I have a right to talk to her about it.”

“L.C.!” The jubilant voice called from the doorway.

She waved. “Hi, Chris.”

“You’re a mess,” Will said to his son. “You’re covered in grease and we’re going to eat in a few minutes.”

The boy looked down at his spattered shirt and jeans. “I know. I took the engine out and I’m having trouble. L.C., could you …”

“No!” Will snapped. “Damn it, Chris, I told you to leave the engine alone.”

“I know, Pop, but we had two days off from school cuz of the snow and I didn’t have anything else to do.”

“You could have shoveled snow for money.”

“Let me look at it,” L.C. said as she took the boy’s arm and followed him to the garage.

Will stepped toward them as the phone rang. “Now wait a minute …” As they disappeared into the garage he angrily snatched up the phone. “Barnes here.”

“Pat Pasquale, Will. I’ve got something on Stanley Peckham.”

Will glared toward the garage as he told Pat to continue.

After fifty-five minutes Will slammed the blender into the sink. The sauce had gotten cold and he took a pull on his third martini. He could picture the roast in the oven, the perfectly pink leg of lamb gradually turning black. Impatiently, he threw open the garage door and stepped inside.

Chris, tall and blond like his mother, was holding an extension lamp overhead by the ten year old VW, while L.C. bent deep into the rear engine compartment.

“Damn it, Laura! Aren’t you done yet?”

“Tighten that one,” she said to Chris. There was a smudge of grease on her cheek and a streak across her breast. “Almost through, darling. We can’t stop at this point.” She pushed hair back from her eyes.

“You’re a mess.”

She looked down at her blouse. “Oh. Do you have something I can put on?”

He shook his head and led her toward his bedroom. “I’ve got some army coveralls I use when I go to the range.” He tossed the clothes at her as she pushed down her skirt. He looked at her and swallowed. “Don’t do this to me.”

“Tonight, when the kids are asleep,” she whispered in his ear.

“I’ll be here, and awake.”

An hour later Will looked morosely down at the well done leg of lamb and the mushy sauceless broccoli. He poured more wine as L.C. and Chris talked animatedly at the foot of the table.

“Where’s your sister?” he asked his son.

“I’ll get her, Pop.”

He poured more wine into his glass and the boy’s. “Early to bed.…”

She smiled. “You know, that cam shaft isn’t fitting right.”

“Hi, L.C.” Katherine Barnes stood in the doorway encased in a long white gown pulled tight at the neck and falling over her feet. She smiled radiantly at L.C., and gave her father a wave before sitting at her place. “Meat. Ugh!”

“Since when do we come to the dinner table in our nightgown?” Will asked.

“I am going to wear white for evermore.”

“Do they make white blue jeans?”

“Emily Dickinson always wore white.” The young girl looked toward the ceiling in supplication. “My life closed twice before its close. It yet remains to see …”

“If immortality unveil a third event to me,” L.C. responded softly.

“You know Emily Dickinson?”

“A little.”

“Drink your wine, children” Will said.

As the meal began, Will glanced at L.C. at the end of the table. She returned the look for a long moment before looking back at her plate. “By the way,” he said. “Pat called me. He did some further checking on your friend, the Beast. Seems that he had a buddy clock him in at work the night of the murder. He never arrived at the club until ten.”

“Ten? That gave him plenty of time, but I’m not sure, Will. What about Dore Warren?”

“Stanley already has a record for attacking women. We’ve put out an APB on him.”

“Aren’t you going to talk to Dore or Hal Warren?”

“Not until I finish with Stanley.”

“I still think that Dore …”

“Dore didn’t screw Mauve Bridger that day. You’re the one who’s been harping on the fact that she had sexual intercourse before she was killed.”

“Daddy!” Katherine stood by her place with a look of utter disgust on her face. “At the dinner table.”

“Sit down, hon.”

“I can’t listen to you talk that way and watch you eat the flesh of dead animals.”

“Katherine! Damn it! Sit down!”

The young girl gave a perplexed look, a small cry, and ran from the room. Will threw his napkin on the table in disgust. “Now, what in hell is that all about?”

“You forgot that she became a vegetarian last week,” Chris said.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I’ll see about her,” L.C. said.

After he and Chris finished the dishes, Will debated for a short while and then went to the bedroom where L.C. and Katherine were still closeted. From outside the door he could hear the drone of their intent voices, and he returned to the living room to turn on the TV and watch a ball game.

It was after eleven when he went back to his daughter’s bedroom and eased the door open.

L.C. sat on the bed with her head against the wall, while Katherine’s arms were around the older woman. Will closed the door and went back to the kitchen wondering how much of a hangover he’d have the next day if he had another drink.

“Do you believe that Raleigh Bridger killed his wife?”

Attorney Noah Washington looked uncomfortable for a moment and blinked. “That’s not for me to decide, L.C.”

“Oh, come on, Noah. He’s dead, they’re both dead. There’s no attorney-client relationship anymore.”

The diminutive lawyer tented his fingers and stared at the laminated diplomas on the office wall. “There’s a very real question of culpability when it comes to the estate. You see, L.C., if Raleigh were responsible for Mauve’s death, the probate court would …”

She held up her hand in exasperation. “O.K., never mind. I’m sorry I raised the question.”

“Exactly why did you want to see me?”

“I’m trying to locate Hal Warren.”

“Not you too, L.C.?”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m Hal’s attorney also, and can’t say more.”

“You know something, Noah? You’re a veritable font of information. I am not involved, nor have I ever been involved with Hal Warren. But I do need to locate him. I’ve called his apartment in New York, and there’s no answer. I’ve checked with the marina on Long Island, and they tell me that his boat left a month ago.”

“He often takes extended trips.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“Hal Warren is a very wealthy man. As far as I know, he’s never held a job, and has devoted his life to doing exactly what Hal Warren wants to do. If his boat is gone, and he’s not at his apartment, I can only assume that he’s gone South. In fact, it’s more than possible. I can tell you this, since it’s a matter of record that I handle the trust fund and all of Hal’s monetary affairs; his last bank statement shows that he withdrew $10,000 about the time the boat left the marina.”

“What about his mail, his personal affairs?”

“Everything comes to me until I hear from Hal as to where he wants it forwarded.”

“What would happen to the trust fund if something were to happen to him?”

“At the present time, Dore would have the major claim against the estate.”

The man who answered the door looked vaguely familiar, and it annoyed her that she couldn’t place him. It didn’t seem logical that she’d know the inhabitant of a basement apartment in a large Fifth Avenue apartment building. She looked again at the sign over the door. It still read, SUPERINTENDENT.

He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “You rang the bell which means there’s a good chance that you want something.”

“I’m sorry. You are the super?”

“The sign says I am.”

“I didn’t mean to stare. You look familiar and I thought perhaps we’d met.”

He smiled. “You might have seen me on ‘Winds of Hope’ two years ago. I played Doctor Albert Saunders until I said the wrong thing to the right person at a party one night. I found out the following week that Doctor Saunders had developed a rare but incurable blood disease.”

L.C. laughed. “I think I had the flu two years ago and must have watched you. Now you’re the …”

He sighed. “Such is the life of a thespian. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Hal Warren.”

“He’s away.”

“Yes, I know. I have some things in the apartment and he gave me this note.” She handed the superintendent a note typed on embossed paper with a scrawled signature:

To Whom It May Concern:

Please admit Mrs. L.C. Converse to my apartment at 125 Fifth Avenue, New York, in order that she may remove some personal items.

The super flipped the note between his fingers. “It’s a little unusual. What items did you want to take?”

L.C. tried to blush. “A few, ah, personal letters.”

The actor nodded knowingly. “Wait until I get my keys.”

The apartment had high ceilings and was immaculate, as if the occupant would momentarily return. At a discreet distance the superintendent followed her passage through the six rooms.

She spent little time in the living room and moved into the bedroom with adjoining dressing room and began to open drawers and feel under clothing as if looking for a packet of torrid love letters. The clothing was arranged very methodically, shirts, socks, underwear, handkerchiefs and accessories. She smiled at the actor-superintendent and slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.

The medicine chest was filled with the usual variety of items: razors, tooth brushes, and shaving cream. There was nothing in the apartment to indicate that a man had packed for a lengthy trip.

The super was leaning against the bedroom door as she left the bathroom.

“One more place.” In the study off the living room she found two electric bills, a phone bill and three advertisements, which she put into her purse. “Thank you very much.”

“Glad you found them,” he replied.

She called Will from a phone booth in the garage where the car was parked. “He’s disappeared. There’s no sign of his taking anything from the apartment.”

“He lives on his boat half the time. He might have two sets of everything.”

“You’ve got to do something, Will. Put out a missing persons for him.”

“I can’t do that until it’s formally requested by a member of the family. If Dore asks me, even Noah Washington, but there’s no crime in a man taking his boat and going somewhere.”

“Even to the bottom of the ocean?”

“You’re being melodramatic. Now get in your pretty red car and get back to Lantern City. I’ll see you tonight.”

Will looked at the End of the Pier menu and tried to calculate how much money he had in his wallet. “When you asked me to dinner I thought it was your place.”

“By the time I got back from New York there wasn’t time. It’s my treat.”

“I accept. On $16,000 a year and two kids soon to go to college, I need your assets.”

“That’s the reason you want to marry me.”

“That’s the second reason.”

“I can imagine the first.”

“You never gave me an answer.”

“About what?”

“Marriage.”

“You know how I feel about you, Will. But I need time.”

“Betty Sanders, the waitress down at the U-Kumm Inn, says your new service manager is … what’s her word … smashing.”

“I hadn’t noticed. He’s insolent, ill-mannered and presumptuous.”

“Why don’t you get rid of him?”

“He’s a good mechanic and has the men in line. I’ll give him a couple of more weeks.”

“I don’t think you’re being completely honest with me.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at him with feigned innocence. “Will Barnes, how dare you suggest that I told you a falsehood, just because it’s true.”

“You think he’s attractive.”

“The whole thing is silly. Don’t you sometimes see young women that you think are attractive or sexy, like Sandy Devonshire?”

“Answering a question with a question.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m afraid that one day I’ll have cause to be. By the way, if you kept out of my investigation you’d know that Vic Mange and your secretary have something going.”

“I know. Their coffee breaks have gotten a little out of hand. As soon as you make an arrest, I can pay more attention to my business.”

“You keep forgetting that I made one.”

“What about Stanley Peckham?”

“Pasquale finally found him and brought him in. We spent three hours questioning him. He claims that on the night of the murder he was with a girl. Unfortunately he can’t remember her name or where they went.”

“That could be it then.”

“I can’t arrest a man just because he’s unsure where he was at the time of the killing. There’s no way to place him in Lantern City, much less at the house. We’ve got nothing.”

“Let’s take a wild guess. Dore Warren met Stanley this past summer. They have a mutual animosity for Mauve Bridger, and they go in the thing together.”

“That’s too wild.”

“It could happen that way. Or, Dore could have known that Hal was with Mauve that day, she caught them together and …”

“And where’s Hal?”

She laughed. “You’re nit-picking.”

“Motive does not necessarily a killer make. Dore may have had a motive to kill Mauve. Stanley may have, and we know damn well that Raleigh had a couple of reasons. You completely avoid the fact that we can place Raleigh at the house during or near the time of the murder. If you want to make conjectures, consider Raleigh coming home that night, he finds that she’s having an affair with someone and they fight. It gets out of hand and he kills her.”

“And who was the someone she was having the affair with?”

“It could be anyone.”

“And Hal Warren was her lover last summer, and he’s missing.”

“And so is his boat. I think we can assume that’s where he is.”

“Or dead.”

“Come on. You’re trying to build a case on conjecture. Things have changed since your father ran this town by the seat of his pants. There must have been dozens of new court rulings, the rules of evidence have changed. If I make an arrest and present the case to the prosecutor, I had better have a hell of a strong position. Even Raleigh would have been able to plea bargain the charge down to manslaughter. Do you understand? These days you almost have to find the smoking pistol in the suspect’s hand.”

“What you’re telling me is that even if we suspect Stanley or Dore Warren, we can’t do anything about it.”

“Pat has Stanley under surveillance; that might turn up something. Otherwise, there’s nothing we can do without new evidence.”

L.C. stood and neatly folded her napkin. “O.K.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find new evidence.”

“What about … you know …”

“Dinner?”

“I guess,” he mumbled as she left the restaurant.

Chapter Nine

Toby Strickland answered the door.

She was a squat woman with black cropped bangs. Her dark eyes set in a square face were partially distorted by thick glasses as she squinted toward L.C.

“Yes?”

“It’s L.C. Converse, Mrs. Strickland. I wonder if I could talk to Herb a minute?”

Recognition finally passed over the other woman’s face. “Oh, L.C., of course. Come in. We were just going out for dinner, but if it’s something important, Herb is back with the pigs.”

At the mention of dinner L.C. had pangs of conscience. She could see Will sitting at the End of the Pier staring morosely into his cocktail as she flounced out. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, come in. Please.”

They sat rather formally in the room with the piggy banks. Herb offered and then mixed highballs in glasses filled to the brim with ice and ginger ale.

“I didn’t know you were back from Florida, Toby.”

“I only got back this afternoon. I detest flying, so I drove Dad’s car back and it took me almost three days.”

“I told her to stay down as long as she wanted,” Herb said. “She went through a lot, nursing Dad, making the arrangements. I told her to take her hour in the sun.”

“Do you work on big cars, or just those little things?” Toby asked.

“All kinds. Do you have a problem?”

“The Lincoln wasn’t acting right on the way back.”

“I’ll send someone over in the morning to pick it up.”

“Do you have something specific in mind, L.C.?” Herb asked.

“About Mauve Bridger’s murder. Did you hear or see anything that night?”

Toby stood petulantly and plunked her half-finished drink on a coaster. “I think the whole thing is perfectly horrible, and I can’t see any reason for us to dwell on macabre details.”

“L.C.’s been very upset about it, dear. She never did think that Raleigh did it.”

“Is that what Will Barnes thinks? If he does, let him come and ask the questions.”

“He already asked me,” Herb Strickland said and seemed to slouch deeper in his chair.

“Then let’s not go on about it.”

“It’s important to me, Toby,” L.C. said.

“I think it’s a terrible mess that we should all forget as soon as possible. I, for one, can’t wait until the house is sold and a new family moves in. And why are you so interested? You and the Bridgers were never that close.”

“We weren’t actually, but at one point in my life Raleigh did me a great service, and in other ways I feel a certain responsibility for what happened to him.”

“You can’t expect to assuage your guilt by chasing butterflies. Leave it up to Will Barnes and the authorities.”

“It’s simple enough for me to answer her questions.”

“Then you and L.C. talk over your sordid little details. I’m going to get ready to go out for dinner,” Toby said as she left the room.

“What did you tell him, Herb?”

“Nothing, because that’s what I saw and heard that night. It was snowing, there was a heavy wind. Even if Mauve had screamed, I wouldn’t have heard it.”

“I see. I suppose it doesn’t make much sense, but I thought that if I started from the beginning it might turn up a clue, a lead, even the smallest shred of evidence.”

Herb finished his drink. “Like Toby said, it’s not our affair. Why don’t you come out to dinner with us?”

“No, thank you,” she, said absently. “I suppose the police still have the house sealed.”

“I believe they do.”

“Are you coming?” Toby called from the hall.

The walks and drive of the Bridger house had been plowed, and she walked to the back door and peered through the window. Nothing could be seen in the dark interior.

L.C. took a deep breath, hoped that Will truly did love her, and broke a pane of the door window with her elbow. She reached through the jagged glass and turned the handle.

The power was still on, and she walked through the house flipping switches in the hope that light might alleviate some of the tomb-like chill that pervaded the house.

She stood in the archway to the living room, looked at the brown stain in the center of the rug and then turned away. She walked through the house trying to recreate possible events on the day of the murder.

If a lover arrived in the afternoon or early evening, they might have trysted in the bedroom. She would have replaced the linen and obliterated any other evidence of his presence, then prepared dinner, gone ice skating, and … and what?

Or had there been no lover that day? She might have returned from ice skating, and been attacked, raped, and killed.

Will had said her clothes were in the dryer, and yet the skates were found near the body. She flipped on the cellar light and went down the stairs, through the recreation room and into the laundry room. She opened and shut the dryer door thoughtfully. It had also bothered Will that a fastidious woman like Mauve returned to the house, removed her clothing, stuffed them in the dryer, and then returned, nude, to the upstairs.

It couldn’t have happened that way. If a robe, a dressing gown, or some clothing had been found near the body … but they weren’t. It didn’t fit. And in that lack of fit there might be a clue.

She walked slowly back upstairs to the kitchen and stopped by the back door. It would all make sense if the killer removed the skates and clothing. If that were the case, she might have been attacked outside and dragged inside.

L.C. looked down at the bright kitchen linoleum, and then knelt near the door leading to the hall and felt along the surface of the flooring. With her finger tips she felt the slight indentations cut into the wax. The skates had cut into the linoleum and left minute marks in the surface. Mauve had been dragged through the kitchen into the living room, and then her clothing, for some reason, had been removed and stuffed into the dryer.

She looked through the door window to see across the estuary to the river and the twinkling lights in the distance. She flipped a switch near the door that illuminated the patio and turned on a light mounted on the dock.

The dock light—used in the summer when the Bridgers and Wadsworth Strickland had their boats moored nearby, and in the winter for Mauve to ice skate.

L.C. opened the back door and stepped onto the patio. The summer furniture had been removed and snow had drifted several feet deep around a low retaining wall. The snow was nearly to the top of her boots as she walked from the patio down toward the water.

She shivered as if the ghosts of the dead couple walked with her. Near the water was a snow-covered bench. On the day of the murder it might have been where Mauve paused to lace her skates. Continuing past the bench she walked out on the ice for twenty yards and stopped to turn and face the house.

Footprints crossed and recrossed the yards. The teams of police officers that had searched the area had marked the snow so that it was impossible to tell which route Mauve might have taken that day.

The dock was closer to the Bridger house and very possibly with the oncoming storm and heavy wind, little if any sound would have reached Herb Strickland. She walked another twenty yards over the snow covered ice and then stopped for fear of going too far and reaching an area where the ice would be thin.

She walked toward shore trying to create an image of Mauve skating toward the dock. The snow would have just begun, she would be cold, and would skate quickly back toward the bench or dock ladder.

Wind off the water turned cold, and she began to hurry. Her hand had just reached for the dock ladder when the ice beneath her feet gave away.

Her body slid into the water. She felt her boots sink into the bottom silt as her body gave a spasm from the shock of the near freezing water.

Her arms flailed out as she fought for the surface. Her fingers brushed against a cross beam support as her left foot caught and canted her body sideways.

A shaft of light from the overhead flood gave a surrealistic quality to the water beneath the pier as her eyes opened.

Her foot was caught in the tattered remains of a man’s jacket. Her hand had brushed along the flesh of the corpse tied with heavy wire to the underpinnings of the dock.

A large burst of air escaped from her mouth and she heard a dim yell that must have been hers, and then water rushed into her throat.

She clawed at the ladder rungs and heaved herself from the water. Her breath came in choking gasps as she pulled herself to the deck and fell to her knees to retch in the snow. With a low moan she rose to her feet and began to run away from the water and the thing she had just seen.

Her progress was erratic as she swerved across the snow, fell once to her hands and knees, and then was up and running again. She reached a door and pounded on the wood frame with her fists until she felt an ache in her fingers. Of course, the Stricklands had left … the phone … she began to run again toward the open door of the Bridger house.

She stumbled into the kitchen, fell again, and with a crying sob reached for the kitchen extension phone. There wasn’t any dial tone.

The phone had been disconnected.

She ran through the house, careened off a wall in the hall and fumbled with the front door. Leaving it open behind her, she scrabbled at the door of the car, threw herself inside and locked the doors. She inserted the key in the ignition flooded the engine, and tried again.

The car backed quickly out of the drive, went into a skid and swerved in a semicricle across the road and the engine died again. She groped with the ignition, started the car, and plowed into a snowbank. The rear wheels made a frantic whirring sound as they lost traction.

Someone was moaning and she knew it was herself.

Stop! Think! Keep this up and the car will be hopelessly mired in the snow. Shove it into first, then quickly into reverse … that did it. It skipped out of the snow bank. She threw the gears into forward and sped from the horror she had witnessed.

“I bet you had a great meal,” Katherine said as she hid her TV dinner chicken leg under a napkin and picked at the peas.

“A club sandwich. L.C. had to leave.”

“You ought to marry her,” Chris mumbled through a mouthful of chicken as he surreptitiously flipped Remley’s drum stick from under the napkin onto his own tray.

“Tell her that.”

“I will,” the boy said in a barely understandable tone.

The pounding on the front door startled them. Will eased himself from the kitchen table with a frown. “I wish they’d call headquarters like they’re supposed to when they have a problem. I’m coming,” he called and went to the door.

L.C.’s hands were clenching the small railing on the front stoop as he stared into her stricken face.

“What in God’s name is wrong?”

“… by the dock … underneath … tied to a support.”

He put his arms around her and led her into the house. “We’ll get you something dry.”

L.C. stood near the bench by the dock as the police scuba diver adjusted the straps of his tanks and spit into his face mask. Will hunched over the dock and peered into the water. “I can’t see anything down there, but it’s supposed to be underneath about right here.”

“Right,” the diver said as he made final adjustments to his equipment and stepped off the pier.

Will stood motionless for a few minutes watching the trail of bubbles, and then slapped his arms toward off the biting cold. “Way I see it,” he said to the other three officers standing by the edge of the dock, “A drain empties warmer water into the cover near the dock and keeps the ice from freezing thick.”

“Makes sense.”

They stood quietly for a few more minutes before Will went over to where L.C. huddled on the bench. “What could you make out?”

“Not much, really. Only that it was a man, tied with what looked like wire to a beam.”

“The face?”

She grimaced. “I think it had been down there a long time. I couldn’t tell.”

He sat next to her and put his arms over her shoulders. “It must have been a terrible experience for you?”

Excitement replaced her drained feelings. “It all fits, Will. Mauve was skating, came to the dock as I did, fell in and saw what I saw. Someone had to kill her because of what she had seen. Which explains why her clothes were in the dryer—to hide the fact that she’d been in the water.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

The diver broke surface, reached for the ladder and clambered to the pier. Will jogged over to him as the diver removed his face mask. “Well?”

“The tide’s come in.”

“For Christ’s sake, I know that. What about the body?”

“Like I said, Chief, the tide’s coming in, wouldn’t or couldn’t float away in this amount of time.”

“So?”

“Like I’m saying. There’s nothing down there. The usual junk, bottles and crap like that, but no body. No body at all.”

Chapter Ten

The next morning Will Barnes sat sullenly in the kitchen at the table in his small ranch house and contemplated a protracted life of continence. He finished a third cup of coffee and tried to avoid thinking about last night’s events at the dock.

As the scuba diver had lumbered off to change in the relative Warmth of the van, the other police officers had looked at Will questioningly, then turned, almost in unison, to stare at L.C. on the nearby bench.

They had gathered their equipment without further orders and backed their cruisers away from the Bridger house.

L.C. had walked to the edge of the dock. “It was there,” she had said, in a low voice.

He had led her to the car where she sat silently in the corner during the drive back to his house. Katherine seemed to sense the anguish in the adult woman, and had led L.C. to her bedroom where she fell into a deep sleep.

He considered himself a pragmatic person who evolved his life through logical structure. He ran the department with sound fiscal policy, tried to be fair to the men, and still provide maximum police services to the people of Lantern City. He often thought he was too practical. The mental picture of his dead wife had turned to a dreamy shadow without form, substance or clarity. As his wife faded, so had his feelings for L.C. increased.

The phone rang. It was Pat Pasquale in Hartford. “We picked up Stanley Peckham last night.”

“Who’d he beat up this time?”

“We’ve got him on more than assault this time. He gave a ride to a teenage hitch-hiker, beat her and started to rape her when we grabbed him. If we hadn’t had him under surveillance he might have killed the kid.”

“It was only a matter of time until you caught him,” Will said as he twirled the dregs in his coffee cup.

“There’s more to it than that, Will. Half an hour ago we made a deal with him and he admitted two more rapes.” There was a pause on the phone. “One took place the night of the killing in Lantern City.”

“He could be fishing for an alibi. A rape charge is still better than murder.”

“We don’t think so. He knew details that were never released to the newspapers, and we’re getting I.D.s from the victims on him.”

“Which is why he couldn’t reasonably explain his actions for the night.”

“Right. But we’ve nailed him now. Thanks for putting us on to the creep.”

“Think nothing of it, Pat,” Will said as he hung up.

The bedroom door opened and L.C., wearing one of Katherine’s shortie nightgowns, came out of the room rubbing her eyes. “I thought I heard the phone. What time is it?”

“Oh, my God,” Will said as he watched her come down the hall and swish the empty coffee pot.

“Do I look that bad?”

“Christ, no! You really shouldn’t do this to me, you know.”

She turned to him ingenuously. “Do what?”

“Forget it. I’ll make more coffee. That was Pat on the phone. Your friend, Stanley, was picked up on another charge and admits to a rape attack the night of the murder.”

“Are they positive?”

“Absolutely, or so Pat says.”

She sat at the table and pulled the short nightgown down as far as it would go. “Well, now that we know that there was another body out at the Bridgers’, I’m not surprised.”

Will didn’t answer and poured far too much coffee into the perculator. He ladled coffee back in the can and adjusted the flame on the burner.

“It’s got to be Hal Warren,” L.C. continued.

“The killer or the body under the pier?” Will asked as he grimaced behind her back.

“Under the pier. Dore knew he was back in town and seeing Mauve Bridger. That explains the sex Mauve had that day. She bided her time, killed Hal and tied him under the pier and then killed Mauve.”

“Where did she hide a sixty-five foot boat, or is that with the body?”

“The boat? I don’t know. Hey, what time is it?”

“It’s after eight.”

“And you’re still home?”

“Two reasons. I didn’t want to leave you alone, and the Bridger funeral is at 9:30. I thought we’d go together.”

“Yes, that’s right. You know, someone must have been watching me as I went through the Bridger house and then out on the ice. Can Dore Warren see over there from her house, say with a pair of binoculars?”

The coffee began to perk. Will turned the flame down and stood watching it a moment before turning to face L.C. “There wasn’t any body,” he said softly. “You’re upset, you fell through the ice and saw something—something that looked strange, but was probably a large fish or a tire. At that point your imagination ran away with you.”

“You’ve been taking psychology courses at the university again.”

“That was last year.”

“No, Will. I am not a neurotic woman who’s in a quandary about going to bed with her fiance. I did see a man killed under my apartment window, and I did see a body under the pier.”

He slammed his fist on the table and rattled the cups. “Then damn it! Where the hell is it?”

“I don’t know.”

He leaned across the table and tried to avoid looking at her breasts, clearly outlined through the sheer nightgown. “Please, listen to me. As far as I know, in the past several weeks we’ve had two missing persons in the area. A drunk named Louis who took off down South, and a fourteen year old teeny bopper that we tracked down yesterday in Boston. No one else is gone, L.C. Who the hell is down there?”

“I’m not sure, but it could have been Hal Warren.”

“And his boat?”

“I can’t explain that.”

“Can you find something of Katherine’s to wear? We have a funeral to attend.”

Uniformed chauffeurs were dusting slush off the hearse, flower car and lead limousine in front of the Lantern City Congregational Church. Will parked at the end of the entourage and walked with L.C. toward the church. A small knot of mourners had gathered at the entrance to the church. As they approached, Herb and Toby Strickland separated themselves from the group and walked toward them.

Herb’s scowl deepened. “Chief Barnes, what was all that fuss in our back yard last night?”

“Still searching for evidence, Mr. Strickland.”

“I thought it was all over?”

“So did I,” Will said, “but we have to be careful. It won’t happen again.” Will moved away from the group to talk to a police sergeant who had beckoned to him.

“Something you turned up, L.C.?” Toby asked.

“Something I thought I turned up,” she replied. “It turned out to be nothing.”

“It’s very disconcerting to come home after dinner and find a backyard full of tramping policemen.”

The sound of the organ prelude reached those standing outside, and they began to move somberly into the sanctuary. Will rejoined L.C. and took her arm as they went inside immediately behind the Stricklands.

“I’m glad that at least I didn’t spoil your meal,” L.C. said to Toby Strickland in an attempt at social amends.

“We had a good old fashioned New England lobster dinner,” Toby said. “That’s one thing I missed in Florida. You just can’t get proper lobster down there.”

“Then you went to the End of the Pier?”

The other woman nodded as the Stricklands moved into a pew midway down the church. They entered a pew opposite the Stricklands and sat on the aisle.

At the far end of the nave two caskets had been placed below the pulpit. The robed minister entered through a narrow door behind the choir stalls and crossed to the pulpit.

“Let us pray,” he began as heads bowed. The minister’s monotone reverberated through the church as L.C. listened without hearing. She looked across the aisle to see Herb Strickland with head unbowed as he stared intently at the two coffins.

Herb’s lips parted, his respiration seemed to increase, and his eyes never left the coffins. L.C. shook her head—the idea was-too ridiculous.

“We have come to inter two of our friends, husband and wife,” the minister continued as the eulogy rose and fell in a sing-song chant. L.C. turned toward Will who seemed intent on watching the ceiling. He looked down with a mock glare when she poked him in the ribs.

“Did you get something to eat last night?”

“Had two drinks and a club sandwich after you left the restaurant. Now shush.”

She tried to turn her attention back to the eulogy, but the presence of Herb Strickland across the aisle had become disconcerting. He was still enraptured with the two coffins. His body bent forward and his intent gaze never wavered.

“You must have seen the Stricklands come in the restaurant,” she whispered to Will.

“No,” he said softly.

A thin, angular man in a black suit who sat in the pew ahead turned and held his fingers to his lips. She plucked at Will’s sleeve and he shook his head.

L.C. fell sideways and leaned the full weight of her body against Will. Alarmed, he turned and put his arm under her sagging weight. “What’s the matter?” he asked. The angular man turned toward them again.

“I feel terribly faint … please take me out of here.”

With L.C. leaning against him, and his arms around her, Will escorted her from the church. Heads turned and nodded in sympathy as they passed. She straightened up on the steps outside.

“You needed air,” he said. “For a moment there I thought you were going to pass out.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life.”

“Then why the act?”

“Did you or did you not see the Stricklands at the End of the Pier last night?”

“I told you no. Now what is this?”

“I had to get out of there. I think we have the answer.”

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“How long were you in the restaurant?”

“For about an hour after you left. I had just gotten home when you came to the house.”

“Would you have noticed them if they were there?”

“Of course. Toby’s been in Florida, and I would have stopped at their table to say hello.”

“Are you sure?”

“For God’s sake, L.C. I’ve been a cop my whole adult life.”

“They killed him, Will. Herb and Toby Strickland killed Herb’s father.”

“I think you’re coming down with something.”

“And Herb killed Mauve.”

“Mauve may have had a lover that day, but it certainly was not pompous Herb with his 240 pounds of flab. Mauve liked him all right, but not that much man. You can’t possibly be serious in thinking that Mauve and Herb had something going?”

“I think the body under the pier was Wadsworth Strickland, and that Mauve fell through the ice like I did and they had to kill her.”

“That’s crap. In the first place, it’s an incontrovertible fact that a funeral service was held at this very church for Wadsworth Strickland and that you and I attended it.”

“We attended a memorial service for Wadsworth. His ashes were supposedly scattered at sea. No one ever saw the body. There wasn’t any coffin under the pulpit at that service, Will. No one ever saw the body. They killed him and told everyone that he died in Florida and was cremated.”

“And that was Wadsworth’s body under the pier along with Hal Warren and the sixty-five foot boat?”

“Hal could be on an extended trip like you’ve been saying.”

“You know something, L.C.? Everytime someone says boo to you, you accuse them of murder. Your list of suspects seems to grow longer and longer each day, and now you’re even inventing murders in order to increase the size of your list. We’re going to stop this nonsense. You see that building across the street?”

“Police headquarters?” He took her arm and began to lead her across the street.

“Come on.”

“I know. You’re going to book me.”

“For craziness.”

Once they reached his office, it took Will less than ten minutes to reach the authorities in Pinellas County, Florida.

“Yes, that’s right. Wadsworth Strickland. He died down there a few weeks ago.… I’ll hold.” He looked at L.C. sitting on the couch. “We can settle this Strickland matter in five minutes. And because I love you, I’ll put a trace out on Hal Warren’s boat. Then we can close the whole matter.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Yes, I’m Chief Barnes,” Will said back into the telephone. “He did.… I see … and there was an attending doctor?… His name?” He wrote on the pad. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” He hung up and handed the pad to L.C. “Wadsworth Strickland was taken ill at his home in Florida, his daughter-in-law, Toby, was with him and he was under the constant care of Doctor Aldis Hoover who also signed the death certificate. The remains were taken to the Peninsula Funeral Home. It’s a matter of record. L.C. Strickland died of natural causes in Florida.”

Chapter Eleven

She sat in the corner of the front seat during the short drive from police headquarters to Converse Motors. Will kept glancing at her with a worried look. “I don’t know why you’re so disappointed because a man died of natural causes.”

“It would have explained a great deal. You know, the Stricklands still lied about being in the restaurant.”

“They could have been mistaken. I could have been mistaken. You might have misunderstood Toby. A lot of reasons that are hardly evidence.”

“You said you were positive that they weren’t in the restaurant.”

“Which immediately makes you jump to the conclusion that they were busy moving bodies.”

“It’s possible.”

He stopped the car in front of the automobile showroom and put his hand on her arm. “I learned something very early in police work. People lie: they lie to cops, they lie to each other, and they lie to themselves. If I suspected dire crimes in every inconsistency I heard in the course of a day’s work, I’d need the state police, the F.B.I. and the C.I.A. to help me investigate a thousand phantom crimes.”

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“Do what? Get a search warrant to go through the Strickland house and see if they’ve got Dad stuck in a closet?”

“What about Dore?”

“I have no reason to even talk to her.”

“Hal Warren is missing.”

“Warren drew money out of the bank and took his boat South. Before the day is out I’ll find out where he is. O.K.?”

She kissed him. “It’s a step.”

Will waved and drove away from the agency parking lot. She walked into the empty showroom. Sighing, she went to her office and made a great pretense of searching for her keys and fumbling at the door.

Vic Mange was sitting behind the desk with Jane Ellen, a dictation pad on her knee, in the chair before him. Vic looked up and waved. “Hi, L.C. I just borrowed your desk to get some paperwork out of the way.”

“How’re sales?”

“Slow. The weather really hurt us for the week, but we’re selling a lot of snow tires.”

Vic and Jane Ellen scurried from the room. “Jane Ellen.”

The young secretary paused expectantly in the doorway. “Yes, Miz Converse?”

“You’ve got your blouse inside out, dear.”

She sat behind the desk and flipped through the mail, signed a purchase order and initialed a contract. Going into the showroom she waved at Vic and a customer and entered the service area.

Eddie was at the far end of the room, clipboard in hand, talking to a mechanic. One of her knees began to tremble as she felt a deep flush spread up her neck and over her cheeks. She turned quickly and left the service area, continued through the showroom and left by the front door.

She would go to the Warren house and tow in the wrecked Bentley. She took field glasses from the glove compartment of her car, climbed into the wrecker and started for the point. As she drove, she rolled down the side window and let cold air blow against her face. She felt juvenile and sophomoric, as if her reactions were closer to those of a fifteen year old than an adult.

L.C. sighed. Her leg gave a twinge as she threw the truck into high gear and drove faster than she should.

The Bentley was still flush against the wall of the house. She backed the wrecker into the drive and lowered the chain lift. Adjusting the chain on the Bentley and raising the rear wheels, she put the wrecker in forward and pulled the smashed car a few feet away from the front of the house.

With the field glasses dangling from her neck she went around the corner of the house and climbed up on the wall that faced the estuary. Turning toward the Strickland and Bridger houses, she adjusted the glasses to her eyes and brought them into focus.

The sea crashed on the rocks below and threw spray toward her. She looked down, realized she had a slight touch of vertigo, and looked away. It was important to avoid looking down at the rocks and keep her attention on the homes across the estuary.

The dock was in the glasses’ field of vision. If it were dark, and the light were on at the end of the pier, she would have been clearly visible from the Warren house as she walked out on the ice and fell into the water.

Hands pushed at her back and she swayed out over the wall. Cement crumbled under her foot and fell toward the water as she fought for balance.

A hand grasped the back of her jacket and pulled her back off the wall. She fell in the snow.

Dore Warren stood over her with a sardonic sideways grin that blurred her face. “Lose your wrecker, hon? It’s in the driveway attached to my car.”

“You scared the living daylights out of me, Dore. You almost pushed me off the edge.”

“Some you win, some you lose. Come on in and have a drink.”

“It’s a little early in the day.”

The large woman bent over, grasped L.C.’s hand and jerked her to her feet. “No excuses. Consider it a tip for excellent service.”

L.C. dutifully followed the other woman into the house toward the room with the bar and trophies. The last thing in the world she wanted at eleven in the morning was a martini. Part of the drink splattered over her fingers as it was placed in front of her.

“If I wanted to find Hal, where would you suggest I look?”

“I’d tell you, but it’s dirty.”

“He’s that much of a tom cat?”

“Men of inherited wealth have hobbies. Hal had two that worked together. The boat and girls.”

“You really are bitter.”

“Bitter? Me? Now why do you say that? Just because the bastard took me when I was still young and pretty enough to make a life, and used me until I bored him, and then made a fool of me in front of half the town … Why, L.C., that’s no cause for bitterness. That’s cause to kill the son of a bitch.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Give me a chance.” The large blond laughed. “Come on, hon. You don’t really believe that I’d do that to good old lovable Hal, do you? Why, he’s a prince of the earth, a veritable Messiah for anything in skirts. Think what a disservice I’d be doing all womankind.”

“What about Mauve Bridger?”

“What about her? Although she’s another case in point.”

“How so?”

“A bitch. Or didn’t I tell you that?”

“The night Mauve was killed, you left the cocktail party at seven and didn’t get home until nine.”

“I blacked out.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“Not a damn thing until I smashed the car into the wall.” She walked over to the trophy case and took a pair of figure skates from a bottom drawer. She ran her hand over the tip of one of the blades. “Once I had my arm slashed skating. I fell in a crowded rink and some idiot ran right over me. It cut to the artery and I almost bled to death until someone thought to put on a tourniquet. In all honesty, it never occurred to me to kill someone with a skate.”

“I would imagine it would be a horrible way to die.”

“I suppose. Pity, I don’t remember what happened that night.”

The two women looked at each other until Dore smiled and reached under the counter for another bottle.

A faint scratch at the outside of the apartment door made her reluctantly leave the dream. She stretched cat-like on the couch as the pictures dissolved. It had been filled with fast cars that drove without sound and a man who looked like Eddie and yet spoke like Will.

She heard it again. Someone was picking at the lock. She slid out of her loafers and off the couch. She had dozed for over an hour and it was dark outside. She tiptoed into the bedroom and went to the night table where she kept her father’s revolver. The drawer was empty, and then she remembered that Raleigh had taken the gun and it had been impounded by the police.

The noise at the lock was clearer now and she knew what it was. Years ago her father had showed her a set of lock picks and told her how a decent burglar could open any door in five minutes or less.

It would take too long to phone for help, and he’d be in the apartment before help came anywhere near arriving. Going back to the living room she picked up the metal figurine of Don Quixote from the top of the bookcase. Standing by the door she raised the metal figure over her head.

The lock clicked and the door handle slowly turned. Her arm tensed as the door swung open.

As he stepped through the door, L.C. brought the metal figure down with all her might and caught Will Barnes on the shoulder.

“Hey, damn it! That hurts.”

“What in God’s name are you doing breaking into my apartment?”

“I came to attack you.”

“You could have called from downstairs and I’d have the door open and my clothes off. Why the burglar tools?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Oh, my God! Will Barnes, you’re tight.”

“Just a little.”

As she closed and locked the apartment door he swayed slightly and put one hand on the wall to steady himself. “Oh, boy,” he whistled. “I think I am a little drunk.”

“Where have you been?”

“Not even married and she starts in on me,” he, moaned to the wall. “To a bar, in fact to every bar in Lantern City. Have you ever stopped to consider what problems a police chief encounters if he wants to get laid?”

“Not really.”

“You ought to. It’s terrible. If I talk to some girl at the bar, she excuses herself and goes to the ladies room and never comes back. They all think I’m out to bust them for soliciting. If I go into a massage parlor they break out the wintergreen and everyone starts jogging.”

“Tomcatting over Lantern City doesn’t sound like you.”

“That’s because it isn’t true. I stopped in for a beer at the Kumm Inn and was offered a five dollar chance in the pool being run at Converse Motors.”

“Oh, that pool.”

“That one. I’ve got the fourteenth day. Tell me, Laura, is fourteen a good day for you to get …”

“Don’t say it.”

“I bet he wouldn’t fall asleep like some people I know.”

“So that’s why you came to attack me?”

“Decidedly not,” he said with great care as he crossed the room and sat stiffly in an easy chair. “I have come to make an honest woman of you. I have come to make it all legal.”

“I think you proposed the other day.”

“But …” he drew out. “I did not have a ring. I now have a ring.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small ring box which he placed ceremoniously on the coffee table. “Which is why I was sneaking in here. I was going to put it next to your bed and kiss you. Then I would attack you.’

“That would have made my day. I’ve already almost been pushed off a sea wall. You would have scared me to death.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. You didn’t go out and buy a ring?”

“I did. Called Jake the jeweler and had him come down and open the store.”

“If he goes to the first selectman about that you’re sunk.”

“And I bought a diamond—on credit.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Don’t you want to see it?”

“You didn’t have to do that, Will.”

“Some girls won’t go to bed until the ring and all that.”

“You didn’t have to buy me a ring just to make love to me. I’ve already said I would.”

“You never said when. I retire from the force in another fifteen years.”

“We’ll do it now.” She opened the ring box and looked with mixed feelings at the small solitaire. “It’s lovely. I don’t know what to say.”

“Put it on and don’t say anything except yes.”

“I can’t say that—not just yet. I don’t think I should put it on until I do.”

He looked hurt and shrugged. “Put it away until you make up your mind.”

“Thank you for the thought and the asking.” She leaned over and kissed him. “Ugh!”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s your beer breath.” She hurried to the kitchen, put the ring box on a shelf, and rumaged through a cabinet until she found a bottle of scotch. She poured a drink and went back to the living room. “If we’re going to bed, I want my breath to smell like yours.”

“You mean tonight? Right now?”

“I mean as soon as I finish my drink.” She sat on the couch opposite him and smiled over the lip of her glass. “I mean in like five minutes.”

He looked at the large watch strapped to his wrist. “I’m timing you. Mark 10:05.”

“Hey, what happened about the boat?”

“I found it on the first phone call.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Superior police work, remarkable investigative ability, and a lucky shot. Bennie Filigree is harbormaster at the yacht club here and works in Florida during the off-season. I gave him a call to get some advice on where to look.”

“A call where?”

“The Kallaway Yacht Club in Clearwater. When I gave him the boat registration numbers he told me he was looking at it.”

“The numbers?”

“The boat. It was right outside the window moored at the marina.”

“And Hal Warren?”

“Bernie’d seen him.”

“Alive and well?”

“Bernie said Hal was shacked up with some girl on the mainland. He’d had a call from her on Hal’s behalf that asked him to watch after the boat.”

“Then Hal could be dead?”

“Jesus, L.C., anything is possible. But, he is in Florida not Connecticut.”

L.C. left the living room and went into the bedroom where she pulled a nightcase from the closet and began to pack.

“What in hell are you doing?” He asked from the doorway.

“Packing.”

“You don’t have to do that. I mean, we don’t have to go to a motel. I thought we could … you know, right here.”

“If I can get down there tonight, I’d have all day tomorrow to look for Hal and could be back here for business Monday morning. I’m catching the first flight to Florida.”

It was several hours later as the airliner passed over North Carolina before L.C. began to wonder if she were running toward the solution of a murder, or away from Will Barnes.

Chapter Twelve

New England’s founding fathers would twist in their rocky graves if they were capable of realizing the magnificent transition. She lay her head back against the seat, closed her eyes, and let the warm Florida sun bathe her face. The cab turned onto a long causeway that led to Clearwater Beach.

The Kallaway Yacht Club did not have closed membership as she had feared, but was a motor inn with a public marina, tennis courts, and a large Olympic size pool surrounded by cabanas and stands of palm trees. She paid the cab and followed the bellboy through the lobby to the registration desk. As she waited for her room assignment, she examined a large bulletin board to the left of the desk. There were a dozen photographs of smiling people arranged in a montage of varying recreational activities: a white haired couple dancing in the Starlight room, a bikini-clad girl poised on the high board at the pool, and Hal Warren on the deck of his boat with his arms around two girls. She smiled.

Her room was on the second level and had a small balcony overlooking the marina and water. She changed into shorts and a loose peasant blouse before going out on the balcony.

It was the largest boat docked at the marina and close enough for the registration numbers to be identified. Although utility lines ran to the dock near the gangway, the boat appeared shuttered and devoid of life. She sat on a small wrought iron chair and watched the boat for a few minutes.

In the lobby she asked where she could find Bennie Filigree, and was directed to a small building at the end of the dock. The office was a tiny room that hung partly over the water and had a small air conditioner laboring in its single window. The door was unlocked and she stepped inside. It was barely large enough to hold a cluttered desk and two wooden chairs. She had resigned herself to a long wait when she heard oaths that seemed to come up through the flooring of the office.

She went outside and looked over the dock to see Bennie working on the engine of an eighteen foot inboard. L.C. leaned against a post and watched the wiry man work on the engine. He straightened up, let out another string of oaths, and then kicked the recalcitrant machinery.

“That never helps,” she said with a laugh.

He squinted in the sun up at her with black Irish eyes that glinted angrily until he recognized her. “L.C. Converse. What in hell are you doing down here?”

“It’s been snowing in Connecticut. You blame me?”

“Hell, no.”

“What’s the problem with the engine?”

“Son of a bitch keeps choking out.”

“Let me take a look.” She leaped lightly down to the motorboat and bent over the engine. Bennie handed her a wrench, stepped out of her way, and hoisted himself back on the dock where he sat with his feet dangling off the edge.

“Thought you were a sail type.” he said as he pulled a newspaper from his back pocket and folded it back to the sports page.

“I am. Hate motorboats, but an engine is an engine,” she said with pursed lips as she examined the carburetor.

“How does Tiny Tot in the fourth sound to you?”

“Who’s the jock?”

“A dog, L.C. Dogs don’t have no jocks, that’s why I bet them. I figure without somebody on top of them telling them how fast to go, that I’ve got an even chance—maybe.”

“Uh huh,” she replied noncommittally and engrossed with the engine. “I think I see your problem.”

“Hell, a man’s got to have some recreation, so I play the pups a little.”

“Any adjustment to the accelerator pump requires an adjustment to the bowl-vent valve. Start it up.”

He stepped back into the cockpit and started the engine as L.C. made one last adjustment and put back the engine house cover. “Keerist, you’re O.K., L.C. Want a job?”

“I’ve got one, thanks. Understand that Hal Warren’s boat is over there.”

“Yep, that’s Hal’s. I’m keeping an eye on it, and two places down is Wadsworth Strickland’s.”

“You heard that Wadsworth died?”

Bennie turned off the engine, wiped the seats with a rag, and climbed back on the dock with L.C. “Yeah, I heard it the other day when his son called me. It must have been in the papers down here, but I don’t read the obits, only the sports page. Want a beer?”

“I accept in payment.”

Back in the small office Bennie opened a cooler and tore the tabs off two cans of Bud. L.C. took a sip of cold beer and noticed that her new white shorts had a streak of grease along one side. “How come Herb Strickland called you?”

“About his father’s boat. Says he has a buyer and wants me to bring it North.”

“I would think at this time of year you could sell it easier down here.”

“That’s what I said. I told him that I knew a reliable broker in Clearwater that I could list it with, but he said he’s got a live one up in Lantern City and wants me to bring it up, pronto, before the snow melts.”

“He’s in some hurry.”

“You know it. I’m going to have to cut my time short down here to get it back up there next week.”

“Next week?”

Bennie shrugged. “He’s paying. Guess they want to get the estate settled fast.”

“That makes sense. Have you seen Hal Warren the past week?”

“Nope. He came down a few weeks ago. We had some real good parties on the boat until he went off one night and never came back. Some dame called and said he was staying with her and asked me to take care of the boat, keep the air and power on, and generally watch over it until he got back.”

“I’d like to go on it, Bennie.”

“I can’t do that, L.C. They asked me to watch over it. I’m responsible. What’s the sudden interest in Hal’s boat? First a long distance call from Will Barnes, and then you arrive down here.”

“I really want to go through that boat.”

He shook his head. “Come on, L.C. Don’t put me in a position …”

She looked over the air conditioner and out the small window. “I see up the way that you’ve got a V-8 pulled out.”

“That’s a real bitch. It’ll take me all afternoon to get the mother back in.”

“Two could do it in an hour.”

He smiled. “You drive a mean bargain. Want another beer first?”

Her blouse had caught on the tackle and ripped along the back, and her shorts were now so unrecognizable that she wondered if they’d let her back through the lobby to her room. Bennie had offered to loan her a pair of coveralls, but she had declined, saying they’d be too hot in the warm sun.

When they finally installed the engine, he slipped her a set of keys and mumbled something about going off to lunch, and for her to put them back on the rack in the office when she was through; then he hurried from the dock.

The Warren boat was in excellent shape. Bennie had obviously been taking good care of it since the call from Hal’s girl friend. She walked along the deck and into the main saloon.

Within ten minutes she had discovered the body cramped in fetal position in the food freezer.

“I found Hal Warren,” L.C. said over the phone to Will Barnes.

The chuckle on the end of the line seemed to come from halfway around the world. “I won’t say it, I promised myself I wouldn’t say it; but at least you’ll get some sun down there.”

“You don’t understand. I found him on his boat in the food freezer.”

“Stay out of that guy’s clutches. I’ve heard about him. A few frozen filets from the freezer, then the wine. Do you know he’s got a wine cellar on that damn boat? How do you have a wine cellar on a boat?”

“You’re not reading me, Will. I’m calling from the police station.” She looked up at the bored detective with the heavy black eye brows who was pretending not to be listening to the conversation. “Hal was in the freezer. He’s dead.”

“How?” The voice immediately changed. The laughter disappeared to be replaced by an almost brusque authoritative quality.

“Evidently stabbed. They’re performing the autopsy now. Don’t you think you ought to pick up Dore Warren? She certainly had the motive, shunned woman, the estate, all that.”

“The thought occurred to me that it would be logical to talk to the deceased’s estranged wife.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. They think Bennie Filigree might have done it.”

“Good God, why Bennie?”

“He had access to the boat, and claims some woman called him on Hal’s behalf, but they can’t locate her. Then there’s the question of the missing money. They think Hal must have had a good part of the ten thousand left, and Bennie’s in deep with his bookie.”

“Let me talk to the officer in charge of the investigation. You coming home tonight?”

“Tonight or tomorrow.”

“Put the officer on, and L.C …”

“Yes.”

“Take care, will you?”

She handed the phone to the waiting detective and went into the room where Bennie was sitting uncomfortably on a straight metal chair while two bulky plainclothes officers hovered over him.

“You’re into your book for three thousand, and you dropped the stolen money at the track.”

“No, I don’t go to the track. I bet the dogs, I don’t watch them.”

“Tell us where you dropped the knife in the water. We’ll find it eventually, you know.”

“I don’t know anything about a knife.”

“Make it easy for yourself, Filigree.”

One of the officers noticed L.C., put his hands gently on her shoulder and led her from the room. They kept her another hour going over her statement.

It came to her later in the tub as clarity began to return through the morning’s numbing events. What she had suspected had come to pass. Hal Warren was dead.

But then who had been killed and tied under the pier?

Chapter Thirteen

It took less than an hour to rent a car, buy a map of the area from the lobby newsstand, and make a few phone calls. The funeral home that handled the Strickland cremation was only a few minutes away across the causeway, the condominium even closer. It took some cajoling with Doctor Hoover’s answering service and the hospital to track him to his country club, but she had finally managed it. She took a last bite from the sandwich she’d had sent to the room and went to the parking lot for the rental car.

The Olive Bay Condominium development was composed of attached town houses built in clusters around the ever present shuffle board courts and swimming pool. She glanced at the large sign mounted over the sales trailer.

OLIVE BAY RETIREMENT CONDOMINIUMS

WHERE LIVING BEGINS UNDER THE SUN

The salesman inside who greeted her wore a leisure suit with a multicolored shirt open part way down the front. He must have been fifty, but fought valiantly for thirty.

“I’m Dale Hawkins, sales manager. Welcome to Olive Bay.”

His hand remained over hers a beat too long before he reluctantly dropped it away. “I’m Laura Converse, and I’m interested in one of your units.”

“Fine, fine,” he replied and led her to a large wall map where colored pins protruded from the outlines of various units. “We do have one or two choice locations left.”

“Actually, I’m not retired yet, but …”

“Don’t worry about it a minute. The by-laws say you’re supposed to be over 50, but they’ll never stand up in court.”

“And I’m interested in a unit held by an estate.”

His smile dropped away. “In that instance you’ll have to negotiate with the executor. We only sell the units just completed.”

“Can you tell me where the Strickland unit is?”

“Strickland.” He examined the legend at the bottom of the map and located a pin at the end of a cul-de-sac. “Yeah, I remember that one. The old guy passed away a few weeks ago. Used to sing Irish patriotic songs in the middle of the night. We had lots of complaints over that.”

“Irish songs? Wadsworth Strickland was head of the S.A.R. back in Lantern City.”

“S.A.R., SOB, I don’t know about that. All I know is that he’d get tanked out of his mind and start singing.”

She stood on the steps of the Strickland condominium and pressed her face against the window. Curtains had been removed from the windows, the furniture had been placed near the door, and large cartons were piled along one wall. Obviously Toby expected a moving company to ship the remaining items back to Connecticut. It was unlikely that anything incriminating would have been left behind.

She left the apartment and began to walk back to the entrance of the development. A large building at the head of the street had a small wooden sign planted in the grass near the door.

OLIVE BAY ACTIVITIES AND RECREATION BUILDING

The social director, a woman of indeterminate age with hips that were beginning to bulge her tight pants suit, was mumbling to herself in her small office when L.C. knocked on the open door.

She looked up and squinted toward the door. “They eat the Ping-Pong balls. That’s the only answer. They eat them like hors d’oeuvres.”

“I’m L.C. Converse, and I wonder if I could talk to you about one of the residents who recently died?”

“Do you know how much Ping-Pong balls are a gross? Oh, never mind, come in. Do you have a cigarette?”

L.C. sat across from the cluttered desk. “I’m afraid not. Did you know Wadsworth Strickland?”

“The Mad Irishman. Not very well. He never came out of his unit. I looked in his garbage can once when I was searching for Ping Pong balls, and it was stuffed with empty liquor bottles. Never knew a man could drink that much.”

“Did you ever see him?”

“He only lived here a few weeks before he died. And his daughter-in-law kept him pretty well secluded.”

“Then you wouldn’t know what he looked like?”

“He had me come in to play checkers with him once. Then his daughter-in-law came home from the store. She was mad as hell, said he was ill and shouldn’t have visitors.”

“Describe him.”

The social director shrugged. “How could I? After a few years of this work all the old geezers look alike.”

Doctor Aldis Hoover sliced an iron shot into a bunker at the sixteenth green and began to swear. He climbed back in the golf cart next to L.C. and jammed his club back in the golf bag on the rear rack.

“Play here twice a week and that’s the millionth time I’ve been in that bastard.”

“You say you saw Mr. Strickland several times before he died?”

“Saw him that day, not four hours before. Told the stubborn bastard that he’d die if he didn’t lay off the sauce. There wasn’t any liver left, and his daughter-in-law wouldn’t let him go to the hospital. She said she’d take care of him. Happens that way sometimes.”

“What?”

The golf cart whirred noiselessly across the fairway. “Well, I shouldn’t really say, but she killed him as sure as if she’d put a gun to his head.”

“How?”

“The booze. Gave him as much as he wanted. Hell, maybe she was in a hurry to get the estate settled.”

“Doctor, how do you know that the man you were treating was Wadsworth Strickland?”

“How? He told me so, his daughter-in-law told me. What do you want me to do? Take his fingerprints?”

“Can you describe him.”

“Sixty, maybe five-five. No liver, no liver at all.”

L.C. watched as the doctor climbed from the cart and glowered at the sand trap. Wadsworth Strickland was at least six feet tall and closer to seventy than sixty.

With an easy overhand, Doctor Hoover picked up the golf ball and threw it toward the green. L.C. pretended not to notice.

Subdued organ music filled the mortuary from hidden speakers. A cadaverous man in dark suit and tie met her unctuously at the door. “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m from the Strickland family and we need a receipted bill for the services you recently performed for the family.”

“Come this way, please.” He led her to a large comfortable office with a couch and easy chairs. Boxes of Kleenex were placed strategically throughout the room. He searched briefly through a cabinet and returned to the desk with a file folder. “Here it is. I can have a duplicate in a few minutes.”

“We’re from Connecticut and weren’t present for the services. I hope they were adequate.”

He looked at her with a worried frown. “But there weren’t any services. Mrs. Strickland said that since the deceased had so recently retired from Connecticut that memorial services would be held in …” He looked at the file. “Lantern City.”

“They were, but I thought that some of his friends in Florida would have wanted …”

“To view?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Strickland said she wanted nothing of that nature, just final preparation and cremation. Florida law requires embalming, and we made the arrangements with the crematorium and took care of the disposal of the ashes at sea ourselves. You will notice those items on the bill.” He handed her the original of the invoice.

L.C. glanced at it a moment and then up at the man across the desk. “I see items here for casket and slumber room.”

“Well, yes. It’s possible to have a cremation without a casket, but we felt that since Mr. Wadsworth Strickland was a man of dignity that the family would have wished that all preparations be of the first order. We included a casket and the use of a slumber room until cremation.”

“That was very thorough of you,” L.C. said and wondered how much additional money that cost the Strickland estate.

“We try to be thorough with taste.”

“Then no one came by?”

“Mrs. Strickland said she wanted the Lantern City Press notified, but that it wasn’t necessary to have any publicity concerning the passing in Florida.”

“Then there wasn’t any obituary in Florida?”

“The ordinary alphabetical listing in the local paper. You’ll see on line fourteen a very reasonable charge for that service.”

“Thank you very much.”

“I’ll have a copy of the bill for you in a moment,” the mortician said as they walked to the door. “You know, one friend of the family did come by. He became quite agitated and told me there had been an error.”

“What sort of error?”

“That sometimes happens when a friend or relative comes by the slumber room and hasn’t seen the deceased in some time, particularly when there’s been a long illness. They often don’t recognize the loved one.”

“This man who didn’t recognize Mr. Strickland, would you remember him if I show you a photograph of him?”

Will Barnes had his feet on the desk, his chair pushed back against the wall, and was staring at the ceiling. “You know, L.C., you sound almost hysterical.”

“I haven’t slept. Now, let me finish. I took the photograph of Hal Warren from the bulletin board at the motel and showed it to the man at the funeral home.”

“And …?”

“He positively identifies Hal Warren as the man who came by to pay his respects to Wadsworth Strickland and became very upset and talked of the mistake they’d made.”

“What did Warren do about it?”

“Left the funeral home in a hurry.”

“And went back to the boat to be murdered by Bennie Filigree.”

“Poor Bennie. They’re still holding him.”

“All right, now where is all this leading?”

“Someone else, someone not Wadsworth Strickland was cremated in Florida.”

“Then where’s Wadsworth?”

“He was killed and tied under the pier. That was the body I saw that day.”

Will’s feet banged to the floor as his chair creaked forward. “Far out, L.C. Far out.”

“You’re not letting me put it all together.”

“I wish you would. Right now, all I hear is that some bodies disappear and some bodies that aren’t who they’re supposed to be, appear.”

“Let’s start over again. Wadsworth Strickland was murdered and tied under the pier.”

“By his son.”

“Probably. Now, they just couldn’t have Wadsworth disappear. There’s a large estate involved, lawyers, insurance, they had to have documentation of his death. They got someone to impersonate Wadsworth, someone shorter and younger. When that person died, a proper death certificate was issued, the cremation was held and …”

“The memorial service was held 1,500 miles away by the friends and family.”

“Everything was in order.”

“That accounts for the body under the pier, but still …”

“It all ties together, don’t you see?”

“No.”

“Mauve fell through the ice the day of the murder, the same as I did later. She saw, or the killer thought she saw, the body under the pier. That’s why she was killed.”

“And why was Hal Warren in Florida? Wait a minute, Hal saw the small obituary in the Florida paper, went to the funeral home and found out that the corpse was not Wadsworth. He’d be one of the few people down there that knew Strickland, except for …”

“Toby Strickland.”

“So, Hal accosts Toby, asks her what in hell is going on, and is killed.”

“Yes,” she said triumphantly.

“Except that there isn’t any body under the pier. Where are the remains of Wadsworth Strickland?”

“I don’t know, but all we have to do is find his body and you’ve got a case.”

“And who was cremated in Florida?”

Her voice dropped. “I don’t know that either.”

“There’s no case, L.C. We’ve got lots of nothing. In the first place, for all this to fit together, Herb and Toby had to find someone to impersonate Herb’s father. Someone who is virtually on his last legs himself, and is fool enough or dumb enough to go through with the charade.”

“Or drunk enough.”

Will looked at her for a long moment, jack-knifed from the chair and left the office. He returned in a few moments carrying a bulky file folder which he began to search through.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The complete file on the Bridger murder: autopsy report, affidavits, investigation reports, the whole works. Here it is.” He held up a page. “Wally McNulty.”

“Huh?”

“It could be the missing link.”

“What in the world does Wally have to do with the death of Wadsworth Strickland?”

“Not Wally. His friend Louis.”

Wally McNulty spooned milk toast into a mouth that was missing a great many teeth. L.C. and Will sat across the bare table from the aging derelict in the Alcoholic Unit of the state hospital. Wally picked up the bowl, tilted it to his mouth, and finished the last dregs.

“Tell us about your friend, Louis,” Will asked.

The old man’s eyes misted. “Louis’s gone. Took off on me. We always come here when the weather get cold, and stay until the snow melts. It works out better that way, you know.”

“What happened this year?” Will asked gently.

“Few weeks ago, before the weather turned bad, we were sitting on the stoop behind the liquor store. Louis had a bottle of red, and we were splittin’ it. Louis was good that way, anything he had I had, you know.”

“What happened then?” Will pressed.

“This big car drove down the alley, stopped, and this guy said for one of us to come over and talk. I was holding the bottle then, so Louis went. They talked for a minute and then Louis got in the car and they drove away. Funny.”

“What was so funny?”

“Him goin’ off in the car when we had almost a full bottle of red.”

“Could you recognize the man in the car?”

“I don’t think I could recognize my own mother more’n ten feet away.”

“And you never saw Louis again.”

“For a few minutes a couple hours later. He came back singing, like he was having a real good time and had drunk some good whisky. He gave me his overcoat and said he wouldn’t be needing it.”

“He didn’t say where he was going?”

“Nope. Hardly said anything, just that he was going South and he’d see me in the spring. Then he was gone in the big car again and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Did he ever sing ‘Kevin Barry’?” L.C. asked.

Will glared at her. “What does …”

Wally laughed. “Hell, yes. ‘Kevin Barry,’ ‘Out with the Black and Tans’, all them Irish songs. After a snootful, Louis loved to sing. Oh, how he loved to sing.”

They went by the medical records room and had the librarian pull last year’s chart on Louis O’Shaugnasy. The file indicated that during last year’s admission he had already been diagnosed as having acute cirrhosis of the liver.

Chapter Fourteen

They sat in Will’s car in the Bridget driveway and watched the water. In the fading light, L.C. could still make out the dock with its mounted floodlight. A fog had begun to move in from the Sound and obscured the end of the pier, making it appear as if it continued onward indefinitely.

“Whoever moved the body from under the dock couldn’t have taken it far.”

“Why not?” he asked flatly. “This is crazy as hell. Nobody but a small town cop would be so dumb as to be parked next to the house of one of the most powerful men in town, seriously considering knocking on his door to ask where he buried his father.”

“Why don’t you get a search warrant?”

“The judge would laugh me out of his chambers. You don’t seem to realize, L.C., we don’t really have much to go on.” He picked up the file on the Bridger murder investigation and shook it. “There’s not a shred of hard evidence here. Even if I could find a judge in his cups to sign the warrant, you don’t really think they’d keep the body in the house?”

“No.”

“Although I have to admit that if I found that Herb Strickland had been pouring concrete recently, I’d be a mite suspicious.”

“I don’t believe they’d be that obvious.”

“Neither do I.”

They sat silently as the day turned to dusk and the light began to fade across the water.

“Then why are we sitting here?” L.C. finally asked.

“For Herb Strickland to come home from the bank. We’ll go over as soon as his car pulls in.”

“That’s when we go in for cocktails and accusations of murder.”

“This is all your idea, L.C. I’m only doing what has to be done.”

“Which is?”

“Applying pressure. I’m not going to come right out and accuse them of anything. We can only hope that the innuendoes will be strong enough to force them into some sort of action. After we leave and I take you home, I’ll return and watch them all night.”

“Hoping they’ll make an error.”

“Right. And tomorrow, after I get additional information, I apply more pressure.”

“What will we know tomorrow that we don’t tonight?”

Will took a magic marker from over the sun visor and began to write on the outside of the investigation folder in clear bold letters:

“1. Obtain photograph of Wadsworth Strickland from the newspaper and Teletype it to Florida for identification by doctor, mortician, and others at Olive Bay Condominiums.’

2. Put out APB for the derelict, Louis. Derelicts always have some sort of record for D and D or breach of peace, pull his file, get prints and pictures and send for ID same as above.

3. Have Strickland condo dusted for prints—see if any match Louis’.”

L.C. looked over Will’s arm at what he had written. “I see what you mean. A positive answer on those items and …”

“More pressure on the Stricklands.”

A large car passed on the road behind them and pulled in the Strickland drive.

“Well,” Will said. “Here we go.” He left the car, slammed the door behind him, and stood by a snow bank waiting for L.C. “You sure you want to be present for this?”

“Like you said, it’s my crazy scheme. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Toby Strickland, with an incongruous frilly apron tied to her waist, opened the front door after they rang. “Chief Barnes, L.C., do come in. Herb’s in the sunroom having his cocktail.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Strickland,” Will said. “I wonder if I might talk to both of you?”

“Oh, then you’re here on official business? You want to send your men swimming off the pier again?”

Will laughed. “Not until the spring thaw, thank you. It’s about a homicide in Florida. Perhaps you might have some information since you were down there at the time.”

They sat on a sectional sofa in the living room. Herb smiled benignly at them. “Now, what’s this about another killing?”

“Hal Warren was found murdered on his boat. Mrs. Strickland, did you have an opportunity to see Mr. Warren while you were in Florida?”

“I don’t think so. At least I don’t think I did. He could have come by the house to talk to Dad. Dad and Mr. Warren were both boating enthusiasts, you know. Of course I never approved of Mr. Warren as he had a rather unsavory reputation with women.”

“Did he or didn’t he come by?”

“I’m just not sure, and of course I wasn’t always at the house. I had to do the marketing, obtain Dad’s medicine … he could have come by, it’s not clear in my mind.”

An excellent evasive answer, Will thought. In the event they found witnesses to place Hal Warren at the Strickland condominium, Toby was protected. “I see. Did you know that Hal Warren went by the crematorium to view your father’s remains before their disposal?” Was it his imagination, or did they both give an almost imperceptible start.

“No, I didn’t know that,” Toby replied. “We hadn’t invited anyone since the memorial service was held here in Lantern City.”

“Yes,” Will continued. “The mortician said he was quite agitated.”

“For whatever reason?”

“He seemed to feel there was some sort of mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“He couldn’t recognize your father.”

“I’m not surprised,” Herb interjected. “Dad went downhill very quickly, lost weight, drank … a terrible shame, but it sometimes happens to men when they retire and lose all purpose in life.”

“And height?” L.C. asked.

Herb glanced at her. “What does that mean?”

“I think I should tell you that we’re Teletyping photographs and fingerprints of your father and Louis O’Shaugnasy to Florida,” Will said.

“What for?”

“Identification. Perhaps some error has been made, Mr. Strickland.”

Herb stood quickly. “I think you’ve made the error, Chief Barnes. A grave error.”

Will wondered if he hadn’t. Although he felt more assured of L.C.’s conjectures than he had before, knowing and proving in a court of law were two distinct questions. “I don’t believe so, Herb.”

“My lawyer will be made aware of your innuendoes. This will ruin you, Chief. You are a finished man in Lantern City.”

“Exactly what is your implication?” Toby asked.

“That one or both of you killed Wadsworth Strickland,” L.C. said.

“That is patently ridiculous,” the other woman replied. “I have never in my life heard anything so absurd. And what are we supposed to have done with the body?”

“Tied it under the dock,” L.C. said.

“Now wait a minute,” Herb said. “Is that why your man was diving off the pier?”

“Yes it was,” Will replied.

“And you found nothing.”

“I saw it down there,” L.C. said.

“There’s nothing there,” the Stricklands said almost in unison.

“Would you mind if I looked through the house?” Will asked. He realized that they had gone far further than he had intended, and might as well go the rest of the way.

“I most certainly would,” Toby said.

“If you prefer, I can get a search warrant.”

“Let him look,” Herb said. “Let him carry this idiocy as far as he wants. In the morning, my lawyers will deal with this whole question of slander.”

“Thaank you.” Will left the room.

They stared at each other with hostility for long moments until Toby spoke slowly and deliberately. “I blame you for this, Laura Converse. Everyone in town knows that you and that man are carrying on a flagrant affair. Somehow or other your dirty machinations have gone to your head. For some reason, you’ve got it in for Herbert, and this is the result.”

L.C. shook her head. “That’s not it, Toby. I know I saw something under that dock.”

“No one else has.”

“I know.” She walked to the end of the room and stood looking out the rear window. In the distance the pier loomed into the darkness, and she could barely make out the pole with the light on top. A wide path had been plowed to the dock with snow banked high on either side of the walk.

“You certainly must know, L.C., that without a body, this whole speculation is useless,” Herb said.

“That’s true,” she replied and continued staring into the quiet night. She thought of the man behind her. Herb Strickland, a banker like his father, a collector of piggy banks, a compulsive man. A man who once his initial plan was formulated would stick by it. Putting the body under the pier was at best a temporary measure. When spring arrived the estuary would be swarming with boaters, swimmers and fishermen … the body would have to be moved before then and taken out to sea where it could be concealed forever in the depths.

What had Bennie and Wally said.…

“The house is clean,” Will said from behind her. “I think we should go.”

“Before the snow melts,” L.C. said.

“Exactly. Like right now.”

“Immediately is not soon enough for me,” Herb grunted.

L.C. turned to face them. Will stood dejectedly at the doorway while the Stricklands sat primly on the couch. “Before the snow melts,” she said again. “Herb wanted the boat back from Florida as soon as possible. He couldn’t get it back fast enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I did see the body under the pier, and when I left to get help, it was moved. You and Toby were in the house, not at the restaurant, and you watched me. You knew I had seen the body and that it had to be immediately disposed of in a safe place.”

“Just like that.”

“Yes. You had twenty minutes or half an hour in which to do it. Hardly time enough to dig a grave … in the ground.”

“Under the snow,” Will said.

“Why don’t you call your men, Will?” L.C. said. “Get them out here with rods, have them pierce the snow banks, particularly the ones away from the Strickland house, perhaps over at the Bridgers’.”

The room was still. “Of course,” Will said. “The snow would be a perfect preservative until the boat arrived from Florida. Then they’d take it out to sea.” He picked up the phone on the desk in the corner of the room.

“Put that down,” Toby Strickland said. She had taken a small automatic from a table drawer and waved it back and forth from L.C. to Will. “Go on, you idiot,” she said sideways to her husband. “Get the shotgun.”

Herb lumbered from the room and they heard him rummaging frantically through a hall closet. He returned with a .12 gauge shotgun and rammed two shells into the chambers.

Toby gestured with the automatic toward the couch. “Sit together where I can keep an eye on you. See if he has a gun.”

“He never carries one.”

As they sat on the couch, L.C. could feel the muscles tense in Will’s legs. She put her hand on his knee. “Don’t do anything foolish,” she said softly.

“Good advice,” Toby said.

Herb looked imploringly toward his wife. “What are we going to do with them?”

“Kill them.”

“What about the pictures and fingerprints they’re sending to Florida?”

“They haven’t sent them yet. All they had were suspicions until she made a lucky guess. I guarantee they haven’t told anyone else about this.”

“You’re being very foolish,” Will said. “You’ve killed three people. You can’t kill two more and expect to get away with it. Someone else will begin to put things together just like we did.”

“He’s right, Toby,” Herb said. “We can’t bury them under the snow with Dad. Their movements will be traced when they’re missing, there will be a search.…”

“Shut up and let me think,” she snapped.

“Why did you kill your father?” L.C. asked.

“I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. It happened in the sunroom on the day he retired. He was sitting in the wicker chair as I worked on the pigs. He was telling me how things were going to be. He had always run my life, made Toby and me live with him, kept me as head teller for twenty years; and he said he intended running our lives in retirement and then from the grave. Raleigh was to be made president of the bank, and all Dad’s money was going into an irrevocable trust fund to be doled out monthly. It would be the same as if he were still here. We argued, and he only kept shaking his head until I threw the pig at him. Unfortunately it was a brass one. It hit him on the head, he gave one sigh, and died. I hadn’t intended to kill him.”

“You should have come to me then,” Will said. “It would have been a charge of manslaughter. You might have gotten off with a suspended sentence.”

“We would have been ruined,” Toby said. “Herb would have been let go from the bank, and spent the rest of his life polishing his silly pigs. I would have been known all over town as the woman married to the man who threw a brass pig at his father and killed him.”

“And so you tied him under the dock,” L.C. said.

“The boat had already been taken to Florida. As soon as we could get it back we were going to bury him at sea.”

“Then you dug Louis from his alley and convinced him to go to Florida in the place of Wadsworth.”

“Didn’t take much convincing, a promise of a warm place and all he could drink,” Toby said. “I took him down to the condominium and kept him locked in the apartment. We gave him all the liquor he wanted, probably more than he wanted.”

“Then Mauve Bridger had to die because she saw the body.”

“She deserved to die,” Toby said vehemently. “That whoring slut. I could watch men go into her house during the day. Sometimes even see her with them in the bedroom if she forgot to pull the blinds. She was an evil woman who flaunted her sex.”

“Toby was in Florida when I saw Mauve fall through the ice. She had to be killed,” Herb said.

“Since her clothes were wet, you put them in the dryer.”

“Yes. It worked out beautifully when you arrested Raleigh.”

“But you had been made president of the bank,” L.C. said.

Toby grimaced. “Which is why that thing with me in Florida couldn’t die too soon. It had to be timed perfectly. First we put out word that Wadsworth was ill, failing, unable to attend the board of director’s meetings. He would have to make his preference for his successor known by mail. The board was always a rubber stamp for Wadsworth. Once we notified them that Herb should be elected president, the vote was unanimous.”

“Forged letters?”

“It wasn’t difficult.”

“And then when Louis died in Florida and was taken to the crematorium, Hal Warren saw the obituary notice in the paper and went to pay his respects.”

“He came by the apartment and told me he knew it wasn’t Wadsworth and wanted to know what we were up to. He had to be disposed of.”

“So you stabbed him and put the body on the boat.”

“How did you get the body from the apartment to the marina?” Will asked with professional interest.

“I got a large box and rented a dolly. It wasn’t difficult. I took the food from the freezer and the money back with me when I left the body. Everyone down there knew that Hal kept large sums of cash around, and I wanted it to look like a robbery.”

“Poor Bennie,” L.C. said.

“What are we going to do with them?” Herb asked his wife with a further note of desperation.

“I think I know a way,” Toby replied. “A way that will make it appear completely accidental.”

L.C. and Will stood with their backs against the Bridger garage wall as Herb Strickland covered then with the shotgun. Toby drove Will’s car into the garage and shut the door. She left the motor running, ran a piece of garden hose from the exhaust pipe through the car’s right rear window and then chocked the wheels.

“I’m warning you not to touch the radio,” Herb said. “Are there any weapons in the car?” he called over his shoulder to Toby.

“No.”

“What makes you think I’m going to allow you to kill us?” Will asked. “I think I’d rather take my chances on getting shot.”

Toby stood in front of him and squinted. “You will get in that car and you won’t give us any trouble, because if you do, I shall start by shooting you in the leg, and then in the groin. While you bleed on the floor, we’ll do even worse to your mistress.”

“I think I’d rather die in the car,” L.C. said.

Herb smiled. “When they find the bodies they’ll think you pulled in here to be alone, left the motor running for warmth, and were asphyxiated.”

“Parked to do their dirty things,” Toby said. “Everyone in town knows you’re having an affair. We’ll remove the hose when they’re dead.”

“They should take off their clothes.”

“No!” Toby snapped. “I don’t want that slut undressing in front of you. I’ll do it when she’s dead.” She waved the automatic. “Get in the car.”

L.C. sat in the front seat next to Will and coughed as the exhaust fumes began to fill the car’s interior. “I told you this thing needs a valve job.”

“Did you know we were having a flagrant affair?” Will asked.

“No, but I know that everyone at the garage loses the pool.”

“That’s one consolation.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I’ve got to take my chances rushing them.”

“You heard what she said, and I believe every word.”

Will coughed and looked at the Stricklands standing in front of the car with handkerchiefs held over their mouths. “I don’t see any alternative. In a few minutes we’ll lean back, close our eyes, and pretend we’ve lost consciousness. That might bring them near enough for me to rush them.”

“It won’t work.”

“You have a better idea?”

L.C. felt a well of nausea beginning to form in her stomach. “One. One long shot.”

She opened the investigatory file on the seat between them and rifled quickly through the papers. She found a copy of the autopsy report on Mauve Bridger, and smiled at the irony of using that particular piece of paper. She took the magic marker from the sun visor and wrote a few words on the back of the report. She beckoned through the window to Herb Strickland and held the paper, with the note she had written outward against the windshield.

Herb held the shotgun in firing position as he approached the car. He had to bend over the hood to read the note.

He shook his head violently and backed away from the car.

Toby Strickland walked around the car and squinted at the note before she tapped on the window glass with the barrel of her automatic. L.C. could see her mouth the word, “window,” and rolled down the side window far enough to slide the note into Toby’s waiting hand.

L.C. broke into a coughing spasm and saw dark concentric rings approaching the periphery of her vision. She knew that it was a matter of minutes before she lost consciousness.

Toby stood at the far end of the garage reading the autopsy report with a puzzled look. She finally turned the paper over and read L.C.’s note. The Stricklands began to argue vehemently. From the car it was impossible to hear what was being said, but they could see Herb retreating from his wife while he shook his head. The argument seemed to increase in intensity.

The first two shots from Toby’s automatic tore small holes in Herb’s chest. The large, pudgy man looked at his wife in bewilderment and let his shotgun clatter to the floor. He looked down at his chest in amazement as small points of blood dribbled down his front.

Two more shots were fired and Herb slid to the floor.

Toby stood over the fallen man, extended her arm with an impassive look, and emptied the remaining bullets in the clip into the twitching body at her feet.

Will tore from the car and made a headlong dive toward the shotgun on the floor.

L.C. Converse stood at the window in her apartment and looked out over the dark water. It was over, and she was filled with a numbing fatigue.

The door of the apartment behind her opened and closed softly. She knew he was watching her, and she twirled the small ring on her hand and slowly turned to face him.

“It’s over,” she said.

“Yes. You know, you shouldn’t stand in the window in a sheer gown like that.”

“Only fish out there.”

“I left word at the station that I’d be here all night. I thought we might begin our flagrant affair, although I didn’t tell them that part.”

“What do they say when you leave a message like that?”

“Nothing, but they wink at each other a lot.”

“I put champagne on ice—to celebrate.”

“A beginning or an end?”

“Both.” She hurried into the small kitchen and took iced glasses from the freezer and the wine from the refrigerator. Will took the bottle and popped the cork. He poured two glasses. They clinked glasses and smiled into each other’s eyes.

L.C. hiccupped. “What time is it?”

“After two.”

“Do you know I haven’t been to bed in two days.”

“Shall we remedy that at once?”

“As soon as you tell me what Toby said.”

“Not very much. In fact, I’m not even sure she’ll stand trial. Noah’s going to represent her and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she went for an insanity plea.”

“The body?”

“Where we predicted, buried in a burlap sack under a snow bank in back of the Bridger house. I called the Florida authorities and had them release Bennie Filigree.”

“What about Dore Warren?”

“You hadn’t heard?”

“No, tell me.”

“Eddie Bennett returned her Bentley and that’s the last anyone has seen of the two of them.”

“Not another mystery?”

“No. This time it’s definite. Dore Warren has gone to California to enter the racing car business with Eddie as her number one driver—and companion.”

“Then I’ve lost a service manager.”

“Better for you to lose a manager than for me to win the Converse Motors pool. Did you put the ring on before or after you heard about Eddie?”

“Before. I hadn’t heard a word until just now.” He poured another glass of champagne. L.C. sipped hers and began to giggle. “I think I’m getting punchy.”

“Why don’t you get ready for bed?”

She kissed him on the forehead. “I am ready. You get ready.” She finished her champagne and went into the bedroom. “Hurry up now.”

Will smiled, finished his drink and rinsed out the glasses in the sink. He took off his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair and slipped out of his shoes. He crossed to the bedroom and saw L.C. face down on the bed on top of the covers snoring in a most unladylike fashion.

Perhaps in the morning, he thought. That is if the town didn’t experience a mass murder or huge natural disaster.

He had meant to ask her about the note that had saved their lives. He remembered stuffing it in his back pocket after diving from the car, grabbing the shotgun and cuffing Toby Strickland.

He sat at the small dining table, took the note from his pocket and smoothed out the paper. He found himself looking at Mauve Bridger’s autopsy report. He turned it over to read the single sentence that L.C. had so hurriedly written with the magic marker and which had so infuriated Toby that she had killed her husband.

“Did you rape Mauve before or after you killed her?”

About the Author

Richard Forrest (1932–2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut, Who Killed Mr. Garland’s Mistress (1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in A Child’s Garden of Death (1975).

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1980 by Richard Forrest

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3794-5

This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author

Copyright Page