Laura Lippman - The Last Place

Tess had no idea what a killick was, although she could infer from context that it was inappropriate neckware at best. But Carl seemed to understand, so she let it go. Now that the woman was talking, she didn’t want to get in her way.

“At least, we always’s‘posed that’s how he done it,” the old woman said. “I think he was being considerate of his mother, in his own way. More considerate than she was of him, I’d have to say. He could have used a shotgun, but no, you wouldn’t want your mother to see you like that. Pills would have been hard to get around here. Even over to Crisfield, word would have gotten back. So he must’ve weighted his body down. He knew no matter how much he wanted to drown, his lungs would have fought it. The body tries to live, even when the head wants to die.”

“So you think he tied a killick around his neck,” Carl prompted. “But you don’t know, because his body was never found.”

“They searched near Shank Island, where they found his skiff drifting, but there’s no guarantee that’s where he went over. My guess is Billy picked a deeper spot. He knew the bay, all the boys here do. He’d pick a good place to go in. His mother never admitted he was dead, though, and no one dared speak of it in front of her. She stayed here for a few more years. Then, come five years ago, she upped and moved. Still owns the house but keeps it empty.” The crone narrowed her eyes. “So for all her grief, I guess she had an insurance policy on the boy, and it finally paid off when she had him certified as dead.”

She had skipped over something. A piece of the story was missing.

“What does this have to do with Becca Harrison?” Tess asked.

“Didn’t she tell you? Maybe she doesn’t know. After all, she was gone.” The woman lighted a cigarette, a generic one. “Well, apparently she wanted to get away from here real bad. Went to Audrey Windsor for help. I think Drey-we called her Drey, although I can’t remember how that started.”

“Ma’am?” Carl prodded. She gazed at him over the haze of her cigarette smoke. Tess realized the old woman saw herself as Notting Island’s Lauren Bacall, even if no one else did.

“Drey Windsor helped Becca Harrison run away. She let people think it was because she felt sorry for the girl, but I think it was because she didn’t much care for her son being so over the moon in love. She thought she’d kill two birds with one stone: help the girl get away from her father and get her far away from Billy. So it’s her conscience she has to live with.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was the one took Becca Harrison to Smith Island, to catch the ferry that goes to Point Lookout, over t’other side. But when Billy Windsor realized his girlfriend was gone, he was never seen again. I guess his mother didn’t count on that.”

Point Lookout. Tess glanced at Carl, he had caught it too. Mary Ann Melcher’s boyfriend had disappeared from that spot in just the same way Billy Windsor had. A boat was found but not a body, not a body that could be proved to be Charlie Chisholm, because Charlie Chisholm didn’t exist. And Billy Windsor, if that was the man they sought, was not shy about repeating successful tricks. He had used his parked van to create alibis in the two homicides, driving all night in rental cars to return home and kill the women he said he loved.

“Where does Mrs. Windsor live now?”

“I couldn’t tell you for sure. I don’t have her address, but she left me her number. She likes to keep up with the local gossip. She likes to know”-the woman narrowed her eyes until they almost disappeared into the tortoiselike wrinkles of her face-“she likes to know if strangers come around looking for her.”

Again, Tess felt there was a way to get her to tell them more, but she could not figure out what this woman wanted from them. She had to rely on Carl, whose instincts were sharper here, surer.

He leaned across the counter. “Can we take you into our confidence?”

Her lashes were practically nonexistent, but she fluttered them at Carl. “Of course.”

“You’d do us a tremendous favor if you didn’t speak to anyone of this, but we probably should talk to Mrs. Windsor. If we had the number, we could make an appointment to talk to her face-to-face, tell her what we know about Becca Harrison.”

“So where is Becca?” The woman leaned forward, a little breathless. “I never thought she was much. She told people she was going to be famous one day, but I read the magazines when they come in, and I’ve never seen her, not once. I bet she married a rich foreigner, and that’s why her father never found her. She’s over in Europe, going parlez-vous. Some place where they think it’s a big deal to sing in that loud way.”

“Actually,” Carl said, “Becca Harrison’s life is not what you’d call charmed. She’s had some hard knocks.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. She broke Billy Windsor’s heart- and her father’s, too, though no one cared about him. She was a senior in high school, just turned eighteen, when she ran away, so there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Billy was younger, a year behind her in school. I always thought that bothered Drey, too.”

Tess was confused. “That Billy was behind her in school?”

“That she was an older woman.” She made little hash marks in the air to underscore the irony. “Let me tell you, Becca was eighteen going on forty. She was a hard girl, out for herself. I can’t blame Drey Windsor, in the end. She paid a high price. A high, high price.”

With that, the woman handed them the phone number. Carl’s hand shook a little as he reached for it, but he was otherwise nonchalant. It was a 410 area code, which could be either side of the bay. Tess hated to head all the way back to her office and the crisscross directory, only to discover it was a Crisfield number.

“Where did you say she lived?”

“I didn’t. But I know it’s on the Western Shore.”

Tess and Carl turned to go, trying not to hurry, or seem agitated in any way. But this gave Tess time to think of one more question.

“Becca Harrison-what did she look like?”

“Well, you’ve seen her, ain’t you? You work for her, you said.” The old woman was cagey. Not much got by her.

“Yes, but-people change so over the years, and it’s rude to ask Becca what she looked like before she was fat.” The lie was calculated to please the old woman, and it did. She preened a little, aware her leathery body had no extra weight on it. “What did Becca look like as a teenager?”

“Small, to have such a big voice. Dark hair and light eyes. And because she was so little, she had a way of looking up through all that hair and her eyelashes. I was surprised when she cut it off, real short, because she was always flipping it and poking at it. She was a flirt, although I don’t think Billy knew the half of it. Oh, he was crazy in love. But then, you’d have to be, to do what he done.”

“Becca’s dead,” Carl said, once the island was well in the distance. They had not spoken since leaving the store. It was as if the residents of Notting Island could eavesdrop, as if the breeze would carry their words back. “If anyone’s at the bottom of the bay, a killick around her neck, it’s her.”

“I know. I knew even before she told us what Becca looked like. The question is whether Billy Windsor’s mother knows.”

“She could be the one who called me. Remember? He had some woman call me and Sergeant Craig, to tell us that Alan had been admitted to that out-of-state hospital.”

“Her or Hazel. Why kill Hazel, if she doesn’t know what’s going on? He cut off his own supply of fake names. What’s a killick, anyway?”

“Small anchor, used for oystering.”