Her face grew paler and longer. "Juanita Grimes always did talk a lot."
"She wasn't my main source. Your son's murder was and is public knowledge. I talked to the man who discovered his body and investigated his death. Sheriff Brotherton."
"So?"
"Aren't you interested in who killed your son?"
"It doesn't matter now," she said. "What difference can it possibly make? He's dead. He's been dead for over thirty-two years."
"But I think the man who killed him is still alive."
"How can you know that?*"
"I feel it in my bones. Not that there isn't plenty of evidence. There have been other deaths. Paul Grimes, Jacob Whitmore. And the man whose remains were dug up tonight in Richard Chantry's greenhouse."
She tried to speak, and succeeded on her second attempt. "What man?"
"He hasn't been identified yet, but he will be. He came to Chantry's house about twenty-five years ago with a woman and a little boy. There was an argument, and a fight between him and Chantry. According to the account I heard, the man fell down and hit his head and died. The Chantrys buried him."
"Did Mrs. Chantry tell you this?" she said.
"Some of it."
Her eyes widened while the rest of her face had tightened and thinned. She looked like a kestrel or some other small bird of prey.
"What else did Mrs. Chantry tell you?"
"That was the gist of it. What else was there to tell?"
"I'm asking you," she said.
"But I think you're the one who knows the answer. Why did Jack Biemeyer buy you the house in Chantry Canyon?"
"Because I asked him to."
"Jack Biemeyer isn't that generous."
"He was to me, in those days." A little color came into her face and gathered on her cheekbones. "I admit he hasn't improved with age. But then neither have I."
"I suggest that Biemeyer bought you that house on behalf of the Chantry family. Or possibly they gave it to you, by way of him, for nothing."
"What reason would they have to do that?"
"To keep you quiet about your son William's murder."
"William's death was public knowledge. What was there to be quiet about?"
"Who killed him. I think it was Richard Chantry. He left Arizona for California right after the murder and never went back. The case against him was quashed, or never developed. If you had any suspicions, you kept them to yourself."
She shook her head. "You don't know me. I loved my son. When they showed me William's body, I almost died myself. And don't forget he was a Chantry, too. Felix Chantry was his natural father. And there was no bad blood between William and Richard."
"Then why did Richard leave Arizona immediately after William's death?"
"I don't know. Perhaps he was afraid of being murdered, too."
"Did he say that?"
"I never discussed it with him. As a matter of fact, I haven't seen Richard since then."
"Since William's death?"
"That's right. I haven't seen Richard once in thirty-two years. Nobody's seen him in the last twenty-five years. And I didn't find out why until tonight, from you." She moved restlessly, and looked at the bottle beside her. "If you're planning to stay around for a while, you might as well pour me another. And yourself, too."
"No, thanks. I have a few more questions, and that should do it. I understand that when your son William was killed he left behind a wife and a small son."
Her eyes changed as if she were looking inward and downward into the past. "I believe he did."
"You mean you don't know?"
"I've been told about them. I've never seen them."
"Why not?"
"It wasn't through any wish of mine. They simply dropped out of sight. I did hear a rumor that the woman, William's widow, married another man and changed the boy's name to his."
"Do you know the name?"
"I'm afraid I don't. They never contacted me."
"Do you think they contacted Richard Chantry?"
She looked away. "I wouldn't know about that."
"The woman and the little boy who came to Chantry's house twenty-five years ago-could they have been William's widow and son?"
"I don't know. It seems to me you're really reaching."
"I have to. It's all a long way back in the past. Do you have any idea who the man was-the man who got himself killed and buried in the greenhouse?"
"I haven't the slightest."
"Could it have been your son William?"
"You must be crazy. William was killed in Arizona in 1943-seven years before that."
"Did you see his body?"
"Yes."
"I understand it was pretty chewed up. Were you able to make a positive identification?"
"Yes. I was. My son William died thirty-two years ago."
"What happened to his body after you identified it?"
"I don't know exactly."
"That's surprising."
"Is it? He had a wife in California, you know. She wanted his body shipped back here for final burial. And I had no objections. Once a man is dead, he's dead. It doesn't matter where he's finally planted."
Her voice was rough and careless, and I got the impression that she was deliberately violating her own feelings.
As if she realized this, she added, "I want my own body cremated-it won't be long now-and the ashes scattered on the desert near Tucson."
"Near Lashman's?"
She looked at me with irritation, and renewed interest. "You know too damn much."
"You tell me too damn little, Mildred. Where _was_ your son William buried?"
"Someplace in California, I was told."
"Did you ever visit his grave?"
"No. I don't know where it is."
"Do you know where his widow lives now?"
"No. I never was much interested in family. I left my own family in Denver when I was fourteen years old, and never went back. I never looked back, either."
But her eyes were in long focus now, looking back over the continent of her life. She may have been feeling what I felt, the subterranean jolt as the case moved once again, with enough force to throw a dead man out of his grave.
XXXVI
It was nearly three by my car clock when I got out to Sycamore Point. At the foot of the beach, the sea was coughing in its sleep. My own tides were at a low ebb and I was tempted to go to sleep sitting up in the front seat.
But there was a light in Jacob Whitmore's cottage. I let myself hope for a minute that Betty was there. But Jessie Gable turned out to be alone.
I noticed the difference in Jessie as soon as she let me into the lighted room. Her movements were more assured, her eyes more definite. There was wine on her breath, but she didn't seem to be drunk.
She offered me a chair and said, "You owe me a hundred dollars. I found out the name of the woman who sold Jake the picture."
"Who was it?"
She reached across the table and laid her hand on my arm. "Wait a minute, now. Don't be in such a hurry. How do I know you _have_ a hundred dollars?"
I counted out the money onto the table. She reached for the stack of bills. I picked them up again from under her hands.
"Hey," she said, "that's my money."
"You haven't told me the woman's name yet."
She tossed her blond hair. It fell like a soiled silk shawl over her shoulders. "Don't you trust me?"
"I did until you started not trusting me."
"You sound like Jake. He was always turning things around and upside down."
"Who sold Jake the picture?"
"I'll tell you when you give me the money."
I dealt fifty onto the table. "There's half. I'll give you the other half when you tell me who she is."
"It's worth more than that. This is an important case. I was told I should get a big reward."
I sat and studied her face. Two days before, when I had first come here, she hadn't seemed to care about money.