No Stone Unturned (32 page)

“Maybe he took out a safety deposit box,” said the sheriff, finally dismissing my theory. “This kid’s in hot water, charged with murder. You really think he’s going to worry about saving some dirty pictures he’ll never see again?”

“Who knows?”

The three of us pondered that for a while.

“Can I buy you a drink?” asked the DA, fishing in his pockets for change. Nobody. He deposited three nickels in the Dr Pepper machine and pulled a bottle through one of the refrigerated holes.

“If I can locate Jean Trent’s woody,” I continued, “I think I’ll find more than a tire jack in the trunk.”

“You still going off on that?” asked Frank, throwing his hands in the air. “I told you that car was junked six months ago in Rensselaer County.”

“And I saw it a week ago, right out back here.”

“Go ahead and waste your time looking,” said Frank. “I’ve got a murderer locked up already. As for this two-bit burglary, I couldn’t care less. Let Jean’s insurance company handle it,” and he stomped off to confer with some of his deputies.

“How about you, Don?” I asked the DA.

He sipped his Dr Pepper. “First thing I’m going to do,” he said, squinting into the mild December sun, “is drop murder charges against Julio Hernandez.”

Just a few hundred yards from the Mohawk River, I found the house Victor Trent had left to his sister Reba. The ground floor of the brick building had been a furniture warehouse: Johnston’s Mill Refinishing, according to the faded lettering painted on the side. Upstairs was an apartment. The building stood alone amid the elm trees, forgotten, abandoned. A shallow creek, no more than a trickle of cold, clear water in wintertime, skirted the house and emptied into the river below. From the crumbling concrete sidewalk, the view consisted of overgrown shrubs and weeds and a dirt pathway to the front of the building. A weathered wooden staircase clung to the east side of the structure, leading unevenly to the upstairs. By all appearances, the shop had lain fallow for much longer than the home above it. The doors were padlocked and the windows boarded up, but around back, I found a loose two-by-four and a way inside.

My idea, of course, was that Julio had hidden his film equipment here, but there wasn’t the slightest indication of his or Jean’s presence anywhere. Someone had been inside, but it looked more like mischievous teenagers than amateur photographers. Beer cans, cigarette butts, and a hot rod magazine lay in the dust. Some creative soul had scrawled obscenities on the dirty windowpanes, complete with primitive representations of male and female anatomies.

The workshop itself was nothing more than a shell. Unidentifiable instruments, tools, and pieces of broken furniture cluttered the floor. Rusty hinges, boxes full of bent nails and screws, one jaw of a vice, cans of solidified lacquers, and dried-up stains . . . An insurance calendar from 1946 still hung on the wall above a caved-in worktable. Julio couldn’t have hidden his things in the shop without leaving a trail of footprints in the thick dust on the floor. Besides, no self-respecting photographer would store his equipment in such a filthy place. I pushed past the two-by-four and stepped back outside.

The upstairs was locked tight, having been vacated two years earlier, and there was little sign of life. I trusted my instincts and decided it would be a waste of time and effort to get inside; this had been Reba Trent’s place, not Jean’s.

Driving back to town, I stopped at a red light at the bottom of Windsor Street. Up the hill and a few streets over, Judge Shaw’s proper home sat on two-and-a-half acres of manicured landscape. When the light turned, I shifted into low and headed up the steep incline.

“Miss Stone,” said Audrey Shaw, in her cool manner. “I’m afraid the judge is not in.”

“I didn’t come to see him,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Jordan’s boyfriends. You seem to have been more in touch with her personal life than your husband was.”

“I was on my way out, but I suppose I have a few minutes. Come in.”

Audrey Shaw led me down the hall in silence, her slim hips swaying easily under the tapered navy skirt. She was an attractive woman, no matter her age, and she knew it. She invited me to sit in the parlor, then offered me a cigarette from a box on the cherrywood coffee table between us. Not my brand, but I didn’t quibble.

“What happened to your face?” she asked. I’d tried to hide the black eyes and bruises under makeup with mixed results.

“Just a car accident,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“So, how can I help you?” she asked.

“I’ve spoken to the judge about some of Jordan’s boyfriends, but I’m interested in your opinion.” She lit her cigarette, and I lit mine. She stared at me, composed, waiting for me to explain myself. “If you could tell me about them—her boyfriends, I mean—I might learn something.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, I think that would be best. We could start with Tommy Quint.”

Audrey Shaw crossed her nylons and set about thinking. “Tommy was like an annoying puppy dog. He was an average boy in love with an extraordinary girl. They began going steady in the ninth grade,” she said, inhaling from her cigarette. “He was nice looking, and serious, too. He started working at that ice cream parlor at fourteen and never acted like a typical teenager. While the other kids were loitering on street corners, experimenting with their first beer, stealing their first kisses, Tommy was scooping ice cream and drawing Cokes.”

“Not a good deal for a teenager.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far. Tommy enjoyed a privileged position at that place.”

“Fiorello’s,” I prompted, sure she knew the name. “Privileged how?”

“Privileged because every boy and girl in high school wanted a part-time job at that place, Fiorello’s. Even Jordan asked that fat man for a job one summer, but he said he didn’t need any more help. She went to Europe instead.” She smiled to herself. “Strange, isn’t it? Jerking sodas in a small-town ice cream shop like Fiorello’s qualifies as status . . .”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked with a conspiratorial smile.

“Baltimore,” she said simply. “Neither are you. I know you’re from New York, and I’ll bet not Brooklyn or Queens.”

She smiled sadly, probably thinking of her daughter. “Yes, I’m a snob, Miss Stone. But don’t kid yourself. You’re as big a snob as I, but you’re a liberal and won’t admit it to yourself. You probably voted for Kennedy.”

“What about Tommy Quint?” I asked, ignoring her remark. I didn’t want to offend her with my politics; I’d seen the Nixon bumper sticker outside, after all.

“Oh, yes,” she said, remembering herself. “The girls liked Tommy very much in junior high school; he was handsome and polite. But that job marooned him outside the circle of his peers. I suspect he was considered somewhat different, and I’m sure
you
know what an impairment that can be for a teenager.”

“You say that as if my peers might have considered me different in high school,” I said.

“Of course they did.”

I nodded. “Maybe Tommy enjoyed being different.”

“I can’t say. But I know he was crazy for Jordan. Every so often, she tired of him and went out with other boys. For Tommy, it was the end of the world. He moped, whined, cried, and when she’d had her fill of the excitement of someone new, she’d take him back. Jordan was kinder than I would have been. Just as she was with Glenda Whalen. I never understood how she could stand that girl. Just an unhappy, unlikeable soul. As for Tommy, his delicate nature turned my stomach, to be quite frank. No woman likes that in a man, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“I’ll bet Pukey Boyle never shed a tear in his life,” I said and waited for an answer.

“Ah, the charming Mr. Boyle . . . Well, that was another mess.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“Yes, several times. Jordan took up with him about four years ago, the summer before she went to college.”

“How did they meet?”

Audrey Shaw took a last puff on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before her. She leaned forward, eyes bright, lips parted just so: the pose she’d perfected at mixers and cocktail parties in Baltimore to capture the complete attention of her interlocutor.

“Jordan went to Winandauga Lake to a summertime bash at the camp of a friend. She was to spend the weekend with the others but came back unexpectedly that first night. When her father and I asked who had brought her home, she said Henry Boyle.” She sniffed. “It wasn’t until later that we found out that he was known as Pukey.”

“Did she ever talk to you about him?”

“Not much, but she shared some things. Most of the information we got on Mr. Boyle came from Jordan’s friends, who were justifiably concerned.”

“Tommy Quint?”

“For one.”

“And Glenda Whalen?”

“For another. You’re a clever girl, Miss Stone, but I’m not sure I like that. I can’t figure your angle in all this.”

“How do you mean?”

“What are you after? Why do you care about Jordan and Ginny? Why aren’t you married? Why do you chase after murderers?”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“Well, why
do
you care?”

“I believe in justice,” I said, defensive. “And I do care about Jordan. I feel . . . an affinity with her.”

Audrey Shaw seemed horrified. “Indeed? How?”

“In ways you might not understand. We’re nearly the same age, and . . .”

“With all respect, young lady,” she announced, “I think that that’s where the resemblance ends. I thought your motivation might have something to do with you, with your own life.”

“So you know about my father?” I asked, staring her down. I think she enjoyed transferring some of her pain to me.

“Yes, Harrison told me all about it. He’d got it from Fred Peruso and Sheriff Olney. I wonder if that’s why you’re playing detective. From what I understand, you performed brilliantly in that investigation.”

“That has nothing to do with your daughter,” I said. “And this is my job as well. I don’t have any other income, and I need it.”

“But you enjoy this a little too much, I think,” she said. “Never mind. Let’s continue.”

“Were any other friends concerned about Jordan and Pukey Boyle?”

“Are you referring to Greg Hewert?”

“I’ll get to him in a minute. Anyone else?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you or the judge discourage Jordan from seeing Pukey Boyle? Was he good to her?”

“My husband and I let Jordan make her own decisions when it came to boys. In general, she used good judgment. Mr. Boyle was an aberration, of course. As for how he treated her, Jordan never complained nor showed any reasons to.”

“I spoke with him last week,” I said. “And he said some things that may offend you, Mrs. Shaw. If you prefer, I won’t tell you.”

“Then why bring it up at all?”

“Because I’m curious to know if he was typical or, as you put it, an aberration.”

“You can’t say anything to hurt Jordan now, Miss Stone. Ask me what you will.”

“He seemed bitter about their relationship, but that could be just so much bruised male pride talking. He did imply, however, that Jordan led boys on only to leave them disappointed.”

Audrey Shaw bowed her head, and I couldn’t exactly read her thoughts. After a pause, she looked me straight in the eye. “I think I know the expression,” she said. “It’s nicer than some other names a boy might call a girl.”

“Oh, he used some of those as well,” I said. “In Boston I came across a letter he’d sent to Jordan a couple of years ago. It was short and sweet: he told her to rot in hell and called her a rather ugly name.”

Audrey Shaw straightened up and frowned. “Henry Boyle wrote Jordan a letter?” she asked.

“Yes. At least I assumed he’d written it. It wasn’t signed.”

“Ah,” she said, leaning forward again, reasserting her composure. “That wasn’t Henry Boyle. Tommy Quint wrote that letter.”

“Really?” I asked. “It was so . . . unexpectedly violent.”

Audrey Shaw shrugged.

I asked her how Jordan and Pukey had broken off, and she explained that Jordan had simply tired of the novelty.

“She once told me his reputation was exaggerated,” she said. “That he was a good person deep down. Misunderstood. But, ultimately, she wasn’t interested in molding him into something better. She was no Pygmalion,” and she looked doubtfully at me, as if she had overestimated me.