Psycho - Three Complete Novels (54 page)

“Sorry, I don’t have that information.” Sheriff Engstrom’s pause was almost imperceptible. “Not yet.”

“May I ask your reasons for questioning him?”

“My deputy didn’t tell you?” Again the slightest of pauses; Amy imagined she could almost hear the wheels clicking inside his head. What she did hear next was, “Reno’s been staked out over at the Bates property. This afternoon he picked up this prowler trying to break into the house.”

“Then there is a charge,” Amy said. “Breaking and entering.”

“Well, not exactly.” Amy revised her mental image. There were no wheels inside Engstrom’s head; only a scale used for weighing his words. “When Reno picked him up he was trying the doorknob.”

“Which makes him a suspect?”

“Let’s just say it’s a matter of suspicious circumstances. Here’s this man showing up out of nowhere, no car, no ID. Doesn’t even have a driver’s license.”

“Is that a crime, Sheriff?”

“No, but whoever killed Terry Dowson wasn’t driving either. There was no sign of a car having been parked anywhere near the scene of the crime. But I guess you heard me mention that last night.”

Whichever it might be, wheels whirring or scales weighing, didn’t matter to Amy at this precise moment. What mattered was that she was watching Hank Gibbs. As she and Engstrom were talking he had begun to edge his way toward the door that stood ajar behind the Sheriff’s back.

He had moved so slowly and cautiously that neither Dick Reno nor Irene Grovesmith seemed to notice; their attention was focused on the thrust and parry of the conversation. Thus they weren’t aware that Hank Gibbs had hooked the heel of his right foot and the base of the door’s far edge, pressing it toward him to gradually expand the opening.

Now the gap in the doorway was six inches wider. Staring past the Sheriff’s head, she caught a clear glimpse of the inner office, and of the man seated there before the desk.

“Sounds like you’re implying that these circumstances are all somehow connected to the person you just brought in.” Amy shifted her gaze to Engstrom quickly as she spoke. “Are you saying you think he could have killed that girl?”

The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not saying anything. But I’m going to find out.”

“Let me save you the trouble,” Amy told him. “He’s not guilty.”

The narrow eyes widened. “How do you know?”

Amy met his stare. “Because on the night of the murder he was in Chicago, in my home.”

“Your home?”

“That’s right. I had friends over for the evening who can testify they saw him when he showed up unexpectedly at the apartment. I told him I couldn’t talk to him then, but made an appointment for an interview on Monday morning. Unfortunately, by Monday I’d read about what happened here and I was already on my way down. I’m afraid I forgot to notify him and cancel off.”

“Interview?” Engstrom scowled. “What kind of an interview?”

“For the book I’m doing. He’d read a squib about it in the paper.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Eric Dunstable,” Amy said. “He’s a demonologist.”

— 6 —

O
tto Remsbach was a good driver. He kept both pudgy hands on the wheel, both piggy eyes on the road.

Not very charitable,
Amy told herself. But from what she had seen of Mr. Remsbach thus far there was little about him to inspire charity. For a moment she regretted having accepted his dinner invitation on the phone, but his call after she returned to the hotel had caught her by surprise. After all, she did have to eat dinner somewhere, and Remsbach was on her list, one of her lists anyway; although from what she had already observed he might also earn himself a place on another.

Having conceded her lack of charity Amy tried her best to be objective about obesity. But even if she could dismiss the common cultural prejudice and replace her image of Otto Remsbach with that of a man a hundred pounds lighter, it still wouldn’t help. No matter how thin Remsbach became, everything about him would still be oversized. His vintage Caddy was too big, the diamond in his ring was not only too big but a bit too yellow. He had an outsized voice, and he used it constantly from the time he picked Amy up at the hotel until their arrival at the Montrose Country Club.

If the purpose of their meeting was an interview, he got the session off to a bad start. It was his big, booming voice that asked all the questions and Amy found herself floundering for answers in their wake.

“Is it Miss or Mrs.? What’s with this ‘Ms.’ business anyway? How come a classy lady like you didn’t pick herself a husband and settle down? What do you do for a living? Yes, I know you’re a writer, but what do you to for a living? That book you wrote—what was the name again? Does it have anything to do with Halloween? How come I never saw you on any of those talk shows? If you don’t mind my asking, how much money do they pay for writing one of those things?”

Oh, Otto Remsbach was a pistol, and no mistake. That was the important part, Amy kept reminding herself. No
mistake.
She did her best to avoid making one while avoiding answering him too explicitly. Maybe he’d talk himself out by the time they arrived. And then it would be her turn. At least it was a carrot of hope at the end of the stick formed by the questions with which he kept prodding her.

Just outside Montrose they turned off onto the winding road that led up the hillside to their destination. Once the drive spiraled to the plateau above they drove through wide gates past lines of light that blazed and beckoned, then parked.

At first glance the Montrose Country Club looked very much like thousands of others—a recreational center for wealthy businessmen who have not yet been indicted.

Once inside Amy was pleasantly surprised to discover a large lounge area, complete with fireplace and bookshelves. At one time this must have been the living room of a large and imposing private residence. Carpeting, drapes, and paneling were recognizable holdovers, but the bar and the dining room beyond had obviously been added when the home was converted for its present use.

The bar was standard; booths lining the window wall, mirrored wall elongating behind the serving counter. The side walls were hand-muraled with desert scenes featuring sagebrush, cactus, burning sand, blazing sunlight, all artfully assembled to stimulate the viewer’s thirst. The bartender wore a red vest, the barstools had red plastic coverings, the patrons had red, flushed faces. Time did not stand still here, but at least it was a bit wobbly; the cocktail hour stretched from five to eight. Actually there were only a half-dozen customers at the bar but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in volume; these greying, elderly men in their carefully tailored casual jackets and tattersall vests were used to talking just as loud as they goddamned pleased, both in the office and in public places. How they may have been forced to modulate their tone at home might be another matter. The point was they weren’t at home, they were
here,
just having a drink or six to relax before dinner. Good ol’ boys almost always cut their real deals over drinks and dinner; Mother ought to be used to it by now. At least she knows that’s where the money comes from, and it wasn’t like she had to just sit on her hands at home with nothing to do; she could always watch cable.

The dining room held a large number of customers but few surprises. There were no booths here, only square or round tables, each bearing a lighted, glass-sheathed candle and a bud vase containing a single rose. Since the room was a comparatively recent addition it didn’t boast a chandelier, but the indirect lighting was pleasantly non-fluorescent. Amy noted a preponderance of middle-aged and elderly patrons but almost half were wives and mothers. The conversational level was lower, and about one out of three of the male diners wore neither vest nor necktie, but none were in shirtsleeves. Out here at the source of what advertising copywriters would describe as down-home country goodness, country club dining was still a form of ritual, separating the men from the good ol’ boys.

Apparently some things had never really changed. The maître d’ who greeted and seated them was white, but the waiters and busboys were black; still the same old setup, boss man and hired hands. The waiter, whose name was Quentin, was very good; he took Amy’s order for a vodka martini and twinned it with a double Daniel’s on the rocks without Remsbach having to request it.

Obviously her dinner partner’s preferences were well known here. Amy consulted the menu before deciding on her brook trout almondine, baked potato and dinner salad, coffee later. But Otto Remsbach didn’t bother to order; at proper intervals they served him his shrimp cocktail and a second drink, then his porterhouse medium rare and a Daniel’s redoubled.

All of which Amy noted out of the corner of her mind. Most of her attention was concentrated upon Remsbach’s continuous conversation which, like the liquor, flowed freely. It was interrupted only twice early on; the first time being when a couple identified only as Mr. and Mrs. Aversham nodded a greeting as they passed
en route
to a table. “Mayor of Montrose and his better half,” Remsbach told her, nodding in the direction of their departing figures. “No point introducing you—they wouldn’t have anything you want. Besides, he hates my guts and she’s gonna spend all night trying to figure out what I’m doing here with a foxy lady like you.” This observation came after the shrimp cocktail and the second drink but Amy noted that his accompanying laughter was already a trifle above the ordinary decibel level here. Good ol’ boys will be boisterous.

The other interruption followed almost immediately and she welcomed it. This one did involve an introduction to the thin, sharp-featured, middle-aged man whose most attractive attribute seemed to be a comely wife twenty years his junior. Number two, Amy guessed, then amended her estimate after a downward glance. Custom-made alligator shoes worn in these surroundings were indications of taste that might easily run to a higher number of nuptials.

“Hey there, Charlie!” Remsbach cocked his head up at the couple, ignoring the woman completely, even though it was she who nodded in response to the greeting. Probably not his wife after all, Amy decided, but outside of the AA meeting in the bar this seemed to be a fairly stuffy place; it would take a considerable amount of nerve to bring a bimbo into a roomful of self-described decent, respectable wives and mothers. Come to think of it, Remsbach had his quota of nerve too, bringing a bimbo like herself into the same surroundings. So much for snap judgments; nevertheless she was eager to be introduced to this particular stranger. Now Remsbach gratified her wish.

“Senator, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Miss Haines, this here’s Charlie Pitkin. Better watch what you say about me when you’re around him, on account he happens to be my attorney.”

“You’re the writer, I believe?” As Amy nodded the thin man offered her a thin smile. “In that case, I think I already know what brought you here. Otto can probably answer most of your questions, but if there’s anything else you think I might be able to tell you, I’ll be around for most of the week. You can reach me through my office.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Amy said.

Charlie Pitkin shook his head. “Actually it’s just a sneaky way of trying to get my name into your book.” He gestured to Remsbach. “Give me a call on that other matter.”

“First thing tomorrow.”

Amy’s gaze joined Remsbach’s as they watched Pitkin and his unidentified companion move to the waiter who had been standing patiently a dozen feet away during their halt at the table. Now he turned and they followed, moving past a pillar to disappear at a table directly behind it.

“Is he really a senator?” Amy asked.

“Sure is. Been in the State Legislature three terms now.” Remsbach’s laughter had a rasp to it. “Never hurts to have yourself a lawyer who knows his way around politics. Got to hand it to him—he’s one smart little jew-boy. Sure been a big help to me.”

At the moment Amy would have liked nothing better than to say farewell to Fairvale. And she would, she promised herself, once her mission was accomplished. Getting information for the book was the problem that had brought her here; the sensible thing was to accept people like Remsbach as part of the problem. Amy recalled some of the people she’d interviewed for the first book, the hookers, dope dealers, gangbangers. By comparison Otto Remsbach, on a scale of one to ten, was scarcely more than a four. She could deal with him. As the thought came, sheer coincidence echoed it in Remsbach’s words.

“—deal,” he was saying. “He set it all up so’s I could get hold of the Bates property out there. That’s where politics comes in. Thing I figured was just putting up the house and part of the motel and running tourists through it at maybe two, three bucks a head. Pitkin’s the one who came up with improvements.”

And it was Quentin, their waiter, who came up now with a cart bearing the two plates, the tall wooden pepper mill and the big wooden bowl. “Toss your salad, Mr. Remsbach?”

“Yeah. Just as long as you don’t try serving it to me.” Again the rasping laugh.

Amy took the opportunity to break in quickly. “Would you mind telling me what gave you the idea of rebuilding in the first place?”

“Cartoons,” Remsbach said. “Got to thinking one day. For thirty years now I’ve been seeing cartoons and hearing jokes about Norman Bates and his mother. Seems like people out here remember him just like they do that woman back East. Lizzie Borden or whatever her name was. So I said to myself, if I can get my hands on the property that the state’s been holding onto all these years, maybe it’d be worth a try. Call it something like the Bates Murder Mansion, run a few ads around the area, see what happens.”

Quentin served Amy in silence, pantomimed proferment of the pepper mill, accepted its rejection, and wheeled the cart away—all without interrupting Remsbach’s monologue for a moment.

But Amy wasn’t standing on courtesy. “You mentioned something about your attorney making suggestions.”

Remsbach nodded. “He’s the one who got the idea about selling souvenirs—room keys, ashtrays, stuff like that you could sell from the motel. He even talked about towels and shower curtains, but I told him wait and see how the other stuff goes first. But I went for his pitch about getting some postcards printed up and later on he wants to get out some kind of booklet with pictures of Norman and the old lady, maybe have somebody like Hank Gibbs write up a little piece for it.”