Crime is Murder (9 page)

“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said at last. “I don’t handle such matters.”

“But you must have heard—”

“I suppose I have. And it’s possible. Duval had great faith in Marta’s talent. He would have wanted to help her if he could.”

And then Dr. Hazlitt stopped answering questions, not gracefully but abruptly. He let go of the ladder-back and left the kitchen, barely muttering his good-byes. It was Lisa who followed him out. Someone must see the old man down that long hall, and someone must know how to care for Carrie.

But it wasn’t Carrie’s physical condition that disturbed Dr. Hazlitt.

“Speak to her, Miss Bancroft,” he urged. “Talk her out of this nonsense of preferring charges. She could cause a great deal of trouble.”

For whom, Lisa wondered. For Marta or for the family doctor who didn’t like remembering things? A snatch of a conversation she’d once had with a girl reporter mingled with the thought.
“Nydia Cornish just about runs this town. She wouldn’t let anybody tell you anything about her darling daughter.”

The doctor had a few thoughts on Bellville, too.

“Small towns are all alike,” he said, “small in every sense of the word. You’ve lived in many places, Miss Bancroft?”

“Many places,” Lisa replied.

“I envy you. When I was a young fellow, I used to dream of practicing in a big city. If I had my life to live over—”

With his raincoat on, Dr. Hazlitt couldn’t finger the time on his watch chain. He could only hold it in his eyes. And then he looked at Lisa sharply, his head cocked slightly on one side.

“Poliomyelitis?” he asked.

The diagnostician. She’d dreaded this that day in the museum. It had to come sooner or later.

“Yes,” she answered. “But it was a long time ago. I’ve almost forgotten.”

Lie to the man, Lisa. Pretend it doesn’t matter. Lie to the man and he’ll go away.

Dr. Hazlitt nodded. “Used to have a lot of polio in this country. Quite a lot.”

And then, without looking at her again, he picked up his bag and walked out into the rain that had come to spend the night—a tired old man who didn’t like to remember.

Silencing Carrie wasn’t the easiest assignment Lisa had ever undertaken. Dr. Hazlitt was right insofar as the woman’s recuperative powers were concerned. Being an invalid wasn’t in keeping with Carrie’s Spartan way of life.

“Coddlin’ never made nobody well,” she insisted, “and honest work never made nobody sick. It’s that funny kind of work—piano playin’ and such—that causes trouble.”

“Or writing books,” Johnny suggested dryly.

“Any funny kind of work like that. A body needs fresh air an’ exercise an’ natural foods.”

And so Carrie, like Lazarus, came forth on the morning following her unpremeditated collision with the paperweight, and resumed her household duties with no apparent signs of discomfort beyond a hideous bruise she seemed to enjoy immensely. But restraining her from legal action was quite another matter. It was her own lack of faith in man’s justice that finally prevailed.

“You can’t do nothin’ to a Cornish anyhow,” she conceded at last. “That girl would just lie out of it like she’s always lied out of ever’thing else. She’s been brought up wrong—that’s the trouble. Fancy foods, too much piano playin’. Spoiled, that’s the trouble. Spoiled rotten. And cursed, too.”

Johnny was beginning to manifest a marked sympathy for Carrie. Lisa wondered how long it would be before she sampled her dandelion tea and herb salad.

“Cursed?” she repeated, lingering over the world.

“Of course, cursed! What do you expect? Wasn’t her pa a no-good rounder? Wasn’t he with another woman the very night he died? You can’t tell me that fire was an accident like ever’body thinks! It was God’s own judgment, that’s what it was! God’s judgment on the wicked. An’ the girl’s got her pa’s blood in her. She’s cursed same as him.”

Yes, Carrie came forth and silencing her wasn’t easy. She might not go to the sheriff, but she would talk. She would don that old fedora and the long coat, sling the canvas bag over her shoulder, and go off foraging for fresh mushrooms and new greens after the rain, and wherever she went the tale of Marta’s latest atrocity would spread like a subtle poison into the life-stream of Bellville. Lisa was beginning to understand. In a sense, Marta Cornish was living under a curse. Guilty or innocent, there would be no cessation short of the truth. But the truth, unlike Carrie’s mushrooms, wouldn’t pop up fresh and fat after the rain.

And so Lisa left Johnny to listen to Carrie’s fluent imagination and went down to Bellville again.

The Merchant’s Bank of Bellville (est. 1862) was far from being the busy center of a financial empire. The original building (you could see the faded photograph in a frame in Stanley Watts’s office) had been replaced by a somewhat grander structure of red brick and cement pilasters during the height of the Bell lumber boom in the early nineties, and this structure, maintained at basic safety standards, was outwardly unchanged. The interior had been refinished as a result of the reviving economy that came with the Cornish Festival, but, on a drowsy weekday morning following an all-night rain, there was little evidence of a local economy, revived or otherwise. For this reason, Lisa had no trouble at all gaining access to the president’s office without an appointment. Her only trouble was in finding a way to be deliberately nosy while pretending to be appropriately aloof.

Stanley Watts seemed happy to see her. Happier still when he learned the nature of her call. So Lisa Bancroft was interested in settling in Bellville. Yes, he’d heard talk that she might purchase Masterson House. Splendid investment. Fine architecture and construction. They don’t build houses that way any more. (They don’t build men like Stanley Watts any more, either, Lisa thought, mentally contrasting his mild servility with the blustering vigor of Tod Graham.) The Merchant’s Bank would be happy, of course, to handle the transaction if and when Miss Bancroft definitely decided to buy. As for transferring a considerable sum from her New York account to Merchant’s, Stanley Watts was positively delighted. These matters disposed of, it was about time, Lisa decided, to get down to the real purpose of her call.

“There’s another matter,” she added, leaning forward in her chair as if to take support from the gnarled walking stick in preparation to rising, “but I’m not quite sure how to go about it.”

“Speak frankly, Miss Bancroft.” The banker beamed. “Anything at all. Anything I can do.”

Lisa leaned back again. “It’s not what you can do for me,” she said, “but what I would like to do for Bellville. I couldn’t help noticing your reluctance to authorize additional expenditures for the festival at our recent committee meeting.”

Watts’s smile faded. He looked faintly embarrassed.

“A banker’s natural conservatism,” he said.

“Oh, I’m not criticizing! I think it’s an admirable trait, particularly in a banker. But it set me to thinking, Mr. Watts. The festival must be a highly expensive undertaking. Just how is it financed? By a trust fund? By public subscription? Or perhaps there are patrons.”

Lisa stressed the last phrase and Watts rose to the bait.

“You’re quite right,” he said eagerly, “it is a highly expensive undertaking. Too expensive now that Tod Graham’s in charge.”

“Mr. Graham seems to have rather grand ideas,” Lisa agreed.

“Grand? I swear, there’s no limit to that man’s ambition. He thinks he can turn Bellville into another—another Vienna, or some such place! He knows perfectly well that Nydia—” Watts hesitated, as if suddenly aware of approaching a subject not open to public discussion. “He knows that the fund won’t support his big ideas. We’ve shown a financial loss for the past six years. The actual award money, of course, comes out of a trust fund Mrs. Cornish set up shortly after her husband’s death, but that’s rapidly becoming the smallest item on our budget. Frankly, Miss Bancroft, if something isn’t done either to cut down expenditures or increase the fund, I don’t know how much longer the festival can continue.”

“But surely it brings in additional business.”

The featureless face of Stanley Watts developed a weak smile. “One week of the year,” he said. “Oh, possibly a little more. Some of the people come early, some stay until fall, but the sad truth is, Bellville doesn’t have the ideal vacation climate and our scenery can be bested almost anywhere in the Middle West. Of course, if I owned two new motor courts and a share in the best restaurant on the beach I might feel the way Tod does. I might be interested in protecting my investments no matter what happened to other people.”

Watts was definitely telling tales out of school now, but he did so deliberately. Almost defiantly. The framed photograph of the old bank building hung on the wall behind his desk. The bank his father had founded. In those days, economy was something solid, solid as the tall pines that no longer covered the surrounding hills. Stanley Watts could understand such an economy. He didn’t understand Tod Graham. An upstart, a newcomer. Lisa read all these things into his words and took her cue.

“Mr. Graham doesn’t seem quite—quite Bellville,” she suggested. “What I mean to say is that—well, I’ve been struck by the charm of Bellville, the old-fashioned, unspoiled charm of a community not yet defiled by creeping commercialism. Mr. Graham—and I don’t mean this to his disfavor, he’s quite charming in his way—but he just doesn’t
belong
, if you know what I mean.”

Stanley Watts knew. Stanley Watts was way ahead of her.

“My feelings exactly!” he said. “As a matter of fact, he’s not Bellville. He’s only been here—let’s see, eleven or twelve years, I think it is. He started as a junior partner in Alistair Hubbard’s office. Took over the entire business when the old man died.”

“It’s a wonder you haven’t told Nydia that I wanted old Hubbard to die. It’s a wonder you haven’t suggested that I made off with his damned medicine.”

The fragment of an overheard conversation echoed in Lisa’s mind. She could only hope it wasn’t reflected in her face or in the tone of her voice when she asked.

“Alistair Hubbard—isn’t he the gentleman whose name appears on the plaque at the museum? I believe he donated the house—”

“He donated a good deal more than that,” Watts replied. “Hubbard was a fine man. He’d managed the Cornish estate since the days of Walden the elder. It was in good hands while he lived.”

“And now?”

Careful, Lisa. Not too many questions. The man’s no fool even if he is stodgy.

Stanley Watts scowled at his own plump hands on the desk before him. She was right. He was no fool.

“Oh, Graham’s a good man,” he answered. “I don’t mean to imply that he’s mismanaging the estate. Naturally, with the lumber mill closed all these years, it’s mostly investments. I’m really not concerned in that, Miss Bancroft.” The plump hands became busy with a few papers on the desk. All this time the papers had been unimportant. Now they suddenly required intensive rearranging. “I’m merely concerned with the festival funds. As treasurer of the Cornish Memorial, that’s my legitimate interest.”

“Of course,” Lisa said brightly, “you are treasurer of the committee. I’d forgotten. Any donation I might care to make would be made to you. I do hope you don’t think I’ve been too inquisitive.”

This time, as she leaned forward on the walking stick, Lisa did rise. There were many other questions she would have asked. What did he know of the five thousand dollars Howard Gleason had received, for instance, or was it true what she’d heard about Marta Cornish profiting from the insurance policies of both Gleason and Duval? But one had to be careful about these things.

“Not at all, Miss Bancroft. I’m only too happy. Only too happy to be of service in any way. Please feel free to come to me at any time—”

The trouble with being too happy about anything was the annoying way happiness had of disappearing without warning. When Stanley Watts stopped abruptly in the midst of his overdone sentiment, Lisa, responding to his change of mood, turned to see what he was staring at beyond her shoulder. For a moment Watts gave the distinct impression of a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, for, standing in the doorway, and she alone knew for what length of time, was the august figure of Nydia Cornish.

Lisa’s second meeting with the queen of Bellville was no less startling than her first. The scene had changed; the woman hadn’t. She wore the same shapeless suit, the same floppy hat. She fixed Lisa with the same cold eyes and then turned her attention to Watts. Without hesitation, he began to answer the question she didn’t need to phrase.

“Miss Bancroft has been consulting me about a possible purchase of Masterson House,” he said eagerly. “Isn’t that splendid?”

If Nydia Cornish thought there was anything splendid about the idea, she didn’t say so.

“We’ve also been discussing the Cornish Award,” Lisa added. “I thought I might make a contribution.”

“A contribution?” Now the eyes were for Lisa again, a spark of interest behind them this time.

“I’m a great admirer of your husband’s music, Mrs. Cornish, and if I’m to be a resident of Bellville it seems only proper—”

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Bancroft, but there’s no necessity. We have ample funds.”

Somebody had to be lying. Stanley Watts stared down at his hands so Lisa couldn’t read his face; Nydia Cornish’s couldn’t have been read by a hieroglyphist. And then Nydia Cornish did a very strange thing.

“I’m glad you’re here, Miss Bancroft,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to call you all morning. How is Carrie? Doing well, I hope.”

A very strange thing. There was a note of genuine concern in the woman’s voice, and the subject was the last one Lisa expected to have mentioned at such a time. The surprise delayed her answer, but it didn’t delay Nydia Cornish.

“I feel terrible about what happened last night,” she added. “So does Marta. She was hysterical when she reached home. The child gets so upset. It was hours before I could get anything coherent out of her. I called Dr. Hazlitt at once and he assured me Carrie wasn’t seriously injured. I insist on paying the bill, of course.”

Behind the desk, Stanley Watts’s upraised face was beginning to show an expression of interest. Lisa couldn’t blame him.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. “It was Carrie’s fault, after all.”

“Oh, no, Miss Bancroft. I know Carrie. I know the foolish tales she tells. But that’s no excuse for Marta’s outburst last night. A paperweight! Why, the poor old soul might have been—”

Nydia stopped short of the last word. Her stopping was somehow more damaging than the word omitted. Gloved hands worked at the clasp of the huge handbag; eyes shadowed by the hat brim sought something less disturbing than Lisa’s face. Belatedly, Nydia Cornish seemed to remember they were not alone.

“Carrie is quite all right,” Lisa said firmly. “She insisted on getting up and preparing my breakfast this morning as if nothing had happened. Please tell that to Marta. There’s no need for anyone to be upset.”

“You’re very kind, Miss Bancroft.”

There was something disturbing about the words. Nydia Cornish needed her hauteur. It was the only thing that gave her any claim to beauty. Then she looked up again and Lisa was even more startled by the change that had come over her face.