Louise's Dilemma (12 page)

Long rose from his chair, gripping his cane as he moved from around his desk. ‘Let’s drive out to Gladys’s place and talk to her again,’ he said. ‘Maybe if we all show up there it will loosen her tongue. She must know something about what went on at that tobacco barn last night.’

‘I’ve got to put this vial of blood on the bus to D.C.,’ Williams said. ‘Before we go out to the farm if I can.’

Long checked his watch. ‘The express bus heading north pulls into the filling station in ten minutes. We can make it.’

‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘You two go on up to the filling station. I’m going to see if Anne is in the library.’ If I could talk to Anne without Williams I might be able to get her to open up to me.

Anne was checking in a stack of returned books, flipping to the back jacket of each one and stamping the index card in the little envelope in the back of the book ‘returned’.

The library was tiny, but every nook and cranny was stuffed with books. Stacks of books stood in corners, with their spines neatly facing out. Books were crammed sideways on the bookshelves on top of the books already shelved there. I could see that each one had its Dewey Decimal System label on the spine. That was unusual for a small town library.

Anne glanced up when she heard me open the door and paused in her rhythmic stamping. I didn’t see any nervousness at all in her face when she recognized me.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ she answered. ‘So, where’s your driver? Or should I say that FBI agent?’

News got around fast. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t my idea. He’s full of himself, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is!’ she said, and smiled at me.

‘Did you know he was a cop when we came by your house?’

‘I was pretty sure,’ she said. ‘And when Dennis Keeler came to breakfast at the café he announced it to the world. Where is he?’

‘Off with Constable Long,’ I said. ‘He’s got to put a package on the bus to Washington.’

I pulled up a stool to help her, opening each book to the back jacket so she could stamp the index card.

‘You’ve got a nice collection here,’ I said. ‘Especially for such a small town.’

‘The summer people leave them behind,’ she said.

‘Are you a trained librarian?’ I asked, thinking of the neat labels on every spine.

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘We had a real librarian, but she moved to Baltimore to take care of her grandchildren when her daughter got a job. I took a course at the Washington Public Library so I could fill in. I love books. I wanted to keep the library open, even for just a few afternoons a week.’

‘You’ve always loved to read?’

‘Always. Of course, when my grandmother and I arrived in the states, I had to learn to read and speak English.’

‘You hardly have an accent.’

‘Thanks. My grandmother never did pick it up.’

‘It must have been so traumatic, losing your family and moving to a new country.’

Anne paused. ‘It was awful,’ she said. ‘A nightmare. The worse one you could imagine. My father and older brother died fighting. My mother and little brother died from typhoid fever.’

‘War is so terrible.’

‘But America is a magical place. Safe and free. Everyone was kind to us when we arrived here. When my grandmother died, the woman who owned the boarding house where we lived, her cousin was Bertie Woods’ grandfather. He got me a job at the café. I met Leroy there. Marrying him made me an American.’

We’d finished stamping the stack of books. Anne began organizing them on a trolley so she could return them to their shelves in order.

‘I know Leroy seems rough, but he is very kind to me,’ she said. ‘He didn’t care that I didn’t want children. Or that I won’t go to church. I haven’t believed in God since my family died, but don’t spread that around. Leroy only cares if I’m happy.’ She looked up from her work and smiled at me. ‘And Leroy’s happy as long as I cook him a good dinner. So that’s what I do, every single night!’

I found Long and Williams drinking coffee in the café.

‘So what did you find out?’ Williams asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just made friends with her. For now.’

Williams shook his head. ‘Women,’ he said.

I ignored him. ‘Did you get the package on the bus? What’s next?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I did. We’re going out to Gladys and Frank’s farm. The constable here has a plan, but he won’t tell me what it is.’

We left the warm café and ventured outside. The weather was no longer glacial, but still very cold. I pulled the parka hood over my head and drew on my gloves.

‘Let’s take my police vehicle,’ Long said. ‘Then Gladys won’t know you’re with me right away,’ he said to Williams.

The policeman’s car was a Chevy, black with a white roof and hood, a stubby red light on top, and chains on all the tires.

Long held the back door open for me.

When we arrived at the farm, Gladys was standing on the porch wrapped in a quilt and smoking a cigarette, held primly between her thumb and forefinger, as if she didn’t do it very often. I guessed no one smoked in her house.

‘Hello, Constable,’ she said as we got out of the police car. ‘What can I do for you? You,’ she said, staring at Williams and me, ‘I got nothing to say to you.’

‘I don’t like to interfere in someone’s private business,’ Long said, ‘but this has gone on long enough. Agent Williams, will you go on around to the back door and keep watch?’

Gladys started and a scowl crossed her face. She threw her cigarette butt into an empty flowerpot. ‘What is this about, Ben?’ she asked.

Williams started around the house.

‘I’m looking for Frank,’ Long said.

‘He’s not here. I told these two that. He’s working at the base.’

‘Can we come in?’

‘Does it matter what I say?’ she said.

Once inside, Long glanced at me and then nodded at the staircase. ‘Mrs Pearlie, would you be so kind as to search the second floor? There are three bedrooms and a bathroom. Don’t worry, Frank won’t harm you.’

‘Ben, I told you …!’

‘Enough, Gladys, I know he’s here somewhere. You might as well tell me where, before Agent Williams gets all FBI on us and shoots him.’

I was halfway up the stairs when Gladys answered Long.

‘Oh, all right! I warned him, I did!’

Frank was hiding in the kitchen pantry, seated on the floor between a tub of flour and a butter churn. Long hauled him to his feet. Williams joined us in the kitchen, shoving his gun back in its holster.

‘What is going on here, Frank?’ Long asked.

‘I was taking a nap,’ he said, ‘’til Gladys woke me up and told me you were coming up our hill, and not alone.’

‘That was stupid,’ Long said. ‘Makes you look guilty.’

‘Guilty of what?’ Frank said.

‘Of whatever you and Leroy Martin were doing down at your old tobacco barn last night,’ Long said. ‘Reckon that’s why you needed a nap.’

‘Weren’t doing nothing wrong,’ Frank said, sullen.

‘So why did you conceal yourself from us this morning?’ Williams asked.

‘Because I didn’t want to talk to you, that’s why. Government people, you got to poke around in everyone’s business! I got two days off because I worked on the weekend at the base, and I don’t want to spend it with you!’

Gladys stood by, not saying a word, with her arms crossed. She was annoyed, but I couldn’t tell if it was with us or with her husband.

‘Lying to the FBI is a bad idea,’ Long said.

Frank shrugged.

‘Mr Cooke,’ Williams said, ‘there was a lot of fresh blood in that tobacco barn. It looked like there was murder done.’

Frank acted as if he’d been shot. His mouth gaped open in shock. He grabbed onto the back of a kitchen chair to steady himself.

Gladys gasped. ‘Frank, what are they talking about!’

‘Murder!’ he said to Long. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘You and Leroy Martin carried something bloody, the size of a person’s body, wrapped in sailcloth, out to Leroy’s truck and drove off with it,’ I said, ‘and crossed the Patuxent on Dennis Keeler’s ferryboat, which had no business out on a frozen river at that time of night.’

Frank’s face had frozen into the shape of an ‘O’. He seemed physically unable to speak. Gladys had collapsed into a chair and was fanning herself with a kitchen towel.

Long turned to Williams and me. ‘Agent Williams, Mrs Pearlie, would you kindly excuse us? I’d like to speak with Frank and Gladys alone.’

It was time for Agent Williams to be shocked. ‘Absolutely not!’ he said.

‘I might remind you, Agent, that you are a guest in my county. You are out of your jurisdiction. I’d appreciate it very much if you and Mrs Pearlie waited for me in the car.’

I took Agent Williams by the arm and pulled him toward the front of the house. He was too astonished to resist.

Once outside on the porch he collected himself and turned to go back inside.

I took his arm again, this time more gently. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Constable Long knows these people. Maybe for their whole lives. Let him talk to them.’

Agent Williams wasn’t stupid. He saw the reason in what I said. We went on out to the car and waited for Long.

He came out alone and slid into the front seat.

‘Well?’ Williams said.

‘Well what?’ Long answered, turning the ignition.

‘Did they tell you anything?’

‘Yeah, they did. But it’s nothing that you need to know.’

‘There might have been murder done!’

‘There was no murder,’ Long said. ‘I promise you that. In fact, I don’t think there’s a thing going on here that an FBI agent would be interested in.’

‘Listen, Long—!’

‘That’s Constable Long to you,’ the constable said, shifting into gear. ‘I’m going to find Dennis and question him. You’re welcome to come, but only if you allow me to do this my way.’

I sat in the back seat and listened to the men wrangle. I had my own issues. Whatever was going on had nothing to do with the postcard to Leroy from Richard Martin, and that concerned me.

I leaned forward and touched Long on the shoulder. ‘Constable,’ I said, ‘would you please drop me off at the café?’

‘Why?’ Long said.

Williams turned around and stared at me disapprovingly.

‘Special Agent Williams and I came to St Leonard on a different matter than this,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to lose track of it.’

‘There may have been a serious crime committed here!’ Williams said.

‘I understand,’ I said, ‘but I think that you and Officer Long can deal with that. You’re law enforcement officers, I’m not.’

‘What different matter?’ Long asked.

I wasn’t going to tell the constable about the postcard from France. He had nothing to do with that.

‘I want to talk to Anne Martin again. She warmed up to me this afternoon, and Leroy will be at work. You two deal with Dennis, and I’ll talk to Anne.’

‘You just talked to her.’

‘That was to soften her up.’

I had to give Williams some credit. He looked angry, but didn’t say anything in front of Long.

‘Can I have the keys, please?’ I asked, holding out my hand to Williams.

Now he was startled. ‘The keys?’ he said.

‘The keys to your car,’ I said. ‘I’m hardly going to walk to Anne’s.’

Off the main road, the ice hadn’t melted as much as it had in town. In the woods near the Martin cottage, branches, fences, even individual spears of grass, were coated with a shell of ice that gleamed and sparkled, turning the world into a glistening wonderland. As this was the first time in my life I’d driven anywhere near ice, I proceeded cautiously on the roadbed, the chains on the car’s back tires gripping what gravel and crushed oyster shell protruded from the ice. Even so I nearly slid off the road twice. When I finally arrived at the Martins’ house, I realized my hands were gripping the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline.

Damn it, Leroy’s truck was parked outside the door! Why wasn’t he at work? It was past time for his shift to begin.

I parked the car in a patch of sun, hoping to keep the interior warm, and got out. Stillness surrounded me. Except for the cracks of tree branches breaking under the weight of the ice, I heard not a sound.

I felt the hood of Leroy’s truck as I passed by it on my way to the front door. It was cold, hadn’t been driven today. And there was just a trickle of smoke rising from the chimney. The place felt deserted.

And the front door was ajar. In this weather?

I figured I had two choices. I could retreat to the car and drive away, find Constable Long and Agent Williams and bring them back here.

Or I could check the house myself.

I wished I had a gun.

Instead, I removed my switchblade, the one I’d been issued at the Farm, from my purse and slid it into my coat pocket.

It was impossible to walk quietly on the path, which was crunchy with oyster shells and ice. So I decided to call out, warn whoever might be inside that I was coming in. ‘Anne!’ I called out. ‘Mr Martin? Is everything all right?’

No one answered me. I pushed the door, and it swung silently open. I left it that way. I might need to run away, quickly. I made sure I had the car keys in my coat pocket, ready to grab.

‘Hello! I’m coming in!’

I stepped through the front door and into the small entryway. Anne’s bicycle leaned up against a wall. So where was she? I called out again. ‘Mr and Mrs Martin?’ A few seconds passed. The place felt empty. I pulled out my knife and flicked the blade open.

Inside the kitchen the stove was barely warm; just a few embers glowed when I opened the oven door. I could see into the back room and out one of the windows. There were no birds on the bird feeders. But I did smell iron.

Blood, and plenty of it, soaked the rug under which the body of Leroy Martin lay. It didn’t take an FBI agent to see what had happened. He must have died very quickly after the second the oyster knife sliced into his throat.

My heart pounded and blood drained from my head, making me feel lightheaded. I forced myself to think. Quickly, I passed through the sitting room and checked the bedroom and bathroom, methodically opening closets and searching under the bed, even opening a trunk that held blankets. There was no one in the house. I went back to the sitting room and touched Leroy’s hand. It was as frigid as the house. He’d been dead a long time.