Pursued by Shadows (20 page)

“There's no warrant on me that I know of. And I think if you check on when I was here, and when my husband died, you'll find that's why.” She looked down at the floor, and saw a foot in a gray running shoe right behind her. Amos must have been leaning against the wall where he could see her questioner, out of view. Avoiding her. “I wasn't evading the authorities, I was evading my husband. I was afraid of him. He was a very violent man.”

“Who couldn't stand pain.”

“Only his own. He didn't mind other people's pain. But I'm sure the Toronto police will tell you that. It was pretty common knowledge.”

The deputy walked slowly back to the damaged window. “The doctor'll be here soon to look at your sister,” he said, fingering a piece of broken glass. “He'll probably recommend that she go into a hospital for observation. We'll need you down at the station sometime to sign statements. Sorry about this, Amos,” he said and patted him on the shoulder.

“There's nothing to be sorry about,” said Amos coolly. “Are you going to take him away?” he asked. “Or just leave him there on my floor?”

“They'll be here in a minute,” said the deputy. “You got some place to stay?” he asked, turning to Jane.

“We'll stay here, if you don't mind,” said Amos. “The place needs a lot of cleaning up and we're in the middle of cooking dinner. You know where to find us. And if you really want to know who that lump of shit on the floor was, you might ask Richard Harmon. They seem to have been pals. I saw him in Harmon's store the other day, and he was asking about Miss Sinclair—trying to find out where she was staying. And Harmon sure as hell must know why this thing was so anxious to speak to her. Alone.”

“Where did she get that knife?” asked Amos as soon as the last of the intruders had left the boathouse, taking a heavily sedated Lesley with them.

“Not from here,” said Jane. “I'd have noticed a boning knife. Maybe she brought it with her,” she added, trying to sound casual.

“Brought it with her? In case she ran into a roast with a bone in it somewhere on her travels? Come on, Jane.”

“Just a minute.” She walked over to the bed and drew a dark gray suitcase out from under it. It was unfastened. She lifted the lid, took Lesley's leather tool kit out of a side compartment, and held it up for Amos to look at.

He raised a startled eyebrow.

Along with the screwdrivers and pliers was a black leather sheath. Tooled. She pulled it out and showed it to Amos.

“You wouldn't put a kitchen knife in that,” he said. “That's a sheath for a hunting knife. A fancy one.”

“You're right. It wouldn't fit at all, would it? But she was searching through her suitcase for something. I saw her.” Jane started lifting up neatly stacked piles of clothing. “There it is,” she said and pulled out a thin, broad, long black box—the kind silver spoons and the like come in. It too was unfastened.

“What's in it?”

She held it open for him to look. It was a case, containing four shaped forms lined in velvet. They held a butcher's steel, a French chef's knife, and a carving knife. One hollow form, precisely the configuration of a good quality boning knife, was empty. “My God. It's Dad's knives,” said Jane. “He lost them three or four years ago. He was positive that his last sous-chef had walked off with them and he was furious about it. Lesley must have been carrying them around with her for years.”

“Waiting,” said Amos.

Jane clasped her hands around her arms to keep them from trembling. “Yes. Waiting.”

Sanders sat stony-faced on the wrong side of the broad desk of authority. Six o'clock Friday afternoon was not a propitious time to be hauled over to headquarters by a sudden phone call, and behind a well-cultivated mask of impassivity he was flipping through his mental checklist of alternate careers.

So that when the judgment came, it was totally unexpected. “You're off the hook,” said his superior abruptly, clutching a report in his hand. “For the time being at least. This just came in. From the States. Beaumont's wife—”

“His wife?”

The chief looked down to check the material in front of him. “Yes. She seems to go by the name of Jane Sinclair. We have a file on her,” he added impatiently. “Don't we? Anyway, she was the subject of assault with a weapon, it seems. And, according to her, the person who assaulted her claimed to have murdered Beaumont.”

“Not according to him?”

“Slight problem there. Which is why this is all hanging in the air for the moment. Apparently in the middle of the assault against the Sinclair woman another female came into the room. He attacked her—”

“Who was this other female?”

“Her sister. Name of Lesley Sinclair. The sister grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter to protect herself and in the struggle he got stabbed. Fatally. Self-defense. And don't look at me like that. They're perfectly happy with it down in New York, say they have a good witness who arrived during the attack, it's probably true, and besides that, the woman is a basket case, mentally, and so there's no profit in wasting the money to prosecute her. Or, at least, that's their preliminary thinking on it.”

“So who in hell is he?”

“No positive ID. But a witness who knew him in Skaneateles has identified him as Dean Smithson. His mother is on her way down to have a look. And that ties in very nicely with what we've been digging up, doesn't it? He seemed to have been engaged in looking for some stolen property. I gather that the person who killed Beaumont was also looking for lost property. Ed Dubinsky agrees that it fits with what he knows. Or you know.” In spite of the tone of voice, it was a question.

“Dean Smithson,” said Sanders, shaking his head. “It makes sense in a way.”

“And the stolen property?”

“It's somewhere in the reports. An antique map. Or so they say.”

“Valuable ?”

“Until someone finds it and has it looked at by an expert, we won't know, will we? My gut tells me it's a fake, but that isn't worth much. Anyway, I would guess that Guy Beaumont got his hands on it in England, which is where it surfaced a few months ago. Smithson must have felt it belonged to him, and when he caught up with Beaumont, tied him up and held him upside down in Miss Jeffries's bathtub trying to get him to cough it up. When it turned out Beaumont couldn't breathe under water, he dumped him on Miss Jeffries's floor and searched her apartment for the map.”

“Why Miss Jeffries's floor? Why bring you into it?”

“I don't think they wanted to bring me into it at all. I don't suppose they even realized that I was part of the package. Beaumont still had a key to her apartment on him from the old days. He dropped in to see her when he got to Toronto and everyone seems to have figured that he'd stashed the map with her. But I don't think that Beaumont had. He was hellishly anxious to lay his hands on his girlfriend—”

“His girlfriend? For chrissake, who's she?”

“—his wife. It's all the same person, the Sinclair woman,” said Sanders impatiently, “and I don't think he was just feeling lonely without her. The way I figure it, she grabbed the map when she left Beaumont, meaning to sell it, and eventually she ran head first into Smithson, who was still looking for it.”

“The way you figure it? How much of this is speculation?”

“It's pure speculation. Eighty percent of it is pure speculation.”

“Jane called me,” said Harriet. She walked over to her desk and began to sort out a pile of five by seven cards as she said it, carefully avoiding his eyes. His early warning systems registered impending disaster. “She apologized and tried to explain. She was very upset, and so—”

“For chrissake, Harriet, you didn't, did you?”

“I did. If I leave now, I can get to the hotel before midnight,” she said. “I knew you wouldn't want—”

“This is beginning to feel like the road to work,” grumbled Sanders.

“You didn't have to come,” said Harriet, clicking on her turn indicators and changing lanes.

“Don't speed,” was his response. “We can't afford to lose the sleeping time while we explain ourselves to state troopers. And that's not really true—I did have to come. I have to interview your mythical former assistant. For the record. I just wouldn't have chosen this particular time to travel down to do it.”

“She's not mythical. A bit elusive, I guess, but not mythical.”

“Are you always going to be like this?” asked John as he drifted past two mile-long trucks.

“Like what?” asked Harriet sleepily.

“Loyal, helpful, generous to those in distress—at my expense?”

“Certainly not. I'm quite prepared to lay down life and limb for you, too, and drag everyone I know into helping. Actually, I've always considered myself to be rather nasty and thoughtless as far as others were concerned. I just have trouble saying no.”

“I've noticed that,” was his ambiguous reply.

“Later,” said Harriet. “This is our exit coming up.”

But it wasn't until the next morning, after breakfast, that Harriet finally called Jane. In spite of her precipitate exit from the city, and the ardent desire she had professed the night before to seek out her old assistant, and to offer her all the help and comfort in her power, Harriet was reluctant to move. She had a premonition that the interview was going to degenerate into something more serious, and this sunny June morning seemed made for better things than accusations and recriminations and gruesome explanations. She wanted to take a camera down to the lake and capture the ducks, or to walk along Genesee Street and get shots of some of the magnificent old houses; instead, she copied down the precise directions to the boathouse and went across the street to the park to stare at the lake and wait for John.

He didn't even have to reach for the photograph they had given him. That waxy face with its permanent bad-tempered scowl could only be Marco Smithson's son. “Yeah. That's him,” John said to the deputy who had driven him from Skaneateles to Syracuse and had taken him into the morgue. Before the words were out of his mouth, he had turned and headed for the door. “Can't stand those places,” he said to the sheriff, who was waiting out in the corridor for him. “I don't know how the guys who work in there all the time survive it. Too goddamn cold and shiny. But as far as I know, you've got the right name on his tag. He's ours.” He looked up and down the hall. “Has his mother been down to have a look yet?”

“Not yet. She's flying up this morning. Should be here soon.”

It was as if a simple mention of her existence could conjure her up. At that moment, a blond whirlwind in neatly pressed beige pants and a cream-coloured silk shirt pulled into the parking lot in a rental car and jumped out, putting an end to their conversation. Sanders nodded in her direction, and the morgue attendant came out to usher her with due solemnity through the freshly painted doors. She too was out almost as quickly as she came in, looking slightly paler, but unchanged in expression.

“Mrs. Smithson?” asked the sheriff. “Was that—”

“That was Dean,” she said, her voice controlled and steady. “My son. I told the man in there. I have to sign some forms now, so if you would excuse me—”

“The forms can wait, Mrs. Smithson. There are still a few questions that need to be cleared up first,” the sheriff said. “If you feel up to it. We can use this office,” he added, opening the door to a small, sparely furnished room.

Nina stalked into the room and settled with graceful formality into one of the uncomfortable chairs. “Yes?” she said. The morning sun slanted through the venetian blinds, lighting up her features and adding ten years to her apparent age.

“Can you tell us what your son was doing in Skaneateles?”

“I haven't the faintest idea,” she said. Hostility and condescension battled for control of her face. “Chasing some woman, I expect. He spent a lot of his time doing that.”

“He wasn't engaged in recovering some property of yours?”

“Of mine? Dean? Whatever are you talking about?” She shook her head and her hair swung back and forth in bewilderment. “I haven't lost anything lately.”

“Really?” asked Sanders. “You haven't lost a map, worth a great deal of money?”

“What in hell are you talking about? What is this map people keep talking about?” she said, wavering between exasperation and bewilderment. “I don't deal in maps. I don't know anything about them. I deal in contemporary art. I do it very well and it keeps me busy enough without worrying about maps.”

“Really?” he asked again. “You didn't accompany your son down to New York to help him recover a stolen map? By any means possible, even violent or illegal ones?”

Nina shook her head very slowly, as if she couldn't absorb what she was hearing.

“But unfortunately for him, he wasn't very adept at the violent or illegal parts, was he? He got injured in that scuffle in the city. And some kind person bandaged him up. Was that kind person you?”

Nina stretched out her hand, trying to shove all this unwelcome information as far from her as she could. “No,” she cried. “I don't know any of this. I left Dean in New York to negotiate a deal. For a piece of sculpture. You can check that. I expected him back on Thursday, but he phoned—”

“Where from?” snapped Sanders.

She shook her head. “I assumed he was in New York, but I suppose he could have been anywhere. He said that he was going to take a couple of days off and he'd be back on Sunday. I know nothing about stolen maps or anything like that. As far as I knew, he wanted a little holiday, that's all.” Tears slowly filled her eyes and spilled, first left, then right, down her cheeks. “I still don't understand what he was doing here.”

“Don't you, Mrs. Smithson?”

Nina Smithson dropped her face into her hands and sobbed. The two men looked at her, interested but unmoved. Finally, she hiccupped, took a package of tissues out of her handbag, and mopped up the damage. “I always tried to keep him from doing anything too wrong,” she said in a whisper. “It wasn't always easy, but I tried. He was so greedy.” Her voice broke again and she swallowed, pausing to mop up more tears. “You had to watch him with the customers on the floor. That's why I kept him in the office, mostly, doing paperwork. Things the auditors would be checking up on. He'd do anything for money. It was a sickness with him. I don't know why—he never spent any of it. He just wanted to watch it pile up. That's why he still lived at home. It was free.” She looked up at them with an expression of earnest sorrow. “I don't know this map you're talking about, but he could have been mixed up in some shady deal. And if someone tried to cheat him out of his share, he'd go berserk. He really would.”

“Come on, Mrs. Smithson,” said Sanders in a weary voice. “Just what do you know about what he was doing?”

“Oh, God, I can't stand it. He was just like his father.” Overcome once more, she huddled in the hard-backed chair, hiding her crumpled face. “Violent and cruel. Marco was like that too. He came to Toronto with his hands smelling of blood—he had killed I don't know how many people in the fighting in his country. He didn't care. If they were on the other side—even women and babies—they weren't human as far as he was concerned. It's a disease, you know,” she added, looking up. “Once it gets into your blood you never get rid of it. And he infected Dean with it. Christopher was too young when Marco died, thank God. He's not like that.”

“Would Dean have killed?”

“It's a terrible thing to say about your own child,” she breathed in horror. “But I think he might.”

The door to the ground-floor workroom was open when they pulled up. Harriet knocked once and stepped tentatively in. The interior was bathed in the smell of fresh wood and sunshine on warm rock and water. Sun poured in from a broad opening at the other end, catching and intensifying a head of richly red hair, bent over a pale wood table, formed in a curious, rounded, irregular shape, which the owner of the red hair appeared to be rubbing down. He looked up and smiled. “You're Harriet, aren't you?” And Harriet recognized instantly the beguiling smile and the friendly voice that had chattered away at her all the time that she had been inspecting the house on Lake Street. “We've met, but not introduced ourselves. I'm Amos Cavanaugh.” He moved at once over to the stairs.

“And my friend, John Sanders,” said Harriet quickly. Sanders nodded at the carpenter, and then picked his way cautiously after them, like a cat through tall grass.

Whatever John thought he would find at the head of the stairs, it was not what he saw. Instead of some combination of Delilah and Jezebel, immersed in lies and fatal plots designed to destroy Harriet, she introduced him to a casually dressed woman with neatly cut, shoulder-length light brown hair and a pale face who flung her arms around that same Harriet as soon as she stepped in the door. “I can't believe that you're actually here,” she said.

“For the second time in recent memory,” said Harriet, pointedly. “I'll admit it is a nice place to visit, but—”

“And this is—”

“I met Mr. Cavanaugh,” Harriet interrupted. “When he was explaining to me oh-so-charmingly that no one could possibly be staying at that address on Lake Street. Not without him knowing about it.”