“Mr. Lund, have you any idea what it means to grow up happy with a loving father, even proud that this is the land of your ancestors? Then it all changes when you're twelve or thirteen, the doors start slamming? The kids you played with and went to school with suddenly become painfully polite. I'm not invited to anyone's house, they never come to mine. Have you any...? No, how could you know what it means to be the only 'colored' person in a white town!”
“You're not—”
“I'm proud I am an Indian! And if it was a bitter pill I could take it as long as my father was alive. I never knew my mother, but Dad was a wonderful man, full of living, like Edward. I could forget the rest of the Harbor over Dad's laughter and little jokes at night as we took care of the house, the garden, went fishing and swimming. Best of all were the hunting trips and the stories he remembered from his grandfather—alone in the woods we were living in Indian country again. But it got bad—he died when I was twenty.”
Her voice died, too. I kept pacing the room slowly, telling myself not to be a sucker, taken in by a sob story. She crushed her cigarette in a clam shell ashtray, a loud noise in the silent house. Even the rain on the roof seemed muffled. After a long wait I asked, “What about Doc, Miss Endin?”
“I nearly went out of my head when Dad died, I was so lonely. I didn't know what to do with myself. Sometimes I'd read day and night until my head hurt. I turned to painting and that helped a little, more as I gained confidence. You know, for nearly two years I never spoke to a soul, except the storekeeper down the street.”
“You mean nobody in the Harbor spoke to you? Why?”
“No occasion to talk. They might nod or wave to me on the street. It was more a case of the Harbor ignoring me. Oh, for a time Larry Anderson was friendly but the kind of relationship he wanted... seems like most white men think that's all we've been placed on this earth for. I went out to the reservation but there wasn't anybody there I really knew.”
“Ever leave the Harbor? New York's only a few hours away.”
She laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Who would I know in New York? You forget, this town is named after
“A person belongs where they're happy. How did Doc come into the picture?”
She stroked the heavy braid coming down her side. I suddenly wondered how she'd look with all that hair undone, perhaps falling to her hips.
“About two years after Dad died I needed money. Only job I could get was as a domestic. I had headaches all the time, felt sick. One day the woman I worked for sent me to see Edward. He remembered me as a kid, was very kind. When he said I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I became hysterical, spilled all my thoughts out to him. He was shocked, and that was the start of our friendship. He taught me practical nursing, hired me to help in his office. He was interested in my painting, encouraged me. And the Harbor misunderstood, thought we were having an affair. Even Priscilla! Nobody said it openly, they respected Edward too much for that. But I could feel the snickers, the whispered laughter whenever I passed a group of men. Edward was furious, sickened. But how can you combat gossip, an unseen enemy?”
She was staring at the floor again, didn't expect me to answer—and what is the answer?
“Edward insisted I get active in the church, even held an exhibition of my paintings there. Everybody laughed at them—except a few artists over from East Hampton and Sag Harbor. I worked in Edward's office for over a year and a half, loved it. But I knew he was having difficulties with Priscilla over me, and she's sickly. Against his wishes—our only fight—I left, took various jobs in Hampton and Southampton as a domestic, in a factory. Of course I didn't mind the Harbor rejecting me, I was used to it. But Edward never stopped being my friend, fighting the town. He made a point of taking me for rides, visiting me several times a week. We read the same books, watched TV. He took me to an art school in East Hampton but I couldn't take it; they were friendly, only they treated me like a pet, a freak. He wanted to send me to a nurses' school, but I was afraid; I hadn't finished high school. He told me to join the WACs during the war, but I didn't want to be with all those white women.” She looked up, stared right into my eyes. “I'll be blunt too. If Edward had wanted me to be his girlfriend, I would have —gladly! I think he desired me but felt it would be giving in to the gossip.”
I leaned against the kitchen doorway, trying to believe what she was telling me. Or had the doc been trying to break off and she killed him? I said, “The police think Jerry was the last patient Barnes saw that night. Jerry insists the doc said he was going to see somebody else, somebody he called an 'old goat.' Have you any idea who that might be?”
She shrugged and I realized she had good breasts. “I don't know. It could be a real goat. Edward once raced a small boy and his dog to Riverside to save the dog's life. You see, he was a dedicated man, kindness was his religion. That's why I can't think of him being murdered.”
Barnes' wife and mistress sure thought alike, at least about the doc. “Did the doc ever mention a man named Nelson, or anybody named Hudon?”
She shook her head.
“Anybody in the Harbor by those names?”
“I never heard them before.”
“Where were you yesterday, today?”
Again that interesting shrug. “I heard about his death on my way to work. I felt like the time I'd lost Dad. I drove around, trying to think. I sat on the beach for hours. Then I kept driving about, all the quiet back roads. I couldn't bear seeing anybody. Finally I came back here late this afternoon, tried to sleep.”
“You worked for him, which of his patients would be call an 'old goat'?”
“I have no idea. Hardly like Edward to call anybody that. I suppose they'll bury him tomorrow. I know he'll understand if I don't go to the funeral.”
“You're in a bad spot, Miss Endin. If the jury fails to indict Jerry, if they need another patsy, they'll tag you.”
“Circumstantial evidence is a darn sight stronger against you than Jerry. You haven't an alibi, Barnes was killed near your house. They could easily cook up a motive— jealousy. Your lover was about to leave you....”
“Edward wasn't my lover! Let any doctor examine me!”
I was sold. Perhaps I admired the fierce way she said she was a virgin, the almost terrible way she said it. She could have so easily used a smug tone. This was a wail of protest.
But that didn't make her innocent of murder. Could she have insisted on bed and the doc refused? Only how could a man refuse something like Jane? Still—all the old saws about a woman spurned banged around in my head.
She lit another cigarette. “They wouldn't dare accuse me.”
She was right about that, they'd be afraid it would blow the village apart. But actually, why would it? According to her, Barnes had only tried to help her, felt sorry for her. This required a little mental cooking on my part. “Miss Endin, is it true Priscilla Barnes is fond of Art Roberts?”
“That nonsense! She helped him, as she would a son. Why, she's....”
“I know, old enough to be his mother.” I zipped up my windbreaker, “Well, thank you, Miss Endin.”
“You understand, I want to help Jerry. But I don't know how I can.”
She walked me to the door. I asked, “Was Mrs. Barnes still upset over the doc's seeing you every Friday?”
“It was something they never talked about. I don't believe she really knew Edward.”
“Would she be so upset as to murder him?”
She stopped, stock-still. “Never! Not Priscilla, she could never do... that.”
“I was only asking.” As she opened the door and the rain hit us, I said, “You have a nice piece of land, probably get ten thousand for it.”
“Are you telling me to leave the Harbor?”
I grinned. “I'm not the one to tell you anything. But there's a lot to do and see in New York, Frisco, Paris. It's a big world; you'd be surprised how tiny a speck End Harbor is on it. Well, if I think of anything else to ask, I'll call again.” I held out my hand. Her hand was firm and cool.
I drove down Bay Street. It was nearly nine-thirty and I was bushed. A police car passed me, stopped. Chief Roberts stuck his over-handsome puss out as I slowed down. “Busy—busy, Mr. Peace Officer? Find any big clues, Mr. City Cop?” Satisfaction dripped from his voice.
“Only that it's raining.”
He turned a flash on my battered fenders. “What happened to your car?”
“I've been running into a lot of blank walls today. Why didn't you tell me a Mr. Nelson visited the doc the night he was killed?”
He showed all his white teeth in a grin. “I don't have to tell you a damn thing. Matter of fact, I sent Nelson to see Edward. He asked me about this old guy he was looking for, I suggested the doc might know about him, or maybe the post office. Any other questions, big shot?”
I was too tired to think of anything. I told him, “Why don't you arrest yourself, Roberts, for obstructing justice?” and I drove off.
He laughed at me.
When I reached our cottage Bessie came running out and hugged me. I told her, “Watch it, you'll get dirty.”
“Matt, where have you been all afternoon and evening? I've been worried sick. What happened? Did you find anything new?” Then she saw the car and: “Oh, my God, you were in an accident!”
“Relax and let me get out of these wet clothes. Andy sleeping, I hope?”
“Of course. He waited up to show you this.” On the dining room table there was a fine model of a cabin cruiser built from the kit I'd brought him. Matty, curled up on a chair, yawned and studied me with an arrogant cat-look. But when I poked his nose he
