Verdict Suspended (13 page)

Steve must have been at work. His reply had a trace of annoyance. “With me? No. Why?”

“Because he was here a short time ago. He asked a lot of questions. Pumped me about Dr. Curry.”

“Curry?” Steve repeated. “How did he know anything about him?”

“Lennard told him there was a third psychiatrist. He asked about the accident—wanted to know if he was drunk. That sort of thing. I don’t like the sound of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been through shock, Steve. Several shocks. The accident … Sheilah’s death … the inquest. He did a peculiar thing. He pulled the blinds here at my office windows and asked me to repeat something. Wait … I jotted it down. He asked me to repeat these words: ‘Jaime, what happened after Sheilah fell?’” Pitman paused. “Do you make anything of that?”

Greta hung to the phone, listening. It was seconds before Steve answered.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll take care of it…. Did he say anything else?”

“He doesn’t think a prowler killed Sheilah…. Steve, I think you better find that boy and straighten him out. He’s bugged over something.”

“I will,” Steve promised. “Thanks for calling me…. Did Jaime say where he was going after he left your office?”

“Not a word. Stalked out as soon as he pulled the drapery trick. I didn’t have a chance to stop him. But he had a definite objective, I’m sure of that! I tell you, he’s bugged over Sheilah’s death, Steve. Get him off it!”

Greta heard Pitman’s phone drop back into the receiver, and then she heard Steve breathing. She might even have imagined that—but she felt him, sensed him waiting, thinking for an agony of moments until a crisp click terminated the connection. She lowered her own telephone thoughtfully. Pitman’s words were jangling alarm bells in her mind.

It wasn’t five minutes later that Steve came to the cottage. Greta wasn’t surprised. She was storing groceries in the refrigerator when he knocked. “Come in, Steve,” she called. He came in, followed the sound of her voice to the kitchen, and asked for Jaime.

Greta faced him. He was trying hard to look casual but Steve was a better actor in a courtroom.

“I haven’t seen Jaime all day,” she said. “I just got home.”

“What about this morning?” Steve prodded. “Did he say what he planned to do today?”

Morning. It was a time of strange questions and of sudden, fierce avowals of love.

Steve watched her too closely. He caught the trouble in her eyes. “What happened this morning?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing important…. Steve, what’s wrong?”

Steve took the bag of groceries away from her and resumed the storage job. The refrigerator light was out. He scowled disapproval at the darkness and closed the door with an abrupt thud.

“Jaime’s confused,” he said. “What he needs most of all is to get back to work.” He faced her hopefully. “I can still arrange for that job.”

But Greta was in no mood for a tranquilizer. “You haven’t said anything, Steve. Stop lying to me!”

“I’m not lying! Believe me, Greta. Jaime’s all right. But there’s something I want you to do. When he comes home, let me know. Just pick up the telephone—it’s on a direct wire to my desk—and say: ‘Steve, when do I get the bulb for my refrigerator?’ Will you do that?”

“Why?” Greta demanded. “Why don’t I say, ‘Steve, Jaime is home. Do you want to talk to him?’”

Steve was under strain. The answer snapped off the edge of his tongue. “Because Sheilah was a devil!” he said. “She knew everything—planned everything—ran everything! With Sheilah on earth there was no need for God … except that God might have had compassion.” Then he stopped, guiltily. “Forget the nerve ends,” he said. “Just remember to call me when Jaime comes in.”

He didn’t want conversation. He walked quickly through the living room. His hand was on the doorknob when Greta’s question stopped him.

“And then what do you do?” she challenged. “Watch for a prowler again?”

Steve didn’t move. She hurled another question.

“What did Dr. Pitman mean about a third psychiatrist?”

Now there was a response. Steve faced her, surprised.

“How did you know about that?”

“I listened. The telephone was ringing when I came in. I thought it was Jaime. What did he mean, Steve?”

Steve’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “It was a legal matter,” he said. “Something I had to do as preparation for the inquest. Don’t worry about it.” And then, before she could ask any more questions, he opened the door and went out.

When the door closed behind Steve, Greta waited for several moments and then walked slowly back through the bedroom and out onto the balcony. All of the houses along the beach had balconies facing the sea. Little decks from which could be traced the rough line of coast that fringed the surf with a wall of sand and rock. On the edge of the point she could see the deck of Sheilah’s house protruding like a black prow against the sky. The sun was at a late angle. The glass roof was turning coral. Below, the sea surged in small ruffles against the beach and pounded white plumes on the jetty of rocks off the point. Steve was such a thoughtful host. He provided a honeymoon house with a view—and then stood guard like a custodian of prisoners. He left cryptic instructions and warm assurances. But one thing he neglected to do. He provided no answer for the question that was screaming through her mind:

“Jaime, what did you do after Sheilah fell?”

When Steve returned to the main house, Albert Trench was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Steve glanced at him in passing and went directly to the study. He sat down behind the desk and stared at the telephone. Minutes passed. Impatiently, he picked it up and dialed the operator.

“There’s a new tenant in the Patterson house,” he said. “A Mr. Howard. Can you tell me if he’s installed a telephone?”

He waited.

“He has?” Steve picked up a pencil and scribbled a number on a piece of paper. “Will you ring, please?” He waited again. A shadow fell across the desk. He looked up to see Trench holding a small tray on which was one properly filled martini glass.

“Oh,” Trench apologized. “I forgot, sir. You’re a scotch man.”

“That’s all right,” Steve said, accepting the drink. “Everyone has to be good at something.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And some people have to be good at everything,” Steve added pointedly.

“Some people
are
good at everything,” Trench said.

On the telephone, the operator was reporting: “I’m sorry, sir. The party doesn’t answer. Shall I continue ringing?”

“Yes,” Steve said, “but call me back when you reach him. I can’t hold the line open. I’m expecting another call.” He dropped the telephone back in the cradle and came to his feet, glass in hand. He wasn’t accustomed to having a servant in the house. A cleaning woman now and then was enough. Trench annoyed him. “So you’re the loyal, devoted slave type,” he mused. “Loyal beyond the grave.”

“I got along admirably with Miss Dodson,” Trench said.

“You didn’t resent her at all?”

“No, sir. Why should I?”

Steve hated martinis. He drank this one quickly, fully aware of its creator’s disapproving eyes.

“Other people resented her,” Steve said. “Quite a few other people.”

“Yes, sir. We knew that.”

“We?” Steve brightened. “The imperial ‘we’? I didn’t know Sheilah had a dynasty.”

A smile was actually unpleasant on Trench’s face. He wore it so rarely that the exercise seemed painful. “We,” he said with deliberate accentuation, “were together a great deal. Miss Dodson knew who she could trust.”

“I know she did,” Steve agreed. “She had good reason to know … Albert Trench. Now that’s an odd name. Not a difficult one to trace. Previously a chauffeur in Seattle. Involved in an accident in 1953. Two persons killed. The driver drunk. Convicted of manslaughter. Appealed. Released on a legal technicality … but guilty in the eyes of any future employer.”

“You’re a well-informed man,” Trench said.

“I have to be. I was—I still am Sheilah Dodson’s attorney,” Steve reminded him. “You aren’t the only one she held by a short length of rope.”

“No, sir,” Trench agreed. “There’s Mr. Shepherd. He actually served time. And Mrs. Shepherd. She left Belgium a step ahead of the international police. Something to do with smuggling, I believe…. Are you through with the glass, sir?”

Albert Trench’s eyes were like small black beads, as hard as ebony and as devoid of expression. Steve gave him the empty glass.

“I think you’re the one who’s well informed,” he said. “Which reminds me, there’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask you. When you went to the village for ice the night Miss Dodson was killed, did you see anything of Jaime’s sports car … either going or coming back?”

“I testified before the coroner’s inquest for nearly two hours,” Trench answered angrily.

“But you’re not before the inquest now. Did you see it, Trench? Anywhere?”

“No, sir,” Trench said.

“Are you positive? … I got an acquittal for Jaime because there was a period of at least forty-five minutes when nobody knows what happened in that house. Forty-five minutes when he had to be somewhere.”

“I assume he was in the house,” Trench said blandly. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t I …? What do you mean?”

“I assume that Mr. Dodson continued quarreling with his sister until he killed her. Don’t you?”

It was cold and brutal. While Steve groped for a reply, Trench placed the glass carefully on the tray. He seemed amused by Steve’s reaction. “But there is one thing I’ve puzzled about,” he added. “In view of Miss Dodson’s care in choosing her associates, is there any particular reason why she trusted you … sir?”

On the hill above Cypress Point, the wind was beginning to worry the tops of the slender trees and tease dry piles of sand and plaster dust into little rebellions against gravity. Jaime left the tire tracks in the cement and walked swiftly to the front of the structure. Sheilah’s voice goaded him every step of the way.
“If
you don’t believe me, go up to the Center. A change has been made.”
The taunt took on importance. There had to be a specific reason why he drove up to the site on the day that cement was laid, and he found the reason at the approach to the job. It was there before his eyes all the time, but he had to be able to see it. There had been a ritual. Before ground was broken for any construction job, a sign was erected: “S. and J. Dodson, Architects.” That was all. Sheilah liked simplicity. But now the sign told a new story. Wide, angry swaths of black paint crossed out the letter
J
. Jaime stared at the sign and retroactive anger welled up inside. This was Sheilah’s indelicate way of destroying what she could no longer hold. It was her brutal way of advertising to the world that she’d severed all relationship with her troublesome brother.

Another piece of forgotten time slipped into place. But the important piece was still missing. For that, he had one more stop to make….

Steve hadn’t exaggerated. The main gate to Sheilah’s house was locked, but the police had overlooked the service entrance and there were no guards in sight. Even murder, he reckoned, lost its audience in time. The parking area was deserted. He left the convertible in the service yard and walked to the front of the house. The door was locked. He found the key on his key chain and let himself in. Once inside, it was as if Sheilah had merely stepped into the next room. Everything was as it had been on the night of her death. The furniture was uncovered and in the identical positions at which he’d seen it last. The bar was ready for the party that never occurred. The bottles were in readiness; the glasses arranged in neat rows. One martini glass had been broken. Jaime moved slowly across a room that began to regress in time. Everything was the same. Everything but the light. It came only from the glass roof above. Jaime found a light switch and completed the illusion. He listened for the memory to give him answers.

Sheilah had stood at the bar. She was hostile from the moment he arrived. But Sheilah was a clever antagonist. At a critical moment she rang for Trench.

Trench came with a shaker of martinis; poured and retired.

“The announcement concerns you, Jaime,” Sheilah said. “I’m cutting you out of the business.”

Jaime stood quietly and let the memories flood back, and the anger came again like a volcano building up inside him. Each word of Sheilah’s, each payment of the only thing she had left to give him—humiliation—stoked the fires of jealousy.

“The center!” he taunted. “That mess of gingerbread on the hill! Why don’t you put gold leaf on the ceilings and red plush drapes on the stage?”

“I might,” Sheilah said, “but I don’t have to make so many compromises any more. I don’t have to pay your way.”

Because it was true, he couldn’t bear to hear it. Involuntarily, his arm shot out before him. The martini glass grazed Sheilah’s face. Liquor splashed over her dress, and a bright patch of red appeared high on her cheek. The glass broke sharply on the hearth.

“Jaime … don’t be a fool!”

Jaime leaped forward and grabbed the poker from the fire set. The stain on Sheilah’s face was growing. A thin line of blood crawled slowly down the side of her cheek and circled her chin. Jaime raised the poker and truth came crashing through the silence of Sheilah’s house…. Truth was a man with shaggy red eyebrows and unruly red hair who went fishing on the beach without a line and needled strange questions in the mind.

“Jaime … what happened after Sheilah fell?”

Jaime smashed the poker down on the bar. Hard, like a hammer on an anvil.

“I killed her!” he yelled. “I picked up the poker and I killed her! I killed her! … I killed her!”

Truth geysered up in prisms of shattered glass. No more illusions. No more voices. No more doubts. Jaime’s arm threshed at the shade of Sheilah until he was exhausted, but he couldn’t find silence. There was still one more voice.

“Jaime!” Greta cried. “My God … Jaime!”

He whirled about. She was standing on the other side of the room, paralyzed with horror. What she saw was a wild man—disheveled, his face streaming with perspiration. What he saw was a woman he was afraid to love.