Psycho - Three Complete Novels (62 page)

Dark night, dark trees, dark house. Amy switched foot pressure from the brake to the gas pedal, gliding along the driveway past the entrance. Common sense told her there was probably nothing wrong here; Fatso Otto was just so bombed he’d forgotten to turn on the lights. In which case there wasn’t much sense trying to talk to him.

But more important than mere common sense was the fact that she was frightened. It was the real reason she had no intention of going into this darkened house alone. What she was going to do was get the hell out of here, right now.

Or almost now. Because as she reached the other side of the driveway she noted its bifurcation; at her right was a stretch of pavement bordering the far side of the house and leading to a garage at the rear. Again she paused, long enough to observe its door was raised and Remsbach’s big Caddy had been parked within.

But what about that other car, that beat-up old red Pontiac standing just outside the garage, facing inward? It certainly couldn’t be Otto Remsbach’s second car, not a junker like that. And if it belonged to another guest why wasn’t it parked in the outer driveway? Unless, of course, the purpose was to conceal its presence from anyone passing by on the street.

In which case somebody had been careless and left the car radio on. The music was clearly audible, probably loud enough to be heard from the street. Of course it was possible that the driver had just entered the car, turned on the radio, and was preparing to leave. Highly possible; what Amy had failed to note at first glance was that the Pontiac’s headlights were on, and it was their beams which had so clearly revealed the presence of Remsbach’s car in the opened garage.

Amy waited for a moment, ready to reverse if the Pontiac started to back out of the side driveway. The car didn’t move, but the lights stayed on and the music continued to sound. Had the driver left it like that and gone into the house?

Amy peered down the driveway, focusing on the shadowy blur vaguely visible beyond the Pontiac’s rear window. The car was occupied; someone was sitting behind the wheel. And something was wrong.

Amy switched off her lights, turned the key in the ignition, then dropped it into her purse as she left the car and walked up the driveway along the far side of the house. The air was stifling still; the calm before the storm. It had to come soon.

As she moved up to the left side of the Pontiac the blare grew louder from behind the glass and the seated shape became more distinct.

Only the figure wasn’t seated; it was slumped forward over the wheel. Was the driver drunk, ill, passed out from the heat?

Amy tapped the window glass, her nails counterpointing the car radio’s raucous rhythm. There was no response, so she added a vocal accompaniment. “Hey—anything wrong? Open up—”

Still no answer. Something was definitely wrong, and Amy reached down to grip the handle below the closed window. The door swung wide, releasing a blast of sound and a blur of moving shadow.

She must have been partially leaning against the door because when it opened she fell sideways, to land face upward on the pavement. In the shadow cast by the car her features were indistinct and Amy frowned for a moment before recognition came. Yesterday’s meeting had been brief but she remembered the name.

It was Doris Huntley.

Doris Huntley, lying there with eyes wide open, head cradled by a swirl of blond hair. She wore a dark dress, its exact color indeterminate in the shadows, and a pendant necklace.

As Amy looked down the lightning came, flashing from above and behind and only for an instant, but that was long enough. Enough to reveal that Doris Huntley wore no necklace. The beads were blood, trickling from the crimson slash encircling her throat.

Amy’s gasp was lost in the roar as thunder came. Then something touched her shoulder. Turning, she stared into the face of Sheriff Engstrom.

— 14 —

H
is name was Al.

There was no way of telling when or what he had for dinner but apparently it was still creating a problem because now, seated behind Engstrom’s desk, he was chewing on a toothpick.

That in itself didn’t bother Amy; this red-haired, freckle-faced, skinny specimen of what passed for humanity might be a sheriff’s deputy but she wasn’t intimidated by his uniform. It was the way he eyed her, as though he were looking at some exotic animal newly escaped from the zoo. But then they’d all stared at her like that; Engstrom, the deputy who had driven her here to the courthouse annex, and—most upsetting of all—Irene Grovesmith. What was she doing at the office here in the first place, at this hour?

Silly question. She was here because Engstrom had called and told her to be here. Somebody had to hold the fort while he stayed beside Doris Huntley’s corpse, waiting for the paramedics to arrive. Maybe that’s what life is really all about; just one long wait until the paramedics come.

Morbid thought. Amy frowned it away, but she didn’t like what replaced it—the sudden, seering image of Doris Huntley’s face in the lightning flash. Her face and her throat. Drops of blood dripping down her neck; drops of rain dripping down outside the office window. The storm had broken then and it would continue. Here at the courthouse annex and back there on the pavement where the rain ran red.

Thunder rumbled. So did Al’s stomach. “Storm’s pretty bad,” he said, talking around his toothpick. “Good thing you didn’t get caught in it.”

But I did get caught. That’s why I’m here.
Amy almost spoke the words aloud but it wasn’t necessary; the deputy grinned apologetically, toothpick teetering.

“My mistake, lady. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“That’s okay.”

She would have said more but her attention was distracted by the sound of voices and footsteps echoing from the outer office where Irene Grovesmith sat. Amy swiveled in her seat to glance through the open doorway. At the sight of Dr. Rawson and Sheriff Engstrom entering the room behind her, she started to rise from the chair.

As she did so, deputy Al involuntarily reached toward the weapon in his holster.

Amy caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and turned quickly. “That’s not necessary,” she murmured.

Al’s hand retreated to the desktop. “Sorry,” he said. “Sheriff’s orders.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t harm him.”

And even if she’d had the intention she lacked the opportunity. Irene Grovesmith had risen and moved to close the door of the inner office, shutting off sight and sound from behind it.

Lightning flashed outside the window. Rain spattered, thunder boomed. A pity Al wasn’t wearing a baseball cap and horn-rims; Amy could have asked him if this was good or bad for the crops. But Al wouldn’t know. He was just a sheriff’s deputy and besides he wasn’t fat enough.

Amy wondered if she was flaking out. Why a thought like that at a time like this? Was it a sign of hysteria, or just common sense to opt for frivolity over morbidity?

Al wouldn’t know the answer to that one either. As he toyed with his toothpick Amy found herself straining at the sound of muffled voices from beyond the door. Deep bass alternating with shrill soprano indicated Dr. Rawson and Irene Grovesmith were engaged in conversation; sharp staccato punctuated by short pauses suggested that Engstrom was talking on the phone. But even if she’d been spared the constant crashing of thunder Amy couldn’t make out what was being said. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Nothing except sweaty palms, a tendency to grip her purse too tightly; telltale tension along the inner lengths of her legs as she leaned forward in the chair, unable to relax. If Al didn’t get rid of that damn toothpick pretty soon, she’d do it for him. The odds were three to one she could yank it out of his mouth before he could yank that gun out of his holster. Be a mighty sad thing if she couldn’t beat a hick deputy sheriff to the draw.

Funny? Maybe not, but it was the best she could do. And the best wasn’t good enough, because whenever she blinked she found Doris Huntley’s face staring at her from the darkness behind her closed eyes. Each time it was only for a moment, just long enough to reassure her the image hadn’t faded. And
reassure
wasn’t the proper term; why couldn’t she think straight? What was Engstrom doing on the phone, how much longer would he keep stalling her like this?

More questions that Al wouldn’t be able to answer. Amy stared up into the light, trying to keep her eyes open without blinking. The deputy removed the toothpick, tossing it into the wastebasket, and in gratitude she asked him a question he could answer.

“What did you have for dinner?”

“Pizza.”

Might as well take refuge in her role as a reporter and ask him what kind. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary, because the door behind her opened at last and Engstrom hurried in. Al rose to his feet hastily, but not in time to deflect the Sheriff’s scowl.

“Move,” Engstrom said. “Now!”

Standing, the deputy towered over his superior by a good six inches, but without his toothpick he seemed defenseless. By the time Engstrom replaced him behind the desk Al was gone, closing the door behind him.

“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long,” he said. “Couldn’t get through to the chief of staff over at the hospital. Sounds like something’s up there. I told Doc Rawson to keep calling.”

For a moment Amy wondered why Engstrom’s uniform was dry, then remembered that both he and Dr. Rawson had worn hats and ponchos when they entered the outer office. As he spoke Engstrom’s voice was dry too.

“All right,” he said. “Where is Eric Dunstable?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Late this afternoon, at the memorial service. He had an argument with Reverend Archer—”

“We know that.” Engstrom leaned forward. “The other night you said you’d met Dunstable in Chicago.”

“Yes.” Amy nodded. “I gave you the names of the people who were with me when he came to my apartment that evening. Didn’t you try to reach them?”

“Sure thing. Your alibi checks out and so does his.” The Sheriff paused. “Of course they had no way of proving this was really the first time you and Dunstable met.”

“Why should I lie to you about that?”

Engstrom shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Why should you have adjoining rooms?”

Amy tried to keep her voice under control. “I told you there’s nothing between us.”

“Except murder.” Engstrom paused again. “You two in on this thing together?”

“Of course not. What reason could we have?”

“You’re writing a book.”

“True. But Eric Dunstable has nothing to do with it.”

“Look, Miss Haines. Fairvale’s only a flyspeck on the map but we get television here, same as in Kansas City or St. Louis. That’s where the real money comes from, doesn’t it? First you write a book, then you sell it to some producer for a movie or a miniseries on TV.” Engstrom nodded. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that possibility.”

Amy countered his nod, shaking her head quickly. “Possibility, yes. But it’s not very likely to happen. There are hundreds of books written about mysterious killers that never sell to television or films. There generally has to be some unusual angle—”

“Like demonic possession?” Engstrom hunched forward. “Dunstable’s theories might be just the extra touch you’ve been looking for.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Maybe.” The Sheriff’s mustache twitched with the suggestion of a smile. “I’m not accusing you two of collusion, mind you, just asking. There’s a lot of things we need to find out about and we will, one way or the other.” As he spoke, the hint of a smile vanished. “For starters, what were you doing up at Remsbach’s place?”

“You’ve already answered that yourself. I’m writing a book. My only reason for visiting him was to get information.” Amy paused. “But I suppose you already know. The desk clerk at the hotel must have been eavesdropping on my calls again. He phones and tells you I’m going to visit Mr. Remsbach at his home and you come charging after me, is that it?”

Engstrom shrugged. “More or less. Stopped by at Peachey’s on the way.”

“Peachey’s?”

“It’s a bar. Had to break up a little disturbance.” The Sheriff gave her a pointed look. “Couple of out-of-towners.”

“If you’d come directly maybe this thing wouldn’t have happened,” Amy said. “At least you saw me arrive—”

“Correction. We saw you opening the car door. That’s when we switched off our lights so we could slide in without you noticing.”

“I hope you noticed I didn’t have a weapon.”

The Sheriff nodded.

Amy hesitated for a moment, waiting for him to speak. But he said nothing, and it was she who broke the silence. “Do you know what the weapon was?”

“Pretty sure of it. Six-inch butcher knife, notched handle grip, bit of a curve in the blade.” His voice was flat, his stare sharp. “Sound familiar?”

“Why should it?”

“Because you could have had it with you when you came.”

“To kill Doris Huntley?” Amy’s voice rose above distant thunder. “I didn’t even know she was there.”

Engstrom was sitting up straight now. “Of course not. Must have come as a surprise for both of you—you see her getting in her car, she sees you getting out of yours. You walk over to her, maybe she opens the door to talk. Meanwhile you get the knife out of that big purse of your and—”

“Why?”

“To get rid of the only witness who could testify seeing you there. After you killed her you went inside. Maybe five, ten minutes later, you came out and checked again to make sure she was dead. That’s when we showed up.”

“Don’t play guessing games. I didn’t kill that woman! I never went inside, I didn’t carry any weapon.”

“Well, somebody did.”

The sound of thunder was scarcely more than an echo now, and Amy spoke before it subsided. “You found the knife?”

“That’s right.”

“Where? Was it in the house?”

“It was in Otto Remsbach’s chest. Whoever left it there stabbed him thirteen times.”

— 15 —

T
here was no more thunder. The rain had stopped, the storm was over, and the air had cleared.