Heart of Stone (38 page)

Standing on the edge of my porch, I peered out on the compound, scanning right and left to see if the coast was clear. Everything seemed normal. Then I looked down at the wooden planks. Mud tracked around the window and in front of the door. They were footprints all right. But it looked as if someone had tried to scratch them out by shuffling and dragging his feet.

I searched the compound again for signs of an intruder. All was still. I was ready to make a run for it. But I wasn't taking any chances. Armed with the fire poker, I scurried across the mud to Aunt Lena's cabin. I rapped on the door and, still on the lookout for marauders, waited for her to open up.

“Ellie, what's the matter?” she asked. “Why are you banging on doors at this ungodly hour?”

“Someone tried to break into my cabin last night,” I said, pushing past her inside. I slammed the door behind me and bolted it shut.

“Did you see anything? Are you sure it wasn't the wind?”

“I'm sure. There was a man outside my cabin. He banged on the wall and shuffled around on the porch. It was nearly four a.m.”

Aunt Lena brewed a pot of tea and opened a box of digestive biscuits. “I'm afraid this is about all we have left to eat,” she said. “I'm saving the last of the bread for Max's toast.”

I wasn't hungry. Too rattled to eat. “Nothing for me.”

“But you didn't have any dinner last night either. I know because there's nothing left here in the cupboard. I worry about you, Ellie. You eat less than a bird.”

“It's a myth that birds don't eat a lot,” I said, gazing out the kitchen window for signs of movement.

“Yes, dear. I'm aware of that. But you hardly eat a handful of seeds a day. Why don't we go to the village and have a proper breakfast today? A farewell meal before we leave. And I've had Max on a healthy diet since we arrived. He'll be glad to gorge himself on bacon and pancakes.”

I felt little enthusiasm for Aunt Lena's plan, but I figured I'd be safer in the village than in our isolated camp.

Lenny's Diner was hopping at seven thirty on a Saturday morning, but we managed to slip into one of the last free booths along the window looking out onto Lake Road. I stared out at the gray sky. Vacationers were going to miss out on their last day of summer fun.

I tried to buck myself up. My summer fling with Isaac Eisenstadt was nothing to lose sleep over. It had only been a week, after all. And I was being surly to my beloved aunt and cousin on their last day. Enough, I told myself. Put on an ersatz smile and make them happy before they leave.

But just as I was about to do that, I overheard the two men in the booth behind us talking about Donald Yarrow. I turned to see them. Just a couple of locals back from an early-morning fishing expedition on the lake.

“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting them. “Did I hear you say something about the escaped murderer?”

They nodded. “They got him last night,” said the one on the far bench. “This morning, really. About five a.m.”

“Oh, my,” I said, my heart jumping. Perhaps they'd caught him just after he'd left my cabin. Might it really have been him lurking about?

“Where did they arrest him? Was it Chief Terwilliger or the state police?”

“Terwilliger?” said the other man, chuckling. “Hardly. He couldn't catch a cold. But Yarrow was captured in Maryland. He was never anywhere near Prospector Lake.”

“That's remarkable,” I said. “What about the woman who disappeared yesterday from Tennyson?”

The two fishermen exchanged amused looks. “She turned up at Tom's Lakeside Motel,” said the first man. “With her brother-in-law. Not sure how happy her husband is now that she wasn't murdered by Donald Yarrow.”

I thanked them and turned back around. “What do you make of that?” I asked. “He was never even near here.”

“People are funny,” said Lena. “They imagine bogeymen everywhere. Mass hysteria, I guess.”

“The airplane,” said Max, sipping his coffee as he studied the menu. “Prospector Lake, both coasts of Mexico, and now Maryland. What did I tell you?”

“I think we can all sleep more easily now,” said Aunt Lena, ignoring Max's contribution.

“Sure,” I said. “If you don't worry about who tried to get into my cabin last night. Frankly, I wish Yarrow had been captured here. I'd feel a lot safer.”

Max continued to pore over the menu, humming as he did.

“Still with the Puccini?” I asked.

“Can't get the blasted tune out of my head,” he said.

After our farewell breakfast, I drove the old folks back to Cedar Haven, where they set about readying their departure. It wasn't yet nine, and I was feeling curious. When the two fishermen had mentioned Tom's Lakeside Motel, I got to thinking. The previous day's missing woman had turned out to be another in a string of adulterous patrons of the moldering inn. If Gayle Morton was still in town, I wanted to chat with her one more time.

Her father's blue Galaxie was there, parked in its usual spot, and I found Gayle in her room. She had just finished her breakfast and seemed to be preparing to go out.

“Leaving today?” I asked once she'd invited me inside.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “That buffoon of a police chief finally gave us the okay this morning.”

That was news. “You've already seen Chief Terwilliger today?” I asked. “So early. Probably smelling of beer.”

“You would think. But actually he was quite presentable today. Bathed and shaven. Wearing clean clothes, too. An actual police uniform, if you can believe it.”

Well, I thought. Maybe my little discussion with him the night before had sunk in. I was happy to hear it.

“I gather you showed him your plane ticket and he was satisfied,” I said.

“What are you talking about? I didn't show him any plane ticket.”

“He didn't ask?”

Gayle shook her head. “What's this about?”

“Sorry,” I said, trying to explain. “He told me he was going to check on your travel dates. He said he'd send you on your merry way as long as you hadn't been in Prospector Lake earlier this month.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“He wanted to be sure you weren't lying,” I said, omitting the part about it having been my idea. “Or that maybe your husband followed you here and not the other way around.”

Gayle turned white. “Why would I come to this place if not to follow my husband?” she asked in a trembling voice.

I gave a short shrug. “Maybe you came here to meet someone else.”

“Is that what he thinks?”

Again I shrugged, never taking my eyes off her. Despite my closest scrutiny, I couldn't read her. There was so much more I wanted to know about her. Had she loved her husband? Had she followed him to the Adirondacks? Or had she come to meet another man she loved? And was that man Isaac?

I was acutely aware of how shameful my obsession had become. But at the end of this affair, I wanted to know just how big a chump I'd been. I hoped that I was wrong. No one likes to be played for a fool, and I was no exception.

“When did you arrive here exactly?” I asked her finally.

“Now I have to answer to you?”

“I can help you,” I said. “The chief listens to me.”

“But he's already told me I can leave whenever I want. I don't have to answer to anyone.”

She was right. I needed to find a new tack, or she'd never tell me anything.

“You're right, of course,” I said. “It's just that these backwoods lawmen can be tricky. He tells you one thing then does another. He may pull you over on your way out of town and arrest you on a trumped-up charge. It wouldn't hurt to show me your ticket.”

She loosed a nervous laugh. “I'm not showing you or anyone else my ticket.”

“I know you and Isaac Eisenstadt had a fling in Los Angeles. You lied to me about that. Why?”

“I did no such thing,” she said, but this time I could read her. Maybe because I knew for a fact that she'd seduced a willing Isaac in the Sunset Motor Inn and Resort.

“He told me about the motel in Hollywood,” I said.

She cursed under her breath. The jig was up, and she knew it. She sat on the edge of her bed, twisting her wedding ring, staring at the worn carpet pile on the floor.

“It's okay,” I said to encourage. “He told me you and your husband had an arrangement. And I'm not one to judge. I'm a liberal thinker when it comes to sex.”

“I don't know what to say,” she said at length.

“Just say if you followed Karl here, or if he followed you. You don't need to say anything else.”

“His name was Charles,” she said, a mite peeved.

“Why won't you call him Karl?” I asked. “Are you so ashamed of his Jewish birth?”

She scoffed and looked away. There were tears in her eyes. I gave her a moment to collect herself. She dabbed her nose with a tissue.

“I'm not an anti-Semite, Ellie,” she said softly. “I asked Karl to change his name for his own good. Where was he ever going to go with a name like Karl Marx Merkleson? It was for his future.”

“Then why not a more palatable Jewish name?” I asked. “We're talking about Hollywood, here. It was founded by Jews. Built by Jews. Jews who were shunned elsewhere, so they made their own industry. It's not as if there were ‘Hebrews need not apply' ads out there. Why were you so ashamed of him in a place like that?”

“Stop saying that!” she shouted, surprising me. “I'm not a Jew-hater, for God's sake. I
am
a Jew.”

That came as a jolt I'd never expected. Gayle aimed her fiercest glare at me, challenging me to contradict her. I stammered an inadequate defense. How could I have known? What did she mean?

“I am Jewish, Ellie,” she repeated, a little more gently. “My real name is Naomi Berkowitz. I changed it.”

“But your father . . .” I said. “Owen Pierce?”

“Hiram Berkowitz,” she said.

“Why would you hide such a thing?” I asked.

“I don't expect you to understand. You live in your Jewish cocoon. But my father grew up in the Midwest. He faced bigotry every day of his life. He tried to make it with his Jewish name, but some people wouldn't even meet with him, wouldn't shake his hand when they heard his name. No club would have him. He was asked to leave restaurants. He made a choice to assimilate.”

I drew a deep breath, urging myself to remain calm and to try to understand. But at the same time, I certainly didn't live in a Jewish cocoon. Not in New Holland, New York. But I held my tongue.

“Did you love Karl?” I asked, trying to force his Jewish name down her throat.

“Of course I did. And so did my father. Even after Charles broke his heart and said he wanted to go out on his own. Yes, we had our problems, like I told you before. We didn't look on sexual fidelity as the be all and end all in a marriage. As long as we came home to each other, there was no harm.”

“Save the last dance for me?” I asked.

“Yes, I loved him, Ellie,” she said, ignoring my remark. “But he was hard to love. Moody, mercurial, selfish. I have desires, too, you know. I'm not sure it would have lasted much longer. But I wanted to give it one more try to save our marriage.”

“You had an agreement with him,” I said. “Did that include a love affair with his old friend, Isaac?”

She started to sob, and I felt sorry for pushing her so. But she was close to breaking; I could sense it. I couldn't stop now. I wanted to know the whole truth. I wanted to know exactly who Isaac was before I left him behind for good. It was selfish. I knew that. But my heart was broken.

“Were you going to go home to him?” I asked. “To Karl? After meeting Isaac here?”

“I don't know,” she whispered.

“You were here August sixth, weren't you? You stayed at the Lakeside Motel. Isn't that right?”

Gayle's head fell into her hands. I waited. It took another minute. Another minute of her weeping and wondering what she should say. But in the end, she lifted her eyes and looked me straight in the face.