No Stone Unturned (29 page)

“If this Jerrold guy had broken it off with her, how did she convince him to come all the way to New Holland?”

I gave Fadge a knowing look, and he figured it out for himself.

“What is it about a pretty woman that’ll make a man stand on his head?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“And it was safer here,” I said. “No accidental discovery at a Boston hotel, no risk of being recognized. It’s ironic, too. Jerrold held all the cards; he made this great show of strength and resolve, told her it was over between them. Then, when that pretty young thing crooked her finger, he came running two hundred miles.”

“With his crank in his hand.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself and your gender,” I said, unable to suppress a grin. “But to get back to the night of November 25th,” I said, closing my extended parentheses. “We know Jordan arrived alone at eight thirty and parked her father’s car out back, because it wouldn’t do for an Appellate Division judge’s car to be seen at the most notorious love lounge in the county. Jean Trent checked her in and heard Jerrold arrive around nine fifteen.”

“And that’s where Julio comes in?”

“That’s right. You don’t think an accomplished voyeur like Julio would fail to notice a treat like Jordan Shaw, do you? Plus, he knew her from high school. So he sets up surveillance at the window, misses the main event, I believe, because the bathroom door is closed, but gets his reward watching Jordan shower off afterward.”

“Not an ugly sight, I’d wager. But did he see Jerrold?”

“If he did, he’s not admitting to it.”

“So then what?”

No need to check my notes; I had the timeline memorized by now. “Jerrold leaves Jordan a little after eleven. About quarter past midnight, Jean Trent hears a car pull into the parking lot. She’s curious, peeks out the window, and sees another man go into Jordan’s room. There’s no scream, so she goes back to her movie. Afterward, she looks out the window again. The second car’s gone and a different one is parked outside. A third man is leaving Jordan’s room.”

“Okay, that’s nothing new; I read that in your article last week. But what does it mean?”

“First of all, it means the third man—the one Jean saw leaving after her movie—didn’t take the body out. Whether the second man, or someone else, removed Jordan earlier, I can only guess right now; apparently Jerrold didn’t, since Julio heard him leave. But I’m wondering what happened to our voyeur that night. Did he leave after watching Jordan through the window, or did he go to Jean Trent’s room? I have the feeling Julio’s scared because he has evidence.”

“Now that’s news,” said Fadge. “What kind of evidence?”

“It’s just a hunch, but I think he took pictures through Jordan’s window and got more than he bargained for.”

Fadge shook his head. “If he did take pictures, and if he did shoot something that scared him into shutting up, wouldn’t he simply destroy the film?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, sliding my photographs back inside their envelope. “If worse comes to worst, that film will save his neck.”

The possibility that Julio had shot film of Jordan Shaw through the bathroom window aroused my interest and, and at the same time, dampened any hopes that I would ever solve the murder and save my sinking career. If the photos existed, they could be hidden anywhere. And Julio might well have destroyed them. Or maybe they had never existed at all, which sent me back to square one. I was poised to invest considerable time and effort to prove my hunch, and if there was no film, I feared I might lose the trail for good.

Did Julio shoot photographs of a naked Jordan Shaw? I turned the question over and over, trying to climb inside his mind. What would I have done in his shoes that night? Would a voyeur have squandered such an opportunity? A voyeur who was a fair hand with a camera and a darkroom? The answer, of course, was no. On Friday, November 25, Julio had shot some of the hottest film he’d ever cranked through a camera. I was sure of it. And I was going to find it.

Frank Olney was slurping coffee from his mug when I entered his office. He offered me a cup, but I declined.

“I just want to ask you a few questions, Frank,” I said. “And maybe have a minute with Julio.”

“Forget it, Ellie. I’ve already gone out on a limb for you. The other prisoners might open their fat mouths. And if Joe Murray finds out I let a reporter talk to his client without him present, we’ll have a dismissal on our hands faster than you can say
habeas corpus
.”

“What about his family? Have a heart, Frank. Let them see the poor kid.”

Frank chuckled with irony. “
Poor kid
. What about Jordan Shaw? That
poor kid
in there should have thought about the consequences before he snapped her neck.”

I shook my head but didn’t argue; Frank knew where I stood on Julio. Instead, I turned to the subject of Jean Trent.

“I’ve been thinking maybe I should ask her a few questions. Can I see her?”

Frank shook his head. “She also hired Joe Murray, who told me Jean won’t talk to anyone, especially—quote, unquote—‘that little shit of a reporter Ellie Stone.’”

“She specifically said she wouldn’t talk to me?” I asked.

Frank nodded. “She thinks you got her involved in something she had nothing to do with. She’s off-limits. Should have talked to her last time I offered.”

“All right,” I granted, not too worried about the long-term effects of the chill in my friendship with Jean Trent. “What do you know about her?”

The sheriff shrugged, then downed the last swig of his coffee. “What’s to know? She’s been at the Mohawk for as long as I can remember.”

“What about her husband? When did he die? What kind of money did he leave her?”

“He died about seven years ago. Some kind of cancer. He was a small guy, quiet but kind of mean. He didn’t like people very much and kept to himself. I don’t know what money he left Jean, but she manages somehow. I’ll tell you one thing: what she makes from that motel couldn’t support a refugee.”

I jotted down some notes as the sheriff spoke. “I’ve got an idea, Frank,” I said, putting away my book. “It’s Saturday; the offices upstairs are closed. Let’s take a quick look at Victor Trent’s will.”

“Why are you so interested in Jean Trent?” he asked. “You’re not going to tell me she killed Jordan Shaw.”

“No. But I’ve been wondering about her second car. Have your boys located it yet?”

Frank shook his head. “Nothing to locate. Jean says the wagon died somewhere in Rensselaer County about six months ago. She junked it and hasn’t seen it since. End of story.”

“That’s not true, Frank. I saw that green wagon parked behind the Mohawk just last week.”

“Can’t be, Ellie. I checked with Motor Vehicles—registration expired several months back, and Jean never renewed it.”

“I know it was her car,” I said, “because I checked with Motor Vehicles, too. The registration has expired all right, but someone’s been driving it here in Montgomery County very recently.”

The sheriff scratched the back of his neck, considering the significance of the lie Jean Trent had spooned him.

“Well, it doesn’t change anything,” he said finally. “Half the slobs I pull over for speeding are driving with expired registrations. She probably lied to save herself a ticket.”

“So, do I get a look at Victor Trent’s will or not?”

Frank and I climbed the stairs to the third floor, where the Montgomery County Administration shared a cramped space with the Department of Motor Vehicles. Had it not been a Saturday afternoon, I would have had to duck Benny Arnold, who had given me the dope on Jean Trent’s second car.

These were the catacombs of New Holland’s legal patrimony, crumbling under the weight of time, moisture, and munching insects. We wound around a bulwark of high shelves and dusty files, traveling backward through time, searching for 1953, the year of Victor Trent’s death.

“Why do you want to snoop through Victor Trent’s meager bequests?” asked Frank as we scanned the dates.

“I’m interested in the will, what he left and to whom.”

“I’d wager he didn’t leave a pot to piss in, unless you count the Mohawk,” and he roared with laughter, raising a cloud of dust from some folios on the shelf before him.

“Here it is,” I said, hoisting a file box from its resting place. “Probate wills, 1953–1954.”

Frank lugged the heavy box to the clerk’s counter up front. Flipping through the official stamps and, yes, even some red tape, we found Victor Trent’s will in short order. He had left his wife the Mohawk Motel and all his personal possessions, including $12,130 in a savings account, a coin collection appraised at $6,200 when the will was in probate, a garage full of furniture-refinishing equipment, and a life-insurance policy worth $15,000. But the document didn’t end there. Victor Trent owned seven acres of land on Winandauga Lake, about twelve miles north of New Holland, as well as a house his sister occupied in Johnston’s Mill, just west of the city limits, along the river. He left the house to his sister, Reba, with an executory devise that the property pass to Jean upon Reba’s death. The will stipulated further that the land on Winandauga Lake would remain in trust, to be shared equally by Reba and Jean, until the death of one or the other. At such time, the survivor could dispose of the property as she saw fit. Frank informed me that Reba had died two years earlier.

Victor Trent’s estate was an impressive show of wealth for a small-town innkeeper. But it wasn’t all that unusual in New Holland; the mills had been good to a great number of sensible, hard-working Joes who had saved their money, bought land whenever they could afford it, and ended up retiring to their Social Security checks and rental incomes. Most failed to take any personal advantage of their relative wealth, sticking to the habits of a lifetime of honest toil and moderation, and left it all to their children instead. What I found puzzling, however, was Jean Trent’s situation. Why would she continue to live in the gloom and squalor of the Mohawk Motel when she had inherited enough money to see her comfortably through her last days?

I backed my car away from the Montgomery County Jail, swinging to face Route 22, and saw the deep-maroon, metallic paint half-hidden by some trees. I swore to myself, straining to make sure it was Pukey Boyle’s Hudson Hornet. It was. I sat at the wheel of my car for several moments, considering my options. I could barrel out of the parking lot and take my chances, or I could leave my car at the jail and sneak away through the woods on foot. The first choice seemed dangerous, the second was downright cowardly, which was okay; I am a girl, after all. Then I noticed a third option: if I was willing to risk a few scratches on my company car, I could squeeze through a narrow break in the shrubs leading to the rear of the building and a small dirt road. Convincing myself that this was a brilliant feint, I eased my car through the brush and gained the back road unnoticed. I turned south on 22 and drove right past Pukey, whose eyes, I could see, were glued on the county jail.