Working Murder (18 page)

I leaned out of the car window, straining for a glimpse of the drop. “Where was Ellen?” I
knew my voice was urgent. “Where did you see her?”

Hester's voice grew husky. Was she caught up in the memory?

“Right there. She'd just cleared the rocks and was running across the grass bank in that
gorgeous white dress, holding it up so she wouldn't trip. It was bright moonlight and I
heard her laughing. I was coming across the bridge—just as we are now—in my father's
car. I'd been baby-sitting up in Pigeon Cove. I slowed down and called out, ‘Ellen, is
that you?' and she wriggled under the fence and ran to the car and said, ‘Oh, Hester,
I'm so glad it's you—you won't snitch.' Then I could see the other kids coming up, two
boys and the other girl, and the boys were in their underwear and carrying their evening
clothes, and the girl was in her prom dress, and they were all laughing fit to kill.
Ellen called them over to the car and introduced me.”

Hester had stopped in the middle of the bridge. Please God, don't let another car come.

“I wasn't much older than they were, but I was a senior in college and felt grown-up and
important, so I lectured them on how dangerous, et cetera, and Ellen's date—the poor boy
died in the war—said it was all his fault; he'd heard about the quarries and always
wanted to swim there.”

The car stalled. Hester started it up again and moved forward.

“Then I asked if they needed a lift, and the other boy, Peter Somebody—I forget his last
name—said no, that was his car over there, and the other girl said she felt cheated
because she hadn't had a swim, and Ellen said—I remember this distinctly: ‘Let's go to
Bass Rocks Beach, it's near my house, and I'll go home and get suits for us both.'”

I said: “That fits with the record.”

“That fits with the truth. I followed Peter's car back to the beach and saw them all pile
out. I started to drive on and then I heard Ellen calling—oh, God, I can hear her
now—and I stopped and she ran up to the car window and leaned in and hugged me and said:
‘Promise me you won't tell on them.' It wasn't till later I remembered she'd said
‘them.' You won't tell on
them
—not
us
. That's when I realized she must
have been planning not to be around. It could never be proved that she went off with
anybody, but I always believed she had.”

We were back on Hester's street. The trip had taken fifteen minutes and fifty years. She
pulled into her driveway and turned off the ignition. We sat in silence. Then Hester
said:

“I always wish I'd gone back to my parents' house that night. I might have seen Ellen
when she left the beach. But it was Saturday, and I had a final exam on Monday, so I
drove back to my dorm at Salem State.”

I was cold, but I dreaded moving. I said: “You said something about a bridge game, your
parents and the Hewitts.”

“Yes, but that broke up around midnight, and it was already past two when I left the kids
at Bass Rocks Beach. My mother said Tully woke them up about five, white as a sheet.
He'd waited up—Irene had gone to bed—and when Ellen didn't come in by four he'd driven
all around town looking for her. He hadn't had the courage to wake Irene up—let alone
the Dawsons. My mom and dad went over there with him, and they called the police.
Beginning of trail.” Hester turned off the car lights, and we sat in darkness. “And end
of trail.” She jumped. “I think I hear the phone.”

She was out of the car and up the steps to her back door. I followed, dazed. Hester
extended the receiver to me as I walked into the kitchen.

“For you. Your son in New York. He sounds nice.”

She went outside again, and I heard the garage door open. I said: “Henry, how did you
ever—oh, of course, Paula.”

He said: “I'm working on the ‘personal' for the papers. Can I read it to you? You may
have a suggestion.”

“I do, dear. Don't run it. Ellen's dead.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER HESTER AND I WERE sitting in our “wrappers” (she howled when I used
the term—shades of her grandmother!) having hot chocolate and deciding that to expect
the single taxi in Rockport to come for me at four-thirty a.m. was futile.

I said: “A lot of relief I am to you if you have to drive me to Tully's at that hour.”

“I don't mind. I'll come home and go to bed again.” She looked at me steadily. “Your
son's call has upset you.”

I was grateful she thought it was that. Was it so evident my heart was pounding? I stood
up. “He wants me to come home tomorrow. I may, if you can get that other nurse.”

“Oh, I can get her. I just hate to lose you.”

I put my arms around her, wanting to weep. “Hester, I'll never forget you.”

“What kind of talk is that? You won't have the chance. I may turn up on your doorstep if
you don't promise to come back.”

“I'm going to count on that.”

“Go to bed now. You're beat. I'll set my alarm.”

I had a ghastly thought as I beamed my borrowed flashlight on Tully's steps and Hester
roared away in the darkness. That oxygen. How did it work? What did one do? Might Tully
expire gasping because of my inefficiency? It was my first nervous question to the nurse
when she opened the door. The good soul was all reassurance.

“Mr. Hewitt knows how to use it. It's right by the bed. He's asleep now. He's been awful
restless all night.”

She was middle-aged, sleepy, and ready to leave. I would be too, I thought, watching her
button her coat. The house was unaired and oppressive, lighted only by the glare of the
television that was yapping away in a corner of the living room.

“Well, I'm on my way. The doctor's number is right by the phone. There's coffee on the
stove.”

I offered my flashlight, but she was down the steps and in her car with all the
nimbleness of release. Tires crunched on the snow, and I was alone with Tully.

The first thing I did was to turn off the television. Silence except for the sea,
blackness except for a predawn glimmer. My flashlight showed me the desk. I went to it,
turned on the gooseneck lamp, took a piece of paper from the jumble, and rolled it into
the ancient Remington. Standing there with shaking knees, I typed: Do not, I beg you,
pursue the investigation of your daughter's disappearance. It was enough. I hardly
needed to take the letter from my handbag. The faded type, the clogged “u,” the tipsy
“v,” all sickeningly the same.

I pulled the paper from the machine and sat down to steady myself. Was I going to be
sick? Would my legs hold me when I stood up again? The phone rang.

Why does that sound, of all sounds on earth, have the power to galvanize the most inert
of us? I got myself into the kitchen and took the receiver from the wall. It was Hester.

“As I walked into my house the phone was ringing. It was your son. He's on his way here.”

“Here?” I think I said.

“I was to tell you that he left home around midnight. Neither he nor his wife could sleep
after he talked to you. The drive takes about six hours and he was calling from Boston,
so he should be at Tully's in half an hour or so. I gave him directions. I hope he's not
in any trouble, Clara. None of my business, of course.”

I said, my heart lifting within me: “No, Hester. It's just a—a family matter I'm helping
settle. Thanks so much for letting me know.”

“How's Tully?”

“Asleep.”

“Call me if you need me.”

“I will.”

Light was coming in from the sea. Henry was on his way. Now I had the courage. I walked
across the hall and opened the double door. Tully was sitting up on one elbow. He said,
gasping:

“What time is it?”

“Almost six, Tully.”

“I have to let Irene know. I can't wait any longer.”

I walked to the foot of the bed. “Tell me something first. Did Ellen know you were in
love with her?”

He dropped back on the pillow. “Not till just now.”

“When she came in?”

“She didn't come in—that's the trouble! She went around to the garden, and I saw her take
the suitcase from behind the spruce tree.”

“And you went out and tried to stop her?”

“Of course I did. Somebody had to.” He was motionless, staring at the ceiling. “I told
her how bad her parents would feel, and she kept saying she was sorry, but she loved
Sadd and that was that. I told her how bad
I'd
feel”—he began to tremble so
violently that the bed shook—"and she put her arms around me and said she knew how much
I loved her, and I said,
'No you don't, you don't know the half of how I love
you!'”

Terrible sobs now, choking sobs. I got the prongs of the oxygen into his hands, and he
never stopped talking while I sat on the bed, numb.

“When she began to cry and shake and pull away, I had to stop her, keep her quiet. I was
afraid she'd run into the house or next door. I kept telling her I'd never say these
things to her again, but she was hysterical.”

Tully was fast becoming the same. I said: “Tully, it's over. I'm going to get you a
brandy.”

“It isn't over! Those other kids were here just now asking where Ellen was and why she
hadn't come back to the beach. I've been out in the car pretending to look for her! Now,
I have to tell Irene and May that Ellen never came home and then—”

“Not just yet, Tully.” He was struggling to get out of bed. Oh, Henry, come, come. “Not
till you've had a brandy. That will help—you know a brandy will help you tell—now, won't
it?”

“Yes.”

I pressed the wretched, shaking form back into the bed and prayed, as I backed toward the
door, that he would stay there. He did, breathing raspily. The final, dreadful question
had to be asked, and I needed brandy myself to ask it. But would this vivid replay last?
Would Tully smile at me when I returned and ask how Henry was?

The breakfront. Hester had said Irene kept it in the breakfront. Sure enough, there was
the stash. Now the kitchen for glasses—cups—anything—and I was back across the hall, but
not soon enough.

Tully was gone.

Standing there staring at the empty bed, I'm ashamed to confess that the first thing I
did was pour myself a quick one. Nothing that happened now could be one-tenth as
terrible as what happened on that June night. Tully had come full circle, and I knew
where to look for him.

A car door slammed, and I went into the hall and out to the porch. Henry was up the steps
two at a time.

I said: “Not here. In the garden.”

He took my arm and we plowed through the snow around to the back of the house. It was
quite light now, and the two big spruce trees on either side of the stone bench were
glistening and beautiful. Tully knelt beside the bench, his head resting on it, his arms
embracing it.

I said: “It was the only headstone he could give her.”

“It was Hester,” I said. “Hester said the words.”

Andy said: “But you
heard
them.”

We were in the same nook in the Parker House lobby, and Henry was with us this time. Andy
was again making short work of the sandwiches, and Paula had just arrived breathlessly.

Henry said: “How many times—dozens, maybe hundreds of times—was it reported that Ellen
Dawson's aunt and uncle had ‘waited up'? The fact that one of them had gone to bed and
the other had done the waiting probably wouldn't have meant that much anyway.”

“Until you do what your father called ‘worry it.'” I looked at my watch; my plane to
Sarasota was in fifty minutes. “I'm sure a lot of people believed with Hester that Ellen
had planned to ‘go off' with somebody—Paula and Andy insisted there was a man
involved—but we had the advantage of knowing who it was and that we trusted him. I was
pretty sure she'd take a bag of some sort—at least something to change to from her prom
dress—and that probably meant a return to the house, or at least the grounds. Between
there and Sadd was only ... Tully.”

Mention of Sadd's name affected us all similarly. We drank our tea in silence, then Paula
said:

“Will you tell him?”

“Never,” I said instantly. “Nor anyone else. It ends with the five of us—I'm including
Tina, of course. I hope we agree on that?”

They nodded, and Andy said, with his mouth full:

“When do you figure Tully mailed the letter?”

“When he came down for Lloyd's funeral,” said Henry. “He'd come a day earlier. He'd
gotten his letter from May like all the rest a few weeks before. When May said she was
going ahead anyway, he probably hit her with the truth, and that did her in.”

I said: “Something Tully himself said the night of Lloyd's wake stuck in my mind. We were
wondering if there'd be people who'd remember Ellen when they learned of May's death.”

Henry snapped his fingers and sat forward. “And Tully said fifty-year-old
crimes
tend to be forgotten.”

I said: “Sadd said ‘this wasn't a crime, it was a disappearance —'”

We recited together “'it isn't a crime to disappear.'”

Henry and I beamed at each other, Andy applauded gently, and Paula poured herself tea
with an odd expression. She said:

“Just before I left home I got a phone call. It was Hester. I'm supposed to ask you
something, Mom.”

We looked at her expectantly. She looked back over the rim of her cup with her father's
eyes.

“That darling, innocent lady ... wanted to know ... if we thought it would be nice ... if
Tully's ashes were to be sprinkled in his garden. He loved it so.”