The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel (13 page)

“Interesting that people once believed seals were human,” Cameron had told her once. “I suppose it’s the eyes that made them think of it. They do seem quite sentient when they look at you with that long-lashed stare. The odd bit is that seals were once land creatures—a long time ago, of course. Much too far back for our ancestors to have seen it, of course, but once upon a time the pinnipeds lived on dry land. If you dissect a seal, you’ll find that attached to the skeleton it has tiny, atrophied leg bones under the flesh near the tail.”

“So they are slowly emerging from the sea and turning into land animals?” Elizabeth had asked.

“No,” said Cameron. “They’ve thought better of it. Seals seem to be at midpoint now between sea creature and land animal, but at some point they changed their minds about making the transition, I suppose. Each generation of seal spends more time in the water than the one before it, and some day—past the era of man, I suppose—they will complete the transformation and go back to the sea for good. Isn’t it funny that people sensed the transformation? They got the details wrong, that’s all.”

Elizabeth could imagine an abandoned wife or the widow of a drowned sailor standing on the beach, staring into the eyes of
a seal, searching for a spark of recognition, wanting to believe that some part of her loved one remained. She wondered if such a belief would bring more consolation than the knowledge that one’s man was forever lost. If you believed such a thing in these enlightened times, you would be thought mad. Well, here she was in a madhouse: surely she was entitled to the consolation of mysticism, and yet, for all the comfort it would have given her, she could not believe in any thing so gentle, so comforting as a transmigration from man to seal. Cameron was gone. Apparently her problem was that she was unable to be crazy enough. Still she dreamed of seals, and their sad eyes stared at her, as if at any moment they would speak and put an end to her pain of not knowing.

She was staring into the sad eyes of the seal when Rose appeared behind her. “Back to boating accidents, huh?” she said. “Well I have some news that might take your mind off your troubles. They sent me in to tell you that you have a visitor.”

A
. P. Hill seldom returned to her alma mater: all her friends had left when she did. Team sports did not interest her, and she had graduated too recently to be troubled by invitations for class reunions. She remembered her years in Williamsburg as neither happy nor unhappy. She had existed in a haze of hard work, punctuated by punishing physical workouts to keep her senses sharp. Now her memories of the city fit into an impressionistic collage of library stacks, bike paths, and autumn scenes. The old colonial capital held its elegance and charm in the suspended animation of life support, thanks to the efforts of a well-endowed charitable foundation that ensured that the buildings of Old Williamsburg were preserved with no taint
from the present century to sully the dream of the past. Memories of college were much the same. You expected your classmates to stay frozen in time, in the image you had of them during your student days. When one of them achieves tabloid notoriety, it disturbs not only the present, but also the past, challenging your memories of how things were and making you wonder what else you missed.

The drive from Richmond to Williamsburg takes less than an hour on I-64 east, traffic permitting. A. P. Hill traveled the distance without noticing her surroundings, so intent was she upon dredging up memories of Purdue from undergraduate days.

What could she remember about Purdue? She pictured the sharp little face under a strawlike thatch of blonde hair, and the black outfits that Purdue had invariably worn. Had she dated anybody back then? A. P. Hill could not remember Purdue ever going out with anyone, but she had taken an interest in the young men who used to call the pay phones on the halls in the dorm in search of a blind date. After several of their hallmates encountered lechers or losers in the blind-date lottery, P. J. Purdue had posted a list by the phone, describing the usual callers by name and detailing their objectionable qualities (“Breath smells like Lysol.”) When some of the callers got wise to the loser list and began using aliases, Purdue calmly inserted the callers’ current aliases beside the original names.

So the anger was there, even in her undergraduate days. But why? Where had it come from? Did it matter? In the back of her mind the seedlings of a plea of mitigating circumstances began to take shape.

A. P. Hill parked the car and began walking the familiar
paths of campus, heading more or less for the library because she instinctively searched for the answers to things in the nearest library, but before she could reach it, her cell phone rang.

“A. P. Hill,” said Powell, feeling the spell of the past evaporate as she spoke.

After a short pause a familiar voice said, “This is Katy DeBruhl. Where are you, Powell?”

“Williamsburg. Why?” Something in Katy’s voice told her that this was not a social call.

“Are you coming back to Richmond this evening, or are you on your way back to Danville?”

“I’m not sure, Katy. Why?”

Another pause. “Lewis Paine asked me to call you,” Katy said at last. “Do you remember that case we were talking about at dinner the other night? The one where the woman lawyer ran away with a client?”

“What about it?”

“Well, it seems the pair has struck again. This time their victim was a well-to-do banker somewhere west of Memphis. Anyhow, after that police department took his statement, they contacted Richmond.”

A. P. Hill felt a prickling on the back of her neck. Here it comes, she thought, although she had no idea what was coming. Just that it wasn’t good. “Why did they contact Richmond, Katy?”

“Well, it seems that one of the pair told the banker that she was a Virginia lawyer. He was quite clear about it. She said that her name was A. P. Hill.”

Powell clenched her teeth.

“We thought it seemed rather a strange coincidence, your name turning up like that after we’d discussed the case. You didn’t mention that you knew them.”

“Acquaintances. I haven’t seen Purdue in years. Not since law school.”

“Well, of course, we know it wasn’t you in that robbery, Powell. You’ve been in court here in Richmond every day this week, but Lewis did think it was interesting that you should be talking about the case, and then one of the fugitives uses your name for an alias. He’d like you to come in and talk to him about it—at your earliest convenience. And you know what that means.”

“I know.” Powell figured she had about twelve hours to turn up in Lewis Paine’s office before he sent someone after her—politely, of course, but she would not be given the option of declining the invitation.

“I have some business to finish here in Williamsburg, Katy. Tell Paine I’ll be back at my hotel at nine o’clock tonight. He’s welcome to come and see me there, but I warn you that I won’t be any help.”

“I’ll let him know,” said Katy. “Oh, and Powell, I’d be glad to come along, if you think you need to be represented by counsel.”

“Thanks, Katy, but I think I can handle this on my own. It’s not a crime to be impersonated. And it isn’t Paine’s jurisdiction anyhow. He’s just being nosy.”

“I hope you’re not planning to share that thought with him.”

“No, Katy. I’ll be as civil as I can. Thanks.” A. P. Hill switched off the phone and shoved it back into the pocket of
her jacket. It had happened, just as she had feared all along. That one particular memory that A. P. Hill had been avoiding, even in her reminiscences, was now going to haunt her.

With narrowed eyes and an unbecoming scowl, she turned her back on the library and stalked off in search of the university alumni office. Now it was personal.

“O
h,” said Elizabeth in a voice made leaden by disappointment. “It’s you.” She knew how dreadful she must sound before she had even finished speaking, but the disappointment made her cruel. A visitor, Rose had said, and Elizabeth had hurried from the art room, patting her hair down, and rehearsing words of welcome as she ran. Had it been insane of her to hope that it might be Cameron, to assume that he would suddenly materialize without warning on this side of the Atlantic like a migrating seal? At what point does the virtue of hope become the sin of obstinance?

The young man, who was just a shade too well dressed, met her scowl with raised eyebrows and a sardonic smile. “Yes, it is I,” said Geoffrey Chandler briskly. “Don’t apologize for that note of disappointment in your voice. People usually say ‘It’s you’ in mixed tones of fear and dread, emotions that I endeavor to earn. It would be quite unsettling if anyone ever actually smiled upon encountering me unexpectedly. I’d wonder what unpleasant things they were getting away with that I ought to know about. And how is my little cousin the shut-in?” Geoffrey Chandler, a mainstay of his local community theatre, was often thought to be quoting Noel Coward even when he wasn’t. It was an effect into which he put considerable effort.

Elizabeth took several short, deep breaths and tried to smile.
“Well, Geoffrey … I’m sorry if I was rude. I know that you drove a long way to see me. It’s just that I … They told me that a young man was here to see me … and so I thought …” Her voice quavered.

“I had not expected to find you as bad as this,” said Geoffrey quietly.

“It was a shock,” said Elizabeth. “Except in time of war, we don’t expect young men to die. I went numb for a while, I suppose. And the word widow … somehow I simply cannot …”

Geoffrey Chandler, who loathed tears as much as the next man, hoped to forestall the impending storm with a change of subject. He looked around at the primrose walls and chintz-covered sofas that graced the waiting room. “I have been here quite often, what with one thing and another,” he remarked. “Visiting various people of my acquaintance. Really creative souls of a certain temperament generally matriculate through here sooner or later. Not that I counted you among their number, dear.”

Geoffrey saw Elizabeth’s eyes flash between tears, and he knew that the danger of hysterics had abated. “I believe they have redecorated since my last visit,” he remarked. “That hideously flowered sofa appears to be comfortable. Shall we try it out?”

Elizabeth sat down, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue from a box on the end table. “You are odious, Geoffrey,” she said, “but at least you came to see me, and I am sorry that I was beastly to you. Grief makes people selfish, don’t you find? Actually, though, I did want to talk to you.”

Geoffrey shuddered. “That remark, coming on the heels of
an observation about selfishness, frightens me more than you can possibly imagine. Obviously you have thought up some way for me to be useful to you. I tremble at the possibilities. I trust it goes without saying that blind dates are out of the question?”

Elizabeth gave him a tremulous smile. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t hate anyone here that much.” For a moment she pictured Geoffrey and Emma O. forced to spend an evening together, and her smile became even broader. “It is good to see you, though,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “For the past few weeks I have been packed in the cotton wool of kindness until I can’t feel anything any more. If you weren’t your usual cobra-fanged self, I’d begin to cry again, and you would flee—in the politest possible way, of course, pleading another appointment, and I’d never get to ask you for the favor that I need.”

“I need both my kidneys,” Geoffrey put in. “Besides, the thought of organ transplants makes me queasy.”

“You may keep all of your body parts, Geoffrey. I’m sure I speak for the world when I say that. I want you to investigate a disappearance.” She saw his raised eyebrows and knew at once that the words “North Atlantic” were hovering on his lips. “Not that disappearance,” she added hastily. “We’ve changed the subject, remember? This disappearance concerns an old man in Virginia. In fact, he’s the man who built the house that Bill just bought.”

“Has he disappeared?” said Geoffrey. “I just spoke to your brother the other day—to ask about you as a matter of fact—and I understood that when Bill purchased the house the old gentleman was included as an accessory. If he has subsequently
vanished, perhaps you ought not to call too much attention to it until you have inquired into your brother’s alibi. Perhaps Bill is hoping no one will notice.”

“No, Geoffrey. I don’t mean that the old man has disappeared. He’s still there all right. I’m just wondering exactly who he is.”

“He’s ninety, and you’ve forgotten who he is? Surely that is his prerogative.”

“He says he’s Jack Dolan, but I wonder about that. You see, something very odd happened today. Bill sent me a photograph of the new house, and as I was passing it around in art therapy class, someone recognized it. An old gentleman named Hillman Randolph claims that he once knew Jack Dolan in Virginia. He claims the man was a criminal. Anyhow, according to him, Jack Dolan died in the early Fifties.”

Geoffrey’s silence became an ice age. “Someone here said that?” he said at last. “Someone … here?”

“That’s right.”

“Someone here. A member of the staff, perhaps? Your physician?”

“Umm … no. Mr. Randolph is a fellow patient.” Elizabeth added quickly, “But he used to be in law enforcement.”

“Law enforcement. I see. Was he Wyatt Earp? Eliot Ness? The entire cast of
Gunsmoke
?”

Elizabeth sighed. It would be useless to tell Geoffrey that his remarks about the mentally ill were politically incorrect. Geoffrey always replied that political correctness was all very well, but he preferred other forms of hypocrisy. She decided to reason with him. “No, Geoffrey, Mr. Randolph doesn’t think he was Wyatt Earp. He’s old, and he has some sort of problem relating to his
being disfigured, but he’s not delusional. He doesn’t seem given to telling tall tales. People with mental problems are not totally unreliable, you know. Aside from their one particular problem, they can be as sharp as anybody else.”

“ ‘I am but mad north-northwest.’ ” Geoffrey nodded, cheered immensely by the opportunity to quote from
Hamlet
. “Yes, I take your point about that. Still, this story seems fairly improbable, don’t you think? I mean, your man claims that Jack … what’s his name?”