Off Season (15 page)

Phyllis dabbed at herself with her Kleenex. “Oh, it's all right, J.W., it's all right. It's just that this whole thing has been so . . .” To my dismay, she burst into tears.

Well done, Jackson. Teacup in one hand, cookie in the other, I sat there in that stiff, awkward way that men do when they've said something stupid and insensitive. It was once again clear that I had been wise to forgo a career in politics.

Mimi's Christmas tree was set up in the corner of her living room. The tree was decorated with small electric lights and colored balls, and an assortment of little figures and decorations she had collected over the years. She had told me once that whenever she and Gus traveled anywhere, they bought little souvenirs that they could hang on their tree in remembrance of the places they'd been and the good times they'd had. There were candles and greenery on her mantle and more greenery woven up the banister of the stairs leading upstairs. In each of her windows was a single electric candle. The room smelled good, and there was a fire in the fireplace.

Mimi came back with paper towels, and she and Phyllis dabbed at the tea stains on Phyllis's skirt and blouse. Stain removal not being a specialty of mine, I stayed where I was.

“Phyllis, you go upstairs and change,” said Mimi finally. “We'll have to attack these spots later when you're not wearing them.”

“That wicked man!” choked Phyllis, getting up.

'J.W.'s not wicked,” said Mimi. “He's just not too sensitive sometimes. Go on, now.”

Phyllis put her hand to her mouth and looked at me. “Oh, dear! I didn't mean you, J.W.! I know you didn't mean to . . . I mean . . . Oh, I hope you didn't think . . . Please excuse me. I'm a wreck. I think I'll lie down for a while, Mimi.” Dabbing at herself, she fled upstairs.

Mimi sighed. “She's a dear, but she can be a trial, too. I've known her since we were at Buckingham School together, and she's always been too easily upset. She came flying in here the day they found
Chug's body. Couldn't bear to be alone. I'm not sure I blame her.”

“Well, her husband seems to be the kind of guy who might like that sort of a wife. Somebody he can boss around.”

“Oh, she's been a good wife to him. Better than he deserves, I sometimes think. I don't think he's really capable of loving anybody except his daughters. He dotes on them. On the other hand, he and Phyllis stay together as a matter of form, more than anything else.” She shrugged. “You figure that out. I'll tell you one thing: down underneath all her surface propriety and nerves, Phyllis isn't as flighty as you might think. Look how she's stuck with the animal rights group, in spite of all the rancor that goes with that work. Don't be too quick to judge her.”

That was good advice with regard to most people. I lifted my cup. “Nice tea. I know it's the season to be jolly and that we should probably be singing Christmas carols to each other, but I really would like to talk to you about Chug Lovell.”

“I barely knew Chug,” said Mimi. “And all I know about his death is what I read in the papers.”

“You're his closest neighbor.”

“That's what the police said when they came by. I couldn't tell them a thing, though. I didn't see any strange people lurking about, or any cars acting oddly, or anything at all.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

“Policemen don't tell people things. They just ask questions.” She looked at me over her teacup. She had keen eyes with laugh wrinkles at their corners. “But you're a civilian. What can you tell me?”

“Wait a minute, Meem. I'm the one who's trying to get you to tell me something. Not the other way around. Besides, I don't know anything.”

“You're thinking about something,” said Mimi. “I can see it in your face. You get a wrinkle in your forehead. Angie told me about it when you two were going out together. She said that whenever you were thinking about something you didn't want anybody to know about, you got that wrinkle, and that whenever she told you about it, you ironed it out and said you weren't thinking about anything.”

I ironed out the wrinkle and said, “Well, I'm not thinking about anything.”

“There,” said Mimi. “You did just what she said you do. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“See. You men! It'll be good for you to be married. You learn to tell Zeolinda everything, because I'm going to tell her about that wrinkle.”

“I'm not worried about wrinkles in my forehead. Have you heard anything about the police finding something, some sort of evidence or something, maybe, in Chug's house?”

“No. What have you heard?”

“I know he had a freezer full of venison and scallops and that he was killed by somebody who shot him with a hunting arrow. Do you know any of his friends? Anybody who might have been a close acquaintance?”

“No. I only saw him in meetings when he showed up to try to get people to let land go back to nature. I never saw anybody with him. What are you thinking about?”

“Who's the wicked man?”

“What?”

“The wicked man Phyllis mentioned. Who is he?”

“I thought it was you. You are a little bit wicked sometimes.”

“No, it wasn't me.” Who was it? Chug? Her husband,
Vince? Somebody else? “Did the police question her?”

“Yes, they did. Her house is not far from Chug's, after all. She was here with me when they came by. I think that everybody along the road has been questioned.”

Maybe it was some cop who had rubbed Phyllis wrong. Maybe not.

Mimi gave me a piece of mince pie with my tea. Then she gave me another one. When I finished that one, she ignored my hopeful look and the plate I was picking clean of crumbs and waved me toward the door. “Off you go. I've got work to do. The grandchildren are coming for Christmas and I've got to start making cookies.”

“I could help you make room for the cookies by getting rid of the rest of this pie.”

“No, you couldn't. Phyllis and I are having that for dessert this evening.”

“Cheez, Meem, this is the Christmas season. We're supposed to share our goodies with those less fortunate than ourselves.”

“I already shared my pie with you. Go cook your own pie.”

“Rats.” I got up and took my plate and cup into the kitchen.

“There is something useful you could do,” said Mimi, when I got back to the living room. “Keep an eye on Phyllis's house while she's here with me. Here. I keep a key to her place.” She handed me the key.

“You're a tough customer,” I said. “More work but no more pie.”

“You got it.” She tipped her head back and I kissed her, then went out to the Land Cruiser.

The December sun hung far to the south and the
air was clear and chilly. I drove past Chug Lovell's house and saw that the reflective police ribbons and crime scene cards were still up, but that there was no policeman on duty. That probably meant that the state police had already given the place a good going-over, and had whatever evidence they thought that they'd find.

I drove on to the Manwaring place, turned in and felt a sudden chill at the sight of a car in back of the house and a man at the front door, his nose against the window as he peered into the house. I felt a rush of adrenaline and was instantly skittish and alert, thinking “Joey Percell.”

Hearing my car, the man straightened quickly, and turned toward the driveway. Of course it was not Percell. Why should Joey Percell be peeking into Phyllis Manwaring's window, after all? (On the other hand, why had Joey Percell punched out Ignacio Cortez?)

I stopped and got out of the Land Cruiser, and the man came toward me along the walk. I had seen him here and there over the years and knew who he was, but he didn't know who I was.

“Dr. Williams,” I said.

Dr. Cotton “Shrink” Williams was wearing a knit wool cap, a thick sweater and wool pants over his Bean boots. He was a graying, fit-looking man pushing fifty, who was now simultaneously smiling and frowning.

“You have the advantage of me, I'm afraid.” He put out a strong, slender hand and shook my bigger one.

“J. W. Jackson. I'm sort of looking after this place. Can I help you?”

His eyes, behind round, gold-rimmed glasses, were blue, keen and, by practice or nature, unrevealing.

“Well, yes, perhaps you can. I'm looking for . . . the
Manwarings. I was told they'd be down for the holidays.”

“I understand that Vince Manwaring is on the mainland chasing money or votes or maybe both.”

“Oh. Ha, ha! Yes, I believe he does have political ambitions. And, ah, is Mrs. Manwaring with him?”

“You a friend of theirs?” I was thinking that most friends would have parked in front of the house.

“A friend. Yes.”

“We had a murder just down the road the other day. I'm told that Mrs. Manwaring got spooked.”

He abruptly revealed emotion. “Yes! I was at a conference in New York when I heard! I came right back . . .” He paused, and the invisible veil once more fell into place behind his shining eyes. I watched him place a caring smile upon his face. “That is to say, I was concerned about the Manwarings' well-being, what with the killer still not being apprehended. You understand.”

“It could be spooky for a person alone in a big house like this,” I agreed.

Again a hint of feeling. “Yes! Poor Phyllis, all alone . . .” Then the veil again. “I would very much like to speak with her. Do you know where she is?”

I had a thought. “Is she a patient of yours, Doctor?”

He looked at me, instantly very composed, but with that smile still on his face. “I'm afraid I don't discuss my patients with other people, Mr. Jackson.”

“I don't want you to discuss her. I just want to know if she's a patient of yours. Is that confidential information?”

He pursed his lips. “Some still attach a stigma to people who seek assistance from psychologists, psychiatrists and others in the field. I therefore have made it my policy to neither confirm nor deny the existence
of a professional relationship between me and any other person.”

“Just like the U.S. Navy will neither confirm nor deny the existence of atomic weapons on their ships, eh?”

“I'm afraid I know nothing of the navy, Mr. Jackson.” His smile faded. “Do you or do you not know where I can get in touch with Mrs. Manwaring?”

I didn't think he was going to tell me much more. “Call me J.W. Everybody does.” Actually, that wasn't true. Zee called me other things.

“J.W. Well?”

“I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll tell Phyllis that you want to see her, and let her get in touch with you.”

He frowned. “I assure you that she'll want to see me.”

“In that case, she'll probably call you right away. Where'll you be? At home, or at your office?”

He pushed at the frown until it left his face. “You're being very careful, but I can appreciate that. All right, have her call me at either place. I have answering machines on both phones, in case she misses me.”

“I'll give her that message,” I said, then gestured toward his car. “You find anything odd while you were out back?”

He looked surprised. “No. What do you mean?”

“You know, a broken window, a door ajar, any sign of vandalism or somebody trying to get into the house?”

“No. No, I didn't.”

“The back door? A broken lock or anything?”

“No. No, the door was fine. Why do you ask?”

“Just my job. Christmas is a busy time for house-breakers. Lots of expensive presents around. You know. Well, I guess I'll check back there myself. Walk you to your car?”

“What? Yes, of course.”

When he was in his car, I leaned down. “The last time I saw Phyllis, she was going to lie down for a while. I think she needs a rest, but I'll leave your message so she'll have it when she gets up. It might be a while before she tries to contact you.” I straightened, stepped back and raised a hand. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Jackson.”

“Call me J.W.”

But he drove away without another word. I noted his license plate, then walked around the grounds and through the house, checking things out.

Phyllis had apparently abandoned the house in a hurry. The thermostat was still on seventy. I turned it down to sixty, not because Vince Manwaring couldn't afford to heat a big house with no one in it, but because the idea of doing that offended my economic principles. Some of Phyllis's clothes were tossed over a chair in the master bedroom, a closet door was half open and the bed was unmade. In the master bathroom, a thick towel I would have loved to own lay on the floor where it had fallen from its hook. I hung it back up. There was some soot on it and in the washbasin.

In the living room fireplace I found the source of the soot: the remains of a badly made fire. A couple of pieces of thick cardboard lay amid the ashes, and more ashes had blown out onto the floor because Phyllis had neglected to shut the screen and the still open damper had allowed the wind to blow down the chimney after her fire had died. I thought that Phyllis was lucky she hadn't burned her house down. I closed the damper and the screen, but left the scattered ashes to someone else. Phyllis clearly needed lessons in fireplace management if she ever expected to be a true island woman, which I didn't imagine she did.

Shrink had been right about the back door. It was fine. So was everything else. I used Phyllis's phone to call Mimi and give her Shrink's message, and went out.

I got into the Land Cruiser and drove back past the late lamented Chug Lovell's house and past Mimi's house. I drove on by Carl Norton's fifty acres until I came to a narrow dirt road that led through Carl's land south to the great pond. Duck hunters used it during the season. I drove down the road a hundred yards and parked in a wide spot. I rummaged in the glove compartment and found my lock picks. My rusty Toyota blended nicely with the winter-bronzed oak brush. You had to look carefully to see it. I walked through the trees to Chug's house and, after another check to confirm that no one was on guard, ducked under the police ribbon and went to the back door. There I got out my picks. It was illegal entry all the way, but I didn't think that Chug would mind.