Crime is Murder (4 page)

“Ten this coming September,” Ruth interposed. “It was Marta’s birthday, her eleventh.”

“That’s right, ten years ago. Nydia still had the old family retainer from Walden’s day, an old codger of at least eighty. He had a bad heart to boot. Well, on Marta’s birthday he drove up to give her a present, had a heart attack, and died in the front parlor. Do you know that there are still people who try to make something of that?”

“The house of death,” Johnny said again.

“Exactly. Old Alistair Hubbard died a perfectly natural death, but because he died in that house instead of his own there’s been gossip about it ever since. Human nature, Miss Bancroft. People like to associate mystery with Martin Cornish. Just human nature.”

Tod Graham sounded so logical, it was possible to forget, for a moment, what Professor Dawes had said in the tearoom. It was even possible, when Lisa did remember, to think of it as just more “human nature.” But it wasn’t possible to keep Ruth Graham silent for long. She stopped biting her lip and said, “Of course, they did find the old man’s heart medicine in Marta’s room after he was dead. And after searching so frantically for it when he had the attack, too.”

“That’s hearsay!” Tod snapped.

Ruth didn’t answer, but her smile might have been cut with a saber.

“And wholly irrelevant.”

But Tod wasn’t addressing a jury. He turned back to Lisa.

“I don’t want to bore you with old wives’ tales. The important thing is the committee. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting if you accept.”

“Indubitably,” Johnny said.

“And I would like to get the announcement out to the press as soon as possible. There’s not much time.”

Rest and relaxation. The thought crossed Lisa’s mind like the ghost of something not quite born. At least now she knew what Tod Graham wanted. Not a donation, not a bequest. And he was waiting for an answer as if that icy bombshell with her hands in her lap might go off again at any moment.

“I suppose it’s all right,” she said, “as long as it’s just honorary.”

“Splendid. I’ll get the word out to the wire services right away.”

And I’ll get my wife out of this house before she opens her mouth again. Action didn’t need words, and Tod Graham was a man of action. The hasty thank-yous and hurried good-byes were mostly for the hallway as Johnny saw them to the door, but when they were gone there was time and silence for reflection. At least one person in Bellville didn’t seem to want Lisa to be interested in the story of Martin Cornish. This was an intriguing switch.

Johnny returned to find Lisa staring out of the French windows.

“Well, was I right about Frau Graham and the dirt?”

Lisa didn’t answer. The brightness of the day was too good to last. A scrap of cloud had wandered over the sun, and the room suddenly seemed empty and cold.

“Lisa—”

She turned around. Johnny’s eyes were troubled.

“You can still get out of this thing.”

But by this time even Johnny knew that she was wrong.

Events moved swiftly in Bellville. Within two weeks after taking up residence at Masterson House, Lisa was a part of the community’s most exciting event. This was unpremeditated and a little bewildering, but there didn’t seem to be any stopping place any more than there seemed to have been a beginning.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you planned it this way,” Johnny said. “I don’t understand. If we came here for some big project, why not let me in on it? I’m not exactly a stranger.”

“No, you’re not,” Lisa admitted. “I am.”

Statements like that infuriated Johnny. Sometimes Lisa suspected that was why she made them. They were driving down to town. It meant an extra spurt of speed from the station wagon, an extra screech of brakes on the curves. It was June. The May rains had given way to a warm mugginess that might erupt into a thunderstorm without warning; but today the sky was clear and the lake, that bright blue patch that appeared intermittently through the pines, was dotted with the handkerchief-white sails of small pleasure boats taking advantage of the weather. Johnny planned to take advantage of the weather herself. She was wearing a swim suit under her terry-cloth robe, and had announced a firm intention of trying to trade a coat of mildew for a coat of tan. For Lisa the journey was more dutiful. She was bound for her first meeting with the Cornish award committee.

The meeting was being held in the Cornish Museum. Both Lisa and Johnny knew the place by sight. It was housed in one of the finest specimens on wrought-iron row—a huge, two-story house with enough porches, balconies, and cupolas to delight the most ardent Victorian. The street was wide, tree-shaded, and virtually empty when they arrived. One small sedan was parked at the curbing; nothing in the long, curving drive.

“We must be early,” Johnny said. “Want me to wait so you can sit in the car?”

“No, you run along to the beach. I’ll just look about a bit.”

Lisa was rather glad to be left alone. She left the gravel path and started toward the front steps. A cast-iron groom offered a hitching ring for the horse she didn’t have, and a large lilac bush still retained a few random blooms of whatever the rains had left. The house looked deserted until she ascended the steps and started toward the door.

“Miss Bancroft? Miss Lisa Bancroft?”

She couldn’t be startled by the sound of her name—not when it came in such a small, forced voice. She was only surprised. She turned about to see a young girl—no more than eighteen, surely, with a rather tense face, a pony-tail hairdo, and a sweater and skirt ensemble. She had a notebook in her hand and an expectant expression on her face.

“I’m from the
Times Review
,” she said. “I heard you were going to be on the Cornish committee.”

“That’s what I heard, too,” Lisa answered.

“And I thought—that is, my editor thought you might give me an interview.”

“Now?”

Lisa asked the question with too little thought. The girl wilted. She couldn’t have that.

“Maybe later. After the meeting. All right?”

It had to be all right. The door was already opening into a large entrance hall walled in gleaming white tile, and Lisa went inside quickly, closing the door after her. In a few minutes the others would be coming. She wanted those few moments to herself.

But she wasn’t completely alone. A mousy little woman in a tight shirtwaist and skirt hovered over a small desk at the end of the hallway. She greeted Lisa with a long-practiced smile.

“I’m afraid Mr. Graham and the others aren’t here yet, but the board room is unlocked.”

She sounded so apologetic Lisa was almost prompted to offer condolences.

“But if you’d care to look through the museum …”

“I’d love to look through the museum,” Lisa said. “I’m sure it’s very interesting.”

“Oh, it is. And particularly for you if you’re planning to do a book.”

Lisa didn’t argue any more. Bellville had made up its collective mind—with one exception—and perhaps it was just as well. Curiosity had a cover.

And that was why she was here, wasn’t it? What other reason? Lisa could ask herself the question; she couldn’t answer. By this time she had crossed the threshold into a huge room—two rooms, perhaps, with the original partition removed. A row of tall windows, curtained and draped in the ornate period of the house, faced the street side of the room; and down its center ran twin rows of glass cases in which were displayed various items associated with Martin Cornish: old photographs, original manuscripts, medals and awards. Lisa walked between the rows, seeing and not seeing. It was so incomplete. It was so dead. One might almost have expected to find Martin Cornish embalmed and laid out in one of those cases, except, of course, that Martin Cornish had been burned by fire. The death of heroes … and heretics.

At the end of the rows stood the piano, carefully roped from careless hands. Carefully roped, but not immune from trespass. A huge gray cat was sleeping on the covered keys. She opened her eyes and scrutinized Lisa with solemn eyes, then yawned and closed her eyes again. Let sleeping cats lie, Lisa thought.

She turned back. The museum depressed her. The manuscripts in those cases were yellowed with years. Dead years. It was the living she cared about, not the dead. But on the opposite wall from the windows stood a wide mantel, and above the mantel, separated from its mate by a bronze plaque inscribed with names and dates, was the portrait. The portrait wasn’t dead. The portrait held Lisa—held her with eyes, deep and brooding, held her with hands, long and slender, held her with lips, full, almost feminine, that seemed still warm, still on the verge of speech. No, the portrait wasn’t dead. The portrait was Martin Cornish, and the years were swept away.

But Martin Cornish wasn’t free even here. The bronze plaque was between them, and Nydia, like a proud possessor, was nearby. Old. This was the word Lisa thought as she looked at the other portrait. Old and unlovely. And yet she couldn’t have been so old when the portrait was painted. Probably no more than Cornish’s age when he died. The narrow nostrils, the tight mouth, the hard eyes—they were ageless. They had never known youth. Or am I seeing what I want to see? Lisa backed away from the mantel. With other eyes, in another light, the woman might look regal, strong. Eyes were always deceiving. Eyes see what the mind thinks.

I’m falling into a trap, Lisa thought. I’m having my mind made up for me before I’ve even started to learn.

And then her gaze fell away from the portraits and dropped to the mantel itself. There was something printed on a small, framed card below the plaque.

This house donated to the Martin
Cornish Memorial Society by the
will of Alistair Hubbard
1865-1946

Alistair Hubbard. This name had meaning after Ruth Graham’s remarks. This name belonged to an old man who couldn’t find his heart medicine in time. Or was this more gossip? Lisa barely glanced at the names on the plaque—former award winners of past years. The room was full of death again. For a moment she wanted to beg off from the whole thing, leave the museum and let the committee struggle along with what distinguished citizens it already had; but it was too late. The instant she turned back toward the doorway, she knew that it was much too late. A portrait had come to life. Nydia Bell Cornish was staring at her from across the room.

Was the recognition mutual? Lisa hung onto the silence, reluctant to let go. Nydia, no doubt of that. The same face, the same eyes. Old. Still old, yet hardly older. She wasn’t a tall woman, and yet she seemed to stand taller than she was. Tall, straight-backed, proud. She wore a dark linen suit that was rather defiantly disdainful of style, and a wide-brimmed Leghorn straw of black that partially shadowed her face. Lisa hung onto the silence. A queen spoke first.

“Miss Bancroft, I believe.”

Nothing of Marta in this voice. Nothing of Marta in this woman at all.

“Tod—Mr. Graham—told me you were to be with us today. I’m so happy.”

The words were right. Lisa didn’t know why she felt as if she were being held at the end of a stick.

“I understand you’re thinking of doing a book about my late husband.”

You understand from whom? Tod Graham? Lisa wanted to ask. She didn’t. Instead, she said,

“I really haven’t decided, Mrs. Cornish. I wouldn’t attempt it without your permission, of course.”

“My permission?” A faint smile. It seemed unlikely that Nydia Cornish’s smile would ever be more than faint. “That needn’t worry you, I’m sure. I’ll be only too happy to cooperate if I’m needed.”

Now Lisa was beyond words. This wasn’t expected. Not if there was anything to the rumors about that other charred body in the ruins. But this was no place to ask about that, of course, and now there was no time to ask about anything. Behind Nydia Cornish, there was movement in the hall. Tod Graham appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are, Miss Bancroft. You’ve met Mrs. Cornish, I see. Shall we go up now? The others are waiting.”

The others were waiting. Lisa was relieved. The meeting with Nydia Cornish had been too sudden, too unexpected. One really needed time to prepare for such a thing. She followed the woman up the stairs, grateful that Tod had taken Nydia’s arm instead of her own. Stairs were difficult even with a walking stick. She didn’t want anyone to notice or to help. At the top of the stairs, Tod ushered them into the board room. Attentive Tod. Servile Tod. Lisa recalled his remarks about handling Nydia and restrained a smile. Nydia Cornish seemed to be doing quite well without handling.

“Good morning, Nydia. How well you look this morning! Now that you’ve arrived we can really get the show on the road.”

Tod Graham and Stanley Watts, the little moon-faced banker Lisa had met when she opened an account at the Merchant’s Bank, were vying for honors in solicitation when Lisa walked into the board room. It might have been a homey study before that framed card was placed on the downstairs mantel many years ago. Again the windows faced the street, appropriately draped, but a long mahogany table took the place of display cases, and about it were set a number of high-backed chairs. Nydia went to the head of the table immediately. Seated, she might have been a monarch holding court. At the opposite end of the long table was a chair reserved for Tod, and next to him the mousy little woman from the entry desk, a Miss Pratt, who had now acquired a pair of tortoise-rimmed glasses and a secretarial notebook.

And then the introductions:

“Miss Bancroft—Mr. Watts. But you’ve met, of course. Miss Bancroft—Miss Oberon, head of the music department at Bellville High School.”

Miss Oberon smiled nervously. Miss Oberon would do everything nervously. She was tall, thin, and taut of face and manner. Lisa wasn’t sure, but it seemed that her eyes were slightly crossed. That might have come from trying to watch all sections of a glee club at once. She read novels, too. Lisa could tell by the way her limp fingers trembled when they touched hands.

“Miss Bancroft—Professor Dawes.”

The professor’s eyes smiled back at Lisa. He wasn’t timid this morning. He wasn’t intruding on a lady at tea.

“We’ve met, too,” he said, “but it’s a pleasure to meet again, and so soon.”

“I was invited,” Lisa observed.

“By our distinguished chairman, of course.”

“Of course.”

Now the professor’s eyes twinkled. It was a private joke. Plant the seed of curiosity and ‘most anything can happen—even a new member of the award committee.

“And we mustn’t forget Dr. Hazlitt.”

Lisa had forgotten. The name had scant remembrance—Tod had barely mentioned it that day at the house. She turned to acknowledge the introduction, still smiling from the private joke, but now the smile seemed out of place. Dr. Hazlitt. The face was old and weary, so weary that it seemed he must surely have been up all night with an ailing patient. His shoulders drooped, his graying head thrust forward as if the weight of it was too great for his neck to bear, and the fingers of one blue-veined hand picked nervously at the watch chain across his vest. The Dr. Hazlitts of the world always wore vests, but they didn’t always look so vague.

“Bancroft?” his tired voice echoed. “The name sounds familiar. Didn’t you once have people in Bellville, Miss Bancroft?”

There was laughter, naturally, but the laughter only seemed to puzzle the doctor more.

“You’ll have to excuse Reid,” Tod remarked. “He’s probably unaware of any new fiction since
Moby Dick
. But I’m sure none of us have come here for any personal aggrandizement. This festival is serious business. It’s serious to Bellville, and to the world of music …”

Tod was making a speech. He hadn’t prepared one, of course; he was just making it because making speeches came natural to him. Lisa tried to follow what he was saying, but there were more interesting things to do. A table full of people to be appraised and catalogued. A dowager queen to be watched. An aging physician whose fingers were still working at that watch chain. Fingering time, doctor? Another appointment on your mind, or merely clinging to something you no longer want but have possessed so long you’re reluctant to let go? And all the time the gnawing remembrance of why she had come to this house, of whose name was on that card on the mantel.