Honest Doubt (9 page)

“What about the dog?” I asked. “He's beautiful.” The dog had been lying on the floor, beating the floor with his tail when either of us looked his way.

“Thank you,” she said. “He's a Bernese mountain dog—a gift, actually. I'd never have acquired a pure-bred dog on my own, but I do admire his beauty. He's a good old chap.” And she bent down, once the cat had begun eating, and stroked the dog's head. “He eats with me,” she said. “Dinnertime.”

Was this a hint? I glanced at my watch. “I know I should be going,” I said, “but I did have one or two more questions.”

“About the English department?”

“Well, yes, but also about what you told me. It's none of my business, I know, but don't you ever see your children? You were happy for them just to vanish from your life?”

“Don't apologize for asking. I told you about myself. You've a right to questions. Yes, I do see my children, but not together and not here or in their homes. I dine with them in neutral territory—that is, restaurants—one at a time, just the two of us. I find that there is real communication, that we can enjoy conversation, probably because neither of us is in a situation that tends toward irritation. I wish I'd thought of it earlier.” I must have looked an additional question, because she answered it, smiling at me. “Yes, I see my grandchildren too, in the same way. It began when my granddaughter telephoned me and asked if
we
could have a meal in a restaurant. We did, and it was a revelation. She behaved wonderfully and we actually talked to one another. With her family and her cousins, she—well, it's as you said: they scream all the time. Now, what else can I tell you about Clifton College?”

I pulled my thoughts together and concentrated on the task at hand, as I ought to have been doing long since. “Did you ever imagine the situation in the English department could lead to murder? To that much hatred?”

“We sophisticated, so-called literary types never imagine that anything could lead to murder. So I didn't imagine it. But if you put the question, ‘Were there to be a murder in that department, who would be the victim,' I would have said Haycock without a second thought. My professor friend who shrugged was not only letting illegalities pass, he was telling me that he didn't want even to have to consider what Haycock was doing to the department. Which doesn't mean the murder didn't astonish me; it did. But not as much as if it had been someone else who died. They are, I take it, sure it's murder and not some sort of mistake?”

“Definitely sure,” I said. “What sort of person was Haycock? I mean, how would you describe him?”

“I already have,” she said. “He was like those Congressmen we mentioned, the ones who hated Clinton and didn't care what they did to the country, the ones who couldn't believe they weren't in the right, despite all the signs to the contrary, and despite all the damage they were doing to long-established institutions. Haycock was a fanatic, a person who was so sure he was right in his convictions that he could consider no evidence to the contrary. And don't ask me who I think killed him. Anyone at his house that day could have done it, as I understand it.” She looked questioningly at me, and I nodded confirmation. Any one of them could have done it, and I wasn't a bit closer to guessing who did it than she was. “But remember,” she said, “I wasn't a member of the department and don't know all that went on inside it.”

I got to my feet and so did she. “Take another cookie for the road,” she said. I complied without argument. I gave her my card and wrote my home number on the back of it, something I seemed to be doing lately. I'd given one to Rick too, and to Antonia. And to Kate.

“If you think of anything else, however insignificant, do let me know,” I said. “And thanks for the coffee and the cookies and especially for the conversation. I liked that.”

I wanted to say it had meant a lot to me to hear that a mother could feel that way. I'd suspected it, but no one had ever spoken of it so frankly. But that didn't seem the right thing for a private eye to say, so I didn't. She and the dog came to the door to see me off.

I shook her hand and patted the dog. “Say goodbye to the cat,” I said, “and thanks for everything.” Then I roared off.

. . . but this is fixt
As are the roots of earth and
base of all;
Man for the field and
woman for the hearth:
Man for the sword and for
the needle she:
Man with the head and
woman with the heart:
Man to command and
woman to obey;
All else confusion.

—TENNYSON,
The Princess

Seven

I ARRIVED back at the office later than I had hoped. The Lincoln Tunnel was backed up, as though half of New Jersey had decided to visit New York. Going out, I had sailed through: no toll to leave New York, double toll to return. I wondered how many people had left the city for free and never returned. I bet a lot of New Yorkers think they'll get away with that, but come back in the end.

Arriving sweaty and irritable, I found Octavia getting ready to call it a day. “Oh, good,” she said when I walked in, “I won't have to leave you a note. Donald Jackson's called several times. He seemed eager to talk to you. Here's his number.” She handed me a piece of pink telephone message paper and waved goodbye. I went into my office, slung my helmet into a corner, dropped into my chair, and dialed the number. Some days seem to jolt you around more than others. As it turned out, this wasn't the end of the day's bumpy schedule.

Donald Jackson sounded glad to hear from me. I know what a relief it is to finally get hold of someone who never seems around when you want them.

“Why the hell don't you get a cell phone?” he demanded. “Your secretary said you were in New Jersey, which is where I was hoping to meet with you as soon as possible. Now you'll have to come back; it's important. Trust me, you'll be glad you returned.”

“Couldn't you tell me about it over the phone?” I asked rather sheepishly.

“No. We need a long powwow. I have new stuff about our case.” I really liked that
our
. No policeman I had ever met up with would have said that. “Get back on your bike and come on out here. Same diner, same menu; you said you liked it.”

“I'll have a long wait even at the New York end this time of the day,” I said. “Will tomorrow do?”

“It will do, but tonight will do better. Look, Woody, go to Penn Station, get on a train, and I'll meet you at the station. Later, you do the same thing in reverse, having had a couple of beers and maybe something stronger. Don't object. I've got the train schedule right here.”

So after dealing with a few matters that ought to have been decided yesterday, and after washing up and combing my hair and trying to make myself look a bit more together, I left for the train station. I felt I could use a drink and some food. I rather liked the thought of seeing Don again, and anyway, I was a private eye and this was the sort of thing private eyes do. I've never admitted it to anyone, but I still have to cheer myself on that way. I left a note for Octavia to find in the morning, saying,
Get me a
cell phone, damn it. You win.
Octavia had been after me to get a cell phone for months now. I didn't like the thought of being rung up on my bike or anywhere else, really; I know, I could always turn the damn thing off, but then why bother getting one? Technology was moving right along, too fast for me.

I had the time to walk up to Penn Station and catch the next train. I thought how right Elaine Kimberly was about living alone. Solitude meant I didn't have to explain to anyone why, having just come from New Jersey, I was going back there instead of coming home to supper as expected. Accounting to someone else for your time was the pits; I didn't even have a cat to worry about.

Donald Jackson met me as he said he would, in what I took to be an unmarked police car. Or maybe it was his; I didn't bother asking. Once we had settled down in the diner, and had ordered food and beer, he sat back with a big grin. “You'll never guess the news I have for you,” he said.

“I won't even try.” I smiled. I liked being there, I liked the hamburger I was eating, I liked looking at him looking pleased with himself. “Let's hear it.”

“When the police arrived at the Haycock house, shortly after the ambulance, most of the party was still there, milling around and tut-tutting. The names and addresses of all those present were taken and filed with the usual police report. As you know, Haycock's son was blaming the widow, and we had to wait for the postmortem, and with one thing and another, including the investigation moving over to the college, I didn't go back to that list of those present the day of the murder until recently. I sent a crew out to question everyone on the list and to get from each person his or her recollection of who had been there, who they had seen even for a minute.”

“Good idea,” I said to encourage him. “And . . .”

“And, when I put it all together I discovered there'd been a few more folks there than we had figured on.” I nodded, urging him along. “Two of them were particularly interesting, because they stayed just for a moment and had left before the death. One was an ex-dean of the college named Elaine Kimberly, and the other was a guy named Frank something, whom we couldn't place at all but who turned out to live with Richard Fowler, late of Clifton College, who hadn't come to the party and hadn't been invited.”

I decided to postpone thinking about Richard Fowler's friend until later. It was Elaine Kimberly's name that grabbed me. Don saw the look on my face and said, “What? Tell me, for Pete's sake.”

“I spent this afternoon with Elaine Kimberly,” I said. “This very afternoon.”

“I know that. Your secretary told me. I take it she didn't happen to mention that she'd been at the Haycock shindig.”

“Not only didn't she mention it; she diverted me with stories of her major life decisions, tales about her children, solitude, all of it gripping as hell and maybe even true, but leading me far away from any idea that she was at the party or even knew much about Haycock. Damn it to hell! I don't know, Don. Maybe I'm in the wrong line of work. I thought I could see into people, and I let myself be led up the garden path by an ex-dean.”

“Now, hold on, Woody. Don't be so hard on yourself. How were you to know she'd been there? If someone who was there hadn't been surprised to see her, and mentioned it when asked, we'd never have known.”

“She didn't want it known; she hoped it never would be. So what you're saying is, she's probably the one who dropped the poison into his Greek wine.”

“I'm just saying she may be. She at least knew Haycock. What was that Frank person doing there?”

“You haven't asked him?”

“That's for you to do,” he said. “You're the private eye.”

“You mean you're not going to interview either of them?”

“We'll have to, eventually. I'm giving you first innings.”

“Okay,” I said, after some thought. “I like this diner, I like this hamburger, but I still don't see why you couldn't have told me that on the phone.”

He smiled. “Because that's not the big news. The big news is that Haycock's widow is back in town— in between travels, I gather—to do her laundry and flip through her mail, and she's willing to talk to me, but only tonight. We can't stop her from leaving as long as she stays in the country. I thought you might like to be in on that.”

I would have kissed him, but the booth's table was too wide for that, and I wasn't the right build to slip across it. I did wonder what made him so considerate of me, but the answer lay somewhere in his and Reed's past, and I didn't expect ever to find out.

“We'd better go now, if you can pass up dessert; I'll buy you some later. She's staying at a motel.”

“It's my turn to pay,” I said firmly, and did. “You can buy dessert later,” I added, in case he thought I was being rigid or self-righteous.

“Fine by me,” he said as we went out to his car.

The widow Haycock was staying in what Don told me was the best motel in town. To prove this, it called itself a hotel, which seemed to mean either that it was a hotel with motel places to park or a motel with hotel-type service. She agreed to receive us in her room, which was a good idea; any conversation in the so-called lounge area might easily have become public.

She had a largish room, with a huge bed and a table with two chairs around it. Don waved us women to the table and then sat on the end of the bed. He took out a notebook and looked serious, a look designed, I decided, to counter any suggestion that the bed was other than a chair.

“Let's start at the beginning,” he said. “When did you decide to go away before your husband's party, and why?”

“You mean the fatal party,” she said. “I went because I couldn't stomach watching him swell up with pride as all his acolytes paid him tribute. He hated the thought of retiring; he had to, because of his heart, but he wanted all the demonstrations he could arrange to prove the great respect and love in which he was held. I thought the whole thing best avoided.”

“Mrs. Haycock,” I intervened at this point. Don looked about ready to make this a duet, so to speak, and I thought a woman-to-woman question might not be amiss. But she interrupted me.

“Please don't call me Mrs. Haycock. I never took his name; my name is, and was, Cynthia Burke. I know what you want to ask, my dear.” She smiled at me. “Why did I marry the brute, what made him a brute, and am I glad he's dead?”

I had to keep my mouth from dropping open. “I know,” she continued, “you wouldn't have put it that crudely, but if we're going to cover enough ground tonight—I'm definitely leaving for California tomorrow—I thought we had better get to the point.”

I nodded my agreement and encouragement.

“Why did I marry him? I was young, foolish, and eager to ally myself with an intellectual, believe it or not. I liked studying and school, I came from a family that thought all that sort of thing snobbish rot, and I thought marrying him would be a coup on several levels. How wrong can you be?”

“Plenty of women marry the wrong man,” Don said. “This one does seem, from your point of view, a little more wrong than usual.”

“You can say that again. I knew he was stuck on Tennyson—Lord Alfred, and all his gummy works. But I didn't know he actually believed that Tennyson was right on all issues, especially women and the natural order of the sexes. Give me a break!”

“ ‘He for God, she for the god in him,' ” Don surprisingly said.

“Exactly! Not that I ever actually heard that quote. Is that Tennyson?”

“Probably not,” Don said. “It just came to my mind.” I made a mental note to ask Kate if it was Tennyson. If it was Tennyson, Cynthia would probably have had it quoted to her.

“Listen, honey,” she said, echoing my thoughts, “if he'd have quoted anything from Lord Alfred that short on that subject, believe me, I'd remember it. ‘Man to command and woman to obey.' I mean, what century did he think he was living in?”

“Did his sons agree with him on that subject?” Don asked.

“If so, they weren't dumb enough to say so. They disliked me on sight, and never gave me the benefit of any doubt. Ever. They just thought I'd married him to hoist myself up in the world—which wasn't altogether untrue—and that I bumped him off to get into his insurance and out of his bed. Well, I'm not a murderer, and I don't like being called one.”

“I think the fact that you were well away at the time clears you,” Don said. I wasn't so sure of that, but held off saying so.

“I'm really grateful,” Cynthia said, “to whoever at that college sent the letter saying it was them. It really let me off the hook, since up to that time I was the only suspect in sight; anyway the only one with a motive.”

“It does seem that a lot of his colleagues didn't care for him much either,” I said. I glanced over at Don to see if he minded me saying that, but he only changed the subject.

“About the drug that killed him—I gather you knew about it, its uses and its dangers.”

“Sure I did. He made such a point about it so often that a bug on the wall must have known its uses and the dangers.”

“But you never thought of giving him a larger, fatal dose?”

“No, I didn't, and you can believe it or not; that's up to you. I don't say I never thought of giving him a good smack across his smirking face, but what I really thought of was getting out of there, away from him and his children. Can you imagine naming a kid Hallam because Tennyson had the hots for some guy a hundred years ago?”

“You were planning to leave your husband?” I asked in a formal-sounding way, raising my pencil to make a note. This interview had startled me at first, but now it was falling more into pattern—the pattern of all women who had married the wrong man and deeply regretted it. Most of them took a little longer than this one to spill it all out, but otherwise there was nothing new here.

“Leave him and divorce him. I was prepared to make a nasty case of it if he didn't split the proceeds with me evenly. That's what makes my supposed motive so stupid. With a divorce settlement I'd have gotten half; now I just get the income until I croak, except for his social security and medical benefits, which I would have been entitled to anyway. I know according to Hallam I was supposed to have dropped the fatal drug into that horrible stuff he drank before the party, but I didn't.”

“We know that,” Don said. “There are a lot of witnesses to the uncorking of the bottle. Of course, it could have been recorked, but that takes a certain kind of expertise.”

“Well, I wouldn't have corked or recorked that crap if you had paid me; he made me taste it once. ‘Like the pines of Greece,' he said, or something of the sort. I like sweet drinks, like crème de menthe and cream sherry; nothing wrong with that I can see, but he thought it just showed how tasteless I was. Well, I was certainly tasteless enough to have married him, I'll give you that. Mind if I smoke?”