The Night Remembers

30

The Pennyfeather house looked like a melancholy painting, the snow surrounding it blue from the night sky, the yellow glow from its windows soft and sentimental. A wisp of smoke struggled up from the brick chimney, gray against the full circle of silver moon. The people who lived inside should be sipping hot cider and singing Christmas songs in fetchingly off-key voices, hugging one another in vast reassurance that the world was, after all, a good, true, and knowable place, and that nobody was more deserving of this knowledge than they were.

I sat in my car at the curb, the lights out, trying to calm down. They had deceived me — George and Lisa Pennyfeather for sure, but perhaps even David and Carolyn as well.

The snow was crisp beneath my feet, new snow falling softly now to blanket it. As I drew closer to the front window, shivering slightly in the chill, I saw that the festivities I’d imagined were just that — imaginary. They sat in the front room, paying no attention whatsoever to the blazing fire or the soft New Age music that came from the stereo. It could hardly be described as a holiday celebration.

My knock had the resonance of a club falling against the door, something unyielding and final, and the way the voices fell inside, I could tell it struck them the same way, too.

There were quick whispers as to who would answer, and then the scuffle of two feet across thick carpet, and then Carolyn in silhouette stood in the doorway, light from inside flowing around her like golden waves.

“I’m afraid we’re busy, Mr. Walsh.”

“I’m coming in, Carolyn.” I knew how angry I sounded.

“Even if we don’t want you to?”

This was the first time they’d pulled class on me and obviously she thought it was going to work, but before she could say anything else I pushed gently past her, and into the warmth of the living room.

David nearly jumped to his feet. “Didn’t you hear what Carolyn said?”

I had the impression he was on the verge of punching me.

“Please, Mr. Walsh,” Lisa said. “We’re spending the night with just our family. And anyway, you’ve spent a lot of our money and not turned up all that much.” You hear this in a lot in cases — clients who begin to blame you for their misfortunes.

“Where’s George?”

“He’s upstairs lying down.”

“I want him down here.”

“And I want you out of here,” David said, coming at me.

I was angry enough that I didn’t care, was willing to be beaten for the pleasure of one punch at his arrogant, sullen face.

Carolyn threw her arms around David, breaking his stride, stopping him from coming at me.

“Aren’t things crazy enough; do we really need this, too?” Carolyn said. She spoke quietly, but the sadness in her voice was overwhelming. David relented. He called me a few names but he went over and sat on the edge of the couch and scowled in the direction of the fireplace.

“Would you like to come up and have a drink, Mr. Walsh? We have a very nice study upstairs.”

George Pennyfeather had come into the room without anybody noticing. In a rust-colored cardigan, white shirt, and dark slacks, he stood in the archway as if he were the host at a small, friendly get-together. He looked a little happier now that he was out on bail.

“I imagine you’d like to talk to me,” he said. “We really shouldn’t bother my family with all this. Not when it’s between you and me.” He raised a glass of what appeared to be whiskey. “I imagine you’re here about the Czmek woman, and Conroy, aren’t you?”

My curiosity overcame my anger. I looked around at the family — Lisa and Carolyn spent, David still volatile — and sighed. In my mind it had all been so simple — barge in here, demand the truth, and get it. But if I got the truth at all, the process would be far more circuitous, and it would involve hurting somebody at least emotionally, and perhaps physically.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“A beer would be nice.”

“Why don’t I get it, Dad?” Carolyn said, and left for the kitchen.

Lisa, nervous, said, “It’s cold out, isn’t it?”

We were going to stand here and pretend that her husband hadn’t only days ago been released from prison, and that two murders hadn’t taken place in less than three days.

We were going to talk about the weather.

“Yes, and it seems to be getting colder,” I said, doing my part.

“Dave Towne on Channel 9 said the snow is going to continue all night,” she said.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mother,” David said, getting up from the couch, and making another fist of his hand. “You don’t need to stand there and be nice to this slimeball. You shouldn’t have hired him in the first place.”

Lisa Pennyfeather dropped her gaze, looking ashamed at her son’s words.

“David just gets excited,” George Pennyfeather said. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by that.”

“No,” I said, hoping I sounded properly ironic. “In some countries, ‘slimeball’ is actually a term of endearment.”

Nobody laughed.

Carolyn came back with the beer. Raised to be the proper hostess, she had put on the bottom of my glass one of those bright red little tug-on coasters made of cotton with elastic at the top. The beer had a two-inch head, which meant that out in the kitchen half a bottle was going shamefully to waste. But now probably wasn’t the time to raise that subject.

“We’ll be upstairs,” George Pennyfeather said unnecessarily, as if there might have been somewhere else we were going.

I followed him up the winding, carpeted staircase and down a hallway covered with handsomely framed photographs of Carolyn and David at various ages. In one photograph, Paul Heckart stood with his arm around David, who was probably then ten or so.

We went past darkened bedrooms, a bright and enormous blue-tiled bathroom, and finally into a den that was one of those shaggy, book-messy places with soft leather furnishings and throw rugs and a barking walrus of an old TV console. This would be a great place to watch George Raft movies and dream of the old days.

A gooseneck lamp propped on the corner of a small mahogany table provided soft, shadowy light. George pointed to the leather armchair and I sat down. He took the couch.

“The first thing I should tell you is that I didn’t know this Conroy fellow, no matter what the police say.” He shook his head. “There was a news bulletin on TV.”

“You told me you didn’t know the Czmek woman, either.”

“Well, that one I lied about. I was afraid of getting involved, and going back to prison.”

“But of course you’re not lying about this one?”

“I don’t blame you for being angry.”

“Let’s concentrate on Stella Czmek.”

“All right.”

“How did you know her?”

“You won’t believe this.”

“Just tell me, George.”

“I had an affair with her.”

We all build up false images of one another. The stupid jock; the happy fat person. Then suddenly we’re confronted with a piece of evidence that completely obliterates all our expectations. That was how I felt now, sitting here with a small, gentle man who rarely spoke more than was necessary and who gave the impression of being lost in all respects. I had attributed to him intelligence but not cunning, industriousness but not ambition, and loyalty. If any man was loyal, it would be George Pennyfeather here. If any man was true-blue—

“You did?”

“You’re surprised?”

I cleared my throat. “Well—”

“I’m not the type, I know.”

“It’s not that—”

“Oh, it is; and that’s probably why I did it. I’ve never been particularly secure about my relationships with women, anyway. You know, here I was pretty old and I’d never kissed anybody but my wife.” He shook his head. “I don’t know which is more embarrassing now — the fact that I was so stupid or the fact that I very deeply hurt my wife.”

“You told her?”

“Yes. I... I wish I could say I did it by way of being honest but what really happened was that I had no choice. Karl had been murdered and Stella — Stella wanted money to be quiet. I had to tell Lisa about her. How she was blackmailing me for having an affair with her.” He frowned. “It was a pretty crazy time in my life. I’d also found out some things about Richard Heckart.”

I sighed. “What things?”

“I’d been working late one night — this was before the rumor started that Lisa was having an affair — and I saw Richard Heckart leaving the office late. He accidentally slammed a metal case he was carrying against the elevator door and a few things fell out.”

“What things?”

“Slides.”

“Photographic slides?”

“Yes.”

“What did the slides show?”

“Is it really necessary to go into that?”

“Yes.”

He put down his drink and stared off into the darkness. “It would have killed Paul, finding out the sort of thing his younger brother was into. They’re from a very old family, you know.”

“You still haven’t told me what the slides showed.”

“You’re a bright man, Mr. Walsh. I’m sure you’ve got some idea.”

“I need you to tell me exactly what was on the slides.”

“Pornography, of course.”

“What kind?”

He hesitated. He looked embarrassed. “It makes me feel dirty to say.” He paused again. “Children.”

“I see.”

“I’d never seen anything like it. Small children, boys and girls, five or perhaps six years old. Doing—” He dropped his gaze again. “Nothing ever disgusted me in the way that did. I... I even thought of confronting Richard — slapping him or something. I felt so bad for those children—”

“So Richard didn’t know you knew.”

“No; not directly.”

“Not directly?”

“I mailed him an anonymous letter just before I went into prison.”

“And the letter said what?”

“Oh, about what you’d expect. I’m afraid I was awfully outraged and sanctimonious. The man is obviously mentally ill and probably didn’t need to hear—”

“What did the letter say you were going to do?”

“Nothing, really. Just that I was aware of what he was doing and that he should stop or he would be turned over to the police.”

“But you had no way of knowing if he stopped or not?”

“No.”

I finished my mostly-foam beer and set it down. “Did you ever think that those slides might have had something to do with Karl’s death?”

“No; and you’d have to show me very hard evidence to prove they did. I know who murdered Karl. It’s just that neither my lawyers nor the investigators they hired were ever able to prove it.”

“You think it could have been Terri Jankov?”

“Absolutely. If you’d met her—”

“I did meet her. Unfortunately.”

“I can tell that Terri hasn’t changed much just by your tone of voice.” He leaned forward in the cone of light. He looked very old suddenly. “All those years in prison, I had such fantasies of what I’d do to her when I got out. How I’d make her confess. How my family’s name would be cleared.”

“Did you see her when you got out?”

“Yes. And — she laughed at me. She called me names and laughed at me and said that I just hadn’t been able to face the truth that Lisa and Karl had been lovers.”

“I’m sorry to let you down, George, but I don’t think she’s the person we’re looking for.”

He sat back wearily, out of the light.

“How did you meet Stella Czmek?”

“At a party.”

“Whose party?”

“One of Paul’s, actually. For all I know, they may have been lovers, too.” He raised his glass. Ice cubes clinked. “The woman you saw in the gazebo the other night wasn’t the Stella Czmek I had an affair with.”

“No?”

“No. That Stella was... well, never svelte, but she really took care of herself and she was... quite knowledgeable in bed, if that’s not too stuffy a way to put it.”

“How long did your affair last?”

“Nearly a year.”

“It ended before Karl’s murder?”

“A few weeks before.”

“What ended it?”

He smiled unhappily. “My natural timid soul and my good Wasp guilt. I just couldn’t go on telling Lisa that I loved her while all the time—”

“So she began to blackmail you.”

“Yes, right after I told her we’d have to split up. One night I’d been drinking and I told her all about the slides and— The day she told me she was going to blackmail me, I saw a whole new person. It’s like those science fiction movies where you suddenly see the monster that’s beneath the human exterior.”

“You didn’t have any doubt she was serious?”

“None.”

“And so Lisa began paying the money while you were in prison?”

“Correct.”

“Do you have any idea why Stella Czmek came over here the other night?”

“None.”

“She’d been paid for the month?”

“Yes, but the way she went through money—”

I nodded, pushed myself to my feet. Abruptly, I was tired. I thought of Faith and Hoyt, of the warm bed with them on such a cold night.

“I got the impression you were going to quit helping us, Mr. Walsh.”

“I was going to.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“Let’s just say I’ve put off making a decision.”

He got to his feet and led the way out of the den and down the hall. At the front door, Carolyn said, “David asked me to apologize.”

I touched her elbow. “I appreciate the words, but somehow I doubt David said them.”

“If he weren’t under so much stress, he would have apologized,” Lisa Pennyfeather said. “That’s what Carolyn meant to say.”

They were a nice family. I just didn’t know if there was anything I could do for them.

“Tomorrow may be a bad day,” George Pennyfeather said.

In his mild way, he was asking me, and rather desperately it seemed, for help.

“Let’s see what I can turn up,” I said, and left as quickly as I could.