Heart of Stone (18 page)

So Gayle Morton was still in Prospector Lake. And she'd changed motels, perhaps for the second time. Maybe the curious double booking was not so mysterious after all. Perhaps she'd found the cabins at the Sans Souci moldy or uncomfortable. Or perhaps Tom's had earned five stars from the
Mobil Travel Guide
. One look inside the registration office debunked that theory. The lobby consisted of a crooked desk, leaning to starboard, and a couple of armchairs whose squashed stuffing and threadbare upholstery looked as though they'd been sat upon for generations by burly men in wet swimming trunks. Smelled that way, too. The walls were pine boards shellacked with a high-gloss shine, making them look like a gymnasium floor stood up on its end. The linoleum tile was covered with an old throw rug.

As the lobby was empty, I rang the bell on the desk. After a few moments, a tanned man in an unbuttoned beach shirt and tight bathing trunks shuffled into the room. He took up a position behind the registration desk.

“I'm afraid we're full up, miss,” he said. “But I'm sure I could find some room for a pretty thing like you.”

“I'm not looking for a room. I just wanted some information about a guest who's staying here.”

He smiled and nodded knowingly. “Did you just come from the Sans Souci?”

When I didn't answer right away, he volunteered that he'd just been speaking on the phone to the desk clerk from the Sans Souci.

“He called to tell me a pretty insurance girl was poking around asking questions.”

“Yes, that's me. Are you Tom?”

He nodded. “Tom Waller, proprietor. I own this place.”

I wondered why he would admit to such a thing, let alone boast about it. But I kept that thought to myself.

“So, what do you want to know?” he asked.

“Mrs. Morton is staying here. I was wondering when she checked in and how long she's planning on staying.”

The man's eyes narrowed in concentration. “Morton? We don't have any guests by that name here.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Her car is outside. The blue Galaxie in front of number six.”

“Number six?” He sounded surprised. “There's no Morton in there. It's a man named Pierce. Owen Pierce. And his daughter is in the next room. Gayle Pierce, I believe her name is.”

That must be her father. Isaac had said the family name was Pierce. But why would Gayle Morton register under her maiden name? To ward off curious locals after the tragic accident, perhaps?

“So they checked in yesterday evening?” I asked, trying to put the events in order.

The man stared at me blankly. “No, miss. They checked in last Thurs­­day afternoon.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“What exactly are your doubts, Ellie?” asked Aunt Lena back at Cedar Haven. “It's a little odd, as you say, but there's been no hint of anything untoward.”

“You're right,” I said. “There are a thousand reasons Gayle Morton and her father might have come here on Thursday. And why she lied to me and the chief of police about it.”

We both thought about it for a while. “Maybe this Gayle and her father followed Karl here to catch him at something. Or maybe he left her, and they came to talk him out of it.”

I nodded. “That's probably it. But why register under her maiden name? And why stay in a different motel from her husband for twenty-four hours?”

“Maybe they'd had a quarrel then made up Friday afternoon.”

I chuckled at myself. Seeing nefarious intent in the innocent actions of a woman and her father. From what I'd heard from Isaac and even Audrey Silber, a roving eye would have been perfectly believable behavior from Karl Merkleson/Charles Morton. Perhaps he was on the run from his wife when he fell to his death. A tragic accident at the moment when he was about to escape a loveless marriage. But if that were true, why had he fled to Prospector Lake? By all accounts, he hadn't contacted any of his old friends at Arcadia Lodge, even though he'd been staying in a cabin a mile away for three days before he made the ill-advised leap off Baxter's Rock with a sixteen-year-old boy from a local music camp. Either something didn't add up or Karl Merkleson's death was the last in a remarkable string of unexplained events.

“You're suspicious of everything,” said Aunt Lena. “Ever since what happened to your father.”

“And I was right.”

“What is it? Did somebody else fall off Baxter's Rock?” Terwilliger asked me.

I was seated across the desk from him in his office on Lake Road. The place was surprisingly tidy and clean. I attributed that to the young officer, Bob Firth, who'd shown me in to see the chief. Firth, a patrolman about twenty-eight years old, was one of the three officers on the Prospector Lake police force. The third, Mark Charlebois, was on vacation in Lake Placid, I was told. Coals to Newcastle. But as clean as the small station was, Ralph Terwilliger hadn't bathed for at least two days. And he reeked of beer again.

“No,” I said. “No more divers. I just wanted to report a pack of skinny-dippers up at Dribble's Beach.”

“Very funny,” he said. “Dribble's Beach isn't my jurisdiction. What is it you want?”

“I was chased through the woods the other night. At first, I didn't want to report it because maybe it was my imagination. But it happened again, and I'm worried.”

“You think it's Yarrow, don't you?” asked Terwilliger. “Every crackpot from Hudson to Montreal thinks they've seen him. That guy's long gone. Probably in Mexico or someplace else south of the Mississippi.”

Geography.

“Actually I don't think it was Yarrow. But it was definitely a man following me. Twice.”

“Was this after one of your sleepovers at Arcadia Lodge?”

I bristled but didn't answer. Instead I told him about Gayle Morton's game of musical motels. Terwilliger shrugged.

“It's a free country. People can stay where they like.”

“Have you seen Tom's Lakeside Motel?” I asked to challenge. “Who would want to move from the Sans Souci to that dump?”

The chief just stared at me. Maybe he didn't appreciate a girl speaking to him that way, or maybe Tom Waller was his brother-in-law. Who knew? But he didn't seem happy about what I'd said.

“There's no law against changing hotels,” he said.

“Did you know that she arrived with her father on Thursday afternoon? She told us she'd arrived Friday with her husband. Then she checked into the Sans Souci on Friday evening. And Monday, she moved back to Tom's.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“She never even checked out of Tom's when she went to stay with her husband. She kept her room. Doesn't any of that seem strange to you?”

“People do lots of strange things,” he said. “Unless you've got something more than a lady who changed her hotel, I'm busy.”

“I just find it odd.”

“Are you suggesting that something's fishy about those two deaths?” he asked. “Because the only thing I find funny about the whole thing is what those two fellows must have been up to when they died.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think there was some perverted stuff going on. Two men in their undies, not bathing suits, mind you.”

That had crossed my mind, but I thought it was unlikely. Karl Merkleson was married and a ladies' man to boot. And Jerry Kaufman had a girlfriend.

“What's the difference between a bathing suit and underwear?” I asked. “And, by the way, one of them was completely dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers.”

Terwilliger waved me off. “I think they were committing acts against nature. And they fell off the cliff.”

I gaped at him. “Fell off the cliff ? As they were . . . doing it? In mid . . .” I searched for the word, “. . . thrust?”

“Sure,” he said, unswayed by my incredulity. “People get up to all kinds of perversions.”

“Jerrold Kaufman had a girlfriend,” I said. “She was with him just hours before he fell to his death. And in the same area. So I doubt that poor boy was performing ‘acts against nature' with Charles Morton as they stumbled over the cliff.”

Terwilliger leaned forward and rested an elbow onto his desk. “Did his girlfriend say anyone pushed them off Baxter's Rock?”

“Of course not.”

“Then tell me what you'd like me to do.”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I was just wondering if you thought there was even the slightest reason to suspect something untoward.”

He shook his head. “It's the law of gravity, miss. Man falls off cliff and dies. If there was anything suspicious, I'd be on that wife like stink on manure. You can be sure of that. But we've seen this kind of thing before. When people aren't careful, bad things can happen.”

The rain continued as I drove back to Cedar Haven. The cocktail hour was already in full swing when I arrived. Martini in hand, Cousin Max was standing over the jar of olives, agonizing over which one to select. Aunt Lena was rocking in her chair in the parlor, sipping her usual summer drink, gin and tonic. I dropped some ice into a glass and poured myself a healthy two fingers of Scotch.

We chatted about my day. I shared the same doubts I'd already discussed with Aunt Lena and Chief Terwilliger. Max enjoyed the exercise, fancying himself cut out for detective work. His bet was on the father-in-law.

“Why on earth would he push an innocent kid over the cliff ?” asked Lena.

Max chewed on that one, along with his olive, and finally offered the solution. “Children are annoying creatures, after all. I'd shove one over a cliff myself if I thought I could get away with it.”

Before Aunt Lena could answer, a knock came on the porch door. Even with ever-nearing sightings of Donald Yarrow, we remained admirably calm in the face of an unannounced visitor. As things turned out, it was Isaac. He said his hellos, refused an offered drink, and asked to speak to me in private. We stepped outside and talked under the eaves out of the rain.

“Something upset you last night,” he said. “I was hoping you'd come to Arcadia tonight, and I could make it right again.”

I pursed my lips, thinking of how best to answer. I enjoyed spending time at Arcadia. At least I had enjoyed it until the toxic atmosphere rolled in. I didn't care if I ever saw Simon or Miriam again. A day or two earlier, I had wanted to get to know her better. But that was the last thing I wanted now. She was a miserable, unpleasant soul who ruined my mood every chance she got. Plus I wanted to spend more time with Lena and Max. I was scheduled to leave Sunday morning for New Holland, after all, and I didn't know when I'd have the chance to see them again.

“I'm going to stay in this evening,” I said.

“But you'll come over later?” he asked. “And you'll spend the night?”

I shook my head. “No, Isaac. I just want to stay in.”

He looked as if I'd driven a stake through his heart.

“Don't you want to see me?” he asked. “Be with me?”

“I do,” I said. “It's just . . .”

“Then come.”

I drew a sigh and found the backbone I'd been looking for. “Isaac, if you'd like to see me, you'll come back here later. I'm staying in.”