The Impersonator (31 page)

I would miss David.

I shook my head firmly. There was no future there, not with my “brother.” He thought of me as his sister and was virtually engaged to Gloreen the Wonder Girl, who could cook, tend to the sick, and run a house with one hand tied behind her back. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how things might have been.

Room service arrived. I pulled on a robe and let the boy in. Adding more hot water to the tub, I meditated on the hypocrisy of turning someone in for smuggling liquor while sipping bootleg champagne.

Nothing I could do would bring Jessie back. I couldn’t bring any of those dead women back to life either, and I was hallucinating to think that Henry had anything to do with them. Talk about circumstantial evidence! Even if, through his smuggling, Henry had been generally involved in their deaths, it couldn’t have been direct. He had been far away at college when the Chinese girl and the girl in the warehouse were killed in Dexter. He was in town when Lizzette was killed, true, but that fact hardly mattered without the others. When I had shared my suspicions with David, he’d been dubious. The facts did not fall in my favor. When all was said and done, Henry had not pushed me over the cliff, the white substance in my glass could have been impurities, and Doc Milner had diagnosed oysters.

And Jessie could well be alive and making her way to Sacramento at this very moment to lay claim to her inheritance before her twenty-first birthday—even though my sixth sense was shouting at me otherwise.

There was nothing I could do without proof, and my time here was nearly up. The only choice was to stay the course. Play the charade to the end. Sign the papers and disappear for good into the European countryside.

42

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Victoria as she flipped through Friday’s mail. It was nearly four o’clock and, after having finished the party decorations, I had joined the twins and Grandmother in the parlor for a few games of Give and Take. Grandmother turned out to be a sharp player—at least her taffy pile was always the biggest. But that could also have been because her false teeth prevented her from eating her winnings like the rest of us. I suspected that in her day she had gone home a few dollars ahead from more than one card game.

Ross was poking up the fire, as men like to do. Ever since I had figured out that he had tried to poison me, I kept a close eye on the lad. Henry slumped in his overstuffed chair, lifting himself out of it only to pour another whiskey and snatch another handful of almonds before returning to his hiding place behind the newspaper. I wasn’t sure why he bothered to try to conceal the amount he drank; his mother always pretended not to notice, and none of the rest of us cared. He’d sailed into Dexter Bay a few hours earlier, just as a rare summer storm blew up, talking of rough seas and fussing over some damage to his rigging. I hoped he wouldn’t pay attention to our card game. He’d take great pleasure in tattling on us to his mother, although I frankly didn’t think she’d mind at this point.

“Oh, dear,” Aunt Victoria said again, and we paid attention this second time. “The Reynolds have begged off. Seems Edith is ill. Such a shame. Here’s a letter for you, Ross. And you, Jessie.”

I ripped open the envelope. “Uncle Oliver sends his regards to all,” I said, “and many thanks for the invitation. He will arrive tomorrow, in time for the party, and then return to California with Grandmother and me on Monday.” Only three more days. I was going to make it.

“Well, how flattering. He’s a busy, busy man, and I hardly expected him to rearrange his schedule to come a day early. What is it, Ross, dear?”

For Ross’s face was suddenly contorted with fury. “Damned idiots! Sorry, Mother, but this is insupportable. I have sent in all the correct paperwork for the master of arts degree and stated my intent to continue with the doctor of philosophy in the next term, and here the school morons are saying I haven’t met the requirements because I’ve only attended Stanford for one year!”

The crackle of newspaper drew my eyes to Henry, whose forehead appeared over the edge of the Portland daily. He gave Ross a sharp look, then saw me watching him and lifted the newspaper again. Something was up.

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Victoria. “Never mind, darling. It’s just a mix-up. They probably looked up another student’s record by mistake. No doubt there are other Carrs who attended Stanford; after all, it’s a big school and Carr is hardly an unusual name.”

“Like Sacco or Vanzetti,” said Caro, proving that Mrs. Applewhite was having some success in teaching current events.

“My thesis has yet to receive final approval, but my adviser suggested I start the paperwork. So I did. And now this!”

“Just write them a letter, darling, and it will all straighten out.”

In an act of pure clairvoyance, I knew Henry was going to speak before he opened his mouth, and I knew, more or less, what he was going to say.

“As a matter of fact, I recall a fellow named Robert Carr a couple years older than me. I was glad when he left … caused any number of mix-ups.”

The truth crashed over me with such force that I was amazed that no one else heard it. Henry was as deep into his own charade as I was into mine. If I was correct, he had not, after all, been far away in California when the girls with the cut hair had been murdered.

Because it was Henry’s record the school had mixed up with Ross’s. Not some phony Robert Carr who never existed, but Henry Carr, who had only attended Stanford for one year. Henry Carr, who had left Stanford and told no one, not his mother, not the trustees who were paying the fare, no one. Henry Carr, who had pretended to continue at college for two more years while he ran rum from Canada into Oregon and pocketed the tuition money. And I’d wager my entire stash of saltwater taffy that he hadn’t left college of his own volition.

Everything depended on my hunch being confirmed.

Excusing myself, I made my way to the house telephone and pulled the pocket doors closed behind me. I reached the operator and asked to be connected to the dean’s office at Stanford University in California. Then I hung up and waited for her to call back, my hand on the receiver, hoping I could snatch it up before the ringing alerted the family to an incoming call.

A half hour passed. It felt like a week, but I never moved my hand.

At last the harsh ring came, but as fast as I reacted, it was not fast enough to silence the entire ring.

“I have your party now,” intoned the operator, putting me through to someone called a bursar, someone who had something to do with money. The dean’s office had closed, but these people would surely have records as to which students had paid tuition, what they had paid and when, records that would indicate the duration of Henry’s stay at Stanford. Luckily, the bursar himself was out and an eager underling asked how he could help.

“This is Mrs. Carr,” I said, using my lower, older voice, “mother of Ross and Henry Carr, both Stanford students. I’m calling from Oregon, so speak up, young man. We’ve experienced a mix-up today. A letter came that mistook one son’s record for the other’s. Might you check your records to see if the dates of attendance for each are correct?”

I drummed my fingers impatiently while the clerk searched for the relevant files.

“Now, for my son Ross, the record should show him attending for three years to earn his bachelor’s degree, and another year for his master’s, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. From September 1920 through June 1923, B.A., and the past year, September 1923 through June 1924, on the course work for an M.A.”

“And my other son, Henry Carr?”

“Yes, his file is here too. It shows attendance for one year, September 1917 through June 1918, and—oh.”

“Yes, just one year, and then there was the unpleasantness,” I ad-libbed. “What does your record say about that?”

“Well, Mrs. Carr. It isn’t specific, just that he was asked to leave.”

“Of course I know all about that. I just want to know what the record states. The exact wording.”

“Well, these are never very specific. Most of the time the dean’s note says ‘for conduct.’ That’s all that is written here, so you needn’t worry about details getting out.”

For conduct. Conduct unbecoming a gentleman? Like cheating at cards, consorting with loose women, drunken brawling?

“Thank you for your help, young man.”

Triumph surged through my veins as I set the receiver into its cradle. I had him now!

“Nosy little thing, aren’t you?”

I spun around, my heart in my throat. Henry had eased open one of the doors without my noticing and entered the room while my back was turned. He must have heard the brief ring and guessed what I was doing. How much had he heard?

Judging from his twisted face, enough.

My heart thundered, but I hid my alarm. I took a deep breath and told myself I wasn’t afraid of Henry Carr. He was dangerous, yes, almost certainly a murderer, but not here, not with the whole family across the hall getting ready to sit down to dinner. I was safe for the time being. I gulped some air and answered with a calm I did not feel.

“I prefer to call it curiosity.”

Whiskey glass in hand, he closed the door behind him and leaned unsteadily against it. He was drunk or teetering close to it.

“The sort of curiosity that killed the cat? You should learn to keep your damned nose out of other people’s business.”

“I generally do, except when I find that other people’s business involves me.”

“Think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

Time to go on the attack. “You were thrown out of Stanford after one year. What was it, Henry? Cheating at cards? You’re not a very accomplished cheater; I noticed it the first time we sat at the same card table. Or was it for fighting? I know you like to beat up women, but I didn’t think you fought with men. They’re so much more likely to hit back. I figure you found it more profitable to lie about your expulsion; that way you could still collect the money meant for tuition. Too bad Ross had to attend the same university or you could have kept up the swindle another year or two.”

“You little bitch. You’re as bad as she was.”

“That’s right, Henry, you
know
I’m not Jessie. How do you
know
that, Henry?” I taunted. If I could make him angry enough, drunk as he was, he might spill the evidence I needed.

“I got rid of Jessie once, and it looks like I’ll have to get rid of her again.”

“You killed Jessie.”

He slurped his whiskey and wagged a finger at me. “Did I? You have no idea how much I hated her.”

“And you tried to poison me with Ross’s pills.”

“That was soooo stupid of me. I panicked when you mentioned leaving the country. A good thing it wasn’t fatal. What if the doctor had suspected it was something other than a bad oyster? Blame would have fallen on me or Ross. I won’t be that stupid again. No, your death has to be an accident: a fall from a horse, a tumble off the cliff, a drowning at sea … Although I would take great pleasure in resolving this personally, it isn’t wise. I have friends who do that sort of work for me. A shame, though, to miss the fun.”

“I’ll go to the police.”

“Don’t make me laugh. What you think you know and what you can prove are very different things. The police wouldn’t believe your accusations—even making them would send you to jail faster than I could press charges. No, you can’t go to the police for the same reason I can’t go to the police. They wouldn’t believe me either—you’re remarkably convincing. You’ve fooled everyone. You would have fooled me too if I hadn’t known what really happened to Jessie.”

He took a couple of unsteady steps in my direction before remembering where he was. I could read his thoughts as well as if they’d been printed on cue cards. He couldn’t hurt me while I was in this house. He would have to wait.

“Almost funny, isn’t it?” he continued unevenly. “But I have a way out, and you don’t, so I can bide my time. You’ll have an accident when I’m well out of the way, and the Carr money will come back to me, where it damn well belongs. My father was cheated out of his share of the inheritance, you know. Cheated. There is one thing I’d really like to know though. How did you do it?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“Well, I have my ideas—as you do, no doubt. It had to be that goddamn governess who fed you all the family details. She knew way too much and figured out the rest. She tried to blackmail me—you were in on that, weren’t you? No one does that to Henry Carr and gets away with it. But she met with a little accident of her own on the dangerous streets of San Francisco. It was her own fault. Thought she was so smart. Like you. And greedy too, aren’t you? She wanted to squeeze me for some of my money. You want it all.”

So Henry had hired someone to run down Miss Lavinia! With a flash of clarity, I understood the rest.

“That car outside the Benson Hotel,” I said. “That was no drunk driver; that was your doing!”

“I was here all that day, dear cousin.” He smirked. “Ask anyone.”

“And the hotel fire. Your man started that.”

He just chuckled and took another slurp of whiskey.

The door opened unexpectedly, causing us both to jump. Val peered in. “Oh, there you are. Mother said tell you dinner is served.”

“Thanks, Val,” I said. “We’re coming.” She headed toward the dining room as I made to walk past Henry. His breath reeked of whiskey as he said softly, “Enjoy the good life while you can. Keep looking over your shoulder because when you least expect it—” He ran his finger across his throat and snickered.

43

It was a bad night for sleeping anyway, what with the storm rattling the windows and howling through the trees. I dozed in fits and starts, listening to the surf crash against the cliff and dreaming of Jessie whenever I slipped into sleep. It was the same dream I’d had before, only more vivid now that I knew for certain she was dead. Then I was with her and our feet were wet, and she was trying to tell me something. I tried hard but could never understand her words. I could feel the urgency, though, in my pounding heart. I woke up in a sweat, clutching my Italian beads. Jessie’s beads that I wore all the time, even to bed.