Three Complete Novels (Psycho, Psycho II, and Psycho House)

  “Is he really a senator?” Amy asked.

  “Sure is. Been in the State Legislature three terms now.” Remsbach’s laughter had a rasp to it. “Never hurts to have yourself a lawyer who knows his way around politics. Got to hand it to him—he’s one smart little jew-boy. Sure been a big help to me.”

  At the moment Amy would have liked nothing better than to say farewell to Fairvale. And she would, she promised herself, once her mission was accomplished. Getting information for the book was the problem that had brought her here; the sensible thing was to accept people like Remsbach as part of the problem. Amy recalled some of the people she’d interviewed for the first book, the hookers, dope dealers, gangbangers. By comparison Otto Remsbach, on a scale of one to ten, was scarcely more than a four. She could deal with him. As the thought came, sheer coincidence echoed it in Remsbach’s words.

  “—deal,” he was saying. “He set it all up so’s I could get hold of the Bates property out there. That’s where politics comes in. Thing I figured was just putting up the house and part of the motel and running tourists through it at maybe two, three bucks a head. Pitkin’s the one who came up with improvements.”

  And it was Quentin, their waiter, who came up now with a cart bearing the two plates, the tall wooden pepper mill and the big wooden bowl. “Toss your salad, Mr. Remsbach?”

  “Yeah. Just as long as you don’t try serving it to me.” Again the rasping laugh.

  Amy took the opportunity to break in quickly. “Would you mind telling me what gave you the idea of rebuilding in the first place?”

  “Cartoons,” Remsbach said. “Got to thinking one day. For thirty years now I’ve been seeing cartoons and hearing jokes about Norman Bates and his mother. Seems like people out here remember him just like they do that woman back East. Lizzie Borden or whatever her name was. So I said to myself, if I can get my hands on the property that the state’s been holding onto all these years, maybe it’d be worth a try. Call it something like the Bates Murder Mansion, run a few ads around the area, see what happens.”

  Quentin served Amy in silence, pantomimed proferment of the pepper mill, accepted its rejection, and wheeled the cart away—all without interrupting Remsbach’s monologue for a moment.

  But Amy wasn’t standing on courtesy. “You mentioned something about your attorney making suggestions.”

  Remsbach nodded. “He’s the one who got the idea about selling souvenirs—room keys, ashtrays, stuff like that you could sell from the motel. He even talked about towels and shower curtains, but I told him wait and see how the other stuff goes first. But I went for his pitch about getting some postcards printed up and later on he wants to get out some kind of booklet with pictures of Norman and the old lady, maybe have somebody like Hank Gibbs write up a little piece for it.”

  “Getting back to the building project,” Amy said. “Did you have much trouble finding furnishings for the house?”

  “That part was easy.” Ice cubes rattled as Remsbach put down his empty glass. “Pitkin reminded me that they were gonna do a movie seven, eight years back, some outfit named Coronet Pictures. It never got made, on account of what happened, and they sold off the studio in some kind of conglomerate deal. But Pitkin remembered they’d already started shooting the picture before the trouble started, so they must of had props and furniture. He contacted somebody out there and sure thing, the whole kapoosta was in storage, along with the sets or whatever they call ’em. He made a deal and they shipped the whole lot here direct. The dummies were the hard part.”

  “They didn’t come from the studio, did they?” Amy said.

  “No.” Remsbach glanced up as Quentin reappeared with the cart that, this time around, bore their entrees. Good customer scowled at faithful servitor. “Hey, you forgot my drink!”

  “No sir.” Quentin lifted the tumbler from its hiding place between the domes of the casseroles covering the two plates. His fingers curled around the glass, mahogany against crystal, as he set it down before Remsbach.

  A quick gulp later, conversation was resumed where it had left off. “Charlie Pitkin gets credit for the dummies too. Had them made out there in L.A., someplace that does them for movies.” He leaned to one side as Quentin set the porterhouse platter down before him, then reached for his glass again. “Damn things cost a fortune, but like Charlie says, it makes all the difference in the world.” Gulp. “All the difference in the world.”

  Down went the glass, up came the steak knife. As Amy might have suspected, Otto Remsbach’s eating habits were governed more by enthusiasm than elegance. She averted her gaze while filleting the trout as best she could; evidently Montrose Country Club’s silver service did not include fish knives. But the trout was excellent.

  When she glanced up her dinner companion gestured to Quentin as he passed by their table on his way to the kitchen. Apparently Remsbach had already finished off almost half of his steak and needed another Daniel’s for additional gravy.

  “I got to hand it to them, whoever made those things sure did a job.” Remsbach nodded, then chewed and swallowed for punctuation. “Get ’em in the right light and you’d swear they were real people. Mother—old lady Bates, I mean—is some scary-looking sight.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Amy said. “It’s one of the things I wanted to see.”

  Remsbach scowled. “What I want to know is, who the hell stole her?”

  “That’s part of the mystery, isn’t it?” Amy said. “I was hoping you might have some ideas.”

  Otto Remsbach chewed over the thought along with his steak. “I got ideas, all right. Might of been Reverend Archer. I don’t think he’d be up to it himself but he could get somebody to do the job for him. He’s got his whole goddamn congregation turned against me. Damn fools can’t see what this proposition is gonna do to bring business into town.”

  He paused long enough to launch another frontal attack on his drink, and when he thumped the glass down again his scowl faded. “Le’me tell you something, they’re all gonna hafta change their tune once we get started. Charlie says just as soon as he can finagle the permits we’ll put in a parking lot and a couple refreshment stands. He’s got a crazy idea about serving some special kind of hamburgers covered with ketchup—wants to call them Murderburgers. With a side order of shower-kraut.” Remsbach drowned his rasping laugh in drink. “Sounds pretty weird if you ask me, but it just might work.”

  Amy nodded. One thing was certain; Remsbach’s drinks were working.

  And his timing was perfect as he caught Quentin’s eye when the waiter turned from a nearby table. Then he turned to Amy. “ ’Scuse me. You like another drink?”

  “Only my coffee,” Amy said, raising her voice just enough so Quentin heard before he moved on.

  Remsbach pushed his plate away. “Pitkin’s got some other notions too, but they’ll stay on the back burner until later. Y’know we hadda postpone the opening twice already, first on account of some stuff coming in late, and then when that business happened out there last week. Terrible thing.” He hunched forward, head and voice lowered. “You been talking to people in town today. Any of them come up with ideas about what happened?”

  Amy shook her head.

  “What about Hank Gibbs? He generally puts in his two cents’ worth about everything that goes on.”

  “I didn’t get any confidential information, if that’s what you mean,” Amy said.

  Otto Remsbach’s voice became a rumbling whisper.

  “Wouldn’t have too much to do with him if I were you. He’s a real weirdo. I couldn’t get him to put that damn paper of his behind this Murder Mansion proposition either.” The scowl returned. “For all I know, maybe he stole the dummy.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Well, somebody did, that’s for damn sure. And nobody’s doing anything about finding it. I been after Engstrom and Banning to—he’s in charge of the State Highway Patrol around here—but I can’t get any action.”

  He did, however, get his dri
nk and Quentin served Amy her coffee as Remsbach continued. “You’re a reporter, right? You must of come up with some ideas about what happened out there last week.”

  Amy shook her head. “I haven’t even seen the place.”

  “That’s easy.” Otto Remsbach raised the tumbler to his lips, then lowered it to the table. As his pudgy fingers relinquished their grasp they marched forward to encamp on Amy’s wrist. “What say you and me take a run out there right now and look around?”

  Amy knew the answer to that question and she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to utter it. Instead she tried to free her wrist from its five captors.

  But the fat fingers tightened their grasp and the voice slurred on. “Y’know, one room in that motel is all rigged up—shower, bed, the works—”

  Suddenly the slurring ceased and the fingers fled as Remsbach looked up. Amy followed his gaze.

  Sheriff Engstrom was standing beside their table.

  Remsbach’s mouth gaped, then managed a lopsided smile. “Well, whaddya know? We were jus’ talking about you—”

  The Sheriff ignored him. When he spoke his words were directed at Amy.

  “Come with me, Miss Haines,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”

  — 7 —

  There was one thing Amy had to concede; Engstrom got her out of the dining room quickly and quietly, without attracting undue attention or provoking any objection from Otto Remsbach.

  So far the Sheriff had lucked out, Amy told herself, but once they got to the parking area he was going to be due for a big surprise.

  Instead it was her turn to be surprised when they emerged and he led her to the shiny late-model Olds that half blocked the circular driveway directly before them. Engstrom opened the passenger door.

  “Hop in,” he said. “You’re not under arrest.”

  “Then why—?”

  Engstrom slammed the door as she slid across the seat, speaking through the open window. “That was just for Otto’s benefit. Anytime you mention a word like ‘arrest’ it tends to shut people up in a hurry. I just figured you didn’t want to drive back to town with a drunk.”

  “But how did you know about him?”

  Engstrom circled the front of the car and climbed in behind the wheel before responding. “Friday night at the Club,” he said. “Happens around the same time every week. I generally make it a point to look in just about now, just to see that they take good care of him.” Closing the door, he started the motor.

  “What will they do?”

  The Olds looped around the driveway and down the long flambeaux-guarded entryway, then turned left on the road beyond. “Nothing much. Take him upstairs to one of the guest rooms and let him sleep it off for a couple of hours. Don’t worry, he’ll be on his way to town before midnight, safe and sound.” Engstrom gave Amy a sidelong glance without seeming to divert his attention from the road ahead. “Hope he didn’t give you a bad time.”

  Amy smiled. “Let’s just say I was glad to see you.”

  “Old Otto’s not really as bad as he sounds,” Engstrom said. “More bark than bite.”

  Another sneak peek out of the corner of his right eye. “Did he happen to introduce you to anybody else out there?”

  “Somebody named Charlie Pitkin. I couldn’t quite get it straight whether he was a business partner or just his attorney.”

  Engstrom nodded. “’It’s hard to get anything straight when it comes to Pitkin. He’s an operator.”

  “He had a lady with him,” Amy said. “We weren’t introduced.”

  “Pretty girl?”

  “Very. Tall, blonde, green eyes—”

  “That was Charlie’s daughter. He’s been a widower about three years now.”

  Once again Amy felt the snap go out of her judgment. But Engstrom seemed in a talkative mood and she might just as well take advantage of it. “Are you married? she asked.

  “Right.”

  “Any children?”

  “No.” There was a slight smile lurking beneath Engstrom’s mustache. “Don’t get home all that often.”

  The smile disappeared. “Figure it out for yourself,” he said. “Department’s got two cars. That calls for three deputies working on eight-hour shifts. There’s another three doing warden duty at the jail, and Irene handling the office, thank God. She may have a leaky mouth but she runs the whole shooting match.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be too much crime around here,” Amy said.

  “Any crime is too much, as far as I’m concerned. The way I see it, with a small setup like ours, prevention is easier than detection so I spend most of my time just moseying around, sort of a troubleshooter. Like tonight, when I heard you were up at the Club with Fatso.” His dry cough was followed by quick correction. “Mr. Remsbach, I mean.”

  “Don’t worry, I know the nickname.” Amy smiled. “And I really do thank you for your concern.”

  Sheriff Engstrom’s grunt was noncommittal. “That’s my job. Besides, it wasn’t just concern.”

  “Curiosity?”

  “That’s my job too.”

  “And mine,” Amy said. “But I’m afraid we’ve both been disappointed. I didn’t find out anything from him tonight except what I already knew.”

  Engstrom rolled down the window beside him. “Too much draft on you?”

  Amy shook her head. “Fine with me. It cooled off a little tonight, I noticed.”

  “Now that we’re finished with the weather,” Engstrom said. “Exactly what is a demonologist?”

  “Would you mind running that past me once again?”

  “What’s a demonologist?”

  He’d caught her by surprise—intentionally, of course—but now she was ready with her answer. “Someone who specializes in demonology, a branch of learning dealing with beliefs and superstitions about demons and evil spirits.”

  Engstrom grunted again. “That much I know. We have a dictionary kicking around the office. I looked it up.”

  “So did I.”

  “Definition I read says it’s also a systematic religious doctrine. Do you believe in such stuff?”

  “No—do you?”

  Engstrom shrugged. “I’m just a cop,” he said. “I was hoping maybe you could feel me in a little more. Didn’t Dunstable tell you anything about it?”

  “No.” Amy glanced at him quickly. “You were the one who questioned him. What happened after I left this afternoon?”

  “First thing I did was check, long distance, for those names you gave me; people who saw Dunstable when he came to your apartment. They confirmed what you told me.”

  “Then what?”

  “I turned him loose.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where he went?” Amy said.

  “Pretty damn nosy, aren’t you?” This time the dry cough sounded more like a dry chuckle. “Well, so am I. Jimmy Onager, one of my deputies, was coming off his shift when Dunstable left. I gave him a little overtime out of uniform. He tailed Dunstable straight to the bus station. Turns out his luggage, wallet, and ID were all stashed in a locker there.”

  Amy frowned. “You searched him when you picked him up. Where did he hide the key?”

  “Onager says it was lying right back of the edge above the top locker.”

  “In plain sight?”

  “Only to basketball players.” Engstrom’s mustache masked another smile. “Must have figured he might be collared so he stowed everything away. Then he hitched a ride out to the Bates place. He wouldn’t tell us anything except that it was with some truck driver who was just passing through. Says he doesn’t want to make trouble for him.”

  Amy nodded. “He’s not a troublemaker.”

  If there was such a thing as a dry sigh, Engstrom uttered it now. “Maybe not intentionally. And neither are you. But if you stay here and make waves there’s bound to be trouble. My advice is that you get out of town before anything happens.”

  “I’m here because I’m writing a book. I still have work to do.” r />
  “So do I.” Engstrom frowned. “Thing that bugs me is, why would a demonologist come here? What kind of work does he have a mind to do?”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Your boyfriend? Last I heard he checked into the Fairvale Hotel for the night.”

  Amy shook her head. “Haven’t I made it clear to you? He’s not my boyfriend!”

  “Too bad.” Engstrom’s voice and stare were level. “He’s got room 204, next to yours.”

  — 8 —

  When Amy heard the tapping on her door she wasn’t frightened.

  At least she could thank Engstrom for that. But it was still disturbing to know what waited on the other side of the door at this time of night. Or was she disturbed because she didn’t know? Outside of that one brief exchange a week ago and a thousand miles away, the presence in the adjoining room remained a complete stranger. Now the muffled tones of his unfamiliar voice sounded above the persistent rapping.

  “Miss Haines—”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Eric Dunstable.”

  “I know.”

  “Please, let me in. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  Amy hesitated. Letting him in meant letting him into her life. And what would she be letting herself in for? There was enough to contend with here already; the last thing she needed right now was to be involved with the plans and purposes of a rival seeker of information.

  But how could she be sure he was a rival, and just what were those plans and purposes? There was only one way to find out, and she’d better take advantage of the opportunity to ask some key questions.

  She called to him.

  “Just a moment. I’ve got to get the key.”

  The key dropped out of her purse and, moments later, Eric Dunstable dropped in.

  As Amy opened the door and caught sight of her visitor she wondered again if she had made the right decision. She wondered too about Sheriff Engstrom’s insinuation. How could he possibly imagine that she could be conducting a liaison with this man?