The Lighthouse

“No. It’s just that… well, he’d been at the light earlier, to put the rats in the pantry. What if he came back-to do something else, or to see what our reaction had been? Or what if he was the reason Mandy was so afraid… because he’d tried to attack her or something?”

“Anything is possible at this stage of our investigation,” Sinclair said mildly. “However, Mr. Novotny has a very strong alibi for the approximate time of Mandy Barnett’s murder: he was home with his wife, children, and mother-in-law. They all swear to that fact. Also, he doesn’t own a dark-green automobile.”

“Dark-green?”

“There were green paint scrapings on the bicycle. Whoever ran Mandy Barnett down did so in a green vehicle headed toward the lighthouse, not away from it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Physical evidence-tire marks, for one thing.”

Sinclair’s news relieved her in one way. Their station wagon was brown-the final piece of evidence, if she really needed it, to prove that Jan hadn’t been responsible for Mandy’s death.

And then she thought of the first time she’d seen Mandy: smoking grass on the headland with a young man several years older, her “connection for dope.” The car they’d been leaning against had been green.

She said as much to Sinclair. And he said, “Yes, we know. His name is Mike Wilson and we’ve already questioned him. His car is the wrong green, and undamaged, and he also has an alibi for the approximate time of the girl’s death.”

“Oh,” she said, and paused, and then said, “May I ask you one more question? A… favor, actually.”

“What sort of favor?”

“Can you give my husband some sort of protection while he’s staying alone at the lighthouse?”

Sinclair hesitated. When he spoke, his tone was softened, almost apologetic. “No, Mrs. Ryerson, I’m sorry I can’t.”

She’d expected as much, but still she said, “Why not? It would only be for a couple of days. I think he’ll make up his mind to leave by then.”

“My office is working on two homicide investigations,” Sinclair said patiently, “as well as a number of other cases. We’re understaffed. I can’t spare anyone without at least some evidence that your husband’s life is in danger. And I can’t request a patrol officer for the job for the same reason.”

“You’re saying my fears are groundless?”

“Not exactly. I’ll do this for you: I’ll have one more talk with Novotny, just to strengthen the suggestion I made to him. That’s all I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“You could try the sheriff’s department,” Sinclair said, “but I’m afraid they’ll tell you the same thing I have. The only way to insure your husband’s safety is to convince him to leave Cap Des Peres.”

And she couldn’t seem to do that, she thought as she ended the conversation. At least not yet. Nor was she convinced, despite Sinclair’s reassurances, that Jan was in no danger from Mitch Novotny.

She considered calling her father. Matthew Kingsley would know what to do in a situation like this. He had connections everywhere, including Oregon; he could bring pressure to bear on the state police. After all, he’d always told her that when you don’t receive satisfaction at one level, you should go higher with your demands-to the top, if necessary.

The idea of picking up the phone and calling the familiar number in Palo Alto was a tempting one. But it was also a thoroughly bad one, she decided. For one thing, Jan would never forgive her for bringing her father into what he considered a personal problem; such an action would probably provide the severing blow to the thread that bound their marriage. And what if Matthew behaved with his characteristic bluster, chartered a plane, and showed up here demanding action? That would not only enrage and alienate Jan, but would further strain matters in Hilliard.

No, it was better for both her and Jan if they weathered this particular crisis alone. Jan had claimed he would be all right, had wanted her to trust him. And trust him she would, even if it involved a terrible risk.

Mitch Novotny

Mitch was surprised when he saw the state police car come up the hill, park next to Hod’s old Rambler, and the plainclothes homicide detective, Sinclair, get out of it. What the hell was he doing here, half an hour before Mandy’s funeral? Unless he had some news about Ryerson… maybe that was it. Maybe he’d come to tell Hod and Della that the law’d finally quit diddling around after two days and arrested the psycho.

Mitch had been helping Marie unload food from the trunk of their car-potato salad, cold cuts, deviled eggs-for the funeral supper. He handed her the last covered dish as Sinclair approached. “You manage that all right, hon?”

“I can manage.” She seemed to want to hang around, to see what Sinclair wanted, but he shooed her away. She waddled when she walked now, like a damn duck. Still a couple of months before she was due, and already she was big as a house.