“Which one is Al Rikerd?” Ellen asked.
“I guess you’ve seen him. A tall one with black hair and a white face, and he’s got sort of a mean look.”
Ellen turned to Jay. “I have seen that one. Not the sort of young man you forget in a hurry, Jay. He was at the Sixpence. I kept turning and looking at him, because I couldn’t understand why he seemed so creepy. He stood by the wall. Then I realized what it was. He was absolutely motionless. Just his eyes moved. You know, most people have nervous habits. They fiddle and wiggle and rock and smirk. That young man is utterly still. I imagine it’s some sort of a game with him. Maybe he thinks it makes him look more competent or dangerous or something. If he does, he’s absolutely right. I saw other people glancing at him, too. He seemed to make them uncomfortable. Like he belonged to another species.”
“That’s Rikerd, all right,” Hollister said. “Not that it means anything, but I saw that once before. That stillness. A guy came into my other place, the store we used to have. We stayed open all night. He had coffee. He sat just like that. Like a wax museum. He sat there for an hour and then went home and killed his wife. Like I said, that doesn’t mean anything. It just reminded me. Rikerd isn’t around the Sixpence much. Rice has him doing other things. He does a lot of driving for Rice.”
“Where do you think Joan went when she went away?” Ellen asked.
Hollister shifted uneasily, not looking at Jay. “She could have gone away with one of them, or spent the time out at Rice’s place south of town, but of course I wouldn’t know that. Anyway, she probably wouldn’t go out to Rice’s place because that Sheila is there. A sort of permanent house guest, they say. Dolly says that after that set-to at the Sixpence, Rice must have put his foot down hard, because that Sheila hasn’t been back since, and it’s over two weeks now. Rice ought to throw a tramp like her away, but they say she was with him when he first came out here. I don’t want to sound too fussy, but I just don’t like the way a girl looks in slacks and a fur jacket, and those hats with veils.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run.”
Jay held his hand across the table. “I want to thank you, Mr. Hollister. And I guess you know that I won’t mention what you’ve told me.”
Hollister had an engaging grin. “If I thought you would, I wouldn’t have told you.” He got up. “Hurry back,” he said.
After he left, Ellen said, “Does that give us any explanation for Mr. McGay’s reticence? He certainly didn’t forget the slapping incident.”
“No reason that I can think of. I like Hollister. But all this isn’t getting us anywhere. Tomorrow I see the law, I think. What sort do we have here?”
“One town cop who handles traffic and so on and practically works for Rice. One branch office, or something, of the county sheriff’s office, with a Hollywood-type deputy in charge. That’s all I know about. The deputy came out to the Inn and made important noises the morning we found her.”
“Will you settle for an early night? I’m pretty tired, Ellen.”
“Of course. I have an early date with a horse. Want to come?”
“They give me a rash. I’ll join you for lunch.”
It was a small building with the deputy, one clerk-jailor, and a smell of cells, whitewash, and chemicals. The deputy was a high, broad young man with a cream-colored Texan-type hat, a creaking pistol belt, polished boots, gold badge on a silk shirt, and a face that looked as if it had been hastily carved from the brown stone of the desert hills.
“Do something for you, friend?”
Jay knew the type. This was one of the great legion who ride the snorting highway bikes, who strut over to the halted car, hand on the gun butt, and demand license and registration. This was one of the big young men who need a uniform, need authority, need the creak of leather, the gleam of boot.
“My name is Jay Shelby. My wife drowned in the pool at the Terrace Inn two weeks ago. I want to know what you’ve found out.”
The man’s eyes were pale. He dropped one haunch on the railing that bisected the room, hard leg swinging. “I don’t get it, Shelby.”
“I understand there was a man with her,” Jay said, concealing his irritation. “I wondered if you found out who he is.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“I got a very brief letter from you people. It didn’t say much. I was curious.”
“You were curious.”
“Let’s not get into a Hemingway routine.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Jay replied.
“Let me see your identification, friend.” The hard palm was extended.
Jay sighed. He took out his billfold. The man went through it carefully, looking at the membership cards, the credit cards, the Connecticut driver’s license. He inspected the cash, the traveler’s checks, taking his time about it, and handed the wallet back.
“Okay, so you’re Shelby. You got curious. The case is closed, Shelby. Like it said in the letter. Accidental death. Maybe there was a man with her. Maybe there wasn’t. Nobody can prove that. She got a little bump on the head and died from drowning. Her lungs were full of water, and her blood was full of gin. I don’t see the point. She was divorcing you, wasn’t she? It’s over. You ought to be glad. It saved you money, probably.”
“I wonder how carefully you people investigated it.”
The man’s eyes looked even paler. “I don’t think I care for that statement.”
“I can’t help what you think.”
The big man pursed his lips, shrugged. He got off the railing, went through the gate, opened a file cabinet, took a thick folder and tossed it on the desk. “Come on in and look, then, Shelby. Take a good look. This is no hick operation, no matter what you might think.”
He sat at the desk. The man walked out. The room was silent. There were glossy photographs in the folder. They were not good to look at. Not with her drowned hair and her open, blinded eyes. Not with that once taut body so curiously slack and shrunken there on the pool apron in the gay party dress. He felt ill as he read the formal autopsy report. He read the sheaf of signed statements. It had been thorough. Yet they added nothing. He felt an odd sense of irritation. Something about the photographs. He turned back to them and soon found what it was. Her hands. One showed clearly. Nails were painted. They looked black. Red would show up black. She never painted her nails. She said it made her actively physically ill. She kept them burnished, beautifully cared for. But never painted. That made him study her more carefully. It was Joan. No resemblance was ever that close. The pictures were sharp and clear.
He shut the folder and sat there.
“Satisfied?”
Jay looked up. “Yes. It was a thorough job. I’m sorry I bothered you. But I wanted to know.”
“This isn’t a hick operation.”
“I can see that. You didn’t find out where she went when she went away, before she died?”
“No. But I’ll give odds it was just a party. A party for two. One of the motels, maybe. Site was gone for one whole night and most of the next one. That happens around here. She didn’t pack for a trip. We checked the maids on that. Lost weekend. Some of these types that come out here are lost for the whole six weeks. I’d say she came back too tight to risk going to bed and having the room spin. So she walked in the air, by the pool. Maybe she was alone. Maybe somebody was with her. I think she staggered and fell in. If she was alone, that was that. If she wasn’t, the guy got scared and ran.”
Jay got up from the desk chair. “Thanks.”