"Why didn't they call you at the trial, I wonder?^ "Listen, nobody was trying to prove Nathaniel did anything," Delevan said. "They didn't need me to say that McCauley walked into that house."
"Could she had been dead when he walked in?" "How could she been? Nathaniel was painting his picture. He didn't hit her. The old man didn't hit her. I saw him getting up out of his bed before the old lady pulls the shade. The cook and the maid, they're sleeping downstairs in the back wing. Why would they hit her? McCauley was the only one who woulda hit her." "And you heard no car?"
"I told you I heard plenty cars. Loud at night. Up and down the roads."
"Somebody could have got into the house at the back, on foot, without you seeing?"
"You're pushing,'' Delevan said, "Sure. They could, all right."
"Do you think it's possible that the boy, Dick, might have got into the house at the back?"
"Mister," said Delevan patiently, "it's possible. A whole platoon coulda got in at the back. Anything's possible." "You think it was McCauley?"
Delevan shrugged. "It wasn't Nathaniel. That I know. He was a sad kind of guy." Delevan frowned. ''Well, see, it was pretty quiet. Now, I'd have heard a window breaking—not that one broke. I'd have heard a screen being cut-not that one was cut. One thing I might not have heard. That's somebody with a key, sneaking in at the back door. But this is nothing."
"Nothing," agreed Johnny. "Can you tell me exactly how long it was between McCauley's entering the house and the hghts going up?"
"Few minutes," Delevan shrugged. "I was swinging and thinking. And time, you know—unless you go by the watch-it don't always seem to take the same time for a certain time to go by." Delevan kept frowning.
Johnny perceived that there was doubt. But doubt wasn't enough.
He went back to his motel in Hestia. Tried to call Grimes. No answer. Tried Copeland. He meant to beg tlie lawyer to come down. Nan would talk to him, alone. But neither of Copeland's phones answered.
I need help, thought Johnny in panic. She's going to marry a killer and I can't stop itl I am the la^t one who can stop it!
CHAPTER 17
That Thursday afternoon, the old lady was pleased as punch that there was going to be a wedding in the house tomorrow. She talked about weddings she had known and her nurse, Miss Adams, sat by, making dull agieeable, nmse-like remarks whenever the old lady lost the thread of her recollections, ^an seemed to be listening to them pl^ECidly" while she, slowly, with the daintiest care, put tiny stitches in a new hem on Dorothy's white silk dress.
Dorothy, following a busy Blanche around the house, helping where she could, thought Nan looked like a httle girl, curled up in tlie chair, hfer dark hair han-ging around her cheeks, the wide silk skirt spread over her lap. A little girl in a dream. Dorothy had not argued with the dieam today.
The Bartee men had not been about since the winery tour. A house preparing for a sudden wedding, Blanche said, was no place for a man. Blanche, in some different way, was in charge of the house.
Blanche had made a very short list. ". . . just one or two couples, very close friends." She had said to Nan, "And your Mr. Sims, of course."
But Johnny was not to be found. Dorothy had called the motel three times dming the afternoon. No answer. Wherever Johnny was, he did not know yet that tlie wedding was being arranged. Dorothy worried.
Nan sewed peacefully. Nan pressed the new hem, tried the dress on, with Blanche present. Then Nan said she would wash her hair, would pack, would nap. Dick was coming for her very late in the afternoon, when they would go for their Ucense.
By four o'clock, the clergyman was promised, the guests bidden, food planned, marketing accomplished, the big parlor pohshed. Blanche sent the old lady out of the parlor. Blanche was mistress of the house today; the old lady went meekly. The old lady had retreated to a position of being the ancient pet, there—but not in charge.
"We'll do more flowers in the morning," Blanche said to Dorothy. "I'd better order the corsages. What are you wearing?"
"A pink dress," said Dorothy. "Nearest I have to looking hke a bridesmaid."
"Then I'll wear pink, too. That might look nice. Let's see how well we match."
Dorothy went softly into the back bedroom. Nan, on the bed, slept, or played possmn. Her hair in pins. Face innocent and fair. Dreaming. No use to try to wake her. Dorothy took her pink dress into Blanche's bedroom.
"What a huge room!"
"Isn't it glorious? This used to be the older Bartee's, 'til we had to move mother downstairs. This dress might do."
Her pink matched Dorothy's well enough. "So that's that," sighed Blanche.
"You must be tired."
"Sit down, shall we? I'll have a cigarette. No, I'm not tired. I think the house will look well."
"Will Nan and Dick hve in the house?" Dorothy asked.
"Oh, I don't know," said Blanche, "whether they will at an/'
"You'd rather they didn't?"
Blanche lifted her chin. "This place is Bart's. I'd rather Bart—we—didn't give up any part of it." Blanche was not meek today.
"I can understand that," Dorothy said.
"You're not awfully pleased about this wedding, are you?" asked Blanche. (They were two females with their hair down.)
"No, I just wish they had waited."
"But you do know Dick never killed anybody?" Blanche sighed. "I'm so glad all that is out in the open."
"Were you fond of Dick? Ever?" Dorothy asked.
"Fond?" frowned Blanche. "I was fifteen years old."
Dorothy said sagely, "I guess there is no such word as 'fond' when you're fifteen years old. You can be awfully flattered if a famous wolf pays any attention."
"I think that's exactly so." They smiled at each other. "I just love Bart," Blanche said hke a child. "I think I was afraid of Dick, really."
"You're not afraid of him now?"
Blanche didn't answer. Dorothy was sitting on the edge of a big four-poster. She put her cheek against the tall mahogany post. "But McCauley is innocent, so Johnny says."
"Surely he doesn't say so, now?" Blanche showed surprise.
"The man must be obsessed then," Dorothy said, sadly.
"Obsessed?"
"McCauley himself, I mean. You know, Johnny talked to him."
"Oh, did he? In the prison?"
"Yes."
"It's sad," Blanche said.
Dorothy felt nervous and restless suddenly. "The "McCauley's lived here? Where did they stay?" she asked.
"The room you girls are in. Mother Bartee once told me. All three of them, I beheve."
"Three? That's right, there was a baby."
"Yes."
"Kate said she felt sorry for the baby." ("Her mama killed, her papa sent up, and not true, either." Dorothy remembered what Kate had said.)
"I'm sure," said Blanche, "that was very kind of Kate."
"What became of the baby?"
"We don't know."
''Don't knowr
"The aunt took her."
"Aunt?"
"His sister. What was her name? She was a little tiger. Dad says. I never saw her. I was away at boardingschool by the time she came back and raised all the fuss. They say she fought and fought. Oh yes, she took the baby. Can't think of her name. I know it began with an E."
if:.' I
1.
Dorothy's hand squeaked on the mahogany post. "What was the baby's name?'' she asked.
Blanche concentrated. "Mary."
Dorothy relaxed. "Why didn't the baby stay here?"
"Well, I believe Mother Bartee thought in terms of bad blood. Father a criminal, you know? Then, of course, the aunt was so determined. She was going to take the baby away and keep the whole thing from her."
"What do you mean?"
"The child wasn't ever to know what really happened to her parents. That's why we don't know where she is or anything about her."
"I see," said Dorothy. She felt another wave of nervousness. "Look, you must want to rest a while . . ."
"The truth is," said Blanche smiUng, "I had better wash some stockings. Thanks for all your help, Dorothy."
Dorothy hurried downstairs. Her breathing was upset. She tried Johnny's number again. Still no answer.