Naked Once More (39 page)

Inside was a single shelf and on the shelf was a small package so thickly furred with dust it appeared to be covered in gray velvet. Jacqueline snatched it up, careless of dirt and possible spiders, and shook it, with more enthusiasm than foresight; the dust got in her nose and made her sneeze violently.

Jacqueline got the flashlight out of her purse—cutting herself again in the process—and inspected the cavity. The shelf extended the full length of the walled-up section, but there was nothing else on it except a magnificent collection of mixed filth. It was impossible to tell whether other objects had once occupied the shelf; certainly nothing had been removed recently, for the dust lay even and undisturbed.

Returning the flashlight to her purse, she jammed the loosened panel back in place. It fit snugly; the work was not that of a professional carpenter, but it had been neatly done. Then she squatted down on the floor and began rummaging in her purse. The package had been wrapped in plastic and sealed with tape. Opening it would require more than fingernails; the tape wasn’t the flimsy stuff used to mend paper, it was heavy-duty plastic—weatherproof, waterproof.

Nothing is more appealing to the imagination and more destructive of good sense than a sealed packet, hidden for years and years. Still, as Jacqueline admitted later, that was no excuse. She ought to have known better. She had left the door open, to admit fresh air and sunlight. The sunlight suddenly vanished, and a long shadow stretched across the floor, touching her bent head like a cold cloud. She started and looked up. Standing in the doorway, his heavy stick in his hand, was St. John.

Jacqueline’s first thought was to congratulate herself on having had the foresight to replace the panel. Her second was to wonder whether she could find the tube of hairspray in her purse without cutting her fingers to ribbons on broken glass.

St. John had always struck her as a mildly comic character. That did not in itself absolve him from suspicion of murder; many killers have been described by their friends and families as jolly good fellows. He didn’t look jolly now. His bulbous body cut off the sunlight, as well as the easiest way of escape. His face was in shadow. He still looked like a frog, but a frog five and a half feet high, weighing over two hundred pounds, is not to be sneered at.

“Oh, you startled me!” Jacqueline squealed.

St. John had temporarily mislaid his gallantry. Instead of reassuring her, he said, “What’s that you’ve got?” in a voice harsh with suspicion.

“Just one of those—those female things,” Jacqueline said.

It was probably the most idiotic remark she had ever made, and although she later preened herself on her clever reading of St. John’s character, no such intent was in her mind when she spoke. But, as she often said, her subconscious had better sense than she did.

“Oh,” St. John said, in a very different voice. “Oh, dear—do excuse me.…” He turned his back.

Jacqueline got to her feet, cramming the packet into her purse. Relief and reaction made it difficult for her to refrain from giggling maniacally. Surely not even St. John could suppose that a woman would unwrap a sanitary napkin—or something even more sensitively, indelicately “female”—in the middle of the living room. He was a man of his generation, and a male old maid to boot; his reaction was instinctive, not intelligent.

She went to the door and slipped her arm through his. “Let’s get out of this nasty dark gloomy place,” she crooned. “I dropped by to borrow a few books. To tell you the truth, St. John, I didn’t know whether to call on you or not. Inclination warred with delicacy, if you understand me.”

“But my dear lady.” St. John squeezed her hand against his side. “You are welcome any time. In fact, I left messages for you.”

“I should have called first. But Mr. Craig said you weren’t answering the telephone.”

“Can you blame me?” St. John pulled his arm from her grasp in order to gesticulate dramatically. “I have not yet recovered from the dreadful events of last night. I may never recover fully. As for my poor mother—”

“She doesn’t know, I hope.”

“No. Not yet. That is why…” St. John came to a stop. “I would be failing in hospitality as well as in demonstrating my profound affection for you, dear Jacqueline, if I kept you outside my home instead of inviting you to partake of a little snack. Yet I must admit, with deep distress, that there is no room in the house, nor any corner of any room, that can be said to be secure from my mother’s… It is so difficult to find a word that conveys my meaning without implying—”

“Please don’t try,” Jacqueline said sincerely. “I understand.” She hastened to continue, before St. John could launch into another long-winded speech. “I hope, St. John—and I have reason to do so—that this unfortunate business will be settled to everyone’s satisfaction—well, almost everyone’s—very soon. I need your help.”

St. John did not appear as relieved by this statement as one might have expected. “What?” he demanded.

“Just a few questions. First, did you ever find that letter your mother had hidden?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Sherri helped me look, after I had convinced her that we mustn’t let Mother keep it. She had tucked it under the mattress on her bed.”

“I need that letter, St. John. And any other communications of the same kind.”

“May I ask why?”

Jacqueline had been prepared for the question; she had decided that the truth, or part of it, would serve as well as anything. “I think I know who wrote it. But I need to see it and compare it to other—uh—pieces of evidence before I can be sure.”

“It’s that awful woman, isn’t it?” St. John demanded. “That loud, fat woman.”

“It wouldn’t be right for me to say any more than I have.” Jacqueline looked sanctimonious. “If my suspicions prove wrong, an innocent party might be falsely accused.”

“Er—yes. I understand. Well, it can’t do any harm to let you see it, I suppose. Of course the allegations against me are obviously the product of a deranged mind.”

So that was why he was hesitating. Deranged or not, the accusations had obviously stung. She assured him that she wouldn’t believe them if they had been written by the Pope, and finally he reached into his breast pocket.

“I have it with me, as a matter of fact. Mother has torn the house apart looking for it, and I felt this was the safest place.”

“Thank you.” Jacqueline took the worn, much-folded paper and put it in her purse. “And the others?”

“There were only a few. And they were quite unlike this one. I don’t see why—”

“Just a matter of routine.” Jacqueline was getting impatient. It had been foolish of her to believe she could gather all the tangled strands of her case together by evening, but the thought of a killer on the loose for another night and day made her intensely uneasy. So many things could go wrong. Her plan to guard the next victim was as loosely woven as a hammock.

“Come in, then, and I’ll get them for you. I needn’t caution you—”

“I am neither a fool nor a sadist,” Jacqueline said brusquely. “Let me ask you one more thing, St. John, before we go in. You fudged the question of identity last night. Have you come to any conclusion since?”

St. John had obviously been coached; the answer came prompt and smooth. “That is a matter for the experts to decide, on the basis of solid, physical evidence. On the face of it, it seems impossible that she could be Kathleen. But it would be irresponsible of me to make a statement at the present time. I only hope it can be settled quickly, before the press makes a Roman holiday of this latest tragedy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jacqueline.

She told him of her negotiations with the
Sludge,
and her hope that a definitive answer could be reached before that estimable publication went to press. “Nobody believes the things they read in that paper,” she explained. “The others won’t pick it up unless it is substantiated.”

St. John brightened. It was, he said, the best news he had had for hours. He was immensely grateful to her for her cleverness and consideration. If there was any way he could demonstrate his appreciation…

“What about a cup of tea?” he asked, opening the door for her.

“I can’t stay.” She followed St. John into a room she had not seen before; it contained a desk and filing cabinets, as well as a few bookcases. “But I would like to have a word with Sherri, if that’s possible.”

“Sherri?” St. John opened one of the file drawers and took out a manila folder. “I can’t imagine what she could tell you. Both my younger sisters, Jacqueline, have painfully disappointed me. One married an amiable lout who has reduced her to lower-class ignorance, and the other is utterly lacking in ambition and intellectual ability. She has consistently refused to make use of the fund Kathleen set up for her college expenses. Their father, of course… Here you are. As I said, I can’t imagine what you want with them, but—”

“Thank you.” The purse was overloaded, but Jacqueline managed to cram the folder into it. “I see I’ll have to confide in you, St. John; you are simply too shrewd for little me. I have an idea I hope will settle not only this latest tragedy, but the mystery surrounding Kathleen’s actions seven years ago. Why don’t you have dinner with me tomorrow night—at the inn—and I’ll tell you all about it.”

She had anticipated how he would react, and was on her way to the door before he could start oozing toward her. “Ask Sherri to come to the kitchen,” she ordered. “It will only take a minute. I can say hello to Marjorie at the same time.”

The cook was preparing dinner; this reminder of the passing of time made Jacqueline more direct than she might otherwise have been. “Have you heard about what happened last night?” she asked.

Marjorie glanced at her over her shoulder. “Yes.”

“No comment?”

“How the hell should I know anything? I cook and clean and do just about everything else that’s done around here. I’m not expected to offer my opinions.”

Jacqueline pulled out a chair and sat down. The cook went on stirring some unidentifiable brew simmering on the stove. Soup, perhaps. That seemed to be her specialty.

“You’re very good at handling Mrs. Darcy,” Jacqueline said. “I noticed that the first time I was here. How long have you known her?”

“It don’t take much to distract that poor thing,” Marjorie muttered. “Just feed her. And tell her, when she starts raving, that her precious daughter will come back soon. You want coffee or something?”

It had not been said graciously, but the mere saying of it was a gesture Jacqueline felt she could not refuse. As she had hoped, Marjorie filled two cups, and joined her at the table. She looked at Jacqueline over the rims of her glasses, and a faint glimmer of amusement warmed her eyes. “You want to ask me something, and it ain’t how I handle Miz Darcy. Go ahead. I got no time for chit-chat.”

“Nor have I,” Jacqueline said. “How long have you been here, Marjorie?”

“Five—no, it’ll be six years pretty soon. After they brought Miz Darcy home from that asylum she was in.”

“So you didn’t know Kathleen.”

“I knew ’em all. I’ve lived in this town all my life.” She hesitated for a moment, and then went on, without the slightest sign of emotion. “My husband got cancer. Took all we’d saved; after he died I had to go out to work. Wasn’t much I could do but cook and clean, I never had no schooling. I was glad to get this job, even though it don’t pay much.”

“I see.” And she did; it was a too-familiar story. “Why is Mrs. Darcy estranged from Laurie and the grandchildren?”

The swinging door opened and Sherri came in. “That’s a stupid question, Mrs. Kirby. My mother is estranged from the world. Except her memories of Kathleen.”

Without another word Marjorie got up and went to the stove. Sherri took the chair she had vacated and fixed hard, angry eyes on Jacqueline. “I thought when you came here you were going to help us,” she said. “Instead, all these horrible things have happened.”

“What horrible things?” Jacqueline asked.

“Why—why—that poor woman, last night—”

“How does that affect you? Unless you think it was Kathleen.”

“No! Kathleen died seven years ago. It wasn’t any accident, either. She did it on purpose.”

“Why?”

Sherri’s eyes filled with tears. They were, Jacqueline thought, tears of anger rather than grief. “To get even.” Her lips pressed tight, as if she were trying to hold the words back; but they would not be restrained. “She hated us,” Sherri burst out. “Why else would she do it? That’s why people commit suicide, to make their families and friends feel guilty. She sure did a good job of it.”

“I don’t think St. John is suffering from guilt,” Jacqueline said calmly. She glanced at Marjorie. The cook stood with her back to them, unresponsive as a rock.

“Oh, who cares about St. John? He’s only interested in himself. It’s Mother—Mother who suffered most from what Kathleen did. It was cruel—vicious! I wish she were alive, so I could tell her what I think of her!”

Jacqueline stood up. “Come outside for a minute. There’s something I want to say to you.”

“I don’t care if Marjorie hears,” Sherri muttered. “She knows all this stuff, she’s heard it before.”

“She hasn’t heard this. And you might not want her to.”

Tears slid down Sherri’s cheeks. She wiped at them, childishly, with the back of her hand. “Oh, all right,” she said.

They went out onto the back steps. Jacqueline didn’t pull her punches; she felt some degree of sympathy for Sherri, but even more for Mollie; and for Laurie, whom she had seen royally snubbed by her younger sister.

“Mollie is pregnant,” she said.

The girl had not expected that. She jerked back as if she had been struck. “No,” she gasped.

“Yes. Not that it affects the basic issue, which is your reason for carrying on a nasty little affair with your sister’s old flame. Kathleen didn’t do a job on you, Sherri; you did one on yourself. You’ve turned her into the villain so you don’t have to accept responsibility for your own actions. Isn’t it time you grew up?”

The effect of the speech, Jacqueline had to admit, was tantamount to a series of hard slaps in the face. Sherri’s cheeks turned crimson, then pale, then crimson again. The tears had stopped. Jacqueline braced herself; she would not have been surprised if the girl had flown at her, clawing and cursing. Instead Sherri fled, back into the house, slamming the door after her.