Heart of Stone (32 page)

“If Jerry was eager to run back to camp right away,” I began, “then why didn't he?”

“He didn't?” she asked.

“No. By all accounts, he was missing from Orpheus from six in the morning onward. He never returned.”

Emily could find no explanation. She maintained that Jerry had set off in a rush to return to camp at 7:00 a.m.

“Did you see or hear anything the morning you met him?” I asked. “Was there anyone else in the woods at that time?”

She shook her head again. “We didn't see anybody. We never did. The forest is deserted at that hour.”

Then she caught herself. A vague expression crossed her face. It was one of those looks of recollection mixed with doubt.

“What is it, Emily?” I asked. “What did you see that morning?”

“No, I didn't see anything,” she said. “But I heard something. It was maybe a minute or two after Jerry left. I was heading back to my camp, and I heard something.”

“Heard what?”

“It was a car,” she said. “On the road not too far off. It was skidding tires, you know.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“No. Just the tires screeching on the road. Then everything went back to silence.”

Probably the drag racers or a driver avoiding the same fat raccoon I'd nearly run over in the rain earlier in the week.

“Tell me the truth, Miss Stone. What do you think really happened to Jerry and that man on the cliff?”

“I just can't figure anything but an accident,” I said. “There are one or two anomalies, of course, that I would love to have explained.”

“Like what?”

“Like what did Jerry do from seven a.m. until half past twelve when the witnesses said they saw him dive off the cliff?”

“There were witnesses?” she asked.

“A man and his son were fishing on the lake and heard a shout. They turned and saw one of the two dive or fall off Baxter's Rock. They reported it to the police.”

Emily began to cry. I put my arm around her, and she bucked up in short order. She said it was hard to lose Jerry, but Jesus was helping her cope.

“Why do you think Jerry knew that man?” she asked after a few moments had passed.

“I believe there was some kind of connection between the two of them,” I said. “Why else would they be there together?” I paused. “Unless they weren't.”

Emily frowned and asked what I meant.

“What if Jerry fell hours before the other man? What if he fell minutes after leaving you in the woods? Baxter's Rock was not far off his path back to the camp. Maybe he decided to try to make the dive.”

“He wouldn't have done that. He was in a hurry to get back. And I know him. He wasn't interested in that kind of thing.”

I looked her up and down, wondering how well she had really known young Jerry. She was full of confidence and certainty about what he would or wouldn't have done, but she had no explanation for why he was diving off cliffs with a man more than twice his age. I decided to test her.

“Emily, when did you and Jerry start seeing each other?” I asked.

She cast her eyes downward. “About three weeks ago,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“That's not very long.”

“It's long enough,” she said. “We told each other everything. I knew everything about him. His dog's name, his address and telephone number, his parents' names.”

I told her as gently as I knew how that those were fairly superficial details that didn't rise to the level of deep familiarity between two kindred souls. That seemed to aggravate her. Of course, I should have known it would. I tried to apologize, but she challenged me back.

“You don't know anything about us,” she said, weeping. “We shared everything. He even told me about an older woman he was in love with. That's how close we were.”

Emily's high-pitched avowal echoed then faded into the north woods. I stepped forward and held her gaze with mine.

“Tell me about her.”

I had all but dismissed the story of Jerry Kaufman's older girlfriend. Probably just an adolescent crush like so many others. Like the one Isaac had had for my skinny-dipping aunt. But these crushes never go any further, I reasoned. What kind of woman seduces sixteen-year-old boys? And yet, according to Emily Grierson, Jerry had indeed gone beyond the usual longing and lusting after the beguiling older woman. She told me that his behavior had been sinful, but she'd forgiven him because he repented. He acknowledged his wrong and vowed never to do it again.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you telling me that Jerry . . . converted to Christianity?”

“Of course he did,” she said. “I baptized him myself. In the lake. It was our secret.” She paused a moment. “Of course Jesus knew.”

God, that was a secret that I wasn't about to share with Jerry's parents. The poor things had suffered enough. I didn't know how they might react to such news. And the coincidence of Karl Merkleson's conversion didn't escape my notice. Perhaps there was a connection between the two dead men after all. I just couldn't see it.

“What exactly was Jerry's sin with this woman?” I asked.

“I don't like to think about it.”

“You have to,” I said. “It could be important.”

“Who are you, anyway?” she asked. “I know you're not a cop. You're a girl, and there are no girl cops.”

“Actually there are female police officers,” I said, though I certainly had never met one.

“Then are you one?”

“No, I'm a reporter. And I'm investigating this diving accident for my paper.” Okay that was a lie, but I wasn't a Christian, and I had no qualms about lying. Or committing other deadly sins, for that matter.

“He said he'd lain with her,” said Emily, covering her face as she said it.

“He'd
lain
with her?” I asked. “You mean in the biblical sense? Or they took a nap?”

“This isn't funny, Miss Stone,” she said through anger and tears.

I apologized. We stood there on my beloved secret beach, each one waiting for the other to say something. Finally, once she'd calmed down, I asked how the love affair had ended. Emily sniffled, wiped her eyes, and hiccoughed. Just once, thank God. There was no repeat of the violent attack she'd suffered when I informed her of Jerry's fate.

“It all happened suddenly. In the first days after he arrived at camp. The woman used him for her evil urges. When she'd had enough, she threw him over. Jerry thought he was in love with her. But that's just how Satan uses lust to steal men's souls. He convinces them that it's love, not sin.” She stopped, gathered her breath, and recited from memory, “‘Let the marriage bed be undefiled.' Hebrews, 13:4.”

“For the record, Emily, I'm not a Christian, and I have different ideas on sex.”

“Please don't use such foul language,” she said. “I'd like to go now.”

“Okay,” I said. “But just one more question. Did Jerry tell you the woman's name?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “He said her name was Mimi.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tommy Grierson was sitting with Cousin Max on the porch of the main cabin, sipping lemonade as they engaged in what appeared to be a lively argument. Max had probably goaded the reverend into a debate over what size sandals Jesus wore. Why did people insist on arguing about religion? I made straight for the porch, intending to break up the melee before someone got hurt.

“No,” said Max. “I will not accept him. He's a fraud.”

“Reconsider, my friend,” pleaded Tommy Grierson. “This is a new day. It is inevitable and shall be so. Accept him.”

I sped up my pace, just yards away now.

“Never!” shouted Max, trying to wriggle out of his chair. He was unsuccessful. “Roger Maris will never beat Babe Ruth's record. Never!”

I stopped my advance. Typical of Max, I thought. I should have guessed it was something like that.

“Brother, it's only a matter of time. He has thirty-four games to hit eleven homers. Maris will prevail.”

“Can you turn a blind eye to the extra games? Maris will have had a hundred and sixty-two games. Ruth only a hundred and fifty-four.”

Reverend Tommy reasoned that questioning Maris's achievement, if in fact he reached sixty-one home runs, was wrongheaded. All records—pitching, batting, and fielding—even championships, would need to be reevaluated.

“Yes, that's right,” said Max. “Just as you did with your New Testament.”

“I'll be fine,” I said to Fadge, who was sitting at the wheel of his Nash, about to leave. The car had needed a jump to start. “I'm sure Donald Yarrow is nowhere near here. People are highly suggestible. And I'm the one who should be worried about you making it home safely in this bomb.”

“Don't be fooled by outward appearances,” he said. “This car looks like it was vandalized, but underneath the dents and scratches, she purrs like a kitten.”

Just then the kitten backfired.

“Be sure to give those photos to Fred Peruso,” I said, referring to the Montgomery County coroner. He was one of my guys back in New Holland, and I knew he would tell me if anything fishy could be seen in the pictures.

“How's he going to get in touch with you?” asked Fadge. “You don't have a phone, and I'm not driving back up here.”

“He can send me a telegram if there's anything to report,” I said. “Now don't worry about me. I'll be back in New Holland Sunday evening.” Fadge looked up at me. “Unless something goes wrong.”

“I thought I made it clear that I didn't want you nosing around here,” said my old pal Norris Lester.

“I'm sorry to bother you again, but I have new information on Jerry that might be important.”

“He died diving off a cliff, Miss Stone,” he said. “What new information could you possibly have that would change that outcome?”

“He was seeing an older woman here on the lake. It was a romantic relationship.”

Lester the Jester wanted to close the door on our conversation, but his interest was piqued. He asked me how much older she was.

“Thirty,” I said. “Or thereabouts.”

“And you say they had a romantic relationship?” he asked. I nodded. “But that's inappropriate, isn't it?”

“Possibly illegal,” I said.

“But I still fail to see what this has to do with his death.”

“The woman in question was also having an affair with the man who died with Jerry on the cliff.”

Okay, that was a guess on my part. I had no hard evidence that Karl Merkleson and Miriam Abramowitz were breaking their marital vows, but I was convinced of it. Gayle Morton had pointed a finger at Miriam, suspecting that Karl might have come to Prospector Lake to meet his old lover, whom she identified as Miriam. And Isaac's account of Miriam's “accidental” encounter with Karl in Los Angeles strained credulity. It sounded more like an ambush to me. Add to that Karl Merkleson's baffling movements in Prospector Lake and his presence in the hunters' shelter, not two hundred yards from Miriam's bedroom window, and the circumstantial evidence was compelling. Even the Dopp kit pointed to Miriam. It had to have been a gift from one of the old gang. A gift that facilitated an adulterous affair.