Miss Lizzie (36 page)

Boyle asked him, “When was this?”

“Tuesday,” said Mr. Mortimer. “This past Tuesday. She always sees her on Tuesday.”

“What time?”

“Eleven.”

I saw Boyle and Mr. Slocum, both their faces without expression, exchange glances. My stepmother, I remembered, had been killed sometime between ten and eleven.

Mr. Slocum said to Mr. Mortimer, “She's an unusual woman, Madame Helene. What else do you know about her?”

“Looks like a basset hound,” said Mr. Mortimer, and chuckled. “And she's a phony. What else I got to know?”

Looking over his coffee cup as he raised it to his lips, Mr. Slocum asked, “Do you know where she's from?”

“New York. I think I remember the missus sayin' New York. Came here about four years ago.”

Mr. Slocum set down the cup. “There must've been a Mr. Archer, sometime, somewhere. What happened to him?”

Mr. Mortimer shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Can't say. Never heard.” He chuckled again. “Stuck in a kennel somewhere, probably.”

A tall round-faced man in a tuxedo had materialized behind Mr. Mortimer, and now he tapped him on his broad shoulder. Mr. Mortimer turned, the man bent forward and whispered in his ear, and Mr. Mortimer nodded. As the man moved away, Mr. Mortimer turned back to the table. “Got to go. Good to see you. Mr. Slocum. Boyle. And Amanda, you make sure you come by now, visit with me and the missus.” He pulled his heavy body out of the chair.

“I will,” I said. “Say hello to Mrs. Mortimer for me.”

“I'll do that.” He grinned and clamped the cigar between his teeth, then turned and lumbered off.

Mr. Slocum said to Boyle, “Perhaps we should have another word with Mrs. Archer.”

Boyle nodded. “I was thinking that myself.”

“So Mrs. Archer,” I told Miss Lizzie over the remains of my steak and baked potatoes, “wasn't home when Mrs.Mortimer went to see her. And that was at
eleven o'clock
.” I delivered the phrase with a portentousness I found infinitely agreeable.

Miss Lizzie only nodded.

As I had expected, she had received the story of my visit to Mortimer's not only with calm but even with curiosity, asking me about the decor, the customers, and about Mr. Mortimer himself, whom she had never met.

“Perhaps we'll learn something tomorrow,” she said easily, “when Mr. Boyle speaks with her.”

This was not quite the reaction I had expected. I said, “Mr. Slocum thinks that maybe you've got some idea who the murderer is.”

She frowned slightly, puzzled. “I don't recall having said that to Mr. Slocum.”

“He said it was an impression he got.”

She smiled. “Well, then. No one has any control, finally, over someone else's impressions.”

“But is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That you've got an idea who it is?”

She shrugged lightly. “Perhaps. But at this stage, Amanda, I don't really think we should be naming names.”

“Who? Who do you think it was?”

Gently she shook her head. “It wouldn't be right for me to say. Suppose I were wrong?”

“I won't tell anybody. I promise.”

Smiling softly, she said, “Amanda, I'm sorry. It's the sort of thing one ought not say until one is completely certain. You understand that, don't you?”

I supposed so, but this did not, of course, stop me from wanting to know. “But what if you just give me a hint?”

Looking at me with mock severity over the pince-nez, she intoned, “No.”

I sighed elaborately.

“Miss Lizzie,” I said. “You're not fair.”

“Like life,” she said, and smiled again. “Let's clear the table, shall we?”

We were doing the dishes—Miss Lizzie washing, I drying—when the phone rang.

“Can I get it?” I asked her. “It's probably Father.”

“Of course, dear. If it is, ask him if I could speak with him for a minute, would you?” She reached out, turned the faucet to shut off the hot water. That particular faucet had been loose for several days now, and, as I scurried from the kitchen, I heard her accuse it: “Stupid
thing
.”

It was Father. “How are you, Amanda?”

“I'm fine, Father. Where are you?”

“Still in Boston. I'll be there tomorrow morning, early: Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine. Really. But how come you're in Boston?”

“I had some things to take care of. Business. But everything's done, most of it, anyway, and I'll be driving back in the morning.”

“An awful lot's been going on here, Father. I was all over town today, talking to all kinds of people. I've been out with Miss Lizzie, and with Mr. Boyle—”

“Amanda, I'm sorry, I don't mean to cut you short, but I've got to go. I'm sorry, baby. I only called to make sure you were all right. Try to understand.”

Everyone wanted me to understand, but no one seemed willing to tell me what, or why.

“Amanda?” he said.

“Yes.” I pouted into the mouthpiece. “I'm here.”

“Amanda, I truly am sorry,” said the brittle, attenuated voice. “I know I haven't been able to spend much time with you lately. I don't know whether you believe me or not—and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't—but it's been bothering me a lot. It has, Amanda. I'm sorry we can't talk longer, but I hope you'll remember that I love you very much, and that I always will, no matter what happens.”

“What do you mean?” I said, suddenly uneasy. “What's going to happen?”

“Nothing, baby, nothing.” But I could hear the strain, the tightness, in his voice. “Everything will be all right. And I love you. Okay?”

“Are
you
okay, Daddy?”

He cleared his throat. “Fine, baby, I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Say hello to Miss Borden for me. All right?”

“What time are you going to be here?”

“Around nine. I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

“Good-bye now.”

“Good-bye.”

The phone clicked against my ear, a metallic, inhuman sound.

I set down the receiver and stood there for a moment. What was so important in Boston? Was it that Susan St. Clair person again? How could she be more important that I was? Than William was?

And what had he meant by
no matter what happens
?

I heard Miss Lizzie call me from the kitchen.

The sadness, the worry, had lumped together in my throat. I swallowed them away (temporarily) and left the parlor. From the hallway, walking toward her, I called out, “It was Father. He was in a hurry, and he couldn't talk. He says hello.”

Bent over the sink, she called back to me, “Amanda, in the hallway closet there's a toolbox. I think there's a wrench inside. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes, sure, of course.” I was not an entirely benighted female; back in Boston, I had seen William use one.

“Could you get it for me?”

The closet was halfway between the parlor and the kitchen. I opened the door and looked for a light switch. There was none, but a string dangled from the ceiling. I tugged it, and bright-yellow light filled the narrow recess.

Hanging from the rack were a black poplin raincoat and a lightweight wool jacket, also black. Standing at stiff attention on the floor, a pair of black rubber galoshes and a pair of black walking shoes. The toolbox lay in the corner.

It was gray metal, two feet long, one foot wide, one foot deep, with two metal clasps on the front. I undid these and swung up the top. There were screwdrivers on the first shelf, and neatly arranged cardboard boxes that held screws and bolts and nuts and nails. No wrench.

When I lifted off the shelf to get down into the interior of the box, I saw a rusted crescent wrench lying at the bottom.

And I saw, lying just beside it, the hatchet.

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE DAY HAD been an eventful one, and long; but that night, as I lay on the camphor-scented sheets, the image that kept appearing before me was not of Annie Holmes and her mother edging behind their front door, nor of Roger Drummond proudly reading his article, nor of Mrs. Marlowe ranting, nor of old Charlie grinning, nor of Mr. Mortimer and his checked suit, nor of Boyle, nor even of Mr. Slocum. It was of that hatchet.

For a moment, bending over the toolbox in the closet, I had hesitated. Then, not breathing at all, I had reached into the box, taken it by the handle, and lifted it out.

It was old and it was heavy. The handle was dark hickory, its surface as smooth as glass. Except for the sweep of sharp curved blade, the head was coated with a fine powdery black rust. In the harsh yellow light, I could just make out the words engraved at its base, where it met the shaft.
Underhill Edge Tool Co
.

From the kitchen, Miss Lizzie called out, “Amanda? Did you find it?”

“Yes,” I called back, and I set the hatchet back in the box, easing it down very carefully, as though it might somehow explode. I picked up the wrench and carried it out into the kitchen.

I stood beside Miss Lizzie as she dealt with the faucet. I had never seen a woman effect repairs before—Audrey, whenever something broke, merely threw it away or called in a team of experts. Miss Lizzie's blunt fingers, so nimble when she manipulated the playing cards, were strong and sure now as she fitted the wrench to the faucet's base.

“It's a good thing the wrench was there,” I said.

“Umm-hmmm,” she said, concentrating on her work.

“That toolbox,” I said. “Did it come with the house?”

“No,” she said, twisting the wrench with a firm, swift efficiency. “I brought it with me. You can never tell when things will start acting up on you.” She straightened up, turned to me, and smiled. “And I think it's a good idea for people to be able to take care of problems on their own.” She tested the faucet. “There. That should do for a while.”

She handed me the wrench. “Thank you. Let's finish up the dishes, and then we'll have some tea.”

We had finished the dishes, and drunk our tea, and we had talked for a while, I forget now about what. I was distant, distracted, and at ten o'clock, pleading exhaustion, I had gone upstairs to my bedroom. Perhaps half an hour later Miss Lizzie came up the stairs and went down the hall to her room. I barely heard her; only the creak and whisper of a floorboard told me she had passed; she could move almost silently when she wished.

“
I'll bet you, Amanda, I'll bet you that hatchet is lying right around here somewhere
.” So Roger Drummond had said, two days before, when he sat with me in the parlor.

I did not believe that Miss Lizzie had killed my stepmother. I reminded myself of her kindness, her insight, her strength. She was intelligent and, more than that, she was wise. She was, finally, and in a way which few people were capable of being, a truly good person.

And besides, as I had told Roger, she had absolutely no reason to commit an act of such brutality, such mindless, venomous evil.

The hatchet was merely another tool. Probably it had lain in the box for years, gathering rust and dust, entirely forgotten.

I did not believe that Miss Lizzy had killed Audrey. But I spent quite a long while not believing it before I was at last able to fall asleep.