The Weekend Visitor Read online

  I raised my eyebrows at that, but John added nothing and stood up. We were finished. As we walked out of John's office, Trish turned to me. "Wait just a second. I have your authorizations to ask questions on Maureen's behalf and to check the medical records. I'll go get them."

  "Then I take it she did at least see a doctor?" I asked.

  John nodded. "Yes, Mary took her to the clinic, and," he added dryly, "somehow convinced them not to report it. Excuse me, Alex, got to run. I'm due in court."

  I sat back down to wait for Trish. Fargo yawned, so of course I did, too. But I was far from bored. Of all crimes, next to murder and I guess child abuse, I hated rape the worst. Even if the woman was not physically injured, the damage to her psyche was enormous and often irreversible. Thus far, finding the perpetrator seemed unlikely. But by God, I'd give it my best shot. He was probably walking around feeling smug, and I would greatly enjoy slapping the smile off his face.

  Chapter 4

  It was almost noon when Fargo and I joined the slow, lock-step procession up Commercial Street. More tourists had surfaced as the morning passed, and though our progress was slow, it was pointless to try to move otherwise. The sun was warm, and a montage of good smells from numerous restaurants, exotic food shops and candy stores wafted past our noses. By the time we got to my "other office," the Wharf Rat Bar, Fargo was whuffing from trying to process all the odors at once, and I felt in need of sustenance.

  Turning down the alley to the Rat, I tied Fargo to the big anchor outside its front door and went in. I took a plastic cup of water out to him and went back to pick up the beer Joe had placed on the end of the bar. I found my way to an empty table, still not used to finding the Rat so filled at the noon hour.

  There were some locals at the bar, but most of the tables were taken by tourists, with one daily exception. The big table at the front of the room was always filled, in relays, by what Joe the bartender and I called the Ptown Blues Boys. They were a group of full- and part-time fishermen who came and went to have a few beers and sing the blues over low prices for fish, high prices for fuel, scarcities and quotas.

  Their lead singer was Harmon, a disheveled character who sometimes fished and sometimes did odd jobs or beachcombed and frequently imbibed large quantities of beer. He had a heart of gold and the sure conviction that he was placed on this earth to thwart the drug dealers he saw on every corner. My brother Sonny said that Harmon had reported forty-two of the last five drug trades in Provincetown. The choir was in concert, and Harmon was warbling his solo.

  "There's a little yellow seaplane docked right downtown this very minute. Now don't that just prove how brassy these dealers is gettin'?" His cronies looked blank. I imagine I did, too. Harmon explained. "Well, you know they just fly in here to gas up and maybe eat. And tonight they'll be flying out to meet the mother ship and pick up the drugs."

  "Aa-a-haaah!" The round table replied solemnly. Now they got it. I didn't. I wondered if it would really pay to carry drugs in a small two-seater. I wondered if the little craft could land in Atlantic-class waves. I wondered why they would paint it bright yellow and gas up at the Cape's busiest town. I wondered several other things, including what I might have for lunch. I waved Joe over and decided on a pastrami sandwich with french fries and a half sour pickle and sat back to enjoy my beer.

  I looked around at the tourists among us. They all seemed favorably impressed by the Wharf Rat's determinedly nautical decor. Fishnets hung everywhere, studded with starfish, clam shells and scallop shells. Long oars and boathooks were crisscrossed like medieval weapons on the walls, which also held old lobster pot markers, cork buoys and an ancient diving helmet. Kedge anchors hid in dim, dusty corners, ready to trip the unwary. A ship's telegraph, rescued from a long-scrapped ferry, with the indicator frozen on All Astern Slow, provided as good a motto as any for the Rat.

  My lunch came and I looked it over with pleasure, debating which food should merit the first bite. Then, remembering I was trying to eat more sensibly, I made a healthy decision. I would not add ketchup to the fries, and I would save a large bite of the sandwich for Fargo. Feeling terribly pure, I dug in.

  While I ate, I mused about how much of the morning's information I could ethically tell Sonny. No names, that was a given. And he'd be pissed that they hadn't called in the police the night it happened. I knew the hospital would have urged Maureen to report it. She must have tossed a fit and said she'd swear it was consensual. I could feel that somehow John wasn't happy, either. I wasn't sure why, but I had wondered about his comment regarding damages. A little early to be on that track, wasn't it?

  Well, I'd tell Sonny the bare bones. I wanted to ask him if there had been any similar occurrences of late or even any rumors. If he had not heard anything, I wanted to put him on the alert. We didn't need a rapist in town anytime, but especially not with the height of the season upon us. That was a frightening thought. I'd call Sonny when I got home.

  "Frowns cause wrinkles, which make you look old and grumpy," announced a male voice. I wouldn't have to call my brother, it seemed, as he was now pulling up a chair to join me.

  "I've a way to go to catch up with you," I replied. "But you'll be looking ninety in about a minute. I've got some interesting news."

  "Well, let me at least get some lunch." He turned to Joe, who had followed him to the table. "Hi, Joe. Never mind the menu, I'll just ditto Alex, okay? Only make mine iced tea. I'm on duty."

  He looked back at me and grinned. "All right. Make me frown."

  "We've got a rapist in town."

  "First I've heard of it." He shrugged. "What makes you think so?"

  "I just left John Frost's office. He wants me to look around in a case of his. A young female client was apparently at a local bar, got something dumped in her drink, had a lengthy blackout and came to at her own back door, having been raped by an unknown male."

  "Why didn't she call us?" Now he was frowning.

  I picked up a french fry and formed my words carefully. Sonny was not going to like my answer, no matter how I phrased it. "She's only twenty-one, for one thing, and a foreigner to boot. I guess she feels humiliated and frightened as it is, and the thought of being questioned by authority figures is more than she can face. At least for now."

  He was more than frowning, he was scowling. "So she can talk to Frost and to you, but she can't talk to me and Jeanine. We wouldn't exactly approach in full uniform with billyclubs and riot guns and drag her off to the station to an interrogation room, you know. We do have some feeling for a woman who's gone through that horror." He paused. "I assume she's hoping the guy has some money." Sonny was not stupid.

  "Maybe so," I admitted. "But I take it you've had no other such reports?"

  "None. Thanks, Joe." He looked at the food in front of him and doused his french fries in ketchup. I tried not to look wistful. "Actually," he said through his first bite, "Provincetown doesn't particularly lend itself to date rape. It's not a haven for straight kids like Lauderdale or the Hamptons. Which suits me fine. But, Alex, if you find the guy, you have to report it. Then we'll see if the victim can't be convinced to testify."

  I nodded in agreement, and we both ate silently for a few minutes. Sonny took a swallow of tea and continued his thought. "The last date rape we had reported was two summers ago, and we never got the guy. We never even had a suspect. The young woman remembered virtually nothing, and there were no witnesses. She thought it happened somewhere in a car, and people who had been with her at a party said she left alone on foot. I don't envy you. It won't be easy."

  "I haven't talked to the young woman yet. Hopefully she can help." I looked up, startled. Sonny had just laughed aloud. "Something funny?"

  "Yes and no. Remember that guy Deloit? The guy who wore the raincoat and nothing under it. He raped several older women here in town, nothing funny about that. He had some fun beating up on a couple of them. And he knocked Ms. Weatherman down a flight of stairs. She's never walked right since. But remember h
ow we finally caught him?"

  "Kind of. I think I was still in college. Didn't Ann McCurdy have something to do with it?" Joe went by and I gave him a meaningful look, which I hoped would result in another beer.

  "Yep, she and that dog of hers, Chaucer. She never could control him. He was part Afghan and part rottweiler, which made them the perfect pair: funny looking, assertive and about half a brain between them. That night Ann had closed some bar, came home with a snoot full, and decided to take the dog out without a leash. Chaucer runs right across the street and pins a guy up against a wall. The man is terrified, waving his arms and yelling for her to call off her dog. She's yelling for the dog to come back. The dog is getting more hysterical by the minute, barking and snapping. I think ten neighbors must have called the cops. I was brand new on the force then, working lots of nights, and I was in the car that answered."

  I was laughing, too, now. "That's right! Didn't the dog rip the raincoat, and there stood your rapist in all his glory?"

  "You got it." Sonny popped the last of the sandwich in his mouth. "But that was only half of it. We got the guy into the car. Ann says she'll be down in the morning to give a statement, and we leave. She takes Chaucer on down to the beach. A little earlier the Coast Guard down at Truro had launched a weather balloon. But something went wrong with the inflation process and here's this funny jellyfish-looking thing drifting along only about two hundred feet up, headed out over the bay on a night that had turned foggy with a full moon trying to shine through."

  Sonny reached for my cigarettes, as usual. But this time he got punished. Joe picked that moment to deliver my beer. Sonny glared and continued.

  "Now, unknown to any of us, Ann had been scared she might encounter the rapist when she had first left her house, so tucked in her pocket was an old pistol her father had lifted off some German guy in WWII. She decides the balloon is a UFO, pulls out the pistol and starts blasting away. The dog is running in circles barking, and by now, a couple of other mutts have joined him. And our phone is ringing again."

  I retrieved my cigarettes and lit what I believe was number four. "Sonny." I shook my head. "This can't be real."

  "It's gospel. By the time we got there she had emptied a nine-round clip into the balloon, and it was slowly coming down into the water, thereby becoming a navigation hazard, as opposed to an aviation hazard, and Annie was yelling at it, 'That'll teach you little green bastards to stay home!'"

  I wiped my eyes with my napkin and gasped, "Then what?"

  He lifted his hands palm up. "Then nothing. We took the gun, caught the dog, drove everybody home and went and called the Coasties to come get their balloon. What should we have done? Arrest her? We had about twenty different counts to choose from. But arrest the person whose dog had just made Ptown safe for women again? Later, the Board of Selectmen gave her and the dog a plaque, while we all stood behind her, smiling, as the media did their thing. It was a heart-warming moment. .. well, you know, I guess in a way, it really was." He smiled and stood up. "Thanks for lunch."

  He was gone before I realized what he had done, but I fixed him. He had left several fries, covered in ketchup, and I ate them.

  Chapter 5

  Not wanting to take Fargo with me to Mary's, and with a little time to kill, I aimed us toward home. I was strongly tempted by a nap in the sun, but was afraid I'd oversleep, so I opted to water my garden instead. But first, as usual, came a little game or two with Himself.

  I would twirl the nozzle in a circle, thereby making the stream of water act sort of like a jump rope. Fargo would leap over, try to crawl under and finally stand in the middle of the spray. Then I would aim it at random around the yard, and he would attack it, barking ferociously. Hey, he made the rules. I just handled the hose. Finally, I'd get to my tomatoes, which were doing well. And I'd branched out this year. Already I had a few small radishes showing, and the lettuce seemed healthy once I'd learned to share my beer with the slugs. They would crawl into a shallow bowl to drink it, and drown. Well, I can think of worse ways. I had even added a few flowers, though I sometimes mixed up their names.

  Gardening had taken on a new importance to me. Previously, I'd had a lover who always made sure I knew that puppy-Fargo was lying in the zinnias, another who wondered vocally why I made no attempt to plant in ruler-straight rows, another who felt she had to be within touching distance anytime I worked in the yard (or did anything else) and, finally, one who stripped off the best tomatoes and stood in the garden eating them because she knew it looked sexy. I had begun to pretend I was too busy to garden.

  Cindy had taken a different tack. What and how I planted was my business. She would enjoy anything I grew—floral or vegetable. She had a small plot at my aunt's where she had put in squash, peppers and something else, which she would happily share when they got ripe. Meantime, they were her sole concern. I found I took great pleasure in hearing her observe casually that my petunias were growing fast, or she couldn't wait for the first radish. But mostly I took great pleasure in fiddling around in my garden.

  Time to go to Mary's. I changed my shirt, checked Fargo's water and dry food and broke the news that he wasn't going. He collapsed pitifully in his bed, nose between paws, eyes rolled back. I knew he'd be asleep by the time I had gone a block and told myself I didn't feel guilty.

  Mary's shining vehicle was in her driveway, I looked at my car and I wished I had parked on the street. Anytime I went to Mary's, I was mentally handed a list of things I should wash, clean out, scrub or vacuum. She met me at the back door and stood while I wiped my shoes on the mat. Only then did I notice some small pieces of cut grass on the sides of my damp shoes. Oh, God.

  "Come on in, Alex. Maureen is in the living room."

  I followed her, and as we entered the room, I felt some change from the usual. Looking around like the professional observer I am, I noted a vase of daffodils by the window and a chorus line of bright paperbacks stretched across two bookshelves which had always been empty except for a few of Mary's thick, gray manuals and how-to books. On the coffee table rested a plate of pastel-iced petit fours and a tray holding a pitcher of tea and three glasses. The room seemed warm, almost gracious.

  Maureen sat on the couch in a T-shirt and cut-offs, looking very young and very pretty in a wholesome, scrubbed way that belied even the few years she could claim. Mary pointed me toward a chair and sank onto the couch beside Maureen. They weren't quite touching, but the separation was far from six degrees. Obviously, Maureen and I were not going to talk alone.

  "Well," I began, "I can at least save you explaining why I'm here. I happened to see John Frost this morning and he told me what happened." I turned to Maureen. "I'm terribly sorry, and I promise you I'll try very hard to get the bastard."

  "It's so nice of you to come, Alex. Mary tells me you're so smart, I know you can help me." She bestowed a brilliant smile.

  "I'm flattered, and I'll certainly make every effort." She had flustered me a little, and to have something to do, I reached for a petit four, fully expecting Mary either to slap my wrist and tell me they were for later or to move them out of reach now that I had one. Instead, she smiled and nodded. "That one's strawberry. When you finish it, try a yellow one. I think they're best. They're lemon."

  Between them, they got the tea poured and sugared and lemoned. Mary peered at me nervously, and Maureen's hands were tightly clasped in her lap. Looking for a conversational gambit to relax us all for a few moments, I again noticed the books in the case and commented, "You've added a bit to your library, Mary. They look very nice there."

  Mary laughed. "I saw in the paper the library was selling off some old books. Maureen's a mystery buff, so I stopped by for a look. They seemed a bargain, so I bought this bunch."

  I looked more closely and noted that she had bought what must be the entire output of Dorothy Sayers, Ngaio Marsh and P.D. James. "Well, you did great, even by accident. Sayers and James are timeless and matchless. And Marsh may be dated, but she's fun. Have
you started any, Maureen?"

  "Just this one so far. And it's a right laugh, isn't it? Sure, the old bloke got his comeuppance, I'd say." She indicated a book on the end table.

  It was entitled Death of a Peer, but Marsh had done in several peers in her day, and I couldn't remember any details about this one. So I made a non-committal "uhhhmm" and got out pen and notebook, and we got underway.

  I spoke softly, and, I hoped, nonthreateningly. "Maureen. The worst is behind you now, and the sooner we get this man into custody, the sooner you can really sleep easily and move past it. So I need to know everything . . . everything you can remember, no matter how small or irrelevant it seems. For example, over the past few weeks can you remember a man following you or paying unusual attention to you or acting differently around you? Anyone at work or in a store or elsewhere?"

  She took a long drink of tea, as if her throat were dry. "No," she finally answered. "I can't recall anything at all unusual. I don't know about someone following me. I probably wouldn't have noticed, I never thought of it."

  "Okay, something may come to you later. Let's move on to Sunday night. I understand you had worked Sunday. What happened from the time you got off?"

  Mary leaned a little forward and spoke. "We both got off about three. We came home, did a few chores and made dinner. We watched the news while we ate and then straightened up. Maureen had promised to meet the three girls she used to share an apartment with for a drink at the Bitter End at eight o'clock."

  This was what I'd been worried about. Mary was bound to be in control. And I couldn't let her be. And she wasn't going to like what I had to say. "Thanks, Mary. That pretty well covers the at-home portion of the evening. Now, I think, the rest of the evening, I'd better hear from Maureen. If she should forget anything, maybe you could add that later."

  Damned if she didn't fool me again! "Of course, Alex, sorry. I just want to catch this guy so badly, I'm churning my wheels. I'll shut up." Our Mary had undergone quite some change! I'd expected my eyebrows to be smoking. Instead, I'd encountered Lady Affable. She patted Maureen's knee and left her hand casually there. There were three women with whom I might feel comfortable making that gesture: Cindy, my mother and my Aunt Mae. Mary and Maureen were not relatives.