Chapter Eleven

My first thought was that they had come to take Duff back to jail. However, they didn’t ask about Duff, or at least not immediately. The older deputy’s first question was about Stephanie, specifically had she been living with us. The tense of the verb didn’t escape me.

“What’s happened to her?”

My reaction didn’t escape him either. “Were you expecting something to happen to her?”

“She’s been missing since yesterday?”

“Since what time yesterday?”

“I don’t know. Around dinnertime, I think.”

“Did you notify the Ashland Sheriff or the Cainesville police?”

Jack came over on his crutches and intervened. “We notified her parents and they didn’t seem alarmed, so we didn’t do anything more about it. Now let’s not play games. Something has happened to her or you wouldn’t be here.”

“She’s dead. Her body was found a couple of hours ago in the woods on the Waterson place.”

“Was she—?”

He stared at me for a moment before answering. “Did she die a natural death? No, Mrs. Caine, it was very unnatural. Among other things, she seems to have been strangled.”

The room began to spin. The younger deputy helped me to the settee and asked if he could get me a glass of water.

“When did it happen?” I heard Jack ask.

“Between nine and ten last night, we think. Least the Watersons heard some yelling around that time and saw some lights. We don’t have a coroner’s report yet.”

“Where is the Waterson place?” I managed to ask.

“Three or four farms down the road from you. About three quarters of a mile maybe.”

“Toward her family’s place?”

“That’s right.”

“Do they know?”

“Yes ma’am.”

How did they take it? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. It would serve no purpose and might just complicate matters.

How long had Stephanie been with us? the deputies wanted to know. Did she have any boyfriends? They knew about the married man she had told me about. He had been out of town for a week or more. Had we noticed anything strange in her behavior? Had she ever said she was afraid of anyone or anything? I said no to the last two questions—too quickly maybe, because both deputies studied me for a long moment.

“You seem to be getting around pretty well,” said the older man to Jack. “Was the girl staying here because you still need nursing care?”

“She was going to leave in a few days,” I said.

“To go where?”

“I don’t know where.”

The older deputy jotted the information in his notebook. Then he looked up. “You have a son,” he said.

Here it comes, I thought. “A son and a daughter.”

“Is he home?”

I looked at Jack. “He’s upstairs,” Jack said.

“We’d better talk with him.”

“He’s only sixteen,” I said.

The older deputy smiled. “Sixteen-­year-­olds can get into plenty of trouble, Mrs. Caine. As a matter of fact, I understand your son is in some trouble now because of a traffic accident.”

Franny had come downstairs and was staring wide-­eyed at our visitors. I told her that something had happened to Stephanie and that the deputies wanted to talk with her and Duff. Duff first.

She ran upstairs and came back down quickly with him. He must have been waiting and listening at the top of the stairs. He was pale and even more frail looking than he had been at the jail. In fact he looked as he had two years before when he was recovering from viral pneumonia. Again, he wasn’t wearing glasses and he was squinting even more than usual—to make himself seem even more helpless, I thought.

“Ride a motorbike, do you, son, as well as driving fast in your folks’ car?” said the older deputy.

“I’ve ridden a few times on the backs of bikes,” Duff said.

“Do you know some bikers in Cainesville who call themselves the Crazy Gang?”

“I’ve seen them, I think.”

“Ever ridden with any of them?”

“Well, I don’t know all of them that well—”

“Do you know Charles Romano, John McCafferty, Albert Squires—?”

“I know Al Squires.”

“Were you with him last night?”

“Just for a short while.”

“Where did you go?”

“Just for a short ride.” Duff threw a frightened glance at me. “I don’t know this area awfully well—”

“Did you go anywhere near the Waterson woods? That’s a woods on this road between here and Cainesville.”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

Now it comes, I thought, as the deputy paused. Now he’ll ask him if he killed Stephanie. But the deputy didn’t.

Instead he said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t hang around with that bunch. They’re older than you, and most of them are no good. Also, we’re pretty sure that some of them, or some like them, were involved in what happened to Stephanie Weber.”

“What happened to her?”

“Your folks will tell you.” The deputy turned to Jack. “There are tracks of several bikes in the woods near to where the girl was found. It’s close to an old logging road, so it would’ve been easy for them to get in there.” He looked at Duff again. “Considering who his friends are, your boy’s lucky he can prove where he was last night.”

I swallowed. “Can he?”

“The girl’s mother and her grandmother say he was at their house from eight ’til eleven. Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber say they brought him home then.”

At eleven, I had been in the front room working on my mending. Was it around that time I dozed off? But even if Duff had come in the back way, surely the sound of the car and its lights would have awakened me.

The deputy closed his notebook. “Now if you’ll let us have a look at Miss Weber’s room, we can wind up our business here, at least for the moment.”

They inspected Stephanie’s belongings quickly, going through the pockets of her coats and uniforms and dumping the contents of her purse on the dresser.

“What do you think she was doing between the time she left here and the time she was killed?” I asked and instantly regretted it. If they began to wonder if the thing could have happened earlier, they might turn their attention on Duff again.

“Maybe she was out with one of the bikers,” said the older deputy. “She might’ve slipped out of here and met him down the road aways.” He swept the meager contents back into the purse. “I expect her folks will be sending for these things.”

I decided to risk asking it. “How did they take it—the news of Stephanie’s death?”

He stared. “How would you expect them to take it?”

“I’m sure they were upset.”

“They were more than upset. The mother had to leave the room and couldn’t even talk to the Sheriff.” He was angry now as he and his partner threw Stephanie’s lingerie back into the bureau drawers. I had offended him, I realized. I was a stranger, questioning the sincerity of some of the natives. All the same, I wondered if he shared Father Fogarty’s opinion of Mrs. Reddy.

Having gone so far, I went further. “Stephanie did tell me one time that her mother and grandmother were spiritualists. I thought maybe those people accepted the idea of death more calmly than the rest of us. You know, because they believe they can keep in touch, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know that much about them. I have heard that the grandmother is considered a bit queer, but harmless.” He paused. “I understand she told the Sheriff that Stephanie was a wild sort and that the family had been afraid she would come to an end like this.”

How could she? How could she say that about poor docile Stephanie? I was prepared now to believe everything Father Fogarty had said about Mrs. Reddy. Harmless, indeed! She was about as harmless as a rattlesnake.

The two deputies left. We all stood in the front room and watched until their car went up the road and out of sight. Then I turned and looked at Duff. He shrugged and smiled slightly and went upstairs.

“You said they were going to ask me some questions and they didn’t,” Franny complained.

“Be thankful they left as soon as they did,” I told her.

“Why should she be thankful?” Jack asked. “None of us has any reason to fear the law officers.”

I didn’t comment on that. After a moment he said, “What do you think we should do? Should we phone her mother and express our sympathy?”

“You do it, if you like.”

“Maggie, what’s got into you?”

“I just don’t like those people. Put it that way.”

“But that shouldn’t matter at a time like this. We ought to at least find out the time of the funeral and send some flowers. Also, we probably ought to take Stephanie’s clothes over to the Webers and not wait for somebody to come after them.”

“All right, you take them.”

“Maggie, I can’t drive yet.”

Then it occurred to me that I was being very foolish. In spite of my feelings, I ought to visit the Weber home and try to find out what the two women were up to. If they were involved in some sort of demonic activities, now might be the perfect time to learn about them. Maybe I could find out how Duff was involved—and involved he had to be, I was sure, if they were covering up for him.

I was just about convinced that he had had something to do with the death of Stephanie. It could’ve been accidental, maybe something done in anger like his assault on the boy at the high school and his attack on the policemen. Maybe Stephanie had provoked him in some way—or maybe he had raped her again and had been afraid she would tell of it.

Or could it have been the other person who had killed her, the man I had seen in the kitchen? He was brutish enough, seemingly capable of any horror. I was still unwilling to accept the idea that he and Duff might be the same person.

It was too awful. If it was true, it seemed surely to indicate that the whole problem was with me. Somehow, somewhere I must have seen a picture of the General (maybe Jack had shown me one years ago) and now I must be imagining that Duff looked like him.

I went upstairs to Duff’s room and found him sitting on his bed, writing in his notebook. That was something I had forgotten about. Surely there was evidence there in favor of my sanity. But at what cost? Wouldn’t it be better to have a slight mental aberration than to have Father Fogarty’s theory proven true?

“So, Mother,” said my son, smiling brightly, “you visited Saint Mary’s Church today.”

“How did you know?”

“How would I know? Do you think I have some sort of extrasensory perception? Franny told me. Did you talk with Father Fogarty?”

“Briefly.”

“What did he say about me?”

“He said you did something disgraceful in his church.”

Duff laughed, cackled rather. Then he said very seriously, “I don’t think I did.” And then, “I don’t think I did.”

“Then who did it? You were caught as you were running from the church.”

He seemed honestly bewildered. “I just don’t know what happened, Mother.” He smiled again. “What else did Father Fogarty tell you? Did he say anything about the history of this place?”

“Why?”

“You know I’m very interested in local history.”

“Then perhaps you’d better go to Cainesville and talk with Father Fogarty yourself.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.” He picked up his notebook. “Will you excuse me now, Mother?”

“Is it true what that deputy sheriff said, that you visited Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber last night?”

He grinned. “Do you think they’d lie about it?”

I ignored that. “What did you do at their house?”

“Just talked.”

“About what?”

“Lots of things.” He paused, looking bewildered again. “I really can’t remember, Mother. My memory seems to be slipping lately, along with my character.”

But then he spoiled that by grinning and turning back to his work. I went out angrily and slammed his door.

He didn’t come down for dinner. Afterward, without even clearing the dishes, I collected Stephanie’s things and put what wouldn’t fit in her suitcase into a couple of shopping bags. Then I got into the car and drove to the Weber place. I knew if I waited to think about it, I wouldn’t go.

It was about seven when I turned into their yard. Emil Weber’s station wagon wasn’t parked in its usual place, but I assumed it was in the garage.

The small boy we had seen on our first visit answered the door. He was the only one at home, he said. Mr. and Mrs. Weber and Mrs. Reddy had gone to Ashland with the policemen in the afternoon and they hadn’t come back.

“I’m sorry about your sister’s death,” I said.

“What sister?”

I had been assuming that he was a son of the Webers, but he only boarded with the family. His name was George Langley; he was ten years old; his father was dead and his mother was in the hospital with TB. He was apparently a foster child and I wondered what sort of court or agency would place him with people like the Webers and Mrs. Reddy.

After we chatted for a couple of minutes, George invited me in. With plenty of misgivings, I entered the living room and sat on the sofa, while the boy sat across from me, watching me gravely.

I noticed now how unlived-­in the room seemed. How could I ever have thought it a pleasant place? The furniture was probably of better quality than that to be found in the average local farmhouse, but there were no books, magazines or newspapers anywhere, no pictures on the walls, or objects of any kind on the mantel. And there was no dirt anywhere, not a speck of dust on the table beside me, and around the edges of the rugs the floors gleamed. If the rest of the house was similar, I thought, it must be a terrible place for a little boy to live.

I asked how he enjoyed being with the Webers.

“Fine,” he said guardedly.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since last winter.”

“Do you like all the people here?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t convincing.

“How about Mrs. Reddy?”

“She’s OK.”

I realized it wasn’t fair of me to raise doubts in his mind. Mrs. Reddy could be evil incarnate and still be good to the boy.

“Did they say why they were going to Ashland?”

“They had to identify Stephanie.”

That shouldn’t take long. They’d probably be coming back at any moment, unless they were being detained for questioning.

“I suppose Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber were very shocked when they were told what happened to Stephanie.” It was nasty, but necessary.

George thought for a moment. “Well they didn’t cry,” he said finally. “Not like I cried when my father died.”

“Why do you suppose they didn’t cry?”

He thought again. “Maybe they didn’t really like Stephanie.”

“I wonder why.”

“Maybe because she wouldn’t go to the meetings.”

“What meetings are those?”

“The ones they have here. Would you like to see the meeting room?”

“Yes, very much.” Was there time enough before they came home?

We went to the rear of the house. He opened the door of a room adjoining the dining room, switched on a light, and held the door for me. I entered fearfully, not knowing what to expect.

The room was larger than the living room and shrouded in black velvet. There was no furniture and the light was coming from recessed lamps above the velvet draperies. Then the boy turned a dimmer switch, increasing the illumination, and I saw the thing I dreaded, but strangely half-­expected to see.

It was a large photograph hanging on the rear wall. It was of General Duffin Caine, and it had apparently been made from the same negative as the one in Father Fogarty’s book. Evidently the priest was wrong in his speculation about graven images.

“When do they have their meetings here?” My voice was quavering.

“At night.”

“How often?”

“About one time in a month. Sometimes more often.”

“Who comes to the meetings?”

“Lots of people. I don’t know them.”

“Ten, twenty people?”

“Sometimes more than that.”

“Who’s in charge of the meetings?”

“Mrs. Reddy. She’s in charge of everything.”

“What about the Webers?”

“Mrs. Weber goes to all the meetings. Some of the time Mr. Weber doesn’t go. He sits in the kitchen and drinks beer. Then Mrs. Reddy yells at him.”

A sudden chilling thought struck me. “Did you ever go to a meeting, George?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“Everybody prayed.”

“Were they praying to God, do you think?”

He paused. “I think it was more like they were praying to that picture up there.”

“Do you know who that man is?”

“They call him Father.” He paused again. “Maybe he’s supposed to be God.”

“How did you happen to go to the meeting, George? Did you sneak in?”

“No, Mrs. Reddy told me to come.”

“Did you pray with the rest of them?”

“No, I didn’t know the words. A lot of it was in a foreign language. Also after a while it was sort of like they were praying to me.” He grinned.

“Praying to you?”

“Yeah. They made me stand over there under the picture. Next to the table with the candles on it.” He pointed to a folded table, black like the draperies, and resting against the wall. “Then they all bowed to me and said a lot more prayers.” He was embarrassed now. “They take their clothes off at those meetings.”

Another frightening thought. “Was there a meeting here last night, George?”

“Yes.”

A car came into the yard. George moved quickly to turn out the lights, then grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the room.

“They can see the lights from outside if they go into the backyard,” he whispered. “There are windows behind the curtains.” He closed the door of the meeting room and hurried me to the front of the house.

“They can’t drive to the back, George,” I assured him. “My car is in the way. Let me ask you one more question. Did you see a boy here last night—a boy with light hair, rather thin and tall?”

I was waiting for a car door to slam, footsteps on the path, the scratching of a key in the lock, but there was no sound. Were they waiting outside for me?

“Was he at the meeting, George?” I whispered.

He had only time to nod and then the door opened silently and Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber were there. Both were dressed in black—coats, dresses and hats with veils.

“Mrs. Caine, how nice of you to come,” said Mrs. Reddy.

“I brought Stephanie’s things,” I said.

“Thank you. Did our George make you comfortable?” She was watching the boy.

“Very comfortable.” I hoped I was managing to control my nervousness. “I’m shocked and so sorry about what happened to Stephanie.”

Rose Weber acknowledged it with a jerk of her head and hurried out of the room. She was feeling something, it seemed.

“Stephanie was a willful girl, but dear to all of us just the same,” Mrs. Reddy announced. “How long have you been here, Mrs. Caine?”

“Only a couple of minutes.”

“We called your home from Ashland almost an hour ago and your daughter said you had left. You must have stopped somewhere else before you came here.”

“I did,” I lied. I couldn’t have been gone an hour. More like a half hour or at most forty-­five minutes.

“Did George show you the house while you waited?”

“No,” I said without looking at the boy. “What were you calling about, Mrs. Reddy?”

“Oh, Rose wanted to ask about Stephanie’s things and if the Sheriff’s men had been to see you.”

“Yes, they came to see us.” How could I have ever thought her cheerful looking? A little old Mrs. Santa Claus, I’d called her. This was a fat, evil-­looking woman staring at me.

“Asked you a lot of questions, I’ll bet. They did with us. We couldn’t tell them anything and I don’t suppose you could either.”

“Very little.”

“One thing they kept harping on was did Stephanie ever mention being afraid of anyone or anything? Did they ask you that too?”

“I don’t recall. What did you mean when you said Stephanie was willful?”

“Just that. She ran around with a wild crowd from over Ashland way.”

“She didn’t do any running around while she was with us. She seldom left the house. And the deputies mentioned some motorcyclists.”

“It wasn’t motorcyclists. It was some of that college crowd from Ashland that did it. They’re on the dope. Most likely Stephanie was too.”

“Ma!” Rose Weber had reentered the room.

“It’s hard to accept these things, Rose, but we must. Stephanie wouldn’t do as we told her, so she came to grief.”

“What did you want her to do?” I inquired.

Mrs. Reddy looked at me for a long moment. “Why, we wanted her to stay home more for one thing. We wanted her to come home after she was finished with the job at your house, but she wouldn’t do it.”

“How did you know she was finished?”

“Why, she called and told us.” Mrs. Reddy seemed bewildered by my questions.

“I thought maybe my son had told you.”

“The only times we’ve seen your son is when you’ve been with him.”

“Except for last night.”

“That’s right, of course. Did George tell you Duff was here?” George was still in the room, watching us.

“No, Duff told me. Also the deputies.”

“Ah.”

“I must apologize for Duff’s dropping in on you that way.”

“No need. He’s more than welcome—the more so now that poor Stephanie is gone.” She turned to George. “You get to bed now, sonny. School tomorrow. Say good night to Mrs. Caine.”

He went off quickly, throwing one worried glance back at me. Mrs. Reddy nodded to her daughter and Rose followed the boy.

I wasn’t concerned that he would say anything about our visit to the meeting room. He seemed as much in fear of these people as I was. I resolved to get him away from this house before we went back East. Surely the authorities wouldn’t permit him to stay once they were informed about what was going on.

Emil Weber came in then. He, at least, had been weeping. His eyes were red and his lower lip was quivering. He had also been drinking.

“Whatever took you so long out there, Emil dear?” his mother-­in-­law asked.

“I was checking the oil in the car. Making sure it’s OK in case we have to go back to the . . . you know . . .”

I expressed my sympathy. He took my hand, clutched it and began to sob. The poor lout was a victim here as much as young George, I thought.

“You’ll have to move the car. Mrs. Caine wants to leave,” Mrs. Reddy told him sharply.

I wanted to stay longer and hopefully learn more, but I couldn’t think of any excuse to do it.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“If there is, we’ll call you.”

“When is the funeral?”

“There won’t be a funeral. We’re not churchgoing people. Stephanie’s body will be cremated when the coroner gets through with it.”

“I think that’s the best way,” I said. “A funeral and the visitation time before it can be gruesome. My husband told me of the difficulties that occurred before Aunt Hannah’s funeral.”

“There weren’t any difficulties so far as I know.”

“About where she was to be buried.”

“Oh, that. Just a misunderstanding.” She had taken my arm and was practically pushing me out the door.

“Who was buried in the Caine graveyard recently, Mrs. Reddy? We’ve noticed some newly turned earth.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t been near that yard for a long time. Goodbye, Mrs. Caine. We’ll be in touch with you.”

I went to my rented car while Emil backed out into the road. Then it occurred to me that if Emil was sober enough, I might learn more from him than from anyone else. I backed out quickly and blocked his car before he could turn into the drive. Then I got out and walked over to his car.

He rolled down his window and stared belligerently at me. He wasn’t weeping now but he had evidently had some more to drink. There was a bottle beside him on the seat.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“I’d like to talk to you sometime, Mr. Weber.”

“What about?”

“Oh, about Stephanie and other things.”

“What about Stephanie?”

“Well, I know she was a good girl and I just thought—”

“She was a good girl! You’re damn right she was a good girl!”

“Could we go somewhere and talk now, Mr. Weber? Maybe you could follow me back to the Caine place.”

The porch light came on and Mrs. Reddy opened the front door.

“Get out of here,” Weber hissed. “Get away!”

“Maybe I could help you, Mr. Weber.”

He turned his head to glance at the motionless figure on the porch, then turned back to me. He was thoroughly frightened now. “Get away, get away! And keep your boy away!”