Heart of Stone (33 page)

“What do you want from me?” asked Lester.

“I'd like to speak to the other boys in his bunk,” I said. “He must have told them something. Boys can't keep their mouths shut when it comes to sex. Especially sixteen-year-old boys.”

“But you already know about this woman,” he said. “Why do you need to bother our boys?”

“I'm a reporter,” I said. “I'm always looking for corroboration.”

Lester seemed to struggle with the idea. I was sure he wanted the whole mess to go away. Be forgotten. He probably wondered what benefit he could derive from granting my request. An expanded investigation into Jerry's love life would only draw attention to the camp. No matter the outcome of my questioning a dormitory full of adolescent boys, things could only get worse for Norris Lester and Camp Orpheus. If it became known that Jerry had bragged to his bunkmates about his conquest, questions might arise about how he had managed to slip his bonds so easily to meet his older lover. Where was the oversight? And who was running the asylum anyway? Norris Lester, Lester the Jester, that's who. I also wondered what benefit Lester could hope to gain by helping me. And yet he did.

“I know that Kenny Partridge was Jerry's closest friend here,” he said. “I'll allow you to speak to him and only him.”

Lester showed me to “REC TAL HALL,” which was empty at ten in the morning. I wondered when it had last been evacuated. He left me in the first row of benches and told me to wait there. He went to fetch Kenny Partridge. The amphitheater seated five hundred, according to the placard in the entrance. For all intents and purposes, it was a large barn. I sat on my bench and looked around the hall. The stadium seating was built on an incline, assuring a good view for the entire audience. The stage was large enough to accommodate a symphony orchestra. I noticed some graffiti carved into the bench in a small hand. I squinted to read it.

Question: What's the difference between a conductor and a sack of s**t?

Answer: The sack.

Oh, my. Sounded like something my little friend Herbie might say.

“Miss Stone,” came Lester's voice from behind me. “This is Kenny. Jerry Kaufman's friend.”

I looked up at a kid who appeared to be three years younger than Jerry. He was cute, like a little brown-haired cherub.

“May I speak to Kenny alone?” I asked.

Lester pursed his lips. I was sure he was torn between two opposite and conflicting desires: one, to hear all the dirty little secrets, and two, to avoid any knowledge of the dirty little secrets. In the end, he opted for the latter.

Once we were alone, Kenny stared at me.

“Are you the lady Jerry was balling?” he asked.

I choked. “No. I never met him,” I said, recalling Fadge's admonition about outward appearances. This kid was no angel.

“Sorry. When Lester the Jester came to get me, I just thought you must be the one. You don't look thirty, though.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” I said. “Still, you should learn some manners.”

“You can't blame me. A pretty chick shows up asking about Jerry. I just assumed it was Mimi.”

“I'm not Mimi. But since you brought up her name, what can you tell me about her?”

Kenny looked me up and down, the little pervert. He smiled, and I thought I would never trust first impressions again.

He squinted at me. “Who are you again? Why should I answer your questions?”

“You should answer my questions because I'm pretty, and boys will do anything for a pretty girl. That's a rule.” I was a little impatient.

Kenny gulped, and his attitude changed. He scratched his pubescent cheek, which was flush and smooth. Not even the hint of a beard. Like a baby's bottom.

“Jerry was a nice guy,” he said finally. “And he was good-looking, you know. Girls liked him. But he wasn't just after a good time. He was different. More interested in love. At least he thought he was.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it was a little hard to take him seriously, what with him falling in love with a different girl every couple of days. Every time, he swore it was true love.”

“Kind of sweet,” I said. “Boys your age are usually after just one thing.”

“He was a romantic. I'm not sure exactly what that means, outside of music. But Jerry thought he was looking for love, not sex.”

“Did he ever talk to you about Mimi?” I asked.

Kenny nodded slowly. “Yeah, he used to tell me about the stuff they did. That was almost a month ago. Right after camp opened.”

“How did he meet her?”

“Jerry was picked to play in a concert in the village. He met Mimi while they were rehearsing for the concert. She was one of the musicians.”

“How did Jerry feel about her?”

Kenny gave a halfhearted chuckle. “He was madly in love with her. He said they did it in her car after the first rehearsal, but they almost got caught.”

“Did they find a safer place to do it after that?” I asked. My God, I was discussing sex with a teenage boy.

“Yeah. A motel in the village. But that was risky, Jerry said. The third time they found an abandoned shack somewhere in the woods.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

Kenny couldn't quite suppress a smile. “You mean the details? Sure.”

“No, not the details,” I said. “Anything about Mimi?”

Kenny shook his head. “The time in the shelter was the last time. The whole thing lasted less than a week.”

“What happened? Why did they stop?”

“Mimi just dumped him,” said Kenny with a shrug. “Jerry was broken up about it. But then he met some girl named Emily. He seemed to get over Mimi pretty quick.”

“Did he tell you what you wanted to know?” asked Lester.

“He confirmed what I believed,” I said.

“Excellent. That means you won't need to come back here again.”

I thanked him for his hospitality and set off across the compound toward my car. There were a few campers milling about. Others were rushing to lessons or rehearsals, instrument cases in tow. I stopped in front of the totem pole and looked over my shoulder to see if Norris Lester was watching me. I couldn't see him anywhere.

I turned back around and stared at the totem pole. Flyers of all colors, mimeographed and handwritten, were stapled and tacked onto the face of the thing. I glanced at a couple of them. A lime-green paper caught my attention. “Summer Fête Concert August 13, 1961.” I pulled it down from the pole and examined it more closely.

Piano Quartet No.1, W. A. Mozart

Adagio and Rondo Concertante, F. Schubert

Prospector Lake Chamber Players

Miriam Abramowitz, piano

Lucia Blanchard, cello

Lionel Somers, viola

Jerrold Kaufman, violin

I drew an uneasy breath, reflecting on the sum and substance of what Kenny Partridge had told me. And the program spelled it out in black and lime-green as well. I'd heard Simon call Miriam Mimi myself. I had all the proof I needed. The thought of Miriam sleeping with a sixteen-year-old boy in cars, motels, and shacks turned my stomach.

I'd found a close connection between Jerry Kaufman and Karl Merkleson. They had both been having an affair with Miriam Abramowitz, one after the other, it seemed. I wasn't sure how their last dive had played out the previous Saturday morning, but a jealous altercation atop the cliff looked like a good bet. Or were their deaths more nefarious than that? Perhaps Simon had caught wind of the affairs and shoved the two off the cliff. Or Gayle Morton. Or even her father, Owen Pierce.

I folded the concert program into my purse and headed to my car. Norris Lester was probably right, I thought. I didn't have any reason to return to Camp Orpheus, and I wouldn't look back again.

Before presenting the information to Tiny Terwilliger, I wanted to know which motel Miriam had used to debauch Jerry. Tom's Lakeside Motel was the closest inn to Camp Orpheus, and it was on the way to the police station. I pulled into the lot as I drove north on Route 15.

No one was manning the registration desk when I entered the office. I rang the bell to no effect, so I lit a cigarette and waited. Then I noticed the register sitting unattended on the desk, not three feet away from me.

I tapped the bell again. Still no one. I inched closer to the register, at first throwing a casual look at the names. Then, as the office was still empty, I flipped through a few pages. Before I knew what was happening, I had rotated the register 180 degrees and was poring over it. With the prospect of discovery hanging over me, I decided to concentrate on the first week of August, which I figured held the most promise. For one thing, I wanted to see if any names jumped out that might suggest Mimi or Miriam or Abramowitz. Her maiden name was Berg, so I was on the lookout for that. But I was also looking for a name that might be Gayle Morton. Even if Tom Waller had searched the register in good faith the last time I'd visited, how could I be sure he'd done a thorough job? I wanted to check for myself.

The minutes stretched on, and still no one entered the office. I ran a finger down one page then another. I wasn't finding any Mimis or Gayles, but on Sunday, August 6, Lucia Blanchard checked in at 4:03 p.m. That was interesting, but Lucia, oversexed wife-swapper, was not Mimi. My finger resumed its course down the page. It didn't get far. My cigarette dropped to the floor. I strained to read the cursive writing before me. A little past 6:00 p.m., August 6, Isaac Eisenstadt checked into unit sixteen.

I didn't have time to exhale, to grasp the significance of this information, or even to crush out my wayward cigarette with my shoe. I heard a toilet flush in the back room behind the desk. I spun the register back around and feigned interest in the local leisure activities brochures near the door. My cigarette butt hissed from the floor several feet away. A door opened, and Tom Waller entered the registration office. I reeled around, trying to appear casual but probably looking terrified instead. His skin was even browner than the last time I'd seen him. He flashed me another of his lascivious grins, turning on the charm in his open shirt and tight bathing suit.

“Just can't stay away?” he asked.

“I try, believe me,” I said, my voice aquiver.

He chuckled, my sarcasm flying high over his head. I had to say something, but I couldn't find any breath. The appearance of Isaac's name in the register had kicked me in the stomach.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

I tried to smile but still could find no voice.

“I think you dropped your cigarette,” he said, making his way around the desk to retrieve it. “We like to use ashtrays around here. ‘Smokey says care will prevent nine out of ten forest fires.'”

I forced a stiff laugh, and Tom stubbed out the butt in a tin ashtray on the desk.

“I wanted to ask you if any of the Arcadia Lodge folks ever took a room here,” I said a mite too hoarsely. I cleared my throat. “Say, three or four weeks ago.”

“You seem to have the notion that everyone stays here,” he said. “I'm not real comfortable giving out information about my guests.”

“I wouldn't ask if it weren't important,” I said.

“What do the people from Arcadia Lodge have to do with Mrs. Morton's insurance?”

He had me there, so I lied.

“That's what I asked my boss, Mr. Stephenson. But he said it wasn't my job to question him. He just told me to come back up here and find out if any of them had stayed here this summer.”

Tom Waller thought it over, smacking his lips as he did.

“I know it's asking a lot,” I said. “Especially since you're friendly with some of them.”

He stopped the smacking. “Friendly with who?”

“Isaac Eisenstadt, for one. He told me he spoke to you Monday. He stopped by, and you told him Gayle Morton was staying here.”

Waller frowned and scowled at me. I thought I'd gone too far too fast. He was suspicious. I was wrong.