I left him munching his knuckles in wild surmise. Braga was twitching when I passed him. I ran the rest of the way to my car. At least I went through the motions of running, and didn’t fall on my face.
Before I reached the city limits, I realized the hopelessness of the chase. Jo had a long head start, and she wouldn’t be going back to any of the places she’d been.
I went to see Mrs. Kerrigan instead.
Chapter 14
There was music in the house behind the monkey-puzzle tree: a nervous dialogue of piano and strings. Pity me, the piano said. We pity you, said the strings. The music was switched off when I knocked on the door. Mrs. Kerrigan opened it on a chain.
“Who is it?”
“Archer.”
Her voice and her look were vague. “Oh yes, I remember – at the motor court.”
“I just came from there. Your husband has had an accident.”
“An automobile accident?”
“A shooting accident.”
“Don? Is he seriously hurt?”
“Very seriously. May I come in?”
She fumbled with the chain, finally got it unhooked, and stood back to let me enter. She had on a blue serge bathrobe, severely cut, with white piping. Below it, her slender legs were sheathed in nylon, and she was wearing shoes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I believe I had a premonition of something wrong. I’ve been sitting here listening to the Bartok. It’s very much like listening to the sound of my own thoughts – two-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts.”
She closed the door with a decisive click and made an effort to pull herself together. Her eyes were slightly puffed, by tears or insomnia. They rested on my face.
“You’ve been injured, too, Mr. Archer.”
“I don’t matter at the moment. I’ll survive.”
“How badly is Don hurt?”
“As badly as possible.”
“I should go to him, shouldn’t I?” She went to the foot of the staircase, then turned with her hand on the newel post. “Do you mean that he is dead?”
“He was murdered, Mrs. Kerrigan. I wouldn’t go there now if I were you. They’ll be coming here.”
“They?”
“The police, the sheriffs men. They’ll have some questions to ask you. So have I.”
She moved uncertainly through the door to the living-room and leaned on the white silk arm of the chesterfield, teetering a little like a slender tree in gusts of wind. She stroked her forehead with her fingertips. I could see the fine blue veins in her wrist.
“Give me a moment, won’t you? That concerto is still running in my head. I shouldn’t have put it on when I was feeling so vulnerable. I feel as if I’ve been widowed twice on the same night.” She raised her head. “How was he killed? Did you say he was shot?”
“In his office at the motor court, no more than an hour ago.”
“And I’m a suspect, is that what I’m to understand?”
“Not with me.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s say I like your face.”
“I don’t,” she said with a child’s seriousness. “I don’t like my face. You must have a better reason than that.”
“All right. Did you shoot him?”
“No.” She went on in a harsher, stronger voice: “But don’t mistake what I’m feeling for any kind of grief. It’s simply – confusion. I don’t know what to feel. I haven’t much feeling left, actually. And I can’t say I’m sorry that it was done. Don wasn’t a good man. Which was fair enough, I suppose. I’m not a good woman.”
“I wouldn’t talk like that to the police. The police mind likes simple, obvious patterns, and they’re likely to tab you as the primary suspect. You’re going to need an alibi in any case. Do you have one?”
“For when?”
“The last hour or so.”
“I’ve simply been here at home.”
“Nobody with you?”
“No. I’ve been listening to records for an hour or more. Before that, I must have spent an hour picking up my beads. I spilled them on the porch. When I had them all picked up, I took them and threw them away. Wasn’t that an insane thing to do?” Her fingers returned to her temples, which were hollow and smooth and delicate as shell. “Don used to tell me I was insane. Do you suppose he was right?”
“I think you’re a good woman who has gone through a lot of suffering. I’m sorry you have to go through more.”
I touched her blue serge shoulder. It didn’t yield to my pressure. She sat rigid, blinking back tears.
“Don’t be sympathetic, I’m not used to sympathy. I’d almost rather be accused of killing him. I’d probably feel less empty if I had.”
“What if you had? Would you deny it?”
“I don’t believe I would,” she said slowly. “Honesty is one virtue I have left. Probably the only one.”
“Why cut yourself down so small?”
“The cutting down was done for me, by an expert. Don could be quite a sadist when the spirit moved him. The spirit often moved him.” She closed her eyes tightly for a second. “I was cruel, too. It wasn’t all one-sided. The truth is, when he left this house tonight – Don left me tonight, Mr. Archer, and I thought of killing him then. The actual picture crossed my mind. I could see myself very plainly, following him down to the street and shooting him in the back. I might have done it, too, if I’d had a gun. But it would have been perfectly pointless, wouldn’t it?” Her eyes came up like dark blue lights. “Who did kill him, do you know?”
“It’s hard to say. The Summer girl was at the scene–”
“That dirty-eyed little brunette of his?”
I nodded. “She got away in a stolen car. It doesn’t prove that she shot him, though.”
“That would be an irony now, if she did. The whole situation is ironic. Don was going away to start a new life, as he called it. Vita nuova.” Her mouth curled over the words.
“It isn’t as ironic as it looks. Your husband was neck-deep in crime. It put him in line for a violent death.”
It shocked her out of her mood, as I hoped it would. She rose abruptly. “Don was involved in crime? You must be mistaken.”
“There’s no mistake. The Summer girl was in it too, if that’s any satisfaction to you. You know about the highjacking?”
“Yes. The Sheriff was here tonight.”
“What did the sheriff want?”
“I couldn’t say. I wasn’t in the room when they were talking. I could tell by the sound of the voices, though, that they were arguing. Apparently Don won.”
“You didn’t hear what they were arguing about?”
“No. When Brandon – when Sheriff Church was leaving, I asked him what the trouble was. He told me about the stolen truck.”
“Did he seem suspicious of your husband?”
“No. He was very angry, but he didn’t say a word about Don, one way or the other.”
“When was he here?”
“About ten o’clock.”
“Are you and the sheriff on a first-name basis?”
“Yes, I suppose we are, if it matters. Brandon’s been close to my family for years. My father and his father were close friends.”
“I understood Church worked his way up from the bottom.”
“His father was a barber, if that’s what you mean. It didn’t prevent my father from being his friend.” When she spoke of her father, there was a change in her face, both hardening and refining. “Father was a democratic man, and a generous one. He helped to put Brandon through college.”
“Could that have helped your husband to win his argument with Church?”
It took her a moment to catch my meaning. “Of course not. Brandon wouldn’t be influenced by personal considerations.”