Find a Victim (12 page)

“A special agent from Washington,” I said. “We’ve had our eye on you for wearing red pajamas. Watch it, Gunnison.”

I left him munching his knuckles in wild surmise. Braga was twitching when I passed him. I ran the rest of the way to my car. At least I went through the motions of running, and didn’t fall on my face.

Before I reached the city limits, I realized the hopelessness of the chase. Jo had a long head start, and she
wouldn’t be going back to any of the places she’d been.

I went to see Mrs. Kerrigan instead.

CHAPTER
14
:
There was music in the house
behind the monkey-puzzle tree: a nervous dialogue of piano and strings. Pity me, the piano said. We pity you, said the strings. The music was switched off when I knocked on the door. Mrs. Kerrigan opened it on a chain.

“Who is it?”

“Archer.”

Her voice and her look were vague. “Oh yes, I remember—at the motor court.”

“I just came from there. Your husband has had an accident.”

“An automobile accident?”

“A shooting accident.”

“Don? Is he seriously hurt?”

“Very seriously. May I come in?”

She fumbled with the chain, finally got it unhooked, and stood back to let me enter. She had on a blue serge bathrobe, severely cut, with white piping. Below it, her slender legs were sheathed in nylon, and she was wearing shoes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I believe I had a premonition of something wrong. I’ve been sitting here listening to the Bartók. It’s very much like listening to the sound of my own thoughts—two-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts.”

She closed the door with a decisive click and made an effort to pull herself together. Her eyes were slightly puffed, by tears or insomnia. They rested on my face.

“You’ve been injured, too, Mr. Archer.”

“I don’t matter at the moment. I’ll survive.”

“How badly is Don hurt?”

“As badly as possible.”

“I should go to him, shouldn’t I?” She went to the foot of the staircase, then turned with her hand on the newel post. “Do you mean that he is dead?”

“He was murdered, Mrs. Kerrigan. I wouldn’t go there now if I were you. They’ll be coming here.”

“They?”

“The police, the sheriff’s men. They’ll have some questions to ask you. So have I.”

She moved uncertainly through the door to the living-room and leaned on the white silk arm of the chesterfield, teetering a little like a slender tree in gusts of wind. She stroked her forehead with her fingertips. I could see the fine blue veins in her wrist.

“Give me a moment, won’t you? That concerto is still running in my head. I shouldn’t have put it on when I was feeling so vulnerable. I feel as if I’ve been widowed twice on the same night.” She raised her head. “How was he killed? Did you say he was shot?”

“In his office at the motor court, no more than an hour ago.”

“And I’m a suspect, is that what I’m to understand?”

“Not with me.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s say I like your face.”

“I don’t,” she said with a child’s seriousness. “I don’t like my face. You must have a better reason than that.”

“All right.
Did
you shoot him?”

“No.” She went on in a harsher, stronger voice: “But don’t mistake what I’m feeling for any kind of grief. It’s simply—confusion. I don’t know what to feel. I haven’t much feeling left, actually. And I can’t say I’m sorry that it was done. Don wasn’t a good man. Which was fair enough, I suppose. I’m not a good woman.”

“I wouldn’t talk like that to the police. The police mind
likes simple, obvious patterns, and they’re likely to tab you as the primary suspect. You’re going to need an alibi in any case. Do you have one?”

“For when?”

“The last hour or so.”

“I’ve simply been here at home.”

“Nobody with you?”

“No. I’ve been listening to records for an hour or more. Before that, I must have spent an hour picking up my beads. I spilled them on the porch. When I had them all picked up, I took them and threw them away. Wasn’t that an insane thing to do?” Her fingers returned to her temples, which were hollow and smooth and delicate as shell. “Don used to tell me I was insane. Do you suppose he was right?”

“I think you’re a good woman who has gone through a lot of suffering. I’m sorry you have to go through more.”

I touched her blue serge shoulder. It didn’t yield to my pressure. She sat rigid, blinking back tears.

“Don’t be sympathetic, I’m not used to sympathy. I’d almost rather be accused of killing him. I’d probably feel less empty if I had.”

“What if you had? Would you deny it?”

“I don’t believe I would,” she said slowly. “Honesty is one virtue I have left. Probably the only one.”

“Why cut yourself down so small?”

“The cutting down was done for me, by an expert. Don could be quite a sadist when the spirit moved him. The spirit often moved him.” She closed her eyes tightly for a second. “I was cruel, too. It wasn’t all one-sided. The truth is, when he left this house tonight—Don left me tonight, Mr. Archer, and I thought of killing him then. The actual picture crossed my mind. I could see myself very plainly, following him down to the street and shooting him in the back. I might have done it, too, if I’d had
a gun. But it would have been perfectly pointless, wouldn’t it?” Her eyes came up like dark blue lights. “Who did kill him, do you know?”

“It’s hard to say. The Summer girl was at the scene—”

“That dirty-eyed little brunette of his?”

I nodded. “She got away in a stolen car. It doesn’t prove that she shot him, though.”

“That would be an irony now, if she did. The whole situation is ironic. Don was going away to start a new life, as he called it.
Vita nuova.”
Her mouth curled over the words.

“It isn’t as ironic as it looks. Your husband was neck-deep in crime. It put him in line for a violent death.”

It shocked her out of her mood, as I hoped it would. She rose abruptly. “Don was involved in crime? You must be mistaken.”

“There’s no mistake. The Summer girl was in it too, if that’s any satisfaction to you. You know about the highjacking?”

“Yes. The sheriff was here tonight.”

“What did the sheriff want?”

“I couldn’t say. I wasn’t in the room when they were talking. I could tell by the sound of the voices, though, that they were arguing. Apparently Don won.”

“You didn’t hear what they were arguing about?”

“No. When Brandon—when Sheriff Church was leaving, I asked him what the trouble was. He told me about the stolen truck.”

“Did he seem suspicious of your husband?”

“No. He was very angry, but he didn’t say a word about Don, one way or the other.”

“When was he here?”

“About ten o’clock.”

“Are you and the sheriff on a first-name basis?”

“Yes, I suppose we are, if it matters. Brandon’s been
close to my family for years. My father and his father were close friends.”

“I understood Church worked his way up from the bottom.”

“His father was a barber, if that’s what you mean. It didn’t prevent my father from being his friend.” When she spoke of her father, there was a change in her face, both hardening and refining. “Father was a democratic man, and a generous one. He helped to put Brandon through college.”

“Could that have helped your husband to win his argument with Church?”

It took her a moment to catch my meaning. “Of course not. Brandon wouldn’t be influenced by personal considerations.”

“You’re sure?”

“Perfectly sure. I know Brandon.”

“And you’re fond of him?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m
fond
of him. I wonder if anyone is. I do admire him for what he’s done. I respect his integrity.”

“What has he done?”

“He came up from near the bottom, as you said. He’s made himself the best sheriff we’ve ever had in this county. And I’ve known the others,” she added. “Father was a Superior Court judge.”

“Did your husband have anything to say about his brawl with Church?”

“It wasn’t a brawl. They simply argued. No, Don wouldn’t tell me anything. It’s understandable, if he was involved in the crime as you say he was.”

“He was.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so certain.”

“I talked to the Summer girl tonight. She didn’t know who I was, for a while anyway, and she said more than
she intended to. She and your husband and a man named Bozey were all involved in the highjacking. You may have seen this Bozey with your husband—a young hood with red hair, eyes like a rabid dog. He wears a leather jacket like a pilot’s jacket.”

“No, I never saw him.” But the description seemed to make the situation actual to her, perhaps for the first time. “It can’t be true! Don was at the court with me yesterday.”

“All day?”

“Most of the afternoon. He came out after lunch to work on the books. Then he started drinking in the office. He’s been drinking a great deal lately.”

“Are you sure he didn’t leave the office?”

“As sure as I can be. I didn’t sit and watch him, naturally. But I’m absolutely certain he had nothing to do with that shooting.”

“He had plenty to do with it, Mrs. Kerrigan. Whether or not he was there in person, he was one of those responsible.”

“You mean that Don planned a cold-blooded murder, for gain?”

“I’m pretty sure he planned the highjacking. The murder was part of it. The two crimes can’t be separated, so far as I can see.”

She said with a kind of awe: “I had no idea. I knew that he was in trouble, I didn’t realize how serious it was. He should have told me,” she whispered to herself. “He could have had the house. Or anything.”

I broke in on her self-recriminations: “There seems to be more to this case than murder for gain. Your husband’s death throws the whole thing wide open.”

“I thought you said that the girl—Jo Summer—”

“She’s the logical suspect, of course. But I don’t know. They were set to go away together. She was in love with him.”

“In love with him?”

“In her way. In love with him and the easy life he promised her. They were going to Guatemala and live happily ever after.”

“How can you know that?” Her face was a mask of pain.

“She told me herself. She wasn’t lying. She may have been dreaming, but she wasn’t lying. That wasn’t the only interesting thing she said. It got a little involved, but the idea was that Anne Meyer had something to do with the highjacking. Tony Aquista told her a story about Anne Meyer which changed the original plan.”

“What kind of a story?”

“I was hoping that you could tell me, Mrs. Kerrigan. I never got the story. The girl got suspicious and ran out on me.”

Her eyes widened. Their dark blue depths were bottomless. She said slowly and carefully: “Why should you suppose that I would know anything about Anne Meyer?”

“You said quite a lot about her at the motor court, before we were interrupted. You wanted her found and shadowed, remember?”

“I’d prefer to forget it. I was almost crazy with jealousy. It’s over now. Everything’s over now. There’s nothing left to be jealous of.”

“Do you mean that something has happened to her?”

“I mean that my husband is dead. You can’t be jealous of a dead man, can you? I was on the wrong track, anyway. She wasn’t the one after all.”

“She was at one time, you said.”

“Yes, but it was finished. I was misled by something that happened last Friday. Don offered her the use of our place in the mountains for the weekend. She came here to pick up the keys, and I overheard the—transaction.” Her voice took on a cutting edge: “He had no right to do it.
The cabin belongs to me. I guess that’s what upset me.”

“Where is the cabin?”

“On Lake Perdida. Father built it over twenty years ago, when they first put in the dam.”

“Could the woman still be there?”

“I don’t believe so. Don said not. When she failed to come to work on Monday, he drove up to the lake to see what was keeping her. But she was gone when he got there. At least, so he said.”

“His story should be checked. Is there a telephone in the cabin?”

“No, there are no private telephones in the settlement. It’s rather isolated.”

“I’d like your permission to go up and make a search for her.”

“Of course. If you think it will do any good.”

“How do I get there?”

She gave me detailed instructions. The lake was on the western slope of the Sierra, about two hours of mountain driving from Las Cruces. “I’ll get you the keys.”

“Duplicates?”

“No, there’s only the one set.”

“Then she brought them back?”

“Don did, Monday night. Apparently she left them there.”

“Was he gone all day Monday?”

“Yes, he was. He didn’t come home until long past midnight.”

“But he hadn’t seen her?”

“He said he hadn’t.”

“Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “I lost track of Don years ago. No, I didn’t ask him what he’d been doing all day.”

“What do you think he was doing?”

“I have no idea.”

She left the room and came back a minute later, with two Yale keys and some smaller padlock keys clinking on a chrome ring. “There you are. Good luck.”

I said: “It might improve my luck if you don’t mention this to anyone. Especially anyone official.”

“Brandon Church, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been having trouble with him, too?”

“That’s an understatement. Church hates my insides. He seemed like a reasonable sort when I first met him, and we were getting along. Then the whole thing went to pieces. He’s a friend of yours. What’s on his mind?”

“I don’t pretend to understand him. I know that he’s a good man. Father thought very highly of him.” She managed a wan smile. “Could you be partly to blame for the trouble between you?”

“I usually am, I guess.”

“Perhaps he resents an outsider horning in. Brandon takes his work very seriously. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word to him about you.” She offered me her hand. “I do trust you, you see. I don’t know exactly why I should—”