Murder with a Past

12

Sandra Jean shrank deeper into her sister’s clothes closet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“When did you first meet Cox?”

“I’ll let the white dress go for now,” she whispered. “I can get it after Andy and I get back.”

She made as if to leave the closet. Tully loomed over her. She stopped. Her face was yellow-white now.

“Davey, please. I want to go to Andy.”

“Tell me.”

“Dave! Let me out of here! Or I’ll—”

“What?” David Tully said. “Call Andy? Go ahead. You can tell both of us all about you and Cox. Or yell copper and save me the trouble.”

He could see the girl’s natural shrewdness take over little by little. She was weighing the probabilities even before the panic was fought down. She smiled up at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dave. You scared me, that’s all. You must be out of your mind. Let me pass, will you?”

“Sure,” Tully said, stepping aside. She slipped quickly by him. “But I don’t think you’ll want to go just yet, Sandra. Even if it’s only to indulge me a few minutes longer. Don’t you want to hear my brainstorm?” She’ll have to stay and listen, he thought, if only to find out how much I’ve guessed.

He was right. Sandra Jean shrugged and said, “Why not?” and sat down at Ruth’s vanity, crossing her legs and looking at herself in the mirror. She began to poke at her hair. “But make it snappy, lover, or Andy’ll think you’ve got evil designs on his bride.”

“The resemblance,” Tully said. “It’s been right here all the time, under my nose, and I didn’t see how it answered the question.”

“What question?” the girl asked, still plumping up her hair.

“The question of how a woman of Ruth’s taste and character could foul herself up with a mucking gigolo like Cox. The answer obviously was that she couldn’t. So it had to be you, Sandra. You and Ruth are such look-alikes it hits me every time I see you.”

“I suppose there is a resemblance,” Sandra Jean said carelessly, “and I can see how you’d figure me for more of a tramp than my beloved sister, but aren’t you forgetting something, Davey?” Her eyes in the mirror were watchful.

“No,” Tully said, “I’m forgetting nothing, Sandra. You mean the fact that when you were indulging in your nasty little peccadilloes you did it using Ruth’s name. I wonder why. To protect yourself? Hiding behind your sister’s name would do it, all right. Maybe it had a deeper meaning—”

“Such as, Doctor?” the girl laughed. “As long as we’re hallucinating...” Her eyes kept giving her away.

“Such as that you’ve always hated Ruth for being what you couldn’t be, and by masquerading under her name in a filthy affair you transferred the filth to her in some perverted kind of way.” He shrugged. “The psychiatrists can dig into that. What interests me is that it’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

Sandra Jean began to search among Ruth’s lipsticks for the shade she wanted. “For what?”

“For Wilton Lake, for instance,” Tully said. Her hand paused for the slightest instant over a lipstick. Then it resumed its motion and she was applying it to her pouting lips. “That was you up at the Lodge two years ago, Sandra, wasn’t it? With Cox? You using Ruth’s name and wallowing in a three-day orgy the people up there still remember! That resemblance worked overtime for you, Sandra. I showed one of the maids a photo of Ruth and she said, yes, that was the woman with Cox that summer. It was an honest mistake — seeing a wallet-sized snapshot after the passage of two years, the woman made a logical identification. But I think if we darken your hair and take you up to the Lodge for the old gal to inspect in the flesh...”

This time fear flickered in those depths. She set the lipstick down, white-faced again. Tully pressed on remorselessly.

“I don’t know why even you took up with a creep like Cox — for the kicks, I guess, rolling around in the gutter to see what it tasted like — but you must have come to your senses, probably gave him some money, and thought you were rid of him. Only it didn’t work out that way, Sandra, did it?”

The full lips were drying. Her tongue stole out to wet them.

“Cox wasn’t rid of you. For some time he let you alone. But then he got sick, and he was broke, and he rummaged around in his dirty little bag of tricks and came up with that weekend. He got in touch with you. And you wrote him a letter — that unsigned typewritten note the police found in his effects: ‘Cranny— You keep away from me, and I mean it. What happened between us is ancient history... I’ve found myself a leading citizen here who’s very much interested in me and I think he’s going to ask me to marry him...’ That wasn’t Ruth referring to me. That was you referring to Andrew Gordon.”

He saw her thighs tighten and her rump begin to lift. But then she sank down again.

“You must have scared him off for the time being. Or he was too sick to follow it up. But under Maudie Blake’s fat and tender hands he got back on his feet. And he made straight for this town like bad news. And phoned here, asking for Ruth. Andy himself told me that; he took the call when you and he were here and Ruth happened to be out. Even Cox thought your name was Ruth.”

Her eyes were darting about now like trapped fish. Tully knew what she was thinking. Not about Ruth. Not about him, or even herself. She was thinking of Mercedes Cabbott’s money, and how it was slipping though her fingers.

“That’s when you got your big idea, Sandra. You’ve always had the key to this house. You lifted my gun and went to the Hobby Motel. It was you the Blake woman heard Cox call Ruth. It was you who shot Cox to death.”

He could actually see her thoughts snap back to the present. Her head jerked up and she said, “What did you say?”

“I said you murdered Cox.”

He thought she was going to faint, and he found himself becoming irritated. Sandra Jean Ainsworth wasn’t the fainting type. She was play-acting. Or was she? To hell with her, he thought impatiently.

“Well?”

She shook her head, seemed to be making a great effort. Finally she swallowed, and her lips parted, and her voice cracked as she spoke. “No. No, Davey. It wasn’t me.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Tully growled. “What do you take me for, a stupid sucker like that oaf in there?”

“Davey, no, no.” She got to her feet and went to the bedroom window. She turned to face him, resting her palms on the sill, leaning back so that the curtain framed her head. “This time I’m telling the truth. You’ve left me no choice.”

Tully laughed. “You admit the Wilton Lake shack-up?”

Her head moved ever so slightly.

“You admit typing that note?”

Again.

“You admit stealing my gun? Using Ruth’s name? You admit the whole damn thing and expect me to believe you didn’t shoot him?”

“I didn’t,” Sandra Jean said. It sounded real.

Tully was confused again. He sat down on the big bed — it was king-size, made to order, built especially long, and how tiny Ruth always looked in it and how he used to tease her about it — just sat there, arms dangling, suddenly without strength or stamina, staring into the past... or the future.

“I didn’t,” a husky voice said in his ear; and he felt the humid tickle of Sandra Jean’s breath and the pressure of her body against his back. She had crawled across the bed from the opposite side and seized him softly, like a hostage.

Tully rose violently. The girl fell over backwards with a cry of surprise and pain, exposing her thighs. He reached over and yanked her skirt down so hard the hem ripped.

“Let’s keep this clean, you little whore,” he said through his teeth. He leaned over the girl, and she scrambled away like a terrified bug, tumbling off the other side of the bed and staring up at him from her knees. “I’m not taking your word for anything, understand me, Sandra? Anything! Not after the vicious deal you’ve given Ruth.”

“Yes, Davey,” Sandra Jean whispered.

“You say you didn’t shoot Cox—”

“No,” she whispered, “no.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you admit you were there that night with my gun.”

“Yes...”

“Why? Why my gun?”

She began to whimper. “I didn’t know where else to get one. Davey, I swear that’s the only reason—”

“Never mind the swearing bit; it doesn’t impress me. If you didn’t shoot Cox, why did you take the gun in the first place?” He hardly recognized his own voice now; it was harsh and low, without mercy or humanity. “Answer me!”

She clutched the bed. “To scare him. I wanted to scare him.”

“And you say you didn’t use the gun?”

“I couldn’t, Davey. I was too afraid. He... he took the gun away from me. We had a wrestling match over it.”

Tully leaned his fists on the bed and glared down at her. “Why did you want to scare him? What was he after?”

“I didn’t know when I went there, but I knew Cranny Cox.” Sandra Jean’s body shook in the slightest shudder. “He was a monster. But a smart monster. I was an idiot to write him about my chance to marry a wealthy man. I might have known he’d try to cash in on it.”

“How? By blackmailing you on the strength of those three days at the Lodge? Threatening to tell your husband-to-be about it and so spoil your marriage plans unless you paid up?”

“That’s what I thought. But when I accused him of that, he laughed and said he’d hardly break the egg of the golden goose before it hatched. He even offered me a drink and wished me luck with my fiancé.”

Tully slowly straightened. It made sense. Why should Cox milk Sandra Jean’s modest trust-fund when, by waiting for her to marry a rich man, he would have a fortune to squeeze?

“All right,” Tully said.

The girl scrambled to her feet, started to leave.

“All right so far,” Tully said, and she stopped in her tracks. “I’m not through with you. So that’s all Cox wanted you for, eh? To prepare you for the blackmail to come?”

“Yes, Davey,” Sandra Jean breathed. Her eyes were full of fear again.

“And you just walked out of his motel room — leaving my gun behind? Wasn’t that a little careless of you, Sandra?”

“You don’t understand,” she said quickly. “He’d taken it from me and he wouldn’t give it back. I wanted it back — I asked him for it. He laughed and said he was keeping it as a memento. I suppose he was afraid I’d change my mind and shoot him after all if he let me get my hands on it again.”

Tully brooded.

The girl watched him with anxiety. She took a tentative step toward the bedroom door, stopped as he stirred.

He looked up. “Then what happened to Ruth?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice rose. “Davey, I don’t!”

“Did you see her that night?”

“No—”

“At any time?”

“No, Davey, no.”

“You have no explanation for Ruth’s disappearance, then? It’s simply a great big mystery to you. Right?”

“Yes, Davey. I’m telling you the truth!”

“Sandra.” The word had a flat, almost mechanical, timbre. His eyes, sooty with fatigue, stared at her out of a face as rigid as a cheap Hallowe’en mask. “If I find out that you know anything about Ruth’s movements that night — where she went — what happened to her — where she is — anything! — I’ll kill you. I’ll give you one more chance. Where is Ruth?”

She said hoarsely, “I don’t know.”

For a long time they stood that way.

Then Sandra Jean stirred cautiously.

“Davey...”

“What?”

“May I... go now?”

“Go?” Tully looked up. “Go where?”

“To Andy. Remember we had plans to—?”

He stared at her again, shook his head. “You baffle me, Sandra, you really do. There’s only one place you’re going, and only one man you’re going there with — that’s to the police, with me.”

“I suppose I have to,” Sandra Jean said after a while.

“You have to.”

“It means postponing our elopement...”

Tully said nothing. The girl became reflective. Watching her, Tully marveled at her resiliency. The fear of the immediate past was gone. The trip to the police was an accepted fact. The problem now was apparently how to mend her fences with Andrew Gordon.

She looked up. Problem solved.

“Will you give me a few minutes with Andy?”

He shrugged.

She went to the living room. Tully followed her as far as the hall. He saw her stoop over Mercedes Cabbott’s son, who was asleep, kiss him lightly on the forehead, slip into his lap, begin to murmur into his ear.

Sickened, Tully turned away.

A quarter of an hour later he heard Andy Gordon leave. Tully went into the living room.

“Success?”

Sandra Jean was smoking a cigarette in perfect calm. “I think so. He wasn’t as miffed as I expected.”

“Maybe Andy’s not so keen on this connubial connection as he pretends to be.”

“Don’t be an ass. His tongue is hanging out.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“Just enough. I said something’d come up about Ruth’s trouble that couldn’t wait, and we’d have to elope some other time.”

“Just like that. And he fell for it?”

She smiled. “I gave him a Sandra Special before he could think about it. It’s a type of kiss I’m thinking of patenting. It produces amnesia.”

Tully did not change expression. “Did you tell him you went to see Crandall Cox on the night of the murder?”

“Of course,” Sandra Jean said. “I couldn’t have him hearing it from another source, could I?”

“What reason did you give Andy for the visit?”

She said hurriedly, “Oh, something or other that wouldn’t disturb his dear addled brain too much. Shall we go, Davey?”

He knew then that Sandra Jean had probably ascribed the visit to sisterly duty, something that involved Ruth as the principal — a total and shameless lie. Tully shrugged and went to the door. So long as Sandra set the record on Ruth straight with the police, he didn’t care how she bamboozled Andy Gordon and Mercedes Cabbott. They would have to watch out for themselves.

Julian Smith kept them waiting fifteen minutes.

“Sorry,” he said, rising from his desk. He offered no explanation for the delay. He looked quickly from Sandra Jean to Tully and back again. “Hello, Miss Ainsworth.”

“Hi, Lieutenant.” They had a slight acquaintance.

“What’s up, Dave?” Smith said. “Something on Ruth?”

“In a negative sort of way,” Tully said. “May we sit down, Julian?”

“Oh! Please.” When they were seated Smith said, “I didn’t get that, Dave.”

Tully glanced at his sister-in-law. “How do you want it, Sandra? You or me?”

“I’m quite capable of speaking for myself.” She seemed so self-possessed Tully’s glance sharpened. Julian Smith noted his reaction, slight as it was, and became intent. “I wish to make a statement, Lieutenant. Isn’t that the way it’s put?”

“Statement about what, Miss Ainsworth?”

Sandra Jean ignored the question. Sitting straight-backed, knees primly together, she took inventory of the Homicide man’s office. “Exactly how is it done, Lieutenant Smith? Do you have a stenographer in, or is it taken down on tape?”

Julian Smith said gently, “Don’t worry your head about the mechanics of my job, Miss Ainsworth. First tell me what’s on your mind. You can always repeat it for the official record.”

“Stop stalling, Sandra,” Tully said. He knew Smith already had the tape recorder going.

She pouted. But then she folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. “Ruth wasn’t the woman who spent those three days at the Wilton Lake Lodge with Cranny Cox two summers ago. I was the one, using Ruth’s name.”

Tully was watching the detective’s face. It gave no sign of surprise.

“What made you decide to come in with this information, Miss Ainsworth?”

“Well, I’ve naturally been scared to get involved,” Sandra Jean murmured. “But my brother-in-law’s convinced me it’s the only right and decent thing to do. I mean Ruth’s being my sister and all.”

Julian Smith swung about. “How did you find out about this, Dave?”

Tully was angry. Great expectations, he thought bitterly. “You don’t seem impressed, Julian.”

“Would you mind answering my question?”

“I’ll answer your damn question,” Tully growled. “I found out about it the same way you should have — I figured it out. Ruth and Sandra Jean look a lot alike. It’s a couple of years since the people at the Lodge saw the woman with Cox. Ruth isn’t capable of a hot-pillow romance with a cheap woman-chasing crook like Cox. So it must have been Sandra Jean. Q.E.D. Simple?”

“Too simple, Dave.”

Tully jumped to his feet. “It’s the truth!”

“Maybe,” Julian Smith said. “And maybe it’s a cook-up between you and Miss Ainsworth to cover for your wife and her sister.”