Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

“Married the wrong woman,” he said without much interest. “I was old enough to know better but apparently didn’t. Met Mary Jane Crayle at a party in Santa Monica. She was pretty, warmhearted, verbally skillful, and funny, so I thought she was smart. Married her three days later. Well, repent at leisure. Soon she was thoroughly unhappy and I was going out of my mind. Hormones are a lousy guide. She was only a couple of years younger than I, but a sentimental hippie at heart. Wanted to adopt every stray dog or street bum that crossed her path. Flowers in her hair and feathers in her brain. No idea what it meant to be a businessman’s wife. One day about six months into this disaster we had a big fight and she walked out in the clothes she had on.

“Seven or eight months later she called to say she needed money, would it be all right if she got a thousand-dollar cash advance on a bank card? She said she’d pay it back in cash. All the time she’d been away she hadn’t charged so much as a gallon of gas. I said, are you coming back? She said she didn’t know yet.

“I said okay about the advance, but you’ve got one week from today to make your mind up about coming back. When I didn’t hear from her in that time, I closed all her charge accounts. Anything she wanted she could come and ask for.

“In a few more weeks I’d had enough. If I got wiped out on the freeway, she could show up and make heavy demands on my estate. So Alan hired a gumshoe outfit to track her down. We knew she was somewhere southeast of here, but she’d been pretty careful not to let us know where: the little cash payments on the loan got mailed from anywhere between Anaheim and San Diego. Anyhow, she turned up slinging hash in a chain restaurant in San Bernardino and had a six-week-old kid. I had her kept under surveillance for a few weeks to document the difficulties of being a single mother with a fairly menial job and no resources, and then I sued for divorce — and for custody of Katherine, on the grounds that her mother was irresponsible and incapable of properly providing for her. I got the divorce and the kid, and Mary Jane went back into the woodwork. Never saw or heard from her again.”

“What about her folks? The Crayle family?”

“Estranged. Never any contact.”

“She take you for a bundle in the settlement?”

“No.”

“California law says she must have had counsel.”

“Counsel said go for half the community property. She said no. Some people are dumb. They’ll give up enough to make them comfortable for life — just for a gesture. Mac talked her into taking a lump-sum settlement.”

“Why did you take Katherine?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Are you thinking vindictiveness? Well, goddamnit, it was because she was my daughter and I could give her a better life! Even her mother conceded that.”

The protest was too fast and too vehement. Clearly vindictiveness had played a part. A big part.

“Never any hint Katherine might have had a sister?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Go to bed.”

It sounded like an order. Tom summoned a wide grin to remind Charles that he didn’t have to obey it, but Charles already had his eyes on the pages of his book.

Tom shook his head, straining to keep the grin in place, then turned and went upstairs.

12

His second-floor room didn’t seem like much of a sanctuary tonight; now it was just a room with some indifferent furniture, a place he could walk away from without regret.

Tom hung up his nylon jacket, and someone tapped on his door.

“Yes?”

The tapping stopped. The door opened. Katherine stood in the doorway wearing a plump white terrycloth bathrobe. Her slippers were light fur-lined pixie boots. She didn’t have the glow of someone fresh from the tub, but a few tendrils of damp hair escaped the towel turbaned around her head.

Her face was calm, empty. The Ice Princess was in residence. The Ice Princess was in control. The Ice Princess didn’t give a damn.

She asked, “Did you learn anything tonight?”

He shrugged. “Not enough to prove anything.”

“Of course.” She made a dismissive gesture and came into the room and closed the door. He hesitated a moment before waving her to the room’s one comfortable leather-upholstered chair.

She sat down primly, folded her arms across her middle. He parked himself at the foot of the bed.

She said, “So Shannon knew my grandfather.”

Maybe Shannon had told her. Or Charles.

“She says she only knew him as the Skipper,” Tom said, “a friendly old guy who owned a boat.”

“You believe her?”

“No reason not to.”

“I hope you’re looking for one,” Katherine said. “I hope you have enough self-respect not to decide people are innocent just because you find them physically attractive.”

“How did she strike you?”

“As pleasant, but then she would make sure she gave that impression, wouldn’t she, to keep up the charade?”

“There’s one person who might clear all this up, you know. Your mother.”

She became very still. For long seconds she barely breathed.

“My... mother.” As though she had trouble remembering she’d ever had one.