Heart of Stone (26 page)

“Haven't you already taken pictures of this?” he asked.

“You're blocking my light,” I said. “Your large shadow is covering my subject. Move it.”

He stepped to one side, and the sun again washed over the outline.

“So why do you need more pictures?” he asked.

“I'm shooting Kodachrome,” I said. “I wanted some color slides of the scene.”

As with the black-and-white Tri-X, I had to slow the shutter speed to capture Jerry Kaufman's outline in the low light that was available behind the rocks. But without a flash, these slides were sure to come out dark and grainy.

“Come on, big boy,” I said once I'd covered all the angles and stowed my Leica in its case. “Let's get you some breakfast.”

Back at Cedar Haven, Lena asked me whose car had spent the night parked on her zinnias. I introduced Fadge, who apologized for the flowers. Lena asked me how many men I was planning to juggle on my one-week vacation.

“He's a friend,” I said. “He owns the ice cream shop across the street from my apartment. Besides does it look like I could juggle him?”

“He does look well-fed,” she said.

“Actually I was just going to take him to get something to eat.”

Lena nodded then asked Fadge if he'd been hurt in the accident.

“What accident?”

“The wreck. It looks like you totaled the car.”

I laughed.

“No,” he said. “That's the way it always looks.”

Fadge suggested we spend the day on the beach or take a boat and a picnic lunch out onto the lake.

“Not today,” I said. “You're going to help me on some errands. I need to speak to a couple of people.”

I filled him in on the events of the past several days, the two deaths, Gayle Morton's mysterious comings and goings, and Esther Merkleson's escalating suspicions. I also informed him that the chief of police had changed his opinion and wanted to clear up some lingering questions about the putative accident.

“Sounds fishy,” said Fadge. “Did those two guys know each other?”

I shook my head. “Not that anyone knows. But you and I are going to meet a boy at noon who might have some new information on that.”

“That leaves us four hours to kill,” he said. “Let's go for a swim.”

“No. We're going to get some answers out of the dead man's wife and get you some breakfast.”

We pulled into Tom's Lakeside Motel a little past nine. The blue Galaxie was still there, but a short, gray-haired man was packing some suitcases into the trunk. He finished and disappeared back inside.

“That must be the father,” I said.

“Looks like they're checking out,” said Fadge. “We got here just in time.”

I parked the car, and we followed the man inside. The lobby was empty, but there was activity through a door off to the right side: the Lakeside Restaurant. A moldering diner whose best days were behind it. Still, Fadge perked up when he smelled bacon. We spotted the gray-haired man inside at a table with a young blonde woman: Gayle Morton. They were both dressed in city clothes, reading breakfast menus.

We sauntered in, pretending to look for a suitable table, and wandered close to our targets. Fadge was a talented improviser and excelled in situations like this one. We also picked up on each other's signals as if we'd been doing this stuff for years. I gave Fadge a nod, and we moved in for the game.

“Hello, Mrs. Morton,” I said.

She looked up at me and my large escort. Her nostrils flared ever so slightly.

“Hello,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to offer you my condolences again.”

“Thank you,” she said tentatively.

“Did you manage to reach your father?” I asked.

She blushed. “This is my father here.” She indicated the man across the table.

“He sure got here quickly,” I said.

“Perhaps I wasn't clear when we spoke Monday. My father was already on the lake. He was staying here at this motel.”

I nodded. Before she could send me packing, I explained that I was an old acquaintance of her husband's. The more I repeated it, the less it seemed like a lie.

“You didn't mention that the other day when we met,” she said.

“I knew him many years ago when I was a girl here on the lake.”

She looked alarmed. “You're not one of those people from Arcadia Lodge, are you?”

“No, I was a neighbor. But we used to socialize.”

“Well, thank you for stopping by,” she said. “I won't detain you.” She cast a glance up at Fadge. “Or your friend.”

Now came the hard part. How was I going to get the information I wanted without her taking offense and telling me to mind my own business?

“May we join you?” I asked. “Just for a cup of coffee.”

The father answered for her.

“It's a difficult time,” he said. “I'm sure you'll understand that we'd prefer to be alone.”

Fadge had already taken a seat and grabbed a menu. The gray-haired man, Owen Pierce, looked horrified, but we'd played our opening gambit. I sat down next to Gayle and asked her how she was holding up. She inched her chair away from me and said it was a terrible loss.

“Why do you think Karl wanted to dive off that cliff ?” I asked. “Did he enjoy swimming?” A brutal, right-to-the-point question for the widow, but I doubted I had enough time to finesse it. She was likely to grow tired of me and storm off at any moment.

She looked me up and down, almost sneering at my poor manners. “My husband's name was Charles, not Karl. And, no, I don't know why he wanted to dive off that cliff.”

“Did he say anything at all before he left the motel that morning?”

“No,” she snapped. “And why are you asking me these questions?”

Her father intervened and said that Fadge and I should leave. No more time for delicacy, such as it was. I decided to take charge with a provocation that might well send them running out the door. My hope was that she would circle the wagons instead and defend herself.

“Karl didn't mention swimming to you that morning because he wasn't at the Sans Souci Cabins, was he?”

The father stood, held a hand out to his daughter, and told her they were leaving. Fadge, in turn, reached up and put a bear claw on Pierce's shoulder, applying a subtle pressure that pulled him back down into his seat.

“Where are you going?” said Fadge. “We're just having a friendly conversation. Let your daughter answer the lady's questions. It'll do her good to talk about it.”

Owen Pierce was about five six and of medium build. He gaped open-mouthed at Fadge, who easily outweighed him by double, but made no verbal protest.

“Okay, I didn't see Charles that morning,” said Gayle, who, I believed, genuinely feared for her father's safety in that moment. “He didn't spend the night at the cabin. I don't know where he was.”

“Did you come to Prospector Lake to stop him from leaving you?” I asked.

“That's none of your business.”

“The police chief and Karl's mother both suspect that this was not a simple diving accident,” I said. “What do you think?”

“His name was Charles,” she said more forcefully this time. “And I think that awful woman is an oppressive, vindictive crone.”

“Excuse me. Are you saying someone pushed Charles off that cliff?” asked Owen Pierce.

“I'm not saying that. But I'm wondering if your daughter is willing to help us find out exactly what happened at Baxter's Rock that day.”

Gayle Morton was flustered. She started to cry and insisted that she didn't know anything. In fact she hadn't seen her husband at all in Prospector Lake. Her father backed up her version of events.

“You stayed in his cabin, but you never saw him?” I asked.

“That's right,” she said, wiping her eyes on a napkin. “I checked into the Sans Souci on Friday once I found out he was staying there.”

“How did you track him down?”

“It wasn't difficult. I used the phone directory in my room here. I just called every motel on the lake.”

Just then the waitress arrived at our table and asked if we were ready to order. Pierce said his daughter needed a few minutes to decide. The waitress rolled her eyes and left. Fadge called her back, though, and ordered the Adirondack Special: three eggs, a tall stack of pancakes, some bacon, and toast, with home-fried potatoes and coffee. And a side order of cinnamon rolls. The waitress didn't blink. Then she looked at me expectantly.

“Just coffee,” I said.

Turning back to Gayle, I told her I had two more questions, and then we would leave her alone.

“So ask me,” she said.

“Is there any way your husband could have known that boy who died with him?”

“I can't imagine how,” she said. “The police said that kid was from Albany, or somewhere near there. Charles didn't know anyone from Albany. And certainly not some sixteen-year-old boy from a music camp.”

“Just one more thing,” I said. “Do you have Karl's suitcase? Did he leave it behind at the Sans Souci?”

She said she had it, that her father had just loaded it into the trunk of his car. What did I want with it anyway?

“May I take a quick look inside? I won't take anything, I promise.”

Gayle's eyes darted to her father, who threw a glance at Fadge, who glared at him.

Outside in the parking lot, Owen Pierce opened the trunk of his car, moved a suitcase to one side, and pointed to a leather bag.

“That's Charles's valise,” he said.

I popped it open and examined the contents as Gayle and her father, wondering what I could be looking for, watched intently. Fadge had remained at the table in the restaurant, making short work of his breakfast. Inside the suitcase, I found four carefully folded shirts, professionally pressed, two clean bathing suits, some socks and underwear, three pairs of trousers, and one pair of city shoes. There was a very expensive-looking Dopp kit. I took a closer look at the shirts. Fine cotton, well tailored, and each one monogrammed with
CMM
. I locked the case and closed the trunk.

“What is it?” asked Gayle. Her curiosity had overcome any hostility she'd felt for me at the start. She might have been worried or just intrigued.

“The police found Karl's shirt,” I said. “At least they think it's his. It was in the water along with his wallet.”

“And?” asked Pierce.

“It was an off-the-rack wash-and-wear from Sears. Did Karl ever buy clothes from Sears?”

They exchanged glances and shook their heads.

“Charles was a bit of a dandy,” said Pierce. “He only wore nice things.”

“He started wearing an ascot,” said Gayle. “I told him he looked like a queer rooster, but he wouldn't listen. So, no, I don't think he would buy a Sears wash-and-wear.”

Still, I thought. He might have had to purchase it for some unknown reason. But why? He had a suitcase filled with clean, well-tailored clothing in his room.

“Are you finished with us now, young lady?” asked the father.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just one more question.”

“What's that?” asked Gayle.

“Have you seen Isaac Eisenstadt in the past few days?”

“Who?”

“Isaac Eisenstadt,” I repeated. “I believe you met him in Los Angeles a few years ago when he was trying to reconcile Karl with his old friends.”

She shook her head. “Charles might have mentioned him once, but I'm not sure. At any rate, I never met him.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, staring into her eyes. “I must have been mistaken.”

“Mistaken about what?” came a voice behind me.

I reeled around and came face-to-face with Chief Terwilliger. He was unshaven, and his breath smelled of stale beer.

“Mrs. Morton and her father were just checking out,” I said, dodging his question if not odor.

“No, they're not,” he said.