The Double Cross (29 page)

But only a few steps later, something else did. Jesse saw it first, something stuck in the mud between the grass and the creek. He dug for a moment before uncovering a rifle.

“Do you think it’s the murder weapon?” I asked.

“Probably not. But it might be loaded, and that’s dangerous. Let’s go back to the inn and call McIntyre. He can come and properly catalogue it.”

“Can’t we just check it?”

Jesse turned toward me. “Assuming for a second that our touching this gun wouldn’t contaminate possible evidence of a homicide, if you got a better look would you even recognize it as the gun from above the mantle?”

I had to admit that I wouldn’t. I grabbed Barney by the collar and pulled him back toward the road and the inn. It was further proof, I hoped, that Bernie wasn’t involved, though I wasn’t yet sure how it would prove it. I just felt that since the gun was disposed of on the road that led away from the inn and toward town, it was probably stashed there by one of the students who drove past the spot on their way to and from class, which meant Helen, Frank, or the twins.

I was pretty sure McIntyre was thinking the same thing when he arrived, with Bernie in the passenger seat. That is, until I saw Bernie. She looked exhausted, but more than anything she looked scared.

Whatever happened in that police station, it hadn’t been enough to get Bernie off the hook.

CHAPTER 45

While McIntyre bagged the gun, Jesse, Bernie, and I waited in the kitchen. Eleanor and Susanne had gone out to dinner, leaving us a note promising to bring back food. The house was almost in darkness when we arrived. Though I assumed Joi and Rita were upstairs, I didn’t bother to look. First I wanted to know about the gun.

“I’ll run a check on the gun against the bullet we found in George,” McIntyre said once he had finished collecting the evidence.

“And you have to find out if it’s the gun from above the mantle,” I added.

“No, ma’am, that I don’t have to do. I know it is.”

“Did Rita ID it?” Jesse asked.

McIntyre shook his head. “Didn’t need to. I don’t know the Olnhausens well, but I had a few dealings with Mr. Gervais, the man who used to own this house. This was his gun.”

“You’re sure?” Jesse looked at the rifle, wrapped carefully in plastic and tagged with an evidence number and McIntyre’s signature.

“A hundred percent. Gervais was a crazy old man. He convinced himself that he had a fortune in the house, and once in a while, when some unlucky soul would wander onto his property, he’d take a shot at him.” McIntyre smiled almost nostalgically, as if he were remembering better days. “He never killed anyone or even got close to hitting them. He was a terrible shot.” He laughed. “But I took this gun away from him about five times. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“I heard about him,” I said. “His nephew inherited the place and tore it apart looking for the fortune. I hear he didn’t find anything.”

McIntyre rolled his eyes. “My guess is that somewhere in the deep recesses of this house is a photo of his first love or a ticket to the world’s fair or something that meant everything to Gervais but wouldn’t sell on eBay for a nickel.”

I tried to get McIntyre to give me the name of the witness, or at least tell me if he was finished questioning Bernie, but all he did was smile that friendly smile and say things like, “I’m just going where the evidence leads me.” And after McIntyre left, Bernie retreated to her room and was unwilling to answer any more questions, even from Jesse and me.

“It’s just a polite way of saying it’s none of your business,” Jesse said when I complained about McIntyre.

“I get that. But how can it be none of my business? How am I supposed to solve the case if I don’t have all the facts?”

Given the reaction that got from Jesse, I might as well have told the world’s funniest joke. When he saw that he was only infuriating me, he laughed harder, then stopped, leaned forward, and kissed me. “We’ll get to the truth. But tonight it looks like we have the house to ourselves. Any thoughts on what we might do?”

“Yeah. Let’s find Rita and Joi. Her car was in the driveway, so they didn’t go anywhere. They must be upstairs.”

“You sure that’s who you want to spend your evening with?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I kissed his cheek.

We walked up the three flights of stairs and were almost at the top when Rita’s door opened and she and Joi walked out.

“Is something wrong?” Rita asked.

“I just wanted to check on you. To see how you’re feeling,” I said. That wasn’t true, of course. I had a few questions for her—about Bernie, about the twins, and about the last time she saw that gun.

“I’m fine. Joi and I were just chatting.” She turned toward her daughter, who nodded in confirmation.

“Bernie’s back,” I said.

“From where?”

“The police station. McIntyre was questioning her about George’s death.”

Rita looked confused.

“Hadn’t you heard?” Jesse asked. “I thought the others were talking about it today.”

She moved her head slowly from side to side. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

She looked at Joi, who nodded encouragingly at her, as if she were hoping Rita would say or do something. Rita seemed at first to resist; then she took a deep breath, walked passed her daughter, me, and Jesse, and down the stairs. We followed her as she stopped on the second floor and turned toward Bernie’s room. I couldn’t tell if she was angry, so I wasn’t sure if I should stop her. The last thing Bernie needed, after a day with the police, was an angry widow making accusations.

But Rita’s knock on Bernie’s door was gentle. If she was angry, she was doing a masterful job of hiding it.

Bernie answered the door, buttoning the last button of her pajama top as she did. “Rita. Is everything all right?”

“The police brought you into the station,” Rita said matter-offactly, almost as if Bernie wasn’t aware of it.

“McIntyre was trying to clear up a few things.”

“He can’t possibly think that you had anything to do with it.”

“I lied to him about something,” Bernie said.

“I know. You lied about George calling you and asking you to come up.”

Bernie looked toward me, and I shook my head. She turned back to Rita. “How do you know that?”

“George told me.”

I moved toward Rita. “When?”

Rita looked at me. I could tell she was wondering why I felt it was my business, but she answered anyway. “The day he called. At first we thought you would come up to help, like the others, but when Susanne gave him a list of the names, so we could have rooms ready, yours wasn’t on it. Then George suggested he just call you directly. I didn’t think it was a good idea but he insisted, and George was usually right about these things, so I went along.”

“Why did he call Bernie?” I asked.

“He did it for me. I wanted to see her.”

“Then why didn’t you call me yourself?” Bernie stood back from the door, which Rita, Jesse, Joi, and I took as an invitation to enter. Bernie and Rita sat on the twin beds that were next to each other, Jesse stood near the window, Joi took the only chair, and I leaned against the desk. When everyone was in place, Rita finally answered.

“You wouldn’t have talked to me. You’ve hated me for too many years to accept a call from me.”

Bernie didn’t say anything, so Rita went on.

“And I really needed to talk to you,” she said.

“Because you’re sick,” I blurted out.

Rita just stared at me. “You are the strangest girl I have ever met,” she said. “How do you know something like that?”

“I guessed,” I lied. There was no way I was going to reveal how I found out, and since no one actually told me that Rita was sick, in a sense I was telling the truth. “You’re so fragile,” I said, instead of going into a longer, and more accurate, explanation.

She nodded and seemed to accept my answer.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bernie reached out and took Rita’s hand. All the animosity Bernie had felt when we first arrived, only six days ago, seemed to fall away after George died. And now, with this latest news, she’d gone even further, offering compassion and perhaps even friendship. Standing there, I wondered if I had Bernie’s capacity for kindness.

“She has a heart condition,” Joi said, when Rita didn’t answer the question. “I’ve been begging her to tell you since I found out yesterday.”

“It’s a minor inconvenience.” Rita looked to her daughter, a stern look crossing her face before softening to a smile.

Joi wasn’t having it. “She needs a heart transplant, which she’s not going to get.”

Bernie looked from mother to daughter and back again. “Why not?”

“It’s too late, and I don’t deserve it. I’ve not been a good person. If anyone knows that, it’s you, Bernie.”

Bernie took a deep breath as if she were taking it all in. “Are you on a transplant list?”

“She’s not,” Joi said strongly. It was clear that she’d had this conversation with her mother, which probably explained why a reunion that began with a flying toaster had turned out so peacefully.

Rita put up her hands as if to stop the discussion. “I don’t want to be, and I’m not qualified to be. I just want to live the rest of my life in peace, and to die in peace, and maybe God will be merciful and let me spend eternity with my beloved George.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I know you think I’m callous for not having grieved for him more, but all I can think of is that I’ll be with him soon, which is selfish, I know. But he used to say that he didn’t want to outlive me. And I guess I made sure that he didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, he was shot in the heart, wasn’t he? Who do you think is responsible for that?”

CHAPTER 46

“I’m not a very nice person,” Rita said again, and out of politeness we all pretended to disagree. “I’ve done a lot of things in my life I’m ashamed of. I’ve hurt people to make money, so I could have things.” She waved her arm around Bernie’s bedroom, a barely decorated room in her broken-down inn.

She seemed so deflated that I felt guilty for having disliked her, but she had made it so easy. I wondered if it was an act, a way of protecting herself from getting too close to anyone. If it was, and my powers of observation were even close to what I thought they were, I should have seen through it. It made me wonder what else I had missed.

The others were clearly not thinking about my observational skills. They were waiting for Rita to explain her remark about George. Yet there was something in her body language that made me think she didn’t see her words as needing further explanation. I saw Jesse shift his weight slightly, and I knew that he had given up waiting.

“Why are you responsible for George’s death?” he asked quietly.

She looked toward him. “You’re a nice young man,” she said. “I understand you care for Nell.” He nodded. “You’re lucky. Nell is a good person who uses that intrusive personality of hers to help other people. I can see why you love her.” She smiled at me and I smiled back. “If you love someone, you want to please them, like George wanted to please me. And little by little he became like me. He wanted money. He wanted things. We lived for that. We cared about ourselves, and now look what it’s cost us. My heart is failing from lack of use, and his . . .” Tears welled up in her eyes. “His is gone.”

“You’re not responsible,” I said quietly. My dislike for Rita, and the way Bernie had felt about her, made me want her to be the killer, but it was clear that she had neither the motive nor the strength.

Rita looked up at me. “You are so nice to me. All of you. You wouldn’t be if you knew what I did for a living.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Whatever you did . . . ,” I started. “We already know you didn’t inherit this place from your father, and it doesn’t matter.”

“No, I didn’t. My father never had a dime in his pocket. We just said that because people can be so curious about money.” She looked at me but there was no accusation in it. “George and I had various businesses,” she went on. “We never did anything illegal, but we cut a lot of corners. We set up an Alzheimer’s foundation and gave only a percent or two to research and kept the rest for ourselves. We ran a business that was supposed to help people in foreclosure, but we were really buying their houses out from under them and selling them at huge profits.” She gasped for breath. “George was charming, and I was all business. People trusted us. And we thought . . .” She stopped. It seemed she couldn’t bring herself to admit any more.

Joi finished for her. “They thought they deserved to have whatever material possessions they wanted, no matter who got hurt. They wanted me to help with their schemes. It tore us apart.”

“I wanted the kind of security I didn’t have growing up. I thought if I gave that to Joi, she would have everything.” Rita sighed. “And in the end all I really did was hurt my only child and my oldest friend.”