Miss Lizzie (27 page)

“William,” I said, “you're in
jail
.”

He shrugged again. “It's not so bad. I've got a room of my own”—he smiled—“and Dad brought a bunch of magazines. And they're letting me order in food from the Fairview. I had steak and eggs for breakfast.”

I looked around the “room.” Sallow green cement-block walls with one tiny barred window high overhead, a single bare electric bulb in the ceiling, a gray concrete floor, two gray metal bunk beds. Cobwebs drooping from the upper corners, out of reach. Over to the right, a dented gray metal bucket beside an open toilet. The air was motionless and crowded with smells: the sting of disinfectant, the reek of stale urine, the sad wood-smoke stench of stale sweat. I wanted to cry.

“Hey,” he said, “I hear you're real chums now with Lizzie Borden.”

“Miss Lizzie's been very kind to me.”

“Yeah?” He grinned. “Well, I wouldn't go out chopping any wood with her, if I were you—”

“That's nasty, William. You don't even know her.”

“—Not unless
you're
the one with the hatchet.”

“
William
.”

He laughed, put up a hand. “Okay, okay.”

“Father wouldn't let me stay there, at her house, if he didn't like her.”

“I
said
okay.” He smiled.

I looked to my right down the corridor. Beyond the steel door, Father waited with the new Pinkerton man, a Mr. Dick Foley. I leaned closer to the bars. “Did you know that Father has a girlfriend?”

“Sure,” he said, and shrugged again. “Susan St. Clair. He's been, seeing her for a long time.”

Astonished, I said, “How long?”

“A couple of years.”

“A couple of
years
? How do you know that?”

“Last year I found a letter she wrote. In one of the books in the study.”

“Last year? What were you doing in the study?”

“Looking for something to read.” He grinned. “Is that a crime? You want to send me to jail?”

“That's not funny,” I said. “How come you never told me?”

“I figured it was Dad's business.”

“But
you
knew about it.”

“That doesn't mean I had to tell
you
.”

“What did the letter say?”

“I told you. It's Dad's business.”

“
You
read it.”

“By mistake.”

“But William, she could've been the one who killed Audrey. She could be after Father's money. She could be a gold digger.”

He smiled scornfully. Over the past few days, while I had been listing William's many virtues to myself, I had neglected (with what I perceived as an extreme nobility of spirit) to recall his vices. Foremost among these, perhaps, was fraternal scorn. “Amanda,” he said, “she's rich. Really rich. She's got more money than Dad has.”

“How do you know
that
?”

He waved his hand vaguely. “I found out.”

“How?”

“I just found out, okay?”

No point questioning him further: he was as stubborn as I.

“She's a nice lady,” he said. “Everybody thinks so.”

“What does she look like?”

“She's pretty.”

“So you've
seen
her?”

“Yeah, I've seen her. So what?”

“Where? Where'd you see her?”

“Downtown. On the street. They were driving around in her car. She's got a Packard.”

“What does she look like? Is she a blonde or a brunette? Is she tall?”

“She's blonde. What difference does it make?”

“Well,” I said, “maybe someone here in town would recognize her. So far the police don't have any witnesses. But there must've been
someone
who saw
something
. There
had
to be. Maybe we could get a picture of her, and the police could show it around to everyone. Not just here, I mean, but at all the places between here and Boston.”

He had been listening to this with pursed lips and furrowed brow. Now he shook his head. “Amanda, Susan St. Clair didn't kill Audrey.”

“But how do you
know
that?”

He smiled. “Because I killed her.”

“That's not funny,” I said. My fingers were tight around the bars.

“It's not supposed to be.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “It's the truth.”

“It is not, William. Stop it. You're lying.”

“I'm not lying. I killed her.”

“Oh, really? So how'd you kill her?”

“With a hatchet.”

“Where'd you find it?”

“What difference does it make?”

“
See
? You don't even know where you found it.”

He grinned. “In that old shed by the swamp.”

“What were you doing in there?”

“That's where I went after we had the fight. I was just sitting there and I saw it lying under some boards.”

“Where is it now?”

“I threw it in the swamp. Afterward.”

“Where in the swamp?”

“I don't remember. I was running away. I was in a hurry.”

“They'll look in the swamp, you know. The police.”

He shrugged. “Then they'll probably find it.”

“All right, William.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “
Why'd
you kill her?”

“I was sick of her. Her dumb whining and complaining. The way she treated Dad, the way she treated us. I was tired of the way she looked at me, and her fat white hands, and the way she touched me sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

He stopped himself before he answered, and he frowned. “Look, I was just sick of her, okay? Everything about her. And I was angry, really angry. I saw the hatchet lying there and I picked it up. I walked back to the house along the beach.”

“With a
hatchet
in your hand?”

“I shoved it into my pants. It's only a couple hundred yards from the swamp to the back of the house, and there wasn't anyone around.”

“How'd you get into the house?”

“The back door was latched, so I came around and used the front door.”

“Was the front door locked?”

“No. I just walked in. I looked for her up in her room, but she wasn't there, so I came downstairs—”

“You went upstairs first? The
back
stairs?”

“Yeah, but she wasn't up there. So I came down and then I went up the front stairs. She was asleep in the guest room.” He shrugged. “And I killed her.”

I shook my head. “You're lying, William.”

“I'm not lying.”

“Did you look in my room?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't think she'd be in there.”

“
I
was, you know.”

“So? I never looked inside.”

“How come I didn't hear you?”

He shrugged. “I was walking on tiptoes.”

“I still should've heard you.”

“But you didn't.” He smiled as though taunting me.

I took a deep breath. “So what did you do after you killed her?”

“I had some blood on me, so I took a shower in the washroom, and then I wrapped the hatchet in the dirty towel and came downstairs and left.”

“With the hatchet and the towel.”

“Yeah.”

“And you threw them both in the swamp?”

“Yeah. Separately. The towel first, then the hatchet. And then I walked up the path along the creek for a mile, up to the road, and I hitchhiked a ride to Boston.”

“Who was the man who gave you the ride? The man you had a fight with?”

“I made that up. Because of those stains on my shirt. I tried to get them out in the washroom, but some of them were still showing.”

“So who gave you a ride?”

“Some guy. I don't remember.”

“What did he look like?”

“Just a guy. Short. He had a mustache.”

“William, you're
lying
.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, Amanda. I'm not lying. I killed her.”

“You did
not
.”

“It doesn't matter whether you believe me or not. I did it.”

“When you left the house, did you lock the front door?”

“I don't remember.”

“It was
locked
.”

“Then I guess I locked it.” He smiled again. “Give it up, Amanda. Forget about it. I killed her.”

“He's
lying
, Miss Lizzie,” I said. “I know he is. Father must've told him all that stuff, and he's using it now to say that he killed Audrey. He was making it all up as he went along.”

She frowned. “It does sound almost as though he were trying out the role, doesn't it? Trying it out on you before he tried it out on the police. Like a New York show going first to Boston.”

“But he is going to tell the police.”

“Did he say why he hasn't told them already?”

“He said he didn't want Father to know. But now he sees that he's got to tell, he says, no matter what.”

“And you say you left your father at the police station?”

“Yes. He doesn't know yet.”

“You didn't tell him about this?”

“William made me promise not to. He said it was his responsibility.”

She nodded.

We were sitting at the table on her back porch, a cup of her universal panacea, chamomile tea, resting before each of us.

“The thing that bothers me,” I said, “is that towel he was talking about. He said he wrapped the hatchet in a towel before he left. Maybe there really is a towel missing, and if there is, how did William know about it?”

She smiled. “Just because you and I didn't know about it doesn't mean that there wasn't a missing towel. Very possibly, whoever used the washroom did take a towel with him, so as not to leave it as evidence. And the only way the police could've determined that was by asking you or your father. If they did ask your father, he could easily have told your brother.”

“That's it!” I said. “That must be it! He got it from Father, just like he got everything else.”

“So it would seem. Did he mention anything about the key? Your stepmother's key?”

“The one that's missing? No.” I leaned toward her. “Miss Lizzie, we've got to
do
something.”

“Yes,” she said, and frowned. She looked down into her teacup.

I stood up and crossed over to the screen that faced my house. From there I could see through the tattered privet hedge that divided the two properties, Miss Lizzie's and ours. I could make out the beach behind our house, most of our sandy yard, and the weathered gray stoop at the back porch, where, just three days ago, my stepmother and William had fought with each other.

“If I'd only been standing here on Tuesday,” I said. “Then I could
prove
that William didn't come back like he says he did.”

Behind me, Miss Lizzie said softly, “There are no
ifs
in the world, Amanda, I'm sorry to say.”

I turned to her. “Why is William
lying
? What's he
doing
it for?”

“Well,” she said, “I can think of several reasons.” She smiled. “But let's not worry about them right now. The important thing, it seems to me, is to prove that he
is
lying, and I've got an idea or two as to how we can do that. Mr. Boyle called earlier and said he'd stop by after lunch. We can discuss it with him. How would that be?”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll be back by lunchtime.”

She frowned. “Where are you going?”

“To the swamp.”

TWENTY-ONE

MISS LIZZIE DID not want me to go alone—“I don't think it's safe, dear”—and for a while she threatened to come along herself. I had visions of her trudging across the hot sand, a strained intrepid smile on her lips, her black dress billowing like abanner in the breeze; and I knew that for her (although neither of us would ever admit it) the trip I was planning would be difficult and uncomfortable. Finally, when I promised to get Annie Holmes to accompany me, she agreed to let me go. It was eleven o'clock when I left, and I assured her I would be back by one-thirty.