This was not lost on Slye. “You are understandably tired and wishing for your bed. You are thinking that the matter of Grimes’s death has been resolved. And yes, in all likelihood, we do know how he was killed. But there remains the important matter of the other two murders.”
“What other two murders?” the sheriff was suddenly alert again.
“Of Billy Westley and Jeannie Lindstrom.”
“But they ran off-”
Slye interrupted him, saying in a fierce, quiet voice, “I cannot express to you how much I wish I could bring myself to hope that they are indeed on a honeymoon; how much I would love to learn that the two of them are cavorting about the countryside even without benefit of marriage. We could argue the moral implications of two healthy, good-looking, young people acting on their desires at that point, but first I would celebrate the fact that they must needs be alive in order to sin, if sin it is.” He gestured toward the water. “But this quarry lake, I am sad to say, is most probably their grave.”
Struck silent, we followed him as he made his way down to the dock. Birds were singing, a breeze rattled branches and whispered through the pines, bringing the scents of the forest to us. Our steps echoed on the stone stairs. No one spoke a word. The early light enhanced the colors around us, revealing a stunningly beautiful scene.
I could cheerfully hate it.
When we reached the dock, Slye said, “We observed several things, early in the day, that pointed the way. We learned other things from people who knew the three individuals well. We learned that Billy and Jeannie were smitten with one another. We learned that when fishing here, Grimes usually went out all day, that Mrs. Huddleson had been returned to the Grimes mansion by a young man who was no doubt looking forward to an encounter in a place where, for a few brief hours, no one would be telling him where to go and what to do, no mother or unofficial aunts and uncles coddling him or watching his every move. We know that Grimes, who had his own lustful plans for Jeannie, was hotheaded, competitive, thin-skinned, and had weapons at hand-some of which are missing from his gun room.”
He paused.
“I think more than one gun was taken in an attempt to confuse matters. Or he may have planned to construct a self-defense plea.”
“You mean,” Wishy said, frowning, “that Grimes fired off several weapons, and he planned to claim he’d been shot at, then fired back.”
“Precisely.”
“So what do you think happened?” the sheriff asked.
“No one living was here to witness what happened, but our observations give us the basics. Mr. Grimes repaired plaster on a bedroom wall, directly behind a point where two lovers’ heads may have been nestled together. Two shots at least. Others may have lodged in the mattress or the lovers’ bodies. As you know, Sheriff, there is unlikely to be self-restraint in such cases.”
The sheriff nodded. “Spurned lovers tend to overdo it.”
“Whatever he did required him to replace a headboard, a mattress, bedding. He opened windows on a chilly evening. He needed to telephone for help for further cleaning, and was very specific about who would answer that summons.”
“In that, he was cruel,” I said.
“Very much so,” Slye agreed. “Understanding that much of this is conjecture, but based on physical signs and what we know of the individuals concerned, here is what I believed happened. Grimes left the house at about this time of day two days ago. He took the rowboat out, but came back unexpectedly early.”
“Why?” I asked.
Bunny shrugged. “We can’t be sure, Max. Perhaps he forgot some part of his fishing tackle, remembered a new lure or something of that nature. Perhaps his unruly desire for Miss Lindstrom left him thinking he could send Billy and Mrs. Huddleson back to the mansion long enough to force his attentions on her. Perhaps, out on the lake, he happened to look into the window of his bedroom and saw them standing in an embrace. We will never know.”
“And they,” the sheriff said, “perhaps planning to leave his employ, thought to thumb their noses at him and make love in his own bed.” He shook his head. “What did Owen call him? ‘A cheeky bastard.’ ”
“Grimes and Billy perhaps had a few things in common,” Slye said.
“He grew up fatherless in Everett Grimes’s household,” I said. “His beliefs about manhood may have been molded by Grimes.”
“Likely, although until he could drive, he probably spent more time with the servants. As for using Grimes’s bed, since that is the only place in the house with a view of the lake, their choice may have been practical in intent-they could watch for his return, which they thought would come much later.
“In any case, finding these two in his bed must have enraged Grimes. I believe he reacted violently. He shot them both.
“Then what to do? He wrapped his victims up in the damaged and bloodstained bedding, and carried them down to the limousine. While not as large as Wishy’s Pierce-Arrow, the Hudson is a roomy vehicle. He included in his cargo the damaged headboard-perhaps he sawed it into smaller pieces first. He had the foresight to check in the small cottage and gather anything that might indicate Billy planned to stay. He overlooked or ignored The Count of Monte Cristo, which may have belonged to him, after all.”
He paused, frowning in concentration; then he went on.
“He probably hid the car nearby, in the highly unlikely case someone should come upon its gruesome cargo. He came back down theses step and rowed the boat to the other side of the quarry. He tied it up and walked back to the house. This all required a great deal of physical effort, but he was in excellent condition. He got into the Hudson and, with his limited driving skills, scraped the right front fender on his way out, as Wishy noted.
“He unloaded his burdens into the boat, which must have been crowded, with not only himself but two bodies, bedding, and perhaps even pieces of headboard, although he may have burned the wood.
“He planned to have the boat sink, and had to ensure it didn’t return to the surface. He would be especially concerned that the bodies not rise, as they would in the natural course of decomposition. Using materials readily available-this is a quarry, after all, with no shortage of rock-he undoubtedly weighted the rowboat’s contents. He rowed out a certain distance from the shore-not too close, but not too far, because the day had already been one of extreme exertion. He then intentionally damaged the boat, perhaps by drilling a hole in the hull beneath his feet, and let it sink. He swam back to shore.
“Between his fears and his efforts, he must have been quite exhausted at this point, but there was still more to do.”
“He got into the driver’s seat,” Wishy said, “sopping wet, and left water everywhere. Which is why the car was still damp the next day.”
“Exactly.”
“And coming back, he smashed the other fender!”
“So it seems. We cannot know the exact sequence of events after he returned to the quarry house. Perhaps he went upstairs and slept a little. Perhaps he set to work patching the wall and cleaning up the worst of it. Perhaps it was then that he called his wife, invented a tale of runaway lovers to hide his crime, and insisted he be left alone to ensure that no one from the mansion would come to the quarry. He still had one major problem to resolve. The bed itself.”
“Did the bed leave the feathers in the car?” Wishy asked.
“No, for even though the Hudson is large, it would have been quite loaded down at that point-bodies, headboard, Billy’s personal effects from the small house. I believe those feathers came from the bedding, possibly a damaged pillow, or perhaps a few feathers had clung to the bodies and were dislodged in transport.
“In all likelihood, not only the bedding but the mattress itself was stained. A feather mattress is bulky, too unwieldy to be included in the rowboat’s cargo. He had to discover a way to otherwise dispose of it. And he found one.