Psycho - Three Complete Novels (53 page)

“Let me say something to you, young lady. People around here just don’t like to remember what happened. Finally, I can’t say that I blame them. What’s done is done, and as far as they’re concerned there’s no more point in digging up those memories than there would be in digging up Norman Bates’ body.”

“You do have a poetic way of putting things,” Hank Gibbs murmured.

Dr. Rawson’s reaction was a self-conscious smile directed at Amy. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“Not at all,” Amy told him.
Here we go again,
she told herself.

And go she did, after the obligatory farewell amenities. Hank Gibbs conducted her out and led her down the street. Traffic was brisker, Amy noted, and there were more cars angle-parked in front of the stores; the supermarket across the street had its own lot already more than half-filled now.

“My apologies,” Gibbs said. “I should have told you the old boy is a little touchy.”

Amy congratulated herself for restraining from replaying, “Not at all.” Instead she said, “I’m the one who ought to apologize, making you drag me around from pillar to post this way.”

“No problem.” Gibbs smiled. “Gives me something to pass the time. During the day I frequently suffer from insomnia.”

“Maybe you ought to see a doctor,” Amy said.

“About my insomnia?”

“No, about your sense of humor.”

“Touché.” Gibbs glanced at her. “Next stop?”

“Loomis Hardware.”

“No such place. After Sam died and Bob Peterson took over he changed the name to guess what.” Gibbs gestured toward the shop window directly ahead on their right.

Even a novice in sign language wouldn’t fail to recognize the name which covered the entire upper surface of the hardware store’s window. Bob Peterson had indeed taken over.

And a pity it was too, Amy decided, once they entered and Gibbs had introduced her to the proprietor. Peterson was middle-aged, a short man who was losing the battle of the bulge; his hair was pepper-and-salt, eyes and complexion grey. His smile of greeting vanished upon Gibbs’ introduction, replaced by a stony stare.

“You the reporter staying over at the hotel?” he asked.

Amy nodded. “In that case I assume you may also know why I’m here.”

“That’s for damn sure.” If anything the steel in his stare was hardening. “Might as well tell you right off the bat that far as I’m concerned I got nothin’ to say.”

Hank Gibbs frowned. “Now look, Bob—”

Peterson ignored him, his stare still fixed. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nothin’ personal. Just that I made up my mind a long time ago I was never gonna talk about that business, never have and never will.”

Amy waited him out, forming a reply that she never made. The sound of a phone ringing from a room behind the counter at the far end of the store put an end to further conversation.

“Sorry. Got to catch the phone.” But Peterson didn’t look sorry; it was warm relief that melted the steely stare as he turned and started off.

Amy followed suit, but in the opposite direction, Hank Gibbs moving up beside her, lengthening his stride to open the door as she approached it.

Sunlight nooned directly overhead as they emerged.

“My fault,” he murmured. “Should have told you. He’s got a thing about what happened to Sam Loomis and Lila in the store here. Wouldn’t talk to those reporters either, but I hoped maybe he’d loosen up a little when he saw you.” His smile implied a compliment, but Amy did not acknowledge it.

Instead she said, “I hate to say so, but most people here don’t seem to go out of their way to be very friendly.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Gibbs shrugged. “As the captain of the
Titanic
used to say, ‘It’s just the tip of the iceberg.’ ”

The courthouse and its annex loomed directly ahead. Making their way past the artillery on the lawn, Hank Gibbs spoke again. “This time I’m going to warn you in advance.”

“About Sheriff Engstrom?”

“You could include him, I suppose.” Gibbs grinned. “But the one I really had in mind is that secretary of his—Irene Grovesmith.”

“She hates reporters too?”

Gibbs shook his head. “Irene is impartial. She hates everybody.”

“Any special reason?”

“Just old age, I guess. Engstrom should have gotten rid of her years ago. Irene ought to be grateful he kept her on, but she gives him a rough time. She gets her nourishment from biting the hand that feeds her.”

Amy gave him a look, but it was nothing compared to the one she received from Irene Grovesmith upon entering the Sheriff’s office in the annex.

“Morning,” Gibbs said. “Sheriff Engstrom around?”

“He’s not in.”

Gibbs nodded. “Must be over at State Hospital checking out what happened last night.”

“Never mind where he is.” The little old lady with the vinegary voice and matching expression would never be mistaken for Grandma Moses. Although it was he whom she addressed, Amy was still getting the look. And now a message came with it.

“I can tell you one thing right off,” Irene Grovesmith said. “Even if he was here, the Sheriff wouldn’t have anything to say to this young lady. When the time comes, he’ll be handing out an official statement.”

“Knock it off, Irene,” Gibbs said. “Miss Haines isn’t here to talk about what happened at the hospital, and you know it.”

“What I said still goes.” Now the voice poured vinegar directly for Amy’s consumption. “And I advise you to do the same, Miss Haines. Just pack up and go. Nobody here wants to talk to you—”

The telephone rang on the desk beside her.
Instant replay,
Amy told herself, thinking of how the incident at the hardware store had ended.

This one was only beginning. Irene Grovesmith picked up the phone but said nothing. Whoever was at the other end of the line had already begun to speak and all she could do was nod repeatedly. As she did so her eyes brightened and her features defrosted. “’Yes sir,” she said. “Right away.”

Replacing the receiver she turned and looked up with a triumphant stare. “If you’re snooping around to try and find out who killed that little girl, you can forget it.”

“What are you talking about?” Gibbs said.

“That was the Sheriff calling just now. They got the killer!”

— 5 —

T
he sun had shifted slightly to the west when Amy and her companion made their exit through the annex door. Gibbs stepped into the shaded area at the left of the entrance and halted, nodding. “Cooler here,” he said.

“Is that why you came out?” Amy asked. “They have air-conditioning inside. It didn’t seem warm to me.”

“It’s going to be a lot hotter when Engstrom hauls that prisoner in.”

“Then why did you tell his secretary we had to leave? Don’t you want to see who they caught?”

“Sure do. That’s why we’re out here. At least we’ll be able to get a look at him when he arrives. I somehow doubt that Engstrom would invite us into the holding cell for coffee and Twinkies.”

“It isn’t funny,” Amy said.

Hank Gibbs nodded. “I know that. Probably better than you do. Don’t forget, this is my town and these are my people. But if I let myself think too much about what all this is doing to them—” The way his voice trailed off added eloquence to his words.

“Have you got any idea whom they might be bringing in?”

“We’ll see in a couple of minutes.”

But they didn’t. Normal traffic streamed along the street bordering the square but there was no sign of a car bearing the official insignia entering the reserved parking space at their left.

Gibbs consulted his watch. “What’s holding them up?”

“The secretary didn’t say where they’d be coming from,” Amy said.

“That’s right. But I should’ve guessed where they’d be going.” Gibbs turned and opened the annex door. “Follow me.”

Amy tagged along as he reentered, doing her best to keep pace as he strode down the corridor. “Engstrom’s sharp. I just remembered he could take the back entrance to the main courthouse and sneak through to this side by way of the basement.”

Once again Irene Grovesmith peered up at them as they came through the office doorway. “I thought you’d left,” she said.

“Don’t you wish.” Gibbs’ eyes semicircled the room and came to rest on the door to Engstrom’s private office. “Where is he?”

“I’ve already told you it’s none of your business. And there’s no sense wasting your time hanging around here, Hank Gibbs. The Sheriff won’t be talking to you until he’s good and ready.”

Gibbs winked at Amy out of the corner of his eye. “So much for southern hospitality,” he murmured.

Irene Grovesmith glanced up quickly. “What’s that you said?”

Before Gibbs could answer, the door to Engstrom’s inner office opened abruptly and a uniformed deputy emerged, closing it behind him as he nodded at Gibbs.

“Afternoon, Hank.” He came forward, smiling. “Now I know what they mean when they say news travels fast.”

“Happens we were here when the call came in. Just stepped out front in case you needed a welcoming committee.” Gibbs glanced at Amy. “Miss Haines, I’d like you to meet Dick Reno.”

As introductions were concluded the Sheriff’s deputy was standing almost side by side with Hank Gibbs and Amy found herself inevitably—or was it automatically?—comparing the two men. Dick Reno was almost a head taller than the newspaper editor and at least a half dozen years younger, maybe more. He had dark, curly hair and would have been strikingly handsome were it not for the bridge of his nose, which was curiously flattened. Probably broke it playing football, Amy told herself, unless someone had broken it for him under other circumstances. Not an easy thing to do, if he’d been as trim and fit as he looked now. In any case, the slight irregularity of his features didn’t mar his engaging smile, and just why the hell was she wasting her time over that one way or the other?
Business before pleasure.

“Is there anything you might be able to tell us about what’s happened?” The question was strictly business, but there was no harm in allowing a hint of possible pleasure to creep into her glance and voice.

As a matter of fact, it seemed to help, and even more than she could have hoped. “It’s up to the Sheriff,” Dick Reno said. “But seeing as how you two already know we brought somebody in, I guess that part of it isn’t exactly a secret. Fact is, we don’t really know all that much more about him ourselves; not yet, anyway.”

“I’ll settle for a name,” Gibbs said.

“Don’t have one.” Reno’s smile was almost apologetic. “He refuses to identify himself and he’s not carrying any IDs.”

“Where did you find the suspect?” Hank Gibbs asked.

“He’s not a suspect,” Reno said. “That is, he hasn’t been charged with anything yet. We just took him into custody for questioning.”

“That’s not the way I heard it.” Gibbs gestured. “Irene here told us you got the killer.”

Irene Grovesmith’s eyes were like miniature ice cubes. Her mouth opened and the vinegar flowed. “Why, Hank Gibbs! I never said any such thing!” That made two indignant sniffs in a row, Amy noted, then wondered if there would be a third forthcoming now as the secretary directed her attention to Dick Reno. “As for you,” she told him, “I think you’ve said more than enough already.”

Apparently a third sniff was unnecessary because Reno nodded quickly, and when he addressed Amy the apologetic smile had returned. “Irene’s right, Miss Haines. I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you until you have a chance to talk to the Sheriff.”

“Chance?” Gibbs’ eyebrows rose. “You mean we’ve got to win the lottery or something?”

“Take it easy, Hank,” Reno said. “He’s just started questioning this guy now.”

“Does he know we’re here?”

Dick Reno shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then it’ll be a surprise.” Gibbs moved past the deputy in the direction of the Sheriff’s private office. As he did so, the voices of Reno and Irene Grovesmith rose and blended.

“Hey, wait a minute—”

“You can’t do that!”

He glanced back for a moment, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m knocking.” Actions followed words.

But not for long. The door opened partially; just enough for Sheriff Engstrom’s head to emerge from the aperture.

“What’s the big idea?” The question was obviously rhetorical, and Engstrom made no pretense of waiting for a reply. Instead his stare focused on Reno. “Get these people out of here!”

“Come on, Sheriff.” Hank Gibbs contrived a smile. “It’s just a matter of common courtesy. Young lady here’s been waiting to see you—”

“Is that so?” Engstrom’s stare shifted in Amy’s direction. “Then why didn’t she take the trouble to come over and introduce herself to me in the coffee shop last night?”

“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “Actually, I wasn’t quite sure who you were at that time.”

“Looked to me as though you were listening up pretty good,” Engstrom told her.

“Or else you were speaking pretty loudly,” Amy said. Something happened to Engstrom’s stare as she spoke; his eyes flickered momentarily and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Now look here, young lady—”

“I am looking,” Amy said, “but you’ve got the rest of it wrong. I’m going to be twenty-seven years old in another couple of months, which isn’t all that young. And when I’m working, which I happen to be right now, I’m not that much of a lady. Come to think of it, I’m not a lady at all, not in your sense of the word. Because from what I’ve been able to observe around here so far it’s just a word to you. As far as you’re concerned, the idea is still to keep the young ones barefoot and pregnant and stick the old ones behind a stove—” Amy paused for an instant, glancing at Irene Grovesmith. “Or a desk,” she concluded.

“Well I never!” The secretary sniffed in emphatic punctuation.

Somehow Amy resisted the obvious reply.

It was Engstrom who spoke for her. “That’s enough, Irene,” he said, then eased himself forward without opening the door any farther, glancing at Amy as he did so. “Be glad to set up something with you later. Right now I can give you five minutes.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.” Amy accompanied her nod with a smile. For a moment she debated whether or not to reach for the notebook inside the bag, then decided against it. Enough that she’d won; no sense pressing her luck. “Might I ask the name of the person you’ve taken into custody?”