Slack tide (8 page)

The fact that she was dressed now was proof enough that she had been partly successful, and MacLaren said: "How did you get in the house?"

"The back stairs. I got to the house without being seen, and when I looked through the hving-room windows, I could see Carla, and Neil, and Earl, and some blonde I had never seen before. They were playing bridge. I couldn't see Ohver or Harry Danaher—"

As she hesitated, MacLaren thought: You didn't see Oliver because he was dead. And now it came to him, as he visualized the difficulties that had confronted her, that Ruth Kingsley had a lot of courage, as well as the determination to match it.

"But there were no hghts on the second floor, and I knew I had to take a chance," she said. "I went up the back way and down the hall to the closet where they had put my clothes. I changed right in the closet and packed this bag" —she indicated the overnight case—"along with what httle money I could find. I got out without being seen, but then when I got down here—"

She stopped and lowered her head slightly, her gaze fas-

tening on her hands, which lay at ease in her lap. When she did not continue, MacLaren said: "So, why didn't you keep going?"

"The dinghy was gone."

"But didn't you know that when you swam over here?"

"No, because it was here then. Right out by the catwalk."

MacLaren peered at her while the confusion grew in his mind.

"The dinghy was here when you swam over. When you came back a few minutes later it was gone?"

"That's right."

MacLaren accepted the statement because there was no alternative. When he could find no answers to the questions that began to pile up in his mind, he said: "What'd you do then?"

"I cried." The green eyes came up slowly and the suggestion of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Maybe I swore a Httle. I was so sure everything would be all right, and then—" She shrugged and gave a small sigh of resignation.

"So you came aboard here," MacLaren said.

"There was no place else to go. I knew that no one was ever down here around the boat at night, not even Harry. I was sure no one would look for me here, and I thought if I could get up early in the morning, the dinghy might be back, or if it wasn't, I might be able to attract the attention of someone in the boatyard who could ferry me across."

"You came here," MacLaren said, wanting to be sure he

had everything straight. "You crawled up in that berth and went to sleep. You didn't hear anything after that?"

"Not until just now. I guess I was pretty exhausted."

MacLaren beheved she was telling the truth; otherwise she would have heard him when he brought Terry and Lunt to the island and, later, returned them to the mainland.

"I woke up with a start," she said. "I thought I heard something fall."

"You did," MacLaren said. "It was me."

"Oh? Well—it was pitch black in here and I forgot where I was. When I started to sit up I bumped my head. Then I suddenly realized that someone else had come aboard. I was petrified. I didn't know what to do or—"

MacLaren cut her off. "Sure," he said. And then, because he knew he had to break the news, he said: "You won't have to worry about your husband any more, Ruth. He's dead."

He saw the growing horror in her face as the words penetrated, the sudden increduKty in her eyes. He gave her no chance to interrupt. Hunching forward, elbows on knees, he continued quickly, his voice controlled but intent as he told her what had happened. He spoke of Ed Chaney's discovery and the circumstances surrounding it. He explained how Sergeant Wyre had come upon the scene, and related the highlights of the investigation tliat had followed. When he finished, he was out of breath, and only then did the girl speak.

In a voice drained of aU emotion, a voice so small he could hardly hear, she said: "Then I killed him."

"No."

She sighed and shook her head. She hfted her chin and looked right at him. "You don't have to try to make it easier for me, Donald," she said.

She had never used his given name before and something about the sound of it, the quiet way she accepted her habihty, shook him strangely, and it was no longer easy to keep his voice level.

"I'm not making it easier for you," he said. "What we did couldn't have killed him."

"I hit him on the head," she said, unpersuaded. "With a heavy piece of wood—"

"It wasn't heavy," MacLaren argued. "It was a piece of two-by-four. It wasn't more than six inches long, if that."

"The pohce aren't going to beheve that any more than I do," she said. "They're looking for me now, aren't they?"

"Sure they're looking for you."

"And you haven't told them about us? You didn't tell them that you took me up to your apartment? That I ran away?"

"I wanted to talk to you first."

"And I'm grateful. But there isn't any point in my hiding now, is there?"

MacLaren started to speak; then stopped as he sensed that this was not the time to try to argue.

He rose abruptly and picked up her overnight case. "Put your shoes on," he said flatly. "Grab your jacket. Let's get out of here."

He led her topside, and she made no further comment as they got into the skiff and he pushed off. Neither spoke

as he rowed across to the floating dock and tied up. Not until he led the way to the showroom door did she stop and put her hand on his arm.

"I thought we were going to the poHce station or barracks, or wherever it is we go."

"In the morning." MacLaren opened the door and motioned her inside. "Give me your hand," he said, "so we won't have to turn on a hght down here."

When they were upstairs and the light was on, she said: "Isn't this going to make it worse for you?"

"We may be in a httle trouble for not telling the truth in the first place," MacLaren said, "but I don't see how a few more hours is going to make much difference."

He carried her case into the bedroom and put it down. When she followed him, he stepped close to her and put his hands lightly on her elbows. He could feel the green eyes scanning his face, and when he met them, he saw that they were grave and concerned, hke his own.

"If you're lucky you can get three or four hours sleep. There's just one thing. Are you going to stay here this time until I come back, or do I lock both doors and take the keys with me?"

The corners of her mouth moved as she stepped back, but her gaze was still forthright. "You can take the keys if you want to," she said, "but you don't have to. Now that I know what happened and what you did for me, I'll never run again."

BOATYARD SOUNDS-men's voices, the creak and clank of the marine railway, the distant whine of a power saw-awakened MacLaren the next morning, and the minute he heard them he knew he had overslept. Not by much— his watch told him it was a quarter of eight—but this in itself was unusual, and it took him another few seconds to recall what had happened the night before. Until then, he had wanted to stay right where he was. Now, aware of the trouble that he would shortly have to face, he jumped from the cot and stepped into his trousers. With shoes, shirt, and sweater in hand, he left the office and crossed the showroom to the stairs.

At the top, he knocked once before he opened the door. As he stepped inside, the smell of coffee came to him to mingle with a second smell that could only have come from frying bacon. When he called out, Ruth Kingsley appeared in the kitchen doorway.

She wore the same blouse and skirt, but she had fastened a towel across the front of her to serve as a makeshift apron. She had a fork in one hand, and he could see her smile from where he stood. This time her hair was neatly combed, and her young face had a pink, freshly scrubbed look.

"Good morning," she called, "I didn't know whether I should wake you or not. Coffee will be ready in three or

four minutes, and I found some eggs. Would you like some? One, two?"

Just seeing her there with that smile and the color in her face made MacLaren feel immeasurably better, and suddenly he felt a new confidence in himself. He said he would be ready in five minutes and that he would like two eggs, sunny side up. He said there was some frozen orange juice in the refrigerator, and she said she had already found it.

MacLaren was as good as his word, and when he reappeared after a quick shave and shower, he came out to the breakfast table which stood opposite the window overlooking the parking-lot.

It occurred to him as she sat down opposite him that this was a girl he had never seen before. The green eyes were clear this morning beneath the graceful brows, and the skin was smooth, with only a touch of hpstick at the mouth. This was an altogether lovely girl, and without his reahzing it, a thought came from nowhere and began insidiously to expand and spoil his good humor. The base of this thought was: how could a girl like this ever marry a man with Kingsley's reputation?

Even as the thought came to him, he knew this was none of his business. He knew he could not even mention the subject now. What he did not understand was why the thought should keep reciurring, why the mental images that followed one after the other should continue to bother him. When he glanced up and found her watching him, he felt the sudden warmth in his cheeks and he looked away lest she should somehow read his mind.

He said the coffee was wonderful and the bacon done

just the way he liked it. She smiled and said she was glad, and then, her face sobering as she put her cofEee cup down and accepted a cigarette, she asked about the police.

"Have you called them?"

"No, but they'll be here soon enough," he said, and in this he was right.

He was helping her rinse the dishes when he saw the two pohce cars pull into the parking-lot, and he recognized the three men who stepped out of them. As they started round the building, he spoke to the girl and went to meet them.

He had the upstairs door open when they entered the showroom, and he called down to them. "Up here," he said. "I want to talk to you."

He held the door for them, and Ruth waited in the center of the room as they entered, standing straight and yet at ease, her face composed.

"This is Mrs. Kingsley," he said. "Lieutenant Terry and Sergeant Wyre of the state pohce . . . Detective Lunt of the state's attorney's office."

They were surprised, all right, and their expressions showed it as they exchanged swift glances and acknowledged the introductions. In the momentary silence that followed, Lunt hitched his trousers up over his rounded belly and tipped his head slightly.

"How long have you been here, Mrs. Kingsley," he asked.

"Since about three this morning," MacLaren said.

"You could have let us know."

"I guess there's some other things I could have done.

. . . Let's sit down." MacLaren waved to the chair and the sofa, and arranged another chair for the girl. "It's sort of a long story," he said finally. "It may take awhile."

"We've got time," Terry said.

"Sure," Lmit added. "Start at the beginning, hmih?"

MacLaren had expected some such request, and he knew what he was going to say. Starting from the moment he had puUed Ruth Kingsley onto the dock, he kept his story in its proper sequence, not making excuses or trying to justify his silence, but giving the broad picture of just what had happened. Occasionally he would turn to the girl for corroboration, and she would nod to reassure him. Once or twice Terry interrupted to make some comment, but they let him finish before they took the offensive.

"I had an idea you'd change your story," Terry said.

"What story?" MacLaren said.

"About that bruise on your cheek and the skinned knuckle."

"Why didn't you tell us the truth last night?" Lunt said. "Afraid we'd book you for murder?"

"If I thought I had anything to do with it," MacLaren said, "I wouldn't be telling it to you now, would I?"

Terry chewed on the answer a moment and his narrowed gaze mirrored his annoyance.

"You knew she'd run out"—he glanced at the girl—"when you went to the island with us," he said accusingly.

"Sure I knew it," MacLaren said. "So did you. That's why you put out the pick-up order. I thought it would be just a question of time before you found her. I couldn't have been more surprised when I found her on the cruiser. You know

how she got there, and why. I brought her back here, and we agreed to tell you the story in the morning. And that's what we're doing. If we hadn't wanted to play ball," he added, "I could have driven her to New York, and she could have been on her way to Texas by now."

Lunt did not hke it. The gleam in his shrewd Httle eyes said so and he pulled his round body erect in the chair.

"You make it sound pretty good," he said, 'TDut it doesn't have to be the truth." He paused to give a small gnmt of annoyance. "You say Kingsley was all right when he hit the water, but what else could you say? If Mrs. Kingsley had used a two-by-six and swung it hke a baseball bat, you'd still say it was only a httle stick that couldn't hurt anybody. You didn't actually see him sitting in that boat."

Again he hesitated, and this time the girl took the play away from him.

"Whatever happened to Ohver," she said, "it was not Mr. MacLaren's fault."

Lunt, who had been about to continue, closed his mouth and looked at her. So did MacLaren, a httle surprised by such defiance, but liking her spirit. Before anyone could reply, she turned on Terry.

"A man has a right to defend himself, hasn't he?" she demanded.

"Usually," Terry said.

"And that's what Mr. MacLaren did. Oliver was furious when I wouldn't go with him. He struck Mr. MacLaren first, and if he hadn't fought back Ohver might have killed him. That's why I picked up that piece of wood and threw it."

"It was just a little piece of two-by-four," MacLaren said. "I doubt if it was six inches long. Maybe if some big-league, fast-baU pitcher had thrown it, it might knock a guy out, but the way she—"

"Maybe Kingsley had a thin skull," Terry said. "How do you know? How does anybody know until we get the medical examiner's report? Let's let that part of it go for now."