Yes? All right. Done. His name is Doc Spiver, on the end of Main Street. You've got the number. Right.
Thanks, Sam."
He said as he hung up the phone, "Sam's calling the county sheriff. He says they'll send someone over to handle things."
"Soon, I hope," Doc Spiver said, walking into the small living room, wiping his hands-an obscene thing to be doing, Sally thought, staring at those old liver-spotted hands, knowing what those hands had been touching. There was a knock on the front door and Doc Spiver called out, "Come along in!"
It was Reverend Hal Vorhees. On his heels were the four old men who spent most of their time sitting around the barrel playing cards.
"What the hell's going on, Doc? Excuse me, ma'am, but we heard you'd found a body at the bottom of the cliffs."
"It's true, Gus," Doc Spiver said. "Do all of you know Mr. Quinlan and Sally, Amabel's niece?"
"Yes, we do, Doc," Purn Davies, the man who'd wanted to marry Amabel, said. "Now what's happening? Be quick telling us. I don't want the ladies to hear about it and be distressed."
"Sally and Mr. Quinlan found a woman's body."
"Who is she? Do you recognize her?" This from Hal Vorhees.
"No. She's not from around here, I don't think. I couldn't find anything on her clothes either. You find anything, Mr. Quinlan?"
“No. The county sheriff is sending someone over soon. A medical examiner as well."
"Good," Doc Spiver said. "Look, she could have been killed by anything. Me, I'd say it was an accident, but who knows? I can't run tests, and I haven't the tools or equipment to do an autopsy. As I said, I vote for accident."
"No," Sally said. "No accident. Someone killed her. I heard her screaming."
"Now, Sally," Doc Spiver said, holding out his hand to her, that hand he'd been wiping, "you're not thinking that the wind you heard was this poor woman screaming."
"Yes, I am."
"We never found anything," Reverend Vorhees said. "We all looked a good two hours."
"You just didn't look in the right place," Sally said.
"Would you like something to calm you?"
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She stared at the old man who had been a doctor for many more years than her mother had been alive.
She'd met him the previous day. He'd been kind, if a little vague. She knew he didn't want her here, that she didn't belong here, but as long as she was with Amabel, he would continue being kind. Come to think of it, all the folk she'd met had been kind, but she still felt they didn't want her here. It was because she was a murdered man's daughter-that had to be it. She wondered if they would turn her in now that she and James had found the woman's body, the woman Sally had heard screaming.
"Something to calm me," she repeated slowly, "something to calm me." She laughed, a low, very ugly laugh that brought Quinlan's head up.
"I'd better get you something," Doc Spiver said, turned quickly, and ran into an end table. The beautiful Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor. It didn't break.
He didn't see it, James realized. The damned old man is going blind. He said easily, “No, Doc. Sally and I will be on our way now. The detective from the Portland police will tell the sheriff to come here. If you'd let them know we'll be at Amabel's house?"
"Yes, certainly," Doc Spiver said, not looking at them. He was on his knees, touching the precious Tiffany lamp, feeling all the lead seams to make certain it wasn't cracked.
They left him still on the floor. All the other men were silent as death in the small living room with its rich wine-red Bokhara carpet.
"Amabel told me he was blinder than a bat," Sally said as they stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stopped cold.
"What's wrong?"
"I forgot. I can't have the police knowing I'm here. They'll call the police in Washington, they'll send someone to get me, they'll force me to go back to that place or they'll kill me or they'll-"
"No, they won't. I already thought of that. Don't worry. Your name is Susan Brandon. They'll have no reason to question that. Just tell them your story and they'll leave you be."
"I have a black wig I wore here. I'll put it on."
"Couldn't hurt."
"How can you know they'll just want to hear my story? You don't know what's going on here any more than I do. Oh, I see. You don't think they'll believe I heard a woman screaming those two nights."
He said patiently, "Even if they don't believe you, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense that they'd then have a murdered woman on their hands, does it? You heard a woman's screams. Now she's dead. I don't think there's a whole lot of other possible conclusions. Get a grip, Sally, and don't fall apart on me now. You're going to be Susan Brandon. All right?"
She nodded slowly, but he didn't think he had ever seen such fear on a face in all his years.
He was glad she had a wig. No one could forget her face, and the good Lord knew it had been flashed on TV enough times recently.
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6
DAVID MOUNTEBANK HAD hated his name ever since he'd looked it up in the dictionary and read it meant boastful and unscrupulous. Whenever he met a big man, a big man who looked smart, and he had to introduce himself, he held himself stiff and wary, waiting to see if the guy would make a crack. He braced himself accordingly as he introduced himself to the man before him now.
"I'm Sheriff David Mountebank."
The man stuck out his hand. "I'm James Quinlan, Sheriff Mountebank. This is Susan Brandon. We were together when we found the woman's body two hours ago."
"Ms. Brandon."
"Won't you be seated, Sheriff?"
He nodded, took his hat off, and relaxed into the soft sofa cushions. "The Cove's changed," he said, looking around Amabel's living room as if he'd found himself in a shop filled with modern prints that gave him indigestion. “It seems every time I come here, it just keeps looking better and better. How about that?"
"I wouldn't know," Quinlan said. "I'm from L.A."
"You live here, Ms. Brandon? If you do, you've got to be the youngest sprout within the town limits, although there's something of a subdivision growing over near the highway. Don't know why folks would want to live near the highway. They don't come into The Cove except for ice cream, leastwises that's what I hear."
"No, Sheriff. I'm visiting my aunt. Just a short vacation. I'm from Missouri."
Sheriff Mountebank wrote that down in his book, then sat back, scratched his knees, and said, "The medical examiner's over at Doc Spiver's house checking out the dead woman. She'd been in the water a good while, at least eight hours, I'd say."
"I know when she died," Sally said.
The sheriff merely smiled at her and waited. It was a habit of his, just waiting, and sure enough, everything he ever wanted to hear would pop out of a person's mouth just to fill in the silence.
He didn't have to wait long this time because Susan Brandon couldn't wait to tell him about the screams, about how her aunt had convinced her it was just the wind that first night, but last night she'd known-just known-it was a woman screaming, a woman in pain, and then that last scream, well, someone had killed her.
"What time was that? Do you remember, Ms. Brandon?"
"It was around 2:05 in the morning, Sheriff. That's when my aunt went along with me and called Reverend Vorhees."
"She called Hal Vorhees?"
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"Yes. She said he was just about the youngest man and the most physically able. He brought over three elderly men with him. They searched but couldn't find anything."
"That was probably the same group that's over at Doc Spiver's. They were all just sitting around looking at each other. This kind of thing hits a small town like The Cove real hard."
David Mountebank took down their names. He said without preamble, without softening, "Why are you wearing a black wig, Ms. Brandon?"