Bartholomew 02 - How to Marry a Ghost (9 page)

As I regarded my reflection in the mirror above the marble fireplace—a sheet of mottled but wistful old glass in an ornate gold frame—I became aware of the murmur of voices above me and one in particular was quite distinct. Instinctively I stood on tiptoe, drawn toward the source of the sound, and I saw that it was an open heating—or air-conditioning—duct. I looked around and saw some library steps in the corner. I placed them below the duct and climbed up so I was as close as possible to the opening above, and I listened.

I realized they were moving about the room—or at least one of them was—because I could hear footsteps. I identified the voice I could hear as that of Detective Morrison. He appeared to have settled in one spot because I heard him quite clearly whereas Shotgun—for it had to be he—was merely a murmur that came and went.

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“Okay, Mr. Marriott, I want you to listen,” I heard Evan Morrison say, “it seems there are some discrepancies in your statements—the one you made following the discovery of your son Sean’s body and the one you made at the time the body of Bettina Pleshette was found on your property.

“We now know,” he went on, “that your son Sean was killed with a bullet to the chest from a twelve-bore shotgun on the night of Friday September tenth between the hours of eight p.m.

and midnight. You have confirmed that you own a Purdey shotgun.”

There was a murmur from Shotgun to which Evan Morrison replied: “Yes.We have that. It has not been fired for some considerable time.

“Now, on the night in question, Friday, you say you were alone here because you were expecting Bettina Pleshette to arrive for a meeting with you at seven thirty. You say you have no idea whether your son Sean was home or not. He lived in an apartment above the stables and the two of you rarely saw each other.

We have established that Sean was in Manhattan the day he died and returned that night on the jitney, leaving Fortieth Street in the city at six and arriving in Amagansett around eight forty p.m.

He called a cab on his cell phone and the cab driver confirms that Sean asked to be dropped off at the bay so that he could walk home along the beach and through the woods.The driver said he seemed to know exactly where he was going even though it was pitch-black. We can assume that it was on this walk that he was shot. Maybe he had an assignation on the beach.Was it a problem for you that your son was gay, Mr. Marriott?”

Evan Morrison was speaking loudly. This was a bonus for me as it meant I could hear every word, but I winced at the harshness of his tone with the last question, which came out of the blue

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and, to me, seemed unnecessarily personal. Shotgun said something but I couldn’t make it out.

“Okay, so you didn’t have a problem,” said Detective Morrison, “but you weren’t close to your son, were you, Mr. Marriott?

He lived with you and yet you led totally separate lives. Can you explain why that was?”

Again there was a murmur and from Evan Morrison’s reply, I deduced that Shotgun had declined to explain.

“Well, we can return to that later,” said Detective Morrison.

“I want to go over your movements the night of September tenth.

You say you fixed yourself a drink and waited for Miss Pleshette in the room below this one, that you were listening to music so you would not have heard her car if she did arrive. But that is not the reason you didn’t hear anything, is it, Mr. Marriott?”

I didn’t hear Shotgun’s reply.

“You didn’t hear anything because she never came here that night, did she? We have a witness, a Mr. Scott Abernathy, who came forward after
her
body was found to say that she’d spent the evening and indeed the night of September tenth with him.”

Shotgun said something very quickly.

“No, it was definitely that night. Mr. Abernathy was quite specific,” said Evan Morrison with exaggerated patience. “He took Miss Pleshette to dinner at eight o’clock at the Palm in East Hampton. We have this from the maître d’, the waitress who served them their steaks, and several other diners. On the way home they went into BookHampton where the manager observed Miss Pleshette pointing out to Mr. Abernathy several books she had ghosted. Then they had a drink at the bar Citta-nuova, several drinks in fact.This takes us to past eleven o’clock.

Are you saying she turned up for her meeting after that, Mr. Marriott? No, I thought not.”

I shifted my balance on the steps to ease a certain stiffness that

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was creeping into my neck while I strained to listen. Shotgun said something but I didn’t catch it.

“Ah!” said Evan Morrison. “So here we have a problem. Suddenly you remember that you canceled her but you just forgot to mention that.You knew she wouldn’t be coming here that night.

So this places you alone here on the night your son was killed—

with no alibi.”

And then I heard Shotgun’s voice for the first time. I imagine they could have heard him five miles away in East Hampton, so loudly did he shout at Evan Morrison. But it was not the volume that surprised me. In the few interviews I recalled having watched with Shotgun Marriott, he had always spoken with a rather grating London accent, not really East End Cockney, but going west along the Thames to Isleworth or Twickenham maybe.

The voice speaking above me was a rich baritone, smooth and educated and totally without regional intonation. It was raised in anger but without the taunting hostility of Evan Morrison’s voice.

“Are you seriously suggesting that I killed my own son?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely stating the facts as I have them.Which brings me to the night Bettina Pleshette’s body was found in your woods. Do you own a bow and arrow, Mr.

Marriott?”

I couldn’t hear Shotgun’s reply.

“Okay, so you do not—as indeed you stated at our last meeting. Did you by any chance have access to hunting equipment of this nature?” Was it my imagination or did Evan Morrison sound as if he were trying to catch Shotgun out in another lie? “Did your son hunt deer, for example?”

This time I heard Shotgun’s reply. He had raised his voice again. “To the best of my knowledge, my son did not hunt and he certainly did not have a bow and arrow. I used to shoot in England

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years ago—with my Purdey—and at one time I did indeed have an interest in archery. My wife and I took lessons for a while.

Then I had a bow and arrow but it was years ago.
Years!
I suppose you’re going to say you found one on my property, and that Bettina Pleshette was killed with that.”

“I am,” I heard Evan Morrison say and I tensed in amazement.

“How did you know? She had a wound consistent with an arrow being shot in her back. So you were here Saturday night when Bettina Pleshette was killed in your woods. Were you here alone?”

I couldn’t hear Shotgun’s reply.

“Oh,” said Detective Morrison. “You’re saying he was here that night, was he? I find it odd that you would say that, Mr. Marriott, because his mother says he was with her.What does
he
say?

His own story is he can’t remember where he was but he’s a real slippery character.
And
he owns a bow and arrow, as I’m sure you know.”

“Oh shit!” said a voice behind me. My body jerked in shock and I almost fell off the steps. Someone had come into the room and crept up behind me with astonishing stealth. I turned my head and saw it was a gangling youth, well over six feet tall. He was wearing denim shorts, a sweatshirt, and his long and extremely hairy legs ended in giant Timberland boots. Tufts of blond hair sprouted from beneath a cap turned back to front framing rosy cheeks and piercing blue eyes. One look at his face told me he was related to Franny Cook. The fine beautiful bone structure of his face was identical to hers.

“Who are you?” His question was blunt and sounded almost rude.

“Who are
you
?” I retaliated.

“I’m the guy he’s just been talking about. I work for Shotgun.

You found that listening hole, huh?” He grinned at me. “Cool,

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isn’t it? Shotgun had an under-floor hot-air system put in last year and you get this flow-through of sound in quite a few of the rooms.Then he changed the ducts and forgot to fill in the ones in the rooms upstairs. You got to be standing over by the window, though.”

“Who
are
you?” I descended the steps slowly. I was angry at being discovered spying by a teenager who seemed to think he had more right to be there than I did.

“Dumpster.” He wiped his hand on his shorts and held it out to me.

What kind of a name was that? I shook his hand and smiled.

“I’m Lee, and I’m also going to be working for Shotgun Marriott, on his book.What do you do for him?”

“Caretaker. Chop his wood. Mow his lawns. Check out his trees, blow his leaves, plow his driveway in winter. Plus I fish for him and bring him venison. Poor guy, he’s been in a pretty bad way these last couple of days, let me tell you.”

“You knew Sean?”

“Sure. I work here, don’t I? Nice guy. Shy, like a rabbit. Scared of everything.”

“What do you suppose he was doing out in the woods in the middle of the night he was killed?”

He hesitated, looking at me with suspicion for a moment but then he shrugged.

“Taking a walk. One thing he wasn’t scared of was being out in the woods. He knew every inch of them. I’d find him out there all hours, rain or shine, wandering about on his own, reading po-etry and shit. Once, when his dad was away, Sean had a guy to stay. He was, like, you know, and the guy was one of
his
type, and he used to take him out to the woods. I stayed well away. I came across ’em lying on the beach buck naked and I ran a mile. I mean they can do what they want long as they don’t do it to
me
!”

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“So you’ve got to be related to Franny Cook,” I said. “You look just like her.”

“You know my mom?” He smiled and seemed to visibly relax.

I nodded. “Rufus introduced us. She’s a terrific person, and your baby sister.”

“She’s not my sister,” he said quickly.

“You have the same mother.”

“Yeah, we do,” he conceded. “But, like, I’m part of her old family. Eliza’s her new family.”

I thought I caught a note of resentment in his voice.

“Were you here those nights—when Sean died, and the other . . . ?”

“Why do you want to know?” He eyed me warily.

I shrugged as if to indicate no particular reason. But if he wanted to tell me, I was all ears. I needed to make this kid my friend if he’d been close to the action.

“Sure I was here,” he said slowly. “Sean had gone to the city the night before he was killed. That’s where he had his real life if you ask me. Out here he was too much in his father’s shadow. He didn’t like being the son of a rock musician, a
famous
rock musician.”

“Did they get along?”

“No, but it was Sean’s fault. I don’t think he took the time to figure out that his father really was a nice guy. He had it fixed in his head that he was never going to measure up to what his father wanted him to be, but Shotgun used to tell me how it was cool with him that Sean was gay. He just wanted Sean to be happy. I tell you, I’d trade Shotgun as
my
father any day of the week.”

“So, did Shotgun know Sean was in the city?”

“Who knows? They didn’t communicate. All I know is that he was expecting this woman who kept calling him about his book to come and see him and then he called and canceled her.”

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I stared at him. “How do you know this?”

“I was right outside the door, I heard him on the phone with her. He had me putting up more shelves for his cookbooks in the kitchen and I was coming and going from the stables, bringing in the wood. I had so much to do during the day, I couldn’t get to it until the evening and Shotgun doesn’t care if I work at night.

Cookbooks! Jesus! Guy fancies himself as a gourmet chef or what?”

I was about to quiz him further about the night Bettina was killed when I heard movement above us, footsteps crossing the room. Dumpster’s arrival had curtailed my eavesdropping and I realized I’d missed the rest of Detective Morrison’s interview.

A few seconds later the door opened and Shotgun Marriott walked into the room. He stopped dead, surprised to see Dumpster.

“The detective’s out there?” Dumpster asked him.

“It’s okay, he just left,” said Shotgun and then held out his hand to me.

“Christopher Marriott. How are you? Sorry I’ve kept you waiting.”

I recognized him from his photographs and the extensive television coverage when the dead groupie had been found in his room—but only just.The curly dirty blond hair that had flopped over his collar fourteen years ago was now shorn and fashionably layered to a crop of almost military severity. His face, lean and somehow rather poetic, had now acquired a certain cragginess and, until I saw it at such close quarters, I hadn’t realized it was such a noble face. He had a long straight nose, slightly pointed like a fox, and a very sensuous wide mouth with, I noted, a trace of a mustache snaking above it as if he hadn’t shaved properly. But his eyes were what arrested me the most.They were hooded with

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perfectly arched eyebrows high above them and they appeared to be mocking me.

But then he smiled suddenly and the five-o’clock shadow around his jaw line that had given him a sardonic, and faintly piratical, appearance seemed to recede.

“Dumpster, I despair of you sometimes,” he said. “Couldn’t you even have offered her a cup of tea? You know your way around my kitchen better than I do.”