the pipe. I still had to kill time until Andy went to bed. There was one thing I'd overlooked—the scene of the crime. Not that I expected to find anything there
He came to the office door, a sugar doughnut in his dirty hand. “Crazy the way people are on the morbid kick. I went out there myself to have a look this morning. Instead of turning into Main Street, take the other fork— that's Montauk Road. Follow that for about a mile and you'll see another road crossing it, a wide road. That's Bay Street. Make a right turn on Bay, away from the water. Couple hundred yards down you'll see a busted tree—that's the spot.”
“Bay Street?” I repeated. Jane Endin lived on Bay Street—Roberts was trying hard to overlook the obvious clues.
“Can't miss it, jack. There's a new brick house on one corner, boarded up—some rich cat who's been in Europe for last two years. On the opposite corner, toward the bay, you'll see a picket fence and a house. Not much of a house but nice piece of land. Belongs to an Indian gal. Don't forget, make a right turn on Bay.”
Ten minutes later I was on Bay Street, looking at the big tree with the splintered gash in the thick trunk. The tree was at an angle, its roots torn up. It would probably die soon. Keeping my faint lights on the scene I walked around in the rain, not knowing what I expected to find... and finding nothing.
Turning around I drove back to the highway. I stared at the boarded-up bright ranch house. The way Roberts operated, it could have belonged to Mr. Nelson. Then I looked at the Endin house. It was a weather-beaten two-story affair with at least an acre of land behind the low picket fence. There was an old car in the driveway; no lights in the house. I pulled off the road, decided to snoop around the house.
Of course there wasn't anything to see. A grape arbor in the back of the house, an unused chicken coop, a locked Shed. On the door there was a knocker shaped like an arrowhead, or maybe it was an arrowhead. I looked into one of the dark windows. As I turned away a porch light came on and the door opened.
A woman stood there who made me forget all about Indians, being a detective, even about feeling tired. She wasn't any beauty. She was tall and straight, black hair with streaks of gray pulled severely away from her angular face. Her eyes were bright and tired, and her face came down to an over-long jaw. Her skin was creamy and she was wearing a man's gray shirt and dungarees. Perhaps she was far from a beauty, but there was such a bitter, sullen look about her—she looked sexy. In fact, she looked like she was ready to explode with sex. I mean, she seemed about thirty-five and... well, as if she'd been storing it up all those years.
Her eyes took in my wet and dirty clothes before she asked, “What do you want?” It was a cold voice, proud and clear.
I took off my cap. “Excuse me, I was looking for a Miss Endin.”
“I'm Jane Endin. Why are you snooping around my property?”
Chapter 4
Being an amateur detective I hadn't given much thought as to the type of man Doc Barnes had been. If anything, I'd pictured him a prissy sort, a bluenose. My respect for the doc soared— this was indeed a
“Why must you stare at me—so rudely? What do you want?”
“Sorry, I don't mean to be rude. I expected a....
“A tommyhawk in my hand?” Her voice was sharper than one.
“My name is Matt Lund. Perhaps you've heard of me, the New York City policeman interested in Doc Barnes' death.” I went through the motion of flashing my badge.
“I haven't heard of you.” Her voice became a talking-to-herself whisper. Her eyes looked through me, as if I weren't there. She seemed dazed and when her face slackened the high cheekbones stood out.
“I've been looking for you, Miss Endin. Can we talk?”
“What have we to talk about?” She turned and started to close the door. Her hair was a thick juicy braid that went to her waist—an exciting braid.
“Aren't you interested in finding Doc's killer?”
“Killer?” she repeated, back still to me, everything about her straight and tense. “Who would kill Edward? I can't associate killing with Edward, he was only interested in healing, the living.”
“Do you think Jerry murdered him?”
“Murder?” She spun around, her eyes coming alive again. “Jerry, the taxi man? But.... I thought it was an accident? Who says Jerry killed Edward?”
“The Harbor police. Jerry's in the Riverside jail this second, charged with murder.” I wondered where she could have possibly been not to have heard. Or was it all an act? “I'm trying to help Jerry. I don't think he did it. That's what I wanted to talk about.”
“Wipe your feet on the mat as you come in.”
She had an odd walk, sort of threw her legs out—and all the stiffness left her. I followed her into a living room which looked too neat to have been lived in much. The furniture was old but the walls were covered with various-size abstract paintings, violent splashes of color that didn't make sense yet were strangely exciting. There was also a large photo of a brown-skinned man in a gold frame who had to be her father—almost the same features. She pointed toward a maple chair with red cushions but I said I'd rather stand, didn't want to dirty the chair. She shrugged, lit a cigarette, and sat on an ancient leather chair, curling her legs under her. With that one movement, despite the shirt and dungarees, the stern face, a touch of feminine warmth came over her.
I nodded at the paintings, I guess they were oils. “Very unusual.”
“Do you understand them?”
“I don't know, but they give me a feeling of excitement.”
She studied me over a puff of smoke.
I got under way. “Miss Endin, I'm a stranger here, a tourist. I'm also a cop. I'm going to ask you some questions. I don't mean to be rude, but I can't be subtle. I'm very tired, especially tired of the runaround I've been getting. End Harbor acts like it's outside the law. I wouldn't care, but a man is being framed—I think. Doc Barnes is murdered and the Harbor acts as if....”
“You never knew Edward,” she cut in, voice clear and sharp once more. “He was a good man, considerate. Perhaps he has now found greater happiness. We Indians have a saying, that death is but the opening of a new trail. We all must die, including Edward, but no one would kill him.”
“But someone did. They've arrested Jerry on evidence so thin it doesn't make sense. I think they collared him because he's talked with an accent for most of his life, told the Harbor to leave him alone. Everybody here is trying to hush the murder, pretend it didn't happen— even you. Why?”
“Who can believe a man like Edward could be murdered?”
“Nuts. They're putting the lid on it because you and Doc Barnes have been the village scandal for years!”
She jumped to her feet, a graceful fast movement, “Leave my house!”
“I said I was going to be blunt. Your personal affairs are your own business. But remember Jerry in the Riverside Jail with not a single End Harbor person caring a cold damn!”
“What do you want of me? I wouldn't hurt Jerry. He's one of the few men who bothered to tip his hat to me. I have nothing to do with his being in jail.”
“Miss Endin, all I want you to do is answer a couple of questions.”
She sat down again, the braid coming over her shoulder like a snake. “What questions? What can I tell you?”
“The doctor was killed not far from here: did he visit you Sunday night?”
She shook her head. “I last saw Edward on Friday. He came over to have a cup of tea and watch television. He did that every Friday evening.”
“Where were you Sunday night?”
“I was here all day Sunday—painting.”
“Alone?”
“Of course.”
I took my time lighting my pipe, full of mixed feelings: I didn't believe her... and I wished to God I was twenty years younger.
“If you're hinting I killed Edward, you're so wrong. I worshipped him.”
“Excuse the bluntness but were you his girlfriend?”
“I was his friend.”
I'd heard somewhere that silence can break a person down. I wandered around the room slowly. The TV set was the only new thing in the room, everything else looked very old. Even the bookcase full of book club novels seemed unused. Through a doorway I saw a spotless old-fashioned kitchen, a polished coal stove. I'd lay odds it hadn't seen a fire in years. I stared at the paintings for a moment, then faced her. She wasn't even watching me, her eyes studying the floor. “Have you any boyfriends?”
“Certainly not.”
“Now, Miss Endin, you're an attractive woman, you must have....”
“I'm an Indian!” She sounded as fierce as her paintings. “Do you know what that means in a town like the Harbor, Mr...?”
“Matt Lund.”
