Psycho - Three Complete Novels (63 page)

But that was outside; here in the Sheriff’s office, tension remained. Tension in the deep-set lines bordering Irene Grovesmith’s lips as she monitored the tape. Tension in Engstrom’s voice as he asked the questions that once again took Amy through the events of the evening. Tension in her replies, tension that came in sudden succession like the aftershocks following an earthquake.

For some reason, hearing about Remsbach’s murder was even more disturbing than the actual sight of Doris Huntley’s body. But both victims were equally dead.

Double Event.

Where did that come from? It took Amy a moment before she remembered the source. The term had originated over a hundred years ago when two victims were killed on the same night by Jack the Ripper.

Had his weapon been a butcher knife? Nobody knew. And today, more than a century later, his identity remained unknown.

There had been another Double Event tonight, but at least they’d found the weapon. Would they ever find the killer?

Engstrom had just concluded his interrogation when another thought occurred to her, and it was then that she voiced the question.

“May I ask you something, Sheriff?”

Engstrom’s nod both dismissed Irene Grovesmith with her recorder and also signaled Amy to continue. “Go ahead. It’s your turn.”

“What makes you so sure both murders were committed by the same person? Couldn’t there have been two instead of one?”

“How do you figure?”

“Suppose Doris Huntley killed Remsbach with that knife. And when she left, somebody was waiting for her outside.”

“Somebody.” Engstrom shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“There should be prints on the knife.”

“I doubt it.” The Sheriff stretched the skin below his left cheekbone between thumb and forefinger. “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t Amateur Night.”

“But that doesn’t rule out the possibility that two people were involved in the murders.”

“You and Dunstable, perhaps?”

“I’ve already told you I haven’t seen him this evening. And you know I came to Remsbach’s house alone.”

“He could have walked. Or driven out in another car.”

“I don’t think he even knows how to drive,” Amy said. “And he doesn’t have a car here. But someone else could have come and gone before I arrived. There could be tire marks—”

“Not after this storm. Rain’d wash ’em out.” Engstrom pushed his chair back. “Which reminds me. I had your car driven over here. It’s in the lot.”

“Where are my keys?”

“I’ll tell Reno to give them to you.” Engstrom rose.

“Thanks.”

Amy had about forty-five seconds between the Sheriff’s departure and the moment when the office door opened again to admit Dick Reno. She used the interval to open her purse and inspect herself in the compact mirror, prompted by curiosity rather than vanity. After tonight’s experience it came as a surprise that there seemed to be so little change. True, her eyes did look tired but some fresh liner would take care of that.

Amy smiled at her image in the mirror. Maybe curiosity was just another synonym for vanity after all. As the door opened behind her, she closed the compact, dropped it back into her bag and zippered it before Dick Reno reached her side.

He must have left his poncho in the outer office, for his uniform showed no indication of storm damage. It was only when she glanced down that she noted his boots were caked with mud at the heels and streaked along the ankles.

Then something jangled and she looked up; he was holding out her car keys. “How do you feel?”

“Much better, now that I’ve got my car back.” Amy zipped her purse open again to deposit the keys. “I take it this means your boss trusts me not to sneak out of town tonight.”

“Are you really okay?” Reno said. “They told me what happened. It must have been an awful shock.”

“I’m all right now.” Amy glanced down again at the deputy’s boots. “But where were you when all this happened?”

“Sheriff told me to go find Eric Dunstable.”

“Where did you look for him—in a swamp?”

“No, but that’s an idea. There
is
a swamp, not too far away.”

“Away from what?”

“The Bates place.” Dick Reno nodded. “Engstrom thought Dunstable might have headed out there.”

“I take it you didn’t run into him.”

Reno nodded again. “I didn’t run into anything, except rain and mud. Way I figure it, you had more chance of seeing him than I did.”

Amy rose. “You and Engstrom do a lot of figuring, don’t you? I guess theorizing comes easier than finding out the facts. But just for the record, let me tell you just what I told him. I didn’t see Eric Dunstable tonight, I have no idea where he went, and the two of us didn’t join forces to commit murder.”

“I never said that.” Reno spoke quickly. “And I wouldn’t be handing you back your car keys if the Sheriff really thought you were a suspect.”

“Then why was he pressuring me?”

“When something like this happens, there isn’t much choice. He needs all the information he can get, and fast. But for what it’s worth you’re pretty much in the clear. Sheriff knows we had dinner together. The clerk up at the hotel filled him in about how you talked to Steiner and Remsbach and tried to call Dunstable. We know when you left the hotel and if your story about seeing Homer at the newspaper office checks out, there’s no way you could’ve had enough time left to kill either one.” Reno smiled. “Let alone put Mother in Otto Remsbach’s bed.”

“What?”

“They found that wax figure lying next to his body. You didn’t know?”

Amy didn’t answer. She strode to the door, yanked it open. The outer office echoed a babble of voices and the buzzing of unanswered phones. The deputy named Al, Irene Grovesmith, and Sheriff Engstrom were taking calls at three separate desks, but the instruments on three other desks continued their clamor.

Amy moved up beside Engstrom without slackening her stride. As she halted he concluded his conversation, forefinger poised to plunge down and establish connection with another call. “Damned phones been ringing off the hook,” he muttered. “Rock Center, Montrose,
Kansas City Star,
you name it. Beats me how in hell the word always get around so fast.”

“Me too.” Amy’s words rose through the confusion loud and clear. “Particularly when you take such plans to withhold information.”

Engstrom’s finger faltered. “Come again?”

There was no hint of faltering in Amy’s voice. “Why didn’t you say anything to me about finding the wax dummy of Mrs. Bates in Remsbach’s bed?”

“Who told you that?” The Sheriff scowled. “I gave everybody strict orders—”

“To withhold evidence?”

“I have my reasons. You’ve got no right to question them.”

“And you’ve got no right to give me the runaround.” Amy’s voice dropped to its normal level. “Don’t worry, I’m not doing a story for the newspaper.” She paused, glancing around. “Speaking of which, where’s Hank Gibbs? You’d think he’d be interested in getting hold of this kind of news.”

“That’s right.” Engstrom frowned. “Unless he
is
the news.”

— 16 —

E
ngstrom’s phones may have kept ringing all night, but when Amy drove back to the hotel there were no messages of any calls awaiting her there. The male desk clerk had finished his shift—and, presumably, his comic book—but Amy had no doubt that his female replacement would continue monitoring her line.

Nonetheless, the first thing she did after kicking off her shoes when she reached the room was to try Eric Dunstable’s number. Again there was no response.

Where could he possibly have disappeared to, and why? The questions rose and once more she pushed them aside, or tried to. Hard to push when you’re so tired, when so much has happened and there’s so much to think about.

Only she wasn’t going to think about anything more tonight. Tomorrow would be time enough, after she got some rest. It was already close to midnight, and while she had to remove her makeup, the shower could be put off until morning.

Shower put off and nightgown put on, Amy was ready for sleep. But sleep was not ready for her.

At least she was grateful for one thing; closing her eyes no longer evoked a vision of Doris Huntley’s face. The problem now was not what she’d been but what she hadn’t seen.

Otto Remsbach, horizontal. The butcher knife in his chest, vertical. Thirteen stab wounds. Bloody bed. Bled like a stuffed pig. And Mother—was she bloody too?

Amy had never seen Mother and she didn’t want to, but the only way she could avoid it now was to keep her eyes open. Keep her eyes open and keep her mind off what had happened up there at Remsbach’s house tonight. Maybe Sheriff Engstrom was right after all; it was none of her business.

Business.
Now there was something she could think about. Her business was to write the book and—to be brutally honest, totally honest—what had happened tonight meant that business was going to be very good.

There’d be no more talk about leaving town tomorrow, or the next day, not after what had just occurred. Of course it was horrifying but it would be hypocritical of her not to admit that it was also exciting. Much of the horror lay in what she imagined; her excitement was rooted in reality.

All of those daydreams about a career were going to come true, and there was no point having any guilt feelings about it. Once again Amy reminded herself she hadn’t been responsible for what happened, couldn’t have anticipated or prevented it, and certainly couldn’t change matters now.

Perhaps Dr. Steiner might help put things into the proper perspective tomorrow. Now it was more important than ever that she interview him; his was the voice of reason. By the same token it would be imperative to have a talk with Eric Dunstable. His was the voice of unreason, but reason alone couldn’t account for the bizarre turn of events tonight.

Could Dunstable himself have been involved? And what about Hank Gibbs? Did the Sheriff really suspect him, and for causes as yet unrevealed? Or was it just due to the fact that his whereabouts were unknown? Absence makes the heart grow fonder—or, in this instance, beat faster. Hank Gibbs, a somewhat cynical knight in somewhat battered armor, a serial killer? Eric Dunstable seemed creepy but harmless; were his creepy ideas harmless too? And when you got right down to it, the Bates property wasn’t the only place where Dick Reno could have gotten mud on his boots. In any case, wouldn’t the rain have washed it off? The rain could wash away bloodstains just as easily.

And there she was, coming full circle again to what was the Sheriff’s business, not hers. If Dick Reno had blood on his boots, it was his problem. That didn’t make her Lady Macbeth; there was no blood on her hands.

No blood on her hands, and a nice clean makeup job when she went on those talk shows. And she would go, the book would go, all the dreams would come true. The good dreams, anyway. Bad dreams were what she didn’t want; dreams about Doris Huntley and her necklace, Otto Remsbach and his heart surgery. Nothing to joke about, but sometimes a laugh smothers the scream.

No, this was business, serious business. And she would do a serious, straightforward job when she started the book. In light—or dark—of recent events, it might be well to have another meeting with the publishers upfront. This was going to be a much bigger project then either she or they had anticipated; big enough and time-consuming enough to justify renegotiation.

Blood money?
Again Amy reminded herself that she wasn’t accountable for the events that had taken place here both before and after her arrival. Nor did she intend to capitalize on them. In which case why was she thinking about her book in the language of a bookkeeper? What were words like “accountable” and “capitalize” doing in the vocabulary of someone who considered herself a serious writer? These weren’t the right terms.

Terms.
She really owed it to herself to renegotiate the terms of her contract. But what she really owed to herself most of all was honesty. If that meant admitting she was as mercenary as anyone else, so be it. Nobody ever said that Shakespeare gave his work away for free.

Which brought her right back to Lady Macbeth again, and to hell with it. Good night and God bless you, one and all.

It wasn’t quite that simple, but in the end Amy did manage to drift off into sleep that was mercifully deep and dreamless.

Bright sunlight heralded the morning, and so did the phone at her bedside. Sudden light blurred her vision; sudden sound had a similar effect on what she heard after raising the receiver. Somebody from A.P. was calling from downstairs and would like to do an interview, how soon would it be convenient for him to come up or would she prefer to meet in the lobby? Amy’s instinct was to tell him to drop dead, her watch told her it was eight o’clock, and she told her caller he could expect her down at eight-thirty.

As she stepped into the shower the phone rang again. Towel-wrapped, she responded. This time it was someone from a St. Louis paper but the conversation was the same.

Before she could do more than open a bureau drawer there was another call. The Montrose radio newscaster wanted to do a tape.

It wasn’t until then that she realized her mistake. Interviews might be good publicity, but in the long run it meant she’d be giving away material that should be saved for her own use in the book.

After she hung up she phoned the desk and told the clerk to hold all calls. He promised to take messages instead.

All of which got Amy into a bra and panties and she was just completing the makeup on her freshly scrubbed face when the desk clerk broke his promise.

“No, he didn’t,” Hank Gibbs told her. “I had to blackmail him to get this call through. But I just wanted to warn you the enemy has landed in full force, so prepare for a hit.”

“Where were you last night?” Amy said.

“Tell you when I see you.”

“But those people in the lobby—”

“Will come racing up to your room if you don’t show up when you promised.” Gibbs paused. “Or do you want to get out of this?”

“You’re a mind-reader! But how—?”