Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder

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.”

“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 my family, I belong here!”

“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.”