Wherever Lynn Goes (16 page)

“I'm Cassie Porter, ma'am,” she began, her voice barely audible. “Maybe—maybe you'd rather not talk to me. They say I'm wicked and ought to be run out of town, but a girl has to—I couldn't—I
wanted
to be respectable, and I tried hard. I tried to learn all them shorthand symbols, tried to learn to type, but—”

“Never mind, Cassie. I understand.”

“I thought you might. I saw you—I didn't dare go to the funeral, but I was watchin'. I saw you goin' in. I said, ‘She's not like them others. Maybe she'd listen to me. Maybe she'd understand why I couldn't—' I have to talk to someone, you see. I've gotta
tell
someone.” She peered through the shrubs again, watching the few people who moved along the pavements in front of the shops. “I'm scared,” she said, turning back to me. “I'm scared somethin'
awful
. If he knew—”

“Try to calm down, Cassie,” I said in what I hoped was a comforting voice. “Just relax. What is it you want to tell me?”

The girl made a valiant effort. She took a deep breath, trying to summon some measure of composure, trying to overcome her fear, but when she spoke again the tremor was still in her voice.

“I live in a cottage on the other side of the woods from your aunt's house, 'bout a mile away, the woods between. There's four cottages, all located near each other. Colonel March, his cottage is the closest one to mine. Some people—they think I'm terrible, they don't want to have anything to do with me, but
he
wasn't like that. He was kind. He knew me ever since I was a little girl, knew my pa used to beat me, and he was always so nice to me, used to let me play with the puppies. After I dropped out of secretarial school—it didn't make no difference. He gave me one of the pups to keep, said he knew I'd take good care of Puggie …” She paused, on the verge of tears.

There was a moment of silence while Cassie fought back the tears. She pulled a tattered lace handkerchief out of her bag and dabbed at her eyes. But as she replaced the handkerchief, a change came over her. Her features tightened. There was a hard, defiant look in her eyes.

“What they say about him—it ain't true. Colonel March was the kindest man who ever lived. He was sweet. He was understandin'. Miss Morgan, he never killed your aunt. He never shot himself. I
know.
”

“How—how do you know, Cassie?” There was a tremor in my own voice now, and I felt a chill, anticipating her words.

“I didn't dare go to the police. I was scared—so scared I couldn't even think straight. They wouldn't've believed me anyway. That Constable Plimpton, he's all right, I guess, but Sergeant Duncan—he said he had his
eye
on me, said I'd better watch my step. Just because a girl entertains 'er friends, just because they give me presents now and then—”

I waited patiently, knowing it would be unwise to pressure her.

“That night, the night it happened—I was comin' home. Jerry Flemming took me to the pub that evenin'. We danced and had a few drinks, and then I saw it was almost midnight and told 'im I'd better be gettin' home. You'd think he'd've offered to walk me back, but no, not him! So I was by myself. I was a little tipsy, I admit, but—”

We both heard the footsteps. Cassie gave a start, her face turning pale. She peered through the shrubbery again, and over her shoulder I could see Bart crossing the street, a parcel under one arm.

“I don't want him to know I was talkin' to you,” Cassie said quickly, urgently. “I don't want anyone to know. You'd better go now. Hurry, before he spots us—”

“Cassie, you've got to
tell
me—”

“I'll meet you,” she said, frantic. “The—the old mill, there in the woods by the river bank. You know where it is? I'll meet you there at—at six o'clock—”

Cassie stepped farther back into the shrubbery. I hurried away, heart pounding. I reached the car perhaps a minute before Bart did. When he got in I was gazing calmly out the window. He tossed his parcel onto the back seat and started the motor. As we drove away from the square I saw no sign of Cassie. I supposed she was still hiding in the clump of shrubbery. Bart chattered amiably as we left the village. I ignored him, maintaining a stony silence, and finally, disgusted, he grew silent too.

It seemed to take us forever to reach the house.

CHAPTER NINE

When I told Amanda in no uncertain terms what I thought about her treachery, she wore an air of injured innocence and claimed she had had no idea that discussing Lloyd with Bart constituted high treason. He had asked, and she had told him merely that Lloyd was a lawyer, very stable, rather solemn, and divinely good-looking even if he was a bit dull. Having established her total lack of guile, she proceeded to bombard me with questions about our trip to the pub.

“I mean, something must have happened. Bart slammed out of the car in a rage, looking like he wanted to blow up the world, and you, luv, would have made the Snow Queen look positively cozy.”

I refused to discuss it with her, and went upstairs to change clothes. Loosening my hair, I put on a dark gold turtleneck sweater and a short pleated skirt of brown and gold checked tweed. It was not yet four, and I wondered how I was going to contain myself until time to meet Cassie in the woods. I would simply have to put it out of my mind, go on about my business until five forty or so. I hadn't told Mandy about my encounter with the girl, and I had no intentions of doing so—not just yet. Stepping over to the window, I stared out at the shabby, sundrenched herb gardens and the vivid green treetops beyond.

I couldn't shake the vague feeling of uneasiness that was beginning to mount inside. Yesterday I had been totally prepared to accept the police account of my aunt's murder. I had scoffed at Mandy's improbable theories, her stubborn conviction that all was not as it seemed, that too many questions remained unanswered. I had laid it all to her addiction to thrillers and paid very little attention, but too much had happened since then for me to be quite so sure about everything.

The wind was probably responsible for the broken latch. Myrtle was undoubtedly a clattering gossip, ready to make something of nothing. Cassie had been drunk this afternoon, and she had admitted to being drunk the night of the murder. Even if she had seen something, she could hardly be considered a reliable witness.

Each incident could be rationalized, but taken together they were beginning to form a most alarming picture.

Lloyd wasn't at all satisfied, either. He wasn't happy about our being here in the house. He had been extremely worried when I spoke to him on the phone last night. “I have an instinct about these things, Lynn. It just doesn't add up. The motive, for one thing.” But then Lloyd was so easily worried. I remembered how alarmed he had been over those prank telephone calls. He had asked me endless questions about my father, almost as though he believed Daddy might still be alive. Later, when I told him about the murder, he felt there might be some connection. But what connection could there possibly be? Lloyd was a worrier by nature. Still … I straightened up and brushed a lock of chestnut hair from my forehead, determined to remain calm and levelheaded.

I would meet Cassie by the old mill at six o'clock. I would listen to her story very carefully, and if I thought there was anything to it I would go straight to the police. Probably it would be as insubstantial and fanciful as Myrtle's had been. Downstairs, the clock struck four. I turned away from the window, sighing.

What to do for the next two hours? I really should phone Clive Hampton and make some effort to see about disposing of the house. There were all sorts of details to attend to, but I knew I was going to procrastinate as long as possible. Besides, Lloyd didn't want me to sign anything until he got here. I was bound to make a hopeless muddle of any business I undertook to transact on my own. It would be much easier to just put everything in his capable hands and spare myself the bother. He'd know exactly what to do, what to sell, to whom, and at what price. Clive Hampton could wait.

I supposed I might as well go back downstairs and do some more work on the files. Aunt Daphne's death had caused quite a setback, but then, that was understandable. As soon as all this was settled, I would hole myself up somewhere peaceful where I could work in earnest, without interruption, staying with it until the book was completely finished. I was eager to get back to my routine, eager to put all this behind me.

I was on my way downstairs when the front door opened and Bartholomew Cooper came into the hall. Dressed in a loose gray sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved up over his forearms and a pair of very tight, faded blue-jeans, he gripped a hammer in one hand, the parcel of latches under his arm. Seeing me on the stairs, he paused, grinned, and made a mocking little bow.

“General handyman at your service, ma'am. Where would you like me to begin?”

“I couldn't care less.”

“Come on, now. You're not still angry, are you? Look at me. I took a cold shower and I'm a new man. Friends?”

He looked engagingly boyish. I almost smiled. I caught myself just in time. I knew full well the dangers of that disarming charm, and I wasn't about to succumb to it a second time in one day.

“Why don't you start in the parlor,” I suggested, only a trifle less chilly.

“Want to come watch?”

“No, thank you.”

I came on down the stairs and moved past him, in what I hoped was a poised, dignified manner. He shrugged his shoulders and went on into the parlor, whence, in a moment or so, loud, clattering bangs sounded. Mandy was curled up on the brown leather sofa in the library, a pencil in one hand, a crossword-puzzle book in the other, consternation in her eyes. She was wearing a fetching green and beige striped knit dress.

“Oh—there you are, pet. Smashing outfit.”

“Your dress is nice, too. Expecting company?”

“Doug might come by later. I believe in being prepared. I need a word that means to emboss metal by hammering on the reverse side. It starts with a p. Six letters.”

“Pound?”

“I tried that. Only five. The first three letters match. P, o, u, blank, blank, e.”

“Pounce,” I said, moving over to the desk.

“
Pounce?
I thought that meant to—oh well, I won't quibble.” She leaned forward, industriously filling in squares. “There. It fits! You're amazing, luv. I suppose it's your literary background.”

She tossed the book aside and sat up straight, stretching like a contented, well-fed cat. Mandy always looked gloriously languorous and sleek when there was a new man on the scene, and Douglas Duncan was very much on the scene. He was quite different from her usual enthusiasms, and I wondered if she might actually fall in love with him. That would be a novelty.

“Speaking of pounding,” she said, “what on earth is that noise?”

“Your chum Bartholomew. He's putting on the new latches.”

“Does he have to bang so loud?”

“I think he hopes to get on my nerves. Want to work on the files for a while?”

“I guess so,” she replied, unenthusiastic. “Doug was so cute when we got to the house. He walked me to the door and then he just stood there, looking stern and manly.” She perched on a chair, gathering up a handful of papers. “I could tell he wanted to kiss me, but he just couldn't work up enough nerve. I patted him on the cheek and came on in. He takes these things so seriously. I suppose it has something to do with being a policeman.”

“You'd better be careful,” I told her.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean Sergeant Duncan isn't like the others. He doesn't play by the rules of the game. I doubt if he even knows them. You might, just might, find yourself out of your depth.”

“Really, Lynn, how perceptive of you.”

I had to smile at my own naiveté. My giving Mandy advice about men was like a rank amateur telling Bobby Fischer how to play chess.

We worked for forty-five minutes, making remarkable progress. One file box was completely filled, each folder in order, and I saw that the job wasn't going to take nearly as long as I had first thought. Mandy was in a rather indolent mood, sighing frequently, a pensive look in her eyes, no doubt thinking about her tall, strapping sergeant. The constant banging of the hammer was getting on my nerves, and when, shortly before five, Bart came sauntering into the room, I found it difficult to control my irritation.

“All done in there,” he said breezily. “I'll have to start work on these windows in here now. Uh … don't let me bother you. Go right on about your business.”

That was impossible, of course. With the claw end of the hammer he began to pull the old latches off, letting them drop to the floor with a jangling clatter. I looked at Mandy. Mandy looked at me. Without saying a word, we put the files aside and stood up. Bart arched one crooked brow, but continued his work. If he had laughed, I would have hurled a lamp at him.

As we stepped into the hall, I thought I heard a peculiar tapping noise, but I paid it no mind. There was a loud, clanging racket from the library as yet another latch fell to the floor. Mandy shrugged her shoulders.

“I'm wondering about dinner,” she said thoughtfully. “I wouldn't dare attempt anything on that stove, but I think I could slice some ham for sandwiches without severing a main artery. There is plenty of bread and cheese. You hungry, pet?”

Before I could answer, there was a great banging on the front door. We were both startled. I opened it to find a short, slender, extremely perturbed little man studying his knuckles with some concern. He wore a once-dapper, now near-shabby brown suit, matching vest, brick-red tie, and, incredibly, spats. His sandy-gray hair was thinning, his face was the color of old parchment, and his watery blue eyes, behind gold-rimmed spectacles, were definitely worried.