He thought of the tortured face of Sister Contrition as she led her three docile, rebellious-eyed children into the living room, and of the querulous voice of Mother Pureza who had already escaped from the Tower and was living in the brighter rooms of her childhood with her beloved servant, Capirote.
Martha said, “Are you going back there?”
“Yes, I made a promise to go back. I must also tell Sister Blessing that the man she hired me to find is dead.”
“You won’t mention the letter?”
“No.”
“To anyone?”
“To anyone.” Quinn stood up. “Well, I’d better be going.”
“Yes.”
“When will I see you again, Martha?”
“I don’t know. I’m very confused right now because of the letter and—and the things you’ve said.”
“Did you come here today to run away from me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sorry I found you?”
“I can’t answer that. Please don’t ask me.”
“All right.”
He walked over to his car and got in. When he glanced back Martha was lighting the campfire and the mounting flames made her quiet face seem vivacious and warm, the way it had looked in the hospital cafeteria when she had first talked about her marriage to O’Gorman.
“We came back as soon as we heard the car leave,” Richard said. He had smelled some mystery in the air as distinctly as he had smelled the first puffs of smoke from the campfire. “Who was the man?”
“A friend of mine,” Martha said.
“You don’t have many boyfriends.”
“No, I don’t. Would you like me to?”
“I guess it’d be O.K.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Sally said earnestly. “Mothers don’t have boyfriends.”
Martha put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Sometimes they do, when they no longer have a husband of their own.”
“Why?”
“Men and women are meant to become interested in each other and get married.”
“And have children?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“How many children do you think you’ll have?”
“Of all the stupid questions I ever heard in my life,” Richard said with contempt. “You don’t have children when you’re old and gray.”
Martha’s tone was sharper than she intended. “That’s not very complimentary, is it, Richard?”
“Gosh, no. But you’re my mother. Mothers don’t expect compliments.”
“It would be nice to be surprised for a change. My hair, by the way, is brown, not gray.”
“Gee whiz, old and gray is just an expression.”
“Well, it’s an expression I don’t care to hear until it’s literally true. Perhaps not even then, is that clear?”
“Boy, are you touchy tonight! A guy can’t say anything around here without getting ranked. When do we eat?”
“You may serve yourselves,” Martha said coldly. “I’m feeling far too decrepit to lift anything.”
Richard stared at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Well, boy oh boy, you’re not even acting like a mother anymore.”
After the children were settled for the night in their sleeping bags, Martha took the mirror out of her handbag and sat down to study her face by the light of the fire. It seemed a very long time since she had looked at herself with any real interest, and she was depressed by what she saw. It was an ordinary, healthy, competent face, the kind that might appeal to a widower with children, seeking someone to run his house, but would have no attraction for an unattached young man like Quinn.
I acted like an idiot, she thought. I almost believed him for a while. I should have believed Richard instead.
Fifteen
On his way back to the motel Quinn passed the stucco building occupied by the staff of the Beacon. The lights were still on.
He wasn’t anxious to meet Ronda again since there were too many things he couldn’t afford to tell him. But he was pretty sure Ronda would find out he was in town and be suspicious if no contact was made. He parked the car and went into the building.
Ronda was alone in his office, reading a San Francisco Chronicle and drinking a can of beer. “Hello, Quinn. Sit down, make yourself at home. Want a beer?”
“No thanks.”
“I heard you were back in our fair city. What have you been doing all week, sleuthing?”
“No,” Quinn said. “Mostly acting as nursemaid to an ersatz admiral in San Felice.”
“Any news?”
“News like what?”
“You know damned well like what. Did you come across anything more about the O’Gorman case?”
“Nothing you could print. A lot of rumors and opinions, but no concrete evidence. I’m beginning to go along with your theory about the hitchhiking stranger.”
Ronda looked half-skeptical, half-pleased. “Oh, you are, eh? Why?”
“It seems to fit the facts better than any other.”
“Is that your only reason?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Just checking. I thought you might have latched onto something you prefer to keep secret.” Ronda tossed the empty can into a wastebasket. “Since you got most of your information from me in the first place, it wouldn’t be sporting of you to withhold anything now, would it?”
“Definitely not,” Quinn said virtuously. “I’d take a dim view of such unsportsmanlike conduct.”
“I’m quite serious, Quinn.”
“So am I.”
“Then sound it.”
“All right.”
“Now we’ll start over again. What have you been doing all week?”
“I answered that before. I had a job in San Felice.” Quinn knew he’d have to tell Ronda something of his activities in order to allay suspicion. “While I was there I talked to Alberta Haywood’s sister, Ruth. I didn’t learn anything about O’Gorman, but I found out a few things about Alberta Haywood. I found out more when I went to see her in Tecolote prison.”
“You saw her? Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. How did you manage that? I’ve been trying to get an interview for years.”
“I have a private detective’s license issued in Nevada. Law enforcement officials are usually glad to cooperate.”
“Well, how is she?” Ronda said, leaning excitedly across the desk. “Did she tell you anything? What did she talk about?”
“O’Gorman.”
“O’Gorman. Well, I’ll be damned. This is just what—”
“Before you go off the deep end I might as well tell you that her references to O’Gorman weren’t very rational.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s under the delusion that the uproar over O’Gorman’s disappearance caused her to lose her powers of concentration and make the mistake that sent her to jail. She even tried to convince me that O’Gorman planned it deliberately to get back at her for snubbing him or for being fired by her brother, George.”
“She blames O’Gorman for everything?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nutty,” Ronda said. “It would mean, among other things, that O’Gorman knew about her embezzlements a month before the bank examiners, and that he calculated both the uproar over his disappearance and its effect on her. Doesn’t she realize how impossible that is?”
“She’s dealing with her own guilt, not the laws of possibility. She completely rejects the idea that O’Gorman’s dead, because, in her words, if he was murdered, she has no one to blame for her predicament. She’s got to cling to the delusion that O’Gorman planned his disappearance in order to avenge himself on her. Without O’Gorman to blame, she’d have to blame herself, and she can’t face that yet. Perhaps she never will.”