Frenzy (20 page)

43

T
here was a wooden deck outside the back of the Tipton Hotel, with a scattering of empty lounge chairs several rooms down. Also farther down were the lights of the hotel swimming pool. A few shrill children's voices reached Linda and Dwayne. No one seemed to be seated outside in the warm Gulf breeze, watching the kids. Or maybe everyone, including the parents, was in the pool.

Smiles and splashes. Family life. Dwayne didn't think a lot about it.

Still holding his hand, Linda guided him up the wooden steps and across the narrow deck to the rectangle of light she'd pointed out when they were down on the beach. He saw that it was much larger than a window. Two floor-to-ceiling sliding-glass panels.

Linda reached out with her free hand and slid one of the panels aside. It moved smoothly in its track, making barely a whisper.

“Don't you lock your room when you leave?” Dwayne heard himself ask.

“Nobody would dare steal from me,” she said. Kidding him again. Making fun. Lies large and small would flow from her, and then, finally, the truth would be revealed.

The room was small and neat, with furniture that was sparse and obviously expensive. The Tipton was definitely one of the better hotels in a string of hotels and condos along the beach road.

The bed was made, with its gray-and-green duvet drawn taut. A single large suitcase sat closed on a folding luggage rack near what must be the door to the bathroom. The suitcase looked like real alligator dyed red, but Dwayne knew it probably wasn't.

A pair of red high-heeled shoes with pointed toes stood precisely side by side before a louvered closet door. Above a small desk, a TV was mounted on the wall. Its large screen was gray. The brass bullet lamp on the desk provided the only light.

Linda finally released Dwayne's perspiring hand and went to the sliding-glass doors. He couldn't look away from the smooth play of her hips as she walked.

She pulled a cord, and gray-and-green drapes that matched the bedspread made a ratcheting sound and rushed to meet each other. The room, small to begin with, suddenly seemed half the size it had been when the dark sea and beach were exposed.

The moon no longer contributed any light. In the intimate dimness, Linda unbuttoned and pulled her shirt over her head, leaving her blond hair a tangled mess that Dwayne couldn't help staring at. Until she bent forward, elbows out, in that curious birdlike motion women have, and deftly removed her bra.

She draped blouse and bra over the back of the desk chair and stood looking at Dwayne. Her eyes went to his erection and immediately it seemed twice as large to him.

“Better take those pants off while you can,” she said.

Neither of them said anything until they were both completely undressed, then they fell together onto the bed. They rolled back and forth, hugging, kissing, wrestling for dominance. She wound up on top, kissing him with her mouth open, using her tongue.

When they drew apart in order to breathe, he said, “Wait a minute! Just a few seconds.” His mind was whirling.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” The clothes he'd practically ripped from his body were wadded on the floor beside the bed. “I've got a rubber in my wallet.”

She smiled broadly, then laughed. “Really? How long's it been in there?”

“I replaced it this morning,” he said.

More laughter. “That's wonderful!”

He rolled onto his side, still half on the mattress, and his groping hand found the rough material of his pants. He felt for the pockets.

Found his knife.

 

 

It was past 2:00
A.M.
when Linda finally died. Dwayne had been careful not to leave fingerprints.

But after showering and dressing again in his shirt, shorts, and sandals, he stood before the closed drapes and found that he didn't want to leave.

Not yet.

Careful where he was stepping, he made his way to the bed, where what remained of Linda lay, bound with electrical cord and gagged with one of her bikini bottoms, knotted in her mouth, then knotted again at the nape of her neck. Her wide eyes were fixed and staring at the slowly revolving ceiling fan. Dwayne thought her stare was as empty as her thoughts. He had everything of her now.

Dwayne knew that blood would no longer gush. He drew his knife, leaned over the bed, and deftly carved his initials in Linda's smooth pale forehead.

Now she was marked. Branded.

Forever.

His.

PART FOUR

44

 

Q
uinn's desk phone jangled. He liked the sound. Cell phones imitated it but couldn't get it quite right.

He rolled his chair closer to his desk and picked up on the fourth ring, said who and where he was.

“Detective Quinn, this is Ida Tucker.”

He scooted even closer to the desk so he could see the remote caller ID. Yep, Ida Tucker. Ohio number.

“Is everything okay?” Quinn asked. He'd picked up the stress in her voice.
How can everything be okay when you've just yesterday buried two of your children?
“I mean, considering.”

“I'm afraid not,” she said, a catch in her throat. “My ex-husband, Edward, had a heart attack.”

“I'm sorry, dear. Is he—?”

“He's dead. The doctor said it might have been brought on by the girls' funerals. All that stress, all in one day.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Ida. Anything you need?”

“No, no. But I thought you should know.”

“I'm glad you called me. I wish I could ease your grief.”

“Well,” she said, “it isn't only my grief. That evening, after Edward was . . . gone, his old friend and longtime attorney, Joel Price, came by the house to talk to me. He told me that years ago Edward had given him the letters.”

“Your letters explaining what Henry Tucker wrote before he died in England?”

“No. Henry's letters themselves. The
original
originals.”

Quinn sat for a few seconds trying to process that. “Why would Edward do that and keep it secret from everyone?”

“I don't know.” The catch was back in her voice.

“Have you—”

“I haven't gone to the bank to open the box where the letters are. Joel Price suggested he be there with me, in case of any legal ramifications. He still has the key and would be witness to what's in the box. He thought, since the letters and the girls' deaths are part of a police investigation, you might want to be there too when the box is opened.”

“Joel Price is a smart lawyer,” Quinn said. “As soon as we hang up, I'm going to book a flight to Columbus and then drive to see you. That is, if you're ready to do this, Ida.”

“I'm not just ready, Detective Quinn. I'm eager.”

They landed at the Columbus airport in Ohio, where they rented a Hertz black Jeep. Quinn drove, and Pearl sat beside him. When they hit open highway and greater speeds, the squared-off little vehicle rocked in the wind but remained easy to control.

They got into Green Forest before dusk and settled into the room they'd reserved at the Flower Bed Hotel, a place recommended by Ida Tucker. It was a four-story frame building painted a soft green with brown shutters. The walkway from the parking area to the entrance was lined with pink- and blue-flowered foliage in full bloom, punctuated by bright red geraniums.

Quinn and Pearl checked in and rode the single elevator to the third floor. There they were met by a bellhop who'd gotten a head start on them while they were getting conversation and instructions from a girl who looked like a teenager at the front desk. A good place for supper, they were advised, was the Crazy Fish, just down the block.

After placing their luggage where they directed, and needlessly pointing out where the bathroom and TV remote were, the bellhop, a lean, older man with bushy gray hair, introduced himself as Leonard and asked if there might be anything else they'd need.

Quinn told him not at the moment and tipped him twenty dollars, creating an instant friend.

Leonard looked as if he might click his heels and bow, but didn't, and thanked Quinn profusely.

“Anything you need,” he said, “ just let me know.”

Quinn said that he would.

On the way out, Leonard said, “Word to the wise: I wouldn't do supper at the Crazy Fish.”

When they were alone in the heavy silence, Pearl said, “Now what?”

Quinn said, “Get a third opinion, I guess.”

 

 

After supper at the Crazy Fish, which was surprisingly good, Quinn called Ida Tucker, and he and Pearl drove to the Tucker home.

They found Ida waiting, dressed in black and leaving a scent of lavender as she ushered them inside the white frame house. It was a brick-and-frame two-story with a porch that ran across the front and around one corner. Ivy grew densely up one of the brick walls. There were three Adirondack chairs and a wooden glider with a fat cushion on the porch. It looked like the kind of place where Harry Truman might have grown up if he'd been from Ohio.

Ida looked as if she'd been crying but seemed to have it under control. Quinn looked closely at her eyes. She didn't seem medicated.

A tall, slender man with a long face that looked as if it had never once displayed an expression stood by a sofa and coffee table. Ida introduced him as Joel Price, longtime friend and attorney of Edward. He was wearing a black pin-striped suit, white shirt, and black tie. Quinn knew that Ida must be in her eighties or nineties, Price in his nineties, but both looked . . . not so much younger, but well preserved.

At Ida's direction, they settled into chair and sofa, Pearl and Quinn in matching brown leather armchairs, Ida and Price on the sofa.

“Would anyone care for refreshments?” Ida asked, as if suddenly she remembered her manners.

Everyone said no, that they were fine.

“I was surprised that the funeral was so soon after Edward passed,” Quinn said.

Ida was clutching a wadded white handkerchief and raised it as if to dab at her eyes, but instead lowered it back onto her lap. “Edward was cremated,” she said. “That was what he requested.”

“Had he been ill?” Pearl asked.

“He'd been old,” Ida said.

Joel Price smiled grimly. “Something that at least isn't contagious,” he said.

Ida appeared shocked. “Oh, I'm sorry, Joel. I forgot you and Edward were about the same age.”

“Actually,” Price said, “I'm four years younger.” Again the grim smile. “But you didn't come here to listen to us reminisce.”

“Didn't they?” Ida said. “The thing to remember is that, despite the matrimonial wars, despite the divorce, Edward and I never really fell out of love.”

“Your subsequent husband—”

“
Maybe
we didn't come here to reminisce,” Ida said.

“The letters written by Henry Tucker . . .” Quinn said, glad they were dealing with an attorney who knew how to get to the point. He didn't want to get lost in the Tucker/Douglass/Kingdom family-tree maze. “Have you seen them yet?”

“Oh, no,” Price said. “Neither of us has. Edward was adamant about that. I recall that quite vividly.”

“So the letters are in your safe?” Pearl asked.

“No, no.” Price's right arm trembled slightly. The only sign of advanced age he'd shown since they arrived. “They're in a safety-deposit box at the bank, in both my name and Edward's. The key was kept in a file at my office. I have it with me now, but of course at this hour the bank is closed. I requested your presence here so we can lay down some ground rules for when the box is opened in the morning.”

“That's kind of difficult to do when we don't know what's in the letters,” Quinn said.

Price nodded, as if he'd expected that response. “That's the point. We don't have the slightest idea what the letters contain. I thought it would be a good idea to have police presence when the box was open, primarily so it will be established that the contents weren't trifled with.” He leaned forward on the sofa, seemingly so light he didn't dent the cushion. “You must understand that Edward Tucker is my client, and I owe my allegiance to him even though he's passed.”

Quinn didn't think so, but the last thing he wanted was a legal problem. He waited to see what Price had in mind.

“We'll go to the bank together tomorrow,” Price said. “I'll unlock and open the box in plain sight of all. I would like to be able to examine the letters first, to make sure there is nothing of potential damage to Edward's reputation or his family. Then I will give the letters to you to read. If they constitute some kind of evidence in an active homicide investigation, they will pass to your possession if you request them.” He placed bony hands on his kneecaps and smiled widely with straight but yellowed teeth. “Is that acceptable?”

Quinn returned the smile. “So far. We'll take it a step at a time.”

“Fair enough,” Price said.

“Edward would approve,” Ida Tucker said.

Quinn and Price exchanged glances. Both knew that, being dead, Edward Tucker didn't have much in the way of legal standing. He couldn't voice his legal opinions now.

At the same time, being dead, he couldn't be harmed by the law.