“The apartment cost seven hundred and fifty dollars a month?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that high for an apartment?”

  “Not in Stewart City,” Mrs. Miller said gently. “And this was a riverfront apartment.”

  “I see. I take it Miss Davis had a good job.”

  “No, no, she doesn’t have a job at all.”

  “Then how could she afford…?”

  “Well, she’s rather well-off, you know.”

  “Where does she get the money, Mrs. Miller?”

  “Well…” Mrs. Miller shrugged. “I really think you should ask her, don’t you? I mean, if this is something concerning Claudia, shouldn’t you…?”

  “Mrs. Miller,” Carella said, “Claudia Davis is dead.”

  “What?”

  “She’s…”

  “What? No. No.” She shook her head. “Claudia? But the check…I…the check came only last month.” She shook her head again. “No. No.”

  “She’s dead, Mrs. Miller,” Carella said gently. “She was strangled.”

  The charm faltered for just an instant. Revulsion knifed the eyes of Mrs. Miller, the eyelids flickered, it seemed for an instant that the pupils would turn shining and wet, that the carefully lipsticked mouth would crumble. And then something inside took over, something that demanded control, something that reminded her that a charming woman does not weep and cause her fashionable eye makeup to run.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I am really, really sorry. She was a nice person.”

  “Can you tell us what you know about her, Mrs. Miller?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” She shook her head again, unwilling to accept the idea. “That’s terrible. That’s terrible. Why, she was only a baby.”

  “We figured her for thirty, Mrs. Miller. Are we wrong?”

  “She seemed younger, but perhaps that was because…well, she was a rather shy person. Even when she first came here, there was an air of—well, lostness about her. Of course, that was right after her parents died, so…”

  “Where did she come from, Mrs. Miller?”

  “California. Santa Monica.”

  Carella nodded. “You were starting to tell us…you said she was rather well-off. Could you…?”

  “Well, the stock, you know.”

  “What stock?”

  “Her parents had set up a securities trust account for her. When they died, Claudia began receiving the income from the stock. She was an only child, you know.”

  “And she lived on stock dividends alone?”

  “They amounted to quite a bit. Which she saved, I might add. She was a very systematic person, not at all frivolous. When she received a dividend check, she would endorse it and take it straight to the bank. Claudia was a very sensible girl.”

  “Which bank, Mrs. Miller?”

  “The Highland Trust. Right down the street. On Cromwell Avenue.”

  “I see,” Carella said. “Was she dating many men? Would you know?”

  “I don’t think so. She kept pretty much to herself. Even after Josie came.”

  Carella leaned forward. “Josie? Who’s Josie?”

  “Josie Thompson. Josephine, actually. Her cousin.”

  “And where did she come from?”

  “California. They both came from California.”

  “And how can we get in touch with this Josie Thompson?”

  “Well, she…Don’t you know? Haven’t you…?”

  “What, Mrs. Miller?”

  “Why, Josie is dead. Josie passed on in June. That’s why Claudia moved, I suppose. I suppose she couldn’t bear the thought of living in that apartment without Josie. It is a little frightening, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Carella said.

  The drive upstate to Triangle Lake was a particularly scenic one, and since it was August, and since Sunday was supposed to be Carella’s day off, he thought he might just as well combine a little business with pleasure. So he put the top of the car down, and he packed Teddy into the front seat together with a picnic lunch and a gallon Thermos of iced coffee, and he forgot all about Claudia Davis on the drive up through the mountains. Carella found it easy to forget about almost anything when he was with his wife.

  Teddy, as far as he was concerned—and his astute judgment had been backed up by many a street-corner whistle—was only the most beautiful woman in the world. He could never understand how he, a hairy, corny, ugly, stupid, clumsy cop, had managed to capture anyone as wonderful as Theodora Franklin. But capture her he had, and he sat beside her now in the open car and stole sidelong glances at her as he drove, excited as always by her very presence.

  Her black hair, always wild, seemed to capture something of the wind’s frenzy as it whipped about the oval of her face. Her brown eyes were partially squinted against the rush of air over the windshield. She wore a white blouse emphatically curved over a full bosom, black tapered slacks form-fitted over generous hips and good legs. She had kicked off her sandals and folded her knees against her breasts, her bare feet pressed against the glove-compartment panel. There was about her, Carella realized, a curious combination of savage and sophisticate. You never knew whether she was going to kiss you or slug you, and the uncertainty kept her eternally desirable and exciting.

  Teddy watched her husband as he drove, his big-knuckled hands on the wheel of the car. She watched him not only because it gave her pleasure to watch him, but also because he was speaking. And since she could not hear, since she had been born a deaf mute, it was essential that she look at his mouth when he spoke. He did not discuss the case at all. She knew that one of Claudia Davis’s checks had been made out to the Fancher Funeral Home in Triangle Lake and she knew that Carella wanted to talk to the proprietor of the place personally. She further knew that this was very important or he wouldn’t be spending his Sunday driving all the way upstate. But he had promised her he’d combine business with pleasure. This was the pleasure part of the trip, and in deference to his promise and his wife, he refrained from discussing the case, which was really foremost in his mind. He talked, instead, about the scenery, and their plans for the fall, and the way the twins were growing, and how pretty Teddy looked, and how she’d better button that top button of her blouse before they got out of the car, but he never once mentioned Claudia Davis until they were standing in the office of the Fancher Funeral Home and looking into the gloomy eyes of a man who called himself Barton Scoles.

  Scoles was tall and thin and he wore a black suit that he had probably worn to his own confirmation back in 1912. He was so much the stereotype of a small-town undertaker that Carella almost burst out laughing when he met him. Somehow, though, the environment was not conducive to hilarity. There was a strange smell hovering over the thick rugs and the papered walls and the hanging chandeliers. It was a while before Carella recognized it as formaldehyde and then made the automatic association and, curious for a man who had stared into the eyes of death so often, suddenly felt like retching.

  “Miss Davis made out a check to you on July fifteenth,” Carella said. “Can you tell me what it was for?”

  “Sure can,” Scoles said. “Had to wait a long time for that check. She give me only a twenty-five-dollar deposit. Usually take fifty, you know. I got stuck many a time, believe me.”

  “How do you mean?” Carella asked.

  “People. You bury their dead, and then sometimes they don’t pay you for your work. This business isn’t all fun, you know. Many’s the time I handled the whole funeral and the service and the burial and all, and never did get paid. Makes you lose your faith in human nature.”

  “But Miss Davis finally did pay you.”

  “Oh, sure. But I can tell you I was sweating that one out. I can tell you that. After all, she was a strange gal from the city, has the funeral here, nobody comes to it but her, sitting in the chapel out there and watching the body as if someone’s going to steal it away, just her and the departed. I tell you, Mr. Carella…Is that your name?”

  “Yes, Carella.”

  “I tell you, it was kind of spooky. Lay there two days, she did, her cousin. And then Miss Davis asked that we bury the girl right here in the local cemetery, so I done that for her, too—all on the strength of a twenty-five-dollar deposit. That’s trust, Mr. Carella, with a capital T.”

  “When was this, Mr. Scoles?”

  “The girl drowned the first weekend in June,” Scoles said. “Had no business being out on the lake so early, anyways. That water’s still icy cold in June. Don’t really warm up none till the latter part July. She fell over the side of the boat—she was out there rowing, you know—and that icy water probably froze her solid, or give her cramps or something, drowned her, anyways.” Scoles shook his head. “Had no business being out on the lake so early.”

  “Did you see a death certificate?”

  “Yep, Dr. Donneli made it out. Cause of death was drowning, all right, no question about it. We had an inquest, too, you know. The Tuesday after she drowned. They said it was accidental.”

  “You said she was out rowing in a boat. Alone?”

  “Yep. Her cousin, Miss Davis, was on the shore watching. Jumped in when she fell overboard, tried to reach her, but couldn’t make it in time. That water’s plenty cold, believe me. Ain’t too warm even now, and here it is August already.”

  “But it didn’t seem to affect Miss Davis, did it?”

  “Well, she was probably a strong swimmer. Been my experience most pretty girls are strong girls, too. I’ll bet your wife here is a strong girl. She sure is a pretty one.”

  Scoles smiled, and Teddy smiled, and squeezed Carella’s hand.

  “About the payment,” Carella said, “for the funeral and the burial. Do you have any idea why it took Miss Davis so long to send her check?”

  “Nope. I wrote her twice. First time was just a friendly little reminder. Second time, I made it a little stronger. Attorney friend of mine in town wrote it on his stationery; that always impresses them. Didn’t get an answer either time. Finally, right out of the blue, the check came, payment in full. Beats me. Maybe she was affected by the death. Or maybe she’s always slow paying her debts. I’m just happy the check came, that’s all. Sometimes the live ones can give you more trouble than them who’s dead, believe me.”

  They strolled down to the lake together, Carella and his wife, and ate their picnic lunch on its shores. Carella was strangely silent. Teddy dangled her bare feet in the water. The water, as Scoles had promised, was very cold even though it was August. On the way back from the lake Carella asked, “Honey, would you mind if I make one more stop?”

  Teddy turned her eyes to him inquisitively.

  “I want to see the chief of police here.”

  Teddy frowned. The question was in her eyes, and he answered it immediately.

  “To find out whether or not there were any witnesses to that drowning. Besides Claudia Davis, I mean. From the way Scoles was talking, I get the impression that lake was pretty deserted in June.”

  The chief of police was a short man with a potbelly and big feet. He kept his feet propped up on his desk all the while he spoke to Carella. Carella watched him and wondered why everybody in this damned town seemed to be on vacation from an MGM movie. A row of rifles in a locked rack was behind the chief’s desk. A host of WANTED fliers covered a bulletin board to the right of the rack. The chief had a hole in the sole of his left shoe.

  “Yep,” he said, “there was a witness, all right.”

  Carella felt a pang of disappointment. “Who?” he asked.

  “Fellow fishing at the lake. Saw the whole thing. Testified before the coroner’s jury.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Said he was fishing there when Josie Thompson took the boat out. Said Claudia Davis stayed behind, on the shore. Said Miss Thompson fell overboard and went under like a stone. Said Miss Davis jumped in the water and began swimming toward her. Didn’t make it in time. That’s what he said.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Well, he drove Miss Davis back to town in her car. 1960 Caddy convertible, I believe. She could hardly speak. She was sobbing and mumbling and wringing her hands, oh, in a hell of a mess. Why, we had to get the whole story out of that fishing fellow. Wasn’t until the next day that Miss Davis could make any kind of sense.”

  “When did you hold the inquest?”

  “Tuesday. Day before they buried the cousin. Coroner did the dissection on Monday. We got authorization from Miss Davis, Penal Law 2213, next of kin being charged by law with the duty of burial may authorize dissection for the sole purpose of ascertaining the cause of death.”

  “And the coroner reported the cause of death as drowning?”

  “That’s right. Said so right before the jury.”

  “Why’d you have an inquest? Did you suspect something more than accidental drowning?”

  “Not necessarily. But that fellow who was fishing, well, he was from the city, too, you know. And for all we knew, him and Miss Davis could have been in this together, you know, shoved the cousin over the side of the boat, and then faked up a whole story, you know. They both coulda been lying in their teeth.”

  “Were they?”

  “Not so we could tell. You never seen anybody so grief-stricken as Miss Davis was when the fishing fellow drove her into town. Girl would have to be a hell of an actress to behave that way. Calmed down the next day, but you shoulda seen her when it happened. And at the inquest it was plain this fishing fellow had never met her before that day at the lake. Convinced the jury he had no prior knowledge of or connection with either of the two girls. Convinced me, too, for that matter.”

  “What’s his name?” Carella asked. “This fishing fellow.”

  “Courtenoy.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Courtenoy. Sidney Courtenoy.”

  “Thanks,” Carella answered, and he rose suddenly. “Come on, Teddy. I want to get back to the city.”

  Courtenoy lived in a one-family clapboard house in Riverhead. He was rolling up the door of his garage when Carella and Meyer pulled into his driveway early Monday morning. He turned to look at the car curiously, one hand on the rising garage door. The door stopped, halfway up, halfway down. Carella stepped into the driveway.

  “Mr. Courtenoy?” he asked.

  “Yes?” He stared at Carella, puzzlement on his face, the puzzlement that is always there when a perfect stranger addresses you by name. Courtenoy was a man in his late forties, wearing a cap and a badly fitted sports jacket and dark flannel slacks in the month of August. His hair was graying at the temples. He looked tired, very tired, and his weariness had nothing whatever to do with the fact that it was only 7:00 in the morning. A lunch box was at his feet where he had apparently put it when he began rolling up the garage door. The car in the garage was a 1953 Ford.

  “We’re police officers,” Carella said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  “I’d like to see your badge,” Courtenoy said. Carella showed it to him. Courtenoy nodded as if he had performed a precautionary public duty. “What are your questions?” he said. “I’m on my way to work. Is this about that damn building permit again?”

  “What building permit?”

  “For extending the garage. I’m buying my son a little jalopy, don’t want to leave it out on the street. Been having a hell of a time getting a building permit. Can you imagine that? All I want to do is add another twelve feet to the garage. You’d think I was trying to build a city park or something. Is that what this is about?”

  From inside the house a woman’s voice called, “Who is it, Sid?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Courtenoy said impatiently. “Nobody. Never mind, Bett.” He looked at Carella. “My wife. You married?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m married,” Carella said.

  “Then you know,” Courtenoy said cryptically. “What are your questions?”

  “Ever see this before?” Carella asked. He handed a photostated copy of the check to Courtenoy, who looked at it briefly and handed it back.

  “Sure.”

  “Want to explain it, Mr. Courtenoy?”

  “Explain what?”

  “Explain why Claudia Davis sent you a check for a hundred and twenty dollars.”

  “As recompense,” Courtenoy said unhesitatingly.

  “Oh, recompense, huh?” Meyer said. “For what, Mr. Courtenoy? For a little cock-and-bull story?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Recompense for what, Mr. Courtenoy?”

  “For missing three days’ work, what the hell did you think?”

  “How’s that again?”

  “No, what did you think?” Courtenoy said angrily, waving his finger at Meyer. “What did you think it was for? Some kind of payoff or something? Is that what you thought?”

  “Mr. Courtenoy…”

  “I lost three days’ work because of that damn inquest. I had to stay up at Triangle Lake all day Monday and Tuesday and then again on Wednesday waiting for the jury decision. I’m a bricklayer. I get five bucks an hour and I lost three days’ work, eight hours a day, and so Miss Davis was good enough to send me a check for a hundred and twenty bucks. Now just what the hell did you think, would you mind telling me?”

  “Did you know Miss Davis before the day at Triangle Lake, Mr. Courtenoy?”

  “Never saw her before in my life. What is this? Am I on trial here? What is this?”

  From inside the house the woman’s voice came again, sharply, “Sidney! Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Shut up, will you?”

  There was an aggrieved silence from within the clapboard structure. Courtenoy muttered something under his breath and then turned to face the detectives again. “You finished?” he said.

  “Not quite, Mr. Courtenoy. We’d like you to tell us what you saw that day at the lake.”

  “What the hell for? Go read the minutes of the inquest if you’re so damn interested. I’ve got to get to work.”

  “That can wait, Mr. Courtenoy.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19