The old woman looked up at him in confusion. I saw no hope beyond the sheet of glass. I looked at Ames, who stood at near military attention, his eyes fixed on the old woman.
Viviase sat at the table. A uniformed woman stood against the wall.
“Do you mind if I turn on the tape recorder?” he asked, taking a small, silver recorder out of his jacket pocket and putting it on the table.
Georgia Cubbins looked at the recorder.
“It’s okay, Gigi,” said Viviase gently. “I can call you Gigi?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “You know, Walgreen’s has a two-for-one special on aspirin, the hundred-tablet size.”
“I didn’t know that,” Viviase said.
“You’ll need a coupon.”
Viviase pressed the record button, sat back and said, “How’s your coffee?”
“Tea,” Georgia Cubbins corrected. “With pretend sugar.”
“Right,” said Viviase. “May I ask you some questions?”
“Questions?”
“About your daughter,” he said.
“Alberta,” said the old woman. “Her name is Alberta.”
“Yes, Alberta. And about Vivian Pastor.”
“Oh, Vivian is dead,” said the woman. “So is David. He’s my son-in-law.”
“Dead?”
“Oh yes. David is d-e-d. ”
“And Vivian Pastor?”
“Dead. Alberta cut her up into little pieces and we went to the lake and she threw the pieces to the alligators.”
Georgia Cubbins was smiling.
“We stopped on the way home for coffee and apple pie. I don’t remember where, but the waitresses had those little white hats, like the Jews, only white and not black.”
“They were Amish,” Viviase said.
“That’s their business,” Gigi said.
Georgia Cubbins might be well on the way to total dementia, but no one but her daughter could have spoken to her about cutting up Vivian Pastor and feeding her to the gators.
Viviase reached forward and turned off the recorder.
“You know you can see through water,” Georgia Cubbins said. “If it’s clean water.”
“That’s interesting,” said Viviase, rising and putting the tape recorder in his pocket. “Officer Willett will get you more tea if you’d like.”
“With pretend sugar,” she said seriously.
“Pretend sugar,” Viviase said, touching the old woman’s shoulder.
Viviase came out of the room and closed the door.
“Too damned easy,” he said.
“I think she wanted to tell someone,” the young woman next to me said. “Just waiting for the first one to ask her.”
“Not much of a witness, is she?” asked Viviase.
The young woman shrugged.
“I’m taking this to the district attorney,” he said. “I think we’ve got cause for keeping Mrs. Cubbins in protective custody. There’s reason to believe her life might be in danger if we returned her to the custody of her daughter.”
“She’s not a good witness,” I said.
“Understatement, Fonesca,” he said. “She is one hell of an awful witness, but she’s enough to keep the investigation open, to put a hold on Vivian Pastor’s social security checks, checking accounts, annuity payments. It’s a start.”
Ames was waiting for me outside the room. I told him we had another stop to make.
Amos Trent didn’t have to intercept us at the Seaside this time. He was in his office working late. I knocked at his door and he looked up.
“What?” he asked.
“I think the police are going to be calling you,” I said.
“Why?”
“I think the police may be about to arrest Alberta Pastor for the murder of her mother-in-law,” I said.
Trent said, “No,” and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Ames and I were still there.
“Might want to apologize to Dorothy,” said Ames.
“No,” he said. “I mean yes. Everything I touch turns to shit. This is my fourth job in three years, my fourth job. I’ve got an MBA but… I’m a haunted man.”
He looked at us for sympathy. I knew what it was to be haunted. He would have to deal with his own ghosts.
Dorothy Cgnozic was sitting in the armchair in her room watching a rerun of a rerun of Hollywood Squares. She was wearing a pink robe. The room was dark except for the glowing screen. It took her a beat or two to recognize us. She reached over her shoulder and turned on the lamp on the table by her bed.
“Tell me something good,” she said. “I need something good.”
“The woman who you saw murdered was Vivian Pastor,” I said. “Her daughter-in-law killed her.”
Dorothy pushed a button on her remote and the screen of her television went black.
“The people here know?” she asked.
“We just told Amos Trent,” I said.
“I think maybe Mr. Trent’s going to be looking for another job,” said Ames.
“That wasn’t what I wanted,” she said. “I just wanted to be believed. I’m sorry about Vivian. I can’t say I particularly liked her, but I would prefer her not to have been murdered.”
“Want to know what’s going to happen to Mrs. Pastor?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m content to leave that to the police and her God.”
She stood, opened a drawer in the table on which the lamp was standing and came up with a box and a manuscript of the book she had shown us before. She opened the box and the three of us had a chocolate-covered cherry.
“Will a check be all right?” she said.
“Fine.”
She handed the manuscript to Ames, fished out a checkbook, asked me how much she owed. I told her a hundred dollars would do it. After she had written the check and handed it to me, Ames held the manuscript out to her.
“No,” she said. “It’s for you. You remember my husband’s work. It should be with someone who appreciated him.”
“Thank you,” Ames said and shook the hand she offered.
“One condition,” she said.
Ames waited.
“You visit me once in a while,” she said. “If it’s not too much to ask.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Ames.
“I’ll walk you out,” she said. “I’ve got people to tell and vindication to savor.”
I had another stop to make. It could have waited till the next day but I wasn’t sure there would be a next day and I didn’t want to think about what I was going to say.
I called the number Nancy Root had given me. Yolanda answered.
“Fonesca,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “You want to come over right now and pick up your check.”
“I want to talk to your mother,” I said.
“Some other time,” she said.
Then Nancy Root came on the line.
“Mr. Fonesca, I’ve been trying to call you. Can you come over now?”
I told her I could and she gave me directions to her apartment. When we got there, Ames waited in the car while I pushed a button and was buzzed in through the thick glass doors.
The lobby was large and lifeless. The lights were night dim. I had the feeling that the couches and chairs had seldom been sat in and the artificial flowers had never been touched.
Nancy Root met me at the open door. She was wearing jeans and an oversize white sweater. I took off my cap. She said nothing, stood back and let me pass. In the small entryway was a bank of posters of plays she had been in, Man and Superman, Antigone, You Can’t Take It with You, Othello.
“This way,” she said.
I followed her into a living room with a night view of lights on the bridge to St. Armand’s and Longboat Key. Yolanda sat in a large, white armchair big enough for her to tuck her bare feet under her. She was hugging a pillow. She watched me as if I might be about to grab the family jewels and make a run for it.
Nancy Root nervously rolled up her sleeves. For the next ten minutes the sleeves kept creeping down and she tugged them up again. She pointed to the couch with its back to the window and sat in a chair just like the one Yolanda was in.
I sat.
“I thought you might have a show tonight,” I said.
“Sometimes,” said Nancy Root, “the show does not have to go on. In this case, however, the understudy is an Asolo Conservatory student who is very good, too young for the role, but, then again, I’m a little too old for it. I haven’t offered you a drink.”