“Something to calm me,” she repeated slowly, “something to calm me.” She laughed, a low, very ugly laugh that brought Quinlan’s head up.
“I’d better get you something,” Doc Spiver said, turned quickly, and ran into an end table. The beautiful Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor. It didn’t break.
He didn’t see it, James realized. The damned old man is going blind. He said easily, “No, Doc. Sally and I will be on our way now. The detective from the Portland police will tell the sheriff to come here. If you’d let them know we’ll be at Amabel’s house?”
“Yes, certainly,” Doc Spiver said, not looking at them. He was on his knees, touching the precious Tiffany lamp, feeling all the lead seams to make certain it wasn’t cracked.
They left him still on the floor. All the other men were silent as death in the small living room with its rich wine-red Bokhara carpet.
“Amabel told me he was blinder than a bat,” Sally said as they stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stopped cold.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot. I can’t have the police knowing I’m here. They’ll call the police in Washington, they’ll send someone to get me, they’ll force me to go back to that place or they’ll kill me or they’ll-”
“No, they won’t. I already thought of that. Don’t worry. Your name is Susan Brandon. They’ll have no reason to question that. Just tell them your story and they’ll leave you be.”
“I have a black wig I wore here. I’ll put it on.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“How can you know they’ll just want to hear my story? You don’t know what’s going on here any more than I do. Oh, I see. You don’t think they’ll believe I heard a woman screaming those two nights.”
He said patiently, “Even if they don’t believe you, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense that they’d then have a murdered woman on their hands, does it? You heard a woman’s screams. Now she’s dead. I don’t think there’s a whole lot of other possible conclusions. Get a grip, Sally, and don’t fall apart on me now. You’re going to be Susan Brandon. All right?”
She nodded slowly, but he didn’t think he had ever seen such fear on a face in all his years.
He was glad she had a wig. No one could forget her face, and the good Lord knew it had been flashed on TV enough times recently.
6
DAVID MOUNTEBANK HAD hated his name ever since he’d looked it up in the dictionary and read it meant boastful and unscrupulous. Whenever he met a big man, a big man who looked smart, and he had to introduce himself, he held himself stiff and wary, waiting to see if the guy would make a crack. He braced himself accordingly as he introduced himself to the man before him now.
“I’m Sheriff David Mountebank.”
The man stuck out his hand. “I’m James Quinlan, Sheriff Mountebank. This is Susan Brandon. We were together when we found the woman’s body two hours ago.”
“Ms. Brandon.”
“Won’t you be seated, Sheriff?”
He nodded, took his hat off, and relaxed into the soft sofa cushions. “The Cove’s changed,” he said, looking around Amabel’s living room as if he’d found himself in a shop filled with modern prints that gave him indigestion. “It seems every time I come here, it just keeps looking better and better. How about that?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Quinlan said. “I’m from L.A.”
“You live here, Ms. Brandon? If you do, you’ve got to be the youngest sprout within the town limits, although there’s something of a subdivision growing over near the highway. Don’t know why folks would want to live near the highway. They don’t come into The Cove except for ice cream, leastwises that’s what I hear.”
“No, Sheriff. I’m visiting my aunt. Just a short vacation. I’m from Missouri.”
Sheriff Mountebank wrote that down in his book, then sat back, scratched his knees, and said, “The medical examiner’s over at Doc Spiver’s house checking out the dead woman. She’d been in the water a good while, at least eight hours, I’d say.”