Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“Well, who the fuck knows? You and me, we’d report it for sure. But maybe we weren’t born with a rich old man who’d buy us another one without thinking twice about it. But what Thomson told me sounded reasonable. Said he figured some friend might have borrowed it as a gag. There’s an antique car show in town and quite a few of his pals are here for it. But the theft was reported the next morning. We checked that. Selby, I’ll keep in touch.” What, what the hell, Slocum thought, it was what Lorso had told him Earl had said. It just happened at a different time. And he had gone through the motions of interrogating Earl and hearing it all once again...

After hanging up, Selby stood for a moment or so looking out at the meadow. The surface of the pond was flat and bright. A crow flew through the cold, heavy air and settled in a bare locust.

Selby showered, put on slacks and a flannel shirt, and lit the logs in the small corner fireplace.

Davey came in later with the Sunday papers and a tray of orange juice and coffee. Mrs. Cranston had gone to church, his son told him, but had left breakfast in the warming oven.

Davey was in an animated, excited mood, eager to talk about Miss Brett and Sergeant Wilger. “I did something dumb, really stupid, dad. I asked him if he’d show me his gun.”

“He’s probably used to that. Where’s Shana?”

“I don’t know. She helped Mrs. Cranston with breakfast, and then went down to the pond, I guess.”

Davey squatted on a three-legged stool beside the fireplace. The flames glinted in his light, silky hair. “But the detective, the sergeant, showed me his gun, dad. He didn’t take it out of the holster, but he pulled his coat back so I could see it.”

“Well, that’s something,” Selby said. “Did you talk to Shana this morning?”

“About what, dad?”

“I left a photograph from the newspaper in her room. I wondered if she’d mentioned it.”

“She was pretty busy with Mrs. Cranston. The lady’s first name is Dorcas.” Davey was speaking very quickly now. “Dorcas was the last name of one of her father’s best friends, that’s what Miss Brett told Shana.”

“How long were they here?”

“About an hour, I guess. Then they went for a drive. I wanted to go, too, but—” Davey sighed. “They had fun, I guess. Shana thought there was a car following them, but it wasn’t. I’d of known what kind it was, all Shana knows is whether they’re new and shiny. But Sergeant Wilger told me I’d better stay here and hold the fort. He really said that, dad. ‘Hold the fort.’ ”

“You’re even then,” Selby said. “You asked for a look at his gun, he said ‘hold the fort.’ Where did they go from here?”

“They drove into Muhlenburg. They stopped at Goldie Boy’s church. Then they drove over to Dade Road.”

Selby poured himself coffee. “What were they looking for?”

“Shana didn’t say. But she told me about Miss Brett. She’s got a niece and two nephews. She’s twenty-eight, and she’s divorced. Shana asked her, which I thought was kind of nosy. Her father and mother lived in Florida and he’s retired. Her sisters are both older than she is, they live in Maine.”

Selby watched the meadow and pond while Davey informed him that Dorcas Brett had been a deputy district attorney for almost a year, had been to college at Bryn Mawr and at Yale.

Miss Brett told Shana, Davey went on, enthused now, about some of the scary things she’d been afraid of when she was young... She had been locked in the gym at Bryn Mawr one night alone in the swimming pool. The janitor forgot her and turned off the lights and locked all the doors.

There was no movement at the pond. Blazer was in the high meadow barking at a squirrel. Davey was saying, “Then, dad, then Miss Brett got the feeling there was someone else in the pool with her — or something was. It was dark and she couldn’t see anything, the water was black, and she was afraid she’d brush against it, or it would reach out and brush against her — she told Shana it was just her imagination working overtime—”

“Davey, hold it a minute.”

“Miss Brett said that when people are too frightened, they can forget what really happened—”

“Davey, where’s Shana now?”

“Don’t be made at me, dad.” Davey’s voice trembled. “She did find the picture this morning, and called Normie... She made me promise not to say anything...”

Selby put an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Level with me, Davey.”

“Normie picked her up about an hour ago. She waited for him out at the driveway.”

“Where were they going?”

“There’s a car show at Longwood Gardens.”

“Are they looking for someone in that newspaper picture?”

“I don’t know, dad. But she didn’t want you to go out there. I brought up your coffee and just tried to make everything normal. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did fine,” Selby said.

They went down to the foyer then, Selby keeping an arm about the boy’s shoulder. Davey watched him pull on a duffel coat and gloves.

“Can I go with you?”

“No, you and Blazer stay here.” Without smiling, Selby added, “Hold the fort.”

“Yes, sir.” Davey used this formal response only when his father’s expression told him further discussion would be pointless. At such times, which were infrequent but easily recognizable, his father’s emotional temperature was as obvious as the heat from a furnace.

Longwood Gardens had been funded by the late Pierre Du Pont in an attempt to preserve a particular variety of estate garden that was to be found decades earlier in wealthy regions of the eastern United States.

Each season was celebrated for its distinctive features. In the summer, brilliant outdoor flower beds and shaded paths, views of malls and playing fountains — sounds of water mixing naturally with the songbirds. Hyacinths, daffodils and other spring bulbs were to bloom in greenhouses through the winter months. Thousands of chrysanthemums grown under glass for Thanksgiving, and Christmas to blaze with poinsettias, and miles of tiny lights in fir trees glittering like swarms of strange polar fireflies.

On this morning that Harry Selby drove to the gardens, the Grand Concours Automobile Club of Chester County had scheduled its all-class exposition in Longwood’s flag mall, taking advantage of what was likely to be the last decent weather before winter set in.

The rain clouds had blown away, the sky was clear and white. A brilliant sun spread a pale light over the tweedy crowds strolling through the wide green mall past the standards of fluttering flags.

Protected by squares of velvet rope were Ferraris, fifty-year-old Packards, Daimlers, Jaguars and Cords. The prize of the show, standing out among famed Lamborghinis and Royces, was a Mercedes roadster built in 1933 in France, where it had remained through World War II. Its immaculate tires had never touched German soil, its engine had never drawn deeply from the air of the Fatherland, and these facts together with the owner’s name — Robert “Beetle” Burkholder of San Francisco — were displayed on a placard in front of the car.

As to what exactly occurred that frosty morning at Longwood Gardens, there was considerable disagreement, even among those who witnessed the events, but the most complete and reliable account was provided by a security guard named Clarence Summerall.

A retired policeman, Summerall made careful notes on what he was told, and what he personally saw and heard, and incorporated them into a report which was delivered later by a sheriff’s trooper to Captain Walter Slocum of the East Chester Detective Division.

In his report, Summerall wrote: