“Well, that’s true. When I talked to him on Monday, he admitted he’d been drinking.”
“Oh, especially last night. They started with cocktails and went through four or five bottles of wine with dinner. And then, port and liqueurs. It was still going on when I went off to bed. I helped Enid with the dishes and she could see how exhausted I was. Both of us heard them quarreling.”
“Bennet and Guy quarreled?”
She shook her head, lips moving.
I cupped a hand to my ear. “Excuse me. I didn’t hear that.”
She cleared her throat and raised her voice half a notch. “Jack. Guy and Jack quarreled before Jack went off to his country club. I told the lieutenant about it and now I’m wondering if I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“The truth is the truth. If that’s what you heard, you had to tell the police.”
“You don’t think he’ll be mad?” Her tone was anxious, her expression almost childlike in its apprehension.
I suspected the entire family would have fits when they heard, but we all had an obligation to cooperate with the police investigation. “Maybe so, but you can’t worry about that. Guy was murdered last night. It’s not up to you to protect anyone.”
She nodded mutely, but I could see she remained unconvinced.
“Myrna, I mean this. Whatever happens, I don’t think you should feel responsible.”
“But I didn’t have to volunteer the information. I like Jack. I can’t believe he’d hurt anyone.”
“Listen, you think I’m not going to end up in the same position? The cops are going to talk to me, too. I have to go down there tomorrow and I’m going to end up doing exactly what you did.”
“You are?”
“Of course. I heard them quarrel the night I came here for drinks. Bennet and Donovan were going at it hammer and tongs. Christie was the one who told me they did it all the time. That doesn’t make ’em killers, but it’s not up to us to interpret the facts. You have to tell the cops what you heard. I’m sure Enid will back you up. Nobody’s going to be arrested on that basis anyway. It’s not like you saw Jack coming out of Guy’s room with a bloody two-by-four.”
“Not at all. Of course not.” I could see some of the tension begin to leave her face. “I hope you’re right. I mean, I can see what you’re saying. The truth is the truth. All I heard was a quarrel. I never heard Jack threaten him.”
“Exactly,” I said, with a glance at my watch. It was nearly six by then. “If you’re through for the night, I better let you go. I probably ought to get on out of here myself, but first I want to have a little chat with Christie.”
Anxiety flickered in her eyes. “You won’t mention our conversation?”
“Would you quit worrying? I won’t say a word and I don’t want you saying anything either.”
“I appreciate that. I believe I would like to go wash my face.”
I waited until Myrna had disappeared through the utility room, moving toward her apartment. My tea was untouched. I emptied my cup and left it in the sink. Despite Enid’s good example, I’ve never owned a dishwasher and don’t know the first thing about loading one. I pictured one false move and every dish would go flying, crashing in a heap of rubble. I returned to the library. Christie and Tasha had turned on the television set. Christie held the remote and she was switching from channel to channel to see if she could catch the news. She pressed the Mute button when I came in, turning to look at me. “Oh, there you are. Come in and join us. Tasha thought you were gone.”
“I’m on my way,” I said. “I went out to the kitchen to see if I could help out there. Could I ask you a question before I take off? I heard you mention the mail when you were talking to Lieutenant Robb. Can I ask what that was?”
“Sure. Uhm, let’s see. I guess late Monday afternoon someone put an unsigned letter in the mailbox. The envelope had Guy’s name on it, but there was no return address. He left it on the hall table when he went to bed last night. I thought the police might want to take a look.”
“Was it typed or handwritten?”
“The envelope was typed.”
“Did you read the letter?”
“Of course not, but I know it bothered Guy. He didn’t say what it was, but I gather it was something unpleasant.”
“Did he ever mention a Max Outhwaite? Does the name mean anything to you?”
“Not that I remember.” She turned to Tasha. “Does it ring a bell with you?”
Tasha shook her head. “What’s the connection?”
“That’s how the reporter first heard Guy was back. Someone named Max Outhwaite dropped off a letter at the Dispatch, but when Katzenbach checked it out, there was no one by that name and no such address. I double-checked as well and came up blank.”
“Never heard of him,” Christie said. “Is there any chance he’s connected to one of Guy’s old sprees? Maybe Outhwaite was somebody Guy mistreated back then.”
“Possible,” I said. “Do you mind if I check Bader’s file upstairs?”
“What file?” Tasha asked.
Christie answered before I did. “Bader kept a folder of newspaper clippings about Guy’s various arrests and his scrapes with the law. It goes back quite a way.”
“I’ll tell you something else crossed my mind,” I said. “This Outhwaite, whoever he is, certainly put Jeff Katzenbach on the trail of Guy’s criminal history. I’m not sure Jeff would have known about it otherwise. The minute I saw the letter, I remember wondering if it was really Bennet or Jack who tipped him off somehow.”
“Using Outhwaite’s name?”
“It seems possible,” I said.
“But why would either of them do that? What’s the point?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. Anyway, I could be off base on this one,” I said. “I do like the idea that Outhwaite’s someone Guy sinned against in the old days.”
“Take the file if you want. It was still on the desk in Bader’s office last I saw.”
“Let me pop upstairs and grab it. I’ll be right back.”
I moved out of the library and crossed the foyer. Maybe when I talked to Jonah, he’d level with me about the letter. I went up the steps two at a time, studiously avoiding a look down the hall. I had no idea which room Guy had been in, but I didn’t want to go near it. I took a hard left at the head of the stairs and went straight to Bader’s room, where I opened the door and flipped on the overhead light. Everything seemed to be in order. The room was cold and smelled slightly musty from disuse. The overhead illumination was dim and the pale colors in the room looked flat. I passed through to the office beyond, hitting switches as I went. Bader’s life force was being systematically erased. Closets had been emptied, all the personal items removed from his desktop.
I surveyed the surrounding area. I spotted the folder with all the newspaper articles about Guy’s past behavior, relieved that the cops hadn’t swept through and taken it. On the other hand, the search warrant probably wasn’t that broad. The list of property to be seized might have been directed only toward the murder weapon itself. I leafed through the clippings, speedreading for content, looking for the name Outhwaite or anything close. There was nothing. I checked through some of the stray folders on the desk, but found nothing else that seemed relevant. One more dead end, though the idea was sound-someone with a grudge making Guy’s life difficult. I pressed the file under my arm and left the room, turning off the lights as I went.
I pulled the door shut behind me, pausing in the hallway outside the master suite. Something felt wrong. My first urge was to scurry down the stairs toward the lighted rooms below, but I found myself slowing. I could hear a crackling sound and I peered to my left. The far end of the corridor was enveloped in shadow, except for an X of crime scene tape across three doorways. As I watched, the tape seemed to become nearly luminous, vibrating audibly as if rattled by wind. I thought for a moment the tape would break free, clicking and snapping as though a current were moving through it. The air on the landing was chilly and there was the faint scent of something animal-wet dog or old fur. For the first time, I allowed myself to experience the horror of Guy’s death.
I began to descend, one hand on the railing, the other clutching the file. I pivoted, reluctant to turn my back on the darkness behind me. For a moment, I scrutinized the stretch of corridor I could see. Something hovered in my peripheral vision. I turned my head slowly, nearly moaning with fear. I could see sparkles of light, almost like dust motes materializing in the stillness. I felt a sudden flush of heat and I could hear ringing in my ears, a sound I associated with childhood fainting spells. My phobia about needles had often inspired such episodes. When I was young, I was often subjected to a typhoid inoculation, a tine test for tuberculosis, or a periodic tetanus injection. While the nurse took the time to pooh-pooh my fears, assuring me “big girls” didn’t put up the fuss I did, the ringing would begin, building to a high pitch and then silence. My vision would shrink, the light spiraling inward to a tiny point. The cold would rush up and the next thing I’d know, there’d be anxious faces bending over me and the sharp scent of smelling salts held under my nose.