Miss Lizzie (12 page)

“Yes. Audrey usually kept it open during the day.”

“The screen door from the porch to the outside Did that have a lock?”

“A latch.”

“Was the latch set?”

“I don't know. I don't remember.”

“Was the door normally kept latched?”

I nodded. “Audrey was afraid of hobos.”

“The windows in the house were open?”

“Yes.”

“Do they all have screens?”

“Yes.”

He turned to Father. “Locks on the screens?”

“Not locks,” he said. Glad, I think, to be certain of something, and able to contribute it. “Hooks and latches.”

“On the inside.”

“Yes.”

“All right. Amanda. When you came downstairs from the guest room, after you found your stepmother, was the front door opened or closed?”

“Closed.”

“Locked?”

“I don't remember.”

“Was it usually kept locked?”

“Usually.”

He turned to Father again. “What kind of lock is it?”

“A Yale.”

“It slam-locks automatically when the door is shut?”

“Yes,” Father said. “And there's a bolt too. You set it with a small knob on the inside, or with the key outside.”

Mr. Slocum asked me, “You don't remember if it was bolted?”

“No,” I said. “Is it important?”

“It could be.”

“Why?”

He smiled. “Well, suppose someone wanted to get in, and the back door was latched. Suppose whoever it was didn't want to cut the screens. If the front door was
unlatched
, he could've used a strip of celluloid to slide back the tongue of the lock.”

Father said, “And that wouldn't work if the bolt had been set?”

“No,” said Mr. Slocum.

“Are you talking about a burglar?” Father asked him.

“It's a possibility.”

“But I thought most burglaries took place at night.”

“As a matter of fact, most of them take place in the daytime, when the householders are away.”

Still gazing idly at the streamer of blue smoke, Boyle said, “You get a lotta burglaries round here?”

Mr. Slocum frowned, shook his head. “Not a great many, no.”

Boyle watched the smoke. “Anything taken from the house?”

“Not according to the police,” said Mr. Slocum, and looked at Father.

“They asked me to look,” he said. “Audrey had some jewelry in our bedroom dresser, and we kept some cash in a cookie jar in the kitchen. They were both still there. But maybe there was a burglar, and maybe he got frightened off before he could find them.”

Boyle stopped watching the smoke and looked at Father. “Maybe,” he said. “But why did he go to the guest room first?”

Mr. Slocum said, “What do you mean?”

Boyle sucked on the cigarette. “Why would he go up there before he finished the downstairs? Most burglars, they know the loot in the house is gonna be in the bedroom or in the kitchen. They know all about cookie jars. And most burglars, what they're thinking the whole time they're in there is getting out. Someone comes in while he's upstairs, the burglar's gonna be trapped up there. Doesn't it make sense he'd check out the kitchen first?”

“But maybe this man wasn't a professional,” Father said. “Maybe he hadn't thought all that out.”

Boyle shrugged. “Maybe not.” He inhaled on his cigarette, sat back, exhaled, and watched the smoke drift upward.

Mr. Slocum said to me, “You say that your stepmother usually took a small nap after breakfast?”

“After breakfast and after lunch,” I said. “She said her feet hurt her.” Guilt nudged me, and I added, “Her feet really did hurt, I guess.”

“And she usually took her naps in the guest room?”

“Yes, so she could hear the doorbell if anyone came.”

“You can't hear the bell,” Father said, “from the back of the house, upstairs, where our bedroom is.”

Slocum nodded. To me: “And when you found her, did she look as though she might have been asleep when it happened?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“She was lying on the bed,” Mr. Slocum said to Father, “and according to the police report, there were no signs of a struggle anywhere in the room. Presumably she
was
asleep. And Amanda was asleep as well. A burglar
could
have entered the house. How many keys are there to the front door?”

Father frowned. “The police asked me the same thing last night, you know.”

“I'm sure they did.”

“Well,” Father said, “I have one. Audrey has—Audrey had one. Mr. Cutler, the owner of the house, has at least one. And William has one. Four that I know of.”

“Where did Mrs. Burton keep her key?”

“On a nail in the kitchen.”

“When you went over the house with the police, did you notice if it was there?”

“No. It didn't occur to me.”

“Did they ask you about it? Where it was kept?”

“Earlier, yes.”

He turned to me. “Amanda, you don't have a key?”

“No.”

He sat back, his face thoughtful. No one spoke for a few moments.

At last Boyle said, “So what happens now?”

Mr. Slocum shrugged. “Amanda and Miss Borden give their statements to the police. And we try to locate your son, Mr. Croft. I'd like to speak with him before the coroner's inquest. That'll be on Monday. It's basically a formality. Unless the police discover anything new, its findings are essentially a foregone conclusion.”

“Yeah,” said Boyle. “Doesn't sound like she committed suicide.”

I astounded myself by producing an explosive giggle. Clapping my hand over my mouth, I blushed furiously.

No one spoke; Mr. Slocum was smiling his ironic smile.

Boyle glanced around the room. “Whoops,” he said. He held out his hands, palm up, to Father and Miss Lizzie. “Sorry.”

Father nodded abruptly. Miss Lizzie attempted to press her lips even more tightly together.

Boyle turned to Mr. Slocum and, evidently trying to get the conversation back on track, said, “So where do I fit in? You want me to sniff out the brother? This William?”

“That,” said Mr. Slocum, “is up to Miss Borden.”

Boyle looked at her.

“I should like you to stay close to hand,” she said, some resistance to the idea visible on her face. “Mr. Burton may wish to engage your agency in the search for his son, and I would suggest to him that he do so. But I believe you'd perform a more useful function conducting your investigations here in town.”

“Which investigations?” Boyle asked.

Mr. Slocum said, “Miss Borden feels that the local police, in their rush to judgment, may overlook something.”

“I have,” said Miss Lizzie, “placed an advertisement in the local newspaper today, offering a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person responsible for Mrs. Burton's murder. If anyone comes forward with information that seems promising, I should like you to pursue it.”

“What kind of a reward are we talking here?” Boyle asked her.

“Five thousand dollars.”

Father shook his head. “Miss Borden, I really can't allow you to—”

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Burton,” she said, “but it is, after all, my money.”

“Yes, but surely—”

“Really, Mr. Burton. My mind is made up.”

“Miss Borden,” he said. “Please. At least let me contribute some part of it.”

She cocked her head, nodded it. “If you insist.”

Boyle said, “That's a lotta cash, Miz Borden.”

She nodded again. “I am aware of that.”

“You're gonna get a lotta loonies crawling out of the woodwork, they hear about it.”

“Possibly. But possibly we will uncover something that the police would not.”

“Probably uncover a lotta things.”

“That's as may be.”

“And it's an open case. Police aren't gonna be too thrilled, I start poking around in it.”

“Does that bother you?”

He shrugged. “Not a whole lot.”

“And bear in mind,” she said, “that should you unearth any such information on your own, you will yourself be entitled to the reward.”

Exhaling smoke, Boyle shook his head. “Not allowed to take it. Against the rules.” He shrugged. “And besides, money like that, it just complicates things.”

Miss Lizzie raised both eyebrows now, in surprise or disbelief. “But can we count on you? Will you accept the job?”

Boyle smiled. “Dunno if you can count on me. But sure, I'll take the job.”

I said to Mr. Slocum, “Will I have to tell them?”

“Tell whom, Amanda?” he said. “Tell what?”

“The police. About what William said. On the porch.”

“If they ask you, Amanda. Yes. I'm afraid so.”

“Try,” said Officer Medley. “Try to remember if the door was bolted.”

“I can't,” I said. “I really can't remember.”

Officer Medley and Chief Da Silva, when I mentioned Marge Grady and the cardboard box, had exchanged the same sort of quick complicit looks that Father and Mr. Slocum had. And they had seized upon, as I had feared they would, and they had made much of William's parting words to Audrey, nodding and passing Dark Significant Looks. Now they hammered, stubbornly, at the front door.

“Come on, Amanda,” urged Medley, who had been doing most of the questioning. He demonstrated his winning smile. “Give it a try.”

“She's already explained,” said Mr. Slocum with bland patience, “that she can't remember.”

“It's pretty important, sir,” Medley told him earnestly. Officer Medley was capable of a wonderful earnestness.

Across the room the police stenographer, a remarkably short young woman, to all intents a dwarf, sat poised in a gingham dress over her notebook. Her name was Miss Mullavey.

Chairs had been moved by Boyle, Medley, and Mr. Slocum from the dining room into the parlor. Few objects are as intractable as a dining-room chair; willful, it resists any major relocation. Even the usually adroit Mr. Slocum had seemed ungainly and comical (although endearingly so) as he wrestled his charge into position atop the Persian carpet. All eight of us were distributed around the room in an irregular circle; with cups and saucers on our laps we might have passed for a (fairly motley) afternoon tea.

I was desperately tired by now of all these questions. First from Mr. Slocum and then, with less tact (but heaps of earnestness) from Officer Medley. I tried again, however. I remembered tottering, almost tumbling, down the stairs, remembered that awful coppery stink in my nostrils. Remembered reaching out, seeing my hand move toward the door.…

“If she can't remember,” Mr. Slocum said to Officer Medley, “she can't remember.”

Fingers going for the bolt …

“She's undergone an enormous strain,” he said.

“It was
bolted
,” I cried. And then, more calmly: “It was bolted, I do remember.”

Medley's glance skipped to Da Silva, then back to me. He grinned. “That's swell, Amanda. That's terrific. You're sure?”

“Yes,” I said. “I'm sure.”

Slowly, with an air of having achieved something of supreme importance, Officer Medley sat back.

Mr. Slocum was slouched down in his chair, hands in his pockets, the ankle of his lime-green sock perched atop his white linen knee. His brow furrowed, his lips in a reflective pucker, he mulled over this new development. Boyle blew slow streamers of smoke toward the ceiling. Da Silva was, as he had been throughout, expressionless.

Miss Lizzie had not changed her own expression, primly aloof, since the police arrived. Nor had she spoken. Now she said, “Was the door on the back porch latched?”

“Yes,” said Officer Medley.

“Do you have her key?”

Medley frowned. “What?”

“Mrs. Burton's key to the front door. Do you have that?”

Medley glanced at Da Silva, then back to Miss Lizzie. “Mrs. Burton's key.”

“I believe that's what I said.”

“Well,” said Officer Medley, clearly hesitating.

“Ah,” said Mr. Slocum with a sudden smile. “So you haven't found it.”

“Not yet,” said Medley, by his staunch tone implying that the thing would doubtless materialize at any moment.

“I see,” Mr. Slocum said, and nodded pleasantly. “And what about witnesses? Have any turned up?”

Officer Medley looked again at Da Silva, apparently uncertain whether he was permitted to answer questions as well as pose them.

Da Silva said flatly, “No.”

Mr. Slocum's left eyebrow arched. “Really? Someone commits a murder in broad daylight and then goes marching merrily down the street, no doubt covered with gore, and no one sees anything?”

“We don't know,” Da Silva said, “that the murderer went down the street.”