MAX DELIBERATELY CHOSE a chair in the corner of the conference room. He sat very quietly, knowing he was there on sufferance. Johnny Joe Jenkins made no objection because Pudge had insisted that Max be permitted to remain while Garrett interrogated him. Garrett didn’t care as long as he got answers and as long as those answers were captured on tape. Bright spotlights beamed from either side of the videocam stand.
The bright lights illuminated every line, every crease in Pudge’s face, every gray strand in his blond hair and mustache. Whether from the harsh lighting or fatigue, Pudge’s skin looked as pasty and shiny as bread dough. Even though the room was cool, tiny beads of sweat clung to his forehead. He sat stiffly on a yellow oak straight chair, his body still, his gray eyes alert and wary. Beside him, Johnny Joe Jenkins folded his arms, his strong face impassive. Across the narrow conference table, a loose-leaf notebook open before him, sat Garrett.
Max listened as Garrett punched on the videocam and repeated the Miranda warning. “Mr. Laurance, I’d like to get a little background here. Give me your name, residence and relationship to the deceased.”
“Patrick Laurance, most recently living in Puerto Vallarta, former husband.” He seemed to relax a little against the chair back.
“You arrived here when? And for what purpose?”
“Last weekend. On Saturday. Happy invited me to spend Christmas with them. But I actually came because I wanted to find my daughter.” He looked toward Max for an instant. “When Happy called, she was upset. She wasn’t really specific about the problem, but it was something to do with her sister and this psychic business. I didn’t see that I could help, but I was eager to visit the island, so I agreed to come.”
“Did Mrs. Laurance tell you she had papers containing information about Dr. Swanson that could discredit him?” Garrett’s hand was poised over his notebook.
Pudge looked surprised. “Papers? No, she didn’t say anything about papers. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but she went on and on about how awful it was, that Swanson was a crook and he was taking advantage of Rita. Happy was really upset after the dinner Wednesday night when Rita said she was going to sign over everything to Swanson for some kind of Golden Path. I didn’t quite get it, but Rita thinks she’s communicating with her dead husband through this Swanson fellow. She’s decided to give him money to create some kind of psychic foundation. As a matter of fact, the whole family was livid.”
“Did your former wife tell you what she intended to do about Dr. Swanson?”
“Do?” Pudge tugged at his mustache. “What could she do about it?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Mr. Laurance.”
Pudge ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know.”
“What conversation did you have with Mrs. Laurance on Thursday?”
“I—I don’t exactly remember.”
Garrett flipped through the pages. “I have an eyewitness who said, ‘Happy and Pudge were yelling at each other. I didn’t hear a lot of it. I walked on, but she was crying and he told her he’d had enough and he was getting out and he stormed up the stairs.’”
Johnny Joe Jenkins leaned close to Pudge, murmured in his ear.
Pudge shook his head.
The only sound in the windowless interior room was the whir of the videocam.
Pudge clamped his hands on the edge of the table.
“What were you quarreling about, Mr. Laurance?”
“It wasn’t a quarrel. She was acting like an idiot. That’s all. I told her so.”
“You went upstairs and packed?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t leave. Why not?”
“I changed my mind.” Pudge’s lips closed tight.
“Why?”
Pudge didn’t answer.
“When did you next talk to Mrs. Laurance?”
“I didn’t.”
“That was the last time you spoke with her?” Garrett’s voice was heavy with disbelief.
“That’s right. I didn’t see her again until I found her body this morning.” Pudge’s blank look splintered for an instant, his face creasing with pain and remembered horror.
“Tell me about this morning, Mr. Laurance.”
Pudge moved restively. “I’ve told you.”
“I’d like to hear it again, Mr. Laurance. Start from the first. What time did you get up?”
“Around seven-thirty. I shaved and showered—”
“You showered?”
“Yes.” Pudge’s eyes darkened with anger.
Garrett made a note. “You dressed? Can you give me a list of the clothing you brought to the island?”
“I can. I sure as hell can. Two pairs of khakis—”
Max liked Pudge’s combative tone. He got it, of course. Garrett was trying to make him account for his clothes. But if Pudge had killed his ex-wife, he would simply leave something out. Garrett would talk to others at the house, get a description of what Pudge had worn each day. If any outfit was missing, it would be indirect evidence against Pudge.
“—four sports shirts, two sweaters, a navy suit, black loafers”—Pudge pointed down to his shoes—“a sweatshirt, sweat pants, jogging shoes, two pairs of white socks, two pairs of black socks, four T-shirts, four pairs of boxer shorts, blue cotton pajamas. And that’s all. You’ll find every piece of it in my room.”
“In your suitcase?” Garrett watched him closely.
Pudge was completely relaxed. “Right. Take a look.”
“We have, Mr. Laurance. We found the yellow raincoat.”
Pudge was still relaxed. “I don’t have a yellow raincoat. Or an umbrella.” His lips curved in a small smile. “I guess I’m of the old school. Men don’t carry umbrellas. I figured out I wouldn’t melt a long time ago.”
There was no answering smile from Garrett. But his eyes were puzzled.
Max felt like jumping to his feet and shouting hooray.
Garrett pushed back his chair. “I’ll be right back.”
As the door clicked behind him, Pudge turned toward Max. “What’s the big deal about a yellow raincoat?”
The soft hum of the videocam continued.
Johnny Joe looked at Max, too.
Max diverted them. “Johnny Joe, can you see about getting bail set?”
“Sure.” His mellifluous courtroom voice filled the small gray-walled room, added life and color. “As soon as we get finished here, I’ll pop over to see the judge.” He grinned approvingly at Pudge. “You’re doing fine.”
The door squeaked open. Garrett stepped inside, carrying a blue soft-sided Pullman-size suitcase. His hands were encased in plastic gloves. A white tag dangled from one handle. He set the case on the table.
“Can you identify this suitcase, Mr. Laurance?”
Pudge craned his head. He pointed at a metal nameplate dangling from a leather strap. “Sure. See, there’s my name. It’s mine.”
Garrett stood beside the table. He leaned over and carefully unzipped the case. He lifted the lid.
Pudge jerked back from the table. His eyes widened. He stared at the crumpled yellow slicker with its dark maroon stains. “My God, that’s awful.” He stared at the bloody plastic in horror. “That’s not mine. I didn’t put that in my suitcase. Somebody else did.”
“Who, Mr. Laurance?”
Pudge glared at Garrett. “How should I know? How the hell should I know? I never saw that in my life.”
Garrett folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t recognize the raincoat?”
“No.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that this raincoat belongs to your stepdaughter?”
Pudge froze. The anger fell away as quickly as the sun sets in a tropical sea, there one instant, gone the next. “Who says so?”
“She does.”
Pudge said nothing.
Garrett bent forward. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Laurance, that you found this raincoat, recognized it and took it from Mrs. Laurance’s room?”
“No.” Pudge stared at the open suitcase.
“There was no sweater, was there, Mr. Laurance?”
“I saw a sweater. I thought it was Rachel’s. I must have been wrong.”
“What did you take from that room, Mr. Laurance?’
Pudge rubbed his eyes. “The sweater.” His voice was stubborn. “And the poker. I wrapped them in an afghan.”
“You took a poker?”
“Yes.”
“What poker, Mr. Laurance?”
Pudge shook his head irritably. “There was a poker lying there. It was”—he swallowed—“covered with blood.”
“There is no poker missing from that fireplace.”
“Then somebody brought it from somewhere else.”
“We’ve checked all the fireplaces, Mr. Laurance. The fire tools at each fireplace are complete.”
Pudge stared straight ahead. “All I know is what I saw. I don’t know anything about the poker or where it came from.”
“Or anything about this raincoat?” Garrett pointed at the opened suitcase.
“I’ve never seen that raincoat. Never.”
Garrett leaned over the table, closed the case, zipped it. He still wore the plastic gloves. He picked up the suitcase. “I’ll be right back.”
The door closed behind him.
Pudge turned quickly to Max. “Is he telling the truth? Is that Rachel’s raincoat?”
“She said it was. But she was as shocked as you are, Pudge.”
“I don’t understand. I packed up Wednesday night and I was living out of my suitcase. I didn’t unpack.”
Max nodded. Johnny Joe listened intently.
“This morning I got out my shaving kit. I left the case open on one of the beds when I went down the hall to Happy’s room. I don’t see how that raincoat got in my suitcase. Or when. It sure wasn’t in Happy’s room this morning.”
Max punched a fist against his palm. “That means the raincoat was taken from the room after Happy was killed. It must have been hidden somewhere else. Sometime this morning, somebody put it in your suitcase. That gives us a couple of things to look for: the first hiding place for the raincoat and who had access to your room between the time you left in the boat and Garrett brought you upstairs.”
But Pudge was staring at the table, his face creased in thought.
That was when the door opened and Garrett walked inside. He wasn’t alone. Billy Cameron followed, cradling a spread-out black garbage bag.
“Put it on the table, Billy.”