The Weekend Visitor Read online

  "Aha!" I began to breathe again.

  "Ah, no, I fear. Those usually occur when the woman is on top during intercourse."

  "Damnation!" I was floundering. I leaned forward and tapped the folder. "Drugs. She said she was drugged. You tested for drugs?"

  "We always do. There are a bunch of them around, choose your date rape drug du jour. We tested for GHB, for Ketamine hydrochloride and for Rohypnol... the most popular of the bunch at the moment. They aren't always easy to isolate, and they rarely remain in the bloodstream at all past twenty-four hours. Once in a while traces have been found at seventy-two hours, but that's very unusual. We found none." He leaned back in his chair.

  "Doctor, I don't understand. If the rapist administered the drug at, say, ten o'clock Sunday night and Maureen got to you at— what?—three o'clock Monday morning, that's only five hours. Why wouldn't the drugs show up in her blood?" I was now on the edge of my chair.

  "They might have," he agreed. "But she walked into the ER at . . ." He looked down at the folder. "At ten seventeen a.m. Wednesday, June seven, with her friend, a Ms. Sloan."

  "Wednesday morning}" I felt as if I were hurtling down a rabbit hole.

  "Yes. Ms. Sloan said Maureen had been too distraught to come in earlier." His face was deadpan.

  "And semen residue?" I asked hopelessly.

  He shook his head. "If there had been any, it was all douched cleanly away." He leaned back in his chair and looked at me kindly. "I really am sorry to be so unhelpful, but that's simply the way it went. She may indeed have been drugged and raped, but I have absolutely no conclusive proof or even strong indicators that she was. Whatever might have been there was gone. Often, women who have been raped are so upset they do foolish things. I'm just sorry her older friend didn't have better sense about preserving evidence and getting her here at once."

  He tapped his fist lightly on his desk. "I don't like to think of a man getting away with rape because of foolish technicalities. But I can't change what I found. There is one other thing I can tell you, which may be of interest. Rape or romp, that night's athletic sexual encounter could have injured the fetus. Maureen is lucky there was apparently no damage."

  "She's pregnant?" I wasn't sure we were both still in the same room. "You can tell so soon?"

  "Oh, that was misleading." He waved a hand apologetically. "No, she did not get pregnant Sunday night. She got pregnant, I would say, approximately April tenth . . . give or take a week. Ms. Peres, you look pale. Are you all right?"

  "I was fine when I got here," I muttered. "Yeah, I guess so. So she's about two months pregnant... and who the hell is the father? What did you do when you realized that?"

  "Who indeed? I referred her to our Obstetrics Department. What else was there to do? And, now, Ms. Peres, much as I hate to rush you..."

  "Yes, of course. Well, Dr. Gloetzner, thank you for your time. Forgive me if I seem a little scattered. This is turning into the case from hell." We smiled sadly at each other, shook hands and parted. His secretary pressed my license and Maureen's release gently into my damp hand on my way out.

  I stood on the clinic steps, breathing deeply of the sun-warmed air, getting the hospital smell out of my nose and mouth. In Gloetzner's office, I had been deeply shaken. Now I was getting boiling mad. I walked to the car and let Fargo out to find a friendly bush. Meanwhile, I was going to track down Mary and/or Maureen and find out what the hell they had been up to, if I had to pull them off the top of a phone pole. Jesus, I hoped Maureen wasn't climbing phone poles. Well, at least I had answered one question. Now I knew why Maureen had turned green when I offered her a nice greasy French cruller.

  I reach into the compartment for my cell phone and checked for Mary's number. Then I stopped. I'd better talk to John Frost before I waded deeper into this quagmire. I dialed his number and, miracle-time, was put right through. I asked if I could see him right away. He hesitated and said that he and Trish were just thinking of some lunch.

  "Fine," I said. "Have it at the Wharf Rat. I'll be there in ten minutes." I hung up before he could answer, recovered Fargo and slammed the car into gear.

  By the time I looped Fargo's leash around the big old anchor outside the Rat, I had calmed down a little. I brought him out water and a small bowl of Billie's beef stew, to avoid the collapse that had seemed imminent as he raised his head and whuffled at the aromas coming out the Wharf Rat door.

  I went in again, spotted Trish and John and joined them as they both sipped Sprites while waiting for their lunches. I felt no such compunction and ordered a Bud plus my usual lunch of pastrami sandwich, french fries and half sour pickle. It was my favorite, and that way I could honestly tell Cindy I'd had a healthy meal of protein, grain, vegetable and a little something green.

  John addressed his broiled scrod and sauteed summer squash, while Trish chewed manfully at what looked like a bowl of grass clippings. They both eyed my plate with envy. I was making little progress emptying it. I was too busy bringing them up-to-date.

  I told them of my earlier visit to Mary and Maureen, the comments of her ex-roommates and the bartender. I recounted Maureen's Saturday morning visit and got a look from Trish that reminded me strongly of Cindy. Finally, I informed them of Nacho's luck with the car and my luncheon with Pete Santos.

  John looked genuinely distressed. "I know it's natural that Pete would stand up for his cousin, but I find myself wondering if he's right. I don't know the Sanhopes well at all, but I've always admired Grace. That woman doesn't need another tragedy!" He stabbed viciously at a piece of fish. "Just when she straightens up, something comes along again and knocks her over at a fell swoop."

  "Don't cry, John. It may not be quite as swoopy as you think." I washed down a fry and took a bite of sandwich, while they looked at me expectantly. At last I swallowed and told them Dr. Gloetzner's information. They were as taken aback as I had been.

  John announced that he wanted Mary and Maureen in his office as soon as they could be reached, but Trish disagreed. "Wait until Alex talks to Jack Sanhope," she suggested. "Right now we don't know whether Maureen just acted foolishly or with an agenda. We don't know that the baby is Jack's or what she plans to do about it, although if she's going to have an abortion, she better get moving.

  Even if the baby is Jack's, that doesn't mean he couldn't have raped her last Sunday."

  I took another bite and mumbled around it. "I think she's right, John ... we know s'more about Lothario, it may explain more 'bout M'reen."

  John frowned but agreed, and waved for the check. Second rounds or dessert were not included. He pulled out the charge card carbon and carefully wrote "Delaney conference" on the receipt and shoved it in his shirt pocket. "Get all this written up and call me tomorrow the minute you finish with young Sanhope," he instructed. Trish gave me a pat and followed him out.

  "Will do. And thanks for lunch," I called after him. I finished mine more slowly.

  On the way out I stopped and paid for Fargo's stew. I collected Fargo and picked up his Styrofoam dishes.

  At home I changed into jeans and a shirt and took the walk-around phone into the backyard where Fargo was patrolling for heffalumps and tiggers. I slumped into one of the yard chairs and dialed Cindy's direct number.

  "Cynthia Hart, may I help you?"

  "Will you accept charges for an obscene phone call?"

  "Certainly not! I get plenty of lovely ones for free. Why should I have to pay for this one? Is it better than the others?"

  "Smart ass! I'm home."

  "I certainly hope so. I'd hate to think we were having this conversation with you on an open phone at the Wharf Rat Bar. How's your day going, darling?"

  I laughed and propped my feet up on another chair. "It's been a doozey. I'll tell you when you get home. I just called to see if I'm supposed to do anything about dinner."

  "No. I was going to call you in a bit. Your mom called. She and Aunt Mae sent a bunch of fried chicken and what not all over to the Rev. Bartles' plac
e for some occasion. But they made extra, as usual, and invited us to eat. I said we would, if that's okay with you."

  "Sure. Where? When?" I swallowed a yawn.

  "Your mom's, sixish. I'll probably come straight from work. It's been Monday all day," she sighed.

  "Okay, honey, I'll let you go. Thank you for flying Sky-High Airlines."

  "Idiot."

  I stretched. We were guaranteed a good dinner. I don't know who was the better cook, Mom or Aunt Mae. It must be somebody's birthday over at Bartles' place. He was a youngish, born-again preacher, and he and his prune-mouthed wife ran a sort of shelter for teenage strays. He and I had crossed on several occasions but had more or less declared a truce. My mother and aunt ignored his religion, but praised his efforts with kids and contributed to his larder. So I shut up.

  And I awoke at a few minutes after five.

  Chapter 13

  As I prepared to meet with Jack Sanhope Tuesday afternoon, I recalled part of the conversation last night at my mother's. We were eating at the picnic table in the backyard of the house I had called home for many years. It was a straight up-and-down two-story house, a type seen often in Ptown, painted a pale yellow with maroon shutters. A white picket fence set off the small front yard, and a driveway led along the house to a separate garage and fairly large backyard. By Provincetown's scrunched up standards, it was considered a sizeable piece of land.

  Sonny had joined the four of us, late, and was still addressing smother-fried chicken, pasta salad with diced green peppers and carrots, and coleslaw, while the rest of us progressed to Aunt Mae's fresh peach cake with caramel drizzle and pecan pieces on top. Oh, Lord, how did she do it?

  Mom interrupted a silent moment with the question, "How's the poor Delaney girl doing? Has anyone seen her? Would it be a kindness to stop by and visit her, or better to let it be?"

  Cindy, Sonny and I flashed sly grins, and it appeared I was the one elected to answer. "Well, Mom, since it's supposed to be a deep, dark secret, it might be best to let it be. On the other hand, so many people seem to know about it, there may well be a line of well-wishers around her house as we speak. How did you hear of it?"

  "No special way." Mother spread her hands. "One of the Bitter End waitresses warned Betsy Raymer to be careful. Betsy told her mother and she told me at work."

  "I wonder if it really is Jack Sanhope?" Aunt Mae interjected.

  This time there were no grins. Sonny parted with a drumstick to ask sharply, "Now how the hell did that get out?"

  Aunt Mae looked smug. "Through your front gate, Mr. Grumpy. Elena Madeiros stopped by your place of business to pay a traffic ticket."

  We all smiled at that. Mrs. Madeiros looked like a grandmotherly pouter pigeon with thick glasses, but drove like a graduate of Demolition Derby in an old gray Escort that had left its spoor on most every phone pole, parking meter and fireplug in Ptown. And the mechanically challenged Mrs. M. also managed to park frequently in crosswalks, or with one wheel on the sidewalk or snuggled up to a fireplug.

  "Anyway," Mae continued, "There was no one at the front desk, so she went through the little gate into the back to look for someone. She overheard Mary O'Malley and Alex talking about Mercedes cars and rapes and Jack. She ran into me later at the store and told me."

  Sonny shook his head in annoyance. "Dammit, that gate is supposed to be latched, and there's a bell on the desk to ring. Nosy old biddy!" He turned to me. "Too bad you and Nacho weren't talking about that slimy son-in-law of hers."

  "Oh, dear," Mom sighed. "I really hope it isn't Jack. That family has had its share of heartbreak."

  "So I keep hearing," Cindy said. She looked at Mom. "Is it all true?"

  "And then some." Mom nodded. "An infant dead of SIDS, Robert killed in Vietnam. William by a heart attack. . ."

  "Jeanne, you dated Robert for awhile, didn't you?" Mae asked.

  Mom looked slightly wistful and I wondered if it had been more than casual, but she answered easily enough. "Oh, a bit. It was nothing. I wasn't in his social or financial league, and Grace made sure he remembered that."

  I heard a hint of bitterness, and Aunt Mae's next comment underscored it. "Maybe Robert wouldn't have dashed off to fight in Vietnam if she had kept her mouth shut. She should have concentrated on keeping her husband in line." She closed her mouth primly. Apparently neither of them knew how Robert really died, thank goodness.

  "Peter got out of line?" I asked, amused. I snitched another small piece of cake.

  "With everything that wore a skirt," Aunt Mae snapped. "And then there was that poor girl who worked there as a maid, getting her pregnant."

  My ear pricked up. "He seduced her?"

  "That was the word usually used," Mom said with a heavy dollop of sarcasm. "But when the seducer is your boss, how can you call it anything but a different form of rape?"

  Memory of those words took me through getting ready for Jack Sanhope's arrival . . . setting out a pitcher of iced tea and fixings, putting my notebook and pen on the table, along with an ashtray, a bowl of nuts and coasters. A car door slammed in the driveway, and I walked around the side of the house. A Mercedes convertible sat in the drive and a young man, tanned, with dark curly hair walked toward me. I'm not an investigator for nothing. It took me no time at all to figure him for Jack Sanhope.

  I extended my hand. "Hi. I'm Alex Peres." His grip was firm, but held no attempt to be a bone-crusher.

  "Jack Sanhope."

  "Come on around back, it's cooler out here. Have a seat." I poured two glasses of tea and looked up to see him still standing, looking mildly distressed.

  "Gee, Ms. Peres, I'm sorry you went to the trouble. I really can't stay. Pete said there was some thought my car might have been in an unreported accident. I just came by so you could look at it and see for yourself. There's not a scratch on it."

  "Call me Alex and I will call you Jack, if I may?" He nodded. "Good. Now sit, Jack, I want to talk to you about Maureen Delaney." He sank into the chair with a face so full of guilt, I wondered if it were necessary to continue the conversation.

  "Let me explain to you that I am a private investigator, employed in this instance by attorney John Frost." I passed Jack sugar and lemon, and he absently accepted. "Ms. Delaney is his client. She has asserted that she was the victim of date rape, a week ago Sunday, June fourth."

  "Rape! Oh, no, the poor girl. What a terrible thing! Is she all right... I mean ... she's okay physically and all?" I nodded and he looked relieved.

  Then his face clouded. "No, wait, that's wrong. You said June fourth. No, that Sunday she was with me, she was fine. Somebody's got their dates mixed. I met her about... oh, ten o'clock and she was perfectly okay. And about one o'clock I took her home, right to the door of that old lady she's moved in with. I saw her go in."

  I looked down at my notepad and scribbled a note, so he wouldn't see the grin on my face. Mary would love that one. I wondered how he had me catalogued? At thirty-two, I probably rated late middle age. "You picked her up at the Bitter End?"

  "Not exactly." He shook his head. "Out in back of it. On the wharf, so I could double park if she were late."

  "Then?"

  "Then we drove up to my house. Grandmother and my brother Richard and his wife had gone back to Boston. Nobody to bother us, so we had a couple of drinks in the library and I took her home."

  "Jack." He looked up at me and I stared him down. "At this point, it's the truth or the cops. It may be the cops anyway, but let's try the truth first. When you drove to your house was the top on your car down?"

  He looked at me curiously. "No, it wouldn't have been. It was misty, I think, almost a rain. Why?"

  "No big thing. Maureen thought she remembered it as down."

  "She's probably thinking of another time. Wait a minute ... just wait one minute! Is she trying to hang this rape thing on me?"

  "Yup."

  His laugh was bitter. "Alex, if anybody got raped in this deal, it was me."

  "Tell
me about it. From the top."

  "Yeah, all right. About three months ago, I met her at the Bitter End. She was beautiful, fun. She knew how to dress. She liked to dance, liked good food. We were having a ball. After maybe three dates, she came back to the house, back to my room with me and we made love. Let me tell you, she was good at that! She yanked me every which-a-way but up!" He looked as if he'd like to say more, but was trying to be at least fractionally gentlemanly.

  "You use any protection?" I asked.

  "Yes, the first time. Then she asked me if I'd been tested. I said yes and she said she was clear, too, and it would be a lot more fun with nothing between us. She said she was on the pill, so I put away the condoms and we had one grand time. Every time. She was wild, that one, wild to try it all, invent new ways. She was a tiger in heat." He sipped his tea and shook his head.

  "But," he continued, "She sort of changed. She was still great in bed, but very critical otherwise. Like, the table is lousy, Jack, can't you speak to the maitre a"? And, don’t drink your beer out of the bottle, Jack, it looks common. Or, I don’t care you've got a paper to write, I want to see the new act at the Poly/Cotton Club. You know?"

  Actually, I didn't know. This was a side of Maureen I hadn't seen. I thought of her and Mary. Two control freaks together. It could make for an interesting relationship. "I understand," I said. "So what happened?"

  "I was going to ease my way out of it." He grimaced slightly. "I wanted to do it nicely. Gently. But the next time I saw her, she dropped a nuke on my head. She says she's pregnant. She screwed the pills up somehow, it's all her fault, and she's so sorry. She's sobbing, she's so upset. Well, I tell her not to worry. I've got enough money to cover the abortion." He paused and looked embarrassed. "I don't have much cash ever, Alex. Grandmother controls the money, and she's not overgenerous. But I had enough for this. I even said I'd go with her, but she said she'd handle it. So I gave her most of what I had . . . eight hundred dollars. I knew it was more than enough. I know because I drove my cousin Pete and his girl down to a clinic last fall." He looked suddenly stricken. "Please don't mention that to anyone. I should never have said that. Oh, God, what was I thinking of?"