And the whole thing was within Sondgard’s jurisdiction. As a result of political maneuvering in the twenties, the entire frontage all around the lake was included within the official Cartier Isle town boundaries. The early estate owners had urged the move, so the town could then zone the area to keep the rabble out, and the town fathers had approved the idea because they could then tax the estates. Because the town kept its tax bite modest, and because the estate owners usually refrained from interfering with local affairs, the arrangement worked out to the satisfaction of both sides.
But it still made life more complicated for Captain Eric Sondgard. This killing, now, out at the summer theater. If the town had a sensible perimeter, the killing would have taken place seven miles outside town, and would have been either a county or state affair. State most likely, since the county organization was a petrified political fossil, with a sheriff who lived thirty miles away down the mountain in Monetta, and who hadn’t left the town of Monetta in thirty years.
Even without this killing, there were complications enough. Circle South and Circle North, being the two halves of the road around the lake, had to be patrolled by the town police. The one or two drownings in the lake every summer were a town affair, though state dredging equipment was used to search for the bodies. Every bus into town was met either by Mike Tompkins or by Sondgard himself, and cheaper-looking cars with out-of-state license plates were watched carefully, and the town’s one motel was under constant surveillance, because all that money out around the lake inevitably drew thieves. Suspicious-looking types who could prove no legitimate reason for being in town were sent packing, with a warning not to come back.
And there was occasional trouble from the estates themselves. Four summers ago, a jumpy private guard with an itchy trigger finger had fired three shots into a car moving on one of the private roads, thinking it contained burglars. Later, he swore he’d called at the driver of the car to stop, and had fired only when the driver had ignored him. But the car had contained a pair of college kids, employed for the summer at Black Lake Lounge out by the summer theater, off looking for a secluded place to neck, and not realizing this was a private road. When a uniformed man had shouted at them, the boy had panicked and had kept going, trying to drive away from there. One of the bullets fired at the car struck the boy in the head, killing him instantly.
So there were complicated times in the job, and messy times. But all in all Sondgard was satisfied. The work was a pleasant contrast to the sedentary indoor life he spent the rest of the year, and it kept him busy, kept him from brooding about himself. If it weren’t for the nagging of Joyce Raven-field...
But that was another subject entirely. Shying away from it, Sondgard forced himself to concentrate on what the radio was saying. The radio said, “Extra margin because...” and while Captain Sondgard drove, Professor Sondgard winced.
The flame-red of the summer theater shone through the trees long before he’d come around the last curve and turned off on the gravel parking lot. Just ahead, across the road on the lake side, was the Black Lake Lounge, the only commercial property anywhere along the lake frontage. There was an extensive gambling setup on the second floor of the Lounge, and everyone knew it, but Sondgard also knew he wasn’t supposed to do anything about it. His conscience wasn’t particularly troubled, nor was his integrity very outraged; no paupers were cleaned of their last pfennigs upstairs in the Black Lake Lounge. It was a rich man’s game up there, and no credit was given any player, so it was essentially harmless. The only police business that ever came out of the Lounge was the occasional drunken driver.
Sondgard parked the Volvo in front of the theater, seeing the shiny blue-and-white prowl car already there. So Mike Tompkins already had arrived.
Sondgard went into the theater first, and saw Mary Ann McKendrick behind the ticket window. She looked frightened, and her eyes were puffy, as though she’d been crying. She said, “Next door, Mr. Sondgard. In the house.”
“Thanks.”
He went next door, and found Mike Tompkins in the rehearsal room, standing by the door. A dozen or more people, men and women, were sitting in a stunned silence on the folding chairs. None of them met his eyes as he came in, nor were any of them looking at one another. They gazed at the floor, or at the ceiling, or over toward the window, and they all had the tightness of shock on their faces.
Sondgard recognized a few of them. Bob Haldemann, producer of the theater. Loueen Campbell and Richard Lane and Alden March, who’d acted here in other years, and Ralph Schoen the director, and Arnie Kapow the set designer. The others were all strangers to him.
Bob Haldemann finally got to his feet, saying, “Hello, Eric. I’m glad you’re here.”
“In a minute, Bob. Mike?” He motioned to Mike Tompkins to come outside with him.
Mike Tompkins, bearing the rank of sergeant in the Cartier Isle police force, was a huge man, six foot, five inches tall, weighing nearly two hundred and sixty pounds, and none of it fat. A local boy, born and bred in Cartier Isle, he’d left his home town twice, the first time to accept a football scholarship at a Midwestern university — he’d flunked out the second semester of his sophomore year — and the second time to join the Marines. He’d spent twenty years in the Marines, which he enjoyed more than either college or football, and retired at thirty-nine, coming back home to live with his Japanese wife, May. Now forty-four, he looked barely thirty, and was an exercise-and-health-food nut. He was also mainly responsible for the police force’s high ammunition bill each year, since he spent a part of nearly every day out on the practice range. He’d taken over the police force job three years ago, when the earlier sergeant — Crawford, his name was — retired, and since then he’d revamped the force completely. He and May designed the new uniform, a modified version of Marine dress uniform in a lighter shade of blue, and he also talked Mayor Ravenfield into trading in the force’s seven-year-old Chevy station wagon for a brand-new blue-and-white Ford V8 with a red dome light. He enjoyed the uniform and the car and the chance at unlimited use of the practice range, but he usually ignored the job itself as much as possible. His relief at Sondgard’s presence now was obvious and unashamed.
He and Sondgard stepped out to the hallway, and Sondgard shut the door before saying, “You get the story?”
“I did. It’s a mess, Captain, a real mess.” Mike was the only one in the world who knew Sondgard and called him Captain.
“There really was a murder, then.”
“There sure was. She’s upstairs.”
“A woman?”
“Girl. One of the actresses here. Looks like one of those sex maniac jobs.”
Sondgard looked toward the stairs. Would it be considered necessary for him to go up and view the body? He hoped not. What good could he do? He said, “You better call in to Joyce. Tell her to notify Doc Walsh.”
“I did already.”
“All right. Good.” He looked at the staircase again. Wasn’t there something else he should do? He said, “Who discovered it?”
“Fella named Mel Daniels. Actor.”
“All right. I guess I want to talk to him first.”
“You want me to call Captain Garrett.”
Yes, he did, very much. Let Captain Garrett go up those stairs. But some embarrassment connected with Joyce Raven-field made him say, “Not yet. Let’s get our facts straight first.”