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Authors: Charles Mathes

The Girl at the End of the Line (19 page)

BOOK: The Girl at the End of the Line
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“Well, I only know what I've heard,” declared Troutwig. “And until it's proven to the contrary, I will continue to believe what everyone else believes: that Margaret stole her own mother's ring and sold it to support her selfish ways.”
“Then this must be the proof you're looking for,” said Molly.
Everyone in the room turned to look at Molly. She took the chain from around her neck and held it out. The dangling emerald caught the light of the fireplace and sparkled with an eerie green glow.
“My grandmother didn't sell this ring because she didn't steal it. It was a gift from her mother, just as Dora said.”
No one spoke. For a moment Molly didn't know what to do next. Then suddenly everything became clear.
“This ring has caused so much grief for so many people over the years,” Molly went on, breaking the silence. “I think our grandmother would want some good to come from it. You're involved with a lot of charities, Dora. Would you help us arrange to donate it to a worthy cause? That is, if it's okay with you, Nell.”
Everyone turned to look at Nell, who surprised everyone by breaking into a big smile and nodding her head vigorously.
“Thank you, girls,” said Dora, taking the proffered ring, her pale old eyes again moist with tears. “I think that Felicity would be very proud of you. I know I am.”
“Game, set, and match,” said McCormick, rising to her feet. “Guess I'll go have that room made up.”
Henry Troutwig stiffened and made a noise that sounded like “harrumph.”
“Well, I really must be running along,” he declared. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Dora, as always. George, a pleasure. Russell, I'll probably see you again before you leave. I enjoyed meeting you and your sister, Miss O'Hara. I'm sure we'll have occasion to speak again.”
“So long, Troutwig, been good to know you,” said Mrs. McCormick heading back to the kitchen.
Troutwig scratched his cheek.
“I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, Dora my dear, but you know that I have an obligation to look out for your interests. I'm also
very fond of you as a person and I don't wish to see you hurt again after all you've just gone through.”
“I appreciate that, Henry,” said Dora, primly. “I won't stay mad at you for long, but I will not have you coming between me and my family.”
“Very well, then. Good night.”
“Good night, Henry.”
The lawyer turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
“Thanks,” said Molly in a soft voice. She wasn't used to having anyone stick up for her.
“Oh, Henry's harmless,” said Dora. “Everybody's been so very protective of me lately. You see, Molly, a terrible thing happened here last month. I haven't been exactly sure how to tell you this, but …”
“We already know. George and Russell told us all about it.”
“About the reunion? About the terrible plane crash?”
“Yes.”
“I'm so sorry, my dears,” said Dora, reaching out and taking Molly's and Nell's hands. “I'm just a Gale by marriage. After hearing about how alone in the world you've been, I understand what it must have meant to you to find your way here to Gale Island. Now the rest of your family is gone before you ever got a chance to meet them.”
“We still have you.” said Molly. “And George and Russell.”
Dora gave her hand a little squeeze.
“Thank you, Molly. That means a lot to me. Russell, say thank you to your cousin.”
“Aw, Mama,” said Bowslater. “I'm eating my pie.”
“Our grandniece,” said George, correcting Dora. “We're all happy to have you here, Molly.”
“Thanks,” whispered Molly.
The library's magnificent old tall case clock chimed ten times.
Molly found herself yawning. She was suddenly immensely tired, and no wonder. Only yesterday they had been on another continent. What they learned over the past few hours had placed them in a different world.
“George, please hand me that photo album from our reunion,” said Dora. “It's right there on the bottom shelf of the cabinet next to you.”
“Are you sure you want to, Mother?”
“They're just pictures, George, and I know Molly and Nell would like to see them. I wish everyone would please stop treating me like I am made of glass. I am a resilient person and an adult.”
George brought over a large photo album bound in red leather. Dora opened it on her lap and began flipping through the pages. There, in four-by-six color photographs, were the Gales, laughing with one another, eating outdoors, posing with Dora, Russell, and George.
As Dora turned the pages she named each relative and said a little something about him or her, always nice. Beverly Gale, Grant's daughter, had the most beautiful clothes. Little eight-year-old Winston Gale had just won a prize for his clarinet playing. Melville's grandson, Louis, was a doctor.
George and Russell came over behind the couch, adding their often humorous perceptions. Lolly Gale had had so many face-lifts that she looked like a snare drum. Alesandro Gale and his wife Marta had come in from Buenos Aires but all they wanted to talk about was their new Mercedes. Louise Gale Sockelberry wanted to know if everyone liked her knobs.
Nell looked and listened and nodded like she was having the best time in the world. Molly smiled and tried not to yawn too obviously. She wasn't ready to go to bed yet. Despite the deaths of the Gales and her fears about what had happened in Pelletreau, it was easy to be with these people, it was as if she had known them
forever. Molly felt full and happy, like she and Nell really were part of a family for the first time.
When they finished one album, Dora brought out another and kept turning the pages until Molly found herself looking at the last photograph. Unlike most of the others, this one had only one person in it.
“And here is your cousin James, Barnaby's son,” said Dora sweetly. “He's never been very sociable and wasn't too keen on having his picture taken with the group.”
“Where was Jimmy tonight, anyway?” asked Russell. “I thought he was supposed to come for dinner.”
“I called him on the telephone twice this afternoon to remind him,” said Dora, “but there was no answer. Lord knows what that boy gets up to.”
Molly stared at the photograph. All the cozy warm feelings she had been reveling in vanished. Molly suddenly felt cold and frightened, yet strangely unsurprised. From the minute she learned about the Gale trust and Atherton's will, she had expected something like this, but hoped against hope that it wouldn't be true. At last everything was beginning to fit together, however. At last the puzzle was beginning to make sense.
The man in the photograph had a glass of iced tea in his hand and an annoyed expression on his face. Jimmy Gale also had rust-colored hair and a bushy mustache.
Molly was being attacked by giant bumblebees. They cascaded from the sky like black-and-yellow dive bombers. She ducked as one missed her head by inches, buzzing angrily. Buzzzzzbuzzzzzz. Buzzzzbuzzzzz. She awoke with a start.
She was lying in an impossibly comfortable bed in a strange room. Nell was asleep in a bed that was the twin of Molly's. Light poured through a lacy curtain and made elegant patterns on the pale yellow wallpaper.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzz, droned the sound again.
For a moment Molly thought the bumblebees of her dream had pursued her here, but then she noticed an intercom next to the room's polished rosewood door. The buzz was coming from there.
Suddenly it all came back. The Gales. Dinner. The photograph of the man with the red hair and mustache—their cousin, Jimmy Gale.
After Molly and Nell had finished looking through the albums from the ill-fated family reunion, Dora had brought them to
this lovely room with its own adjoining bath, its own telephone line, and its own John Singer Sargent watercolor. They had crawled into bed without further ado. There was no point trying to decide what to do next until they had gotten a good night's sleep.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Molly pulled herself out of the bed and scurried over to the intercom in her bare feet, shivering. The room's wide-plank floor was uncovered save for a small Turkish rug, and she was wearing one of the skimpy white cotton nightgowns that she had bought at the mall in Pelletreau with Oscar just a few days ago. Despite its still being the dead of summer, the morning here was cold enough for flannel.
“Hello?” Molly said, picking up the handset.
“Someone here to see you,” snapped a curt voice that Molly recognized as that of Mrs. McCormick.
“To see us?” Molly asked. Who knew they were even on Gale Island?
“It's the law,” said McCormick, answering the unspoken question. “The New Melford sheriff. Gale Island comes under his jurisdiction.”
“We'll be down in a few minutes,” said Molly, amazed. The police were the first people she had intended to call this morning. The New Melford sheriff must be some kind of a mind reader.
“Take your time,” rasped McCormick. “I'll fix him a waffle. Can't hurt to make friends with the cops is my motto. Never know when you might get busted.”
Molly hung up the receiver and walked back to the beds. Nell had pulled a pillow over her head to block out the noise and light. According to the gilt brass mantle clock over the room's dormant fireplace and Molly's new silver wristwatch it was nine thirty-five.
“Come on,” said Molly, giving her sister a push. “We've got to get dressed.”
It took a few more pushes, but finally Nell emerged from beneath her pillow. It was another ten minutes before they had brushed their teeth, washed their faces and rummaged through their suitcases for something unwrinkled to wear. The law would have to settle for T-shirts and blue jeans.
They emerged from their room into a long, deserted hallway, filled with old master portraits, Brussels tapestries (she could tell from the monogrammed
Bs
stitched into their bottom selvages) and suits of armor.
Molly had been too tired last night to appreciate fully the pains to which Atherton Gale had gone in creating his castle, but marveled now at the exquisite details that were everywhere—Renaissance bronzes of sea monsters and horses, intricately carved Flemish coffers, repoussé silver candle sconces. The whole place was like a museum. And it was huge.
The wing in which their room was located was to the west of the great central mahogany staircase. Dora's room and the others were on the other side in an even longer hallway. You could probably hold a rodeo on either side and not disturb the people on the other.
Molly and Nell descended the stairs together and made for the dining room where they had eaten last night. No one was there, but the aroma of frying bacon was coming from beyond the rear doorway.
Molly led her sister through the door into a dark passage lined with china cabinets that rose to the high ceiling. This opened into a huge, light-filled kitchen as cozy as the rest of the house was ornate and formal. Big old-fashioned ovens dominated one wall, long metal sinks another. The floor was checkered with black-and-white tiles. A rear door led out to a drive alongside a wall of conifers that circled the castle.
A man in a
Smokey Bear
hat and tan shirt with a gold badge
over his breast pocket sat at a long rustic pine table by the windows. With one hand he sopped up maple syrup with a forkful of waffle. With the other he held a piece of bacon and nibbled blissfully.
“You two want breakfast?” she barked, seeing Molly and Nell. “This is Prin's day off, so you'll have to trust me not to poison you.”
Nell nodded enthusiastically and plopped herself down at the table across from the man.
“Where's Mrs. Gale?” Molly asked, sitting uncertainly, wondering why he was here.
“Russell took her over to the hospice in Newbyville,” said McCormick. “She's got a woman on her last legs over there who she visits on Wednesdays.”
The sheriff had now finished the last piece of bacon on his plate and was wiping his fingers with a linen napkin.
“I'm Molly O'Hara,” said Molly, taking the initiative. “This is my sister, Nell.”
“Dan Glickman,” he replied, reaching across the table to shake her hand.
The New Melford sheriff was a handsome man in his early fifties. Though he was seated Molly could tell he was tall. He had a pleasant open face with tired blue eyes, short graying hair, a straight nose, and perfect white teeth. He put everything to good advantage in a sad, but friendly smile.
“What was it you wanted to see us about, Sheriff?” asked Molly, taking a sip from the stoneware mug in front of her. Mrs. McCormick's coffee was strong enough to kill a cat.
“Here's your waffles,” said McCormick, depositing plates in front of Molly and Nell. With her face well scrubbed and her sleeves rolled up, the hatchet-faced nurse looked almost human in the morning light.
“Troutwig the lawyer thinks you're mass murderers though I'm not supposed to tell anybody he said so,” said Glickman, rising to his feet with his mug. “Any more of that coffee, Mrs. M?”
“You just sit yourself right down, Sheriff,” said McCormick, going over for the coffee on the stove. “I never let men with guns serve themselves.”
“We are not mass murderers!” exclaimed Molly. Nell buttered her waffle.
“Then you're opportunistic impostors, according to Troutwig,” said the sheriff. “He gave me a choice.”
“That's ridiculous,” said Molly. “We're the ones who are in danger. In fact it's ironic that you're here. I was going to call you this morning.”
“In danger from who?” said McCormick, pouring more coffee into Sheriff Glickman's cup. “I mean whom. Interrogations always make me forget my grammar.”
Molly started to answer, but Glickman put his hand up and stopped her.
“I think we'd better have a little privacy at this point, if you don't mind, Mrs. M.,” he said with a sigh. “I'm beginning to come back to my senses, thanks to your fine cooking. This is official business.”
“Oh, come on, Sheriff. Things are just getting interesting.”
“If they turn out to be killers, I promise to let you know before they get you, too.”
“Slim consolation,” McCormick said, her face screwing up in a frown. “Henry Troutwig strikes me more the mass murderer type than these kids. Not that I'm afraid of anybody, mind you. I sleep with a ball-peen hammer. And don't make any cracks.”
“I never wise off to a beautiful woman,” said the sheriff. “Thanks for breakfast, gorgeous.”
“In a pig's eye,” muttered McCormick. “No pun intended.”
Then she wiped her hands on a dish towel and left the room in a huff.
“So what's this about your being in danger?” asked Glickman when she had gone.
“If anyone is a mass murderer,” said Molly, “it's Jimmy Gale. He's Mrs. Gale's nephew, I think. I haven't got the family straight in my head yet.”
“Don't worry about that. I've been here for a long, long time. Believe me, I know Jimmy.”
“You mean he's been in trouble before?”
“My introduction to Jimmy Gale, twenty-five years ago,” said Glickman, “was when I chased him halfway across the state. He was drunk out of his mind. Ended up smashing through some poor lady's picture window. His uncle Atherton hired an expensive lawyer who got the charges dismissed on a technicality. Then they shuffled him off to the army. That was the only time Jimmy hasn't been in trouble around here. I still run him in as regular as clockwork, mostly for fighting in bars.”
A shiver ran down Molly's spine.
“Is he a suspect in the plane crash that killed all the Gales?”
“You only have suspects when there's a crime, Miss O'Hara. The crash you're talking about was an accident. The National Transit Safety Board is saying that the plane was struck by lightning.”
“It didn't bother anybody that Jimmy Gale was suddenly the sole beneficiary to the Gale Trust?” Molly asked, incredulous.
Glickman took a sip of coffee without taking his eyes off Molly.
“I gather from Troutwig that the two of you will inherit as well,” he said in a quiet voice.
“But don't you see?” Molly exclaimed. “That's why Jimmy killed our grandmother and tried to kill us!”
“Whoa,” said Glickman, holding up a big callused hand. “Jimmy killed somebody?”
Molly proceeded to describe Margaret Jellinek's death, the explosion of the Enchanted Cottage and the various sightings of the man with rust-colored hair and mustache. The sheriff listened, making occasional notes in a small notepad he took from his breast pocket.
“You say she was murdered, your grandmother,” he said when she had finished.
“By the time we figured everything out it was too late to do an autopsy,” said Molly. “But the police know what happened. She was suffocated with her pillow by her last visitor—the man who was following us, waiting for us to leave our house so he could booby-trap it.”
Glickman rubbed his jaw.
“And when you saw Jimmy's picture in Dora Gale's album last night, you recognized him as this man whom you had seen back in North Carolina.”
“Well, not exactly.”
Glickman raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
“I only saw the man in North Carolina from a distance,” said Molly. “He was sitting in a car at my grandmother's funeral. Then I saw him a few times driving past our house. He was always wearing sunglasses and I never really got a good look at him, beyond noticing that he had red hair and a mustache. Just like Jimmy Gale. Just like my grandmother's last visitor at the nursing home.”
“Just like probably a million other guys in the world,” said Glickman.
“But this is too much of a coincidence,” said Molly. “I don't believe in coincidences. And as a law enforcement professional, neither should you.”
“Could you swear that the man you saw was Jimmy Gale, Miss O'Hara?”
“I …”
“Could you swear?”
“No,” Molly had to admit.
“What about your sister?” Glickman indicated Nell, who had polished off her waffle and was eying Molly's. “Can she positively ID. Jimmy?”
“Actually, I don't think Nell saw him.”
“Just as well,” said Glickman with a sigh. “Her testimony probably wouldn't be worth much in court anyway.”
“Why not?” demanded Molly.
“Troutwig mentioned to me about her … difficulties.”
“There's nothing wrong with my sister,” said Molly between clenched teeth, transferring her untouched waffle to Nell's plate and passing her the maple syrup. Nell smiled at Glickman and dug in.
“No,” said the sheriff. “I'm sure there isn't. But you can see why I have to be a little skeptical of all this. Even if you had videotaped your sightings of Jimmy in North Carolina, what would it prove? That he attended a funeral? That he drove by your house?”
“A man who blows up a whole planeload of people so he won't have to split his inheritance isn't going to stop at killing a few more,” said Molly, trying to keep in control.
“But like I said, Miss O'Hara, the plane was apparently struck by lightning. No evidence of explosives or tampering was found. Don't you think maybe you're being a little paranoid here?”
“For God's sakes, Sheriff,” Molly exploded. “Our grandmother is dead. Our best friend is dead. Our house and business is blown to smithereens. All within the span of a couple weeks. If I'm paranoid it's because I'm scared to death. Won't you please help us?”
BOOK: The Girl at the End of the Line
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