“Oh that,” he said dismissively. “That’s why I was up here today. Couldn’t think about this at El Biggo Taco; couldn’t work on it at home because it would make Betty feel bad. So I came up here to kind of, well, look over the lay of the land. See, Betty’s always been the one who wanted that French café. Me, I’m happy selling tacos.” He looked down at his black suit and starched white shirt as if aware of how ridiculous he looked. Those outfits, I thought, must be Betty’s idea. Pete was saying. “But the taco stands pretty much run themselves these days, you know, and I was starting to spend more time at home with Betty . . .”
“I see.” Finally, I understood Betty’s desperation to keep that café perking right along. She wanted to keep her husband busy on the other side of town, away from her secret.
“Yeah,” he was saying, “thought I’d come up here and try to get a handle on what to do with that property, without running into Goose or anybody who’d start asking questions.” The glance he threw his prime piece of real estate on the bay was not in the least wistful. He looked back at me, with unexpectedly shrewd eyes. “I don’t expect I’ll have any trouble finding me a buyer, do you?”
“I don’t expect so.”
“I’ll put Ted on it tomorrow.”
“Pete, it’s none of my business, but what was Betty doing up here the night she was arrested on that DWI?”
His open face clouded. “Didn’t you notice, Jenny? There’s a liquor store right there where you turn off the highway. I guess she’s been coming up here for years, so nobody would see her at the stores out in our neighborhood.”
“I suppose she’d come on down here and park and have a drink or two?”
“Betty?” He looked shocked. “She wouldn’t park here without me! We have some mighty nice memories of this place, from when we were in high school together.” He realized the implications of Ms words, turned red, then grinned. Bravely, he said, “Was it still a lovers’ lane when you were in school?”
“Yes, but that only lasted another couple of years after I graduated. I guess this place hit its peak in popularity a few years before my time. Then Lobster really began to let it go to seed.”
“Sad,” Pete said lugubriously. He would have felt a good deal happier had he known that his words went a long way toward reassuring me that his wife was not Lobster’s spied-upon party. Even if the old man had fixed his telescope upon Betty, it was unlikely he would have been able to identify her.
“I hope happier days are ahead,” I said then, “for both of you.”
“You’re a nice girl, Jenny.” He said it so kindly, I overlooked the chauvinism, “I hope, well, that things work out okay for you, even if your father did . . .”
“My father didn’t.”
“Okay. Well, thanks again.” Pete smiled nervously, then made his escape with a wave of one pudgy hand. “See you!”
“Good-bye,” I said gently, and then I thought of something. “Pete!”
He stopped and looked back at me.
“What was the name of that young man at the suicide center who helped you last night?”
“Frank Dickens. Never forget that name.”
“But I thought they never gave out their last names. How’d you know his?”
“Oh, I asked for him special,” Pete told me. “I know somebody else who called the suicide center one time. I remembered . . . that person . . . talking about how great they are, and I called . . . that person . . . to find out who . . . that person . . . talked to.”
“Really? Who is that person?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say, Jenny. I mean, it’s private.”
“I wouldn’t ask,” I lied, “but I have a cousin who needs help like that, and I’d feel better about recommending Frank Dickens if I knew somebody else he’d helped. If I guess a name, would you shake your head, or nod?”
“Well, I guess that would be okay.”
I guessed a name. He nodded.
“Suicidal,” I said. “And just happened to tell you about it?”
“Yes, you know we’re not close friends, really, but I guess there was a need to tell somebody. It’s tough, you know, and maybe there was a sense that I’d understand.”
“Yes, well, I’ll have my cousin call Frank Dickens.” The same cousin who was thinking of bidding for majority ownership of the First.
I watched Pete pull away in his red station wagon. He waved as he rounded the cul-de-sac, and I continued to watch until his brake lights flared at the corner by the liquor store. Then I returned to my own car.
Time to call Jack Fenton.
The banker came on the line immediately.
“Jennifer.” His voice was old and cold with shock and sadness but he didn’t waste time indulging his feelings. “I have obtained, basically, the information you need. I don’t know if it’s sufficient to warrant an arrest—your detective friend will have to make that determination—but I do know it’s highly suggestive.” He paused. “Oh my.”
“I know, Jack.”
“Well.” He forced himself to be brisk. “We have a checking account in . . . that name, but it has been inactive since the second week of February, two years back.”
“Has anyone inquired about it?”
“Yes, that same week.”
“Who?”
“The person you would expect to ask about it. I am loath to use the name over this phone, Jennifer, I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes. What was . . . that person . . . told at that time?”
“That most of the funds in the account had been drawn out earlier in the week, and there was no further activity.”
“Have there been subsequent inquiries?”
“Yes, from the same person.”
“And?”
“Evidently, our people have reported no activity.”
“What about the trust?”
“Well,” Jack said, “you were right, of course, there certainly is a trust fund, but we don’t have it. You were also right to assume that I might know where it’s held. I do. It’s in Delaware, and it’s a large one, worth quite a lot of money.”
“It would have to be.”
“Yes,” he said sadly. “So it would.”
“Did you find out anything more about it, Jack?”
“Yes. I phoned an acquaintance of mine in that trust department and I asked a few questions. I’m sorry to report that every answer seemed to lead to other questions.”
“Yes. And?”
“The trust still exists, of course, and it’s still paying out regularly to the same person. But the trust received instructions some time ago . . .”
“Excuse me. When?”
“In March of that year.”
“Yes, it would be March.”
“The trust received instructions to deposit the quarterly checks directly into an account at a bank in Atlanta.”
“This can all be done through the mail, Jack?”
“If the signatures are right, yes.”
“I see.”
“Wait, I’m not through. Once I had that information, Jennifer, I took it one step further and called that Atlanta bank. After all these years, I do have a few contacts across the country. I know more bankers than anybody in his right mind would ever care to know in a lifetime.” He laughed shortly, then coughed. “At any rate, I asked, my friend . . . uh, the president . . . to simply check the account to see if any withdrawals had been made since it was opened.”
“And they have not,” I guessed. “Only deposits.”
“Correct. It’s an interest-bearing money market account, by the way, with check-writing privileges that have never been used.”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. If the checks from the trust were deposited in this bank, eventually we would notice that no checks were being written on the account. Considering the, uh, circumstances, someone here would most likely call it to my attention, and then the fat would be in the fire. So it had to be another bank,
another city.”
“Isn’t the Atlanta bank curious?”
“Not at all. The account is being used, you see, if only for deposits, and they merely assume it’s being used as an investment rather than for check-writing purposes.”
“One last question: has anybody besides you asked that trust department in Delaware about the activity of the trust?”
“Oh yes, but they don’t personally know the people involved, so they won’t give out that information. And, when they received the instructions about where to deposit the checks, they also received strict instructions about maintaining the confidentiality of the account.”
“Well,” I said.
“Jennifer, you know that all of this could be interpreted in a perfectly innocent manner?”
“Yes. That is the intention. It’s meant to look innocent. But we don’t believe that, do we, Jack?”
“No,” he said reluctantly, “we are not so naive.”
“Thank you, Jack.”
“These are errands I would rather not have run.”
“Would you rather it were never discovered?”
“No!” His voice instantly repined its vigor. “We are dealing with something despicable here and it must be brought to a stop. What will you do with this information, Jenny?”
“Take it to the police.”
“Still, there’s the question of the body.”
“Oh,” I said grimly, “I have an answer to that, as well.”
“Oh my.” Clearly, he was distressed. “Oh my. How is your father, dear?”
“All right, I hope.”
“Good. Well, good luck, my dear.”
“Bye, Jack.”
I put down the phone long enough to look up another number. Thanks to Pete Tower and Jack Fenton, I now had enough ammunition to fire the final, fatal round.
“Hello?” said a familiar voice. How could a killer—one who had tried again only the night before—carry on with daily life so casually, so confidently?
“Hi, it’s Jenny Cain.”
“Jenny?” There was unmistakable shock in the voice, but it was quickly converted into hearty surprise. “Jenny! What can I do for you?”
“There’s something I think the committee—and you in particular—ought to know, and since I’m no longer a member, I thought I’d pass the information along to you.”
“That’s decent of you. What’s up?”
“Do you know the Towers are not going through with their café at the harbor?”
“No. No, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, I just heard about it from Pete today. You haven’t seen him today, have you?”
“No.”
“Well, he told me they’re canceling all construction . . .”
“What!”
“And they’re draining the pound, dumping the architectural plans and putting the whole thing on the market.”
“You’re kidding! When are they going to do all this?”
“All I know is they’re going to raise the gate on the pound tomorrow and let it drain so it will be ready for dredging; and they left orders for Goose to stop construction today.”
“Why, Jenny? Why are they doing this?”
“I wish I knew. But I think the committee ought to know because of the importance that each element of the project has to the whole.”
There was a bitter laugh. “Where have I heard that before? Well, maybe I’ll give Pete a call, see if he won’t slow things down until we get a better idea of what’s going on.”
“I think you’re too late,” I said quickly. “They were leaving town right after I saw Pete. He left all his instructions with his secretary; she’s supposed to be making the calls today to bring everything to a complete standstill. Except the draining and dredging, of course.”
There was silence at the other end of the line. I waited, my heart beating in my ears. “I think they must have gone crazy. Well, we’ll just have to wait until they get back, I guess. But thanks, Jenny, I’ll be sure to pass this on to the others. How’s your father?”
“How kind of you to ask.” I fought to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “To tell you the truth, I had a little accident last night that prevented me from seeing him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you all right?”
Yes, you son of a bitch. “Yes, I’m fine. No damage.”
“Good. I guess your father is keeping away from Liberty Harbor these days, huh?”
Why the emphasis on my father? “Yes.”
“You know, the vigilantes have disbanded, now that he is, uh . . . although I’ll tell you there’s been some talk of calling them out again, since he is, so to speak, on the loose.”
You capital-B Bastard. “Oh?” I said.
“But right now, there aren’t any guards at the harbor at all. Do you know if the police are watching the place?”
Ah-ha. “No, they are not.”
“Not?”
“Not.”
“Well, thanks again, Jenny. God bless, and all that.”
“Nice talking to you.” Go to hell, and all that.
I hung up, gently. Then I placed two more quick calls to ask two big favors. Then I called the police station, but Geof still wasn’t in.
“This is Jenny Cain,” I said. “Has there been any word about my father?”
“Let me check.” There was a murmur of voices, then, “No, I guess not, sorry. Any message for Detective Bushfield?”
This time, I left explicit instructions as to where Geof could find me, and when, and why.
Then I walked down the street to The Buoy for a crab sandwich and a beer. I didn’t have to wait long for Geof to show up. At the table for two that I’d taken at the rear of the restaurant, he listened to me for fifteen minutes, questioned me for half an hour, listened for another five minutes, then argued with me for an hour.
Finally, he stood and looked down at me.
“All right.” His face was lined with fatigue and worry. “You’re right. We’ll do it your way.”
I reached for his hand. In that noisy, bustling place, we were immobile for a long moment, holding onto each other.
Then he left. I ordered a cup of coffee and settled in for a long wait until dark.
chapter
34
A police sedan was still parked near Lobster McGee’s house when I drove past it around nine that evening. From there, I drove around the cul-de-sac, finding only a family who seemed to be picnicking in their car while they looked out over the bay. I decided to park down on the same level as the project, but a good half-mile away, and walk back to it, keeping to the hillside to avoid being seen.
I didn’t bother to cover my tracks since it would soon be too dark to see them anyway. I made my way across rocks, sand, grass and dirt to the back side of Lobster’s house and crouched beside the back porch. Goose had switched off his floodlamps; objects only a few yards away were turning into vague forms in the growing darkness. I heard, but couldn’t see, the water of the bay as it lapped against the sand, the pier, the new docks. In the heavy air, the stench from the lobster pound was nearly overwhelming.
I glanced up at the broken window in Lobster’s bedroom. But there was no movement, no telltale flash of metal or light to betray the presence of my witnesses. I could only hope that Geof had already arrived and was hidden from view, along with Ailey and other reinforcements. Witnesses to this final act were imperative. If I were the only one to see it, people might accuse me of inventing it to spare my family.
The rain, which began the night before, had only sporadically ceased that day. Now it began to beat a quicker, harder, more urgent rhythm as if it were in a desperate hurry to end the drought.
Still, no sign from the upstairs window. What if they were delayed? Would I have to face this alone? My heart began to beat, like the rain, a little too fast and hard for comfort.
The sound of feet shuffling through the sand and grass toned the speed control knob of my heart to a still higher
notch. I crouched deeper into the shadows of the old house, and watched.
Someone was advancing toward me, walking close to the cover of the hills, as I had. I couldn’t see the face yet, but the person was dressed in slacks and a shirt; it could have been male or female. But when it reached the other side of the pound, its sex was apparent. “It” I had begun to think of the person as “it,” as if loath to assign it human status. “It” was no longer deserving of inclusion in the race; it walked outside the boundaries of anybody’s standards of decency.
I craned around to peer up at the bedroom window. If there were any witness or protection there, I didn’t detect it.
The figure at the edge of the pound didn’t waste time. It took off its shoes and laid them on the grass, then rolled up its pants to its knees. Quickly, it walked over to the weir that served as a sluice, letting the ocean and lobsters into the pound when the tide came in, then as the tide moved out, allowing the water through again, but penning the lobsters inside. Below the weir of heavy oak slats was a concrete dam with a gate that could be raised to drain the water.
I glanced back up at the broken window in Lobster’s room, feeling as frantic as Betty Tower on her worst days. Still no sign of habitation in that room from which the old man had been pushed—through the window, into the pound—to his death. Was Lobster McGee already dead when he hit the water, or did he drown because he could not swim?
I looked then at the top of lover’s leap at the broken fence where Amy Denise Sullivan had been pushed to her death, over the edge, down the sharp rocks, into the water in. the pound below. Sweet, neat little Amy Denise. She had loved her unsuccessful real estate salesman husband enough to spend some of her trust fund on a boat for him. But she had hated boating too much to agree to join him in making his dream of retiring at the age of thirty-nine come true. Amy Denise, whose money provided the answer to a failed man’s dreams, but who may have made the mistake of saying to him, “We will live on that damned boat over my dead body.”
The drumbeat of the rain slid from ragtime into hard rock.
I watched Ted Sullivan raise the old gate to release the water from the pound and drain it. He must have drained it, too, after both of his first murders; perhaps Lobster had watched him drain his wife away as well as kill her. Now he wanted to get a look at the bottom of the pound, the gate, the tunnel, before anybody else did, to make sure there were no remnants of his victims. He would have felt pretty safe by the next spring when the Towers had planned to drain this pound; by then more than two years of tides and saltwater would surely have destroyed any lingering evidence.