looking at me.
I’m not a fast thinker. If I hadn’t become aware of this on my own over the years, I have plenty of friends and family who tell me about it. So I compensate. I don’t act in a hurry. Rich used to yell at me over it. “Why are you just sitting there? Say something!” But I’ve found out from sad experience that, when I pop off and do or say the first thing that comes into my head, it usually lands me in a worse mess than I was in to begin with. As the old saying goes, it’s better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to say something and remove all doubt.
So after Marion McCoy yelled at me, I just stood here, and Marion, Joe Woodyard, Chief Jones, Duncan Ainsley and two members of the Herrera Catering crew all stared at me.
Then Marion McCoy spoke again. “Well? You heard him, right? You heard Joe Woodyard demanding money from Clementine. If I heard him, you must have heard him, too. So tell the chief about it!”
After that I knew what I wanted to the opposite of whatever Marion McCoy wanted me to do. So I picked up the tablecloth I’d been told to put away, and I matched up the right and left corners and shook it out, ready to fold again. Then I turned toward Marion McCoy, and I said, “I’m sorry, but if there’s some sort of quarrel going on out here, it’s none of my affair. I will be happy to answer any questions Chief Jones has for me, but for now I don’t think I’ll make any comment.”
Marion McCoy looked as if she were going to explode. Joe Woodyard gave a barking laugh—just one Ha! —and Chief Jones looked over the top of his glasses and grinned.
Duncan Ainsley patted Marion’s shoulder awkwardly. His hands were shaking “Now, Marion,” he said. “The chief will be taking statements from all the witnesses. Why don’t you go back to your apartment? You prob’ly feel like the ragged end of a misspent life.”
I had to admire the guy. He could keep up the colorful Texan act even when he seemed shook up himself. He escorted Marion past me, into the hall that led to the office where I’d taken the cat. He was all attention as he walked with her, patting her arm, very much the friend who was helping her cope with the death of her employer.
There was just one odd thing. Right before he led Marion McCoy past me, as he reached a point when only I could see him, he nodded and winked at me.
What did that mean?
Of course, an investment counselor—even a famous one—is basically a salesman. That sort of gesture, designed to build rapport, was second nature to a man like Duncan Ainsley. There was no way he could have a personal interest in me.
Not long after that Mike Herrera told Lindy and me that we were finished, and the police chief didn’t seem to have any more interest in us, though he warned that we might have to make formal statements later. The phrase “after we know the cause of death” was left unsaid.
So Lindy and I left. I was surprised that there was no crowd outside the heavy security gate. I guess I’ve lived in a big city too long; I’d expected a lot of reporters to be gathered there, but the street was empty. I reminded myself that Warner Pier is a long way from major news agencies. As for the expected guests, Clementine Ripley had died two hours before the benefit was scheduled to begin, so apparently somebody—maybe Mike Herrera—had known whom to call to announce that the party was canceled. The security guard—Hugh?—would have turned away any guests who showed up.
I will say, however, that as we drove back toward the main part of Warner Pier we saw an unusual number of people sitting on their screened-in porches; it was a warm evening, and maybe they didn’t have air-conditioning. But they all seemed to be paying close attention to the vehicles driving by. Warner Pier wasn’t ignoring Clementine Ripley’s death, whatever had caused it.
Personally, I was betting on natural causes.
It wasn’t dark yet—just after eight o’clock.
I’m not a fast thinker. If I hadn’t become aware of this on my own over the years, I have plenty of friends and family who tell me about it. So I compensate. I don’t act in a hurry. Rich used to yell at me over it. “Why are you just sitting there? Say something!” But I’ve found out from sad experience that, when I pop off and do or say the first thing that comes into my head, it usually lands me in a worse mess than I was in to begin with. As the old saying goes, it’s better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to say something and remove all doubt.
So after Marion McCoy yelled at me, I just stood here, and Marion, Joe Woodyard, Chief Jones, Duncan Ainsley and two members of the Herrera Catering crew all stared at me.
Then Marion McCoy spoke again. “Well? You heard him, right? You heard Joe Woodyard demanding money from Clementine. If I heard him, you must have heard him, too. So tell the chief about it!”
After that I knew what I wanted to the opposite of whatever Marion McCoy wanted me to do. So I picked up the tablecloth I’d been told to put away, and I matched up the right and left corners and shook it out, ready to fold again. Then I turned toward Marion McCoy, and I said, “I’m sorry, but if there’s some sort of quarrel going on out here, it’s none of my affair. I will be happy to answer any questions Chief Jones has for me, but for now I don’t think I’ll make any comment.”
Marion McCoy looked as if she were going to explode. Joe Woodyard gave a barking laugh—just one Ha! —and Chief Jones looked over the top of his glasses and grinned.
Duncan Ainsley patted Marion’s shoulder awkwardly. His hands were shaking “Now, Marion,” he said. “The chief will be taking statements from all the witnesses. Why don’t you go back to your apartment? You prob’ly feel like the ragged end of a misspent life.”
I had to admire the guy. He could keep up the colorful Texan act even when he seemed shook up himself. He escorted Marion past me, into the hall that led to the office where I’d taken the cat. He was all attention as he walked with her, patting her arm, very much the friend who was helping her cope with the death of her employer.
There was just one odd thing. Right before he led Marion McCoy past me, as he reached a point when only I could see him, he nodded and winked at me.
What did that mean?
Of course, an investment counselor—even a famous one—is basically a salesman. That sort of gesture, designed to build rapport, was second nature to a man like Duncan Ainsley. There was no way he could have a personal interest in me.
Not long after that Mike Herrera told Lindy and me that we were finished, and the police chief didn’t seem to have any more interest in us, though he warned that we might have to make formal statements later. The phrase “after we know the cause of death” was left unsaid.
So Lindy and I left. I was surprised that there was no crowd outside the heavy security gate. I guess I’ve lived in a big city too long; I’d expected a lot of reporters to be gathered there, but the street was empty. I reminded myself that Warner Pier is a long way from major news agencies. As for the expected guests, Clementine Ripley had died two hours before the benefit was scheduled to begin, so apparently somebody—maybe Mike Herrera—had known whom to call to announce that the party was canceled. The security guard—Hugh?—would have turned away any guests who showed up.
I will say, however, that as we drove back toward the main part of Warner Pier we saw an unusual number of people sitting on their screened-in porches; it was a warm evening, and maybe they didn’t have air-conditioning. But they all seemed to be paying close attention to the vehicles driving by. Warner Pier wasn’t ignoring Clementine Ripley’s death, whatever had caused it.
Personally, I was betting on natural causes.
It wasn’t dark yet—just after eight o’clock.
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