"Oh no, I wouldn't expect you to. I'm not after that kind of scandal-sheet stuff. Tell me, is there anyone you know of who would want to kill Walter Kincaid?"
She was clearly taken back by the suggestion.
"What? I cannot imagine anyone who would be less a candidate for murder."
"So you knew him well?"
"As well as any of the older staff. You think he's been killed?"
"Not sure. Do you think he's alive?"
She sighed a bit and looked down at her hands.
"No I don't. Mr. Kincaid always kept in close touch with the office even though he was no longer directly involved with the day-to-day operations. He wouldn't have gone off for over a week without telling us. Something's happened to him-I'm sure of it-but don't you quote me! I'll deny ever having said it; the official corporate line is that we're not giving up hope."
"And you know of nobody who hated Walter Kincaid?"
"The only man-the only man who ever hated him is dead."
"And who was that?"
"He was Jim Schilling, a former vice president of Wheel-Lock. Mr. Kincaid promoted him up the executive ladder from as salesman. He had an incredible amount of energy and he was a terrific salesman. You know, good-looking… smooth. He was a real macho type too. Loved to hunt and fish. He was in terrific shape all the time. You know the kind."
"Uh huh."
"I think Jim Schilling was jogging ten years before the fad hit, you know?"
"Yeah. What happened between them then? They were good friends, right?"
"Oh yes. They were almost like brothers for years. They went fishing together lots at first. Then something-I don't know what it was-happened. Some think Mr. Kincaid began to fear Jim-you know, began to get the feeling that Jim was going to try to take over the company or something. They began to argue about different company policies, advertising campaigns-things like that. Jim started saying Mr. Kincaid was losing touch with the marketing end of the business-that he was too old. Mr. Kincaid found out about it and fired him. It was rumored around here that he regretted the decision almost as soon as he made it. But Mr. Kincaid was pretty stubborn, and wouldn't change his mind. Jim moved out to California right after that, and was killed the following year."
"How was he killed?"
"They think he drowned."
"They think?"
"Uh huh. You see it was on a hunting trip. Jim went to Alaska to hunt polar bears. No wait. It wasn't polar bears-the another kind."
"Alaskan brown bear?"
"Right! Hey how'd you know? Do you hunt?"
"Just birds occasionally. But I love to study wildlife. So Jim Schilling went to Alaska to hunt the brown bears. And then?"
"Well-let's see if I can remember, it was almost a year ago-they flew to a certain special place in Alaska in a small plane."
"The Kenai Peninsula perhaps?"
"Hey, that's right again! How did you know?"
"Because the Kenai Peninsula is famous for big bears. The only place more famous is Kodiak Island. So who did he fly there with?"
"A pilot. A bush pilot-I guess that's the expression, right?"
"Yes. And the plane crashed?"
"Oh no. They landed all right and loaded up a boat with their gear, and went poking along the shoreline of the peninsula looking for bear. According to the story, Jim and the guide split up and Jim took the boat alone. They were going to meet at sundown or something, each one looking for bear that they could stalk-is that the right word, stalk?-the next day."
"He was with the pilot? That's odd…"
"Huh? Oh I don't think so, Mr. Adams. I think the pilot just dropped him off. I think the guide was an Eskimo or something. Anyway sundown came and went, and no Jim. The next day the guide went walking up the coast looking for him, and he found the boat, half sunk, washed up against a fallen tree in the water. No sign of Jim. He looked for the rest of the day-even built a smoke-signal fire and shot his gun and everything. Nothing."
"Hmmrrm1m. Too bad. Did he have a wife?"
"Yes. And two kids too."
"And they never found a trace?"
"Nothing. And of course even Mr. Kincaid said it would be unlikely that they would ever find the body. You know, with all the bears and wolves and things-"
"True. They'd make short work of any meat lying around."
"So that's the end of the only person I can think of who wasn't fond of Mr. Kincaid."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Haskell. Oh, where did Mr. Schilling live in California, do you remember?"
"Yes I do. It wasn't that long ago. He lived in Newport Beach. When he lived here, he lived in Marblehead. He loved the water just like Mr. Kincaid. He was never far from it. I think he had a cabin cruiser there too, for deep-sea fishing."
"Ah yes. And he drowned. It's kind of ironic isn't it?"
She thought a minute, then answered that the more a man was on the water, perhaps the greater the chance, in the long run, of his drowning. I had to admit there was logic to what she said.
"Well, was there a storm or anything? Any signs of violence?" Something was beginning to tug at the back of my brain and I wasn't sure what it was.
"No-you mean up on the bear hunt?-no. They think he must have lost his balance and fallen overboard, then hit his head somehow. The shore's very rocky up there I've heard, you know, 'boulder strewn' like it is here."
"Was any of his gear found? His rifle?"
"You know, I don't remember."
"Sure. It was a while ago. Uh, when exactly was it-do you think you could pin it down a bit?"
She recollected that it was just before the holidays-between Thanksgiving and Christmastime 1978. Since it was now September 1979, that meant Jim Schilling had died about a year ago. I asked Mrs. Haskell if she'd seen any newspaper account of Schilling's disappearance. She replied that she hadn't, that to her knowledge it wasn't even carried in New England papers. And of course since he had been forced out of Wheel-Lock any open talk and speculation about the incident was discouraged-if not absolutely verboten-by Walter Kincaid.
After another ten minutes of chitchat with Mrs. Haskell, during which time I was presented with a brochure describing the facilities, products, and policies of the Wheel-Lock Corporation, I left.
After an hour's discussion, Mary and I figured out away to sneak up on Mrs. Walter Kincaid.
"It's got to be a name she can't remember later and check up on," I said.
"How about people names-you know, like Smith and Jones?"
"That's good. That's the right track. Let's think up names that'll be impossible to remember?
In ten more minutes, we were ready. Mary dialed the number and I listened in on the extension phone.
Laura Kincaid picked up the phone after three rings. I felt just a tad sneaky doing this, especially after her gracious hospitality and frankness. But there was something gnawing at me I had to find out.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mrs. Kincaid?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Just take a second, Mrs. Kincaid. Trelawney and Hoopes cleaners calling from Boston-you know the uniform people? Listen we've got your three maid's uniforms here and they've been ready for two weeks now and we're wondering when you can have them picked up or we can deliver them to your house but we've found nobody home so I don't know what-"
"Who is this?" Laura Kincaid finally managed to break in-but Mary, as planned, rattled right along without even slowing down.
"Er, hello? Yes, Mrs. Kincaid, the uniform people from Boston and we have your maid's uniforms here-"
"You're mistaken, I don't have a maid-"
"Beg pardon. Mrs. Kincaid? Well you must have gotten rid of her, right? Because we've got these three uniforms-you know the black rayon complete with cap just like you always ordered and we-"