On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard - Страница 7

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I said, "No."

Greco laughed and Dot looked startled.

"All right then," she said, reassured slightly by Greco's good humor. "Let me put it this way. Do you plan to figure out what you're doing?"

"That's the plan," I said.

"And you're on our side in this great war with Millpond?"

"Absolutely. Trefusis is paying me to catch the vandals. We can both imagine what his motives are in hiring me instead of someone else, but forget that. I'll just do the job, and after that I bow out."

She considered this carefully for a long moment, then said, "And you understand that I am not selling this house under any circumstances?" Her face was set now, her dark eyes bright with emotion.

I said, "That's clear by now."

"Oh, all right then." She sighed, the apprehension about me fading but the fear still in her eyes. "In fact, thank you. Yes, thank you very much. I'm a tough old bird, any of my former students will tell you quick enough. Yes, I've always been a very strong person. But I'm frightened. Today I'm just scared to death. And I just want you to ... I just hope you can help get us out of this . . . this phantasmagoria!"

"That's what I want to do."

"It has not been pleasant. Oh, no, not pleasant. First today it was those asinine words on the barn. And then this infernal nonsense arrived."

She picked up the Burpee seed catalog she'd used as a fan, slid an envelope from between the pages, and handed it to me. I opened it, lifted out the single sheet of paper by a corner, flipped it open, and read: "You're next. You got three days. Saturday you die!"

It was hard to tell whether the printing had been done by the same hand responsible for the carriage house graffiti, which had been hurriedly and sloppily spray-painted. There were similarities in the way the Y's and G's slanted, but an expert would come up with a more reliable opinion than mine. Maybe the police would provide a graphologist and fingerprint person. I knew they did that sometimes.

I asked Dot to describe one more time the events of the past eighteen hours. She groaned, decided she'd better have a Schlitz, brought me and Greco each a can too, then sped through it.

Dot and Edith had gone to bed at eleven-thirty the night before, watched Nightline, then slept soundly with the air conditioner running. They were not awakened by any sounds during the night. At seven in the morning Dot went out to pick up the Times Union from the roadside box and saw the graffiti. She informed Edith, who promptly went back to bed with a headache. Dot phoned the police, who arrived around eight-thirty.

At eight-fifty the two patrolmen departed, having expressed sympathy and stated that a police detective would arrive later in the morning. None had. At nine-forty-five, Dot, frustrated and "hopping mad," phoned Crane Trefusis and told him what she thought of "his cruel prank." Trefusis denied all. He sent a PR lackey out to the house to recoil in horror and further plead Millpond's innocence, and a photographer to record the crime on film. These were the pictures I'd seen.

McWhirter and Greco arrived from New York City around eleven in their car, the old green Fiat I'd seen in the driveway alongside Dot's Ford Fiesta. McWhirter went straight for the phone book and began calling newspapers and radio and TV stations. A Millpond paint crew showed up at noon. Dot would have let them do the job, but McWhirter explained that none of the television people had arrived yet—"You get more air time with a good visual," he correctly pointed out—so the Millpond crew was sent away.

Trefusis called back in the early afternoon—probably just after he'd phoned me—and told Peter I might be showing up to help out. Dot refused to speak with Trefusis. At three, the threatening letter was discovered in the mailbox. Dot phoned the Albany Police Department once again and was promised assistance. As yet, none was forthcoming. A television news crew showed up an hour or so later, and soon after that I arrived.

"Fenton wasn't too happy to see Don," Peter told Dot. "He's convinced Don must be a spy or something for Millpond. Part of the pressure they're putting on you."

"That's understandable," I said. "Trefusis is one of Albany's most accomplished sneaks. I would have been just as suspicious of me myself."

"Fenton heard all about that Crane Trefusis from me," Dot said, getting the same nauseated look on her face that Trefusis's name tended to inspire in a lot of people, as if a dog under the table had silently farted. "Someday I'll tell you stories about that man that will just curl your hair!"

I looked over at Greco's curly hair and wondered if he'd already heard them. For the second time in an hour I wanted to reach over and take his head very carefully in my hands.

A door opened somewhere in the front reaches of the house, and a warbly nasal voice, like a flute with a piece of straw stuck in it, wafted down the hallway. "Dor-o-thy? Are you back there, Dor-o-thy?"

"Yes, we're back here, hon. In the kitchen."

A short plump woman in a floral print dress ambled into the room. She had an abstracted, vaguely wounded look, as if preoccupied with a deep pain that had begun a long time ago, or maybe her feet hurt. Her prominent jaw was set like a pink Maginot Line, and she had snow white hair done in a beauty parlor wave. She smelled of lilac water, face powder, and old bureau drawers. Through

white plastic-framed glasses, her cool blue eyes gave me a weary baleful look. I was another sign of the trouble.

"Edith, this is Mr. Strachey," Dot said loudly. "He's a detective."

Edith squinted at me, looking lost, as I stood up.

"He's a detective, Edie. A detective—Donald Strachey."

"H. P. Lovecraft? Why, I thought he was dead!"

"Strachey. Donald Strachey, Edie. A detective who's going to catch the people who wrote on the barn!"

"Yes, yes, someone wrote on the barn, you already told me about that, Dorothy. I know all about that. Has anyone watered the peonies, Dorothy? This weather . . . my word!"

"Fenton and Peter watered them a little while ago, hon."

"The petunias in the window box look about ready to expire. And, my stars, I know just how they feel. Are you a gardener, Archie?"

She seemed to be addressing me. I said, "No, I'm not, Mrs. Stout. When I was a boy in New Jersey I once caused a single onion to sprout for my Cub Scout agrarian badge, but that's about the extent of it."

"We tried brussels sprouts too one year," Edith said sadly. "But the coons filched them."

"Oh. Sorry."

Something crossed her mind and, suddenly alert, she gave me the fish-eye. "I suppose you're one of Dorothy's gay-lib friends. Is that it? March up and down the street, make a commotion, get us all into this trouble?"

"I guess I am," I said. "But I don't think I'll march today, Mrs. Stout. Not in this weather."

"That is not what I meant," she said, glaring, "and you know it." She sniffed and gave Dot a why-do-you-do-this-to-me look. "I guess I'll just wander out and rest my feet

by the pond for a spell. You young people enjoy yourselves. Are you coming out, Dorothy?"

"After a bit, hon. When it cools down a bit we can go for a stroll. And I think I'll take a quick dip in the pond later."

"Oh, that would be lovely," Edith said, forgetting the trouble again. "I'll fix some cucumber sandwiches and lemonade. This weather! My land, when will we get some relief!"

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